‘TOUCH’

Screams.

They form a haunting melody that soothes my mind whenever I devour a soul. The trembling echoes of fear emitted by humans as we drain their essence bring a peculiar satisfaction. Most Kelpies, like me, don't take pleasure in the act itself but feel the necessity. Yet, I have grown to relish the sound—the life ebbing away in agonized cries. One might label me twisted, but everyone has their peculiarities, even creatures like us. When I extract a human soul, I draw out their pain, but not because I feel it. I can't. Kelpies don’t feel emotions like humans do. We exist, we feed, we survive.

For centuries, we’ve drained life from any human unlucky enough to cross our path, fueling our existence and extending our time in this world. But we don’t remember being human. Whatever fleeting memories might have existed are long lost to us, buried beneath the hunger that keeps us tethered to life. Souls are our sustenance, and without them, we fade into nothingness.

This human boy, though—his cries should have brought me satisfaction. But instead, fear gripped me. Not for him, but for us. Whatever was tormenting us had mocked us, stripping away our power. Even as immortals, we feared what we couldn't understand. And though we Kelpies don’t fear death the way humans do, we do fear the nothingness that awaits when we starve from the lack of souls.

I remember the desperation well. If we do not consume a living soul, we fade away—our bodies, our essence, reduced to mere dust. I had watched others disappear this way, hollow and without ceremony. That’s what would happen to me and my family if we didn’t feed soon. Kelpies don't form bonds out of love or affection. Our ties are for survival, nothing more. My family, like me, had once been human, but now we were something less. We had no emotions, no attachments—except for the mutual need to continue existing. And that boy’s soul, I knew, was the key to keeping us alive.

But Oh—Odysseus, as the others called him—refused to understand. He shielded the boy, blinded by some misplaced human sentiment, ignoring my desperation. It infuriated me, the way he stood between me and survival, refusing to acknowledge why I needed that soul.

Now, it was too late. We were falling into the unknown, descending into an abyss that might seal our doom. Silence enveloped us, leaving nothing but darkness and uncertainty. The others screamed—Oh, Oona, even One—but their voices no longer reached me. I should have felt something, but Kelpies don’t feel.

And yet, as my vision blurred and darkness gave way to a blinding light, I found myself grasping for a sense of understanding. What was this place? The ground beneath me was soft, covered in mud and twigs. The sounds of nature—the rustling wind, the chirping birds, the rushing water—flooded my senses. For a moment, I thought I had gone deaf, but now I was acutely aware of everything around me.

I had escaped the labyrinth. I was home.

Tears streaked down my face, not because I felt sadness or relief, but because my body reacted to the overwhelming realization that I had survived. I ran, reckless through the forest, toward the place where my family once lived. Their presence, though emotionless, had been constant. We hunted together. We survived together. And now, they were gone.

When I reached the waterfall—the place we had called home—the truth hit me with the force of a thousand souls. The waterfall was as magnificent as ever, and the night sky, filled with stars, was as beautiful as I remembered. But my family wasn’t there. They had faded into nothingness, their bodies turned to dust, starved from the lack of souls. I had failed them, and in doing so, I had failed myself.

It wasn’t grief I felt. Kelpies don’t grieve. But there was a weight, something heavy in my chest, something that kept me kneeling on the soft grass by the water, staring at the spot where they had once stood. I couldn’t cry for them, nor could I mourn their loss. Instead, I just existed, alone.

We Kelpies are solitary by nature. Family is a strange concept to us, more out of necessity than affection. When I found Rí and the others, it wasn’t because I was seeking companionship. I was seeking survival. Yet somehow, I had grown attached to them. Not emotionally, but through years of hunting and surviving together, we became something like family. But that’s gone now. And though I can’t feel pain the way humans do, there’s an emptiness that I can’t ignore.

As I knelt there, trying to grasp the void, the ground trembled. The air thickened with the scent of smoke, and I lifted my head to see the forest ablaze. The fire swept through everything—trees, grass, the riverbank, all consumed by the flames. I ran, instincts driving me forward as the fire chased me. I had survived the labyrinth, but this—this was destruction on a scale I couldn’t comprehend.

The fire wasn’t stopping, not even when it reached the waterfall. It devoured everything, and soon, it would consume me too.

Kelpies don’t feel fear, but survival—that’s different. I ran, and though I couldn’t explain what was happening, I knew one thing: if I didn’t keep moving, I would disappear just like my family.

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“In the heart's language, gestures whisper louder and linger longer than spoken words.”

CHAPTER SIX: THIRST