Chapter 15 · Bad Blood

"Get your filthy hands off her!"

Cain’s voice didn’t just echo—it vibrated through the stone floor, rattling the teeth of every inquisitor in the room. He didn’t wait for them to move. In a blur of obsidian smoke, he was there, his hand clamped around the lead inquisitor’s wrist like a vice.

"Careful, Lord Abyss," the inquisitor spat, though his face was pale. "You're protecting a heretic. A traitor who brought a void-mark into the sacred hall. That’s a death sentence for both of you."

"I don’t take orders from dogs in fancy robes," Cain hissed. He tightened his grip. The sound of bone beginning to creak filled the sudden silence of the hall.

I felt the drain again—a sharp, cold tug at the base of my spine. Cain was feeding. He wasn't just fighting; he was using my life force to fuel the pressure in the room. My knees buckled, and I slumped against the edge of the shattered altar.

"Cain, stop," I gasped, my voice sounding thin, like paper tearing. "You're making it worse."

"Let them call me a monster," he murmured, not looking at me, his eyes locked on the terrified man in his grasp.