Book 16: The Culling

Lexa

Boots scrape over stone. Water drips down moss covered bricks with a smooth plop, plop, plop next to my head, where my cheek is pressed against what I can only assume is the floor. It stinks here. Like sweat, blood, and filth I refuse to describe.

I haven’t moved in hours, but I’ve been awake. Yes, I’m aware. Yes, I can feel every ache in my body. Yes, I’m alive, but why?

The memories of the beach are hazy. I’m not sure how much time has passed or where I am. I could actually be dead, I suppose, and currently in purgatory awaiting the Goddess’s final judgment. People have been moving in and out of wherever I am for the last several hours. I know that much. Facing the wall with my body curled in the fetal position, I haven’t so much as glanced behind me–at the darkness, at the shadows that groan and grumble, at the sound of chains grating across the wet floor.

The Boots, I call them, have been coming in and out, collecting souls in silenc