She sacrificed the sound of her own laughter — the genuine kind she hadn't heard in years. The loss left a strange silence inside her chest, like a piece of her voice had been carved out. In exchange, a burst of precision flooded her movements.
She slipped past the first barbed limb and drove the serrated blade into the gap between the creature's armored plates. The knife sank deep with a wet, grinding crunch, tearing through soft tissue beneath. Thick, dark ichor sprayed out in a pressurized jet, splattering hot across her face and chest. The foul stench of rot and bile burned her nostrils. She twisted the blade viciously, feeling muscle and organs give way with a series of wet pops, then yanked it free with a grotesque sucking sound.
The skitterer convulsed, one barbed limb slashing across her already torn thigh. Fresh blood gushed in a warm rush, soaking her jeans and running down her leg in thick rivulets. The pain flared hot and bright, but the precision from her sacrifice kept her steady.
She staggered back, breathing hard. Blood continued to flow freely from multiple wounds — shoulder, ribs, forearm, thigh — warm and sticky against her skin.
Sylcath moved in beside her without hesitation this time. His crimson energy flared bright. He targeted the wounded skitterer, fingers splaying. The creature's body jerked violently as invisible force tore into the fresh gash. There was a sickening wet ripping sound, like meat being yanked from bone, as another glowing chunk of essence was violently extracted through the opened wound. Strands of tissue and dark ichor trailed after it. The skitterer collapsed in a twitching heap, its armored carapace split wide, pale innards spilling onto the blood-soaked pavement with a heavy, wet slap.
Sylcath absorbed the essence with a slow breath. The Echo Ripple from Philippa's latest sacrifice hit him — the strange internal silence where her laughter used to be. He pressed a hand to his own chest for a moment, expression flickering with irritation before smoothing out.
"Laughing next?" he said, voice low and edged. "You're stripping yourself down to nothing. What will be left when the real monsters come?"
Philippa wiped ichor and blood from her eyes, the motion leaving another dark smear. She almost smiled bitterly at the irony, but the sacrificed laughter made the expression feel hollow. "At least I'm choosing what disappears," she replied, voice rough. "You just take whatever's convenient."
More rifts cracked open further down the street. The glassy tearing sound echoed again, followed by the wet scrabbling of fresh horrors. The heavy coppery stench of slaughter hung thick, drawing them in waves.
Philippa's body screamed with every step. Blood poured from her wounds in warm streams, making her grip on the knife slippery. She could feel the Echo Ripples spreading wider now — a group of survivors nearby suddenly clutched their thighs or shoulders, mirroring her injuries for a few seconds before shaking it off with curses and panicked glances in her direction.
Sylcath stayed close, no longer pretending to be a distant observer. He dispatched another skitterer with brutal efficiency — crimson light flaring, body convulsing, essence ripped free through its back with another wet tearing sound. He absorbed it smoothly, but his eyes kept flicking to Philippa's bleeding form more often, the irritation in his gaze mixing with something sharper, almost reluctant concern.
"You're a magnet for death," he muttered, stepping over a twitching corpse. "All this leaking pain and emptiness… it's going to get us both killed before we even reach whatever safe zone you're trying to get back to."
Philippa didn't answer right away. She could feel the next sacrifice pressing against her mind — heavier, more dangerous than the last. The hollow silence where her laughter had been made the thought feel even lonelier. She pushed the feeling down. Hesitation meant dying here in the street.
A new cluster of skitterers broke from the wave, their jointed legs clicking rapidly. The largest one — heavily armored with longer, venom-dripping barbs — charged straight at her injured leg, mandibles wide open.
Philippa raised her bloody knife, muscles burning, blood still flowing freely down her arm and leg. She prepared her next sacrifice as the creature closed the distance fast, spiked limbs tearing up the ground. Sylcath moved in parallel, crimson energy gathering brighter in his palm, his gaze locked on the threat — and on her — with growing intensity. The air between them felt charged, the rivalry sharpening into something more complicated as the large skitterer reared up to strike.
Philippa lunged forward to meet it, heart pounding, fresh blood spraying from her wounds, the hollow silence of sacrificed laughter echoing inside her as the creature's barbs descended and Sylcath's hand rose with crimson power, his next move still hanging uncertain between alliance and theft