Chapter 3: Chapter 2: Blood Taken

If there’s one thing my life has taught me, it’s that the past shapes who we are. For better or for worse, for good or for evil. Moments of love, moments of trauma—they affect us the same. Every moment of our lives has the potential to shape the coming years, even if it isn’t so easy to see the cause and effect.

This is something that my father knew, though Elthysians tend to focus more on the present and future. I knew little about his past, and that was because he wanted to forget… or that deep within, he concealed a ravening shame. He had told me few tales about himself, and in what stories I knew, there was the physical, tangible feeling of details omitted.

He said that it didn’t fit a man to dig up the dead. He didn’t consider that sometimes, the dead refused to be buried.

One of those nights following Azareth’s visit, I saw my father alone in the yard. He held something in his hands, a blade unlike any I had seen. Nearly five feet of bluish metal, carved with elegant patterns. The hilt was a bright, glimmering silver, much unlike the simple, sturdy steel we typically wore.

He rested it in his lap, running his finger along the edge. I saw, in him, a rare honesty, a rare vulnerability. He did not watch the blade with eyes as cold and hard as ice, but with an air of longing. Of remembrance. Looking toward the past. For a moment, I thought he would weep.

But I had never seen my father’s tears. I think, of all his masks, he held to one most desperately. The one he showed me—that of a father, a guardian, immovable and invincible. But for a long time, I had known him not to be a god.

He clung to it for my sake. And, in a way… for his own. I knew that he would not want me to see him like this, like the old man he was. So I turned my eyes away, to allow him the comfort of such a deception.

For days after, I wondered. I wondered what memory could break through his walls of stone. What object could pierce his thickest skin. What weight of the past could be his present burden.

In time, he and I would learn. The past leaves its stain. The winds, the trees, the earth all remember.

It is their way to remind the living, even should the living forget.

* * *

Days turned into weeks, and the rumors of the undead continued to grow. We heard that Azareth had been making progress, but that progress wasn’t coming quick enough. More and more people had seen the creature, a young boy by appearances, with half of his body burned. Every farm between ours and Gazmere reported dead livestock or wilting crops. My father and I found a number of our goats dead by the brook with blood-crusted ears. Some nights, we heard a wail from the forest, unearthly and piercing like something from a nightmare.

One night, a band of men arrived at our cottage, shouting profanities and brandishing arms. I sat in my father’s rocking chair, sharpening a longsword in my lap and letting the firelight paint its edges with suggestive red. My father grumbled out negotiations and managed to appease them, somehow, or scare them off. He made it clear that our family was not in the business of losing fights. I didn’t much care to hear their argument, but I silently enjoyed watching their doubtful faces while I worked my steel with an expert’s hand.

I wasn’t without sympathy. I knew how this winter was shaping up to be harder than any in recent memory, and the undead was making that no easier. I knew their fear because I felt it myself. Despite my lineage, despite my black blood, I knew the undead no better than my neighbor, and I feared that unknown.

The townspeople were entitled to their fear, and I would respect that. That didn’t mean I’d let myself be the subject of their anger. But being what I am, I couldn’t avoid the situation. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that no matter how it was resolved, I would be affected.

These were my last few hours of peace. Little did I know, the events to come would change the shape of the world.

One evening, I was preparing dinner. My father had gone to Gazmere for the day, pending a number of errands. Despite the mounting tension, it was rare that he was bothered in town if I remained at home. Alone, I cooked a stew over the fire. As it boiled, I watched the shifting skies outside.

Afternoon turned into evening, and as darkness began to fall, so too did clouds thicken. They were heavy and gray, bearing the full weight of a late summer storm. I felt a twinge of worry. It would be unpleasant, to say the least, for him to journey home under the brunt of such wind and rain.

An hour passed, and the stew was done cooking. For another hour I waited. I started to eat, watching the clouds warily. At the first crack of thunder, I spilled hot broth across my lap. Within moments, streaks of water slithered down the window, roof trembling under the bombardment of rain.

I stood and paced the little cottage, tail dragging behind me. I kneaded my antsy hands, then decided that I needed distraction. I flipped open my sketchbook and drew the first thing I set my eyes on—the low-burning hearth-fire. That put me at ease, but only for a moment.

Thunder cracked. The door shuddered as a great mass heaved against it, followed by three flagging knocks. I sprang to my feet and rushed forward, though a cold dread settled in my veins.

When I opened the door, someone fell across the threshold, and though I tried to catch him, I could only slow his descent. There was the glistening gray of soaking hair, the pallid shade of freezing skin. There were his clothes, torn and bloody, with countless welts and bruises blossoming beneath.

“Val… hera,” said that familiar, gravelly voice, lacking its usual unwavering steadiness. I turned him over, heart sinking into icier depths.

A face looked back—my father’s, but nearly unrecognizable. One of his eyes had swelled shut, lined by a darkening mass. One of his cheeks had torn open, flapping with every shallow breath. I took his hand in mine and saw that the knuckles were crooked. His leg, wreathed in the violent red of leaking blood.

First, I peeled the sodden cloth from his leg, baring a grievous wound. There were two punctures, deep, still spurting blood. My breath caught, and I pressed on it with all the weight I could muster. I looked into my father’s one open eye, and he watched me, silent but for his labored breathing.

“Who did this?” I asked, tone dropping deadly low.

“Valhera… I’ll be fine.”

I bit my upper lip, shaking my head as I repeated. “Who… did this?”

He held my eyes. It was a long moment before he answered.

“I think… it was Don Levy’s pitchfork… got me in the leg.”

“And your eye? Your cheek?”

“I… don’t know. Maybe… Gath. Maybe… Simeon.”

“Just how many were there?”

“Six… seven.”

I clenched my teeth, blood burning with demon-fire. It bubbled within my heart, rushing through veins like flame down streaks of resin. Unconsciously, I began to claw into my father’s bleeding leg, and blackness pooled on my tongue.

“Valhera,” my father said, though the effort clearly pained him. “Look at me.”

My eyes snapped to his, likely fully red. But something in his expression lessened my anger.

“Let them go,” he said.

“They… they could’ve killed you.”

“The undead, it… it took Don’s daughter, early this morning.”

I blinked, then sighed. I checked the puncture wound, saw fresh blood, then reapplied my pressure.

“That doesn’t excuse…” I muttered, bowing my head.

“No, but…”

“But what, Father? You’re willing to bear this? You’re willing to die for their anger?”

“I’m not, little doe. But I think I know what Don is feeling, and…”

“And what?”

My father watched me for a long moment with his one good eye. I could feel it, though I didn’t look back. When he spoke, his voice carried a rare tone.

“I think,” he began, barely a whisper. “His pain is… greater than mine.”

I looked at him, tears welling in my eyes. I knew what he meant. Exactly what he meant. Fathers… care for their daughters. I knew that if it was me, slaughtered by the walking dead, my father would be broken. He wouldn’t show it, because he was not the sort to show such things. But it would tear him apart like no physical wound could.

“Father…” I said, though any further words failed.

There was a silent moment, then he rested back his head and shut his weary eyes. His breath grew less shallow, and in time, the pulse of his wound began to relent. I checked the bare skin and supposed that with a clean binding, he was in no risk of bleeding out. I took one of my old shirts, tore it, then tied it as tightly as I could around his thigh.

I helped him stand, then lay in his bed. I stitched closed the hole in his cheek, and he bore the pain unflinching. I helped him change into dry clothes. I gave him the stew that I had made, and helped him gulp it down.

As I worked, tears dripped from my eyes as if mirroring the storm outside. I hardly noticed their chill, paying so little concern to myself. Rather, I tended to my father as best as I could, until it was clear that I could do no more.

I stood, wiped my eyes, and walked to the window. My tail twitched, fitful, restless like my thoughts. It had grown fully dark, and yet, I thought I saw with clarity.

My father had suffered because of me. Because of the thing I am. Had Don’s pitchfork struck another inch to the left, I knew, it would have pierced a major artery. My father would have bled out long before he reached our door. The years had found me more and more aware of my father’s lot, having a direling daughter—I well knew that this was only the most recent injury in his long life of bruises and wounds.

Frustration bubbled within me. I hated that Azareth’s investigation had been taking so long. That he’d let this situation get out of control. That it felt as if no one wanted to take action to purge this town, and instead they heaped the blame on my father… because he had not cast me out. Because direlings dance with the dead, and my father had not purged that blackness from his home. He had given his love to something inhuman… and monsters could only beget monsters.

I looked at him and he looked at me. Thunder shook the air, then he spoke.

“I know that look. You’re itching to fight.”

I flared my nose and looked away.

“Valhera… there has been blood enough spilled tonight.”

I looked at my hands, curling to fists. “The undead, it’s… still out there.”

“Slaying an undead isn’t a simple matter. There’s a reason we tolerate men like Azareth.”

“What if… Don and Gath come here next? For me?”

Silence, for a long moment.

“They might.”

“And I’m supposed to roll over, belly-up?”

“No.”

My arms and tail went limp. A feeling built within me, larger and larger, a mass that I could not bear. I was helpless. I could do nothing but wait until Azareth had his breakthrough. I could not avenge my father’s wounds, else I become the thing the townsfolk believed me to be.

But there was one action I could take. One… I couldn’t bear to abandon. In one fluid movement, I took my cloak from the wall and hung it on my shoulders. I picked up my longsword and buckled it to my waist.

“Valhera…” my father said, a warning tilt to his voice.

“I’m going to fix this,” I growled, and he sat more upright.

“Valhera, stop. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“I know that it’s not going to fix itself.”

“No, you… you don’t know the whole story.”

“Does it matter?!” Demon-fire surged within me, and I spat black drool aside. I forced myself to relax, but only enough to keep my curse at bay.

“We’ll find Azareth. And together, we can…”

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“Azareth had his fucking time.”

I stepped outside, into the pouring rain. I raised my hood over my head and looked at the tar-black sky. I felt a few drops of freezing rain, then wiped them away.

I ran. I was foolish. I should have heeded my father’s advice. But I was afraid… and fear allows no room for reason. I would not allow him to suffer more on my behalf. I would not allow the townspeople more time to justify our persecution.

But I was not the Undying, yet. I did not know the undead.

It would be a long night, I knew, feet pounding through deepening mud. But by its end, I vowed, the dead would bother us no more.

* * *

In the dark, the town of Gazmere was visible only as faint outlines of buildings and alleys, seen between the falling sheets of rain. The hard dirt and cobblestone roads had mostly turned to mud, rendering every step more difficult than the last. My sopping cloak did a meager job of keeping me warm, and my sodden clothing clung tight to my skin as water dripped off my horns and my hair.

But this was not the time to seek shelter. I ignored the chill that ate at my whole body, attention never wavering from the shadows and streets. I gripped my weapon each time I saw motion, forever of mind to draw my steel. Each time, I found nothing more than a shutter creaking in the wind, or debris wandering, tossed by the gale.

Despite the chill, I was grateful for the weather and the hour. I would suffer no prying eyes, no suspicious looks. My footsteps squelched along, alone. I walked through the market square and wondered how long I’d been outside. Long enough, at least, that the town itself seemed to have gone to sleep.

But the restless dead have little care for the physical things like rain and exhaustion, darkness and cold. I maintained my search, willing the creature to show itself.

I passed Lord Gazmere’s manor, then the cathedral, then I was in the market square again. I turned and kept patrolling, rounding a corner and walking down an empty road. I thought I heard voices, but passed it off as the sound of the rain. Minutes came and went, and I resolved that I would benefit from an alternate approach, starting where the undead had last been seen.

It had slain Don Levy’s daughter. While the pouring rain had likely washed away any trail, I couldn’t bear to leave any lead unfollowed. Routing myself accordingly, I started toward the baker’s home.

I drew closer, and there was light. In such darkness, even the smallest flame stood out like blood on a snow-white sheet. I halted, turning to see that not every citizen of Gazmere had found their rest in this late hour.

There were seven men, looking back. A few held lanterns, covered to protect from the rain. Their light beamed onto my face, burning my eyes.

“Funny,” one said. “We were just talking about you, blackblood.”

I raised a hand, shielding myself from the brunt of the light. Even so, I knew the man’s face and stature. Gath Levy stood some ten feet in front of me, holding a lantern in one hand and a shortsword in his other. His black eye had healed enough that he watched me with his full stare. His graying hair was plastered to his head, but that was not the reason for his scowl.

Behind him stood Don, with his pitchfork. I thought, maybe, that the low light glistened as crimson on its prongs. My father’s blood. Within me, the demon-fire flared.

I decided to give Gath no reaction. To his left, another man spoke.

“What’re you doing, prowling at midnight?” This one held an axe. The lantern light gleamed off other weapons, most gripped in white-knuckled hands. The men held every manner of weapon, from well-forged to makeshift. My hand curled around my longsword’s hilt.

“I could ask you the same,” I said.

“Come to avenge your helpless old man?” Gath said, and one of the mob laughed.

“I’m here to put an end to this.”

“To kill us off, then. Like you did my niece?”

I gritted my teeth. “No, you… have it all wrong.”

“Then why not tell us the truth of it?”

I looked closer at Gath Levy’s face. There was anger in him—cold and absolute. He’d raged at me before, but it had always burned hot. He’d hurled curses and punches… but this was something different.

He wanted to kill me. Not because of my horns, my tail… but because I had blood on my hands. He knew it, as surely as he knew the sun would rise, even though it was false. In his eyes, I was the reason his family was one member smaller. He demanded… my blood given, for her blood shed.

There was nothing I could say to sway that kind of anger. My demon-fire ached to strike first, take the upper hand—but still, I was not so eager to draw my blade. “The undead,” I finally said. “I have nothing to do with it. I’m here… to put it down.”

“You think we’re fools. That we haven’t heard the stories, the songs.” He drew a single step closer. “Death has a way… of following your kind. One way or another.”

“Gath… enough blood has been shed, today.”

His lips curled in a smile, showing predatory teeth. His eyes were wide, lantern shaking. “Oh, no, demon. I don’t think that’s true.”

He came within striking range. Unyielding, I held my ground. The mob, too, drew closer, though I clung to some foolish hope that my weapon could remain sheathed.

“We were talking about you, you know,” he continued, seeming to find humor in my defiance. “We’ve known, for a while, that something like this was bound to happen, so long as your stink was on the town. Never could do much about it, since the lord doesn’t see it. But a murder committed… I’d say that gives us every justification.”

I looked at every set of eyes, all set in determination and rage. My fingers curled tighter around my weapon’s hilt. Gath’s anger had spread. His intentions were not his alone. He was not the only one who wanted my death… that was not unclear.

For a moment, I listened to the wind and rain. I tasted the air and savored the watery streams. This was the meager silence before thunder. I was tranquil for a moment and gained a steely-eyed composure. My father’s words came to my mind—anxiety and doubt are self-fulfilling fears.

My steady heart beat as if I wasn’t about to fight for my life. I looked through the rain with a warrior’s clarity, as if hardened by a life of conflict. I unclasped my cloak, moved my shoulders, and shrugged the garment off. It fell to the ground in a sodden pile, exposing the four-foot longsword sheathed beside my lashing tail.

Their anger was justified. But I would not bear their lashes. I would find the undead. I would put it down. And these men would not stand in my way.

Gath made the first strike. His shortsword came down, edge arcing to carve my chest. The blink of an eye, and my blade leapt from its sheath. It slashed upward, of a speed and strength to send Gath’s attack careening away. Another weapon hurtled my direction, but steel scraped on steel, my parry’s force drawing a gasp from the assailant. I backed before others could press any advantage, holding my blade in a high guard.

They watched me, circling like a pack of hungry wolves. One of my father’s maxims came to mind—the sword is about restraint, as much as strength. I resolved that I’d deflect a few strikes, knock a few of them into the mud, then lose them in the dark.

They had me pinned against a storefront, so breaking the circle was my first intent. I raised my blade, lunging toward one of the men on the edge. He raised his axe, but I hooked its steel and wrenched it away, pivoting my force into a vicious punch. My knuckles sank just below his ribs, crushing the lungs and diaphragm. He wheezed, falling back, but I had little chance to press the attack. Behind me, six others itched to take the offensive.

Don Levy’s pitchfork stabbed at my gut while another man moved to cut off my escape. I whirled, dodging past his thrust, sword held close. Another moved, knife poised to strike. I caught it on my blade and shoved the man clear. Someone moved in my peripheral vision, and I lashed his head with my tail. Then Don jabbed again, but I swatted his weapon into the ground. The prongs sank into the ground, and I cracked my elbow against his jaw. He hurtled downward, joining his weapon in the mud.

I pressed forward, dodging a strike of the axe. I drove my knee into the attacker’s flank, then crumpled him beneath the force of my falling pommel. I lurched, just out of a hatchet’s reach. Seeing my chance to escape, I took off in a sprint. Beams of light shook while lantern-wielding men gave chase, but my pathway was clear and my strides were long. I ran into the darkness beyond the grasp of the lanterns’ glow.

I wove through the lightless streets, agile feet slapping into saturated mud. I slowed for a moment, eased my blade back into its scabbard, and picked up my pace again.

A few times, I saw the men searching the streets, lanterns raised, wide eyes struggling to see through the night and rain. Water dripped off their faces into their beards, and their mouths moved in every imaginable curse. Each time, I managed to duck out of view before the lantern’s beam zeroed in. Each time, I marked a different path, hoping they would abandon their chase.

The downpour hardly abated. With my cloak, I had already been soaked, but now, running without it, I felt the rain all the more. My constant movement kept some warmth in my joints, but my strength was flagging. I looked for shelter, deciding to step into a concealed alley.

There was something there, alone in the darkness. A small figure, unarmed… at least as far as I could tell. I stepped closer to get a better look and made out a silhouette. A child, maybe, but… there was something wrong. Its steps were heavy, its posture hunched, and it stared at the ground as it shambled along.

It carried this aura with it, as if it made the air heavier. A strange sadness settled in my heart, standing so close. I regarded it, hand on my sheathed blade, until I remembered my mission. My resolve, in coming to Gazmere.

There was no mistaking. At last, I had found the undead. Even as its presence burdened my heart, as its aura filled me with fear, I drew and bore my weapon.

The creature seemed to sense my presence. It turned, head hanging at an unnatural angle. Those eyes, glazed and lifeless, found my own. The face was misshapen, half covered in skin, half exposing a blackened skull. The face was young, but half the mouth had flaked away, leaving bare bones and teeth. Old clothes hung on its skeletal form, parts melted to fuse with the flesh. The hands twitched, missing a number of fingers. The bones had broken in its left forearm, leaving the grasping hand to dangle on a length of skin.

A moment’s hesitation. I opened my mouth as if to speak, but decided there was nothing I could say. Rather, I took my first step forward, starting to swing.

Pitching forward, I closed the distance between us in a single stride. My blade descended, a diagonal downward slash, biting cleanly into the torso and gouging the area right below the collarbone. My strike cracked through brittle, charred bones, passed through rotten flesh, and emerged on the other side. The undead fell backward, head and right shoulder sliding off the rest of the body.

It didn’t move, for a time. And for that time, I wondered why no one had taken up steel against it. It had proved effective after all, and the myths of undead were as exaggerated as the tales of the Dead God. What could a necromage do that I could not?

I moved to sheathe my blade, but paused. As I turned away, something burrowed into my ear. It was some distant, horrible sound—almost silent, but deeply unsettling.

I whirled back around and brandished my sword again. There, the body was dragging itself through the mud, blackened fingers grasping at the severed parts. I stepped forward to deny it, but lifeless eyes found my own. Beneath them, the bony jaw shot open.

It screamed. It felt like a dozen knives, digging into my ears, prodding at my brain. It burned like a white-hot brand, spreading its fire through every nerve and synapse. It felt very much like an arrow to the head.

I dropped my sword and flinched to hold my ears, as if simple flesh and bone could block out the sound. Clasping tight, blood started to well between white-knuckled fingers. I stumbled back, then fell out of the alley and onto the street. I writhed in the mud, frothing with every breath.

The creature had pulled itself back together. Now it walked forward, jaw unhinged, glassy eyes wide. I tried to kick, to keep it at bay, but it would not be deterred. It had the mindless, painless, immovable strength of the undead.

I ripped my hands off my ears and scrambled for my weapon. My grip was clumsy, and my muscles didn’t want to comply. But I wildly slashed, carving deep into its abdomen. It was not deterred, even as I struck again and pierced its sallow ribs.

It grabbed my neck, bony fingers digging into my skin. Tight as a hangman’s noose. I gasped and heaved, but my breath was nearly gone, mind shattered by the scream. I tried to twist my sword, to cut it free, but it was stuck in blackened bone. My eyes rolled up, and my consciousness started to fade.

The curse. My curse. The aching burn of demon-fire. It begged to be let loose. I was too weak, too frail to slay this walking corpse. But the demon-fire could fight. I could not fend off my boiling blood, so its flames spread through my heart and hands. The demon would fight. Its madness would blot the undead’s scream. It would crack the skull and splay the brains.

Crimson fury took me over, and my muscles coiled with newfound strength. While the undead pressed its burning nails into my neck, I grabbed the forearm and wrenched it away. I ripped out my sword, cutting through half the belly. Rising upward, I pitched my body weight forward. The force slammed the undead against the ground, and I rolled to find my footing.

Every breath burned, but pain no longer held any meaning. Bloody madness cared for nothing more than predator and prey. It was on the verge of death that I knew the full burn of demon-fire. And it knew only slaughter.

I drove my thumbs into the creature’s eyes and felt them burst. I slammed the skull against cobbled stone and felt it, brittle, break. I grabbed the jaw and pulled, ripping it from its socket. As I tossed it aside that wail faded to silence.

My hands, stretched like claws, found the thing’s black, bare ribs. They snapped like chalk and were discarded. I tore at its half-burned body, and bleeding bits spewed sour blood as ichor dripped from my open maw. Soon it gave up its struggle, and I loomed, panting, over what was left of the corpse.

Then there was light. Shining from a covered flame, boring into my eyes. It burned, bright as the sun, and I hissed. Standing again, I saw a number of the men from earlier. One of them shouted something, and another three came from an adjacent alley.

My hands, dripping gore, curled around my longsword’s hilt. I stood, hunched, and stretched it forward. I watched the men from behind my sodden hair, panting through black drool.

The first man charged, bringing his blade down overhead. I caught it on my guard, shoved it to the side, and followed with a diagonal upward slash. This one looked surprised as his guts came open and spilled onto his feet. The next swung a rake at my face, but I ducked and pierced my blade through his ribs. It got caught, a moment, and I strained to pull it loose. Meanwhile, another came forward, swinging a hatchet. I twisted and kicked his open flank. As he stumbled and winced, I wrenched my weapon free. Whipping around, my blade cut clean through his neck, sending the gushing head four yards to the right. A fourth ran at me, but slipped in the mud. One hand shot out to break his fall, while the other held his weapon in a feeble guard. I swatted it away and severed his spine.

The rest of them looked afraid. Terrified. But my demon knew no pity. No remorse. It recalled how these seven had hurt my father… nearly bleeding him to death. The thought swelled my horrible inferno and voiced my murderous growl.

They advanced all at once, a pitchfork, sword, and axe. The pitchfork jabbed first, easy to dodge. The second raised his sword, but my lunging blade punctured his heart before he could even swing. My back to the axeman, he swung to take advantage. I sidestepped, tail sweeping a single leg, and spun, swinging, as his balance wavered. The overhead strike split his skull into halves, and he slid off my blade, soon lying limp in the mud.

The last man gripped a lantern in one hand, pitchfork in the other. His eyes throbbed in fear, and his mouth opened to shriek like the undead. He almost turned to run, but my blade cut into his knees, grinding against bone. He buckled, falling into the mud, dropping his tools as he reached to break his fall. I switched my grip, raised my weapon, and brought it down on the back of his neck.

The head gurgled, falling face-down on the street. The body slumped after, sprawling on top of it. The lantern light faded, quenched by mud and rain. The headless torso leaked, bloodying the earth, and I stood, bloody sword in hand.

I panted, catching my breath, feeling the rain on my horns, my head, my back. I stayed standing as the adrenaline and demon-fire started to fade. I blinked once, twice, and the world wasn’t so red. I wiped my dripping lips and stained my sleeve black.

My blood cooled from its roiling boil. My head reeled, throbs fading away. And I saw with horrible clarity. Seven bodies, disfigured… dismembered.

I fell to my knees. I dropped my sword. I collapsed forward, only kept from the mud by my quivering arms. My tail sprawled, limp, as sodden hair veiled my deadening face.

Murder. Murderer. Butcher. Monster. I had known these men by name. I had wanted to set things right. Instead, I had… made the street a slaughterhouse.

I heard something. Footsteps. And hoofbeats. I felt a presence, staring me down. My head creaked up to find a figure standing there, leading a black-as-night horse. A silver half-sun, dark robes, and a glistening saddle. The man stood at ease despite the downpour pounding his head, the blood pooling at his feet.

I locked eyes with the necromage. Azareth. His face was deadly serious, but… something could have flickered across his lips. The start of a smirk. Quicker than thought. Unknowable in the darkness.

He extended a hand for me to take. I reached, staining his skin the color of blood. He pulled me to my feet, mounted his horse, and gestured for me to follow. Stumbling and shaking, I managed to straddle the beast. My fingers twined, securing my hold on his waist and spreading their crimson lacquer onto his robes. Without a word, he spurred the beast on.

I sat limp in the saddle. My heart burned at the blood on my hands. My brain denied it and retreated into fog. Even then, the demon within me burned.

The horse quickened to a canter. In the vast dark of night, I saw the pale shade of ghosts.