"Show us," he says. Voice almost gentle. Mocking. Savoring this. "Stand up. Step BACK. Let us SEE which containers you have."
Del's stomach drops. The rib grinding harder. Can't breathe right. Vision blurring.
Can't complete the swap. The one-armed man is watching too closely. The crowd is hostile. Suspicious. Ready for violence.
If he switches them now, everyone sees.
He stands. Slowly. His leg shaking. Vision going gray.
Steps back. Leaving both containers on the ground.
Container eleven and container eight. Side by side. Separate.
Didn't swap them.
The one-armed man walks over. His smile fading slightly. Confusion creeping in.
He was SURE. Certain Del was switching them.
But the containers are just... sitting there. Apart.
He picks them up. One in each hand. Examines them. Checks the bottoms.
Container eleven: smooth.
Container eight: scratch.
Doesn't know what that means. Doesn't know about Tam's marking.
But he KNOWS something was wrong. Del's hands were on two containers. About to move them. Do SOMETHING.
Just can't prove what.
His jaw tightens. Frustration replacing delight.
He was SO CLOSE.
Carries container eleven back to the testing area. Sets it down with containers four and seven.
Three containers. Two pure. One diluted.
The swap failed.
The one-armed man stands there. Looking at the containers. At Del. Back to containers.
His face hard. Angry. The smile gone completely.
Almost had proof. Almost caught him.
Slipped away.
He steps back. Watching. Waiting for another mistake. Hoping.
Del's mind racing. The rib grinding with each breath. Vision blurring worse. Black spots everywhere.
Container eleven is contaminated. When they taste it, they'll notice. The gap obvious.
Unless.
He crouches down next to the three containers.
The movement makes his vision white out. Complete. The rib shifting. Grinding. Something inside him tearing.
Comes back. Gray. Swimming.
Holds his bleeding hand over container eleven.
Lets blood drip. More. Much more.
Ten drops. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.
The water turns dark red. Then darker. Almost black. Thick. Viscous.
The crowd murmurs. Bodies shifting.
"—what's he DOING—"
"—that's TOO MUCH—"
"—is that NORMAL—"
"—something's WRONG—"
Del pulls his hand back. The cut still bleeding heavily. Won't stop. Too deep.
Wraps it in a piece of cloth. The cloth soaking through immediately. Dark red spreading.
"That one was MORE contaminated," Del says.
His voice barely there. Hoarse. Breaking on every word.
He forces it louder. Has to project. Has to convince.
"Needed more BLOOD. More of my—"
He coughs. Wet. Painful. His whole body convulsing.
Spits. Blood. More than before. Dark. Wrong.
"—my ESSENCE."
Wheezing now. Each word forced.
"The corruption was DEEPER."
The one-armed man's eyes narrow. That smile trying to return. Smelling weakness. Vulnerability.
"How do you KNOW?" he asks. Leaning in. "You haven't TASTED it."
Del meets his eyes. Forces steadiness into his voice. Certainty.
"I can FEEL it."
Pause. Breathing. Shallow.
"The artifact fragment responded DIFFERENTLY when I touched it to the water."
Another pause. The crowd silent. Listening.
"RESISTANCE. The corruption fighting BACK."
The one-armed man's smile falters. Dies.
That... sounded convincing.
Real.
He has no response. Nothing to say. Can't prove Del is lying.
Just: stands there. Frustrated. Angry.
Del sits back. The movement making everything gray. Vision swimming. Can't focus.
His hand throbbing. Blood soaking through the cloth. Dripping on the ground.
His leg completely dead. No feeling. Just: weight.
The rib grinding with each shallow breath. Wet sound. Wrong.
"Now we WAIT," Del says. Voice barely audible. "The blood needs TIME to work."
He stays sitting. Can't stand anymore. Can't move. Just: exists.
The crowd waits. Silent. Tense.
Bodies pressed together. The smell overwhelming. Sweat. Rot. Fear. Hope. Anger.
All mixed. Suffocating.
Time passes. Three minutes. Five.
The sun higher now. Light harsh. Temperature climbing but still cold. Breath still fogging.
Del's vision is mostly black spots now. Gray. Swimming. Can't see clearly anymore.
Sounds distant. Muffled. Like underwater.
But he stays conscious. Barely. Clinging.
Can't pass out. Not yet. Not until they taste.
Vence steps forward. His boots in Del's vision. Blurry. Indistinct.
"Enough waiting."
Sound of seal breaking. Small hiss.
Container four opening.
Sniffing. Pause.
Tasting.
Long silence.
Del can't see Vence's face. Can't see the crowd. Just: blurry shapes. Gray. Black.
But he hears.
"Tastes like blood," Vence says. Voice considering. Uncertain. "And metal. But..."
Pause.
"Clean underneath. No sourness. No rot."
Sound of container being set down.
Another seal breaking. Container seven.
Sniffing. Tasting.
Another pause.
"Same," Vence says. "Clean. Blood-tainted but clean."
The crowd shifting. Del can hear it. Bodies moving. The sound changing. Not angry anymore. Not hostile.
Something else. Fragile. Uncertain.
Another seal breaking. Container eleven.
The smell hits. Even Del can smell it through his failing senses.
Blood. Thick. Overwhelming. Wrong.
Vence makes a sound. Disgust. Revulsion.
"Fuck," someone in the crowd mutters.
Tasting. Long pause.
Vence's face must be contorting. The crowd reacting to it.
Someone gags. Sympathetic. The smell too much.
"Strong," Vence says finally. Voice strained. Disgusted. "Very strong. Tastes MOSTLY like blood. Can barely taste the water."
Pause. Del waiting. Can't breathe. The rib pressing too hard.
"But..."
Vence pauses.
Del's heart pounding. Vision almost gone. Just waiting.
"No sourness," Vence says. "No rot. Just blood and metal."
Container being set down.
The crowd—
Everything shifts.
Not celebration. Not yet.
Relief.
Pure. Desperate. Fragile.
The sound changes. Bodies sagging. Weight releasing.
Someone exhales. Long. Shaking. Like they've been holding their breath for years.
Someone else makes a sound. Half-sob. Half-laugh. Broken. Wrong.
A body hitting the ground. Someone collapsing. Unconscious or overwhelmed. Can't tell.
Others stumbling. Knees giving out. Bodies catching each other.
The smell changing. Sharper. Someone vomited. The sound. The smell. Others gagging in response.
But also: crying. Quiet. Multiple people. Not loud. Just: tears. Overwhelming. Can't process it.
Someone laughing. High. Broken. Hysterical. The sound wrong. Unnatural.
Others shushing them. Scared the laughter will break something. Shatter this moment.
But through it all: doubt.
In some sounds. In some silences.
Not everyone believes. Not everyone accepts.
The one-armed man steps forward. Del can hear it. That asymmetric gait. Scrape-step. Scrape-step.
"I want to taste them."
Containers being handed over. Sound of liquid sloshing.
Tasting. First container. Pause.
Second container. Pause.
Third container.
Sound of spitting. Immediate. Violent.
"Fuck," the one-armed man says. Wiping. Spitting again. "FUCK."
Pause.
"Well?" Vence asks.
Long silence.
The crowd waiting. The fragile relief hanging. Could shatter any second.
"The first two are clean," the one-armed man says finally. Voice flat. Hard. "Blood-tainted. But clean."
Pause.
Some sounds in the crowd. Relief building.
"The third one..."
The relief freezing. Waiting.
"Can't tell. Too much blood. Overwhelms everything. Could be clean underneath. Could be contaminated. Can't taste through the blood to know."
Del's chest tightening. The rib pressing. Can't breathe.
Vence's voice: "So is it pure or not?"
"Don't know."
"That's not an ANSWER."
The one-armed man's voice getting harder. Angrier. "It's the only answer I HAVE. He put so much blood in it I can't taste what's underneath."
Pause.
"Convenient."
Del doesn't respond. Can't. No energy left. Just: sits there. Bleeding. Broken. Waiting.
Vence considering. The crowd silent. Waiting for judgment.
Then: "Two are definitely clean. One is unclear. That's still PROOF the ritual works."
The crowd erupts.
Not unified. Not clean.
Chaos.