Page 58 of Bad Bunny
There is no break in momentum. No chance for Sorren to rest or catch his breath.
The big one moves in next. It’s massive. A mountain of tangled roots and thick bark plated across its chest and shoulders like armor. Branches bristle down its back in jagged ridges, forming and reforming with every movement. A jagged white antler rises from the center of its forehead. Where its face should be is a smooth knot of wood split by two dark hollows that might be eyes.
It does not rush.
It simply steps into Sorren’s space and swings.
The blow lands across his ribs with a sickening crack that I feel in my own body through the bond. Sorren staggers sideways, boots gouging trenches in the dirt, as he fights to keep upright.
The creature follows, relentless, its fists like wrecking balls.
A second strike comes down, heavy enough to crater the ground where Sorren stood a heartbeat before. Sorren twists away, but there’s no room to gain distance. No space to run. The pit is too small for speed to help him.
The monster hits Sorren with its next swing. A thick tangle of roots slams into his chest and drives him backward into the dirt. He falls down hard, the breath punched from his lungs so sharply I can hear the whoosh of his exhale from even up here.
The thing drops its weight on top of him, branches wrapping around Sorren’s arms, pinning them to the ground.
I scream.
Sorren snarls into the creature’s face. He’s no longer the composed prince. He’s becoming something more animalistic. Something that does not care about grace or composure.
Sorren bucks beneath the creature, thighs bunching as he tries to throw it off, but the monster is too heavy. Its roots tighten around his biceps, forcing his arms wide. Bark grinds against his skin. I feel the pressure of it through the bond. The suffocating crush.
The monster leans down.
Those hollow eye sockets stare into his face.
Sorren’s arms flex and twist until they finally break free. His fingers, now tipped with claws, drive forward, punching into the dark hollows where the monster’s eyes should be.
Roots give with a wet tearing sound.
The creature jerks back, spasming as Sorren’s hands sink deep into the soft, pulpy core hidden beneath the bark. He digs in, his knuckles disappearing into the thing’s skull as it thrashes above him.
With a roar, Sorren rips. Tears the creature’s head right down the middle into two separate pieces. The single antler falls to the ground. The monster convulses in Sorren’s grip and then collapses on itself, transforming into a heap of dirt and twigs.
Sorren shoves the remains aside and surges back to his feet, his chest heaving. He shakes soil and splinters from his hands as he turns to face the final opponent, the one with twin horns like the devil.
This one is different. I can tell by how it doesn’t blindly charge forward. Instead, it circles Sorren slowly, like it’s assessing. Watching. Searching for weakness.
My heart leaps into my throat when the branch monster lifts one arm high into the air. Ice races along the length of its vines, frost blooming outward in jagged veins until it gathers at its fist and hardens into a long, thin dagger. Double-bladed,with needle-sharp tips on each end. The monster grips it at the center, the only surface that will not cut.
“That’s not fair,” I cry out, rattling the bars of my cage even though the motion strips skin from my palms.
The voice of the Egg answers at once. “I do not deal in fairness.” There is no malice in it. No pity either. “Ask the bud destroyed by the first frost before it has a chance to bloom if that was fair. Ask the robin’s eggs devoured in the nest if that was fair. Ask the stag brought low by winter’s hunger if that was fair.”
A pause.
“Fairness is a myth. A dream forgotten upon waking. This is judgment.”
The monster has stalked closer to Sorren while the Egg spoke. Now they are separated by mere feet. Sorren balances on the balls of his feet, the picture of coiled energy. Of practiced restraint. Every line of his body is drawn tight, held in check, like something built to spring.
He’s not prey. He’s waiting.
A predator deciding when to strike.
The monster moves first.
Not a wild lunge. A measured step. The ice blade flashes, a low thrust aimed for Sorren’s ribs. Sorren pivots, but not fast enough. The tip of the ice dagger slices through his shirt, scoring a thin red line across his side. Blood flows immediately, staining his shirt red. I press as close to the bars as I dare, my eyes fixed on that crimson stain. It grows slowly. Not a killing strike, but still too close. Much too close.
