3: Black Blades by Ginn Hale

elbows. A choked gasp of pain escaped him. He wanted to scream, but he could hardly draw a breath. Nothing in his life had hurt like this. The edge ground through his skin and muscle like a saw blade.
    It had to stop. Now.
    John could see the thin, trembling edge of the God’s Razor. It blurred into a pale line, turning pink as his blood spattered along its surface. It looked absurdly small, like a tiny fissure in the air. Like a thread that he could just grab and snap if he wanted to.
    John wondered if he was in shock from the pain.
    He watched, feeling almost like a distant observer, as his right arm dropped down and grabbed the God’s Razor. He felt the jagged grinding edge of Gray Space bite into his palm, but the pain was muted and dull. His blood spattered up in a fine mist as he clenched his fist around the opening of Gray Space. He crushed it closed.         
    Fikiri staggered back. Dayyid gaped in abject disbelief.
    John’s entire body shook. He felt hot and strange. He swayed on his feet and barely caught himself from falling. Every single ushiri stared at him in shock.
    Even Ravishan.
    He shouldn’t have done that. Whatever it was that he had done.
    John turned his hand to look at his palm. It glistened like ground beef. Nausea welled up. John looked away from his ruined hand to the men in front of him. They all stood perfectly still, as if paralyzed.
    Then Ravishan bolted forward. He placed a hand against John’s back.
    “Sit down,” Ravishan said. “You should sit down.”
    John sat on the ugly, blood-spattered mat.
    He wondered why his hand and arms didn’t seem to hurt so much now. Shock, he supposed. He tried to remember first aid procedures. Treat the wounds. Keep the victim warm and hydrated.
    “It’s just shock,” John mumbled. His words sounded strange and garbled. He started to say that he thought he needed stitches.
    Ravishan scowled at him and whispered, “Be quiet!” Then John realized that he had spoken to Ravishan in English and clenched his jaw shut. He had to be careful.
    A moment later, Dayyid crouched down opposite Ravishan, scowling.               
    “You were a fool to grasp the God’s Razor. Your hand should have been severed.”
    John scowled back at Dayyid, not trusting himself to speak yet.
    “His injuries need to be treated,” Ravishan said.
    Dayyid narrowed his eyes at Ravishan.
    “I know what needs to be done and what does not,” Dayyid replied curtly.
    “Then you know that he needs to be tended to.” Ravishan stared straight into Dayyid’s face.
    John had the distinct feeling that the struggle between them could have been about anything. Effectively, treating his injuries had become secondary to the crisis of their opposing wills.
    For the first time, it struck John how much Ravishan and Dayyid resembled one another, not just physically, but in their mannerisms. The inflections of their voices and their expressions mirrored each other. No wonder Dayyid became so infuriated when Ravishan turned a commanding glower on him. It was Dayyid’s own glare.
    The pain in John’s arms grew duller and he wondered if Dayyid had been telling the truth when he had said that the demonstrations looked worse than they were.
    He glanced down and noted that both sleeves of his robe were dripping out little droplets of red. In the cupped curve of his aching right hand, a dark pool of his blood steadily welled up. He could feel tiny streams escaping between his fingers and slipping down the back of his hand. The color was brilliant against the white mats and the dull gray of John’s robe.
    “Please,” Ravishan barely whispered the words, lowering his head as he spoke, “please call for Hann’yu to treat his wounds.”
    Dayyid nodded and then stood. “Fikiri, go fetch Ushman Hann’yu.”
    John tried to stand and follow Fikiri, but Ravishan held him back. “Don’t try to move too much. It isn’t just your hand. You touched Gray Space. You could be hurt