At seventeen years old, The Wordsmith was tall, taller than Haschen remembered, but then he’d never really looked, had he? He had no choice but to look now, lying on the ground beside the open Vault, while fires ravaged the halls of Rosenkreuz and the children from the Vault revealed their true loyalties.
The Telekinetic had The Wordsmith in a vice-like grip and was shaking him sharply.
The Wordsmith ducked his head but didn’t try to pull free - he’d learned better than to fight back. The Biokinetic was at his back, ready to knock out the Wordsmith for transport on the mark, either from The Telekinetic or The Oracle.
After a moment, through the haze of bleeding out, Haschen could hear their words.
“We can’t just leave them to die,” The Wordsmith said. Ink swirled on his skin, formed muzzy words in lovely classical calligraphy, distress and fear and compassion; years in the Vault had given the boy nothing but time to perfect his hand.
The Telekinetic said, “The Knights of Grau are coming. We can let them claim us as prizes - or we can go to them willingly.”
“But - Elder Haschen and the others --”
“Tortured you,” The Biokinetic spat. She tossed her head angrily. “I’m surprised you’ve survived as long as you have, soft as your are.”
“I’m not soft,” The Wordsmith insisted. “Haschen --”
“Will be finished off by the Gregori in seven minutes and thirty-two seconds,” The Oracle said.
The Wordsmith bowed his head. “And Lena, the girl who visited me?”
“The Talentless wench?” Another toss of the head from The Biokinetic. “Dead. Elders had her culled because she talked to you. Let’s go.”
“Seventeen years,” The Oracle said. “Isn’t it time?”
Numbers scrolled across The Wordsmith’s shoulder blades, and he bowed his head. “It is.”
(300 words)
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