Hive Knight: A Dark Fantasy LitRPG (Trinity of the Hive Book 1) by Grayson Sinclair (poetry books to read TXT) 📗

conversation can wait till the next guild meeting,” I said. “Let’s not get into this at Alistair’s vigil. I say we adjourn for the day. All in favor?”

A round of ayes echoed through the room.

With the vigil wrapped up and our business out of the way, we brought the meeting to a close and dispersed. I headed up to the third floor to my bedroom to take a bath and relax. My room was the first door next to the stairs, and I pushed the heavy wooden door side and locked it behind me. My room was minimalistic but elegant.

Red oak furniture dominated the bedroom. A large, four-poster canopy bed took up the most space, leaving little room for the wardrobe in the far corner and the nightstand. I had no decorations barring the heavy crimson drapes over my windows that kept the room in a perpetual state of twilight.

A bath enticed me, but I was still a little melancholy about Alistair, and a drink sounded better. I grabbed the crystal decanter on my nightstand, poured a generous measure of whiskey into the glass, and stepped out onto the balcony. Leaning over the dark stone railing, I could see well past the Rolling Hills, which comprised the territory of Gloom-Harbor. The green hills looked almost like a watercolor painting under the bright gaze of the sun.

Movement from above drew my attention to a raven that flew overhead under the sunlight, circling, looking for food. It seemed to take note of my presence at the same time I noticed it, as it swooped down to land on the edge of the railing, looking at me with its large, blood-red eyes. The raven’s feathers were sleek and looked like oil under the bright light.

“Well, aren’t you beautiful?”

The raven flinched at my words, startled by the sudden break in silence. It started cawing at me and flew away. I chuckled and turned back to the view. The amber liquid burned down my throat, and something wet slid down my cheek, I wiped it away to discover I was crying.

Alistair’s death upset me, but it wasn’t what was twisting my gut into knots. He was dead, yes, but that wasn't the be-all-end-all. It wasn’t a true death for him; he would come back eventually.

She never would.

I drained the glass and threw it as hard as I could over the railing. It shattered on the stone wall far below me. Godsdamn it! It’s been fifteen years, why can’t I just forget already?

Deaths always hit me like this, always brought back the memories I wanted to forget.

"I'm sorry, Soph," I said for the thousandth time, but my words meant nothing. Such things don't burden the dead.

I knew that all too well.

***

“C’mon, sleepyhead. We’re going to be late!” Soph shouted as she dragged me out of bed and into the glaring morning sun.

I fought a halfhearted battle to get her to release my hand, but I couldn’t fight against her energy, so I settled for gripping her hand tighter and let her drag me along toward the front of the camp.

The gate was open when we reached the entrance, which only happened when scavenger teams were sent out to gather supplies. Parked in front, almost wedged into the gap, was an old retrofitted deuce and a half, outfitted with massive tires for urban crawling and armor plating that looked durable enough to keep out even the ghouls’ sharp claws. UV floodlights were fastened around the monstrosity. It looked intimidating and powerful, but it didn’t make me feel any safer. It’ll take more than military might to stop them. They’re fast, deadly, and just plain smarter than us.

The truck was full to capacity as we climbed aboard. In the back were two soldiers, though they weren’t in standard military gear. No insignia or identification of any kind. They held the demeanor of no-nonsense, motioning us to take our seats with sharp movements, but refusing to speak. Once inside, the truck’s loud engines started, and we left the place I’d come to see as my prison for the last six months. Good Riddance.

I stared out the window for a while as we rolled through the streets filled with broken cars and broken glass. For a long while, the old world passed me, and I was fine. Then the area started looking familiar. Cold dread filled my gut, and I tried to fight the emotions welling inside, as we drove past my house.

The windows were broken, and the door was shattered off its hinges in thick pieces. A single chunk hung listlessly on the brass hinge, the light wood coated in a heavy brown stain. It looked like someone had splashed a coat of paint, but it wasn’t paint. I turned away. My skin beaded with sweat, and I wanted to vomit.

We rode for an hour until we reached an old airport, and the driver pulled the truck into a large hanger. Most of the space was dominated by a huge 747. I’d never flown, let alone seen a plane up close before. It had been painted black and gray, and quite a few spotlights had been fastened to the frame.

As we boarded, we filed in line among several hundred other passengers, just like us. Refugees. Survivors. Sophia and I sat next to each other, holding hands and trying to hide our nerves. Whoever we’ve crawled into bed with, it speaks a lot about them that they have access to a working plane, let alone clearance to fly.

We took off out of the hanger and down the runway. As I’d never flown before, I panicked for a second as we took off, but the view from my window shattered my fear and left me conflicted. It was an incredible, yet very surreal experience.

The sights of the city so far below us were bitter. The once-majestic skyscrapers,