"MOVE!"
"THE BLOOD—!"
"IT'S MINE!"
The summit turned into a slaughterhouse of the soul. As soon as Drakovitch gave the command, the thin mask of their "White-Scum" nobility shattered. One hundred and forty three teenagers, once poised and refined, devolved into a pack of starving ghouls.
They no longer sounded human. The air filled with a cacophony of wet slaps, frantic scratching, and guttural snarls as they clawed over one another, desperate to reach the waterfall of glowing, draconic ichor.
Big Arms reached the torrent first. When a boy tried to shove past her, she didn't even look at him. Fueled by adrenaline and greed, she swung a heavy fist that shattered his jaw and sent him spiraling into the fog. She didn't care; she didn't even notice. She threw herself into the center of the crimson waterfall, the glowing heat of the blood searing her skin.
"YES! MORE! GIVE ME MORE!"
