Dawn spilled over the guild cemetery like wine on a dirty tablecloth. The gray sky, low and cracked like old pottery, pressed down on the shoulders of those gathered. Fog—the eternal companion of these grounds—clung to boots, coiled around legs, as if trying to hold everyone back from hasty decisions. The air smelled of damp earth and something sour—perhaps rotting flowers, or maybe stale blood.


    The crowd formed an uneven semicircle around the fresh grave. Hundreds of people—veterans with hollow stares, young mercenaries trying to appear indifferent, even a pair of elves in faded cloaks, their faces hidden beneath hoods. Whispers fluttered like autumn leaves:


    "He pulled me from the rubble in the Grotto..."


    "Without him, our squad would’ve burned that same day..."


    "They say he laughed in those creatures’ faces before he died..."


    An old warrior stepped forward, his face carved deeper by scars than by wrinkles. Without a word, he tossed a rusted dagger into the grave—an ancient guild custom. The metal clinked dully against the coffin lid, and at that moment, somewhere on a crooked oak, a crow cawed. Exactly three times—as if counting the last seconds of someone’s life—before vanishing into the gray haze.


    Novian stood motionless, his massive frame like a gravestone. His eyes were dry, but his fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood, dripping onto the trampled grass. Kessel, usually sharp-tongued, now ground her teeth, gripping her dagger’s hilt:


    "Idiot... Had to play the hero..."


    Her voice trembled, anger and pain mixing into a strange cocktail of emotions. Tamion, standing beside her, tensed suddenly. His gaze caught a strange figure in the crowd—a tall man in a gray cloak, unnaturally still amid the shifting mass of people. But when he blinked, the stranger was gone.


    "And where’s our beloved leader?" Kessel hissed, not tearing her eyes from the coffin. "Already found himself new cannon fodder?"


    Tamion didn’t even turn his head.


    "Shut your mouth."


    "You’re seriously defending him?!" Kessel’s voice jumped an octave. A few nearby adventurers glanced their way.


    Tamion spun sharply. His eyes, usually calm, now burned with a cold fire:


    "We weren’t there for Malrian’s last moments. Don’t take this time from him too."


    Kessel recoiled as if slapped. Her lips trembled, but the words stuck in her throat. Novian silently placed his enormous hand on her shoulder—heavy and warm, like a brick from a furnace.


    "You’re right..." she finally forced out. "But that doesn’t mean he can—"


    "It does," Tamion cut in, "because someone has to lead us forward."


    He turned back to the grave, where gravediggers had already begun shoveling damp earth onto the coffin. Kessel sighed and stepped to the edge of the pit, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of her cloak.


    The wind lifted petals from the funeral flowers, scattering them across the cemetery. Somewhere in the distance, a cart’s wheels creaked; someone coughed, someone sniffled. The world kept moving, despite death.


    Senika approached soundlessly, like a shadow from drifting clouds. Her fingers nervously traced the spine of a tattered book—the same one always clutched to her chest like a shield against the world’s cruelty.


    "You... how are you?" Her voice cracked on the last word, turning the question into little more than a breath.


    Tamion slowly turned his head. His eyes reflected the gray sky—empty and boundless.


    "We weren’t friends before the squad..." he began, as if sifting through old coins in his memory. "But he reminded me of someone. A knight from Brayslick. One who kept moving forward, even when the road ended at a cliff."


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Senika bit her lip. The wind played with her dark strands, hiding her face behind a shifting veil.


    "You rarely talk about the past..." she whispered.


    "Malrian was the same," Tamion said, dragging a hand down his face as if wiping away invisible fatigue. "He smiled, even when the world burned behind him."


    Silence hung between them, filled with the cries of crows and distant voices from the crowd. The wind tore petals from the grave wreath, sending them spinning in a strange dance over the fresh earth.


    Suddenly, Tamion reached into his coat pocket. His fingers found a small bundle wrapped in waxed paper.


    "Here... take it." He held it out to Senika without meeting her eyes. "Forgot to give it earlier."


    Senika unfolded the paper. Mint candies—the ones she loved. Her lips quivered into a fragile smile.


    "Thank you..." She clutched the bundle as if afraid the wind might steal even this small gift. "Go to your team. They’re waiting."


    Tamion nodded. His gaze swept the cemetery—Kessel was kneeling by the grave, whispering through tears. Novian had vanished, likely to the tavern, where it was always too loud and too lonely.


    As Tamion walked away, Senika unwrapped one candy. The sugar crunched between her teeth, the mint flooding her mouth. For the first time that day, she tasted something other than bitterness.


    And at the edge of the cemetery, in the shadow of a half-ruined chapel, a tall man in a gray cloak watched. His fingers drummed slowly against his dagger’s hilt—one, two, three. Exactly as many times as the crow had cawed before flying away.


    <hr>


    The exorcists’ squad headed to their scheduled meeting with Kairon at the guild headquarters.


    The stifling air reeked of parchment, metal, and old blood. Kairon stood over a table littered with maps, his long fingers gliding over markings left in ink and... something darker.


    "Kessel," his voice sliced through the silence like a blade, "your armor isn’t decoration. Next time you limp around like a drunken whore, you’ll lose your head. And I won’t bother picking it up."


    Kessel clenched her fists but stayed silent. Her eyes, red from crying, still burned with fury, but now held something else—cold calculation.


    Novian stood by the wall, his enormous shadow trembling in the guttering torchlight. He stared at nothing, as if seeing not the room but the barn where they’d become one fewer.


    "Novian," Kairon didn’t even look up, "if your sword hits another ally, I’ll rip it from your hands and shove it down your throat. Understood?"


    Silence.


    Novian gave a slow nod.


    "Tamion," Kairon finally lifted his gaze, "you..."


    He trailed off. Tamion’s eyes were empty. Not devoid of emotion—rather, they held too many, burned down to ash.


    "...You already know what I’d say."


    Tamion didn’t answer.


    In the corner, Anika sat with her legs drawn up, fingers worrying the pendant around her neck—the only thing left of her parents.


    "So what are skinwalkers?" she suddenly asked.


    Kessel sighed, rubbing her temples wearily.


    "Creatures that pretend to be human. Luckily, adventurers can spot them by certain signs. Examining their corpses or questioning witnesses. Plenty of ways. The guild tracks these things closely. They can look like anyone—an old man, a child, your best friend..." She shot a glance at Kairon. "Or even a squad leader."


    Kairon smirked, but his eyes held no humor as he retorted:


    "Good thing they can’t copy a sense of humor, right, Kessel?"


    Kessel said nothing. Wiping his brow, Kairon continued:


    "Did some digging. In this region, they’ve got new tells." He jabbed the map. "White teeth. Too white. Or festering wounds on their backs. Old methods don’t work here."


    "Why?" Anika frowned.


    "Because here, coincidentally, people have bad nails from the water—which was our old detection method." Kairon leaned over the table. "So if you see someone with rotting nails, they might just be sick. Or..."


    "...or a skinwalker who wants you to think that," Kessel finished.


    "But why leave signs? Do they want to be found?" Anika pressed.


    Silence fell again, thick as the cemetery fog.


    "Who knows? We’d need to figure out how and why it happens," Novian muttered.


    "We leave in five days," Kairon straightened, his shadow swallowing the room. "If you want to mourn Malrian, do it now. On the road, I need clear heads."


    He turned to the window, where dusk was gathering.


    "Where are we going?" Tamion asked.


    Kairon didn’t turn around.


    "Surprise."


    <hr>


    As everyone dispersed, Kessel led Anika away, muttering about "survival lessons." Novian vanished—likely to the tavern, where he could drink alone.


    Tamion remained, staring at a bloodstain on the map. It had dried but still reminded him of what they’d lost.


    And outside, in the deepening twilight, the tall man in the gray cloak watched Tamion. His fingers drummed slowly against his dagger’s hilt.


    One.


    Two.


    Three.


    Exactly as many times as the crow had cawed before flying away.