A Rose About to Fall

A gray veil pressed the night sky low. The deep crater looked like a black eye socket. The broken strip along its rim trembled in the aftershocks as fine sand slid down the slope, piled up at the edge, then was smoothed away by the heat. The compressed stone crust shone dull white under the stars, like a shell licked over and over by flames. The echoes from the distant mountains had faded, and the sound of falling rubble grew thin, as though it came from behind a curtain.

Only two figures remained at the center. The statue's enormous palm bore down to within half an inch, its many arms half-folded, half-spread like a motionless fan. A fist thrust through the gap between its fingers and held against that point of white light. Blood seeped steadily from splits across the knuckles, ran down the wrist, and dripped beside his feet, turning to white mist on contact with the ground. That thin white line had polished the dark layer at the bottom of the crater to an almost mirrorlike shine, exposing a deeper ring of earth-colored striations.

Netero's feet sank a fraction farther, driving his weight into the inner layer of stone. His palms slowly moved apart from his chest, then came together before it once more. A line of blood on his robe ran down his ribs and stopped at his waist. He neither retreated nor stepped forward. He kept his breaths short and steady. The statue's silhouette rose slightly, another arc layering over its many arms. The outermost edges of its palms trembled faintly, like fine rain falling in the night, yet made no sound.

Meruem drove his feet deeper into the crater floor. Circular cracks spread a little from them, only to be drawn back by the pressure