Belch found her bed to be very comfortable, giving herself up to the warmth of the thick blanket over her body. Her head sunk into her pillow, one eye forced to close while the other kept open. Every night, she dreamed of something she couldn’t quite remember by the time she woke up. It all felt so faint to her. All she knew was that they happened regularly, almost every night.

While she couldn’t recall what she dreamed at night, she often found herself daydreaming during the day as well. Even now, she thought about the fields back home in Dork, the purple flowers that wouldn’t escape her mind. They were always so close to her, but, as a beast, she was forbidden to touch, let alone admire them openly, making her adore them in secrecy.

But recently, she felt herself to be more human, worthy of considering them.

She wanted to touch them. Perhaps the flowers were a part of her dreams at night. But she knew—as what they had told her—that she wouldn’t return to Dork, never to see them again.

Belch frowned into her pillow, unable to sleep. Sleeping progressively got harder to do over the past week as the testings had been getting more and more strenuous to her body. Every day had been something different physically, like lifting heavy weights, jumping from heights to see if the landing would hurt—which it did—and punching bags of sand until her hands got sore. Nothing, yet they persisted.

But, for as hard as the physical tests were, the reading was where Belch struggled the most. She could read somewhat proficiently now, from words up to five or six letters long. She wasn’t perfect yet; it still took her a few seconds to assess a sentence before reading it. The first trick she abused was reading the sentence in her head twice before reading it aloud. If the words sounded like plain Huish to her mind, it would come out as plain Huish to Pedr.

Still, the sentences only got more challenging to read as she advanced from grade to grade. Reading was all too familiar to how the beast camps worked—fighting starting from the bottom, getting better over time, climbing the ranks to the top. But, as Pedr explained, reading wasn’t a sport or competition between two opposing forces. Belch didn’t believe that for one single moment.

The words were her opponent. Even now, they haunted her mind, letters showing up. Now, they didn’t spell out words she had read before, but they created words, words of what she knew but never read before. Sord, body, hair, chicken, stake, punch, they read. She assumed some of them were wrong or slightly inaccurate. They were her enemy. Like a beast standing across from her, letters formed together to create an opponent on a page.

Some of the words were a little more difficult to defeat than others, with tricky spelling or silent letters like a hidden weapon. You could lose at reading. Like how when a beast beat her, she felt beaten. Losing to a word was like being kicked in the brain.

And here she was, in bed, thinking about reading when she should have been asleep. She gripped her purple shirt, feeling its smooth texture, then held it to her cheek. She rubbed her head into her pillow, and finally, she started to drift to a calm, relaxing—

Clink.

She lifted her head. The sound, while subtle, startled her. It came from the door. She lifted off her back. The knob turned slightly, jiggling as the latch left the door frame, and the door swung quietly, slowly open.

“Oh,” a shadow said. Belch’s eyes were adjusting to the light from the hall; she couldn’t recognize who was in front of her. “You’re awake. I thought I heard screaming, how strange.”

“W-who,” she trailed off as she finally made the figure out. He had a puffy white hat and a white uniform. Lorn, Aidan’s chef. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Well,” Lorn cleared his throat. “I have a problem, you see. I cooked too much food, and there is no more room left in the f-fridge. Y-yeah, so I was wondering if you could help.”

“How?” Belch asked.

“Well, you like to eat, right?” Lorn asked.

“It’s late, isn’t it? What time is it?” She checked the window, and the algae moon was up in the stars.

“Well, can you at least help me throw it out? I need c-company.”

Belch nodded. She didn’t know why Lorn was stuttering or why he entered her room this late at night. But, she liked the chef. Every dinner he made especially to please both her and Pedr. Belch tossed her blanket off of herself, climbing out of bed to reach the door.

She figured she would come right back, so she left wearing her pajamas—a loose white top and a small, smooth pair of shorts. While comfortable, she quickly regretted not putting anything else on as she began to freeze once she got into the hall.

Lorn led the way, shutting the door behind her gently so not to make much noise. The hall was well lit, despite the hour. Painted pictures of Lord Aidan were between every door, positioned with black frames on the silver wall. Yet the lights added a hint of gold that otherwise wasn’t there. Her eyes were still adjusting, and the room started to swallow more and more into a dim-lit atmosphere.

Lorn moved oddly throughout the hall, stumbling at times, dragging himself at others. They approached an oval-shaped mirror positioned on top of a tall dresser at the end of the hall. Lorn stopped there, reaching into his pockets. The stairs down were to their left.

Why are we stopping? Belch thought.

Belch didn’t know much about Lorn, but she felt like he wasn’t acting like his usual self. Lorn pulled out a silver key, bringing it to a lock, twisting and turning until they heard the quiet snap of metal grinding metal.

The lock slipped out of Lorn’s hand and fell to the floor, causing a loud thud. “Fuck!” he cursed under his breath. “You can do this! You can do this!”

“Do you need help?” Belch asked.

“Yes,” Lorn said bitterly. He pulled open the shelf, reaching in. The chef pulled out some knives. One was large, a chef’s knife Lorn once explained. A tool he used every day. The other was a steak knife. Lorn slid the steak knife in his back pocket before turning to Belch with the chef’s knife in hand. “If you could just stay still.”

Belch nodded.

Lorn staggered over like he was about to fall on one of his sides. He had the knife in both of his hands, bringing it over to Belch, pointing to her chest. But this wasn’t a kitchen. There was no food here to cut. The last time someone with a knife approached her like this, it was Rnuk, the old man who had—

Belch slapped his thrusting wrist away from her. The knife glided in the air as Lorn stumbled forward, tripping into her. Belch jumped back, keeping her body away from the blade. She lied; she wouldn’t stand still. Not when Lorn was trying to kill her.

“Why are you doing this?” Belch asked.

Lorn replied with a grunt, lifting his blade upward, aiming at her once more. He walked, despair in his eyes and uncertainty in his expression. Belch didn’t know what to do. Pedr was down the hall a little ways back.

She tried to trail back, but Lorn lunged. Suddenly, Belch’s feet slipped, and she stumbled to the floor. She rolled over her back, setting her feet on the ground, before lunging up herself from a crouch. She reached Lorn before his knife could get her, striking him with her shoulder, knocking him back.

Keep yourself small, she thought. A knife gives him a reach advantage.

Lorn growled, taking a step back. “Why won’t you stand still!”

“Why are you trying to kill me?”

Lorn hissed, and they both ran straight into each other.

Belch spotted his hands before they collided, both on the knife’s handle. The back edge of the blade was dull, not sharp as any ordinary chef’s knife would be. She aimed for that, pushing down on that end to sway the knife out and away. Without any hands, and the leaning nature of her approach, the only weapon she had left was her head, which she launched forward and upward, pounding him in the head with the top of her own.

Lorn screamed, his left hand grabbing the top of his forehead as he stumbled back. His right hand wildly swung in front of him, trying to keep her back while he recovered. But she pressed further in, ducking under one swing of the knife, to bring her fists to strike back, hitting the side of his jaw.

She carried through the momentum, turning her waist, lifting her left knee before extending to kick Lorn in the gut, throwing him back and into the dresser at the end of the hall.

He crashed, dropping to the floor. The violent shake of the dresser trembled the mirror on top, which vibrated to the front and over, dropping on Lorn’s head to shatter.

Belch gasped, worried she had killed Lorn. Who cares if I killed him, she thought. He was trying to kill me! Why? Why? “Why?”

Lorn mumbled on the floor, alive, only unwell. He seemed very uncoordinated in their fight, strangely so. His face bleached pale, and he wore a sick-struck look.

“What’s wrong with you? Why did you lie to me?”

No response.

Everyone seemed to lie to her. Her beast tamers, Cyril, Aidan, and now Lorn. Who in this world could be trusted?

A door opened from behind her. She turned her head, seeing a large figure bend slightly so he could leave his door. Pedr turned his head, then frowned. “What’s going on!” The swole tutor ran up, looking critically at Belch. He wore a silver pair of pajamas, loose folds of his shirt, large for even his size.

“He attacked me,” Belch pointed.

“Lorn?” Pedr asked. He picked up his puffy white hat from the floor. Then his eyes shifted to the chef knife a few feet between Belch and Lorn. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Belch said. “He won’t answer me.”

“Lorn!” Pedr commanded. “What are you doing!”

More mumbling came from the chef. He lifted the mirror off his head, tossing it to the size. His balding head bled, blood dripping down his face as he looked at Belch with scorn. “Y-you were s-supposed to stand still!”

“Lorn!” Pedr raised his voice. He frowned. “Are you drunk? What are you doing?”

Lorn only responded with a hiss.

“We should go get Aidan,” Pedr said, taking charge. “Or find a policeman out at this hour.”

“Should I go?” Belch asked.

Pedr pinched his jaw. His beard had grown a few hairs back since he last cut it before he arrived in Dormoor. “No, you shouldn’t go anywhere by yourself. If Lorn wanted you dead, I assume others would too.”

“I’m confused,” Belch said. He looked at the defeated chef in front of him, moaning. Hands behind his back, eyes daggering Belch. Now that was a face of a beast. “Why would he try to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” Pedr said. He sighed. “I guess we should apprehend him ourselves.”

Pedr stalked forward, inching closer and closer. Lorn didn’t move. He only muttered. “Fool, you damn fool, fool, ya fool.”

Belch noted the chef’s knife on the floor. As Pedr crept along the wall, approaching Lorn slowly, Belch remembered something. “Wait, Pedr!”

Pedr turned his head. “What?”

“He has a second knife—”

Lorn lunged to his feet, bringing his hand from his back, slashing the air with his spare steak knife before whipping his hand and fingers forward, throwing the knife with a rapid spin. The blade spun toward Belch’s head. It closed in fast, too fast for her to dodge out the way.

But she wouldn’t die here. She lifted her left hand to block.

The tip pierced her hand, and a rush of blood launched from her palm like pressurized water coming out of an open duct. The blade pushed deeper in, to the point if she held her hand any closer, she’d been stabbed in the head.

The pain surged for half a second before her hand settled, still shaking. The gush of blood splattered onto Lorn, though she could barely recognize it as blood. Especially with it coming out of her body a solid black.

Her eyebrows clenched down, and she screamed. Her blood shook violently, but not from her palm, but from where it coated Lorn, appearing as boiling water, though it didn’t seem to burn the chef. It stuck Lorn to the tall dresser like glue, holding him in place. Lorn struggled, but his arms were trapped in its grasp, as were his lower legs.

Belch’s screamed a few seconds longer. She eventually drew the courage to pull the knife out of her palm. The blood seeped out of her hand. She turned to Pedr, who stood baffled.

My power? Belch thought. My blood being black? And sticky? That didn’t sound very amazing. But in front of her, the blood clung to Lorn, apprehending him. Lorn struggled, turning, barely twisting. He started climbing the shelf.

Belch grimaced. Her anger caved in, and she felt rage build up to the point she could roar. Her blood reacted, climbing up, spreading on its own, covering around the chef’s thighs, welding him to the dresser. His left arm stuck to his chest, and his right arm attached to the wall. He was trying to climb for the window, but he was utterly trapped now.

That didn’t matter to Belch. She found herself infuriated, betrayed by Aidan’s chef. She liked him, yet he tried to kill her. Why? She clenched her fists, and the blood on Lorn’s body didn’t stop at sticking him to the dresser. It proceeded to climb up his neck slowly.

“What’s going on!” Lorn demanded. The black reached his chin, continuing up. “What are you doing to me! They never told me what to do if you—” his mouth was covered, leaving only mumbles when he tried to speak. Black blood as thick as tar, cutting off his airflow. The blood had a mind of its own, aiming for the nose next. It reached, swarming his nostrils.

Belch heard only muffled screams from Lorn as he fought for breaths that would no longer come. Her fists remained clenched, angry and upset. She was in pain with her hand, the slit inside barely wide enough to see through. She touched it herself. The blood seemed to not stick to her but repelled off instead. It didn’t smear on her skin, not like the red blood she had before. Her blood, however, splattered on her favorite purple shirt, not giving the fabric the same mercy as her skin.

Pedr stood frozen for a moment. He saw the web of black blood cover the end of the hall, the dying chef in front of him. He didn’t know what to do. But he turned to Belch, then looked at his hand, where he still held Lorn’s hat. He ripped it down the middle, stopping a few inches at the end. He tossed it to Belch. “Wrap that around your hand for now.”

Belch nodded, listening to his instructions. Even when she was a monster, somebody who had blood different than any ordinary human, Pedr still looked out for her. That was at least comforting. The hat’s scrap didn’t kill the pain, though the hand stopped leaking death.

“What in the world…” Pedr said.

“I… don’t know,” Belch said.

“Do we try to save him?”

“I don’t know,” Belch repeated. “I don’t know.”

A part of her felt like she could command her blood to stop. The rage was only now starting to subside.

“Well,” Pedr said. Lorn turned his head to him, eyes wide with agony. All from Belch. “Aidan would sentence him to death anyway, right?”

Belch nodded reluctantly.

So, they remained put. Belch waited nervously until Lorn’s muttered screams silenced and for his body to stop jolting around. When he suffocated to death, the silence became deadly, waiting for someone to come and explain the chaos that just ensued.

It wasn’t until his breaths ceased that she felt it. What it was like to kill someone.