Origins of Blood[Has been republished]

They all shut their eyes, the violet sand stinging their faces. Sweat dripped down their brows, mingling with the harsh scent of their own filth. Days had passed since they had set out, and the storm had settled into little more than gusts of stronger winds. Fynn pressed on, his right eye squinted shut, the left—always open, always yellow—facing the desolate world ahead.

'Just a few more days,' he thought, 'Then it will be done. Then I will officially be a part of the Astor family. Diana, I'm coming.'

His eyes locked on the figure ahead—the towering presence of Algar, his future father-in-law, moving with a commanding stride across the violet desert. A soft smile tugged at Fynn's lips.

'Over a month of training... I've learned the basics of the Astor swordsmanship, but there's so much more I need to understand. It's overwhelming, the weight of responsibility. But I can do it. For Diana... I must do it.' His thoughts drifted to her. Diana, her golden hair, her soft lips. A faint ache spread through his chest as the memory of their kiss returned to him, fresh and vivid in his mind.

It had been just over a week since he had felt her presence, and even though it had been nothing more than a fleeting kiss, it was enough to haunt his thoughts. He wasn't sure if it had been wanted or not, but it had been perfect, the most beautiful kiss he'd ever received—the only kiss he'd ever had.

Fynn blinked as the violet sand blew into his open eye, the gritty particles burning his skin, yet he did not flinch. His uniform, yellow and now stained with the remnants of their grueling trek, reeked of piss and shit, but he was beyond noticing it, unlike the others. They cursed and complained as they trudged through the desert, their bodies fatigued, their movements sluggish. Ergon, stumbling behind him, let out a pained grunt as he clutched his shoulder, his yellow blood seeping from a wound. The others were no better. Their numbers, once in the hundreds, were now fewer than a hundred, many of them disfigured, maimed, or too weak to continue. The battlefield outside the temple, the violet sand beneath their feet, was a constant reminder of the war that raged around them.

As they moved, the violet desert seemed to swallow them, the ground beneath their feet vibrating ominously. Some of their comrades, still standing, carried the fallen on their backs, but most were abandoned to the sands. The violet creatures that lurked beneath the surface—giant maw-like beasts with grotesque mouths—snatched up the unlucky ones, dragging them under with a speed and violence that made even the bravest hesitate.

Fynn's gaze never wavered from the horizon. His thoughts were fixed on Diana, his heart racing with anticipation. 'Only a few more days... he told himself, maybe just one more day. Then I'll be able to see her again. Feel her lips against mine... Hear her voice, hold her close. I'll take her as my bride, and we'll laugh together in the gardens. I'll gather flowers for her, tuck them in her hair, and kiss her cheek as we walk beneath the sun. Diana…'

The yellow blood from his comrades streaked across the sand as they marched forward, but Fynn barely noticed. His eyes, though fixed on the path ahead, were far away—lost in a world of his own creation, where Diana waited for him, her golden hair shimmering in the soft light of their future life together.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and decay, yet it did not deter him. His uniform, soaked with yellow blood, melded with the sand beneath him. The distant cries of men filled the air, but they were nothing more than a background noise in his mind.

"Only a few more days," he murmured, his heart aching. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword, though he knew that it was not the blade he desired to wield. It was her love, her warmth, that he longed for. 'Diana, I'll make you mine.'

As the violet desert stretched out before him, the air grew thicker, the atmosphere charged with the weight of impending conflict. The sunlight, a brilliant cyan hue, cast a surreal glow over everything, but to Fynn, it was nothing but a reminder of the life that awaited him.

Suddenly, a loud crack split the air. A gunshot, sharp and clear, followed by a flash of blue-white light. Fynn's heart skipped a beat, his eyes widening as the world seemed to slow. He turned just in time to see Algar, the leader of their group, sprinting ahead, his face masked in shock and determination.

But Fynn's world didn't stop there. In the blink of an eye, he saw a flash of light, a streak of blue-white that burned through the air like a comet. The sound of the gunshot echoed in his ears as his vision blurred, fading to a dull, almost dreamlike haze.

"Algar!" Fynn shouted, though his voice barely rose above a whisper.

The pain came almost instantly. A sharp, burning sensation spread through his head, a burst of yellow blood flooding from the wound as his body staggered, weakened by the force of the shot. He could feel the yellow blood seeping out of him, mixing with the violet sand that began to consume him.

His legs buckled beneath him, and before he could make sense of what was happening, he felt himself being pulled under, sinking into the endless depths of the violet sea. The world around him twisted and warped as the sand, thick with blood, churned beneath his body. His last thoughts, his final moments, were consumed with her—Diana. Her lips, her golden hair, the way she smiled when they were together.

But now, all that was left was the dark, the sand, and the endless, hollow cry of a beast lurking beneath. The 'grand maw' swallowed him whole, pulling him into the depths of the violet world. His vision faded to black as he was consumed, his body vanishing beneath the waves of sand, his yellow blood staining the sand.