Rise Of The Nephilim

JUNE 28TH

The sound of beating drums vibrated through the walls of the infirmary, waking Maxine and the others.

Maxine stirred and felt a piercing pain in her side, causing her to sigh. She placed a hand over the wound wrapped in white gauze and held it firmly.

With a hand over his chest, Haman grunted, “This pain is infinite.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, brother,” Silla said, responding to her own discomfort.

“Don’t complain now, for let’s not forget what Father has promised us,” Gaden suggested, struggling to scoop himself up into a sitting position.

Zeda’s strength had returned, though her pride and confidence remained shattered, and her wrist remained wrapped in white gauze. A line left behind by the tears that had run down her face marked her beneath the lingering dark shadows and swollen lids. She sat at the edge of her bed, her hands pressed against her face, staring at the dark floor through the spaces between her fingers.

Maxine searched for words to console her but could find none. She quickly realized there was nothing she could do to wipe clean the guilt. The despair. The shame.

More importantly, she risked isolating herself from the others even further. She reminded herself that it was she who’d convinced them to risk their own lives to save Zeda.

A burst of wind blew through the infirmary when Āmand flew in and made his presence known. He folded his wings, his face grim, and stood center of his Nephilim. “Today you will face an Imp in the battle arena.”

It was not what Maxine had wanted to hear. She shot a gaze in the direction of the others, shocked that Āmand would want them to face another Imp after almost losing their lives.

Not one of them had protested; however, they feared that Āmand would have hardened his judgment.

The Imps are blind, Haman thought. How can I use this?