Chapter 391: What the Dark Keeps
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The system acknowledged the command inside Sekhmet’s mind, but the night around him did not pause politely to let hidden order finish its work.
The warehouse still breathed in ugly ways.
Not with confidence. But with the aftermath.
Somewhere in the deeper lane, one of the wounded was still trying not to sob. Another man made the wet, panicked sounds of someone who had lost enough blood to understand death was in the room but had not yet accepted that it had chosen him specifically. A third had dragged himself half under a broken loading frame and was holding his breath so hard it had become its own advertisement.
Sekhmet’s gaze shifted across the ruined floor.
Not everyone inside had died.
Of course not.
A raid like this was not a clean line drawn between living and dead. It was a jagged thing. Some fell fast. Some broke late. Some hid. Some bled slower than they deserved.
Bat Bat noticed the same thing almost immediately.
"There are still some twitching," she said, peering around a stack of half-emptied crate frames with the bright practical interest of someone inspecting whether leftovers would keep until morning.
Mira looked up from the last ledger packet she was tying in cloth. "Some are dying."
"Some are pretending," Vela corrected from the side chamber exit.
Vera stepped out a breath later with two small lockboxes and one sealed roll of route paper in hand. "Poorly."
Auri, who had been checking the rear line where the last of the bats were clearing loose valuables from a half-collapsed shelf row, came back into the central hall and said, "Three in the back. Two near the west post. One under the split loading board."
Sekhmet nodded once.
Alive enough, then.
Not useful enough to question. Not important enough to spare.
Useful in another way.
He looked toward the open dark fold of the Void Land and then toward the swarms of black-winged watchers still moving overhead.
The bats had earned a reward tonight.
They had scouted, confused, carried, watched, and obeyed. Some had even taken scratches from panicked warehouse men swinging blindly upward with hooks and poles. None were badly harmed, but effort still deserved feeding if one expected loyalty to sharpen instead of dull.
The surviving men would serve.
Bat Bat saw the thought arrive in him before he spoke it.
Her whole face changed.
Not into cruelty.
Into pleased understanding.
"The living ones," she said.
"Yes."
That answer delighted her in a way that would have looked monstrous on almost anyone else and somehow only looked honest on her.
Mira straightened from the supply table and glanced toward the shadows where the wounded hid. There was no softness in her expression now. Not after the day they had pushed through. Not after the dead worker on the auction house table. Not after the sabotage. Whatever remained alive here had already chosen its side.
Lily said nothing at first.
She stood near the broken center aisle with a crate bar in one hand and blood drying along one wrist, looking toward the dark spaces where the wounded breathed too hard and too unevenly. Her face did not harden. It settled. There was a difference, and Sekhmet noticed it.
Not because the night pleased him as a game.
Because Lily was learning where mercy belonged and where it did not.
The twins needed no explanation at all. Vera had already begun moving toward the nearest breathing shadow. Vela turned the other direction at once, blade still in hand, calm as cold water.
Sekhmet said, "Alive. Do not waste time on the almost-dead."
Bat Bat clapped once before remembering where they were and how loud the room already sounded. She dropped her hands and whispered fiercely, "Efficient. I approve."
Auri looked at her. "You approve of everything with blood in it."
Bat Bat lifted her chin. "That is because I am spiritually correct."
No one bothered arguing.
The work began again.
It was not a battle now.
It was a collection.
Vera found the first man half-hidden behind a smashed crate frame where he had pulled old packing cloth over himself as if that would fool predators with noses and bloodlines. She bent, caught his ankle, and dragged him out hard enough that his shoulder slammed the floorboards. He cried out once, then tried to beg. Vera did not answer. She kicked his knife away, bound his wrists with a torn crate strap, and hauled him by the arm toward the central lane.
Vela’s first two were near the west support post, one with a broken leg and one with venom-stiffened muscles slowly returning enough control for panic to restart. She handled them with the same practical cruelty that defined her in work. One got the flat of her blade across the mouth when he tried shouting. The other took a knee to the chest and lost whatever argument he had planned.
Lily moved toward the rear pile line where the smell of fear had thickened under blood and dust. She found a man wedged under a broken shelving, breathing through his teeth, one hand clamped over a gut wound that had not killed him only because pain and cowardice were holding his insides in by agreement. When she pulled the shelf wood free, he looked up at her and froze.
Not because she had transformed again.
Because he remembered what she had looked like earlier and understood, from the dark blood drying at the corner of one of the dead men’s mouths nearby, exactly what sort of house had come for them tonight.
"Please," he said.
Lily studied him.
That was worse for him than if she had kicked him first.
There was no anger in her face. Only assessment. That made his fear sharper.
At last she took his wrists, twisted them behind his back, and bound them with a grain sack tie ripped from the fallen stock.
He tried again, more quietly. "Please."
Lily said, "You chose the wrong warehouse."
Then she dragged him toward the center.
Interesting.
Her delivery was getting better.
Mira found the one under the split loading board.