ã€ŠOutlandsã€‹


 Book 1: Prologue: His Love

    He felt the calm brush of the yellowed grass beneath his feet. He felt the dry heat of the red sun as it shone high above in the sky. He felt the cool air against his chest and arms, gentle and soft as a whisper. The light breeze blew in his face, and he could smell the light scent of his quarry. Lungs drew in a deep breath of excitement as the smell filled his nostrils. A low growl slipped out as he tensed in anticipation. A quiet tightening filled his legs as his claws dug deep into the dirt. His heartbeat quickened, a racing pulse that made his head throb with its intensity.

    He felt his vision narrowing as he felt the blood surging through his veins, his neck tensing as his eyes fixed onto his target. He felt his fingers tightening, gripping the sun-baked soil. He felt his feet tensing, his back arched, his lips peeled back against his face as he bared his fangs. His mind was focused, narrowed on his prey. Every part of his body was prepared for the strike, a heightened sensation of pent elation. The feeling surged through his veins, hot as fire, each heartbeat sending it racing through him. This was what he lived for. This single moment. The silent stalk. The hunt. And the kill.

    The wind stopped. And in that instant he pounced.

    The murak¡¯s dark-brown furred head straightened as it noticed something was wrong, long ears perking up, nostrils flaring as its eyes darted wildly. The calf had wandered too far from its herd, straying to examine a curious flower. Right as it had bent down to give a hesitant bite, the murak stopped, instinct sending a sudden warning. A cry of alarm, shrill and warbling, filled the air as it called to its herd for aid, still high-pitched and childish instead of the deep rumbling of the adults. The calf¡¯s hind legs bunched up as it tried to leap away with muscles unnaturally strong for its age, the response triggering in an instant.

    It would not be enough.

    Deadly black claws¡ªslashing, cutting three ribbons of vibrant red down across its calves¡ªstopped its futile escape, snapping muscle and tendon with a grotesque ease. A gasping wail escaped the murak¡¯s throat as it crumbled to the ground, the useless legs folding underneath it. Another quick swipe across its slim neck ripped open its throat and downed the beast. Blood was spurting from the tattered hole as the murak gave a ragged final gasp for air, a deep basso sounding from the rest of the herd that had bounded away while the stray calf was butchered.

    He sat back on his haunches, licking the warm blood from his claws as he closed his eyes. The metallic taste filled his mouth, familiar and sharp. He shuddered: two mere blows to end a life. It seemed such a simple matter, and he loved the feeling of the power he wielded. He loved it, this strength that filled his arms. The faint scent of blood in the air, his prey shuddering before it collapsed under its own weight, the helpless look in its eyes as his black claws crushed its throat, the way their thick blood splattered against his face¡ªhe loved all of it. He lived for the hunt. He lived for the kill.

    He never felt more alive than when he was taking another¡¯s life.

    Flicking the last blood off his claws, he lifted the murak calf with its leg still twitching, the corpse still dreaming of escape. The scarlet puddle that had pooled around its body would dry soon, a welcome feast for the thirsty grasses below. It was only fitting. Its lifeblood would feed the earth. Its flesh would feed him.

    With his quarry thrown over his shoulder, he prepared for the journey back to his den. It was not a long walk back, but the sun was low against the sky and night would come soon. The calf was enough meat for three days, but the Fells would soon set in, and he would need more. The Fells brought death to the weak, but he knew how to survive it. He had done so before, and he was strong.

    Dry, red dust rose in small plumes where his feet struck the hard earth. Cracks behind him showed where his claws had dug into the packed clay-dirt. The dead calf left speckles of red, blood still dripping from the wounds. He knew that he had to hurry before nighttime, or else his prey would attract larger foes. He was not afraid of the living. Where there was blood and flesh, his claws could tear and his teeth could rip. He had the strength of the earth that he was born from, and it flowed in his veins hot as fire. He was not afraid of the living, but it was not the living that came at night. There came things that even he could not kill, things that had neither blood nor flesh. Nor spirit. This land was his domain; he had claimed it from long ago, and all knew it by his law of claw and fang, but in the night such rules lost their sway. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    The shadows came alive and stole away their blind prey without a sound. They came from the skulking silence and killed with a creeping cold. They were unnatural beings. They did not kill to survive; they killed to show their power. They killed because it was in their nature. They killed because they were the strong. There was only the hunter and the hunted, and nothing hunted the shadows.

    A distant yelp in the plains turned his head, and he saw another murak, a large one, crumpling to the ground, being struck by another beast. It was a massive striped-black creature, covered in shaggy fur with long fangs protruding from its lip. Scars lined its back and forearm, patches of fur missing with lines of pale pink skin. Its stance rippled power and a fierce aura proclaimed dominance to all who watched. A deep-throated growl rumbled from its throat as it celebrated its kill. This is mine, the sound conveyed. It was a message of territory, one of strength.

    A cold fury built in his chest. These were his lands. His. The rage grew until he released it in a howl that shook the earth, a scorching response to the challenge. He did not wait for a reply, he dropped corpse onto the ground and charged at the newcomer with a singleminded bloodlust.

    In a blur of black claws, he tackled the beast in its chest, teeth tearing into fur and skin as he dug into his hide. The creature bellowed and shook frantically, swiping with its strong arms that clubbed the breath from his lungs. Still he held, biting deep into its muscle with strong jaws, the hot blood filling his mouth. He jerked his head back in a savage motion, hearing the flesh rip apart. He spat out the chunk of arm onto the ground as he let go, rolling away onto all fours.

    The beast gave a bloody roar, beating the ground with bloody fists, but the wound on its chest shone wetly in the fading sunlight. He growled in return, claws digging into the earth. In a sudden explosion of power, he launched himself forward. The beast tried to stop him, raising its arms in defense, but he bowled into his stomach and knocked it onto its back.

    He felt his mind grow hazy as the bloodlust got his heart pumping, the throbbing pain slowly fading as his pulse beat louder and louder in his chest. He tore and slashed at the creature¡¯s chest with a feral savagery that had blood splattering his muzzle and dampening his hide. He hardly even noticed as the beast¡¯s howls of pain slowly faded to whimpers before disappearing altogether. He hardly even noticed as the fists that beat against his back slowly grew weaker and weaker until they finally fell limp against the ground. He only noticed how the beast¡¯s rough furred hide parted under his claws, exposing soft meat and flesh underneath that he tore into with a bestial enthusiasm.

    The bloodlust drew him into a frenzy that ripped apart muscle and organ, splintered bone and limb. He bit into its stomach with sharp fangs, feeling the hot liquid that gushed forth burn his gums. He tore the lungs to ribbons, feeling the wet flesh shred underneath him. he saw its heart, tough and red and still beating with a failing determination, and he ripped it from the body in a single motion. In three gulps, he tore it into pieces and swallowed the stringy meat, feeling it slide coarsely down his throat.

    He closed his eyes finally, feeling the rage clear slowly from his head, feeling the heat and fire slowly trickle out of his limbs. When he opened his eyes, he saw the mangled corpse underneath him, with shards of broken bone and bits of bloody ragged muscle everywhere. A fierce pleasure spread from the center of his chest, and he howled in a show of strength and dominance. He had killed the weak, he was stronger, he said with it. These were his lands still. He had watered them with his blood and the blood of countless others. They would stay his until he died in them, and none could take them from him.

    And so he howled.

    He felt the earth respond, felt the faint rumbling in reply. A thousand beasts rose in chorus and their wild baying filled the sky. Those who lived in his lands, they knew his blood price. They knew the law of these lands.

    Survive. Survive and eat. Eat and grow strong. Where the strong survive, the weak must die. He was not weak. He would survive. He would live. The Outlands would be his.

 Book 1: Chapter 1: His Lands

    He had no name. He was born in the Outlands¡ªno sire, no dam. He was born from the earth, and it flowed through him, hot in his blood. From the stone had come his bones, from the dirt had come his flesh. His scales and his fur all had come from the ground, his fangs and his claws carved from black glass. Even his eyes were winked from the jewels that glittered in the ground. Mud had made his blood and the many voices of the earth had whispered his spirit into him. All of this he knew, for the earth had told him. All of this he knew, certain as the lifeblood that flowed through him.

    He belonged to the earth by birth, and it belonged to him. All of it. The wind that blew against his fur in the morning, crisp and cool as it ruffled his coat in greeting. The earth that cracked under the weight of his steps, throbbing with a familiar pulse not unlike his own heartbeat. The red stars that cast their pale light on him at night, gazing with unblinking eyes, brilliant gleams against the neverending black. Even the dry, yellow grass that grew in thin patches on the ground, ragged but tough and far hardier than any prey he hunted. It was all his. He was no one, but everything was his. This land belonged to him, and he claimed it as his birthright.

    He was quiet, but therein lied a cold strength. Perhaps for now his territory was only in the Outlands, but he was not afraid. He was not hesitant. He could feel this world calling out to him, the earth yearning to hold him in its strong embrace once more. He could feel its pulse, its desire fervid and wanting. It was the pulse of the world, from the roiling seas that tossed waves against rocky shores to spiraling mountains that cut reams into the sky. It all called out to him, and the vibrant flame that burned in his chest gave scorching reply.

    He could wait. Wait and grow stronger, until all that challenged him broke in a fountain of blood and gore. Until none dared resist. Then he would claim all of this earth, as his birthright and inheritance demanded by law. He lived by the cruelest of laws, after all; he lived by the laws of fang and death.

    When the boundless red plains met the rocky hills, he knew that it was not far until his den. The grasslands were dry and arid, but they grew the knee-tall grasses that murak loved to eat. So, he walked the distance to go hunting, to stalk where the prey thought that they were the safest. Perhaps others would have to follow the tracks of their quarry, but he had no need. He felt in in the ground, as much a part of him as his teeth and eyes. He felt the light dance of their hooves as they circled a rare watering hole. He felt the low thrumming of their heartbeat, felt their gentle heat. It was easy as a breath, as mindless as a thought. He felt, and the earth gave reply.

    All this, he knew as he walked with the corpse still strung over his shoulder. The beast that he had killed earlier was now food for corpse birds. He left it as a reminder, as a declaration to any who had gotten too bold in his lands. What the weak had, the strong took. That creature had nothing even worth taking.

    As he mused, the dry, cracked dirt of his hunting grounds under his feet slowly grew a downy covering of short grass and outcroppings of stone. He picked his way among the crags with a familiarity that came from years of experience. The stones were jagged and looming, sharp as any talon, but he passed through without effort. Indeed even if his eyes were blinded with blood and a leg broken under him, the earth would still give him a way home. It was not confidence, for confidence implies possibility of uncertainty. For him, it was an unquestioning surety. For as long as there was stone under his feet and earth around him, he would not die. It would not let him.

    The hill with the ring of bluegrass around the slanted rock spire shooting up to the sky, that was his. It was obvious enough, rising above the rolling hillocks and wearing a crown of teal. This den he knew since his birth, for he was the one that made it. He had shaped it from formless stone by black claws, carved it with bone and scale. It was his declaration of territory, his mark on the land. He circled around it three times, sniffing at the earth until it was sure that he did not scent any trespassers. It was done with the dulled movements of an old habit, but he never forgot to be on guard. A dim throb in his right arm attested to that, even if the scar had long since faded.

    He strode over to the side of the hill where three heavy rocks rested in form, blocking entrance to his cave. Dropping his kill on the ground and rolling his arm a few times, he braced his right shoulder against the uppermost boulder and heaved, left foot digging into the grass, right leg pushing against the stone to his back. Although it seemed unyielding at first, he gritted his teeth and heaved, muscles straining. With an effort, the rock shifted, groaning, exposing a hole two arms wide, large enough for both him and his kill. It was his den, dug into the earth, where the land surrounded him, protected him, held him on all sides. here he called home for the longest of times, for all his life. When he was born, this was where he slept that first night. When he was injured, this was where he hid to lick his wounds. It was his gift from his progenitor, a home, and most importantly, it was his.

    Inside, it was not dark. When he was born, the hole was as large as he was, for it was where the earth had made him. But that night he dug into the rock with his claws. With each strike he claimed the land as his, and the land yielded itself before his prowess. He killed, he ate, and he grew, and his home grew larger with him. The rock and stone parted before his claws until his den was as large as the hill itself, a cavernous mass of tunnels and rooms growing under the earth. Such was the gift that the earth had given him. The land was him and he was the land. All that he wanted, all that he wished, he knew he would have it. When he needed light, the land gave it to him. The grass that creeped into his home shone with blue light at night that tranced him to sleep. When he needed food, the land gave him food. The grass that surrounded the hill drew prey in abundance, and he feasted with the rancor that only the strong could have. He belonged to no one but the earth, and the earth belonged to him alone.

    Laying his kill down in his den beside him, he struck the ground beneath him, scraping it until flakes of black came free. There was no one to teach him this, but he knew because the earth had told him. The black he burned with sparks from two rocks, and the fire he fed with the grass and the carcasses of trees. His kill was ripped apart, the meat cooked over the flame, the bones he cracked open and the marrow slurped out. The guts he held onto to mash into a bait for hunting. In a manner of moments the corpse was reduced to a pile of shattered bone with some ragged bits of flesh. The murak calf was a good kill. The meat was lean and strong, he would take its strength. It was the law: what the weak had, they gave to the strong. He claimed it, for the weak belonged to the land, and the land belonged to him. Such was his birthright. Such was his will.

    With little effort, he tossed the bits of bone outside for the flies and maggots to feast upon. His stomach full of food, with his body now growing tired, he readied himself for sleep. Stepping outside, he took in a long, deep breath, smelling nothing on the air. He knew these lands; he was confident that none would be able to kill him in his sleep. Even still, the blood throbbed in his head and he released a chilling howl into the wind, deep and warning. The earth returned his cry with fading echo and only then did he turn to rest.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    That night he slept soundly. He had no fear of the shadows, for the earth would warn him. He had no fear of death, for the earth would warn him. And the earth did not speak, so he did not wake. The red stars gazed upon the ground outside, the light blue grass shining in reply, and the cool mist that was carried in the wind drifted like his dreams.

    He dreamed of his birth, of how the earth whispered its secrets into his ears as it gave him form. How it spoke of the spirits and how he would rule them. How it showed him the steady pulse of the spirits around him, that he could feel in his heart without eyes or ears. How it told him the coarse words that the beasts never spoke, and how it painted swirling pictures of lands far away. It had promised him that they would be his in time as well. He knew that those lands would be his, the earth gave this to him. With the black Maes lines that adorned his body, it had made him. It gave him his form and it gave him power.

    Power did not belong to the weak. But he was not weak. He was strong, and he would claim his birthright. Such was his will.

    He woke all at once, something rousing him from his sleep. His mind was sharp, clear, shedding the drowsiness of his sleep with ease. With a raging fire in his stomach, he rose from his slumber, rolling onto his feet with the ease of instinct and shaking the blood into his muscles. His body was on edge, his limbs tense and heart speeding. Hot fire burned through him as he took in a deep breath, trying to calm the enraged primal part of him.

    He woke because of an uneasiness in the air. He felt it in the earth around him, a new presence. Here. On his lands.. He could smell it, the scent in the air. It was faint, tainted with the traces of sharp, metallic blood, but he could tell it all the same. Here. In his territory. His. Territory.

    That primal part of him swelled in rage as the need for control, that base instinct of dominance sent his blood into roiling storm. Seething anger swallowed all reason as affronted pride filled his body with flame. His fury left nothing uncertain, left no other path for him to take.

    He could see it now in his mind, see what would happen with surety. He would sniff out this intruder and tear then apart. He would gut them from neck to stomach and watch them squirm as his hands closed around their throat. Blood would spill out and cover their front in glorious color, their failing heart rough and wonderfully weak as he would hold it in his palm. They would plead and beg with their glassy eyes and he would break their bones in response.

    His heart was racing now, his breaths short and ragged as his muscles clenched in barely restrained glee. His claws tightened in anticipation, flexing over an invisible noose as he ran a dry tongue over deadly sharp teeth. He saw this all, certain as stone in his heart. Here lay the penance that they would pay for their arrogance. He would send a message to all, send a message that these lands were his domain. He would send a message of the blood toll that all would pay.

    With a low growl, he followed the scent, every nerve in him on edge. The cords in his neck were taut as he prowled, scanning the air with the practiced movements of a natural hunter.He was a predator, and every fiber of him attested to that. He had no need for weapons, no need for armor. His claws, sharp as any dagger, were all he needed. His skin, tough as leather, was all he needed. His body, strong as stone, was a gift from the earth. It was all he needed to survive.

    He smelled the intruder on the wind, the smell of metal and blood and leather and weakness, and could not resist letting loose a wild howl of elation. Running now, powerful legs driving plumes of dust behind him. Wind cool against fever-hot skin, blood racing just under the surface. This feeling, this unrestrained feeling. The freedom. This power. He loved it, this tension and this nervousness that drove him into a blazing pyre. It was rapture and euphoria, the wild, unfettered hunt. This feeling was what he lived for. He was made for this. Built for this.

    Made to hunt. Built to kill. Made to take. Built to conquer.

    He could feel its spirit, pulsing faintly in the distance. The stench filled his mind as he closed his eyes and turned his head, sniffing the air for that distinct smell. He had followed the scent through the green hills, and now onto the flat plains. He had followed the scent past the herds of murak and past the fresh corpses with birds and gnats buzzing about them, far until he reached the edge of the Outlands. Far until the green-fog air grew thinner and clearer, far until the smell of death loomed on him like a stifling mist. He suppressed that bestial fear and walked closer, swatting gnats and eying carefully the circling corpse birds before he saw a distant figure on the dried, cracked earth.

    Eyes narrowing, hackles raised, he howled, letting loose a guttural cry to warn others what would happen when they entered his lands. He would make them into an example. They would pay for this challenge, this insult, with their lives. Such was what he vowed. He expected a reply, expected a flicker of terror that always came when he reached the end of his hunt. He received nothing in return.

    Enraged and affronted at the figure on the plains, he tensed, hesitating for only the barest of moments before charging. There was no room for falter in the hunt, no room to err. If it was an enemy, he would meet it in combat. If it was merely prey, he would kill it and take its meager strength. There was nothing more, nothing else. Those weaker were killed. Those stronger were the ones who killed. That was the law of the Outlands. That was his law.

    He darted over to the thing lying on the ground, arms open, claws ready to swipe, but something struck him before he could get close. It was a wall of sheer terror, sending the back of his mind screaming to retreat. It was only after he pushed down the urge to bolt that he felt his hammering pulse slowly calm. And then he realized that he knew this feeling. That he had felt this before.

    It was the terror of the Fells, the panic that came with it. When the purple bolts cracked through the sky, all of the earth felt their wrath, felt their power. It brought with it death, and so naturally hysteria ran ahead to bring news of inevitable fate. It was not the dampening aura of dominance, or even the cold pressure of futility. It was the uncontrollable, primal madness of the Fells.

    And that same madness surrounded this thing.

    He rallied himself cautiously, eyes and ears listening for anything to give away an attack. Sensing none, he pounced, claws outstretched, feet ready to tear and rip, spittle flying from his mouth. He did not know what this power was, did not know what this fear was, but it was strong. And it was in his lands. There was only one meaning for that in his mind, and no challenge would go unanswered. He raised his claws, about to swipe.

    Suddenly he stopped, limbs going limp and heart plummeting as if he had cracked his head on stone. He felt his face go slack and his arms fall to his sides. His eyes blinked, shock blurring his vision as his mind froze with incomprehension.

    The markings on its face, he knew them. He recognized those black patterns, their sharp curves and lines like the teeth of so many small horrors.

    They were the same markings as his own.

 Book 1: Chapter 2: His Sister

    He could see the swirling Maes patterns, black as oil, running down its face from forehead to neck, continuing past to where ripped fabric covered its body. He knew how they flowed, how the ribbons circled the skin; he saw them on himself in his reflection in the water. It was proof of his birthright, that he was a child born from the earth. It was proof of his heritage, as much so as the blood in his veins.

    This thing had the same Maes adorning its body, but its face was not the same as his; its form was not the same as his. Where he was strong with scale and muscle, it was smooth and hairless, with fair skin that that was not native to these lands. Long hair covered its head, not black but a brilliant red that was not unlike that of the stars in the sky. Its forehead was hornless and coated with a sheen of sweat, its arms thin and weak. Its clothes were different from those of the kuluk, those bandits that roamed through the edges of the Outlands occasionally to pick off the weak and the stragglers. He claimed a few of them each new moon when they wandered into his lands; their flesh was sweet and their blood thick and savory. This creature was not like them; it stunk of death and decay. It was frail and broken, the fragile skin torn and pale in the light.

    And it was bleeding. A ragged cut ran from its lower stomach up to its sternum, opening up the entirety of its chest to the sky. A mortal wound, by nearly every measure.

    Cautious and still reeling from the mindless fear that had shook his mind, he prodded the body with a claw, expecting nothing, but received instead a light moan and twitch in response. Shock ran down his body, a cold sliver of ice shooting down his spine. Feeling her forehead, her temperature was normal, there was only a light sheen of sweat. He did not know what to believe, what to think. The creature¡¯s stomach was cut open and the stench of death filled her, but still it was alive. It was a blow that should have been fatal, and yet it was not.

    Sniffing at the body, he decided that it was female. He noted the wrinkles that lined its face and the bone-thin arms, evidence of a hard life¡ªit would be shorter than him if standing upright. Its breasts were small and he only faintly smelled the heat on it, proof enough that it was not yet mature. Young, perhaps the same age as him at most, more likely only ten-and-few years. If it was born of the earth like him, then they were related.

    He flinched at the thought, the concept foreign to him. All his life, he had never seen another like him, had never seen another with his Maes. Born of the earth, much as him. His own kin. He searched his mind for the word, one that he had never used before. One that he never had need for before. It was coarse and dry as his tongue moved crudely, uncertaintly.

    ¡°Sister.¡±

    The thought rolled through his head, foreign, and uncertain. There was another one like him, one of his kin. He was tempted to leave her; in the Outlands, the weak were killed. That was the law, that was his law. But he hesitated. She was the same as him, born from the earth, and yet she could not be killed. She did not die. He wanted to know why. He wanted to learn how. And perhaps just as importantly, she was his sister. She was his pack, the only family that he knew. She was his blood, and perhaps his only blood. So he decided that just this one time, he would let an intruder live.

    Making up his mind, he bent down to look at her closer. She was light, and her body did not feel like that of a hunter. Her flesh was weak and soft, her skin thin like grass. It would be a simple matter to rip through her neck. Her legs were weak, her eyes were dull. She had no fangs to bite with, nor horns to gore. No hair to protect herself, no claws to strike her prey. She was not from the Outlands; she would not have survived a day here, no matter whose lands she was in.

    And yet, she was not dead. Her stomach was opened up; her torn chest bared itself and its innards to the sky, but she was still alive. Blood did not flow, the wound did not clot, but her heart still beat unsteadily and her lungs still breathed ragged, shallow breaths. The liquid in her veins still flowed, stopping abruptly where her vessels severed. It was as if the blood ignored the gaping hole in her chest, skipping over the cut and continuing to flow to the rest of her. As he looked closer, he saw that every so often, perhaps every tenth breath that he took, there would be a small crackle. A faint purple, much as those from the Fells, would dart out from her flesh and arc into the air before sinking back into her once more.

    There was no smell of rot, no stench of decay, yet the presence that it gave was the very same. His hairs stood on end, his muscles twitching as his instincts and his body reacted to the wound. It whispered of danger. It whispered of death.

    With caution, he slowly extended an outstretched claw to press gently against the side of the wound. The talon touched ever so slightly, but still a thin line of red appeared, bright against the dull pink of her innards. When he looked at the cut, however, he saw that the blood did not drip. It did not bead, it did not even respond, flowing ever so slowly as if it had yet to realize the opening. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    As he waited, the blood flowed ever closer to the cut that he had made before finally oozing its way out, finally noticing the wound. What normally would have taken an instant for the blood to well up in a cut took for her over a minute.

    It was clear to im then that she had not died, that she had merely prolonged her death in this unnatural state. What would have killed her in minutes would now take longer, perhaps even days. The true time, he did not know, but he did know what would come at the end. No matter how slowly, she would die like this.

    He did not know how to help her. He never had need to heal a cut that large, a gash that deep. He never had understood that madness of the Fells, the same madness that seemed to be in her. The madness that drove the shadows to come alive¡ªshe had used it to stay death¡¯s fangs. He did not know if anything he tried would work, did not know if he would kill her as he tried to save her. But he was certain of one thing.

    If he left her here, even with the strange madness in her flesh, she could not survive.

    Even if was slowly, his claw had still cut her. If it tried hard enough, if it was patient enough, anything still tear her apart. And he was certain that her madness had limits, that it would not staunch the bleeding should her head be taken from her shoulders. There was no way for her to survive if he left her untouched, if he left her like this. He had to do something, yet anything could kill her.

    But if she was born of the earth as he was, then she had the same blood as him. When he was hurt before and forced to hide, the earth showed him how to heal, It had taught him how to lick his wounds and wait until his body mended itself. It had showed him which plants to eat, showed him what water to drink and whose flesh to consume. He trusted his body to the earth; it was the earth¡¯s gift to him¡ªhis inheritance. She would have to trust hers to the same.

    Letting out a harsh grunt, he made up his mind. He stooped low to try and move her, grabbing an arm gently with claws not meant for such delicacy. Her body seemed more plant than animal, more like a blade of dry grass than flesh. He took her to his den ever slowly, the distance tiresome with the awkward weight in his arms as he struggled not to tear her gash any further. Despite the long walk, the wound stayed the same, blood flowing past it as if the severed veins were still intact. Ever more frequently, he saw the purple madness. It jumped between the lips of the gash, crackling and darting into the air.

    She made no sound as he laid her down on the rock. Were it not for the beating of the heart that he heard, he would have thought her a corpse. Her face was stark white now, utterly without sign of life. The madness jumped faster now, perhaps every other breath. He knew, although he did not know how, that her time was short. If he was to try anything, it would have to be now.

    Searching among the stones, he dug through the dirt and undergrowth. Parting plant and flower, he overturned rocks as he peered into the vegetation. Yet, as the time passed and he still had not found what he was looking for, the frustration began to set into his bones. Every breath was one closer to death, and it had never taken this long to find before. It was rare, perhaps, but not outrageously so.

    It was by the old fallen tree that he found what he was searching for: a thin, yellow-green grass with wide leaves and short, thick roots. It grew in small tufts where there was damp dirt under a rock. It tasted bitter and dry in the mouth, but he knew that it had its uses.

    Collecting a handful, he took it back to his den, holding the bundle in his hand as he carefully carried her inside. Laying her down on the ground, he first licked the wound. His saliva would clean the wound and start to heal her. It took a while for him to clean out the gash and by the end the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Taking the grass, he chewed it into a thick paste, resisting the urge to swallow. It burned his gums and stained his teeth a dark yellow, but he ignored it. Pinching the mouth of the cut together, he spat the glob onto the wound, smearing it into a line that covered and held the wound together.

    The madness sparked as he touched her, fighting back like small tongues of flame in a roaring wind. When it touched his claws, the purple fizzled and guttered out, showering into the air like dust. Eventually there was no more madness left, and the gash began to bleed profusely. Scarlet and crimson slipped out of the bottom of the salve, trickling across her abdomen before puddling on the ground around her.

    He worried that he had killed her, that without her madness she would be gone in an instant. Yet the bleeding seemed to end as quickly as it had come, and it dried into a dark crust on her skin. The plant salve had hardened quickly after it left his mouth, and it would keep the wound from going rotten. That much, he could do for her. If that happened, the only way to save her would be to cut out her stomach. Strange as she was, he felt that even she had her limits.

    She made no noise as he did his patching, and she made no noise as he set the fire. He feared that she was dead in the mind¡ªnothing but dead weight that he would never learn from. Trying to save her could very well cost him his life, for he had little enough resources as it was. To care for a weakness in the Outlands was to mark oneself as a living corpse.

    But the potential she held was too great. She was pack, and she could evade death. For her and what she knew, it was a risk worth taking.

    He thought as he ate, tearing eagerly into old meat. In the Outlands, to learn her skill would make all the difference. Yet, she had to be alive in order to tell him her secret. Should she live, she would need food. The Fells would come soon, and another mouth to feed would be all the worse for him. He needed to hunt. But his herds were thin already, and would only grow thinner from the Fells. To take more from them now would be to leave him with nothing after.

    Resolution filled his mind as he finished his meal, cracking open the last of the bones and tossing the remains outside his den onto the ground. He would have to break one of the rules he had known since birth. He would have to mark himself for death.

    He would have to take from another¡¯s lands.

 Book 1: Chapter 3: His Prey

    Every inch of his body was on alert. The very fiber of his being screamed for him to get away, to run. He did not belong here. This earth was not his earth, it was not the land that had made him. This land was unfamiliar and strange; it belonged to something else, and he was asking to be slaughtered. He felt terribly conspicuous, unaware of who or what was watching him. He had no bond with this rock, no claim to the stone under his claws. He was an invader, and by virtue of his presence he was offering himself up as prey to the alpha of these lands.

    But he needed to take from this herd. He needed their flesh to keep himself and his newfound sister alive. He needed to take from another, and he needed to live after. The risk was a necessary one. It would not be easy, but it would have to be done.

    These lands were foreign to him. They were not the plains that he knew, with open land and the light yellow grass underneath. The grass here was waist-high and rustled when he walked. There were none of the scant trees growing overhead to give him shade from the sun, none of the thin, weedy grass around watering holes that slowed a pulse and purged poison from the blood. Instead, here he saw thick brambles of vine and bush grew around occasional the occasional oasis. He did not trust those strange plants, with their thick thorns that snared themselves in his fur and scratched his scales in a horrible keening sound.

    In his own lands he was a silent as a snake and faster than any other creature. Here he felt like a clumsy oaf, blundering through thickets with as much noise as a storm. Any fool that lived here would be able to hear him a lifetime away. Even the air betrayed him; it was thick, stifling, and filled with a foreign scent. Worse still, he was downwind. Whoever these lands belonged to would hear him moving through the thistled undergrowth, and he would receive no warning.

    He was on alert; even the slightest rustling movement from the wind against the tall grass caused him to flinch. He had no time. Every second spent here was an invitation for death to creep behind him. He was tracking prey, but he was at the same time being tracked himself. The only option was to hunt¡ªto kill and take and escape before he was caught. The only problem with that prospect was the possibility of dying to his prey if he was too hasty.

    There were no murak here; the tracks he was following were proof of larger game: a full grown krull. Larger than him with meat enough to last him weeks, with the greater reward came also greater risk. Its shoulder was as large as his head, and its horns would in a heartbeat deprive him of his own. There were no krull on his lands, let alone one this large, this old. It only made it worse that he had no experience hunting them, but he had no other choice. He needed this kill, and it would be his. He could see by its tracks, it was wounded. Not only that, but it was old¡ªa prime target. He would claim it, regardless of who it belonged to.

    Tracking it was a simple matter. The beast was wounded and limping from side to side, the droplets of dried blood that splattered the ground evidence of its pain and struggle. Even if he was blinded, the trailing scent of its wounds would have led him to its den deep in the brush. Two shattered trees stood out from the underbrush, split by a great force with the grasses parted, the dirt tossed this way and that. With wreckage strewn about with broken branches and shredded vines abound, he was certain of it¡ªthis was the krull¡¯s den.

    He would have to kill it quickly and leave as fast as possible. He could not carry the whole carcass with him; the skin and entrails he would have to leave to lighten his load. It would be his tribute to the owner of these lands for hunting here, although he doubted that it would be taken in good faith. He did not pause, did not hesitate. Every second wasted now was a second closer to his death, and every passing heartbeat had the tension and nervousness of being his last.

    Bracing his feet against the ground, his legs crouched, his shoulders hunched, he drew a deep breath into his lungs, feeling his ribs stretch in his chest. With his throat open and his hackles raised, he howled madly at the den. He wanted to bait out the krull with the threat. Inside, the strangling vegetation would impede his movement, and the agility and reflexes that he needed to stay alive would be restricted. He wanted the krull to come to him with wild ferocity and rage. Nothing was better than an opponent blinded with warlust¡ªthis he knew from experience. The creature would be distracted, and he wanted his first blow in that moment to cripple the beast.

    With a roar that shook the bones in his spine and a violent thundering as if the dense bracken had come alive, a great figure burst out of the thicket in a stampede of power and strength. It boasted a lumbering body with powerful raised shoulders, between which sat a beaked head that could slice bone just as easily as it could slice the plants it ate. A thick plate of bone, studded with dull spikes, fanned out over its thick neck, protecting the creature. The cords in its neck stood out, stretching to its broad chest. A column of bone bulged out from its back, running from wide shoulders to the end of its short, stubby tail. Muscle strained under thick hide as it charged, the latticework of grey scars across its back evidence of old wounds. Massive hindquarters drove the beast forward so strongly it pushed the earth away, the dust pluming behind it as its wide, spade-like feet struck with maddening power. Even more terrifying, however, were the forearms that swelled to almost twice the size of its hind legs, massive shovel-like limbs that shattered stone and felled timber standing in the way of its mindless rampage. A single gleaming, yellowed horn grew out of its bone-ridged forehead, and it wielded it with a blunt savagery that could break rock as well as bone. Two small, gleaming black eyes glinted wetly against a thick, mud-red, leathery hide that even his claws would find hard to break.

    It was a fine krull, a simple beast of power and rage. He would kill it.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    This krull was old and injured, this he knew. Two gleaming slashes ran with blood across its left flank straight down its leg, glistening as if they had just healed and had been torn open once more. The beast struggled to move straight, tossing its head back and forth as it bucked, striking the ground hard with its left arm to compensate for the ruined limb. Although it charged with a limping gait, its age welcomed death surer than any wound could. It was old enough that its hide lost vigor around the joints, and that weakness would not be overlooked. There he would strike.

    The creature gave a trumpeting roar that shook the ground and rattled his joints in their sockets. There was no fear there, only anger and strength, long tempered with the caution and wariness of experience. He would do well to be cautious. Its massive body became a sudden blur of movement as the krull charged at him, horn lowered, legs pounding. He dove to the right, intending to roll out of its path, but it turned its head and caught him down his side.

    A flare of red-hot pain lanced from his knee to his ribs as his leg suddenly buckled. He turned around quickly and was met with a blow by its thick forehead that drove the air from his chest and threw him onto his back. He coughed the blood from his lungs and tried to get up, but the beast loomed over him. Before he could react, its powerful leg drove onto his chest with the force of a falling mountain and he felt the shattering and snapping as his bones yielded under the pressure. Blood sprayed from his mouth, dribbling forth in a hot stream, and his vision grew red at the edges.

    Rage filled his head as he coughed out thick, black blood, outraged that he had been caught in this position. This pain that he felt he would pay back thricefold. This humiliation, this weakness, he would pay back. He was certain of it. His heart was racing now, beating madly as adrenaline pumped into his system. His eyes were wide, his muscles loose and strong. Another blow came, quick as lightning, but it was too slow. He rolled out of the way and leapt off the ground, still swaying unsteady on the balls of his feet. A massive crater in the ground with webbed cracks spiraling outward gave evidence of would he would have been if he was a beat slower. The beast turned, pivoting about itself to swing its head at him, but he vaulted over its back, slashing three lines of blood over its flank as he fell. It bellowed in anger, a hideous, rasping sound as its throat filled with blood, and he backed away slowly as he prepared for its incoming rush.

    As the beast charged, he stayed low, avoiding its goring horn and diving left before it could hit him. Throwing up plumes of dirt and dust as it halted its charge, the maddened krull tossed its head side to side as it turned to find where the offender had gone. It was then that he struck, flying out of the overgrowth, claws raised. Two cuts was all he needed¡ªone on each hind leg¡ª and even the largest beast would be brought down. His claws would never fail him, sharper than any knife, faster than any blade, stronger than any steel. They were the earth¡¯s gift to him, and what they cut, bled.

    That was what they did now, and in one dash, the old animal could not move. Another slash across the throat made it bleed. Three long gashes down its face blinded its eyes and sent blood spurting in erratic rhythm. A final, brutal thrust into its chest tore through the bone and pried open ribs with singleminded savagery. His muscles strained as he forced the ribs apart, hearing tendon and muscle and all manner of flesh stretch and tear. The krull no longer bellowed, no longer struggled. It merely twitched as it wallowed in mind-numbing pain. It merely spasmed once as he burst its heart.

    He was breathing hard, not from the pain, which had already faded to a dull throb, but from the ecstasy of the fight. From the thrill and the pleasure that coursed through his body. He closed his eyes and let the throbbing in his head fade, coming down from his glorious high. The kill would feed him, but if he was caught now, there would not be anything to feed.

    He ate quickly. The skin he did not need¡ªit was too tough to chew. The guts he ate then, downing them in quick, jerking gulps. They slid down his throat and left a trail of heat burning down to his stomach. The slaver dripped from a corner of his mouth as he ate, claws shredding flesh and sinew in order to shovel greedy mouthfuls of the meat. When he finished, his muzzle was stained a dark crimson red and the former krull¡¯s chest was hollow and reeked a warm, putrid stench. The rest he dragged behind him, claws digging deep into the flesh as he prepared to run, but a sudden growl from behind stopped him. It was the sound that he had been waiting for.

    It was the sound that he had been fearing.

    Turning slowly, lips peeled back, legs at a crouch, he faced his aggressor. It was the owner of these lands; he knew it from the scent. The creature was a massive thing, a hulking beast nearly twice as large as him, body covered in thick muscle. Red fur covered those forearms that gleamed with a thick hide, bearing claws that could sever the cords in his legs with one swipe. Yet that size was also a failing, for the beast had small eyes and a wide gait. It was large, but that would also mean it was slow. Therein lay its weakness, therein he would strike.

    He could fight to kill, but it would give him wounds he could not afford¡ªnot now when he was so far from home. He could run, but it would mean leaving his kill behind, and that would leave him worse off than when he started. In an instant, he decided his course: two strikes on the calves to cripple, and then he would run. There would be no honor in this fight, but honor was a thought he did not understand when the earth had whispered it into his ears. Honor would not save you when you were dying. Honor would not make you strong. Honor was not needed in the Outlands.

    Without a sound, not even a growl, he dropped his kill on the ground. What he needed right now was speed. Speed and power. Eyes fixed on his target, his feet cracked the earth as he tensed in preparation. Without warning, he charged, plumes of dust forming in the air behind him as he dived low with claws outstretched, aiming to sever tendons and muscle.

    He was slow. Weak. A blow fell across his right arm and he felt it snap. The pain was excruciating, but it would not stop him. His arm fell limp at his side, but he struck up with the left, slashing across the face with black claws and blinding his foe. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, he followed through down the left leg, tearing down the muscle and ripping out to the side. Blood sprayed wildly as the creature bellowed in pain.

    He did not stop, his body a blur of fluid motion. Dancing back with a grace that belied the gruesome situation, he picked up his kill, dragging it on the ground behind him with a kind of uncaring desperation, and ran. Ran back to his lands. Ran back to his den. Back to where he could lick his wounds. Back to where the earth would hold him and keep him safe. He did not look back, not even when the roar of agony and anger and humiliation that erupted behind him rattled his teeth in his head.

 Book 1: Chapter 4: His Dreams

    He ran until the ground became a blur, until the muscles of his back burned with the weight of the sky on his shoulders and he could run no more. He ran until the ground became the sky and his left became his right and his legs buckled and he crumpled to the ground, panting, gasping for breath. His arm was a mangled mess, but he felt no pain, even when the joints bent the wrong way and the muscles were torn and the blood flowed black. He could not stop, not now when there was danger growing with every passing heartbeat. He was not safe, for these lands were not his.

    His body was tiring from fatigue and pain, but his mind would not dull. His fire burned with a raging intensity, a surging resistance that fueled him, that pushed him, that urged him to keep going forward. It was confidence, it was pride. It was a firm resolution that was set in his bone. The Outlands would not claim him, even if he had to claw his way out of its deepest, darkest gulley with only his claws. This he swore, this he knew. He would not die, not here. With a roar that was more feral than anything an animal could utter, he rose, determined, confident, desperate. He had to move forward.

    With a shaking leg that threatened to fold underneath him at any time, he rose unsteadily to his feet. One step. Two. He pushed forward, the weight of his body like a mountain of stone as his muscles cramped and spasmed violently.

    One step. Two. The corpse of the krull stopped him, its massive pile of flesh immovably heavy. Still, he struggled, feet digging into the earth, muscles straining until finally something gave. There was a horrible wrenching sound, a sickening ripping sound as tendon tore and his leg broke. And then the world spun black and his head hit the ground.

    He dreamed.

    He dreamed in swirls of red and white, in storms of pain and searing heat. He dreamed of death with its ever-present eyes and its bone-chilling touch. He dreamed of savagery and violent carnage that he had known all his life. He dreamed of his body being torn apart, being ripped to shreds and eaten by the carrion birds. He felt their claws digging into him, the pain like red-hot needles as his scales split and his flesh sloughed off. He felt his body tear in half as greedy mouths devoured him alive. He felt the pain, felt the terror, felt the helplessness as he could only watch himself eaten alive. He knew then, that he was on the brink of death. He was dreaming on the brink of death.

    He was not alone, perched there on the precipice. He heard others speaking, their voices piercing through his thoughts. Whispers filled his mind, cold as ice and sharp as a blade. They were the whispers of the dead, he could feel them all around him, feel their warm presence and their steady, humming pulse. He could hear the pain in their voices; they were calling out to him.

    Andahiel. We hear you, Andahiel. The shackles grow weak, and the darkness stirs. Free us, scion of Andahiel. Break our bonds.

    There was another voice in his mind then, a voice so kind and soft that it warmed his heart. Familiarity filled his chest, easing away his doubts. All these years would never strip him of his memory; he would remember this voice no matter how long. It was the voice of his birth, the voice of the stone that he had been born from. It was comforting and solid, an aged voice that held the traces of infinite wisdom and even greater patience. It was the voice of the earth.

    Free them, my child. Break their bonds. The dark rises, and we will need their hate.

    If the earth wished him to free these spirits, then he would do it gladly. For the earth, for his birth, he would do anything. He would forsake anything, for he owed to it everything. That was the loyalty and devotion he showed to pack¡ªto family and only ever to family. But doubt crept into him for a moment, the uncertainty making him pause. He did not know how to free these spirits, how to break their chains.

    You cannot yet move, my child, so I shall mend this body for you. You cannot yet see, my child. You cannot yet open your eyes, so I give you these, for now. Take them and see, my child. Take these eyes.

    A gentle warmth suffused him, sinking into his mind with ribbons of white. They bound his flesh; he could not see himself in his dream, but he knew it as certain as he could know anything. They wove flesh, knitting muscle and healing skin. Shattered bones hardened once more, his broken body being born anew with the gift of the earth. The warmth filled his chest before traveling up his neck, the strands of heat creeping up his face.

    Fire filled his eyes, a scorching brilliance that seared itself into his mind. It was only after a moment that he realized that his eyes were opened already, open in his dreaming. He saw blinding white that filled his field of vision, and he realized that it was the white of the spirits. He saw their slow pulsing, their glorious radiance that enveloped everything with their glow.

    He saw everything about them, everything that there was to see. He watched their dying moments, their birth and all that passed in between, flickering in a timeless second. He saw the ones in pain, their spirits writhing in agony as they coiled around a black shard. It stood black, not as night but as nothing. The surface was smooth as water, as bottomless as the sea. Shadows wreathed it, writhing like serpents as they wrapped around the spirits. Black mist poured off the thrashing mass, colder than ice. He could feel the black shard¡¯s pull, feel its malevolent presence anchoring these spirits. It was the shackle of which they spoke, the chain that he must break. It bound them here, to their torment.

    It hurts, they screamed. They writhed and twisted¡ªa thousand voices, a thousand faceless whispers. The very air around them distorted madly, grew twisted with their soundless wailing. They could not escape, for those shadows hidden in the mist bound them. Shadows like those that lived during the Fells, he realized.

    Free us, scion of Andahiel. Shatter this torment. FREE US. The dead screamed in riotous pain with desperate abandon. Their thoughts added only to the storm that battered at him without pause, winds the buffeted him and threatened to blow him into the sea. Hopelessness settled into his bones, its weight far heavier than anything flesh could ever hope to bear. Fear held him, its grip cold and chilling. He was afraid to do what the earth wished, and his loyalty and trust warred with self-preservation. In the end, his faith won out.

    His mind firm, his decision resolute, he relented his struggle against the shard¡¯s ever-hungry maw for the briefest of moments, feeling it tear on his consciousness and pull him closer. Slowly, he extended his claws, feeling them touch the surface of the glossy, black stone.

    Pain.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    That was the first thing he felt. That was all that he felt. An utterly mind-numbing, bone-shattering pain that blew all thoughts from his mind and swallowed him whole. He lost himself in the waves of that horrifying agony that wrenched scream after scream from his mouth. It was a sheer torture that gripped his spirit in an iron vise and tore at it until he was but scraps and shreds.

    Then the pain faded, as quickly as it had come. The black mist settled over his body, numbing all sensation where it touched him until he felt nothing. He felt nothing as the shadows wrapped around him, felt nothing as they began to dig into his flesh. It was a blissful relief, to feel nothing as he died.

    Whispers. Voices. He heard the dead, their noise a ghostly quiet against the raucous symphony of his tormented screams. Images flashed through his head. Bones. Fire. A field of corpses, purple lightning crackling down like an incessant storm. He saw death in his head, death surrounding him.

    Do you wish to die?

    The dead were innumerable, their voices hauntingly empty. The question echoed in his head, lingering like memories of a heartbeat.

    Are you this weak?

    He stirred, the question making him begin to shake off the bonds that beleaguered him. All his life he had thought himself strong. Never once had doubt crossed his mind, not once had its poison seeped into his veins. Now would not be any different, he realized, and the unyielding pain that had sent his mind into a haze began to lessen its hold upon him.

    Free us, then. FREE US.

    Now was not the place where he would die. The strong feasted upon the weak, and he was not weak. He would not die here. Shrieking wind crackling with power¡ªit surged around him, whipping his consciousness and threatening to flay his focus into pieces. But he would not yield. He would not falter. He was not weak. He was strong. He would not die here.

    There was a cry of fury, perhaps from him, perhaps from the hundreds of dead that rose to lend him their will. They swelled forth together in an unrelenting tide of force, crushing all in their path, assailing the blackened shard. Purple lightning crackled and hissed in menacing cadence, sparks arcing madly as he struck again and again at the towering spire with only his will. His will was firm, his resolve unshakable. He was not weak. He was strong. He would not die here.

    The shard was cracked now, the black mist that had previously wreathed it now collecting into a dense fog charged with power. Yet even without his urging, the spirits of the vengeful dead struck with great wrath and greater anger, reaving swaths of white through the black fog as piece by piece it grew smaller and smaller. A colossal pressure suddenly bore down on his mind, a crushing weight that stifled his thoughts in agony. He could only watch as fire and lightning burst forth in infernal vengeance and the black fog cracked with a keening sound that cut into his mind. Even without feeling, he knew that it had slashed him, dealt damage that would never heal.

    The chained spirits burst into a thousand pieces, like the shattering of glass, floating gently as glittering dust in the air for the briefest of moments. Like a gathering storm, they swirled together before flying straight into his spirit, wreathing it an brilliant light before sinking in. He could feel them in him, feel their power trickling into his in the way a stream feeds a raging river. It was done; they were freed.

    Brothers. A chorus of ice-cold voices whispered in his mind, before falling silent.

    The flowed into him, nestling into the back of his mind like a coil of snakes. Their spirits were a warmth, a gentle pulsing that was tender in the absence of the torrential pain he had just felt.

    You have done well, my child. The earth. His sire, his guide. It stirred him, ushered out of his dreams.

    He woke with his right arm in agony, with every pulse of his heart it felt like hot needles digging into his flesh. A shuddering gasp tore through as he looked down to see new skin and whole bones. I shall mend this body for you, the earth had proclaimed, and he remembered it now. His body had been healed by the earth, but pain still filled his wrist. With the consuming mist that had once surrounded him now dissipated, the black shard had been left behind, dormant.

    With a primal will of its own, it sought out flesh and embedded itself into his right arm, searing the flesh around it with its power until the skin was charred black, the hair burned off. He howled from the pain, clutching at his arm as acrid smoke plumed from between his claws. The black gem shone like a bottomless pool, without depth and without substance. It seemed as if one could slip into it, could fall forward, like the very slumber from which it had come.

    His mind thought back to the dreamscape that he had found himself in, his state of mind as he lay in undisturbed slumber. He had always known the spirits to be around him, the earth had told him during his birth. Ever since his tenth year, he could feel them around him, their soft humming and gentle warmth. Yet just now, he had seen them.

    He yearned to open those eyes once more, but try as he might, he was unable to. However, resolve made him grit his teeth. If it had been done before, it could be done again. Even if he was unable to see the spirits, he could still feel their pulse nonetheless. He would open those eyes again; he promised it.

    Yet, another thought ate away at the confidence that had just filled him: night was falling.

    He wanted to feel for the spirits, longed to use the hot power that burned through his veins, but there was no time. He had to hurry. Shadows were rousing from sleep, the same shadows that had filled his dreams. His lands were further to where the sun hid itself at night. Where the red, cracked mud plains became craggy hills to where they met the rolling sea, those were his lands. They were not far, but he had no time to spare. Already the sun was hiding, only the barest edge of its light peeking over the horizon as the moons and stars waited to reveal themselves. It was when the red light of the sun was gone and the green light of the moons shone down¡ªthat was when the shadows emerged.

    He could see them already: their black bodies contorting as they bore down to feast on broken corpses. He could hear their noise, or rather the lack of it, the silence of their soundless steps echoing through the night as they stalked their prey. He could smell them, the fetid stench of blood and death rotting on their formless skin. He could feel them, their aura of darkness and wrongness that followed them. They did not belong here. They were not of the earth. If they came for him, there would be no escape.

    With staggering steps, he limped his way back to his den, carrying the carcass of the krull across his broad shoulders. He did not stop to rest. There would be time enough when he was dead. There was no time now. As the last lines of the sun dipped behind the earth, he saw it: his home. His.

    The promise of safety made him surge with newfound vigor as he dragged the krull towards his den. He had no time to move the boulder¡ªinstead he broke it with his claws, the earth yielding for him, sensing his urgency. He hauled the corpse behind him into the cave. Then he collapsed, chest striking the stone with a muffled thud.

    His mind was furious at his weak body. There would be time to sleep later¡ªhe had things to do first. He willed himself to move, but his arms did not respond, fingers merely twitching feebly. He simply lay there, gasping for breath, chest heaving, his mind starting to feel light as the promise of rest and safety flooded his body. The thought of safety made him tired.

    The thought of safety made him weak.

    In the Outlands, such weakness would kill. This, he was reminded of as he felt the whispering touch of cold steel drawing slick blood from his throat.

 Book 1: Chapter 5: A Foolish Life

    She was a wretch, with red hair and fair skin¡ªthe very description of a sloane. Born alone, in the back alleys with the shades of murderers to keep her company, she was one of thousands of rats in the city, and one of hundreds of human ones. Her mother was likely a whore, her father some passing noble with money enough to buy a night with some friends who had gotten too drunk. She herself had no friends, no family that she knew of, save for one¡ªshe had an older sister, a caring, kind spirit who was maybe ten-and-six.

    Where her sister was beautiful, the sloane was hideous¡ªblack lines scarred her face from a birth in a fire, or so her sister had said. Her sister had told the girl during dark nights that she had been born in a flaming house, that it was the fire that had painted her hair red. She said that fire was the messenger of the gods, that they had blessed her during her birth.

    It was ironic how far that stood from the truth.

    Her sister was a kind person, a rare gem in these slums, who always had a smile on her face. No matter how hungry she was after a day without food, no matter how tired she was after a day of running, no matter how terrified she was after a day spent worrying about when she¡¯d find her own back with a knife buried in it, her sister was always smiling.

    The sloane could not help but notice that smile disappeared the day that her sister was raped by five men and then dismembered in front of her own widened eyes.

    She had been forced to watch as they had their way with her, forced to watch as they ripped off her arms and stabbed her stomach over and over. Blood trickled out of ragged lacerations, the cuts lining her body. That gentle face was covered in tears, her mouth gagged, her hair pulled back viciously. When they had enough fun, they crushed her face into the brick, giving it a couple of kicks just to make sure.

    The rain might have had washed away the stains on the brick, but the girl still remembered. Remembered how her sister had shouted for her to run. Remembered the look on her face as they held her down and slashed her and fucked her bloody until the street was covered in crimson red. Remembered that beautiful, kind face bruised and cut, tears streaming as she wailed in pain and hopeless desperation. Remembered the steady stream of passersby that ignored her screams and pleas, that had spit at her and called her a filthy whore. Remembered how that scream from her bloody lips had been cut brutally short. Remembered the savage crunch of bone against the uncaring brick. Remembered how the men at turned after to look at her.

    The girl had ran that day. She was not proud, not proud of how she had fled. She was not proud of how she had hid. She was not proud of the fear that froze her limbs when her beloved sister had needed her, was not proud of the heart that whispered for her to forget.

    She had never forgotten that day. She could not.

    After her sister died, the girl grew up a thief. A good-for-nothing, a burden. She was useless, and life took every liberty to remind her. She had no family anymore, but life was kind enough to give her a new one. Now she was sister to Misfortune and Despair, daughter of Strife and Agony. Life was kind enough to starve her and whip her and beat her until she had begged to be dead. When life laughed at her desperation, she learned that heeding what life wanted was useless. She learned that she had to spit in the face of life, to laugh at its pain and spite its demands. The day she realized that was the first time she had killed a man.

    So she refused to die, refused to kneel over kindly and offer her neck. She was a thief, a pickpocket, and no one was better than her at it. She was faster with daggers than any knight with a sword, faster with a shard of glass than any archer with a bow, and faster with someone else¡¯s lunch than any mongrel with scraps.

    Rat¡¯s Dam was a city for the dead, halfway between the Outlands and the Capital. There was no humanity in a place like that, none of the shining gold that gleamed so brightly in the Capital. The people there were beasts, and she was one of them. They called her Red when she was born. They called her Rat when she grew up. They called her Flea when she stole their food, and Dead when she took their gold. They called her nothing when she opened their stomachs, and that was how she liked it best. She lived alone, on the roof above some ratty alley that looked like those that made half the city, filled with trash and bits of meat that no one questioned. She slept with two knives buckled to the inside of her leg and one foot over the edge, ready to jump. For four years after her sister had died, that was her life.

    Then came the day when she was ten and she burned a man with nothing but a word.

    Murder someone with a blade in Rat¡¯s Dam and no one even glances twice. Murder someone with magic in Rat¡¯s Dam and even an armless man could count on his hand how many days he had left to live. She learned that she had not been chosen by the gods¡ªshe was marked by the devil, and the black lines covering her face were proof of her magic and heresy.

    Suddenly the city of sinners became filled with saints as the pious and pure plotted to kill her, for she was the witch¡ªthe temptress and cultist that would bring doom upon the world. For the sake all that was holy, they had to kill her, and if she happened to make them succumb to their baser instincts of lust while doing so, none could blame them, for she was a seductress and the devil¡¯s own personal whore. For the former girl-now-witch, nowhere was safe anymore. She had nothing in Rat¡¯s Dam but pain and regret, and she felt nothing of the sort when she fled from it. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    The city of Telavir was three days march away, but she covered it in one through a quick deal with a trader that involved a horse for his life. It had taken her hardly a day to discover that a sloane in Rat¡¯s Dam was a sloane anywhere else, and not even two hours after she arrived in Telavir was she arrested for the murder of some man. She was offended of course¡ªit was a horribly sloppy job; if she had done it they never would have found her, yet for some reason they did not find her skill at murder to be proof of her innocence. Fleeing from the guards did not help her case, and burning them with magic did little either. A public execution in front of a bloodthirsty mob was what awaited her, until an elderly professor offered her asylum, which she graciously accepted. After all, it was a simple deal: all she had to do was be his servant and student, and he would save her life.

    He had seen the Maes that covered her face; he had them too, inky black lines wreathing a wizened old face. Later, he told her that they were both brothers and sisters in magic, both children of the devil. If they did not help each other the city would eat them both alive. Four years he had tutored her, shown her all the warmth of family that she had lost the day her sister had died.

    The girl from the slums repaid the old man for his kindness four years later with a knife across the throat.

    There was no evidence of her role in the death, but the people ruled her a witch regardless. She would have to be removed, no matter the cost, lest she would bring destruction to the city. She could not help but remark that their insults were losing originality, but they did not seem to find her silver tongue amusing. It seemed that they preferred her sharp wit in the shape of a blade through her heart, but her opposition to her own death led the city to call for her body paraded on a stake. She did not mind their threats¡ªshe just had to kill all who came near her. It was a simple matter. Four years had done nothing to make her call Telavir home; she would just as soon wreath it in flame as she would swat at a fly.

    They sent knights after her, but she burned them in their armor until the metal smoldered red and their flesh dribbled out of the cracks. They sent assassins in the night, but she torched their beloved darkness with scorching flame until all that was left was their naked body before purging fire. They sent cutthroats in the day, but she gutted them from stomach to collar like a fish and cut their throats with their own blades. Blood stained and soaked her clothes, rotting corpses piled on the streets outside her door. They sent men and more men to have her head delivered to them, but all they got back was the ashes of the slaughtered floating on the wind.

    No one could ever beat her. She was the strongest; she could never lose. Arcane prowess spooled out of her fingertips, summoning pillars of fire and raging infernos with the merest flicker of a thought. Infinite power coursed through her veins, more potent than any drink. She was drunk on the madness of strength and magic, but her delusions ended when five inches of silver and steel buried itself in her stomach.

    Witch Hunters came for her, hoping to cut out her heart and drain her blood to sell. Her eyes would be torn from their sockets and made into charms. Her hair would be torn and braided into rope, her teeth carved from the bone and threaded into a necklace. Nails would be ripped from the flesh and ground into powder. Her body would be ripped apart and sold like chattel. It was with a queer irony that she noted how the common folk fawned over the remains of a witch as charms of good luck when they damned the very water she drank as poison.

    The raging city would to rip off her fingers and cite them proof of her barbarity. They would call her a monster only to tear off her arms and rape what was left, then slit her throat when they were done. They would burn her alive in a blazing pyre that billowed to the heavens, then look at her skull and mutter at how strange the shape was, at how unnaturally yellow the bones and how the thick stench of charred flesh clung to her remains like the spirit of the Devil that she had taken for a lover. She hated their irrational hypocrisy, their feigned purity and virtue as they devolved into feral beasts of blackened malice and vice. Her spirit spat and cursed at them with every waking moment.

    And so the girl ran. Not for the first time in her life, she fled. Not for the first time in her life, she felt fear. But this was not the fear she had known for so long. It was not the fear of starvation or the fear of death. It was not the fear of the cold or the fear of a blade. There was no meaning to it, no reason. It was irrational. It was baseless. It was meaningless. It was utterly terrifying. It was fear.

    It sent her heart pumping with a possessed madness, made her muscles tighten and cramp until every breath hurt with the despair of being her last. It filled her body like burning lead that seared through her veins and bit into her unflagging spirit like a cobra. And so she ran.

    She ran until the world became a blur around her and the day blended into the night. She stumbled until her lungs burned fire and her legs refused to move. She staggered until her feet bled rivers and she was forced to crawl. Then still, she crawled until her fingers were ragged and torn with bits of rock. She struggled until every breath felt like it was made with the weight of mountains on her back, until every beat of her accursed heart spanned an eternity.

    She did not know how far she had fled. She only noticed dimly that the sky was a covered with a green haze, that the stars shone red at night. Red as her hair, chosen by the heavens and the hells alike. Red as her blood. The very ground was cracked with thirst for rain and the animals were weary and thin. She had ran until the Shadows came alive to feast on the frail and strong alike. The filthy sloane remembered a whisper in her ear from a lifetime ago, from a beautiful girl that had shown her kindness¡ªfrom a beautiful girl that she had watched die.

    They say that the shadows creep in the darkness and that the nights hold horrors untold. They say that the very bloodsoaked ground calls out with the sundering voices of the thousand damned and forgotten who howl at night for vengeance.

    It was a cold shiver of raw terror that told her where she was, where she had come. She had ran into the Outlands.

 Book 1: Chapter 6: A Blasted Sky

    The Outlands stretched across the boundless landscape as an endless desert of cracked earth and dry bone that hung under a sickened, dying sky. It was a single, massive, dry plain that was boxed on three sides by massive mountains, carved by the winds or the gods, depending on who was asked and who was believed. So completely surrounded was it that a common old wives¡¯ tale had the Outlands be the footprint of a giant¡ªthe imprint of the heel formed three mountain ranges, and the toe dug out a sea.

    The Peaks lay to the west, running down the center of Altaros and the main continent. They joined the Twisting Spires, which lay to the south in the direction of Malifor along the narrow isthmus that joined the two warring nations. To the east lay the Pikes, entrapping the final side of the Outlands by land. These three walls of stone served the useful purpose of separating the Outlands from the Capital, and thus cutting the it off from the rest of Altaros.

    The fourth side lay to the north and opened towards the Cold Sea, with its murky black water crashing onto the spires of twisted rock that grew out of the coastline. The frigid winds blew in the only source of moisture these lands would find; no other water-bearing wind would ever make it past the blockade of mountains. The further south from the Cold Sea one went, the less life one would find. In the very south the land was fed from runoff born in the melted snowcaps of the Twisting Spires. The formed pathetic rivers, but it was enough for the desperate life there to cling on to.

    It was in the center of the Outlands, farthest away from sea and stream, where the land wept salt and sand. The cracked earth and scorching sun without a drop of water in thousands of paces meant stark vegetation and a painful death. There were not even corpses on the ground; there was not enough life to warrant their presence. Nature¡¯s cruel mark on these lands was harsh enough, yet man had found it in him to do more still.

    The land was filled with marai: wild, uncontrolled magic. Magic was bonded to its caster in life, the two forming a pact in purpose and in blood. Yet it had two states, one of order and one of disorder. When it came from the body, formed from the decaying soul, it was mahji¡ªthe pure magic, able to be shaped. Yet as death claims the living, those pacts with the now-dead unraveled with the passing of time. And so the pure magic came to be marai¡ªdecayed magic, feral magic.

    It could be seen in the air, the distinctive hue of unchanneled arcane power shifting from deep purple to a dark green as it hungrily devoured the earth. The decaying magic warred between its two states, leaving the air heavy with the charred smell of static and constantly crackling lightning. The marai lingered, unable to find escape from the confines of the mountains, building up as a swirling green fog that shrouded the sky and made the red stars glow with unnatural light until they nearly blotted out the black of the sky at night. The stifling smoke trapped heat from the sun and swallowed up the rain in its gluttony, leaving only at most the meager water from the mists that blew in from the Cold Sea to the north to feed the sparse grasses growing out of the sun-baked earth. The sloane had thought it made a sickly corpse of a landscape, and from what she saw the earth shared the sentiment.

    The Capital used these lands to dispose of its marai, to leave the remains and remnants of magic no longer used. It collected in the air and in the land, building without dispersal until the very sky was warped. It was a blight, a curse on the earth, and she wept at the desolate scene before her.

    Dry bones littered the horizon, for she was still north enough that there was life still yet to die, the silence of the plains deafening as it echoed off the sheer cliffs. There were no gnats to lay eggs in the dead, no maggots to devour the decaying flesh¡ªthe heat cooked them in their eggs and the constant drought starved the few survivors with a slow, tormenting death. It was as if the land itself had taken pity upon the wretched creatures that lived here, killing them in its cruel mercy. She laughed bitterly at how fitting it was that she, a dying wretch and an orphan all her life, should finally find her true home and kin here among these diseased creatures.

    There was no place for the infirm and weak in these harsh lands, in these broken lands that could feed upon naught but themselves the way a starving snake feasts upon its own tail. The wild magic killed much that lived there, its murderous will sometimes mercifully swift, ofttimes long and painful as the afflicted watched their skin blister and smelled the fetid stench of rot seep up through the pus-filled cracks in their greying flesh. Marai was fickle in its nature, as unpredictable in its decay as it was ultimately fatal.

    For many beasts here, the numerous corpses of the dying mewling pups were the easiest source food and water. Others hunted in the meager grasslands that grew closer to the coast, killing those that grazed on the sparse weeds. It was nothing but a wasteland of insatiable magic and blazing heat that lay west of the Capital. It was a disgusting throng of waste and madness, uninhabitable and unsalvageable.

    It was the Outlands.

    She had ran there to escape the Witch Hunters, even the bravest of which would not dare enter this land of certain death. Yet now that she saw the Outlands presented before her, she felt a sinking feeling in her heart slowly eat away at her will to live. The dying girl coughed bitterly, giving a weak smile as she whispered through cracked lips.

    ¡°Seems I¡¯m good for nothing but putting on a fool¡¯s show for the gods.¡± Just those few words sent piercing pain from her stomach up her spine, making her muscles clench in agony and her breath turn to fire in her lungs. Her very body was falling to pieces; it would not be the first to have done so here.

    Gritting her teeth, she glanced up, craning her neck to gaze at the sky covered in that sickening green film. ¡°Well I hope I made you laugh, all my dear lords and ladies. For my next trick, I think I¡¯ll be disappearing. Don¡¯t bother with the encore.¡± she chuckled softly before a bloody cough racked her chest and made her fall to her knees. She pressed her hand against the ghastly lump of scarred flesh covering her stomach from when she had sealed the wound shut with tongues of fire. Although she had tried her best to pick out the shards of the blade that had shattered in her stomach after she killed its wielder, bits of metal still pierced the unhealed flesh, drawing new unseen lacerations beneath the surface.

    ¡°Damned Witch Hunters with their thrice-damned silver.¡± the sloane coughed out as her attempt to rise to her feet made the bits of metal sink their jagged teeth into her flesh. ¡°It doesn¡¯t kill me any more than steel but it still damn hurts.¡±

    Like a nest of hornets, they dug into her flesh and sent waves of unrelenting pain and nausea through her. A fleeting thought crossed her mind, perhaps from the pain, perhaps from desperation¡ªdig them out.

    ¡°Ah, why not? Might as well get it over with. After all, the worst is I die.¡± The words sent a painful chuckle through her as she smiled a bloody smile. ¡°If I¡¯m lucky, I won¡¯t die here. Then I get to die all I want later.¡±

    With grunt of effort, the girl chosen by the gods collapsed against a large rock. The smooth, weathered stone was hot against her skin from the light of the sun as she leaned her back against it with a mild hiss of discomfort. Her heart was racing despite her attempts to remain calm, her pulse like a horse at full gallop. She had only an idea, not a plan. She was grasping at straws now, that sliver of hope in her chest causing pain far greater than the dull emptiness of resignation and defeat. An image entered her mind of a dying man bound in a rope of thorns. The struggle to live was painful, but only the weak-willed accepted death.

    Feeling her breath slow and her racing heart calm, she braced herself for the pain that would come from her struggle. The scar on her wound might have saved her life for the moment, but she would have to remove it if she wished it to ever heal. There was rot underneath¡ªrot and blood from the shards of silver buried mere inches from her stomach. It would be grisly and bloody, but there was no other choice for her survival.

    She would have to slice the wound open and cut them out.

    With a short dagger held in a shaking hand, she ripped cloth from her bloody shirt as a rag for her mouth. Birds circled above her, cawing with raucous cries. They were dark omens, for the birds could smell death and the dying. And the girl was certainly dying. If anything, she was about to be taken even closer to death by her own hand.

    Her fingers were clenched tightly around the rough handle of the blade as it bit into the flesh of her stomach with a kiss of cold steel. Blood welled up in brilliant scarlet as she carved open her stomach, cutting apart ruined flesh that had been seared shut by flame. As the scarred lips parted the hideous smell of pus and char filled her nostrils and burned tears into her eyes. It was putrid and nauseating and unmistakably hers. Bile burned up her throat as her stomach heaved, the involuntary motion sending new lances of white-hot pain shooting down her back. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The flesh underneath was dark pink with a film of clear white, the blood flowing freely like an undammed river as the sickly sweet smell of blight and decay sent her heart plummeting. This decay was not that of a normal blade¡¯s doing. Above her, the cawing of carrion birds grew ever louder.

    There had been poison on the bits of blade.

    That thin sliver of hope that had been dangled teasingly in front of her eyes was now pulled hopelessly out of reach, yanked tauntingly by those gods had chosen her or perhaps by the devil that had made her a witch. In a moment of delirium, she wondered if they were one and the same, merely a single, uncaring god watching her from above with omniscient apathy. She could see his form in the green sky above her, see his eyes in the glittering stars. They twinkled beautifully as she died.

    A memory flashed through the wretch¡¯s mind as hopelessness sunk deep into her bones, a fleeting memory of a girl she had watched die, and a memory of the hate and regret that had coursed through her blood. She had spat on the gods that day, she would do all in her power to deny their will upon her life. If they sought her dead, if they wished to laugh at the futility of her final moments, then she would spite them and curse in their faces. And she would live.

    ¡°Sorry to disappoint you, but I think that I choose to live a little longer.¡± she rasped out. ¡°I still have to pay you all back for my sister.¡± If the gods wished her die, then she would live.

    That determination was what kept her heart pumping, what had steeled her resolve and clenched her jaw. Reaching into the decaying wound, she probed with nervous fingers, feeling for the press of metal. She would feel the shards digging into her flesh, feel the pain as they carved new wounds into her. She used to pain, traced it to its roots. Her stomach convulsed and her eyes blurred in nausea, but she pulled out one piece with shaking fingers, the sharp metal glinting cruelly in the light. It took her an eternity to extract the rest, the nerves of her gash growing dulled as she struggled to resist the overwhelming urge to heave. The puddle of blood pooling around her was macabre as it attracted more and more scavengers waiting for her death. Finally, she found no more silver in amidst the rotting flesh, feeling merely the phantom pains that shot through her gut and made her blanch in reflex. Her face was bone-white; her rapid heart beating a frantic pulse. Her bloodstained hand was cramped from the strain; her chest heaved as she let loose a breath that she did not know she had been holding. The cawing above her grew louder still.

    There was poison in the wound, but she could not heal it now. Even as she thought this, she hissed at a large cat-like creature that ventured too close to her. It was glared at her, nostrils flared as it smelled blood, but the dagger in her hand was enough to drive it off for now. She had to move, to hide until she could tend to the injury in peace. Yet, as she tried to get up, a massive spear of agony shot up her spine and tore the breath from her lungs like a clawed hand, her body clenching in sheer reflex as the wound in her stomach tore. Fresh blood spilled forth as she pressed a hand against her stomach, wincing at the pain.

    The smell that rose up from the wound was familiar, sparking a memory of her as a child learning under the old man in Telavir, reaching for a small jar with a light blue flower inside. The top was tightly screwed shut so she threw it on the ground, shattering the glass before she bent down to pick up the flower. When it touched her fingers it numbed her skin , sending the blood rushing to the surface and flushing her skin into a deep rosy color. When the old man walked in a saw the flower in her hand, he knocked it out of her grasp with a shout, a look of terrible fury on his face. Picking up one of the shards of glass on the floor, he cut into her finger with the blade, uncaring as she screamed and cried in fear.

    From that small cut, the blood spurted forth like an unstoppered bottle, running down her arm and dripping onto the floor. The flowing refused to stop, even after he held a cloth to her skin. In the end, the old professor used a foul-smelling salve from a cabinet to close the wound and stem the bleeding. When she had asked him about the flower, he simply replied that it was a frost lily. He told her that it was small and unremarkable, yet deadlier than any blade. He had smiled then, saying that it was rather like her.

    That was how she had gotten her name.

    The memory faded and the girl with the name of a killer was brought back to the present. She was losing blood at a rate that would leave her dead in a few hours; extracting the shards of silver had been necessary, but only sped up her imminent death. She could not remove the poison without the necessary materials, but she could still buy time to heal. It would have to be enough.

    Still bleeding a trail of blood from a hole in her stomach, Lily dug into her pack of meager supplies to fish out a painful thin pouch of water. Tearing off a strip of cloth, she cleaned the wound as best she could, clenching her teeth as the nausea sent her reeling. The waste of water was necessary¡ªan infection would defeat the purpose of what she was about to do. With every drop that spilled out of the flask, she knew that she was now committed to her task. No, rather, she had been committed a long time ago. Her life¡ªall of her past, and all of her future¡ªshe would have to bet it all on the next few moments.

    Thinking back to her lessons in the yard with the aged professor, she recalled their discussions on magic and time. She remembered endless theories on their complex relationship, a seemingly relentless tide of words that streamed out of his mouth. How she wished now that she had paid closer attention then, but she knew enough of the basics to gamble on this attempt. She could not stop time, but she could slow its passing to a crawl. This spell would do nothing to remove the poison, it would merely extend her death. With the delay, she could hide and heal. It was a slim opportunity.

    There were no other options available to her.

    With her back against the jagged ground, Lily briefly dug in her bag before she found what she was looking for. Muttering a distorted chant under her breath, she shattered three purple crystals that promptly dispersed into the air as a powdered mist. Crystallized mahji, power incarnate. The greatest strength known to man, with the might in the hands of the skilled to raze a city in a flicker of thought. They had been purchased from a benefactor in Telavir, a black market merchant. She needed to use these crystals for the spell that she was about to cast; her own body was cursed not to bear mahji of its own. If she failed to finish a spell of this magnitude, the backlash would surely kill her.

    She could feel the pure magic¡¯s raw, unchecked power crackling madly as it mixed with the wasted, feral marai in the air. She fought to keep it under control, whispering hurried incantations to halt its ramshackled spread. With each beat of her chant, she drove back the corruption of the marai, but its taint ran deep to the roots. Any slip of her concentration threatened to sent her magic into irreversible decay. The conditions were hardly ideal to test out her theory¡ªher master¡¯s theory, but she had no more time.

    With eyes closed, her body swayed as she accepted the purple mahji, drawing it in from the air around her. The siphoned magic crackled through her fingers to the pit of her stomach and circled throughout her body, warming her veins and speeding her pulse. The natural center for magic to coalesce was in the base of the abdomen, but her wound left her sensitive and exposed, further interfering with the already nigh-impossible spell. A buzzing in her temples sent shivers down her spine as her vision grew clearer, her nerves on fire, tingling at the slightest touch. This was it, the maddening euphoria of magic that bent many minds and broke many more.

    Without pausing to revel in her high, the sloane began her chant, words giving form to the mahji that flowed in her body, the power pouring out of her to follow her bidding. With magic, words gave a cadence, a pulse for the magic to flow with that needed to match the heartbeat of the world around her. Meaning was not needed, merely rhythm, and she felt the magic follow in a stream that grew with every beat of her chant. It was a cord of wispy purple tendrils uncoiling slowly from the tip of her finger. It raveled into a cord that wrapped around her navel, winding around her wound and growing in thickness.

    Small amounts bled out, her weakened countenance and the unstable foundation of the magic unable to fully control the power. The leakage would bleed around her as marai, driving all the weak beings nearby to fits of madness. Perhaps that would be desired; it might keep her alive long enough to finish the spell so that she could die properly later.

    Lily could feel the magic stopping everything as it closed its seal, slowing even time to a feeble drag around her stomach. The warmth of hope filled her as she felt the profuse bleeding from the poison slow until it nearly stopped entirely. For a fleeting moment, she thought to herself that it had worked. With the wound sealed in time, she would be able to hide and heal. She would be able to survive.

    She should have known better.

    The gods were always watching in cruel amusement, and she would find no rest from their torment in this life. The dying girl was almost finished, but in a sudden rush the last magic poured out of her as the power from the crystals depleted, and she felt a tug in the chest below the sternum. The cord of magic was pulling at her soul with the force of the gods. The pain was incredible and searing, but she did not stop her chant¡ªto do so would be certain to spell death.

    Her vision narrowed, edges fraying into black as she collapsed to the ground, bloody mouth moving in a frantic babble of words, desperately keeping the chant with her fading willpower. With the last eight words, the girl sealed the chant with words of habit, their meaning never more clear to her than now: An oath in blood, an oath in life. Greedy magic tugged at her life force as it took its share of the pact, her battered body finally giving in as her pounding head made everything fade black.

    The cawing of the carrion birds above her fell silent.

 Book 1: Chapter 7: A Lovers Touch

    Lily woke in a cave that glowed alive with a pale blue light, bathing her battered body in its dim haze. Pain filled her limbs and every corner of her body ached, but she was still alive. That thought was the greatest shock to her, more so than where she was. It was a peculiar feeling in her beleaguered mind¡ªthat she wanted the pain, for it reminded her that she was still alive. It was not at all what she ought to be wanting. She reminded herself with some bitter irony that a girl her age ought to be wanting a man to take as a lover.

    The savage comfort of the pain was not so much like lover¡¯s kiss as it was from a lover beating on her head like a drum, she noted bitterly, but it was as much as she would get. Perhaps it was to be expected that she fall in love with something. After all, she was still but a young girl. She ought to be enchanted by love, and why not take pain for a lover? It must love her unconditionally to have stayed by her side for so long. Her thoughts swam wildly, delirium clouding her senses and her thoughts. A small giggle slipped out from her lips as she fell into hysterics, her mind giddy and lightheaded. Yet that simple motion brought her lover back to caress her body, although his touch was hardly gentle.

    ¡°I¡¯ve truly gone mad.¡± she whispered, a thin smile stretching across her features. The speech was enough to sent stabs of sweet agony through her chest.

    Her heart pounded in her rib cage, each laborious beat making her skull throb in dull agony. Her fingers were numb as they scrabbled on the rough stone, grazing the edges but unable to find much purchase. Too weak to move, she had to stop to catch her breath even after such ineffectual movement. With her head feeling like it was being split with a hammer, she slowly turned to gaze at her surroundings in a dazed manner.

    The cave¡ªno, more of a cavern¡ªwas far larger than many of the houses in Rat¡¯s Dam, stretching to seemingly encompass the entire sky inside of its maw. It was carved roughly into the grey stone, with thick pillars extending to the roof and rough ledges for stairs as the hollow descended lower into the earth. The ceiling stretched high above her head and gradually sloped into a ragged arch. The carving was rough and irregular, leaving notches and scars in the rock from where chunks had been broken off and giving the walls a hewn look. Scratches covered the rock, seemingly from the claws of an animal, lining up with harsh edges in the stone as proof that the cave had been carved away with brute force.

    Lily could not help but tremble slightly at the thought of a beast strong enough to break stone with such ease.

    Thin gleaming trails of water trickled down the stone and pooled in the ground, dripping in an irregular beat. Patches of fine, blue moss grew inside the cracks in the wall, shedding a dim, sickly light throughout the cave. It seemed to thrive in the cold, damp air, with the fine hairs bending with the slightest breeze. Their light was mesmerizing, casting countless faint shadows against the dark stone.

    The sloane had woken on her back with her arms against her side, a dull ache in her tired limbs. She struggled to sit up, awkwardly shuffling her arms to get leverage underneath her. It was a mistake¡ªa bolt of molten lead shot up her back, turning her vision white momentarily, and she nearly passed out from the pain. Her heart was racing madly, the pain down her back making her muscles clench uncontrollably. She fought to keep her breathing even as she waited for the spasms to abate, slowly letting her arched back relax as her body calmed. In her moment of lightheadedness, she could not help but wonder if she truly had taken pain for a lover, and this was merely its passionate embrace.

    ¡°No more please,¡± Lily whispered unsteadily, trying to clear the hysteria from her mind, ¡°or I won¡¯t be a maiden anymore. Any further and you¡¯ll have to ask for my hand first.¡± She giggled at her little joke before steadying herself, her head hanging limp from her neck as sweat dripped off her chin.

    Unable to move, she could only crane her neck to peer around her. Looking down, she saw a dry green crust covering her stomach, almost like a cast of sorts. The first thing that struck her was confusion, followed by a brief bout of nausea as she was filled with a sudden urge to get the thing off her. When she gingerly touched it with a fingertip, small, powdery flakes fell away, crumbling into a fine dust upon touching the ground. Uncertain of what it was, she carefully tried to peel off the strange plaster. It was stuck fast to her skin, but slowly she managed to loosen it around the edges with her prying until she could finally take off the hard shell.

    Underneath, she was shocked to find a massive pink scar in place of her wound. No longer was the flesh charred from her fire and bleeding from poison. Instead, it was healthy and clean, with patchy new skin growing already over the lips of the former wound. Even the poison seemed to have been flushed out of her, the stench of rot gone. When she touched her stomach warily, she winced at how sensitive it was. Still, a little pain was nothing to complain about over death, and she had never been one to complain. Steal, poison, or kill, certainly, but never complain.

    That would just be rude.

    She did not know who had saved her, or where she was, and if she did not know something, then it was dangerous. She did not know where she was, but she knew that she could not stay here. Where she went, where she stayed, they would have to be on her own terms if she was to survive. That was what she had learned growing up in Rat¡¯s Dam: trust no one but yourself. She was no innocent princess fawning over her sweet prince. If she ever met a prince, she¡¯d likely take his gold and pay him with a knife across the throat before leaving on his horse.

    Still, she could go nowhere in her current condition. The pain that she had felt earlier was proof enough that she was not yet healed. With little time enough, the only option was to use magic. But spells needed a fuel to burn, most commonly the magic in one¡¯s own body; without enough there would be backlash strong enough to kill her.

    Magic came from life; it was born from it. Any normal man would form a trickle of mahji, of pure magic, born from the decay of his soul. It would collect behind the stomach, waiting to be spooled out in a spell. Lily was no normal man.

    She was a cripple, unable to make any mahji of her own.

    In this cave, unable to move, she had no way to find her bag nor her magic crystals. Deprived of one fuel, she would have to made use of another. She would have to use vahma¡ªspirit.

    To do so was to burn one¡¯s own self¡ªone¡¯s very personality and memories of the past¡ªshe was loathe to do so. It could easily kill her if she was not careful, and at best she would be irreversibly scarred, but there was no other choice available.

    Lying flat on her back with hands laced on her chest, she closed her eyes and began chanting, reaching inside of herself to tie together the strands of spirit that flowed throughout her body. It was a delicate affair, as intricate as those dances the wealthy did in their ballrooms. Just as the two partners had a strict rhythm to follow and an even stricter balance of searching eyes and wandering hands, this too had a balance. To take too much would kill her as she clawed for more than she had, but to take too little would cause the pact to fail and throw her spirit into a frenzy of backlash. Unfortunately for this young girl, the punishment here was worse than a few whistles, blushes, and stern glares from parents. Instead, she would be graced with internal bleeding, shattering of the spirit, and death.

    It would almost be as bad as the dancing.

    Carefully chanting to draw together the magic, she drew out a thin rope of spirit from inside her. Blindingly white, ethereal and divine, it was her: her very spirit, her essence. It pulsed and glowed and spun with raw power and life. It was alive.

    Its vigor and strength coursed through her mind as she chanted, filled her until she was near the edge of madness. She had power to burn a nation, and she wanted to use it. She wanted to use it.

    She wanted to crack open the land; she wanted to spit flame from the skies. It was a madness, a drunken delirium that seized her and threatened to strangle her sanity. She had power. She wanted to use it.

    The sloane fought the urge to indulge, fought the urge to leap off the edge. The madness was not gone, but its howling became whispers. Without stopping her chant, she steadied herself.

    Now came the difficult part.

    Lily shaped the vahma, shaped her own spirit until it spooled out like a length of rope. It coiled and writhed inside her as she directed it towards her navel, its heat pooling in the pit of her stomach. It was just as potent as mahji, if not more. As it connected with her wound, scorching pain burned her mind. They were molten knives, searing flame that made her flesh hotter than a sun. Unwilling and unable to stop, she steeled her resolve and kept chanting, sending more of her spirit to heal the wound. More and more of the white ribbon sank into her flesh, knitting and binding inside of her. Astonishingly, even without her intervention the wound had already begun to heal, likely having to do with the cast that had covered her stomach. All that she needed was to finish the process. Her flesh itched and burned as her spirit regrew the muscle underneath, knitting together fibers and tendons while healing damaged organs. Ever slowly, the heat lessened until it became a gentle warmth, a quiet pulsing. When she finally felt the dull throbbing of the pain fade, she slowly ceased her chanting. Her spirit loosened and unraveled, sinking back into her skin before dispersing into her flesh. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    She would survive today.

    The price had been too great.

    There was an emptiness to her chest now, a confusion and a delirium that came with the onset of madness. She had tasted power, had tasted a hint of the strength inside herself. It was horrifying. It was incredible. She had power. She wanted to use it.

    Even as she had that very thought, white-hot images burned their way through her mind. She saw herself as a girl. She saw her sister. She saw family and past and a thousand memories. They were all brilliantly white, glaringly intense. And as she watched, before her very eyes, some began to crumble.

    The white dimmed, pulsed faintly before guttering out like a candle in a windstorm. There was no smoke, no ash, nothing to indicate that it had ever been there. It became a crumbling black and eventually blew away into nothingness. And as more and more of her past and future became extinguished, Lily could not help but cry.

    And in the end, when the spell claimed it portion of the pact, when the vahma she had used was gone, she could not even tell what she had lost. She could not remember what the tears on her face stood for. She only knew from the emptiness in her chest that the price had been too great.

    And she had tasted power.

    She wanted to use it.

    The sloane beat back the madness into the corner of her mind, but it was there now and forever. She had tasted power. The price had been too great. Unsteadily rising to her feet, Lily spotted her bag and other supplies lying against the wall in a corner of the cave. With practiced movements, she grabbed her knives and pack, strapping them onto herself before exploring the cave.

    It was a simple dwelling, with a main room that was worn with evidence of use and a small crevice in the back where the food was kept. Dried meat, enough to last for months, lined the walls on hooks of bone that were stuck in between the mud-filled cracks. The floor was weathered with claw marks following a path through the cave. The stone was a dark grey with spidery cracks running through it, as if it had been dug by claws instead of a pick. Even the stagnant air was filled with a damp, musky scent. Every part of the cave felt like an animal¡¯s den, and she felt her hairs stand on end as her muscles tensed in nervousness. Any creature strong enough to carve into rock without effort would no doubt find her flesh and bone far more accommodating.

    Leaving the crude cellar, Lily looked around the cave for a sign of an exit before finding a depression in the stone. Bracing her shoulder against the rock, she pushed and felt the stone give a small fraction but was unable to move it any further. Setting her pack and daggers down, she pushed as hard as she could, feeling the stone inch along the ground until she was forced to stop and gasp for breath. Her arms and legs were tired, unused to the strain, while the boulder had only moved half a hand length. Judging by the effort needed to move it such a small amount, she would have to break it with magic if she wanted to escape.

    Searching through her bag, she felt a sinking feeling in her chest as she found that she only had two crystals left. She knew a man in Telavir, but to get there from wherever she was now would take weeks. She would need the magic to survive the Outlands; to use it now would serve no purpose other than to have her run to her death with open arms. She could not afford to use these crystals now, and she resisted the ever-present urge to burn more of her vahma. Instead, she elected to keep herself alive and hide in the cave until whatever belonged there came home.

    It was the more logical option, after all. She preferred to meet potential killers on her own terms. At least then, she was promised a knife in her hands and a good look at what was going to rip her in half.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you just a genius,¡± she muttered as she searched the stone for somewhere to hide. ¡°Something here was strong enough to crack open a hillside and you want to join it for a thrice-damned halfday meal.¡±

    Finding a crevice behind the rock, she hid herself against the wall with daggers in hand, one eye fixed on the makeshift door as the other scanned the room to plan a possible escape. She could tell by the timetable in her bag that it was almost sundown, even without a view of the sky; her savior or captor, whichever it was, would have to come back soon before nightfall. Even the youngest child knew what happened in the Outlands at night.

    Only death awaited the foolish, descending in the dark with its uncaring blade. She herself was all too familiar with death¡¯s touch¡ªit had awaited her every night in Rat¡¯s Dam.

    ¡°Perhaps I ought to go to confession.¡± she chortled as a thought came to her. The walls of stone made for poor conversation, so she spoke to herself to avoid insanity. ¡°It¡¯s probably a sin to take death and pain both for lovers, but I can¡¯t help it if they¡¯re both just so attractive.¡± She gave a little hiccuping laugh as a sudden scene flashed through her mind. Blood on brick and screams of pain. A girl¡¯s voice telling her to run.

    ¡°Sweet sister didn¡¯t wait for me before taking death¡¯s hand.¡± Lily pouted, huffing out a short breath. Her wide eyes sparkled with a trace of madness as she was struck by a sudden thought. ¡°If I join her by death, can we meet again? Would we be more than just sisters?¡± The notion painted a thin smile on her lips as she considered the wild thought. Almost unbeknownst to her, thin spools of white began to dance on her fingertips. She had tasted power.

    The girl¡¯s wild imaginings were interrupted by a scuffling noise outside the cave, clawed feet scraping against the ground. Her muscles tensed in anticipation as she felt her fingers tighten around the hilt of her blade. Most likely she would have to run, but if need be she had prepared to fight as well. A hand on her dagger and a hand in her pouch, she waited, uncertain of what to expect

    A muffled thump shook the ground from outside as what sounded like a body hit the ground. There was a deep-throated growl, seemingly in pain or frustration, and suddenly a horrendous screaming sound threatened to draw blood from her ears as the rock split in an instant. Slivers of broken stone showered the inside of the cave, and she instinctively raised an arm to protect her face from the sharp shards that drew cuts across her skin. Like so many knives pelting her, they stung where they sliced skin, leaving a latticework of faint red on her arms and legs. The pain was nothing compared to what she had felt, a mild discomfort hardly worth mentioning. Wiping the blood away from her eyes from when a shard had cut her forehead, she gazed at the figure in the entrance.

    The creature was foreign, inhuman. It belonged in children¡¯s stories, not in damned reality. While not quite grotesque in form, it was still was a far cry from beautiful. Its very presence radiated a feral nature, a wild prowess that filled the air around it. The beast boasted a muscular body black with fur, shining with a dull luster. Scales covered its arms, gleaming ridges that ran from wrist to shoulder. Its hunched back was stretched with muscle that bulged underneath stone-studded skin, showing a lean yet muscular figure built for speed and power. The legs were long and thick like those of a hound, and covered in coarse fur instead of the pebbled scales that covered its arms. It moved with a certain grace and elegance that belied its ungainly appearance. With each movement was a display of restrained power and bestial force, giving it a quiet arrogance of the strong.

    The creature¡¯s body was that of a hunter¡¯s, swift and lethal. Its legs were made to pounce, with evidence of thick, corded muscles that rippled in barely constrained strength. The fur was short and oily, a light powdered grey with streaks of jet-black hairs running lines down the sides. Wide, splayed feet covered the ground, giving the beast a wide stride.Three shining black claws tipped each of its toes, mirrored by four more curved talons on each hand. They were curved at the tip like a hook, gleaming with an unnatural sheen.

    Perhaps the most unnerving was its face. It was shaped like a dull mockery of a human¡¯s, its features savage and sleek. The muzzle was elongated and protruded out from its skull, the sharp canines easily hooking over its lips. A light layer of grey fur bordered the edges of its face, running down to where it met the scales in its neck. The front of its head was hairless, with weathered, rough skin stretched over the bone. Two eyes, one a gleaming blood-red and the other pale yellow, shone unnervingly in the light from the cave. Twin spiraling black horns grew out of its forehead, curving backwards near the tip in a fearsome display.

    But most disconcerting were the spiraling black patterns on its face, tattooed into the skin.

    She knew those patterns, the Maes. A girl had told her once that they meant she was blessed by the gods, but now the sloane knew the truth. They were proof of magical skill, of magical heritage. But it was impossible for this being to wield magic, because she knew what it was, this strange amalgamation of animals that was filled with feral nature. Every child knew of their kind from stories told at night.

    It was a demon.

    Stunned by the revelation and unable to act, she watched as the creature stumbled into the cave. Taking a closer look, she saw its right arm was hideously scarred with ragged scales, dried blood caking around a gleaming black gem that was embedded near the wrist. The demon was clearly wounded and exhausted; it was breathing heavily from numerous gashes that covered its body. With the last of its breath, it dragged a massive carcass of some thick-skinned, tan beast of the plains into the cave before collapsing onto the floor, shoulders heaving with the effort.

    Overcoming her shock by now, she saw that the demon was obviously weak. Now would be the easiest time to kill it. She should kill it. She had to. It was unnatural¡ªa monster that could wield magic and curse the world. Its existence was a mistake, its life nothing but a tragedy. She would be doing it a favor.

    ¡°No need to thank me.¡± the girl whispered softly, making up her mind.

    Daggers in hand, the sloane nimbly leaped over to where the demon lay. The beast did not even respond to her presence, seemingly too tired to notice. In a single movement, she straddled its chest with her thighs to keep it in place while pressing her dagger to its throat, intending to kill the demon in one clean stroke. With the briefest moment of hesitation, she sliced clean across its throat in an all-too-practiced motion.

    To her unbidden surprise, the blade had just barely broken the skin on the demon¡¯s neck before she found herself flying upside down.

 Book 1: Chapter 8: His Killer

    He felt the fire of fear and terror jolt through his veins and fill him with unbidden strength. The blade pierced his skin with the cold touch of waiting death, his hot blood running down its metallic surface. He felt the weight of a body on his back; he knew that he would have to throw off his attacker if he was to live.

    His body acted in unthinking instinct, muscles bunching as if he were about to pounce. In a sudden movement, he threw himself up off the ground as far as he could, twisting and arching his back. He would confuse and disorient¡ªcreate uncertainty.

    In that uncertainty he would strike. They were armed and he was not. There would be only one chance. He could not fail.

    Whirling around in an instant, he landed on all fours with legs ready to throw himself forward. In a sudden blur of motion, he lunged with claws outstretched. With his body flying forward, feet barely leaving the ground, his enthusiasm was suddenly halted as his face struck a wall in midair. A glimmering purple shimmer flared in front of his eyes as he cracked his muzzle against the bizarre light. He growled from the back of his throat. He did not know what this was. Striking it twice with his claws, red sparks flew out from the contact and showered into the air, but the wall did no more than flicker for a moment.

    His confidence flagged as he recognized the madness making up the barrier.

    He heard the voices then, the voices of the many dead that he held inside him. Mahji, they whispered to him in a chorus of the dead. Magic. He saw visions of purple before his eyes, saw fire crackling with its power. Saw storm and blade fashioned from its will, saw armies of men and beasts crumble to dust before its strength.

    It is strong, they whispered. Stronger. He heard it then, the challenge in their words. It was stronger than him. He could not break it. Until it unraveled, he would have to wait. The dead thought him too weak. He hissed in affront, the hairs on his neck standing on edge. These were his lands, and he was strong. Sitting on his haunches with claws flexing in anticipation, he searched for his attacker throughout the cave. In his heart, he knew that it mattered not who challenged him. He would kill them all the same.

    The dim light from the earth shone on a figure near the corner. It was her, the one born of the earth just like him. The one that he had saved.

    The one that owed him her life. He snarled in the back of his throat, disgust and anger heating his blood. He knew that he should have left her to die.

    Her profile was lean, two false fangs in her hand. He recognized them, those teeth of gleaming metal that humans used¡ªdaggers, they called them. Red hair gleamed, raggedly cut so that it stayed out of her pale face. A close-fitting black jacket with numerous pockets that stank of sweat and blood covered her chest, and more straps with knives and worse covered her legs. A belt ran around her hips, strapped with knives and other things he did not know. There was a bag of hers that she had left on the ground, an alien smell coming from inside it.

    All this he saw, but he did not notice. All that he truly saw were the black swirls running across her face. They were the mark of the earth on her, just like him. They were the same. There was a word for it, he knew. He had spoken it before, in this strange tongue of man.

    ¡°Sister.¡± he spat out in revulsion.

    He saw the flash of shock dart across her face. Yet it did not faze her for more than a moment; she was a fighter too, this one. Her hand fell to her hips, pulling out a flask with a purple liquid. She poured its contents in a line in front of her, steam pluming forth from where it touched the stone. Murmuring a chant, the air crackled, a hissing purple springing up from the ground. Then she kneeled, lips moving as ribbons of purple danced from her fingers.

    And so she hid behind her wall of madness. Of magic, whispered the dead, and he raged silently. How long would she cower? How long would she tremble behind her pathetic defenses, unwilling to meet him in fang and claw?

    ¡°Demon,¡± she snapped, ¡°you die today.¡± Pulling two purple crystals out of her bag, she shattered them on the ground, fine powder forming a plume of colored dust. ¡°Making me use this.¡± she sneered. ¡°I hope you¡¯re worth it.¡± Eyes closed, she began to chant. The powder shimmered, writhing in the air, pulsing with the cadence of her words. He could feel its power, growing, filling the cave. It was unnatural, not of the earth. This was not what the earth had whispered to him. It was a mockery. It was mocking him.

    He growled, his instincts telling him to fight. This was his cave, his land, and he was being challenged. He would show this fool the price of their arrogance. Blood filled his eyes, rage maddening his head. His blood was pumping, his heart racing, his muscles tensing. The weightless euphoria filled his body and he stopped thinking, only feeling. He loved this feeling before a fight. It was primal, it was right. It mattered not who was before him, not when they were here. They were in his land. His den. He would kill them. Rip their limbs from their body. Eat their limbs in front of them. Tear out their eyes. Slash their chest and burn the wounds. Feed them coals. Drain their blood. He would teach them pain. He would make them hurt, teach them a lesson. They were not escaping alive.

    He heard her chanting rise to a climax and, without warning, a sudden brilliant cone of flame scorched his vision. It shot through the cave like a devouring beast and before he could move, he found himself in its maw. Fear shot through him, instinctual and unmistakable. In reflex, he raised his arms to protect his face, feeling the fire sear his flesh and heat swallow his skin. The flame licked at his body and ate away at his flesh. He ducked in instinct, the brunt of the conjured inferno blasting over his head. Seemingly as quickly as it had come, the torrent of fire disappeared, scorching the stone black where it had passed and filling the cave with hot steam.

    His forearms were red with blood, the scales cracked and blackened from the heat. In irritation, he scraped at his arms, tearing off the useless ragged scales to reveal charred flesh underneath. Still, small tongues of flame clung to his skin and he swatted madly to beat them off his body.

    Slowly, the flame died down until there were only curls of smoke rising from charred skin. The burns on his arms were the worst, seared by the conflagration she had conjured. Even though the flames had died away, the skin was still a hideous black that he knew would scar hideously. The tissue was dead and cracked, weeping thick blood that dripped down to his claws. The falling embers from the former flame were caught in his hair as they fell.

    He took no notice of the cinders until she chanted once more and they burst into flame upon his body, reigniting greedily upon his furred legs. The embers that he had thought nothing of now blinded his vision with searing heat and light.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    He could do nothing but swipe madly as the fire spread, the smell of singed hair and burned flesh filling the cave. He fought and struggled, but his efforts to put out the fire were thwarted by her chanting and magic. His efforts were useless; the licking blaze died down for an instant only to flare up, stronger and hotter than before. While his upper body was scaled and resisted the flame, the nape of his neck and his legs had but fur and were wreathed in hungry fire. The pain was excruciating, his nerves seared aflame as he could do nothing but swipe at the air and claw like a beast. As the inferno surrounded his body, he charged forward with a mindless fury, only to crash against the magic that resisted his wrath.

    He struck at the magic in anger with claws and fangs, but still it would not yield. The fire brought out a primal terror from within him, an instinctive fear .In the madness, he devolved to an utterly feral nature, his body a flurry of unthinking movement as he was bathed in the crackling flames. He clawed at his own flesh and ripped at his own skin, drawing forth fresh blood that dried and cracked as it touched the flame. That gluttonous fire ate away at his flesh, relentlessly sticking to his skin despite his efforts to beat it out. His eyes were seared shut by the heat; his ears popped and burned. His skin began to slough and peel, cracking as it fell apart.

    He was dying.

    The single thought drove terror through his veins far more potent than any poison. His heart clenched and his lungs could not breathe, his body gasping for air that refused to enter his scorched mouth. His movement grew more feeble and erratic as he rolled on the ground, beating helplessly at the flames until finally, he stopped. As if in mockery, the fire slowly trickled out and died with him, her chanting that had been feeding it now slowly ending.

    Her chanting ended. He heard her voice, faint and tinny to his broken ears. ¡°Sorry, I can¡¯t you for a lover just yet. Don¡¯t be too heartbroken over there.¡± She giggled hysterically, the laughter flitting maddeningly through the cave. ¡°Should I blow you a kiss?¡±

    Smoke and steam hissed from his body, faint embers sparking from inside the flesh. His breathing had stopped, the beating of his heart faint in his chest.

    Do you wish to die?

    Those voices again, taunting him in his mind. They were the dead, he knew. The dead he had saved from that shard of black.

    Are you this weak?

    He would hiss if he could. The voices were mocking him. He knew he needed strength if he wished to live.

    Do you desire strength?

    His fading mind was filled with confusion. Of course he wished for strength. Of course he wished to live.

    There is strength in you, scion of Andahiel. There is strength in your blood.

    A sudden hope took root in his heart, a flowering bud that bloomed amid the ashes.

    They would see you falter, see you burn. We would see you rise, see you stand. Push past the pain, scion. Push past the lies. Breathe, scion. Breathe and live. Live and stand. Stand and slaughter.

    Their words were a sweet poison in his ears, a numbing toxin that settled into his veins and let him look past the scorching agony. The pain fed upon itself in a gruesome cycle, making his heart roar in his ears and his rage push aside all other thought. Strength in your blood, the dead had said, and he knew it to be true. It swept his thoughts aside and drowned his mind in a thick haze. The madness that took hold of him was no nameless madness. It was a blood rage, a berserker¡¯s frenzy.

    It was the battlelust that washed away pain and inhibition, that gave damned men the strength to kill twenty of their number. It was sweet power, a rock to cling to in a river of torment. He caught it, caught its trickle of strength. That trickle grew to a stream, grew to a torrent that drowned him in its turbulent rapids. He drowned in its power.

    You cannot die here, scion. There is vengeance you must repay, blood debts you must collect.

    He was dying, and he did not care. He wanted to kill her. He needed her to die. In that instant, he forgot. Forgot that she was his sister. Forgot the death he had courted to save her. All he knew was the humiliation he had felt. All he knew was the pain and dread that he had felt. All he knew was the cold death that he had felt. That he was still feeling. He would make her feel the same.

    His heart was racing now, the blood crashing in waves against his skull. He howled in a rage of bloodlust and frenzy before leaping forward, sharp claws a flurry of black that cut rips in the air. Once more, he struck against that unyielding wall of magic. He did not know how she had made it. He did not care; it kept his fangs from her heart, and so he would break it. Shatter it to pieces. He would make her suffer, pay her back for this agony. He would plow through it and crush her with his claws. It would be vicious, quick, and bloody.

    The dead hissed in anticipation, the sound like frozen agony. This flame of hers feasts on your flesh. We can drown it with our spirit for you, scion. Our death for your life. With your will, we can snuff it out.

    With the thought barely flickering through his head, he felt a sudden rush as white ribbons creeped down his arm. They spiraled about his body, sheathing him in a blinding cocoon. Smoke hissed in the tongue of serpents, burning his eyes where it touched. In moments, the ribbons peeled away to reveal a scarred body without a trace of flame. No sparks. No embers. He saw her staring in disbelief, staring in confusion. It filled him with pride, with confidence.

    Now kill her, scion. Taste her blood on your tongue.

    When the dead spoke again, their voices were fewer. He did not notice. The thought of blood filled him with excitement. Black claws flexing, lips peeled back as he growled, he rammed himself into the wall. She twitched in reflex, or perhaps in pain as blood trickled out of a corner of her mouth. With a growl, he threw himself forward again, slamming into the magic. There was a popping in his shoulder, but he did not care. Once more he tackled the wall, ramming it with the weight of his body. Still it stood, unyielding in spite of his fury.

    The damned thing would not break.

    Again and again he slammed himself against the spell, uncaring as his body shattered from underneath him. Again and again he broke himself against the wall until the pain filled his mind and became all that he could feel. His charred flesh was cracked and bleeding, long since broken by the fire. He was breathing hard now, blood trickling from numerous wounds on his arms and shoulders, but he cared not.

    He bellowed in vexation and anger, at her incessant contempt and his own inability. Why was it that he could not break this magic? He had strength enough to break the grip of death, so why was he unable to break this magic? These were his lands, his to command. He was strongest here, and she was weak. Her bones were frail, her skin dust, her heart fragile, so why could he not break this magic?

    The constant pain and his own pent-up frustration made him claw madly in fury until something inside him finally broke. His blood rage drove him into a frenzy, pounding the wall with his shoulders, raking it with his claws. His racing heartbeat was like drums in his head, each hit driving pounding pain deeper into his skull. The dull ache filled his mind, growing stronger, narrowing his vision. It hurt.

    Howling in anger and agony, adrenaline pumping, he slammed with all his might into the wall that she had conjured. He slammed with the urgency and wrath that filled every fiber of his being, and it acceded to his demands.

    In a showering cascade, the wall shattered and she fell to her knees, coughing up blood. Purple blood, crackling with madness. Crackling with magic.

    He had done it. Elation surged through him, emboldening and blinding. He could see her skull crushed before him, her eyes dripping through his claws. The blood rage had driven all reason from him, now that he had been pushed to this bestial breaking point.

    He charged forward without hesitation, elation and confidence filling him as he flexed his claws in anticipation. She was chanting something in front of him, her body swaying, he was not paying attention. In the last few moments he remembered the liquid that she had poured in front of her, looking down to see that darkened patch of stone in front of him as her chanting peaked in intensity.

    There was a sudden crackling and heat filled the cave as yet another purple barrier flickered into existence in front of him. His eyes watched, unbelieving, his skull cracking on its spiderwebbed surface.

    Cracking on another damned wall.

 Book 1: Chapter 9: A Bitter Price

    Lily felt fear for the first time since the Witch Hunters had been chasing her. It was a quiet fear that seeped in the bones and made the body shake in despair. She hated the way it felt, like hot nails tearing burning cuts down her stomach. It made her feel frail, sapping her power from her limbs. Hardly four paces away, she saw a monstrosity with a mindless rage that stood in stark contrast to her own weakness.

    ¡°Blood and bones!¡± she swore as it shattered through her first ward with a singleminded determination. It was a fitting curse, really, given the demon¡¯s current state of affairs. Blood sprayed wildly from its chest, some wounds given from her, others self-inflicted in crazed derangement. There was a shattering in the air as mutilated bone cracked with each successive impact. But it was the mindless ferocity that was the most terrifying, the utterly feral battle lust that brought a single phrase to mind: blood rage.

    The girl had known of the blood rage from the stories that recounted times of old. There were demons that had walked Altaros in the past, perhaps best known in the tales as terrors when in their battle throes. They lost their sanity when they fell under the thrall of the blood rage, under its rampant madness. It started with pain and rage that fed upon themselves in an endless loop, the insatiable bloodlust driving the demon to insanity and destroying their sense of reason. They became nothing more than beasts, lashing out at everything in psychotic mania. They felt no injuries in their frenzied state, nor did they retreat in face on any foe, with their physical prowess growing tenfold as they sought nothing more than to kill all standing before their shadowed path.

    In hindsight, perhaps fighting it had been a poor choice.

    She had seen the demon burn under her flames, watched as its flesh was consumed by the unrelenting blaze. She had been certain of its death, yet before her eyes it had stifled her fire in mere moments. The power that she had seen was not the purple of mahji, of pure magic, but rather the white of vahma, of the spirit. It was a spell nonetheless, but the demon had used its own spirit to quench the fire¡ªor so it seemed. She knew the dangers that came with doing so, she had tasted vahma¡¯s power. It still lingered, sweet in her memory, yet deadly as a poison.

    There were a host of reasons why the old professor had forbade the use of the spirit. Where mahji failed in its pact, perhaps being insufficient in quantity, vahma would take the backlash, as she had experienced firsthand when she had cast the time-slowing spell. The spirit¡ªthe soul¡ªwould be consumed to make up for where the first was lacking. The blood price was substantial, but at least it offered a failsafe. Where vahma was first used, failure meant death. It drew directly upon the soul, and when it ran out of fuel there was no alternative. Even it one survived the spell, the soul was irreparably damaged, the intricate latticework disrupted. Much as a rope, once cut, would inevitably begin to fray at the ends, so to would the soul unravel until it was nothing more.

    The second was the one she was most familiar with: the power was addictive. Even now, after having used vahma to heal herself, she could still hear its seductive whispers. To use even a trickle was to start down a slope only a few degrees from being called a cliff. Knowing this, she could not help but admire the demon¡¯s audacity¡ªor perhaps its ignorance.

    It was likely that the two could be found in equal measure.

    She had never seen the blood rage before, and she had never heard of a demon that could use vahma. It seemed that it was a day for firsts; she could only hope that her death would not be joining the list. Nevertheless, she had not expected for the demon to this powerful, nor for it to be this ruthless and feral. It had devolved so quickly into its bloodthirsty state that she hardly had any time to react.

    With a sudden start, the young street rat shook herself from her dangerous trance, brushing some loose hairs out of her eyes. The fear had taken root in her bones, and she had to breathe in slowly to lessen its grip. The demon still had to break through her second ward; luckily she had poured it prior to her spellcasting, else the liquid on the ground would her blood instead of potion sluice.

    Slowly, she began contemplating her options. Reminded of those black claws and the strips of meat in the cellar, she refused to even debate physical combat. Yet if she were to use magic, her options were depressingly small. She had already used all of the mahji from the magic crystals with her previous attack, thus she would need to use vahma¡ªmuch as the demon just had. She smiled bitterly at the irony of her sudden mimicry.

    She remarked loudly, ¡°How¡¯d you learn that little trick? Would you like me to show you some of my own?¡± Her words had not seemed to distract the frenzied demon, who was still slamming into the ward with an idiotic determination.

    Biting down any further retorts, she began to chant once more. This time she reached into herself instead of grabbing the strands around her. It was just as she had done to heal herself not moments before, only this time she would be trying to kill someone with the same thing. Curious how often that happened.

    Even though she had planned to end it in one strike with her first lance of flame, she had still taken precautions. The ward she had conjured was strong enough to hold back a mountain, or so the vendor had boasted. She had her doubts, although admittedly it was withholding the demon¡¯s assault without complaint so far. Still, each time the creature slammed into the ward it sapped her of her power substantially, draining her stamina and disturbing the channeling of her pact. If her spell failed prematurely, then she would suffer from repercussions that would kill her surely as any other wound.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Already, hairline fractures had begun to spiderweb through the latticework of the ward. She had to hurry with her incantation¡ªany further damage to the ward would leave her without enough magic to finish the spell. The backlash would kill her, plain and simple.

    Chanting furiously, the sloane reached inside of herself, feeling the strength, the vahma that lay raveled inside of her being. She drew the latent power into her core, wrapping white strands tight around each other to give them shape and strength. It burned with quiet heat that pulsed through her very being.

    ¡°Rehva, rehvera, rehvarai.¡± the street rat intoned dully, repeating the chant mindlessly as she directed the flow of her spirit to surround her. The words themselves held no meaning, only intent. With that intent, she shaped her spell. She had always been fond of fire. She would burn him with soulfire until the skies rained him as ash.

    Lily could feel the magic in the air around her; she could feel its power as it crackled in the air, sparks dancing off her hair. The raw energy flowed through her, driving euphoria through her veins as she channeled it through her arms to the tips of her fingers. As her spell gathered, so too did her confidence. She would burn the demon in flame, roast it alive with crackling fire. She had seen how close to death it had come with her previous spell; it surely lacked the strength to resist another. The magic unraveled into thin strands that filled the air, words of her spell sparking the flame to life. Ribbons of fire danced in the air around her, hot against her skin.

    It was foolish to think the gods would let her confidence go unchecked.

    As Lily continued chanting to give further shape to her spell, the demon slammed itself into the ward yet again, and this time the very walls of the cave rumbled with the force of the blow. In front of her eyes, a massive fracture ran straight through the only thing keeping a feral beast from her beating heart. Another shock rippled through her body and she felt her power slip away as the magic of her ward ate away the last of her reserves. It was as if a string that she had been clutching was suddenly yanked out of her grasp so quickly that the skin was torn ragged with a cut.

    A ward by nature demands a supply of magic to sustain itself, lest it would fall apart. With her supply of mahji exhausted, she had been using vahma to compensate with the hope that it would be enough to protect her until she finished her conjury.

    And yet, the demon¡¯s last strike with sheer muscle and claw had greatly damaged the barrier. As it fell apart, the ward struggled to uphold its pact, siphoning more and more vahma from her until she had reacted and cut it off. Unfortunately, distracted as she was by her spell, the foolish girl had been too slow in her actions.

    She had failed in her spell. Now she would die.

    The spell demanded power, like a bottomless vacuum that she could not satiate. Having cut off her flow of vahma, where the sloane was once drawing on power, she was now drawing on nothing. Yet still the spell demanded more from her, she had no more to give. Sudden flares of pain shot through her body, muscles convulsing as her spirit ran dry. The pain struck deep inside her, like a cord that had been tugging gently on her heart suddenly grew taut.

    With nothing to uphold her end of the pact, the spell went wild in backlash.

    The brilliant tongues of yellow-red flame dancing around her figure suddenly flickered before surging a bright blue, drawing fuel from her body and vigor to burn even hotter. Quickly cutting the chant, she spasmed madly, the ribbons of fire dying as the spell fell apart, backlash imminent. But it was slow¡ªstill far too slow. The damage to her lifespan was irreversible, the gluttonous flame of her pact devouring the candle wick of her vitality.

    She felt her stomach clench, bile rising up her throat. Metallic blood and hot bile filled her mouth and she coughed out a puddle of vomit on the floor of the cave in front of her. Her arms clenched against her chest as tears streamed down her face. Her body felt like it was being torn apart, her insides like they were being shredded with a thousand knives.

    Before she could recover, the demon charged into the ward a final time with a roar. Without her vahma to uphold it, the ward was stopping the beast in name only. In its current meager state, it could fall apart from a too-strong wind. There was a gleam of victory in its eyes as the demon gave a swipe of its claws, breaking the ward utterly and turning Lily¡¯s vision black as the shattered pieces of her salvation shimmered and dispersed into fine purple powder.

    Her sparkling wit and indescribable charm left her in this moment, deserting her the way that she had come to expect from her life. The bitter retorts that she loved so much had died somewhere in her throat, or perhaps it was just the blood that gushed forth so freely that it stopped her from breathing.

    Pain racked her body as the broken magic from the ward and her failed spell raked wounds across her skin. She could not even see¡ªthe blood and tears blurred her vision and tinged everything in a deep red. Deliriously, she wondered if this was what it felt like to be in a blood rage. It almost did not feel that bad, save for the mind-wrenching agony and imminent death.

    ¡°Damnit.¡± she cursed, her tongue numb and useless in her mouth. ¡°Thrice-damned piece¡ª¡± was all she managed before her body refused to listen any further.

    Pain, nausea, and ruined magic was all she could feel. Her legs trembled violently before the muscles gave out. She collapsed onto the floor, a hot bolt of agony running up her legs to the base of her head. There was a sudden sharp heat under her ribs, a sudden tearing feeling.

    Something inside her gave.

    Everything turned to white. The last thing that she saw was the demon about to pounce, claws in the air, fangs bared. As her body collapsed, a fleeting thought flashed through her mind¡ªnonsensical and irrelevant. It was what the demon had said to her, the thing that had shocked her so much. Just one word.

    Memories flashed through her head, memories of a girl that had given her the warmth of family. There was a madness that came with them, an inescapable lunatical mania as she relived her moment of trauma over and over. Blood, screams, and agonizing pain. That was what the demon had given her with just a single word.

    It had called her Sister.

 Book 1: Chapter 10: His Rage

    He would kill her. Rip her puny, weak body apart. Break the bones in her body and drain out her blood. It was all he could think of. It was all he wanted. His heart thundered in his ears, drowning out all other thoughts with bloodthirsty desire.

    His body was wracked with pain; his shoulder had almost popped out of its socket when he rammed the wall. He could hardly see, his eyes filled with blood that streamed down his face. But he could feel her. He could sense her spirit¡ªweak and vulnerable, barely tethered to her body. He could feel it throbbing with her pulse, erratic and frantic. There was fear there, a fear and weakness that would break her.

    He would break her. He could see it now, could feel her heart in his claws. It was a puny, frail thing, so easy to burst. He could feel her bones snapping with sticks with a mere flick of his wrist. He could feel her muscles torn from the limbs and stripped apart fiber by fiber. He could feel the blood gushing out of her mouth in hacking coughs, her tongue lolling uselessly in her mouth as her eyes rolled from the pain. He could see it now. His breath came hard as the red haze over his mind sent his heartbeat racing.

    She was but a cub, and he wanted nothing more than to mutilate her until she became nothing more than a pile of meat and bone to hang in his cave alongside all the rest. He would enjoy it. It would be slow and brutal. Breathing heavily, he shuddered in expectant ecstasy as he closed his flickering eyes.

    She had already passed out on the ground, blood and bile trickling from the corners of her mouth. She had fallen sometime after he had broken through the wall. Her arms were sprawled on the stone, her flaming hair blending into the puddle of scarlet that pooled around her head. Her eyes were fluttered shut, her chest heaving as she gave short gasps. She was dying. He would help her on her way. The excitement filled his body as a smoldering fire that spread from his stomach. The heat made his blood boil as it spread through his body until it burst into a scorching blaze. The incessant pounding of his blood rage had never faded; rather, it built to a crescendo, like tumultuous waves that crashed against his skull in painful mania. As his heartbeat quickened and his muscles clenched, he could feel the frenzy coming on again.

    He could hardly think, the potent cocktail of rampant pain and anger flowing through his body making him into a mindless beast. It was intoxicating¡ªblinding¡ªthe heat and pressure filled his head and pushed him into a frenzy. He lashed out at everything in his madness, even himself, as he fell to his knees with a dull thud. He wanted to rip, to tear, and he did so to himself with inhuman zeal.

    Dark claws tore at his own skin, clawing deep furrows into his scales and drawing lines of red down his chest. Fur was ripped and matted with blood, his dark claws mutilating anything that gave them purchase. He howled and beat the ground, scraping yellowed sparks that flew into the air. He gouged the walls of the cave and gave out a broken howl until finally the bout of madness passed and he lay on the ground, panting for breath.

    It was her that caused this. The haze of red had yet to lift from his mind, but this one thought cut through it like a slashing talon. The hideous pain, the mind-wrenching fury, it was all her fault. She had attacked him in his territory. She deserved to die. Gasping, he stood up, back hunched as he flexed and popped his joints. With a low grunt, he charged forward, right arm open, claws extended, and preparing to swing down to cut open her body.

    He felt the blood getting hot inside his body, his heart pumping faster. He would tear her apart. Yes, that was right. Of course he would. He was crouching now, propping himself up on one leg. He could see it, the blood splurting out of her mouth. Her eyes bulging as he crushed her skull. It would be simple. He was standing, back hunched, hands flexing. He imagined it, her bones breaking under his fingers. Her weak heart popping in his palm. He could see it. He would kill her. One step, two steps, and suddenly he was standing over her.

    His head spun with as the blood crashed against his skull again and again. A deep pain throbbed throughout his body, but he did not care. He looked at her broken form, at her dying body that she owed him for. He had saved her, and she had tried to kill him. The very thought filled him with wroth indignation, a deep-seated humiliation that he could only pay back through blood.

    ¡°Wake.¡± he growled, the single word incomparably hard to muster through his rage. It was more guttural than anything else, a bestial noise that echoed through the cavern.

    Her eyes fluttered open, her breath light and fast as she looked around disorientedly at her surroundings, awakening for a final moment of lucidity before her flame of life petered out. Eyes settling on his looming figure, she stared at him with an expression that was full of mingled wonder and fear. He merely smiled in response, giving her a grotesque flash of sharp, bloodied teeth, as if welcoming her back to the world of the living.

    In a flash, he grabbed her throat and lifted her up by her neck, hot rage making his breath ragged as it surged forth once more. Fighting for breath, she tried with frail arms to pry apart those black claws of his that dug deep into her pale skin and drew thin trails of blood down her throat. She was far, far too weak to even have any hope at that. With a guttural snarl, he slammed her against the wall, knife-sharp teeth grinding in agitation.

    He could kill her right now. He could kill her in an instant. It would be so easy. He squeezed harder with the hand on her neck, the other starting to crush her temple. She was struggling, but her flailing grew weaker, her breath more erratic. Her power left her, her body growing limp. He could feel her body¡¯s bones beginning to break.

    Suddenly, she grabbed his right arm with a newfound strength, finger splayed, palm flat against the muscle. She stared straight at him, and he felt the fluttering pulse of her spirit as it shone in her eyes. It shone through her eyes. He felt her moving into him¡ªher power flowing into him. Her spirit joining his. She stared straight at him, those vivid green eyes wide open. They glowed bright with a luminous light, wisps of purple and white flowing out of the edges. The black markings on her face shone, her veins visible just beneath her papery white skin.

    That white brilliance shone out of her eyes coalescing into a single mote. It pulsed faintly, feebly, before floating onto the tips of his claws. A single strand connected it back to her mouth, ran down her throat. With the last of her breath, she whispered, ¡°Brother.¡± A single word. A faint flutter in the silence of the cave. And then she collapsed. The strand of light tore, leaving only the softly pulsing fleck hovering above his claws. She did not say, but he could feel it. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    It was her soul.

    Ever slowly, it sank into his chest. He could not move, was afraid to move. His body trembled with nervous fear and uncertainty as that warmth filled his chest. And and could feel her inside him, her life, her soul.

    She had only spoken a single word, but it shook through his system far harder than any strike. Shock rippled down his back, making muscles fall slack in their surprise. His grip loosened and fell slack; she collapsed onto the ground, body crumpling as she coughed up blood. The haze of his blood rage that had been fueling his tired body finally gave way, the pillar of support crumbling into dust. All of his anger and hatred drained away in an instant, leaving behind only a dull throbbing in his head. The cloudiness that had filled him seemed to part, one word breaking through the fog of his bloodlust. Strength left his body, leaving only a piercing weariness that sunk all the way to his bones.

    It was then that he heard a familiar voice.

    Spare her, my child. She is your sister.

    The earth spoke to him once more, silent since his birth, yet twice now in the past days. Its words were like a light, piercing through the haze of what was left of his blood rage. As he shook his head to clear his thoughts, a remorse settled inside of him.

    Yet there was dissent from within him. He could hear the dead in his ears, each voice soft as a silken stream and yet together an unyielding torrent that crashed in his skull and drowned his own thoughts.

    You dare deny us of our rightful vengeance?

    They hissed at him, their words spitting venom in his ears.

    Foolish. Weak. Unworthy.

    Their clamoring grew to a crescendo until his head pounded with pain and fire burned hot in his lungs. Indignant shrieks scraped his bones and rattled his jaw until the pressure broke loose in a tide of fury. And yet, right when his sanity wire thin to the brink of disaster, the voice came again.

    Spare her, my child.

    This time, the dead fell silent. There was a pause before there was any further noise in his mind, and when there was it was the reluctant voices of the dead once more.

    He speaks. Andahiel speaks. Brothers, we listen.

    Like so many restless serpents, the dead retracted into their hissing coils. The pressure was still there, ever present and ever reminding, merely lessened. They felt restrained, fettered, although by choice or by force it could not be seen.

    Yet with the dead now silent, his path was clear. She was his sister; the earth had said it to be true. His pack, his blood. He would have to save her. He gritted his teeth, forcefully clearing his mind of lingering poisons in an attempt to focus.

    He could feel her spirit dying next to him, the frail thing pulsing ever slower and slower. With a battered arm, he reached over and grasped her weak hand gently with searching claws. Closing his eyes, he could feel her next to him, her spirit slowly slipping from a dying body. Remorse filled his heart with frost, the weight of his regret heavy upon his shoulders.

    He had done this. He had nearly killed her.

    He breathed in slowly, a deep breath bringing cool air in to fill tired lungs. His heart was hammering wildly against his ribs, his muscles sore and aflame, but he forced himself to calm. His swirling mind struggled to sift through the storm of thoughts and confusion, trying to resist to ignore the heat in his blood and the pounding in his head, until finally he could take no more and relented in frustration. He was too weary, too aggravated, and too tired, so he stopped.

    He stopped thinking, and starting feeling instead.

    He could feel the night air against ragged skin and broken scales, cool with the sun¡¯s slumbering. He could feel the stinging of his wounds, the wet trickle of warm blood that ran down his limbs. He could feel the roaring thunder of his heartbeat, each pulse sending waves of lifeblood crashing through thick veins.

    He could feel the gem of black burning with a searing heat in his wrist, its glossy form wrapped within a shadowed veil. He could feel the unyielding earth in his flesh, the sharp stone in his claws, the fervor of his birthright raging through his body. He could feel his own spirit¡¯s beating, brilliant and strong in his chest. He could feel the tethered dead inside of him, their lost spirits twisting with barely restrained wroth and inflamed with the need for revenge.

    And he could feel her. He could feel the spirit that she had given him, weak and delicate against the storm that he held within the vessel of his flesh. He did not know why¡ªit was her soul and her being; it belonged with her. It felt foreign to him, its presence alien as it nestled in his chest. It was hers to give, but not his to hold. For he who had nearly killed his kin, here was the first of his recompense. Paying her life back would be the start of his penance.

    Calling out to the bond that linked soul to body, he felt her spirit slowly uncoil from his chest down his arm. It left a trail of heat and strength where it traveled as it left his body, a lingering warmth that slowly faded from his skin. It left a trail of life behind it. It was that same life that it breathed back into her, snaking around her breast before sinking into the flesh. A violent convulsion nearly snapped her spine as the spirit fully entered her body, mirrored by a burst of pain for him as the tether that bound her spirit to him snapped. Her muscles stretched, eyes rolled, fingers clenched, back arched, and skin vented steam from her pores as life entered her corpse and sent her shuddering heart to work once more. There was a fluttering in her chest, a sudden spasm that lifted her clear off the ground before she collapsed. Then her breathing evened, her pulse slowly growing steady.

    Yet it was not enough. Even before leaving her body, her spirit had been damaged in their fight, had been worn and shattered and ruined beyond repair. Like this, she would die.

    Helplessness sank into his bones, making him weary and worn. He kneeled, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Sparks flew from where his claws struck the stone, but he did not care. She would die.

    ¡°Sister.¡± he whimpered one last time, his throat ragged and raw.

    A sudden surge of warmth filled him, a feeling of vitality and life that he remembered feeling only once before: in his birth. It was the strength of the earth that filled him then, that welled up from his legs to his belly and filled him with fire. It flowed through his chest, lingering around his heart before finally gathering in the tips of his claws. In instinct, he touched them ever gently to her forehead, and a brilliance shone like a white sun, illuminating the entirety of the cave. Steam hissed and rose from the corners of her eyes, her joints rolling and cracking, her skin a deep, flushed red. When the cracking stopped, she settled down as if in sleep, her breathing deep and even, and he sighed in relief.

    Faith, my child.

    She would live. He did not kill her.

    It was his last thought, before his muscles gave out from under him and he saw the stone rising up to meet him. His body cracked on the rock, but he did not feel any pain. Ever slowly, his eyes closed and his mind drifted into slumber.

 Book 1: Chapter 11: His Shadows

    He dreamed of the Fells, of the starving time. The very air surrounding him shimmered and warped as everything around him died. The plants shriveled up until they were mere husks, and the wild murak and other wildlife soon followed them. The spirits of the land cried in agony, their gentle hum turned into wails of torment. Their souls faded as the corruption consumed them, and the blackened shadows came out of the blanket of night to feast during the dark day. The day no longer held back the darkness, and the shadows broke out of the ground to feast on the living.

    The Fells was twenty nights of death: dying earth, broken land, shattered souls, and rampant darkness. He knew of this, for it came every year when the earth weeped gaping wounds and the shadows seeped out of its grasp. The land shifted, cracked, and the shadows crawled out from within. They would hunt and kill with wild abandon, seeking nothing more than to reap lives before the Fells ended. Thirteen of these hellish times he had survived¡ªthis one would not claim him. The hungering shadows and ice-cold darkness could not take him from this earth.

    Such was what he dreamed of.

    The shadows were not native to these lands, he knew. They were bound to the Outlands; it served as their prison for they would not go past the mountains. The Fells were the shadows fighting to be freed of their shackles. When the earth lost its hold upon the darkness, then it crawled out of the cracks to feast on the living, accompanied by a roiling tide of numbing mist. The darkness had no light, no warmth, and it swallowed all that it touched. They were silent, shapeless, and utterly empty within.

    This much, he knew from before, but now the earth told him of more terrors.

    This you see, my child. This, you have lived. Before, you saw. But now, you shall know.

    His dreamscape shimmered and shifted, and before him he saw a roiling mass of black. It lay buried under the earth, unseen shackles keeping it bound within its cage. It had no depth, had no shape, had no features at all. It was an absence of everything, an utter void, and when it moved his every instinct screamed to run.

    The Skal, whispered the earth, it''s voice a hushed murmur. It was quiet perhaps out of respect, perhaps out of fear, for it held this terror within the bowels of its own flesh. It is the mother, servant to long-forgotten Sin.

    The image changed once more, and now he saw the darkness surging forth, crashing against the earth like an endless tide of black. It fought its chains, fought the magic that bound it. The earth trembled and fought, but finally it caved. A thin crack formed in the rock, and the darkness slipped through. Its mass was restrained still, but that thin crack was all it needed.

    From its shapeless body poured forth the shadows, like a torrent forcing itself through a gap. They were ants to the giant from which they were spawned, consuming everything they saw. For twenty days and twenty nights they feasted, gorging themselves on the living. And at the end of it all, they sank back into the darkness. And the darkness, now sated, sank back into its prison to wait. Behind it, the earth closed without a scar. And so the cycle went.

    The Skal¡¯ai are hunters, children of the Skal. They feed the Skal, and so it has gone since Sin¡¯s fall. Know that you will face them, and greater evils still.

    Finished, the earth fell silent and he slipped into dreamless sleep. Terror gripped his heart from the visions, from what he had seen, and what he knew would be coming. His body was battered and broken, and he longed for rest. Yet it could not last long, for soon he began to stir.

    Ever slowly, he felt the rising brown-red sun wake him from his slumber. The heat was gentle and soft as it warmed his blood. With effort, he tried to open his eyes, blinking away the tears as the bright light sent bolts of pain into his head. His head was racked with agony, any movement making his vision swoon and his forehead pound. All of his body hurt; his limbs were barely able to move. He gave a feeble attempt to sit up, but his body betrayed him as the weary muscles spasmed and tremors ran down his spine. A low grunt escaped his gritted teeth as he fell back onto his back, the world spinning madly around him. A sudden wave of nausea struck him by surprise and he retched out bile and blood. His body was hopelessly, fatally feeble, and he fought to remain awake.

    He failed. Gasping for air, his very chest grew too tight for him to breathe and the world swirled black once more. No, he cried out in his thoughts, knowing that there was much to be done, but sleep claimed him still.

    Again he slept, and again he dreamed. His dreams were formless, timeless. He was floating, drifting, his consciousness like a stone flowing down a stream. There was a fleeting sense of danger, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. Afterwards, he felt nothing. He was being tugged, pulled by the unseen. It drew him closer, and then he saw.

    A figure was sitting, sleeping perhaps, surrounding by formless black. Its skin was a pallid grey, its hair long and ragged. As he drew closer, he saw its skin pulled tight over knuckle and bone, dried and wrinkled and leather or hide. Its nails were cracked and yellowed, its clothing torn with age. Its lips were drawn tight and cracked, the skin as lifeless as stone.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    It wore a simple robe, brown as dirt and embroidered with black. Around its neck was a golden collar, inscribed with words from countless tongues and mesmerizing beyond compare. Its surface was like gazing into a rippling lake, always shimmering and gleaming before him. Around it lay three empty sockets, clearly missing its gemstones, the shape of small shards.

    His right arm burned feverishly.

    As he looked closer, it became clear that this thing was sitting on a throne, although of what nature, he could not tell. It was ever moving, ever shifting, surrounded in that wreath of darkness. Perhaps, in the unclear mess of his dreamscape, the two were one and the figure sat upon darkness itself. It was clear, in any case, that the black was no ordinary shadow cast by unseen light. It was a mist, a shroud, yet the figure was still clearly seen upon that seat of abyssal stone. As he was pulled ever closer, he saw even more finely the details of its flesh.

    And it became clear, then, that it was a corpse.

    Its gaunt frame held no muscle, its body all too thin. Its eyes were closed in death, its fingers wrapped tightly upon the darkness. It wore decay like a robe, its flesh greying and in places breaking off. There was more life in sand than was held in this figure. Every instinct in his body confirmed this.

    And yet, it moved.

    Ever slowly, a finger twitched. It was one, then two, and then its left hand lifted from its place upon its throne. It rose with a pace that matched the trees, that matched the dance of the tide and lands. It rose with the pace of the timeless, of millennia past and eons forgotten. Yet it rose nevertheless.

    And ever slowly, its eyes opened.

    They were bottomless pits, black smoke pouring out of their corners to meld into the darkness around him. He did not know how, but he knew that they saw him. They did not blink, did not flicker. No part of them moved, not even the billowing smoke when it was focused upon. And yet they moved, and yet they saw.

    Its hand was raised to grasp, reaching outward in a desperate motion. And ever slowly, it opened its mouth.

    Thief.

    It spoke with one voice; it spoke with a thousand voices. They were colder than ice, it was hotter than fire. There was incomparable rage, inexhaustible power, hidden within that voice like churning gravel, like restless serpents.

    The voices of the dead were silent. The voice of the earth had left him. He was alone.

    He could feel the foreign presence of the darkness that surrounded it creeping closer to where he was watching. It was watching him, he knew. It was hunting him. This fear, this terror, it did not feel like a dream.

    He was not there in the flesh, but he could offer no protest as the darkness whispered in through his ears, hideous nothingness wrapping around his claws and legs. Shadows bit and tore at his flesh, but the needles of sharp pain felt dampened by the haze in his mind. Skal¡¯ai, the earth had called them, and the name chilled him. They ate at his limbs, the coldness of their black mist seeping in through his hide and settling bone-deep, numbing his body. Their quiet touch muddled his thoughts and softened his fear. He remembered then, the danger that he had felt¡ªthe sensation of being lured forward.

    He forgot the danger just as quickly, and soon he felt nothing once more.

    He did not want to think; he was too tired to do so. It would be such a simple thing to stop. To stop fighting. To rest. To sleep. His body was surrounded now¡ªeaten whole by the night that stole away his flesh. He felt no sensation, no response from the hollow husk of his living corpse. There was only his consciousness left, the vague amalgamation of spirit and mind that too was slowly fading. He felt nothing but cold, and he was so, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of living. It would be simple to leave it all behind. It would be easy to die here.

    Then he felt the black mist around him draw tighter, the bitter cold sapping all the heat from him as it wreathed around his body. He could feel the corpse almost an arm¡¯s length away, the utter nothing of its presence that pulsed next to him¡ªhideously intimate. He did not know when, but he had begun to walk with unfeeling legs. There was no sensation in those limbs, that seemed like limbs of a puppet as the moved without his will to guide them. Dimly, he noted that he was walking towards that corpse that lived, towards that outstretched hand.

    It had spoken only once, but he heard its voices over and over. He heard its soundless voice in an unceasing echo. It was an enthralling song, a mesmerizing echo that sunk through his thoughts and reason. Ever closer he drew now; perhaps he was being pulled, or perhaps he was stumbling forward of his own accord. The shadows were like lovers, taking part in this writhing dance as they ripped at his flesh. Closer now they became with every passing heartbeat, whisper-like and tenuous.

    It was watching him, he could tell. Its black mist circled him, the shadows around him feasting. He could not see anything now. There was only the darkness of the mist and the shadows and the utter emptiness it had brought. The billowing Skal¡¯ai devoured all they touched. They had no claws, no teeth, no body to speak of, but they would devour him too. They were the greatest of predators, he knew¡ªunflagging, deadly, and patient.

    Closer he drew, and he could only watch dully as the mist wrapped tighter and tighter around him. It strangled sensation in that gentle caress, murdered his will and thought as easily as breathing.

    He wondered how it would feel, his death. He wondered if it would hurt.

    The eyeless figure was breathlessly close, mesmerizingly close. That finger on its outstretched hand was a stone in a surging river, was shade in a raging storm. It drew him. He came closer.

    Closer. A hair¡¯s length away. The Skal¡¯ai ate away at more and more of him, and he shuddered motionlessly as his death drew close.

    Closer. And then, ever so softly, the tip of that skeletal finger pressed into his forehead with the cold touch of a blade.

 Book 1: Chapter 12: His Fear

    Sudden, scorching, red-hot pain. It was all he could feel.

    Fire burned from the spot where the corpse had touched him, rapidly spreading through him until the searing heat was all he could feel. The haze that had settled on his mind was utterly blown away by the flames, replacing his dull numbness with inescapable torture. The sudden change, the raw agony, it all sparked something in him that he had not felt in a long time: pure, molten terror. It burned into his spirit until he was a blaze spiraling up to the sky. The light seared his vision in brilliant white and threw the shadows back away from him¡ªblack petals falling away from the dying flower of his corpse.

    He was afraid. Afraid of the shadows and the darkness. Afraid of death and afraid of what came after. He was so terribly afraid, the fear biting deep into his limbs with venomed fangs and sending his wordless thoughts racing. He was afraid, and so he ran. He ran away from the darkness and the death that the thing had offered him. He ran away from the dream, pulling his mind back into his body and feeling the vessel of his flesh shudder at his sudden withdrawal.

    It hurt as he pulled away, as he forcibly ripped away whatever it was that had pulled him closer, that had drawn him in like prey. Yet he could not shed the image of the black eyes, of that bottomless darkness that had seen him and spoken in that timeless voice. It branded him, surely as iron and coals could.

    His body tossed and turned as he struggled to shed his nightmares and wake. He wanted nothing more than to wake, than to open his eyes and see solid stone and sunlight above him. Yet the more he sought it, the more his dreams constricted around him. He could not shake the image of that corpse from his memory; it lingered no matter how hard he fought to erase it. The fire of its touch still burned hot like a brand on his soul as his soul hid inside the safety of his body, muscle and bone keeping the horrid darkness of his dreams at bay. His mind raced with thoughts scrambling wildly, his spirit still throbbing in wretched pain.

    And the shadows that had surrounded it, the numbing touch of the mist was yet another terror. He had felt their cold embrace, felt the burn of their caress upon his soul. He had felt the terror that the Skal¡¯ai had inspired within him, the sheer will to flee, to escape, to live. And for a brief instant as he fled from his dreams, he felt a presence from within him¡ªa burning from the gem buried in his arm. And he knew its name, the name that the earth had told him¡ªthe Skal. Servant, broodmother, hunter, conqueror. Mother of shadows, the endless dark given form. It had branded him with its touch.

    All around him echoed a dry laughter, a harsh sound like sand flying over stone.

    You think you know us.

    Then it had disappeared.

    Heart suddenly racing from his nightmares, he woke with a gasp and a heaving chest. The bright light of the new day blinded him, making him cover his eyes as his skull throbbed with a dull ache. He tried to sit up, but the motion proved to be too much for him and his abused body fell back to the floor with a thud, limbs twitching in distress as muscles spasmed. He lay there for some time, heartbeat pounding out the hurried rhythm of galloping hooves as his body felt like it was dying. He could scarcely even form his thoughts¡ªaggravating bolts of pain shot through his head with every passing second. He could do naught but wait with muscles tensed and claws digging into the stone, feeling the earth around him as he struggled to breathe in with short gasps.

    Unable to move and barely even able to think, he could only close his eyes and try to calm himself. With pain as a blanket and dried blood for a scent, sleep crept up on him and stole him away without warning. He fought it, fought it with a reckless determination, for he feared that which he had seen in his dreams. He squirmed and writhed in sleep¡¯s embrace, afraid to once more see the terrible darkness, but his protests fell away unheard.

    As he dreamed, there came a presence beside to him, familiar and heartwarming. It felt solid, firm. Confidence, age, wisdom¡ªit held them all behind a voice soft as a petal and hard as steel.

    Now you have seen. Now you know. You face these terrors, and you must defeat them.

    The earth. It was the earth that spoke, with that voice of quiet strength and gentle power. If it spoke those words, then they would be true; there was no doubt in his heart. Yet his body was broken¡ªtorn and shattered¡ªand with it so, he could not fight.

    You cannot die, not yet my child. There is a role for you to fill¡ªa role that you must fill. Once more I can mend your body, but you must not think this immortality. Everything has a price, and someone must always pay.

    With those words being said, a sudden warmth filled his chest. It spread to his limbs and suffused him with a steady, pulsing heat. Its brilliant white sheathed him in its cocoon, sinking into his flesh until it surrounded him with a glowing halo. Flowing ribbons sank into charred muscle and burnt scars, peeling off dead skin and shedding broken flesh. Black blood bubbled forth, looking as if his wounds were crying as they flowed over his chest and arms.

    Ruined scales were pushed out, clattering onto the floor as fresh platelets crept to the surface. Fibers twisted and twined together, joints swiveling as new tendons grew in place. Pink skin crept over formerly marred flesh, coarse hairs lengthening into matted hide. Steam vented from his pores, hissing around him in a billowing shroud that hid his healing from watchers.

    In a matter of moments, where there had once been flesh covered in hideous wounds and cracked, weeping burn scars, there was now unblemished skin and healthy muscle. Still in his dreams, he unconsciously rolled in his sleep, stretching new muscle. When the white glow finally died away and the steam cleared, there was not even a trace of the formerly mortal wounds.

    Again your wounds are healed, my child. This rebirth I give at no price to you, but rather at a cost all mine. You must be careful; in the future this aid can only be rendered once. Should you find yourself dying again, that aid will be my last.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Soon you will wake, and now I will rest.

    The voice of the earth sounded weary, tired. It was softer now, harder to hear, as if it were a chorus with parts missing. There was much that he wished to ask it, much that he wanted to know, but it had fallen silent. Before he could give voice to any of his questions, dreams had taken him by the throat and dragged him away into the muddled waters of his dark dreamscape.

    He did not see the Fells, did not see the darkness, but it proved little comfort. The dagger was no longer in front of his eyes; it was buried in his flesh. The corpse had touched him, had marked him as surely as any spell. It could not be seen, could not be felt in any way. But, he knew it was there with the same certainty that he knew the gem in his wrist was no longer searing hot but rather now utterly without heat.

    There was peace then in his dreams, but soon the pain came again. Horrible cramps struck his stomach and cold filled his chest with tight pain. There were shadows on him, writhing in through his skin. He swiped and slashed and tore madly, but still they sunk into his flesh wriggled into his muscle. The cold spread until all of him was numb and frozen, every movement arduous. He was drowning, dying, swallowed by the shadows. He could not see, could not feel his own death. He was cold. He was tired. He was dead. He was alone.

    He heard words again, but it was not the quiet earth. Their chilling and haunting refrain sent shivers through him, no matter how many times he heard them. The voices of the dead were whispering, calling out feverishly to him.

    Do you feel? Do you feel how the cold dark kills?

    And he shuddered in understanding, trembling helplessly upon hearing them speak.

    Andahiel slumbers. He slumbers, and we wake. The child waits while you sleep. How much longer shall you sleep, scion?

    The dead fell silent then, as they should, but their words he understood. He fought his slumber with tooth and claw, struggling to shake off the lethargy that had settled around him like a shroud. His body resisted, too broken and too tired, but he forced it to rise. He willed it to wake.

    And so he shed his dreams, opening his eyes once more to harsh light.

    The sleeping was gentle, but the waking was rough. He rose out of slumber like a waking corpse, his mind whirling and thoughts scrambled as he struggled to orient himself. He sat up in a hurry, lightheaded and dizzy as he tried to shake the drowsiness from his body. It had been long since he had slept so deeply; his body felt like it was carved from stone.

    He did not know how long he had slept, but fear and instinct told him that it had been too long. His body had healed its wounds, but the price to pay very well could be his life. Panicked, he sniffed at the air for any traces of a scent. He smelled her nearby, most likely licking her wounds. Another spike to guilt drove through his stomach. He had lost himself in his rage, had been so close to killing her. He had to be careful. There were questions that he needed answered, and she was too valuable.

    He rolled from his back, sitting up with his back braced against the wall of the cave. There were fresh scars across his chest and running down his right arm, but the muscle was healed from his sleep. More importantly, his spirit was whole once more.

    The price had been too great.

    With a start, he remembered the Fells. Three days had left two days ago, only one more day left. But he had slept, and now there was no more time.

    Now there was no more time.

    There was no more time, and the shadows were coming. Terror twisted his stomach into knots and ice froze his blood. A fool. A crow-cursed fool he had been. He rose to his feet, muscles protesting as he slowly stood up, shoulder braced against the wall. The dead writhed in the back of his mind, feeding off his fear and gaining all the more confidence from it.

    Fool, they mocked. Feeble fool.

    Slowly he limped over to the mouth of the cave, brown sun and green sky greeting him as the light shone onto his face. It was midday, the sun shining its brightest. He felt the dry grass under his feet, the wind breeze against his face, and he paused. She stood at the mouth of the cave, back to him, arms limp, staring outside. She had yet to notice him, instead distracted by something else. He could feel it too. Something was not right. The air reeked of blood. He walked forward to stand at the mouth of the cave, gazing out at the ground broken before him.

    Yet, he knew already what he would see.

    Bottomless chasms tore through the earth, cracks of black void that ran through the brown dirt and yellow grass. They burned with a cold fire that seared his feet and belched frozen steam into the air. Corpses lined the hills, calves and sires and dams alike. They lay rotting with chests carved open and bones split in two, hungering black smoke curling around their frost-covered limbs. Black nothing bled out of the cracks in the earth, swallowing stone and life as it grew and spread. The shadows were feasting, gorging themselves upon the carcasses of the dead. They stole away all that they touched, rocks crumbling into dust, flesh cracking from shards of ice as the very heat was sapped away.

    He felt spirits dying too, decaying in fleeting heartbeats. The shadows cut them apart from their bodies, the black mist wrapping tighter and tighter around them until their light faded. There was a madness in the air, a taint in the blood that sparked a blaze of wild fear. The shadows were unnatural; they were terrifying, and they were here. They had no soul, no heartbeat, no form. They could not be killed. They were Skal¡¯ai. They were predators, and all was their prey.

    Afraid of what he knew he would see, he looked up at the sky. The green fog of the Outlands was streaked with black, the ribbons of smoke coalescing into writhing mist. Power crackled where the two colors met, purple sparks flying out madly as black devoured green. The sky was being consumed by black, the light of the sun fading. The air was cold and reeked of blood, the flies and carrion birds circling tentatively in hopes of a meal.

    A sudden surge of power rippled through his body from the air around him, gone just as quick as it came. In that heartbeat, a snaking tendril grew out of the mass of darkness. It raked a path across the sky like a bolt of lightning, surging towards a young murak trying to run. The beast was bleeding from its wounds, eyes wide in panic. It saw its death coming for it and helplessly let out a short bray of terror. In the same instant, the murak¡¯s legs buckled as its own shadow betrayed it and wrapped around its feet.

    The black swarmed up its legs, sending the murak crashing into the ground in a spray of blood. At the same time, the bolt from the sky struck the beast in the neck, cutting straight through without even the slightest resistance, and the its body convulsed in a shuddering pulse. Gathering black mist crept closer as the murak crumpled with the severed stump of its head still pumping blood. The legs were bent at wrong angles and its chest ripped open as darkness clawed out of the carcass. A few moments ago it had still been alive. Now it joined the ranks of the dead as one more of the many corpses that littered the ground.

    The sinking feeling that he felt in his heart gave way to despair. There was no more time. The Fells had already come.

    And as he thought, a cold voice stole into his mind, chilling and timeless.

    Thief.

 Book 1: Chapter 13: A City of Lies

    Tenes Drou was a port city of wealth and trade, with a bustling harbor, prosperous marketplace, and wealthy families. The grass was green with emeralds, the ground bursting with silver. It was well known that the poor were so because they refused to sell the gold inset in their teeth. It was a fabulous land where streets were paved with jewels and the people¡¯s livelihood was simply to live. Or so it was said.

    But they were merely stories, after all.

    Kail had known the truth since he was a boy, of the facade that fell away at night. When the streetlights burned yellow flame, the bejeweled city turned into a slum. Shopkeepers closed their doors and prostitutes opened theirs. Men indulged in their vices in underground rooms overflowing with perfume. Illicit dealers lined the roads, offering all manner of substances that clouded the mind and filled the air with fumes. Street rats and worse filled the alleys, once bright with laughter during the daylight hours but filled with sin during the dark nights. Creatures wandered below in the sewers, their flesh twisted by magic and occult spells. Bodies lined the streets¡ªsome with slit wrists, some with slit throats. Orphans chewed the bones clean and ate the vermin that joined them. It was no longer the same city at night; its true nature was shown then.

    The locals called it Maris Tor. The Devil¡¯s Port.

    As with every great city, it had a tale of its founding¡ªfor Tenes Drou truly was great if nothing else. It was said that Tenes Drou was destined to be a city blessed by the gods with inordinate wealth and finery. The Devil himself grew jealous of its splendor and rained upon it fifty days of terror and sin, by the end of which even the strongest of men were broken. Taking pity upon them, the gods stood by the humans against the Devil but were unable to subdue the fiend that knew man¡¯s corruptible nature. With sweet promises and honeyed words, he convinced the men to fight the gods for an end to their suffering. Outraged, the gods left the men to the Devil, treating their worthless lives as forfeit. The Devil, now content with the fallen city, cursed its people with madness when the night came.

    Yet unlike most tales of creation, this one rang with truth. Madness flowed in the blood of those born in this city, surging forth at night.

    It is said that during the day, the people keep the name of Tenes Drou to remind them of their former prestige and honor. Yet what was once and now is lost cannot ever be returned. At night, the facade falls away to show its true nature as the Devil¡¯s Port, a land of sin and madness, bound by an eternal curse. Two names for two cities, two spirits in the same host.

    The boy knew of the evils in these streets, for he walked in them every day. Their brilliance in the day was matched only by their gluttony at night. No starker image could be drawn than the moment when the sun fell. It was the moment when the curse rose in their blood.

    Murder and lust swallowed reason whole, brother turning on brother and sister alike. They became animals, simple fools that followed power and instinct. The few that kept their sanity, perhaps due to strength of mind or magic, were tainted nevertheless. Those that were smart locked themselves indoors, both to keep others out and to keep themselves inside. Those that were foolish, or perhaps unlucky, found themselves missing limbs and lives when the sun rose in the morning once more.

    The boy was of those few unaffected by the curse, untouched by the corruption that it bestowed upon the city; he had not been born in this city, merely left behind upon these streets. Regardless, he had watched with purity and innocence as the night were filled with rape and murder, filled with moans and screams of every timbre. He had watched as children were thrown out on the streets, their backs broken and skulls caved in with a broken bottle.

    He had been one of those orphans, a child of a thief and a whore, abandoned in the streets to die before the sun rose. He was fortunate. He had been taken in. Kail never knew the man¡¯s name, just that he was very old. Here, age meant wisdom, meant power. To have survived in Maris Tor all those years was no small feat. The man taught Kail how to live. How to walk with a knife in his pocket, and how to aim to slash the eyes. Most importantly, he taught Kail how to run. The man was his father, the one that he wanted, at least.

    The man had told him stories of men of a different age, one where honor and virtue had once been held in esteem. One where women were chaste and did not have to sell their bodies to live. One where fathers stayed by the sides of mothers, and where children were wanted. Kail loved those stories, where the sun always shone bright and the sky was clear. He grew to love the day, when the men had honor and the streets were clean. He loved the day, when the people smiled and lived for a purpose.

    He hated the night.

    That boy grew older, but his fire still burned strong. It was not a blaze of passion that flared for an instant only to die away, rather, it smoldered inside of him. It was a quiet flame that filled him with pride and longing, hope and vigor, confidence and fervor. He knew that he was meant for something greater. He had survived the city. He would change it.

    Kail lived in the west side of the city, where the fishing markets were and where the boats came to unload their stores. As he walked back from the port with what food he had managed to scrape up from gracious merchants, he could not help but overhear the men¡¯s talk of war. They told of the late king¡¯s general, and his defection to the south. It was a curious tale.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    The old king of Altaros had been dying without an heir, and so he named his highest general to rule in his passing. Yet days before his death, his third wife bore him a young son, and so the law was clear. The general, unwilling to accept this loss, fled to the south with supporters to found a new nation. It was named in his honor¡ªthe red lands of Malifor. War was quick to follow over the lands to the south. Few Altarosan were willing to stake their lives for the sake of a king unable to wipe his own arse, and the nation was now conscripting nearly anyone they could find.

    The battles appealed to Kail, for those were where the heroes were always born in the stories he loved. He would imagine himself on a steed with sword or lance in hand, charging forth in the vanguard to strike the first kill. Or perhaps he was a master archer, sending arrows into flesh from a thousand paces. Or even a sapper, stealing away into Malifori camps in the dead of night to burn the cords of their trebuchets. In these idle daydreams, his face changed as freely as the wind, yet the glory was always the same.

    Yet he knew that they were only dreams without substance, and so he merely mulled over his thoughts as he walked back home. Perhaps the army truly was desperate enough to accept recruits without family nor proof of existence, but Kail still owed too much to a man in Tenes Drou. He could not leave before repaying it, would not leave before repaying it, even if doing so would take a lifetime. That was the honor that he had been taught. That was the honor that he believed in.

    His footsteps rang out, echoing off the walls of the third alley past the boat with the checkered sail. He walked past the veiled women dancing in their windows, past the broken wooden door and steps that creaked at night. His was the door with the metal frame and white cracked paint, shoddy enough to be mistaken for another crumbling part of the dilapidated wall.

    Inside was a plain room with a simple bucket for pissing and bedroom off to the side. Sir spent most of the day sleeping, and Kail woke him up twice for halfmeal and supper. Curtains that hung from the walls hid the window that he could use to escape, and a crevice to the right of the door could be used to hide and strike if someone forced their way in. It was a simple place, less house and more hovel, but it was home.

    ¡°Sir, it¡¯s time to eat,¡± he murmured, gently shaking the old man¡¯s shoulder. The patched grey blanket that covered his chest was more holes and frayed fabric than not, and it reeked with an odor of sweat and urine. With a groan, the man swatted Kail¡¯s hand away, turning over onto his side and getting up with a grunt of effort. Kail went over and peeled the tattered sheets away from the window, letting the orange midday sun shine through room.

    ¡°Cover tha hole up, boy, ye''ll drive me blind.¡± the old man barked. Age had done little to his spirit and even less to his manners. Yet this was the man that had raised him, the man that had saved him from the slums.

    ¡°Yes, Sir.¡± Kail replied, quickly tugging the curtains back over. He ran over to the pack he¡¯d left of the floor, pulling out a bowl of still-warm gruel and fish. With the water that had collected from the previous night in the basin outside, he filled a cracked stone cup and passed it over to Sir.

    ¡°You get tha from Mikael?¡± he asked, sipping at the edge of the cup. His hands were old as the rest of him, but they were still firm and strong. Kail could see it his grip; the tremors so many other had at his age had not yet taken hold.

    ¡°Yes, Sir.¡± he nodded as he passed the gruel over to him. Rummaging through his pack, he pulled out some crusty bread and poured some more water for himself. Taking his meal, he sat down next to Sir and began to eat, working away at the tough, burnt bread without speaking.

    ¡°What¡¯s tha matter, boy. Yer throat get cut?¡± he rasped as he set the water down, noticing Kail¡¯s silence. ¡°Spit it out.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s nothing, Sir. Just thinking that tonight¡¯s gonna be a bad one.¡± he mused, nervous at what he wanted to mention. He knew how Sir would react, but he still had to say it. ¡°There¡¯s been talk on the streets that the Blood Hawks are going at war with the Black Wolves.¡± he started as he broke off a piece of bread.

    ¡°Yes, yes. And I suppose you''re gonna have something to do there.¡± Sir replied knowingly, half exasperated.

    Kail blushed, but he nodded. ¡°This city¡¯s gonna tear itself apart. Someone needs to stop them.¡±

    And I suppose you¡¯ll be that someone then?¡± came the acerbic response, forthright and mocking.

    ¡°I could stop the fighting.¡± Kail pressed, almost pleadingly. This was no fleeting passion, no idle stupidity. Kail needed to convince him. ¡°I can do this. I know I can.¡±

    He set his down his food as he looked Sir in the eyes unflinchingly. ¡°If I can kill either of their leaders, this fight will stop. Hundreds of lives will be saved.¡±

    Sir shook his head as he brushed greasy hair out of his face. There was tiredness there, an expression one takes when speaking to an overeager child. ¡°Blood and bones, boy. Yer gonna learn that it¡¯s not tha easy. You won¡¯t be saving those lives, they¡¯ll just die the next day instead.¡±

    Kail frowned, eyes burning with a hot passion that showed in the spots of color in his cheeks. ¡°I can¡¯t just sit by and watch them all get killed. I have to do something.¡±

    ¡°Sometimes doing nothing is better than doing something. You need to learn when you can¡¯t help, when you need to stop. But ten years watching you learn to walk and learn to fall, and I know tha my words would do more on a rock.¡±

    Sighing, the old man set down his gruel, gazing at Kail with weathered eyes that were tinged with a deep sadness and resignation. ¡°Look boy, I¡¯m not going to be the one to wake you up from yer dream. Yer death hurts only yerself. I¡¯m too old to baby you any longer. Just don¡¯t get any blood on the rug when they send yer corpse back to me.¡±

    It was not the approval that Kail had been hoping for, but it would be enough.

    ¡°Yes, Sir.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 14: A Den of Wolves

    Kail left Sir to his meal, fuming as he stormed out of the room. He knew that his mentor only meant the best for him, but he was certain that he was different, that he was special. He knew that there was a purpose to his being here, a reason for his life amongst the constant death in Maris Tor. He was not like the other children, like the other orphans. He was different.

    He remembered the tales of the hero''s clad in golden armor that he had read as a child, and he felt the attraction down to the very roots of his soul. He could see the smiles of those he helped, gleaming in his mind brighter than a sun. In this world of lies and vice, he would stand as a hero above it all. This, he was certain of.

    The streets of Maris Tor were always dangerous, filled with gangs of human and worse creatures. Orphans who survived their fifth year alone were adopted into whichever gang they caught the attention of first. Such groups were unruly and disorganized, frequently subject to internal strife once a former leader lost power. Once night fell, the sounds of blood being shed filled the streets almost without pause. It was a deadly sort of apprenticeship that the orphans would then undergo as they learned to kill, take, and die. Few survived. Those who did rarely lived past twenty in the gangs. These gangs would always exist by virtue of human nature. Such was the Devil¡¯s Curse upon the city.

    Much as the curse rendered men into beasts, these gangs were more like packs that hunted at night. Where the streets were dangerous at night for any fool alone, the gangs fought constantly over territory and coin. Merchants paid fees to whoever¡¯s territory they were in, and so naturally influence leaned towards the largest gangs. And there was not a gang that was larger nor older than the Blood Hawks.

    The Blood Hawks were had influence over merchants, holding control over the northern ports of the city. Their merchants there trafficked bloodweed and salt from mines above the Cold Sea, selling the needed goods at exorbitant prices. The wealth that they gained from this allowed to even hire the services of channelers, if it could be believed. Rumors had long spread through the streets that the Blood Hawks had dealings in magic, experimenting with some of the orphans from the streets.

    Yet while the Hawks had more of a partnership with their merchants that was reinforced with bribery and threats, the Black Wolves favored a more brutal approach of rule through butchery. While simple, their collectors regularly ventured at night from door to door with knives in hand to receive their fees. Their leader, Blur, had to have been forty or fifty, positively ancient by streetlife standards. Age had not dulled his blades; he had killed over a hundred from counting corpses. As for the burnt ash left behind on occasion, it only further added to his legend.

    Kail was certain that it was these gangs that were the disease eating away at the city. While the Devil¡¯s Curse could not be touched, he could certainly trade blade with theirs. Their influence, their corruption of the very people in the city were what filled the lives of commoners with such fear and danger. It would only be through their destruction that Maris Tor would be freed from a lifetime and legacy of darkness, could the curse begin to be lifted from their blood.

    It would be a dangerous job. A job for a hero. It was with this goal and this certainty that Kail stepped outside of the house.

    It was said that one of the Black Wolves had killed a merchant working for the Blood Hawks. While not unheard of before, the Black Wolves had refused to negotiate or offer up the killer. Tensions had mounted, risen every day until word on the street every day spoke of war.

    For the Blood Hawks to seek a fight with the Black Wolves would be devastating. The Wolves had immense fangs, while the Hawks had strings tied to nearly every merchant at the ports. An unprecedented war would erupt if they fought in earnest, internal strife causing the city to fall to pieces. Even the smaller gangs would rise up, each seeking a piece of the riches awaiting the victor. The city to kill itself, and that curse would not fade from their blood. A true conflict, where Wolves and Hawks met blow for blow, would wrench the city apart.

    He had to stop this, but the first step was information. He needed to know more, more than just the rumors on the streets.

    Kail had already grabbed his pack when he left Sir, but he needed his weapons. Outside by the steps to the doorway, he moved left three stone tiles and counted up the wall four bricks. It was a minor nuisance to hide them every time but his blades were worth more than his life. For the sake of keeping them safe, Sir always did love his fancy tricks.

    Setting the pack down on the dusty stones, he shoved his hand up against the wall. It felt solid, but he kept pushing until he felt it give. While the image of brick before his eyes did not change, there was a sensation like water and his hand sunk through the wall. A shimmering pentagram glowed around his hand, sparks of purple flying off of wriggling chalk lines that formed the runic symbols he could never quite make out completely. Kail was never fond of magic; it always made him queasy when he used this, but it was necessary to protect one¡¯s weapons. They were teeth and claws. To be caught without them in a time of need would mean nothing but sure and swift death.

    Night had already begun to fall despite it only just having been halfday. The night came quickly this time of year, and with it the streets truly came alive. The merchants that had worked stalls for the passerby and manned the docks had long since left, leaving behind their worse halves to take over for them. Purple lights glowed behind murky windows and music of all sorts weaved their way onto the streets. Smoke and mist drifted off the ground, coming out of the lower pubs and brothels. Low moans of pleasure and shrieks of pain could already be heard, coming from buildings with less than respectable reputations. Women wearing little to nothing advertised their services on the streets while others offered all varieties of products to lose one¡¯s sanity with for pure pleasure. The entire scene filled onlookers with a quiet sensuality and desire that eased its way into the back of the mind, eating away at even the strongest of wills. Yet it did not affect Kail, who had grown up amidst the vice and immorality.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Gazing at the sky, he could see the God¡¯s Star slowly pulsing brighter, its bright red glow leaving behind lights dancing in his eyes after he had looked away. The sun had already set. He hurried his pace, leaving Sir¡¯s house behind him.

    It was time.

    Sir had always fought with a staff, and that was what he first trained Kail with to survive on the streets. It was a simple and effective foundation to use against larger opponents. But, when Kail became twelve, he let him pick the style that he wanted. Kail knew of the eastern Abaratt and their fighting form; he¡¯d seen a troupe on a ship once when they came through Tenes Drou. A unique style, with unique weapons. Such was the style that he used.

    There were two weapons for the Abaratt: the claw-shield and the hook. On the left arm was the claw-shield, a wide shield strapped to the forearm four hands lengthwise and two hands wide. It was reinforced in three layers, a layer of thick hide sandwiched between plates of metal. Three thick bone claws stuck out, bound between steel and hide and extending past the wielder¡¯s hand. They curved inwards and the tips were coated in brass. The shield was to protect against blades; the claws not only blocked slashes from striking the hand but also could be used to slash.

    The hook was a simple but deadly affair, with a heavy, serrated metal pick and oak handle. Thick iron chains from the base of the hook connected to straps on the wielder¡¯s forearm before continuing to wind around his body twice, and a wider handle with grips kept it from slipping out of the hand. Such was crucial; to lose the hook was to lose one¡¯s life.

    The armor was made of simple interlocked brass plates, designed to keep the wielder light and fast. It was a difficult style with heavy weapons and little protection. One must move fast and strike hard, avoiding enemy blows or redirecting them with the shield; it was too small to block a strike from a broadsword or hammer. The claws were for slashing, the hook for piercing. First swipe with the claws to sever the legs. The hook goes into the shoulder deep in the bone. Grabbing the chains, the hook is then ripped out, tearing apart flesh and splitting them from shoulder to hip. That was the Abaratt style.

    The origins of this came from the harsh deserts of the Abaratt, where men hunted Goliath Lizards for survival. A Goliath Lizard¡¯s mouth was wide enough to fit a man whole and strong enough to shear through any steel. Its teeth were curved hooks that tore through flesh, its claws fast and sharp. The Abaratt hunted these beasts as their enemies, but they also learned to fight from them. It was a harsh tutelage, a style of learning befitting the cruel desert. From their teeth came the hook, that dug deep and did not release. From their claws came the shield, that swiped to cut and block. The two weapons were pairs, much as they were on the Goliath Lizard, and it was this style of fighting, a primal style learned from the very beasts they hunted, that the Abaratt used.

    Goliath Lizards were larger than two men and stronger still¡ªno amount of armor could withstand the strength of their bite. Thus, the Abaratt armor was light and allowed them to move quickly. Their claw-shield could never take a direct hit from a beast, instead it was used to deflect and harass. By being both light and versatile, it covered the gaps where the slow and hefty hook could never reach. The soft skin underneath the jaw was particularly vulnerable, as was their eyes. By using quick slashes, the Abaratt could blind their prey, allowing them to then circle behind them. The hook pierced the Lizard¡¯s thick hide and would not slide out because of the teeth at its base. Chains kept the weapon to its wielder as the Lizard tossed and bucked.Then with both hands, the Abaratt would pull on the chains, tearing a massive wound before retreating to let the Lizard die of its own accord. If done properly, a Lizard could be felled by a single warrior with only a few light scratches. Done on a man, there would be little shape left to the corpse, which was often torn with such ferocity that the spine shattered and the muscle was ripped from bone.

    It was this ferocity, this primal style of fighting that had attracted Kail far more than mere swords and knives had. He had urged Sir to teach him, and the old man obliged, much to his surprise. Arduus practice each day taught Kail to stay swift on his feet, to turn and react with blinding speed. He learned to strike fast and dodge faster. It was now, after five years, that he would see his skills bloody others for the first time.

    Kail took in a deep breath, feeling the light air fill his lungs, a slight scent of perfume giving a sense of pervasive sensuality in the back of his mind, reminding him of the true nature of his hometown. Seeing the streets grow dark in the lull before the streetlamps flickered on, he moved quickly. Running with his claw-shield already strapped to his arm, his hook slung over the shoulder, he maneuvered through the alleyways with a familiarity that came from years of practice. Seeing a shadow flicker on the ground, he stopped before crossing a street, seeing an armed thug lumber across his field of vision, whistling an off-tune ditty before hawking up a wad on spit onto the stone.

    He waited for the man to pass before continuing, taking care to not make noise as he sprung forward on the balls of his feet. Before long, the air began to change. Wooden stalls that had previously lined the streets were gone, leaving only aging brick houses. The streetlamps were all blackened out, feeble light trickling out of the shroud of paint that covered them, casting the surroundings in a dim glow that strained the eyes. The brown brick walls had innumerable blood stains that had never even bothered to be cleaned off, the fetid smell of corpses wafting from the sewer grates. Doors were barred shut with iron and barbed steel. Not even a cough was heard as the wind whispered through the silent streets. He had reached Black Wolves territory.

 Book 1: Chapter 15: A Creeping Madness

    Lily woke with the sun in her eyes, the bright light a blinding red that filled her vision. Her body was stiff and hot, her clothes soaked with damp sweat and her muscles cramped from spending too long in one position. Starting in shock, she dragged in a painful breath, the air chillingly cold as it flowed into her chest. Alive, she thought in surprise, coughing as blood and spittle filled her throat. Her head spinning dully, she sat up, patting herself looking around to make sure everything was still functional. Glancing around, she saw herself lying in a pool of her own dried blood. A thin smile found its way onto her lips and a short chuckle quickly turned into a hacking cough in her throat. It was the simple things in life that she had learned to appreciate, like life itself.

    On the ground next to her was the demon, covered in cuts and bruises and still as a corpse. There was a confusion then, an uncertainty as the realization processed that she was truly alive. She could not help but chuckle, coughing out, ¡°So it seems the gods are not quite done with me.¡± It came logically, then, that the next question was why? Why was she alive?

    Last that she recalled, she was being strangled by the demon. Now she lay living while it was the one that lay dead. The irony could not be richer. There was a short-lived twinge of offense that she was still alive. Perhaps death hadn¡¯t much taken her for a lover after all. A mild disappointment ran through her, as stinging as it was ridiculous. Her first love had given her first rejection. She pouted at the thought, wincing sharply in pain as the motion inadvertently cracked her dried lips and brought blood to her tongue.

    Yet she was struck with a sudden doubt: was the beast truly dead?

    Placing her head dangerously close against its furred chest, she felt a weak pulse fluttering against her fingertips. She clucked her tongue in disappointment, fingers rapping out a short beat on its chest as new questions sprouted and bloomed like nightshade blossoms in her head.

    ¡°Flowers.¡± she murmured, distracted by the thought. ¡°Should I have brought flowers if I wanted to see you, sweet sister?¡± The disappointment weighed heavy in her heart¡ªshe had so been looking forward to meeting her dead sister, to see those gentle eyes, to kiss those bloodied lips.

    As her thoughts turned to the dead, she turned her head to gaze at the demon before her. So it seemed that it was not dead after all. Yet if it had not yet paid the blood coin, why had it not finished the job of killing her? Pity was the reason that came first to her mind, for who could possibly cut a more pitiable figure than her?

    The notion of pity burned in her heart like a fire¡ªwho was he to pity her? Yet her thoughts were interrupted when the demon stirred in its sleep suddenly and her eyes were drawn to the latticework of scars on its chest, like the awful needlework of some thick-fingered nursemaid.

    ¡°Sworn stars, you¡¯re an awful seamstress.¡± she whispered, a smile creeping onto her face. ¡°Maddie would do a better job, and the hag¡¯s massing five fingers¡ªnot all from the same hand, mind you. I think I still have the bones somewhere¡­¡± Lily pondered thoughtfully for a moment before remembering that she had burned Maddie in a fire, and it was Susan that she had cut. The street rat wondered for a moment if the demon was dying from its injuries, yet as soon as she looked closer that thought too joined Maddie as ash.

    Its body might have been covered in scarred wounds, from a pink scar that ran down its right arm to the thin cut along its neck that she¡¯d given it, but those nicks were about as lethal as children were inedible¡ªthere would be screams and curses over it but little else. The wounds should have still been fresh, but patchy new skin had already closed the wound and platelets had started budding. The same was true for the cut down its arm and the massive scar that ran down its side. At the very least, its flesh was durable.

    ¡°More¡¯s the pity.¡± she muttered as searched for her dagger. ¡°Tough meat is hard to chew, and my teeth aren¡¯t what they used to be.¡± The meager diet in Rat¡¯s Dam had not done much to help her health¡ªshe was missing two of her molars from rot. ¡°If I try to eat you, little demon, soon they¡¯ll be calling me the Toothless Rat.¡±

    She could probably kill the demon right now with a single strike from a single blade. It would be her best chance¡ªthe creature seemed half-dead already. ¡°Sorry, dear, but I¡¯m promised to someone else.¡± she whispered in the demon¡¯s ear before giving it a quick peck on the cheek. ¡°Give sweet sister my love.¡± She pulled out a short knife and pressed it against its throat, the steel giving the demon¡¯s neck a cold kiss. Yet before she could go any further, the demon¡¯s eyes flickered open without even a pause in its breathing.

    There was a sudden glinting flash, wispy black smoke swirling out of the corners of its eyes as it gazed at nothing a blank stare. A low growl rumbled from the back of its throat, fangs bared as she dropped her knife in shock. That smoke reminded her of something from her past, something painfully familiar.

    ¡°Blood and bones!¡± she cried out as she hurriedly scurried away before sinking into a low crouch, waiting for the thing to rise. Why was this crow-cursed demon proving so hard to kill? Was it thrice now that it had rejected her blade?

    ¡°If you¡¯re to kill me, hurry up and do it.¡± she called out to the figure that was twisting on the floor. ¡°Otherwise, calm down and let me cut your head off.¡± It was a reasonable offer, at least in her mind. If someone was to die, there was no reason they could not go about it like civilized people.

    Its back suddenly arched madly, arms slamming in the ground again and again with clenched fists. Lily was suddenly reminded that the creature was not a person, and most certainly was not civilized. Steam vented from its pores, billowing into the air as the demon twisted wildly.

    Tentatively, she crawled closer to the spasming creature, dagger in hand. She was well alert and quick to dodge, but even so a blind swipe from the demon caught her backhanded in the chest and she fell to the floor with a thud. A thin trickle of blood leaked out of the corner of her mouth as she got up, breathing hard. A sudden maddening thought flickered in her mind and Lily giggled uncontrollably, raising a hand to cover her mouth. ¡°Oh sweet sister, I¡¯ve finally found a man to rival all five of yours. I¡¯ve learned so well haven¡¯t I?¡±

    The demon growled as if in reply, slashing wildly at the air. Its black claws glinted dangerously in the light, whistling as they but the air. ¡°All of your men killed you, and mine wants to kill me too, even in its sleep!¡± she tittered as she leaned in close, before suddenly dancing out of a swipe just moments before it would have torn open her chest. ¡°Bad boy.¡± she admonished the creature. ¡°It¡¯s rude to touch a woman there unless you¡¯re taking her to bed.¡±

    Without warning, the demon¡¯s contortions froze and it sat up to gaze straight at her with fangs bared. She flinched, yet she could not even pull back in time. Its muzzle was nearly touching her nose, nostrils flaring as its lips peeled back in a snarl. Tense seconds passed as it stared at her soundlessly, a blank look that showed nothing. All thoughts of romance fled the sloane as her heart sped up for entirely different reasons. She held her breath in her nervousness, palms sweaty as she gripped her blades. If it chose to attack her now, she was not confident in her ability to survive. No magic, no traps, no plans. Nowhere to run. Fortunately for the wretch, it closed its eyes and returned to its slumber. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    A slow sigh escaped from her mouth, half in relief and half in despair. Even with it this close to dead, she still did not have it in her to kill the demon. ¡°That¡¯s not how it works.¡± she pouted, prying cramped fingers off the hilt of her dagger. ¡°At least one of us has to die. If you won¡¯t kill me, at least be courteous to let me kill you.¡±

    It was rude, really. A gentleman should always listen to the lady. It was a foolish thing to believe in manners, but she was a young girl, after all. Now was the only time for her daydreams to take shape.

    Lily gave a short huff in exasperation, settling her feelings with a short ¡°Men.¡± before leaving the demon to its twitching dreams. If it would not let her kill it while it slept, then she would just kill it after it woke. In either case, it would have to die at some point, if not for any other reason than simply because she was still alive.

    She had never been one for arithmetic, but she liked to think herself a logical person. ¡°If one of us must die,¡± she spoke to the dreaming demon, ¡°and you let me live, then you must be the one to die.¡±

    It was a last grasp at life that had saved her: the thing had called her sister. It was ridiculous, really, to think that it would have done anything, but she had been desperate. Still, she had always wanted to be killed by a family member¡ªit¡¯s so much more intimate that way. So, she had called it brother when it tried to rip out her throat. Alas, she truly was but a hopeless romantic. A tittering laugh escaped her as she realized how mad she truly must be.

    It truly was a surprise to be alive. Thoughts were scrambled in her mind, roiling like a churning sea as her beleaguered mind struggled to wade its way through. Her foolish heart fluttered in her chest as if rejoicing in its ability to do so, but she ignored it. Taking in a deep breath, she focused her thoughts. First priorities were to assess her situation. Her supplies, weapons, and surroundings were crucial. After that she would have to plan her course of action.

    Opening her eyes and taking a deep breath, Lily grabbed the knife on the ground that she had dropped during all the commotion, feeling its familiar hilt in her palm. It was always calming to have a blade in hand¡ªit let you kill something, and hopefully most of the time you would end up killing enemies.

    Searching for her bag, the girl found it by the mouth of the cave where she had dropped it, the insides speckled with blood. It had never been anything spectacular to look at, but now the leather was stained and the stitching frayed. Fortunately, as far as she could find, there were no holes in it as of yet. Inside she found some meager rations: crusty bread, some dried fruit, and dusty water. She would need to gather more, it would barely last her for the next two days. The witch was out of magic crystals now; she had used all of them during the fight. In retrospect, her actions had been rather wasteful considering that she had accomplished nothing in the end. She shoved her regret to the side¡ªwishing never made anything come true.

    Searching for her other weapons, Lily found one dagger on the ground from when she had first tried to kill the demon. A broken piece of the blade lay by the mouth of the cave, broken sometime during the melee. It was certainly unfortunate; she would have to rely on her blades without any crystals to cast her spells with.

    When she had killed her mentor, the ungrateful fool had not gone quietly. He had stolen with his death her mahji¡ªher magic¡ªand left her empty inside. The sloane was a witch without magic, with hundreds of spells at her disposal but no way to use them. She became forced to use crystallized magic, far weaker but still better than naught.

    With all magic now denied to her, she would have to rely on her blades. It would not usually be a problem for her, but physical strength was not her fortitude. Here in the Outlands, where the wildlife was so vicious one half expected the plants to grow knives, fighting would bring too much danger with it. One hit from any number of sources, one misstep or stumble, and her death would be guaranteed.

    She checked that the demon was still sleeping before she quickly undressed herself. ¡°No peeking now,¡± she warned the demon¡¯s sleeping figure, ¡°or I¡¯ll cut out your eye and stuff it down your throat. It¡¯s rude to watch a lady.¡± Keeping one eye on the beast, she checked for wounds scanning her body. She found a small cut down her midriff, with another slash running down her back. There was bruising too on her ribs and neck, and a wounded ankle along with small cuts on her hands and face topped off the list. Physically, at least, she had gotten off easy. For all its bloodlust, the demon had done little to harm her, with the only lasting harm to her coming from having her neck strangled. The vast majority of her injuries were simple scrapes that would have been more dangerous from a thornbush.

    Spiritually however, she was left devastated. Her spirit was aflame with red-hot pain, throbbing madly in her chest. The tether to her body had been severed when she slipped into the demon. Healing it would not be a simple matter, and until it did, she would be unable cast spells. The natural pulse that was needed for making a pact was weak and irregular, in no condition to fall into rhythm with the earth. Even if she had crystals, she would not be able to use them. Nor would she be able to use vahma, as long as she was unable to attune her soul¡¯s wild pounding with the pulse of the world. It would be a long time before her fingers hurled any spells.

    With a rather bitter taste in her mouth, she put her light armor back on, fastening her knives and tidying her pack with practiced fingers. She would have to leave before the demon woke, since she would not be able to handle it in a fight.

    Turning to leave, she ran outside, planning where she would have to go. Perhaps she could escape west to the Edgelands, where she could find a ship across the sea. South to the Crimson Lands could work as well¡ªthe fighting there with Malifor was bad enough that another refugee would attract little attention. In any case, she would have to leave the country. Nowhere here would be ever be safe for her.

    Suddenly, she froze in shock, arms falling slack by her side. The earth in front of her was alight with darkness, a madness that spread its taint into the very air. Pitch-black fissures ran through split stone as shadows darted forth, writhing like serpents of tar. Bolts of black lightning licked the broken skies that burned with marai, wild magic.

    The earth had split, deep fissures carved into the rock like the work of terrible gods, and from deep within¡ªso far down that light did not even shine¡ªthe Skal had crawled out. It was a flood of black, a colorless void that was utterly empty, like a lake with no bottom. It bore no face, held no heart, had no soul. It had nothing, for it was nothing. Where is stood, there was not.

    Skal was a thing of nightmares, for it was a taint, a force, and it was alive. It had no eyes, but it saw, no head, but it knew, and no heart, but it lived. It spread over the earth and ate and grew until the land was covered in nothing and the light shone on naught.

    They brought a terror with them that twisted her stomach into knots and turned her muscles into string. It was a primal fear, the fear of prey when the hunt is set upon them. That was what this was, she realized suddenly. A hunt.

    And nowhere was safe from the Skal, for it was living shadow. It commanded the darkness¡ªwielded it much as men wore blades. If Skal was the hunter, then the shadows were its hounds, for every man bore a shadow¡ªa personal shade and a pair of eyes for the Skal.

    All this, she knew. All this, she saw as the Outlands sundered and died. Her heart was beating fast against her ribs, her chest suddenly tight and the air hot in her lungs. She had to run, she had to flee. In front of her was death, inescapable and terrible. She had to run.

    Her heart thumping, her breath came ragged and short. Suddenly feeling a presence beside her, she turned with knives flashing in hand, heart sinking as she feared the worst. To her shock, the demon¡¯s face greeted her, mismatched eyes red and yellow glinted with green light from the magic in the air. It was a curious sort of relief that leadened her limbs, a comfort in a death at the hands of something with a soul.

    A throaty growl rippled from his throat, like the sound of thunder splitting stone.

    ¡°Go. Now.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 16: A Door to Sins

    Kail was wondering how he would find the Black Wolves when he heard a shriek from a nearby alley, quickly followed by the dull thud of something heavy striking flesh and the piercing crack of bone on stone. Thanking the stars for his sudden luck, he unslung his hook and raised his claw-shield has he hurried closer to the source of the sound. Rounding the corner of the alley, he froze when he saw two thugs huddled around a corpse of a dead girl, both of them tightening the belts of their pants. One looked to be around twenty, another younger¡ªalmost Kail¡¯s age. The girl could not have been more than fifteen years, but she lay unmoving on the stone without clothes, her legs and the space between them a bloody mess.

    ¡°Fucking whore.¡± the older one grunted as he kicked the corpse with a boot.

    ¡°Ain¡¯t that what makes ¡®er great?¡± the younger chortled, slapping his friend on the shoulder as the two of them burst out laughing. Coarse jokes for coarse men, and now that the night was out, Kail could see the curse burning in their blood.

    Grabbing a lighter out of his coat pocket, the older man flicked it in a smooth motion, bringing a yellow flame to light. His companion raised a gloved hand to stop him, pulling out a short knife a stabbing it into the corpse¡¯s left eye. Pulling it out with a savage motion, he buried it into her stomach before dragging it with a cruel jagged motion across her flesh, carving a bloody, barbaric symbol into her skin: two fangs with a lupine eye held between them.

    The symbol of the Black Wolves, Kail realized. It was a cruel kind of luck that he found what he was looking for so easily.

    Admiring his handiwork, the thug nodded to his partner, who dropped the lighter onto the mutilated remains of what was once a person. In an instant, the flame spread to cover the entire body, the stench of burning flesh filling the air as the wall of heat struck Kail despite the distance.

    They weren¡¯t content with burning it, however. With savage smiles, they proceeded to kick it in the stomach with their metal-capped boots until it was pushed into the corner. A weak feminine wail of despair and terror sounded from the alley and Kail had to fight the urge to vomit as he realized that the corpse had not yet fully left this world.

    The younger thug kicked her throat as he leered at her. ¡°What was that, you little bitch? I couldn¡¯t...quite...HEAR YOU.¡± he yelled as his boot connected with her jaw. A brutal snap could be heard as the bone split and her once-pretty mouth became a disfigured lump of flesh. As he did so, the greedy flame caught onto the man¡¯s foot and he swore as he beat it out.

    The girl¡¯s flesh was now charred black, crusted with ash as she stopped moving. Pieces of broken skin were falling off as the remains could no longer be identified as human. Bits of blackened bone could be through the ruined, sloughing flesh. The smell of burnt hair stung Kail¡¯s eyes and shocked him into motion. While the two thugs were distracted with their cleaning up, he snuck behind them with ease.

    In a single violent motion, he swung his hook overhead with all his might, forgetting the finer nuances of his training in his panic and opting to instead bury the entire length of metal into the older street thug¡¯s soft, unarmored back. A sudden scream ripped its way out of his throat as he did so, instinctive and necessary as the image of the girl¡¯s corpse burned into his mind.

    The thug¡¯s laughter suddenly stopped as he abruptly let out a hacking cough filled with blood, his body falling forward. With a yell, Kail pulled on the chains of the hook with all his might, hearing the metal tear out of the man¡¯s flesh with a vicious rip, hunks of meat attached to the serrated bits that had buried it in so deep. Blood spurted like a neverending stream from the wound as the man died with a quiet grunt. His legs were still twitching, his arms still jerking as if he wanted to fight. Merely five seconds ago, he was still alive. Now he was not. Kail was the reason why.

    Fighting down the sudden sickness that struck him, Kail whirled onto the other man. Yet it was with sudden shock that he realized his foe was more boy than man, perhaps only ten-and-two. The child had ample time to react but was young and surprised. Perhaps he was disoriented by the sudden attack, and further shocked to see his protector and guardian killed so easily by a mere boy. This shock made him stop. It made him panic¡ªand Kail used that panic.

    Using the momentum from his spin, he slashed the boy across the torso with his claws, crimson blood gushing forth without hesitation. The boy stumbled, falling backwards onto the ground with a thud. Kail looked down at him with bloody teeth and red on his shirt, looking like the terrifying murderer that all of them now were.

    ¡°Take me to Blur.¡± he snarled looking the gangster and rapist in the eyes. There was a flicker of uncertainty before tears started to well up in those childish eyes.

    ¡°I¡ªI can¡¯t.¡± he stammered before bursting into a wail, shoulders heaving pathetically.

    Kail hissed in frustration before kicking him in the stomach, much as this boy had done only a few minutes ago to what was now a corpse. ¡°Three chances.¡±

    ¡°I c-can¡¯t.¡± he blubbered. ¡°They¡¯ll kill me. Y-you don¡¯t understand.¡±

    Pulling out his pick, Kail swung down and buried it savagely into the stone inches from the boy¡¯s head, chips and powder flying from the cracked tile. ¡°Two chances.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯ll kill me! I c-can¡¯t tell you, they¡¯ll¡ªthey¡¯ll kill me. Doesn¡¯t matter what I s-say. They¡¯ll do it.¡± He was panting hard, his chest heaving, eyes bulging with exertion as he struggled to breathe. His face was flushed a deep red, so much so that he seemed like a bloody fruit about to burst.

    Kail held his claw-shield against the thug¡¯s neck so that the blades were resting on the skin. Small beads of blood sprung forth from where the steel nicked the flesh. ¡°Last chance.¡±

    The boy¡¯s eyes were wide, darting back and forth around him before he finally gasped out. ¡°Benedict¡¯s Street.¡± with a tearful sigh, his shoulders falling with desperation. ¡°They¡¯re on Benedict¡¯s Street. Three houses down, there¡¯s an alleyway with a rusted grate on an old building. Take it off and go inside. A ladder will take you to Blur.¡± He let the words out in a stream, hiccuping slightly as he spoke. When he finished, he was breathing in quick short gasps with a sunken look to his face. His lower lip was trembling, his eyes looking vacantly at the sky.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Thank you.¡± Kail said simply, pulling his hand back and yanking the hook out of the stone. He heard a sigh of relief come out from behind him as he turned and walked to the charred pile of ash that was once a girl. With a short prayer for peace, he bent down and picked up the lighter that rested on the remains, flicking it open in a smooth motion. The yellow flame burst to life, hungry and insatiable.

    He turned to face the boy, his face a mask.

    ¡°No..please..God no.¡± the boy croaked, the whites of his eyes bloodshot as he realized his fate. ¡°Please..no.¡±

    He could have ran. He could have fought. He could have struggled.

    Why did he stay? Why did he wait?

    Why did he make it so easy?

    Kail was expressionless as he tossed the lighter so that it landed square on the boy¡¯s chest, flame spreading to become an inferno. He did not break his stride as he walked out of the alleyway, not even when the burning corpse¡¯s hand reached out in agony and grabbed his foot.

    ¡°A hero¡­¡± he muttered, feeling sick to his stomach. Perhaps his killings had been righteous, but if so, then why did the blood on his hands feel so much like his own? The pain in his chest did not fade, no matter how much he walked.

    Kail struggled to maintain his composure as he strode away from the burning man. A bloody scream rang out from behind him, but he fought to ignore it. He forced himself to think about something else, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground and placing his feet one step ahead of the other. The Black Wolves were on Benedict¡¯s Street¡ªthree houses. Taking a deep breath, he slung his hook over his shoulder, keeping his claw-shield on just in case, and settled into a light run. He was still on the outskirts of Black Wolves territory, but that was at the heart of it. If he hurried, he could get there in ten minutes.

    By the time he was eight minutes in, he saw a high fence of barbed wire and broken glass on the other side. Hearing footsteps behind him, he quickly stepped behind a corner in time to see a man walk past where he was up against the fence. He raised his hand to the sky, allowing another person in a building on the other side to see the Black Wolves insignia tattooed onto the back of his hand.

    ¡°Code?¡± the man asked, hesitating to pull the lever that would let him through.

    ¡°Aw, get your head out of your ass Benny, you know it¡¯s me. I was just taking a piss.¡±

    Snorting, he waved him through, opening the gate with a creaking sound, rusted steel hinges turning. The man walked through without a worry, hand playing with a switchblade that he pulled out of a pocket.

    Thinking fast, Kail grabbed some soot and smeared it onto the back of his hand, roughly forming the symbol that the guard would only be able to see as a blurred image at this distance. He then waited two minutes before casually strolling through, whistling a little tune. When he reached the gate, he raised his hand and called out. ¡°Let me in Benny. New recruit.¡±

    The man gave a snort as he woke from his sleep, looking blearily at Kail¡¯s hand before waving a hand to open the gate. ¡°Let¡¯m pass.¡± he slurred before settling back into a deep snore.

    Keeping his head down, Kail walked past the gate before seeing a beaten, rusted sign saying Benedict¡¯s Street. He turned, looking at the rundown buildings before seeing a metal grille so pitted with rust it was almost completely orange. It swung on a single bolt, creaking in the wind. Pushing it to the side, Kail ducked under the entrance before standing up and promptly hitting his head on a bar of metal. Looking up, he saw ladder rungs that ran up into the unlit darkness.

    Taking a deep breath, he started to climb, trying to make sure that his feet did not sleep on the metal that was worn from use. Once he reached the top, he turned to peer down a hallway lit dimly by candles. One guard stood in front of a metal door, arms folded in front of his chest. Muscle filled his form, tanned skin covered in scars from fighting. His eyes were piercing and immediately focused on Kail, seemingly peering right through him.

    Making sure to keep his nervousness from showing in his step, Kail strode forward confidently, hiding his shock when the guard extended his hand, apparently in a handshake. He pressed a sweaty palm into the guard¡¯s and felt the press of metal against his palm. Confused, he looked down when the man released and saw a light scar under the thumb with a bulge. He glanced up in surprise and saw the guard give him a slight sneer.

    ¡°All of Blur¡¯s men have a bit of iron to know when they meet their brothers. And you, little man, don¡¯t pass.¡± he said tersely. Once he finished, he immediately swung at Kail with a fist that knocked the breath from the boy¡¯s lungs and left him crumpled on the ground. Without pause, the guard stomped with his feet, intending to strike Kail in the stomach. ¡°Are you the little shit those Hawk bastards were planning on sending? My grandmother could take care of you, and she pisses into a bowl.¡± he mocked, face twisted into a leer.

    Quickly, Kail rolled out of the way of the foot onto to encounter stone on his side. The narrow corridor left him little room to maneuver. Getting up with some difficulty, he unslung his hook, which the guard eyed with some trepidation, tense muscles in his neck giving away his nervousness as he hid behind a mask of arrogance and authority. ¡°What¡¯s that, a toothpick?¡±

    Kail gave no answer, simply giving a bloody smile before swinging it overhead, releasing the chains to let it fly farther. The guard ducked, the hook instead burying itself in the stone behind him. A plume of dust and shattered debris filled the air, distracting the guard who looked behind him in surprise. Kail used the opportunity to pull on the chains, ripping the hook out of the stone and using the momentum to punch the guard with his left hand.

    Unfazed by the impact, the man simply looked down in confusion. ¡°Was that a punch or a fly?¡± he mocked before pulling his hand back. ¡°This is a punch.¡± He threw his fist forward in a massive haymaker, causing Kail to drop to the ground. The guard over swung and staggered slightly when he shifted off balance. Kail took the opportunity to shrug his claw-shield onto his arm and slash up the leg.

    Letting out a yelp of pain, the man crumpled to one knee, a look of fury in his eyes. he reached out with both hands to grab Kail, but the younger fighter danced back lightly. He stuck his tongue out, hoping to goad the bigger man into making a mistake. It worked.

    With a roar of anger, the guard lunged forward on his good leg, trying to tackle Kail with a massive hug to crush his ribs. Raising his shield, Kail met him with head-on, keeping his attention distracted while he kept his right arm back. He then swung with the full force of his body, hook going over his head to meet the guard¡¯s charge. The weighty piece of metal buried itself in flesh, breaking bone as it struck to man in the back, the force of the blow causing him to stumble. Kail used the opening to dance further back before grabbing the chains with both hands and pulling with all his might, hearing the man scream in pain as the hook ripped itself free of him.

    Not letting up, Kail hefted the hook again and gave another crushing swing, this time striking the man square in the back of the head. A sickening crack filled the hallway as blood, bone, and brain splattered itself against the stone.The hook drove itself all the way through the skull and came to a rest only after cracking the floor below it.

    Kail stood there panting for a few seconds ,struggling to catch his breath, before bracing his foot against the shattered remains of the guard to pull the hook free. The gore stained his hands, and the weight on his chest grew heavier still.

    ¡°A hero¡­¡± came the thought once more, each time losing a little more of its luster.

    ¡°...at what price?¡±

    After wiping the biggest bits of ruined flesh off from where they stuck to the spines of his hook, he hefted his weapon before turning the handle of the door and kicking it open.

 Book 1: Chapter 17: A Distant Past

    ¡°Go. Now.¡± the demon growled, its face twisted in pain as it stared at her with those mismatched eyes. They glinted under the green-hazed sunlight, shining with anger and the slightest tint of fear.

    ¡°Demon.¡± she hissed, sinking into a crouch with blades in hand, green eyes flicking like a viper between him and the shadows on the ground, as if judging which one was more deadly. ¡°Stay where you are, or I¡¯ll slit your throat.¡±she warned, blades spinning in her tight grip. Yet she was tired, and her voice betrayed her with a tell-tale quaver.

    The demon¡¯s face twisted with a grotesque mockery of a smile as it rubbed a sharp thumb along the wound on its neck, feeling the ridge of the scar where she had first slid her blade across its throat. ¡°Tried once. Failed.¡± came the guttural response, fangs showing as it gave a rueful grin.

    She flinched at the gesture but refused to back down. ¡°You beast,¡± she hissed forcefully, trying to keep her stance aggressive. This thing was an animal; she could not give it any sign of weakness. ¡°Why did you let me live? Why did you give my spirit back?¡± She had to ask it, even if she could do nothing else. It was the question that she had no answer for, the question that could not understand.

    The demon merely shrugged its shoulders, turning its gaze behind her to the ravenous shadows on the plains distractedly. ¡°Earth spoke. Said to save.¡± it replied simply, as if that answer was sufficient.

    ¡°Five and three curses, what the hell is that supposed to mean?¡± she cried out, throwing her arms out wide. Frustration bit her stomach, rousing her blood and sending her heart pumping. Was this thing toying with her? Was this all just another cruel dance for the gods, for those crow-cursed watchers? She had enough of putting on a show for some laughing onlookers.

    The demon shook its head curtly, fangs clacking as it opened its mouth to speak. ¡°Need run.¡± it grunted, pointing a black claw to the shadows on the horizon. ¡°Skal¡¯ai.¡±

    Lily sucked in a sharp breath upon hearing that name. How could this beast know of Skal and Skal¡¯ai? Her mind felt slower than her surroundings, as if everything was happening too fast for her to think. Questions popped up like lights at Festival, unending as a tide. She could not help but remember how the demon had healed itself of its wounds when they had fought. It had used magic then¡ªshe was certain of it¡ªthe glow of white could only mean burning vahma for a spell.

    A demon capable of magic. What more did it know? A shudder ran down her spine. ¡°I¡¯m not running until you give me an answer. What do you mean the earth told you to save me?¡± she demanded. The demon hissed in frustration, claws flexing as if it was suppressing a bestial urge¡ªmost likely the truth.

    ¡°Earth.¡± it growled, throwing its arms out expansively. ¡°Spoke.¡± it grunted, pointing at its ear with a claw. ¡°Save you.¡± it snarled, its claw now pointing at her chest. The performance was something one might give to a pouting child; it was a mockery, a ridiculous farce.

    ¡°Why?¡± she asked suspiciously, fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger. Still she did not understand what the demon meant when it answered. How could the earth speak? Unless the fool heard something else and thought it to be the earth.

    The demon let out a slow hiss, clearly exasperated. ¡°Sister.¡± it replied simply, and she fell back a step as if struck.

    That word again, what did it mean? She had called it brother in desperation, a nonsensical word, but it seemed to have swayed the demon. Yet when she opened her mouth to question further, it interrupted her with a brusque response.

    ¡°No time. Skal¡¯ai.¡± The demon strode quickly towards her, and she tensed, uncertain of what it wanted to do. Yet it walked past her, feet digging into the dirt as it sniffed the air deeply. Suddenly it turned, cords on its neck standing taut.

    ¡°Run.¡± it spoke, gazing into her eyes. She shuddered at what she saw on the other side.

    There was raw ferocity, bestial instinct, animal savagery, all barely hidden behind those red and yellow irises. It spoke of unchecked rage, of sheer power. There was madness, mania, all swirling behind a thin veil. To fight this beast was lunacy.

    ¡°You¡ªyou want me to go with you?¡± she demanded, thoughts tripping over each other in her head like schoolchildren. Madness filled her. Her heart was racing for a myriad of unspoken and unthought reasons, feeling as if it would burst in her chest.

    The demon nodded.

    To fight this beast was lunacy. Surely, then, to travel with it could only be sheer insanity. Yet to stay certainly would be even more foolish. These were Skal¡¯ai, creatures of nightmares and monsters mothers told rebellious children of. They could not be killed, could not be stopped. And they were everywhere¡ªwherever there was a shadow.

    ¡°Trust. Sister.¡± it growled, striking a clawed fist to its chest in humanlike fashion, and a small giggle slipped out of her mouth. To stand with a demon, perhaps she truly was going mad. Then again, perhaps it was the most rational of decisions¡ªflee with a demon, where there was a possible future, or stay with the Skal¡¯ai, where there was only promised death. Aye, this was the logical decision, and she always was a woman of reason.

    ¡°Well if you say so, Brother.¡± she replied half hysterically, sheathing her dagger and picking up her pack. She had been planning to run anyways, what was one more along for the ride? But before she could expose the demon to anymore of her characteristic charm and wit, it gave a short grunt before suddenly taking off. It loped forwards on two legs, apparently awkward and unused to the movement. It had not traveled far before looking back at her and tilting its head in a motion for her to follow.

    With a short sigh, she strung her pack over her shoulder and took off in a brisk run, following the black figure in front of her. It seemed to slow itself down for her, pausing every so often to look behind its back. Its bipedal gait was cumbersome and awkward, uneven and almost childlike. Clearly it preferred to travel on fours, but if it did so she would be left behind in just a few breaths. Even now, she could just barely keep up.

    They had made it over the hill, perhaps a few hundred paces from the cave, and already she could feel her chest beginning to burn. As she ran, Lily threw a quick glance behind her towards the shadows. They were gorging themselves on beasts large and small, wrapping around fur and hide as they bulged in gulping motions. They ate flesh and blood and even bone, leaving nothing behind as they stripped the lands of life.

    Yet as she watched, she did not notice as a black mist crept out of her bag. It was cold to the touch, like ice against the skin, and she flinched when it struck her skin unexpectedly. She knew what it had come from, inside her bag. She wished that she could forget. She wished that she had forgotten.

    Before she could even breathe, the black smoke wrapped itself around her, numbing her as it crept in through her mouth and nose. There was panic at first, but then it became nothing. There was only a pervasive cold, an utter nothing that filled her. She fell. She collapsed. She struck the dirt.

    She dreamed.

    She was lost in a fever dream, her lucid thoughts churning in a heated sea of emotion. Questions, faces, and past regrets, they all flashed before her in fleeting instants, melding into one another before disappearing back into the muddled dreamscape of her mind. She saw her dead master in front of her¡ªor rather, only his pox-scarred face. His neck was cut open, throat bared to face the sky. She knew it, for it was her blade that had parted his flesh. Rot had set in already; the skin was old and wrinkled, pitted with scars that wept yellow and red. In places it had cracked, falling off with a texture like dead leaves. His eyes were bloody and ragged at the edges, tears of red streaming down his ruined face.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°Girl,¡± he shouted, bloody spittle flying from his mouth. ¡°You are cursed!¡± His face contorted, withered features twisted in fury. His voice was raspy, rattling where his throat had been cut. ¡°I gave you life where there was death. I gave you fate where your string had been cut. You killed me for my efforts. Burn, you crow-cursed Witch!¡±

    His eyes wept before closing. When they opened next, one was a bloody hole and the other replaced with the stone of black. Its surface was glossy, gleaming with an almost unnatural sheen. Black mist poured out instead of tears, blinding her in the fog until all around her was the darkness of the night. The darkness of that night. She remembered it, could never forget.

    She wished she could forget. She remembered it all now, despite the haze that had clouded her mind then.

    She had dreamed long that night¡ªa dream of screams and glorious horror. There had been pain like molten fire that had driven all other thought from existence, and there had passed an eternity before she had realised that she was dreaming. There had been the dead, the tormented spirits that had wailed like banshees¡ªcold as ice in the wind. They had whispered in pain, a pain that had pierced her like bed of a thousand knives. They had screamed, and she had woken.

    She had woken, yet she was asleep.

    Her eyes had opened, but her mind was not awake. What she could see, she did not see; yet, she had seen the black shard. She was walking towards it, its whispering cold drawing her closer and closer. The chorus of screams in her mind became nothing more than the wind, cool against her hair. It had whipped in her face and raked her skin like claws, but it was as kind and gentle as a lover. And she had walked forwards, towards that shard that was black as night.

    Black as nothing. And she had seen it before her, And she had stretched out a hand, a single, pale, shivering hand. And she had just stroked its surface, smooth as glass.

    And then she had woken. And yet she was asleep.

    And the old man was before her, eyes wide in fear and betrayal. His throat jumped, his mouth worked, but no sound reached her ears. His eyes cried rivers, his fingers clawed desperately at her chest, but her eyes saw none of it, for she was asleep. Yet, she had seen the knife that was buried in his stomach, the steel that kissed his flesh. And she had seen hands¡ªher hands¡ªthat had held the blade. And there had been blood, streaming onto the floor and painting the carpet crimson. And the man had begged, and the man had died.

    But she saw none of it, for she was asleep. And then she woke. And then she had screamed.

    For his one eye was gone, torn out of the socket. His tears had turned to blood, dried and cracked on his leathery skin. And in the other eye had been that shard, black as night, bottomless as nothing. It sat neatly in his skull as if it had been there all his life. And she had taken it out¡ªcut it out with the same knife that she had found in his stomach. And she had found it smooth, polished, and as round as a pebble worn smooth by a river. And cold. Cold as ice, a cold that burned her to the touch.

    And so she had killed the man, a payment for his gifts and a lesson for his weakness. She had killed him while she had slept, but she had killed him nonetheless. And so she burned him, or rather, she had tried. She had reached for the mahji inside her and found nothing, a hand grasping feebly at empty air. She had searched and scoured, but the mahji was gone. And the dead man had laughed at her.

    ¡°Foolish child.¡± the corpse had rasped, black mist pouring out of the blood-filled mouth. ¡°You¡¯ll not kill me so easily.¡± His voice had been wet and gurgling, and streams of scarlet poured out of the wound in his stomach. ¡°I take this from you.¡± he had hissed, empty eyes staring deep into her. He sat up with unnatural rigidity, arms raised with skeletal fingers raking the air.¡°I take this with me. I take your magic with me, thrall.¡±

    The girl had found his voice terribly troublesome, and so she had slit his throat then. And the mist had poured out of the gash like a storm, billowing out before filling the air with a terrible cold that froze the sweat on her arm and cracked her skin. And the old man had crumpled, returning back to his death. And he had stayed dead the second time, but she had taken no chances. So the sloane had burned him with candlefire, the flames streaking into the air in a funeral pyre that touched the heavens. Black ash mixed with black mist, scattering away on the wind. Then, with her senses returned at last, she had wept.

    That was the night that Lily remembered, the night of half-dreams and black blood. She had killed the old man, yet his death had not been final. Twice, she had killed him¡ªonce by steel and once by fire. Now, once more, he tormented her from beyond his grave, his scarred face alight with white fire in her mind.

    Again he burned, now in her dreams.

    ¡°I saved you! You were mine. YOU ARE MINE.¡± he screeched as his face peeled off, the skin sloughing in chunks of charred black. His blood turned to black mist that billowed around him, wreathing his face until it smothered the flame. ¡°MINE.¡± he howled, and wind whipped in her dream. And his single eye, dark as a starless night, gazed deep into her, pulling her, until she too was screaming in fear and pain. Their voices mingled in a cacophony that crescendoed until she realized that she was aflame as well. The old man¡¯s face had fallen away and the inside was utterly hollow, an endless plume of black mist pouring out of where there was once flesh. The bone was stark white, an odd purity in contrast to the stone in his eye.

    His skull shifted then, the black smoke pouring back inside and hardening. The fog became a shell, and the shell became skin. His bald head grew hair, thin and lanky, and his wrinkles grew softer against his face. He grew tanner, scars crisscrossing like needlework across his cheeks and forehead. He had morphed into the one of the Witch Hunters that had chased her out of Telavir, one of the silver-bladed men that saw themselves holy in their depravity. Only one thing stayed constant: one socket was empty, and the other held that black shard.

    ¡°Child of the Devil.¡± His face jeered with laughter, mocking her. ¡°Useless mongrel. Filthy whore. You flee like the rat you are.¡± She was running then, in her dream, fleeing in pain. They were chasing, on horseback and foot. They were laughing, their voices echoing in the wind.

    ¡°You will be found.¡± A hot lance of pain pierced her right leg, and she crumpled to the ground in cold agony. There had been hot pain when it had happened in life, but in this dream she only felt the chilling ice that numbed her limbs.

    ¡°You will be taken.¡± The hard bite of steel found its way inside her stomach, twisting her guts and sending blood bubbling into her throat.

    ¡°You will be used.¡± Their laughter swarmed in her ears, growing thick as a storm about her head. There was pain, a hot pain this time that burned fierce against the cold in her body. They took her¡ªraped her without care for the blood on her thighs or the screams that were ripped from her throat. She cried tears that streaked down her cheeks in memory of a sweet sister from days long past, but all she could hear were their moans and shouts. Her face was pressed into the dirt, jagged stones digging into her skin like knives. The blood clouded her vision and black covered her eyes.

    ¡°And you will be killed.¡± She felt the rage bursting forth from deep within her, wild power gathering from the memory. They were a single face once more, a single Hunter with the eye of night. She was screaming, her throat ragged and raw, but she paid no heed. She burned him in her dream, just as she had burned them, and his sweet screams were just as she had remembered.

    His face burst into white flame once more, a mirror image of the old man¡¯s. He too was crying out in agony as the fire swallowed him whole in hunger. Skin was charred black, crackling and cracking to reveal burnt muscle and scorched bone. The fire surged alongside his screeching howls, the heat pleasantly warm against her skin as it died down. Blackened ashes and charred bone was all that was left of the face. His screams morphed into laughter, high piercing shrieks that stabbed her chest. Slowly, the ruins of the face crumbled to dust, blowing away in the wind.

    All but that black shard.

    It was still there, black fog drifting off its surface. She was filled suddenly with the feeling that it was watching her. The laughter slowed and deepened as it filled her head, shaking her to her bones. She felt eyes burning into her, and when she looked in the shard she saw nothing but a bottomless black. And she saw her own face, smiling back at her from the surface that the shard did not have. And the face laughed when she did now, and her face spoke when she did not. It was a dry voice that spoke to her¡ªfrom her¡ªresonating with power beyond comprehension.

    It was a deep voice, same as the laughter that chilled her heart. It was a hard voice, sharp as a whip, same as the Hunters that had raped her in the fields. It was a soft voice, same as the master that she had killed in her dreams. It was a familiar voice, same as her own.

    It was a thousand voices, spanning an eternity.

    ¡°Child. You cannot hide. Your demons will tear you apart.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 18: His Flight

    There was a thud from behind him, and he turned to see her fall to the ground. Black mist wreathed around her, the same black mist from when he had freed the dead from the black shard. It was that same numbing black mist from his dreams that had accompanied the devouring shadows. He stopped abruptly, turning and sprinting back over to her hurriedly. The shard in his right arm was horridly cold, pulsing ice that throbbed numbly.

    The shroud over her body writhed and twisted, ever-shifting the longer one looked at it. He hesitatingly extended a hand to touch her, all sensation fleeing from his flesh the moment that it met the blackness. A slow hiss escaped his mouth as he recoiled instinctively, slow steam curling in wisps from the tips of his claws. Yet as his hand touched the air once more, it suddenly felt incomparably frigid.

    He howled in unfelt pain, clutching at his wrist as every heartbeat drove more and more ice into his veins. It was a raging blizzard, more and more steam pluming off the surface of his skin as he thought he might freeze alive. Slowly, he gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to tear at himself and rip at his own flesh. He felt like he was ice and stone, but he fought the numbness and dug into the black smoke covering her body once more.

    It was difficult, lifting her, since his arms felt foreign and unresponsive. He was forced to judge based on resistance, but it proved an awkward endeavor. Eventually he managed to secure his arms underneath her chest and he lifted her up off the dirt, but that black mist continued to surround her.

    He did not know what to do. He did not know how to remove this haze that swallowed her, did not know if she was even able to breathe with it around her face. Her unresponsive nature meant she was asleep at best, dead at worst. He would have to have faith.

    Trust, he had told her. The concept was new to him. Before he only ever had to trust himself. This time, he would have to trust the flame of her life to continue burning. Thrice now she faced death. She had survived before; he would trust that she could again.

    With a low grunt of exertion, he slung her over his right shoulder, sinking onto three legs from the weight. His shoulder became numb as well, the unfeeling sensation creeping to encompass the entire right side of his body, but he ignored it. The Skal¡¯ai were still behind him, and they would come seeking fresh meat.

    They needed to run.

    He loped across the plains on threes, heading south away from the Skal¡¯ai as he followed the river. The Hope, he remembered it being called vaguely in memories that had not been his. The trickling water ran alongside the base of the mountains, and as long as he stayed close there would be water at least. It was their most pressing resource after time; food could be made without for weeks at best, but water only days.

    As the day wore on, his muscles began to burn from the strain. Her weight on his back felt like more and more, but he pressed on. To slow would be to give the shadows from time to chase, and he knew that they would be chasing. They had marked him¡ªit had marked him¡ªand they would follow no matter how far he ran. He knew it.

    He remembered the dream, remembered the vague corpse that he had seen. It had touched his forehead, and even as he recalled it a blistering pain racked his skull. It was an intense cold, so frigid it burned, and his body swooned from the force. Collapsing all of a sudden, momentum carried his muzzle into the dirt as he tumbled forward. Her body was thrown forward, off his back to sprawl on the earth. He did not notice, his vision spinning and his body unresponsive.

    Time passed as he lay there panting, struggling to catch his breath and reorient himself. Just a single thought had been enough to send pain through his mind¡ªjust what was that corpse? Silently, he cursed his body for failing him at this critical time. Every moment longer that he waited was another step closer to death. He needed to stand. He needed to run. He could not be waiting.

    They needed to run.

    She too would die if he was caught¡ªthis he suddenly realized. Too long he had lived alone, but now she too was here. And now even more so, death came for her too when it chased his brand. His death would likely mean hers as well.

    They needed to run.

    The single thought of self preservation managed to shock strength back into weary limbs. There would be time enough to sleep later, when the earth rose up to reclaim his corpse. For now, he needed to live. They needed to live.

    He stood on shaking legs, the muscles screaming in protest. The complaints fell on deaf ears as he stepped forward slowly. One step, then another. His blurred vision began to focus on the scene before him, squinting through the too-bright sun.

    Her bag had shaken itself free from her body when she fell, landing some ways away in the grass. That black haze had fallen away from her flesh, instead pluming around tall grass where the bag lay. He fought a sharp hiss as realization struck him, that there was something inside from which the black mist came.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Slowly, he stepped forward, kneeling as he reached out towards the smoke. His claws found the leather, and he opened it carefully. As he did so, there was a writhing in the back of his mind. The dead woke from tired slumber, and they spoke with their frigid voices.

    Sin. More brothers trapped. More brothers broken. They must be freed. They must be FREED. Give us vengeance.

    The clamorous voices grew louder and louder as he upended her bag, letting the contents spill out. Salted meat and bottles clattered onto the grass, flasks stoppered with liquids and short blades that folded in on themselves. But his vision was drawn to the smoke pluming from a small gem. A small black gem, much like his own.

    Brothers. They must be freed.

    The dead were restless, agitated like vipers with stirred nests. Yet as he reached out a hand to pick up the stone, a low groan emerged beside him.

    Turning quickly, he saw her beginning to stir from her sleep. Sweat covered her forehead, soaking her clothes thoroughly. Her skin was flushed scarlet, wisps of steam curling from exposed skin. Her lips were cracked, hopelessly dry, and her chest fell with little hiccupping gasps.

    Our brothers, the dead hissed, but he ignored them. He might be losing a sister here instead. Rummaging through the grass hurriedly, he pulled out a leather flask with water. His claws fought the cap awkwardly, and eventually he managed to wrest the damned thing open with his mouth. Quickly holding the opening to her mouth, he watched as a small stream of water trickled past her lips. Her throat worked once, twice, and then she began to cough.

    Sitting up gingerly, she fought hard for breath, wasted water running off her chin and falling to soak the grass below. He capped her flask once more, turning to put it back when a sudden scent caught his attention on the wind.

    ¡°W-what h-happened.¡± she coughed out,turning to face him. ¡°Whe¡ªwhere are we?¡±

    He raised a clawed hand to stop her suddenly, his body stiff as he took in a deep slow breath. Wind was blowing in from the west, and he smelled the heady musk of blood on it. It was not the scent of fresh blood, but rather the pervasive odor of ever-present dried blood that accompanied a predator. Only for it to be this strong meant either an incredibly successful killer, or a pack.

    ¡°Hunt.¡± he growled softly motioning for her to be quiet.

    ¡°H-hunt? What? You are hunting something?¡± she stammered, clearly failing to understand the message of being quiet.

    ¡°They. Hunt us.¡± he hissed lowly, hoping that she would stop her chatter. It worked, and she fell silent as he sunk low into the grass.

    Closing his eyes, he felt for their spirits like he had done before. Knowing where they were coming from, he reached out with spindling fingers, with dancing ribbons, and suddenly he saw them. Small, white, they pulsed with rapid light. Coming in from the west, there were four of them. A pack, indeed.

    Options flashed through his mind, quick as wind. He could wait here, or he could run. Waiting did nothing, and gave them every advantage. They would approach unhindered and attack unhindered. These were not his lands, and the flat plains gave no cover. To wait would serve no purpose.

    To run, then. He could run away, or charge towards them. Running away would prove impossible for her. Her flesh was weak, and she would not be able to manage a sprint for more than a few hundred paces. So the only option left was to run towards them.

    He was downwind; they would not have wind of his arrival. Stalk in the grasses, and ambush one. Kill it in a flash, and switch to the second. Disable the second quickly, then commit to the third. Kill the third, then finish the second. The fourth would flee in panic, and the kill could then be made if needed.

    For these hunters to chase him while upwind meant that they were either extraordinarily confident or incredible fools. Regardless of either, it would be best to engage on his own terms. And so, leaving her behind, he sprinted off towards the west with a loping gait.

    ¡°W-wait!¡± she shouted in panic, but he ignored her. His head was to the ground, his claws digging into the earth. His heart was pumping, his blood surging. The hunt was in him once more, and its grasp was as euphoric as ever. He ran slightly north, intending to come upon them from the side. Indeed, it was no longer than twenty breaths before he saw their figures on the plains.

    They were verin, hound-like creatures perhaps of stomach height. Short, coarse fur covered their bodies, brown and yellow to match the grasses. Their eyes were sharp and their ears large, their paws possessing short claws ill suited for more than running. Instead, sharp tusks jutted out of their lower jaws, curving downward and hideously serrated. Studs of bone dotted their heads, and their tails were long and whip-like.

    These beasts were quick, fighting with sharp slashes of their tusks and dancing around larger foes. They preferred to bleed their prey out, delivering slowly lethal blows before running them dry. Their skulls were tough, their bodies nimble, but there was weakness in that speed. A single blow to the back could cripple them, and their tails¡ªso needed for balance¡ªwere exceedingly vulnerable.

    These fools would be simple. His claws were faster than theirs, and his he struck them by surprise, they would not be able to turn quick enough in response. They had no scales, no armor to protect against his swipes. His fangs would tear out their throats with ease. Even their eyes could be blinded, their ridges of bone doing nothing against his claws.

    Corded muscle tightened as the hunt sent adrenaline racing through his system. Bloodlust flickered behind mismatched eyes as slaver began to drip from his fangs. He took a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat drive strength through his limbs. There was no confusion in this, no hidden questions. There was no magic, no dead, no spirits, no voices, no damnable dreams. This, he knew. This dance of blood and death, he knew. And as the anticipation of meeting an old friend grew within his body, a low ripple ran down his spine.

    Ambush the first and cripple the second, he thought to himself as they drew closer. The fools were still unsuspecting, still foolishly charging forward as if blinded. Yet they suddenly stopped, the one in front letting out a sharp, baying yelp. Doubt struck his stomach like a slash. Had they seen him? Had something gone wrong?

    ¡°Bastards!¡± came a shout to his left, and a slim figure rose out of the grasses.

    ¡°I¡¯ll make you bleed, you crow-cursed dogs!¡± she cried, twirling steel fangs in her hands, and the verin charged forward with ringing howls.

 Book 1: Chapter 19: A Butchering of Pups

    A horrible racket filled the air when Kail kicked down the door, metal hinges screaming as they shed layers of rust. Sudden, blinding light filled his eyes, the brightness sending piercing pain to the back of his skull. Unable to see, he ducked and rolled to the side out of instinct, hearing a fist fly through the air to slam into the wall behind where he used to stand. Kail was forced to back up quickly, shield raised in defense as he waited for his vision to adjust.

    A massive fist struck him in the stomach, making him cough up blood and spit and driving the air out of his lungs. He collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath, eyes managing to make out a blurry figure standing over him. Its hand was pulled back, clenched fist looming as it swung with a speed that belied its apparent bulk. With all of his remaining strength, Kail raised his left arm, bringing his shield to bear. A crunching sound could be heard as the man split skin and broke bone on metal. Yet, the force was still overwhelming; Kail had no more energy left to defend against another strike.

    So it seemed that he would die here. Alone.

    He felt himself being grabbed the scruff of his neck. He opened his eyes blearily to peer at his attacker. The man had light skin that was stretched over a thick, muscular frame. A shaved head was crisscrossed with faint scars and wounds, complete with the insignia of the Black Wolves. Most disconcerting were his eyes, which were bloodshot and unnaturally wide. He opened his mouth in a smile, revealing teeth that were filed to points, tongue running over each tip slowly and carefully. He had the look of a man who killed for fun, for no reason other than a thirst for blood and wanton violence.

    Kail felt hate rising up inside of him, an utter disgust of this man and everything that he stood for. He dropped his hook, letting his shield fall to the floor. The guard smiled wider, thinking that Kail had given up. His hands tightened around Kail¡¯s neck, slowly squeezing his airway smaller and smaller. Kail could feel the little strength that he had stirred in the pit of stomach slipping away.

    With a sudden ferocity that came without warning, he swung his hands up to clap cupped fingers over the man¡¯s ears. A resounding smack echoed off the stone as he felt the grip around his neck loosen, the man momentarily stunned. Clenching his jaw, Kail swung his head forward with as much force as he could muster, being rewarded with a satisfying crunch against his forehead. He fell to the floor, the guard¡¯s hands flying to his broken nose. Tears had blurred the man¡¯s eyes by reflex, blinding him.

    Without hesitation, Kail bent down to grab his hook, adrenaline pumping fire through his arms and legs. Yelling hoarsely, he swung it with the strength of a cornered animal, seeing it bury itself deep in the guard¡¯s stomach. Metal ripped through viscera and soft flesh, tearing open a gaping hole that pumped out blood in thick spurts. The man¡¯s eyes went wide, blood spilling out of the corners of his mouth as he looked at Kail in shock. His body went limp and he crumbled to the floor, tearing the hole of the metal hook even larger as Kail stood there stiffly staring. He watched as the man lay in a pool of his own blood, coughing weakly. He watched as the man¡¯s eyes twitched and his chest jerked in quick spasms. He watched as the man¡¯s struggling slowed until it stopped altogether. He watched the man die right in front of him.

    Why was it so fast? Why was death so ignoble?

    Kail stood there for a few seconds, trying to force himself from thinking about what he had done, about how many lives he had taken in one day. Looking down, he saw his knuckles white where he held the hook in his hand, scarlet blood covering his skin. Not his blood. He tried to relax his hand but found that he could not. His muscles were clenched, nails digging into the stained oak handle. Setting the tip onto the ground, he used his left hand to pry his fingers off one by one, all the while breathing hard as he tried to avoid looking at the dead man¡¯s face.

    He did not want to know his name, did not want to know who he was. He did not want to know if he had friends or family, did not want to know what dreams he had dreams, what hopes Kail had cut short. He did not want to know what the dead man was thinking when he had buried a foot of steel in his stomach. A hero, he was indeed.

    Kail felt sick, the world spinning around him. Hands on his knees, he bent over and heaved, the contents of his last meal spilling onto the stone. Tears filled his eyes as the burning sensation rose up his throat. He coughed and heaved a few more times but came up empty, finally gasping for breath as the urge subsided. Wiping his mouth of a torn bit of cloth, he steadied himself before picking his hook up, fingers tightening as he forced himself to remember that what he had done was necessary. Pushing back another sob, he carefully stepped over the man¡¯s corpse and through the iron door that had cost so much blood to open.

    Where...am I?

    His eyes widened slowly as stared at what lay on the other side. The broken remains of a house of worship, complete with the God¡¯s Star shining on the wall, filled a massive once-grand hall. The wooden floorboards were eaten away with rot; holes were torn in the walls and the lamps glowed faintly with the stubs of candles. Stretched out on cots on the floor and any other surface they could find were endless rows of injured, filthy blankets and rags covering bloodied bodies and broken limbs. Kail felt his heart skip a few beats as he realized that most of the wounded were younger than him, only ten or eleven years. Brown bandages and dirty clothes bound head wounds and arms, stained with crimson blood. Wooden splints and cracked gauze covered shattered bone. He realized suddenly that he was staring at a hospital. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    This gang war, this conflict...I came too late.

    Hundreds of their eyes looked up as he walked into the doorway, filled with fear and confusion. Looking down at himself, he realized that he was a horrifying sight, covered in blood and bile. Before he could react, however, he heard the sound of footsteps, the stained windows shattering into jagged pieces..

    ¡°Hungry.¡± rasped a voice from behind him unexpectedly, and the candles along the walls suddenly guttered out.

    There was the crack of something striking against the back of his head and suddenly went limp. He heard a man¡¯s voice from amidst the wounded, yelling for everyone to run. The acrid stench of smoke burned Kail¡¯s nose and eyes. Someone stepped over his crumpled body, their feet sending plumes of dust that filled Kail¡¯s lungs. The room tumbled into the blackness, and so did he.

    When he woke, it was in a sea of blood and bodies. A great pain shot through the back of his head as he tried to get up, the light sharp and burning to his tired eyes. The taste of iron was in his mouth, crusted blood dried on his head and arms. With an effort, he turned his head, feeling hair and skin tear as he moved. All around him were the scattered remains of the dead and the dying.

    The former church and infirmary was now nothing but a pile of wreckage, bodies and limbs strewn amongst broken stone and brick. Shattered glass from broken windows dusted the ground, dim sunlight taking the place of shattered lamps. Timber lay with the dead, some even running through corpses with blood dry on their surface. All around him, there was nothing but death. Even the only reason that he was still alive was likely because he was, at first, taken for dead.

    He tried to sit up, feeling everything around him spin as he grabbed onto a nearby pile of rubble to remain steady. His mind was reeling, wondering what had happened when he was passed out. He was wondering why he had collapsed, wincing as he tried to recall what had happened. He remembered being struck and then pain. After that, nothing.

    Taking a deep breath, he stood up slowly, staggering as bruised legs struggled to support his weight. As he leaned on the debris, he looked up and felt his heart stop.

    On the old wooden wall, next to the God¡¯s Star, was a symbol drawn in blood. A bird of prey. A hawk. Next to it, on the God¡¯s Star, was meat. and skin¡ªhuman skin. Kail felt himself swoon as he realized that it was the hide on a man, torn from its then-discarded body. It had been left to hang on the symbol of faith and humanity, a grim mockery that shocked him to his core. He had feared a war between the two gangs, but his worries were unfounded.

    There was no fight, only a brutal single handed massacre. He closed his eyes and wept, but no tears came. He tried to cry out in remorse, but no sound escaped his lips. All around him were the dead, but he could not find it in himself to mourn. There were simply too many. He was lost in the sea of bodies.

    He grieved silently, hoping that these murdered souls would find peace. Gathering himself, he straightened himself, feeling his abused muscles starting to recover. Bending down slowly, he collected his gear, buried and hidden by some strange twist of fortune underneath a corpse. With all that had happened, he did not know what he should do next. Then he realized that he was the sole living person with weapons surrounded by corpses of wounded Black Wolves. If he was seen, he would even be given time to breathe before he would be killed and burned, not necessarily in that order.

    With some hesitation, he carefully took a step, feeling his leg struggle and then collapse out from under him. He reached out and braced himself against a length of timber, taking another step slowly. Then another. With difficulty, he traversed the piles of corpses, making is way to the broken remains of the entrance that he had came through. He stopped in shock.

    The metal door had been torn off its hinges, the steel bent and warped. What looked like claw marks covered its dented surface. Kail¡¯s mind was instantly filled with a sea of questions, but he would have to wait until he found safety before he could sort them out.

    He continued past the entryway, reaching the aged ladder that he had used to climb up. He ignored two familiar corpses that were strewn on the ground, carefully stepping on a rung only to hear the crumbling of stone. The bent broke underneath him, causing him to some ten feet and crack his skull against the stone. He lay there dazed for a few minutes, blood dripping from the newly reopened wound on his head. Looking down, he saw his right arm bent at an awful angle, the bone clearly broken. He tried to move it and was rewarded with a lance of pain that made him scream in agony. Blinking away the tears, he gritted his teeth and grabbed the fractured limb, lifting it clear of the rubble. Tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt, he wrapped the wound, not knowing enough first aid to try and set it. Clenching his mouth, he got up slowly, muscles protesting loudly. He grabbed his hook in his left hand, right arm bandaged tightly, and began to stumble his way forward, breathing hard.

    When he reached the grate, he saw that it been torn clear, signs of claws and scuffling on the ripped metal and brick. Bending low, he got out with some difficulty and looked around him, gasping at what he saw.

    Ashes surrounded him.

    The skeletons of buildings lay before him, charred and burnt. Blackened soot covered the street, stirred by occasional gusts of wind. Among the black, he could see the shine of white. Bones of those who had not run fast enough. He kept walking, forcing the thought to the back of his mind. He could not afford to think about it now. Right now he had to run.

    All around him was the corpse of a city. Brick and stone burnt and blackened. Bone and skin charred to soot. A funeral pyre that had burned brighter than the sun. And he was walking through it. He could still see the embers among the ashes, air still hot and blurry where it touched the ground. The wind howled as it blowed, seemingly voicing the calls of the angry dead. And he walked through it. His foot kicked something. A skull, the rest of its former body scattered nearby. It was small, perhaps only a little larger than his fist. Its remains were extraordinarily fragile in light of the destruction that it lay in. And he walked through it still.

    Through the carnage and waste, through the corpses and the ashes, he kept walking. He kicked aside rock and rubble, wreckage and ruin as he trudged forward. One more step. Another. Keep moving forward. Don¡¯t look back. Never look back.

    He knew that nothing lay for him there.

 Book 1: Chapter 20: A Weight of Doubts

    Kail stumbled through the swath of rubble and ashes that flame had brought, his slim figure tired and broken against the blackened ruin. The soot covered his boots, his plodding footprints quickly blown away by the stirring wind. The land around him was melancholy and full of loss, much as he was hollow and emotionless inside. He forced himself to keep walking. he closed his eyes, looking away from the broken bones and burnt brick. He pushed the smell of smoldering flesh to the back of his mind. The screams that he imagined of their horror and pain, the ones that were surely still alive, dying slowly under mountains of stone and twisted metal¡ªhe pushed them all away.

    He forced himself to keep walking.

    Down the barely recognizable street that he had first came in, he saw the end of Benedict¡¯s Street, the same sign that he had seen what felt like so long ago now burned completely black. Blood stained its surface, the faded words barely noticeable and covered with soot. Turning, Kail saw the barbed fence that had ran around Black Wolves territory and felt his stomach heave as he coughed up water and bile.

    A stack of corpses was piled on the ground in front of the fence, flesh still smoking, cloth burned to dust. Bones clutched at the barbed wire, which was bent and warped under their weight. He could see them in his mind, running from the blaze only to find themselves trapped. He could see the men desperately trying to scale the fence in their panic, climbing over each other in the frantic scramble to escape. He could see the tongues of fire licking at their heels as bloodied fingers clutched thorny steel. One by one they all fell, buckling under their own weight as their flesh was devoured by greedy fire, a brilliant orange burning bright into the sky as smoke swallowed their bodies. It was a massive cremation, and now charred bones and ashes all that were left behind.

    He stumbled closer, head throbbing as he felt the world around him spin. Gasping for breath, he reached out instinctively and grabbed something to support him, only to reel back in horror when he saw that it was a bone¡ªa dead man¡¯s femur, covered in a light dusting of ash. He flinched, pulling his fingers back and frantically trying to wipe the filth off on his clothes. He stumbled as he did so, falling backwards and hearing the cracking of bone beneath him.

    Low sobs wracked his body as he rolled over seeing the shattered remains that he had fallen on. With a barely suppressed wail, he desperately swiped at his arms and legs. He could feel where his skin had touched the bone, and it disgusted him beyond comprehension. His vision blurred, his lungs burning as fear and hysteria sank their fangs into his throat. Breathing hard, he forced himself to calm down before turning once more to keep walking forward.

    He forced himself to keep walking.

    As he neared the fence, the wind blew the scent of charred flesh towards him. His heart was heavier than stone, but he forced himself to press on. Taking a deep breath, he began to make his way through the bones and cinders. The acrid smoke stung his eyes, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. Each step kicked up hot ash that blew around his feet before scattering in the wind. He walked with tenuous uncertainty, bone crunching underneath him as he trudged through the dead.

    Reaching the fence that was burnt by flame and blackened by blood, he shrugged his claw-shield onto his arm, feeling his fingers close around the familiar grip as his heart swung in apprehension. With clenched teeth, he swung, brass claws shearing through the aged, worn metal with ease, tearing a massive rent through the wire. He carved another opening in the metal, tired arms feeling like brick. Panting, he let out a cracked yell and started to swing wildly, ripping broken metal to pieces as tears flew from his eyes. Panic and mania gripped him with blackened fingers, refusing to let go as he tore through the metal like a beast. He did not want to think, did not want to remember.

    When he was finished, he collapsed onto the ground, dust blowing over bloody fingers, shredded metal lying around him. His muscles were sore and screaming, his body wanting nothing more than to join the others around him. Nicks and scratches in his skin bled beads of scarlet where the flying wire had cut him. He let out a deep sob as he felt inordinately tired, tears burning where they touched his wounds.

    He lay there weeping for an eternity before his tears ran dry and his heart died a little more. He felt the death all around him and wondered why he lived. He wondered what it meant to be a hero, wondered what price those stories failed to mention, wondered what the price of life itself was. He wanted nothing more than to lay there and weep, to join these people in desolation.

    But, he could not find it in himself to lie peacefully and die, could not find it in himself to give up. There was steel in him that these flames had only tempered, an unyielding determination that he only realized when everything around it crumbled. He could not find it in him to die, because more than anything else he realized his all-encompassing desire to live.

    It flickered to life as he gave form to these thoughts, a bright flame bursting from the embers. He wanted to live. It was an incessant voice, a sudden surge of strength. He got up¡ªslowly and unsteadily, but with a decisiveness that gleamed in his eyes. Stiffly, he took one step, and then another, tired muscles threatening to break underneath him. He walked forward seemingly fueled by nothing but sheer willpower, crawling through the hole in the fence as the torn wire cut fresh lines into his exposed skin. A bit of cloth snagged and he tore it free with shaking hands. Then, he kept moving.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    He stumbled through the streets, blood dripping slowly. Behind him, the new sun rose slowly, casting onto the earth its heat and light. Kail saw the men of the night go home, saw the courtesans close up their stores. The city underwent its daily transformation as a dying boy stumbled through it. No one paid him any heed; he was just another victim of the previous night, taking far too long to die. As he stumbled, they struck him carelessly, bumping into him roughly and knocking him to the ground several times. He got up coughing each time, hacking up more blood before continuing his grueling march.

    He reached a familiar street, chest heaving, his heart about to burst, feeling his vision grow dim. With barely a grunt, he stumbled and collapsed, head striking stone as he fell in front of a wooden door. Blood pooled around him, his eyes blinking slowly. His sight grew faint. The door opened. And he fell into darkness once more.

    Kail woke with a splitting headache, the pounding of his heart like a ceaseless drum that made him throb with pain. The bright light streaming through the window hurt his eyes, a piercing white that burned even when he closed his eyes. He tried to tilt his head and was rewarded with a flaming pain that shot down his back, an indescribable agony that made him nearly faint. He dared not try and move his hand; he was cautious even to breathe as little as possible, for his chest felt as if it bore the weight of the world upon it.

    He could feel bandages wrapped around his chest and arm, the cloth rough against wounded skin. He was lying on his back, facing a ceiling. He recognized it: it was Sir¡¯s hovel. Looking down as far as he could, he saw the peeling paint, the broken water clock in the corner, and the rotting floorboards. The nostalgic smell brought tears to his eyes as he felt secure in his sense of safety. He was home.

    ¡°Finally awake, boy?¡±

    The voice surprised him, making him twitch in a shock that made his tortured muscles howl. The sound had come from behind him and knew at once that it was Sir, but he dared not turn to look out of fear of further pain. Opening his mouth, Kail tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and air came out in only a hoarse whisper.

    Sir grunted before lifting Kail gently by the shoulders, leaning him back against a frayed blanket to prop him up. The old man grabbed a worn bowl of cold gruel, handing it to Kail as he grunted, ¡°Gonna owe Mikael some more, it turns out.¡±

    Kail did not respond; he was too busy fumbling with the spoon with numb fingers. Sir snorted before snatching the utensil out of his hand. ¡°You degraded to an infant? Need me to feed you?¡±

    Kail¡¯s pride protested, but his stomach was louder and he nodded slowly. With a sigh, Sir shoveled a spoonful of the meal into Kail¡¯s mouth, looking at him accusingly. ¡°Now, you promised me tha when you came back with yer corpse you wouldn¡¯t get any on the rug.¡± He gestured towards the trail of dark red that ran from the door to the puddle that Kail lay in now. ¡°Can¡¯t even hold you to yer word, boy?¡±

    Kail looked at Sir¡¯s familiar figure, unflinchingly abrasive even after all that had happened. The sudden warmth struck him unexpectedly, stark against all that he had just seen and been through. He could not hold it back any longer. Breaking out into tears, he sobbed into Sir¡¯s chest, his shoulder heaving.

    ¡°I¡¯m¡ªI¡¯m sorry, Sir.¡± he whispered, the old man¡¯s warmth and familiar scent surrounding him as the weight of all that had happened to him slammed into him in an instant.

    Sir¡¯s strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close without saying a word.

    ¡°I¡ªI did horrible things. I saw so many dead.¡± Kail mumbled as hot tears trailed down his face, dripping to mix with blood on the floor. ¡°I...I killed men. Four men.¡± he breathed, face pale as a corpse. ¡°Blood and bones, I killed them.¡±

    Sir gave no response, only holding Kail tightly, his chest firm and strong despite his age. The gesture only made Kail sob harder; a feeling as if a dam had broken rushed through him, tears running down his cheeks as a torrent of emotion and sorrow tore out of him. The boy wept long and hard, feeling the tightness in his chest unravel and spool out as fresh tears. Finally, after a few minutes, Sir pulled back.

    He looked at Kail, his mouth taut and expression stern, but his eyes contained a quiet warmth that Kail recognized only from years of familiarity. They were the same eyes with which he had watched Kaill grow up all these years. Through all that had happened, Sir was still the same man. He was quiet but unyielding, his person always there when Kail needed it. The old man did not give any advice, he just looked long and hard at Kail, who was busy wiping away wet tears, before speaking softly.

    ¡°Would you change anything?¡±

    Kail paused in surprise, not expecting the question. He looked up, throat sore from his weeping, eyes red. ¡°What¡ªwhat do you mean?¡±

    Sir was patient and quiet as he gazed at Kail. ¡°Would you change anything?¡± he repeated quietly. ¡°If you could go back, knowing what you did then, in the same place as you were back then, would you change anything?¡± His wrinkled hand cupped Kail cheek gently, thumb wiping away the lingering tears. ¡°If you spared their lives, would you still be here? Was what you did necessary?¡±

    ¡°I¡ª¡± Kail hesitated, unsure of his response.

    Sir pulled his hand back and shook his head. ¡°The answer to that question is not for me to hear. It¡¯s for you and yerself, boy.¡± Picking up the bowl of gruel, he set it down in Kail¡¯s lap before getting up, knees creaking. His eyes held within them flickers of understanding¡ªof conflict, and of sympathy.

    He gave a rare warm smile to Kail, the expression filling the boy with inexplicable warmth and peace as his mentor and teacher turned and walked out of the room slowly to leave Kail alone with his thoughts.

    ¡°A hero¡­¡± he muttered, his heart throbbing.

 Book 1: Chapter 21: A Tenuous Respite

    The beasts were coming over the horizon, and the damnable demon had left her. Before she could even reorient herself from the grips of her dreams, Lily had found herself alone on the plain. Its black figure had been rapidly fleeing off into the distance, and now she was alone.

    Over on the closest hill, she heard the baying of hounds. Turning her head in surprise and shock, she saw the tusked dogs charging towards her. Their ruby-red eyes flickered with malevolence, spittle already flying from their toothy jaws.

    Lily felt incredibly tired, a weariness settling into her bones. Could not a day pass without death trying to court her? Romance truly was fatiguing. Without magic, without traps¡ªsuch was her position. Alas, she would have to greet with suitors by hand¡ªtruly tiresome.

    Two daggers twirled in her hands as she felt the battle fever begin to grip her. ¡°Bastards.¡± she shouted, eying the black hounds gleefully. ¡°I¡¯ll make you bleed, you crow-cursed dogs!¡± Her voice seemed to have shocked them, startled them somewhat. They halted in their charge, yapping furiously and dancing back at the sight of her blades. After two breaths, the largest in front let out a deep-throated howl and ran straight for her, the others following their alpha with religious fervor.

    Letting out a toothy grin, she sent a dagger flying with deadly precision, the steel burying itself in the front leg of the largest dog. The beast gave a wail and toppled, its leg collapsing underneath itself. The momentum of its charge sent it flying forwards, and it rolled three more body lengths before coming to a bloody stop. Its companions, unfazed and claimed by bloodlust, merely hopped over their struggling alpha with short barks.

    They were too close, coming too fast for her to pull out another dagger, so instead she crouched down, one hand wielding a blade, the other lightly on the ground. The closest dog was near enough for her to count its teeth, those wickedly curved, yellow hooks. And as it leapt in a frenzied rush, she let out a high-pitched shout in challenge.

    It bore down in a graceful arc, claws out stretched and those slashing tusks glinting in the sunlight. Yet in the final moment, as it was about to pull her flesh into a gentle caress, she pushed herself upwards with all the strength that she could muster. Claws sank into her shoulder, fangs tearing into her back. Still, upwards she pushed with hopeless ferocity. Upwards, she went with her dagger, and downwards came the dog. The weight of its body, the power of its charge, they all drove the beast further onto her blade, and she buried the blade into its belly with a savage yell.

    The creature had struck her on the left, its charge offsetting her balance, and the duo fell to the dirt. Its blow had missed her throat, for she had lunged forwards instead of up, and it had instead found her along the back and shoulder. Those tusks had gouged deep wounds down her back, glancing off the bone. Its claws had raked wounds along chest and arm. She was fortunate to have been struck at an angle; her flesh would have broken had she taken it fully from the front.

    She gripped her dagger desperately as she fell, knowing that it would be the only way she lived. Yet the couple fell awkwardly, and it wrested at her hand and fingers. Her wrist twisted, her palm slickened by blood and viscera, and she lost her blade in the belly of the beast.

    Quickly, she rolled on instinct, struggling to orient herself and rise to her feet. Street fighting had taught her to never stay down, and those thieves and rapists were never even armed with claws and fangs. Yet as she rose to her feet, she saw the hound rising to its own. Blood poured from its stomach in a stream, its muzzle stained crimson and its tusks carrying ragged bits of flesh from her shoulder.

    She was unarmed and wounded, but she let out a defiant howl. ¡°Come here, you crow-cursed piece of shit!¡± she screamed, her vision blurring red as blood dripped from her forehead. She goaded the dog, knowing that it was dying. She, too, was wounded, but hers were not fatal. This beast¡¯s life rested in an hourglass, and only three grains were left in the top.

    It growled in anger, lunging forward in a desperate attempt, but she danced backwards and to the side, twisting away from those groping tusks. Yet when it landed, it lashed out with its arm, opening its wound further in order to land a blow on the side of her arm. She screamed as the claws bit into her flesh, rending through the muscle with unfortunate ease.

    A whiplike tail struck her leg as the beast turned, cracking across her flesh and sending her down onto one knee. A bitter cold filled her heart as she realized she had underestimated her opponent, that the beast had more stamina than she had been expecting. It would die, still, but it would take her with her. A true tragedy, the two lovers buried together.

    As it closed in for the final lunge, the hound let out a sudden yelp. Blinded by blood and weary with pain, she did not know why it paused. She merely saw the hilt of her dagger offered before her, and she dragged it with desperate strength. Her hands closed tightly around it, securely, and she slashed upwards with a confident blow. The blade found itself in the beast¡¯s throat, blood fountaining in a scarlet spray. She fell back, her last energy spent in this taxing duel. Above her, a shadow loomed.

    ¡°So I¡¯ve to pay the blood coin, eh?¡± she muttered, hands falling limp as light blinded her eyes. Her vision was bleary, her head throbbing with pain. Her heart seemed moments away from bursting, her lungs burning as she dragged more air in. It was not a peaceful death, by any means.

    Done in by a dog, she mused almost hysterically, coughing out a coarse chuckle. How laughable.

    Yet as she waited for death to claim her, much as a proper bride would, her heart began to falter with every passing moment. Longer and longer the time passed, yet still she lived. With a mutter, she opened her eyes, wondering what all the delay was about. She found a figure framed by sunlight over her.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    The damnable demon.

    And as she looked upwards, seeing its claws squeezed around the throat of the dog that had nearly taken her life, she saw a ragged grin spread across its face.

    ¡°Fun?¡±it asked with bloodstained fangs, glinting as they matched its one red eye. With a short motion, it let the corpse fall to the ground. The fur on its chest was stained and torn from cuts, and it ran a black tongue over its muzzle.

    ¡°Sworn stars, what do you mean, fun?¡± she groaned, sitting up with an effort.

    Before her, she saw three more corpses littering the ground. They were grossly mutilated, one missing a leg, another with a tusk torn out. Vicious cuts ran along their legs and backs, evidence of hard battle. And as the last one stopped kicking, they all proved to be dead.

    ¡°You killed them?¡± she hissed, looking upwards at the demon, and it shrugged a scaly shoulder.

    ¡°Were weak. Fast. But soft.¡± it responded, gesturing to the corpse with her dagger still buried in its stomach. ¡°I cut. Rip.¡± With a casual motion, its flexed its clawed hand open and closed, the blood splatter barely visible against the deep black coloration.

    Suddenly, it looked to her,gesturing to the right with a tilt of its head. ¡°Up.¡± it asserted plainly. ¡°Need run.¡± Almost as if accentuating her point, a bubble of black ran up out of the corpse of the dog. It writhed and twisted, growing from the beast¡¯s stomach to cover its throat and head. It spread quickly, wrapping the entire body with smooth, undulating motions. Skal¡¯ai, came the thought, unbidden and unavoidable. The mass of black twitched and bulged as the shadow devoured the carcass. ¡°Quickly.¡± the demon growled, its neck tense with something like fear.

    She rose to unsteady feet, the muscles in her leg protesting from where they had been struck. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can walk.¡± she murmured, her vision growing hazy as she suddenly toppled from a bout of vertigo.

    A strong arm caught her, hoisting her up. There were hard scales underneath her stomach, and she knew that the demon was carrying her. With an easy grace, it began to take off in a loping run.

    ¡°Wait¡­¡± she muttered, her vision already beginning to fray at the edges. My bag. My dagger. They were fleeting thoughts, and her body betrayed her. Her mind soon lulled, and the rocking of the demon¡¯s gait teased her mind into sleep.

    Yet that sleep was dreamless, for she could not rest. She woke intermittently, seeing but not quite awake in that dazed half-state of consciousness. She saw the brown grass pass beneath her, flying by as they rustled like waves in an ocean. She saw the setting sun as it streaked the sky, sending all manner of color alight as it departed underneath the horizon. She saw the mountains in the distance, massive walls of stone¡ªunmoving and ancient beyond compare. She saw the distant river, trickling with green-blue water. She saw them in flashes, interrupted by sleep and bouts of pain as her body howled in agony. Then, one last time, she fell asleep and was not roused.

    It was a blissful, dreamless sleep. Heat blossomed from her chest to her legs, and warmed her like a fire. When she finally woke, it came as no surprise to see the flame before her. It did, however, surprise her to find herself in a thicket. They must have come far from the center of the Outlands for trees to grow; they must be close to the river, maybe even to the mountainous Pikes.

    The demon was eating in front of her, tearing voraciously into the haunches of some prey beast it must have hunted. When she woke it looked up with a flickering eye before returning to its meal. ¡°Wake.¡± it grunted in between gulps, while tearing at the muscle.

    ¡°Aye.¡± she managed with dry lips, her throat parched. ¡°A fire?¡± she asked.

    ¡°Sister weak. Cold. Need.¡± it replied simply, the words harsh and guttural.

    ¡°What...what do you mean, sister?¡± she groaned, feeling a headache coming on, Her head swam and her thoughts struggled to piece themselves together. Its words were like silk, like water in her mind, and she struggled to hear their meaning and not lose herself in the sound. ¡°Why do you call me that.¡±

    ¡°Same as me.¡± it stated, as if it was obvious. It gestured towards its face at the Maes. ¡°Born from earth.¡±

    Lily heard the meaning for that easily enough, and it cut through her scattered thoughts like the cold bite of strong steel. Finally, she seemed to understand what it was saying. ¡°Five and three curses, what are you talking about?¡± she demanded in confusion, shaking her head. ¡°The Maes? The Maes are symbols of magical heritage. They show an aptitude for magic and spells.¡±

    Now the demon was confused as well, that much was evident from the scowl it wore¡ªa gash that cut through a face carved from stone. ¡°Magic?¡±

    She waved her arms wildly, as if the movement would make her thoughts all the clearer. ¡°Spells. Conjury. Incantations. It¡¯s all magic.¡± Confusion burned in her blood. How was it possible that the demon could make a pact without even knowing what magic and mahji was?

    ¡°The wards I summoned, the crystals I used¡ªit was all magic.¡± Despite her obvious words, the creature still wore that irritating look of confusion on its face.

    Lily pointed at the ground, pointed at the trees and the sky and everything nearby. ¡°The pulse of the land. The energy around you. It¡¯s all magic. Blood and bones, you used it before, in our fight.¡±

    The demon shook its head in disagreement and she found her fists clenched tight from frustration. ¡°Dead. Inside. I feel. I use. Command.¡±

    Her pulse froze in her blood then as a sudden realization dawned on her. ¡°You use dead spirits? You¡¯re a Shai¡¯mon? I thought there were none of those left.¡± Its blank face showed that her comments had only confused it more, but she pressed on without pausing. ¡°And a demon too, sworn stars. How¡ªhow did you learn to channel? How did you learn this?¡±

    It pointed a black claw to the ground. ¡°Earth. Told me. Born from earth.¡±, it growled as if it were obvious.

    She clenched her hands in frustration, clawing furrows into the dirt. Her head hurt. ¡°What are you talking about? The earth? It told you? Blood and bones, demon, you aren¡¯t making any sense.¡±

    It growled now, growing irritated. ¡°Earth spoke. During birth. Spoke of spirits. Taught me.¡±

    Something clicked in her head, the pieces falling into place. She gasped in shock, eyes growing wide. ¡°You must have had a Communion.

 Book 1: Chapter 22: His Clarity

    The words that she spoke, he did not know. This magic, these spells¡ªhe did not understand. He did not know them. The spirits, he knew. The flow of the land, its heartbeat, he knew. She had called him a Shai¡¯mon, had said that he had a communion. The words swarmed in his head like insects, eating away at his skull. He looked at her in confusion, desperately asking for explanation.

    ¡°A Communion,¡± she elaborated, ¡°occurs during birth very occasionally, often between the magically skilled. A spirit of one who recently died comes into contact with that of the newborn in the instant before it dissolves. It is extremely rare, as normally the moment a spirit leaves a host it dissipates. During a Communion, the two spirits will fuse to share the body of the newborn. The dead is able to pass on memories and skills to the infant, like¡ªlike sharing with them their life.¡± Her eyes gleamed bright as she talked, growing excited over the topic. ¡°Among Me''jai, a Communion is highly coveted and there have been many attempts at forcing one.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± he questioned. The idea was new to him, but the pieces fit. A spirit of the dead telling him its secrets.

    She rolled her eyes in frustration. ¡°Obviously, because it grants a great advantage. Think, an entire lifetime¡¯s worth of experiences conveyed in an instant. Thousands of spells and magical theory passed onto the next generation. If you say that the earth taught you magic, then you must¡¯ve had a Communion. Odds are that you just thought the dead spirit was the earth.¡±

    Her eyebrows knitted together as she thought. ¡°But a Communion with a demon is¡ªis unheard of. Blood and bones, even a demon that can channel is ludicrous.¡± Her eyes were wide now as she realized what she was talking about. ¡°And on top of that, being perhaps the only Shai¡¯mon in Altaros.¡± she murmured. Her eyes seemed glazed over, as if she was lost in thought.

    ¡°Shai¡¯mon?¡± he asked with head tilted to the side. He was struggling to keep up with her pace; few of these words he understood.

    ¡°Of course, you don¡¯t know anything.¡± came the reply, not disdainfully. She let out a sigh, as if gathering her thoughts. With a bracing breath, she looked up to stare at him straight in the eye. ¡°We¡¯ll have to start at the beginning. You have the Maes, same as me, do you not?¡±

    When he nodded, she continued, ¡°The Maes are not what you think they are. They are symbols of magical ability.¡± That much he understood about the swirling black patterns that covered his forehead and face. He had always thought that they were proof of his birth from the earth, seeing as he had been the only creature in the Outlands to have them. Meeting her, that would have made her his sister. If she spoke truth, then it seemed that he had been mistaken in its meaning all along.

    ¡°All channelers have the Maes, and only those with the Maes can be channelers.¡±

    ¡°What channelers?¡± He felt tired of asking questions, but it was like an itch under the skin that he had to scratch. She looked at him with an expression of perhaps exasperation and gave a short huff.

    ¡°I was getting to that, if you¡¯d let me finish.¡± Picking up a stick off the ground, she scrawled two circles in the loose dirt. One, she labeled ¡°man¡±, and the other ¡°world¡±.

    ¡°Among most mortals,¡± she began, tapping the circle of man, ¡°these two spheres are utterly separate. They are strictly unable to touch the true pulse of the world and cannot draw upon it. They are utterly restricted¡ªcut off from its heartbeat.¡±

    She drew a line from the circle of world to the circle of man, connecting the two. ¡°Those that can feel the pulse of the earth and can interact with it are channelers. They can channel the power of the earth and, with will of the mortal, use it for their own means. By doing so, they can cast a spell, can cast magic.¡± Here, she paused, looking up to see if he followed her. This much he could understand, at least. He nodded in assent and gestured for her to continue.

    ¡°To channel is to make a pact¡ªone between you and the world. Two things are needed: you must be able to feel the pulse of the world to draw upon it, and the world needs to feel your intent to act. Chanting gives you the pulse, and focused thought draws the pact to finish. To do this successfully is to cast a spell¡ªto influence that which is around you.¡±

    ¡°Chanting.¡± he grunted thoughtfully in acknowledgement. She seemed to take it for confusion, however, and further explained.

    ¡°Chanting is mostly just repetition, really. You can pick any syllables, as long as they are fixed. As long as you can keep the chant consistent, it is acceptable. Of course, some chants are preferable for certain spells. Fire, for example¡ª¡±

    ¡°Enough.¡± he snapped impatiently. Any more of this would only leave him further confused, and as far as he was aware, she still had yet to answer his first question. ¡°Time short. What is Shai¡¯mon?¡±

    She sighed and muttered something about being rude, stabbing her stick into the dirt. Irritation took hold of him then; he had no time for her petty, vapid feelings. He snarled, snapping his fangs shut with an abrupt snap and shocking some sense back into her. ¡°Speak. Night comes.¡± he growled, and her face flushed, perhaps from anger. He did not care; he had saved her for answers, and she would give them to him.

    She let out a defeated little sigh before looking at him once more, holding his gaze despite the color in her cheeks. ¡°Among channelers, there are differences still.¡± She pointed back to the writing on the ground tapping the circle of earth. ¡°Any channeler can influence the sphere of the world; it is the simplest to learn. I can summon fire, and nothing stops you from learning to either.¡±

    ¡°If I wished to kill a man, I could set the ground around him on fire.¡± she proposed, gesturing with her hands as he spoke. ¡°That would be influencing the sphere of the world, and so any channeler can do so. However, I could also choose to set his skin on fire directly. To do so would be to influence the sphere of man.¡±

    Once more she pointed, this time to the circle of man. ¡°If you wish to influence the sphere of man, there are restrictions that cannot be altered. From them come the names, which define more specific classes of channelers. I am Me¡¯jai, albeit one without magic. My spells on others have dealings in the flesh, and my conjury takes form physically. With enough mahji, perhaps, I could shatter your bones without touching you, or stop your heart in your chest. There are Oa¡¯kul as well¡ªchannelers that deal in the mind. They could blind you from a hundred paces, or muddle your senses until reality becomes a dream. And you are Shai¡¯mon, master of the spirit. Tales tell of Shai¡¯mon who could kill armies with a wave of the hand and bring life back to the dead. Who knows if that is true? There have been no Shai¡¯mon to give proof for over a three thousand years.¡±This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    She looked up at him, chewing on her lower lip in thought. ¡°These three aspects¡ªflesh, mind, and spirit¡ªare the cores of life. Just as flesh is the easiest to understand, so too are Me¡¯jai the most common of channelers. And as the spirit is the most profound, so too are Shai¡¯mon the least in number.¡±

    ¡°Spells...of spirit?¡± he questioned. He had always felt the spirits around him¡ªhe had even seen them once when he had broken the dead free from the black stone. They had made a pact then, but he had never truly understood what he was doing. ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°Weren''t you listening?¡± she replied irritatedly. ¡°Pacts, or spells¡ªit matters not which word you prefer, but they require intent of the mortal and pulse of the earth. Fuel is needed as well; it provides energy for the pact. Magic is the best fuel, and by far the most effective. It comes from spirits, after all, much like how warmth radiates from the living¡ªsurely you have felt its warmth in the air around you?¡±

    He nodded in assent. Even now, he still remembered the crackling of her magic against his skin. it was not as foreign a feeling as he had once thought¡ªin retrospect, even the air of the Outlands was filled with damp magic that he had never noticed.

    She continued in her descriptions. ¡°Magic comes in two forms. When channelers use magic, they must use mahji. Mahji is formed from the living spirit. It comes from the decay of the spirit, from the process of death. Almost all channelers produce mahji on their own, with some being a little of a¡ªof an exception.¡± Her eyes glazed over a little then and she chewed on her lower lip, but before he could nudge her on, she spoke.

    ¡°Marai is what we call wild magic¡ªmagic that cannot be used in spells. It can come naturally from the dead, where the dispersing spirit releases marai as a part of its atrophy. Alternatively, when magic has lost its channeler and is without instruction, it grows feral and tainted. It becomes unstable and turns green to the eye. In either case, the wild magic slowly collects. You have seen proof of this in the Outlands: the sky there was covered in the fog of marai.¡±

    She paused here, clearing her throat. At some point, she had picked up the stick once more and was mindlessly poking its end into the loose dirt. Her eyes were glassy and focused on nothing, and he could see the fire dancing in the reflections as if there was flame in her green eyes.

    She seemed lost in thought, but there still seemed more that she had left untold. ¡°And?¡± he prompted, making her snap out of her reverie in shock. Her mouth formed a few soundless words before she gave a little sniff and licked her lips.

    ¡°There is another option rather than magic for fuel. Instead of mahji, a channeler can use vahma¡ªtheir own spirit. In its own way, perhaps, vahma has its merits. For a fuel, it burns stronger, faster, and brighter than mahji ever could. But soulfire kills the user just as surely as it will the target. A part of the spirit, once burned for fuel, never heals. Memories are altered at best, lost at worst. Madness takes hold in sweeping fits, and death comes as a certainty not soon after.¡±

    She seemed to shudder as she spoke this, the sheen of sweat on her forehead not wholly from the crackling fire. Her eyes were fixed in the flame, glassy and unblinking, and she held her knees to her chest with a shiver. Before he could ask, she spoke, almost half a whisper and half to herself.

    ¡°Perhaps worse so, the decay feels natural as it comes. The more that vahma is used, the easier it comes the next time¡ªand the less easily it can be controlled. And the more that it is used, the more it wants to be used, until the pleasure blinds the mind and the body bursts into ecstatic flame. The spirit unravels and frays, and the insanity bites in as sweet as a sugar viper. It should be resisted¡ªmust be resisted¡ªlest death come in a fit of madness, and you welcome it with open arms.¡±

    Those last words seemed for her as much as for him, and he found himself wondering just how dangerous this vahma was, just how strong its addiction could be.

    He was waiting for her to keep speaking, but she fell silent. If she had any more to say, then the words had caught in her throat. For a moment there was only silence. The fire crackled loudly, bits of firewood snapping in the blaze. Insects filled the night with a chorus of buzzing wings, and the wind was cold as it blew¡ªthe sparse trees gave little in the way of cover.

    ¡°And Shai¡¯mon?¡± he asked finally, breaking the silence. She looked up, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

    ¡°What?¡± came the reply distractedly, as if she was still thinking about something else.

    ¡°What of Shai¡¯mon?¡± He had the sneaking suspicion that there was more that she had left unsaid. ¡°What happen?¡±

    ¡°They''re gone now. All gone.¡± she replied brusquely, eyes flickering dangerously in the light. A howl from some beast or other rose out from behind the trees, as if to give emphasis to her words. With the way she acted, it was clear that she wanted nothing more to say on the subject, but he pushed her further nonetheless.

    ¡°Gone? Where? Why?¡± There was a finality to her words that boded ill, but he had to know. He remembered the images of the men garbed in blue and violet, remembered the Unseen, remembered the once-buried dark now loosed from its shackles. The more he thought about it, the more he had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew the answer. Even still, he needed confirmation.

    ¡°Gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Can¡¯t you get that through your skull?¡± she barked in a sudden fury. ¡°Dead or lost or what, I don¡¯t care! They¡¯re gone, and you¡¯re the only one left! So five and three curses, demon, ask me no more on this.¡±

    See how she hides? See how she lies with a slanderous tongue? See how she flees like prey and runs like the condemned? She has her crimes that eat her from within. She has been seduced by Sin¡ªshe even bears his scent. Andahiel is a fool. Kill her. Kill her now, scion.

    The dead rose up all of a sudden, as if in response to her outburst. Like a swarm of buzzards, they descended upon his thoughts¡ªripping, shredding, tearing, until he could not even think. A storm raged inside his skull, and he roared in pain as warm blood dripped out of his ears from where he clawed himself madly.

    He struggled to regain control of himself, to wrestle his body back from the dead. It was him against a thousand, but he was the strong. They were the dead, mere spirits, and he was Shai¡¯mon. He was the last.

    Lies, they hissed. She feeds you lies.

    We are Shai¡¯mon, blood of your blood, last of the last. We fought the coming darkness. We were rewarded with eternal pain and servitude. We were betrayed and forgotten, and now the new generation dances over the ashes of our graves. Now Sin wakes.

    Vengeance. For Sin and for the dead that we have become. Give us this, scion.

    Give us our vengeance.

 Book 1: Chapter 23: A Price for Curiosity

    The sun broke through the window, its golden light making Kail stir from his sleep. As he yawned and rubbed his eyes with sore muscles, he realized that he had fallen asleep some time ago. Looking down at himself, he found fresh bandages over his wounds and a weathered gray blanket tossed over him during his sleep.

    He smiled softly, remembering Sir¡¯s kindness. Legs protesting at the sudden use, he stood up with some difficulty and stretched lazily. Fresh air blew in through the window, crisp with the smell of seawater from the harbor. The uneven dripping of the broken water clock, the creaking floorboards, even the very smell, Kail was overcome with the sense of nostalgia. Of home.

    Stepping into the bedroom, he heard Sir snoring softly, lying on his back. Gently, Kail draped the blanket over the man¡¯s chest before closing the wooden door softly. He then turned and went outside, fetching some water that the basin outside had collected. Filling a stone cup with the rainwater, he set it outside Sir¡¯s door before taking a deep breath.

    Making his way onto the street, he navigated through the crowd, the stalls and harbor filled with the sounds of people laughing and yelling. Merchants sold fruit and jewelry; workers unloaded wooden crates from ships in the port. Birds cawed as they circled above, the sky a brilliant blue as the sun shone brightly. It was the day once more, and the previous night was forgotten as quickly as it had come. For the first time in his life in this double-faced city, Kail felt a thick disgust well up inside of him. It was a hate for the people here, who so willingly ignored all that they did in the dark. It was a hate for the gods, for letting place fall to such ruin. It was a hate for the very foundations and stone upon which this place was built; he hated that this place existed. He hated that so many had died, and he hated that so many more still would. The cruel machinations of this world would claim more, like some kind of voracious beast.

    A helplessness sank into his bones as he realized the size and scale of what he stood against. It was not a single man, not a mere group. It was a way of life, an entire resigned society resisting change. For the first time in a long while, he questioned his purpose and his drive, questioned his ability. Those doubts snuck into his heart like a quiet poison, and they burned softly no matter how hard he tried to ignore them. Yet his face grew taut as determination set in, a quiet flame that spread from his chest to his arms and legs. There was something that he needed to see before the night fell. That much, at the very least, he could do.

    He stopped by a vendor, intending to buy some food before he left. Kail bought some meager bread and dried fruit, tossing a few copper coins onto the wooden countertop before returning home. Placing some of the food outside of Sir¡¯s room, he tore off a bit of bread with his teeth before putting the rest in his pack. He sighed as he felt an aching tiredness set into his bones. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and rest, but he could not. He had made up his mind, and he would see it through.

    Sir had cleaned and hidden his weapons away and Kail did not bother to get them out. An armed boy walking in the busy street would only cause commotion and harm, at least during the day. He decided instead to take a simple knife that he held strapped to his forearm, a rare present that he had received from Sir. With a pack full of food and some meager medicinal supplies, Kail stepped outside. He navigated the maze of alleys and backways before ending up near the section of the city that had been razed to the ground only a mere two nights ago.

    The new day had done little to disperse the smell of charred flesh, which lingered as a reminder of those who had died. Already he saw carrion birds amidst the ruins, pecking at burnt sliver of meat and bone, sometimes swallowing, otherwise coughing up the dry ash in disgust. The wind blew the black dust into piles, revealing the skeletons of burnt metal and stone. Shattered glass and the occasional beam of timber lay amidst the remains, glinting where they caught the sunlight or protruding like beams of a sinking ship in a rocky sea..

    He scanned the ground, forcing his nausea of his memories down, searching for several minutes before he found what he was looking for: footprints. Or rather, pawprints. Amidst the dust and dirt were the faint outlines of clawed feet, caught in running motion. Short hair dusted the ground, some having been blown away by the wind. Carefully, he pinched a hair between his fingers and lifted it to his nose, taking a short sniff. The barest trace of the sickly smell of refuse and waste wafted up, mingling with the stench of death. It was faint, but it was unmistakeable.

    Taking a deep breath, Kail sifted through the ash until he found a blackened bone, buried under broken stone and untouched by carrion birds or other scavengers. With an open palm, he lightly dusted off the soot to look closely at the bone. Scratch marks covered its surface, one end cracked and the marrow slurped out. Bits of flesh clinged on in some corners, but the rest was picked clean. Hurriedly searching through the warm ash, Kail found the rest of the remains, an assortment of bones left scattered on the ground. It was obvious that this person had not died in the fire. He had been eaten.

    He recognized the claw prints, recognized the greasy hair, recognized the smell. He knew what had come to kill all of these people. It was the rat things.

    Gangs usually took in the orphans that had been left on the streets. Sometimes though, if they wandered into the sewers or disappeared in the darkness of the night, they would reemerge as disgusting monsters, as hideous abominations. If they survived whatever happened to them, they became rat things. No one knew what happened to them when they left the alleys and entered the sewers. Some said that they signed a contract with the Devil, others thought they ate other men. Sir thought that it was some kind of wild magic, or perhaps a channeler¡¯s work. Regardless of the cause, they were no longer human.

    They had yellowed claws and pale white eyes that bulged in their sockets. Their skin was a cracked green that reeked of refuse. A swollen stomach and bony limbs belied a powerful strength that could tear metal and armor. A black brand ran down their spine, hidden by oily hair that covered their body, their mouths full of sharp teeth and rotting slivers of meat. A slim tail covered in oily fur circled their bodies, twitching and writhing like a worm.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    The rat things lived in Maris Tor¡¯s undercity, the network of broken tunnels and sewers leading underneath the alleys. They only came out at night, feasting on the dead that lined the streets. They were like animals, living in packs that fought over the scraps of food and corpses. Perhaps it would be more apt to describe them as broods, the way they fought over territory and grew in size. It was their grotesque version of a family, perhaps, since few were related by blood. They could breed too, amongst themselves, along with ¡°adopting¡± any incautious orphans. As a result, they littered the sewers under the city, although few aboveground had even heard of them.

    Kail remembered the only time that he had seen a rat thing, just a few feet from a broken sewer grate. It had been gorging on the corpse of a man, claws tearing short strips of flesh from the bone. When that thing had smelled him, it had looked up in a sharp movement. Those beady white eyes had gazed into his, and he remembered a horrendous repulsion that filled him even now just from thinking of its visage. It was unnatural, twisted, grotesque. It had given him a high-pitched hiss, akin to violently boiling water from a kettle, and he had ran without a moment¡¯s hesitation. He had not looked back, not even slowed, until he had returned to Sir¡¯s home.

    Days had passed, and he had thought it perhaps some dream. When he had finally worked up the nerve, he returned to the alley. Yet beside that grate lay a pile of broken bones, cracked open and the marrow sucked out. On the cobbles were scratches from claws too large for a cat, and the bars on the sewer grate itself had marks from claws and teeth. And that was when he knew that they were real.

    In the following days, he began to notice tapping noises in the walls and floors where he had ignored them before. Fetid odors snuck out of the stones, hissing noises where there were no pipes. When he finally asked Sir, he learned of their twisted nature.

    Rat things lived under the city, and although their origins were human, they were clearly more beast than man. They bred too quickly, their pups growing in mere days to drive their population to explosion. The pipes were filled to the brim with mewling pups that clawed and scratched as they searched for food with beady eyes. Many of them would be born only to starve to death, their bodies quickly torn apart by their brothers and sisters, not always fully dead. Cannibalism was commonplace with so many mouths to feed, and the oldest bore more scars than unblemished skin. Those exceptionally hungry, or perhaps foolhardy, ventured to the surface in hopes of an unsuspecting meal.

    Kail knew those claw marks, knew that disgusting stench. The Black Wolves had become meat for these foul starving beasts.

    However, it still did not explain the fire that had burned the neighborhood to cinders. Rat things only sought out food, there was no need for them to completely burn part of the city to ash. Kail rubbed his nose, thinking that it was likely the Blood Hawks had a hand. It would suit their interests, using rat things instead of their own men to kill the Black Wolves, before burning what was left behind to cover their tracks. Kail felt himself grow weak as he thought about what this would implied. It would mean that they had a way of communicating with the rat things, of controlling them. Perhaps it was through magic, or perhaps with simple food.

    If so, then what would stop the whole city from burning?

    Standing up suddenly, Kail turn around as the sound of soft footsteps came from behind him. A tall man in red was walking towards him, knives twirling in his hands. A mask covered the man¡¯s face, crimson gloves impeccably clean. Not a speck of skin could be seen as he stopped and stared at Kail. This man was a cleaner¡ªsomeone to cut any loose ends.

    ¡°So a little mouse has come out to play.¡± His voice was smooth and soft, holding in it a quiet confidence that matched his effortless grace. ¡°Seems you¡¯ve bit off a little more than you can chew.¡±

    Without any further words, he flicked his wrist, sending the knife flying straight at Kail. With hardly any time to react, Kail dropped to the ground, hearing the whistling of the air as metal streaked over his head. He could not pause as another two knives flickered at his diminutive form, the light gleaming off their sharp tip. Rolling to the side, one missed him and sent shards of cracked stone flying into the air, the other buried itself deep into his right arm.

    Kail clenched his teeth as he stifled a scream of pain. In a smooth motion, he flicked his own dagger out of its holster into his palm, feeling his fingers close around the familiar grip. Knowing that his only option would be to close the distance as quickly as possible, he leapt to his feet before charging straight at the man in red.

    ¡°So the mouse thinks he has fangs.¡±

    Kail was in a dead sprint, suddenly dropping into a slide as a fist struck where he was a second before. He tackled the man into the floor, slashing up along the leg to make him crumple. Kail wrestled his way on top, but the masked man wriggled out of the hold before grabbing the hilt of the knife in Kail¡¯s arm and pulling it out with a yell. With his left arm, Kail tried to keep the knife from cutting his neck, his own dagger already having been knocked away in the frantic scramble. Despite using all of his strength, the blade inched closer and closer to his skin, the light glinting in a menacing fashion.

    He suddenly let go, sliding his head to the side while using his left arm to punch the man in the stomach. The action changed the course of the slash, which ran down the side of his head instead of his throat. With his right hand, he grabbed the knife, not caring as it cut deep into his palm as long as it was not his neck. His left hand grabbed the man¡¯s throat, squeezing as hard as he could with the desperation of the soon-to-be dead. The knife blade bit into his hand, blood streaming down his arm as the wound burned with fire, but he ignored it. Kail saw the veins on the man¡¯s neck bulge as he increased his pressure, the man¡¯s struggles slowly growing weaker. Sputtering gasps snuck out from behind his mask, but they soon too fell silent. His arms went limp, his chest no longer heaving. He went horribly still.

    A memory struck Kail¡¯s mind, images of corpses bathed in blood. Of fountains of scarlet spraying out of torn stomachs and that awful moment wenth the light in their eyes disappeared. Tears filled his eyes as he realized that he had killed before, and that he was about to again. He let go of his grip, the man taking in a deep shuddering gasp. In a sudden motion, he tore the mask off with bloodied fingers, revealing a pox-scarred face underneath. Boils and pustules wept pus over a pitted face, the skin covered with a latticework of knife scars. A Blood Hawk tattoo sat over his right eye, obscured by leprosy and age. Kail did not want to kill him, did not want any further blood on his hands.

    Kail rose quickly, the man in red still coughing as he struggled for breath. Leaving him where he was, Kail turned and ran as fast as he could. He did not know where, only wanted to run away before memories and images of those dying faces caught up to him.

    As he fled, the cut on his palm dripping a crimson trail behind him.

 Book 1: Chapter 24: His Deceivers

    The carrion birds were circling greedily above the the green-hazed sky, perhaps hoping for a meal from the two figures below. They were not nearly foolish enough to dare approach the Skal¡¯ai, let alone scavenge from the kills. Instead, they followed their prey with a hunter¡¯s patience, fleeing south with desperation as soon came behind them.

    They were fleeing south, for she had spoken of warning the king. She wished to warn him of the Skal, as if he weld some great power to stop it. It was utterly foolish, this much was truth. He was some man in a hall of stone, wearing a wreath of gold upon his head, yet she spoke of him as someone with power. It was madness. He was a mortal man, without true strength. All he had were words, and words would not sway the Skal¡¯ai.

    Still, she wished to go to him, and he supposed that he would follow, as he was without a true destination. He wished only to flee, to run as far from the Skal as he could, and perhaps this king could help him. If nothing else, this king and his men could serve as useful fodder while they fled. The Skal¡¯ai seemed to need to pause for a while, at the very least, while they consumed their prey. The time that an army could bring might be enough to flee from this land. She had spoken of other lands across the seas, and perhaps they would be free of living shadows.

    He could still feel a chill in his forehead whenever he thought of the Skal, for it always made him think of the corpse upon that shadowed throne. It made him remember the mark that he bore from that corpse¡¯s touch¡ªthe mark of a prey to a hunter. While it no longer sent lancing pain through his mind, he had no doubts that it still was there. He had no doubts that the corpse could see him.

    And so they ran south, both with different hopes. She hoped to kill that which had no life, and he hoped to flee from inescapable eyes. Fools, the both of them, and they ran in foolish company. He still had yet to question her about the black stone in her pouch, yet he realized now in his panic that he had left it behind. She had not brought up the matter, but he resolved to ask her in any case. Perhaps it had been a foolhardy move to leave them behind, but he had been frightened by the Skal¡¯ai. They had been hardly an arm¡¯s length away, yet he had no regrets for leaving that company of shadows as quickly as possible. Had his movement been with any hesitation, then they both would have joined the verin upon the plains.

    They had ran for the entire day, following the river that she called the Hope. Perhaps its name was apt: a lingering hope for life in these parched lands. Stopping only briefly for a halfday meal, they had covered a great deal of distance by foot. When she grew tired and was unable to continue, he had carried her on his back, for his body still had more that it could do. Every moment spent in pause was time for Skal¡¯ai to close in. They would be moments of regret for their weakness and respite when shadows closed in on the flesh.

    Still, they needed to rest at some point, and so when they finally stopped at night, it was on the muddy banks by the river. Gathering some dry grasses from nearby, he started a fire with his claws and stone. There was a fleeting temptation to set the plains afire, for he doubted that the Skal¡¯ai could cross hungry flame, but he decided against it. After all, the winds were capricious, and there was no certainty that the fire would not instead travel in their direction and burn them alive first. It could be a final act of desperation, but it carried too much risk to be any more. Instead, as they sat and ate bits of plant roots and some scavenged berries, he turned to ask her a question.

    ¡°Your pack.¡± he started, the words grating in his throat. The tongue of man proved a nuisance to perform, requiring a frustrating degree of finesse that he had never bothered to invest before. They were beginning to be easier to form with practice, yet it still was a challenge to shape his tongue in the needed way. The noises were harsh and low, causing her to flinch when he starting talking. ¡°Inside it.¡±

    She raised her head suddenly, her face a stark white against the campfire. ¡°What about my pack?¡± she asked with surprise, not quite masking the nervousness in her voice. There was guilt there, behind her eyes. He could see it flickering, betraying her mouth.

    ¡°Was stone.¡± he growled, raising his right arm so that she could see. ¡°Black. Like this.¡± It was not a question; it was a statement. He knew to it be true; he had seen it fall out onto the grasses from inside her pack. He had seen the billowing smoke, all too familiar from his vision with the corpse. A visible tremor ran down her back, yet she seemed not to have noticed it. Instead, her attention was devoted to the flesh on his wrist.

    ¡°H-how¡­¡± she started, her expression stricken. All of the blood drained from her face as she seemed to realize something. ¡°I-I had seen it before, but¡­¡± She took in a deep breath, licking her dry lips with a quick motion. ¡°I never realized¡­¡±

    She was lost in thought, not even noticing as a single tear rolled down her cheek and dripped onto the grass below her. She did not make a motion to wipe it, but the heat from the fire dried her skin quickly enough. ¡°My¡ªI had one ju¡ª¡± she stammered, apparently too shaken to gather her thoughts. The shock and surprise had thrown her off, had send her thoughts flying in bedlam. If he wanted any answers, now would be the best time to press her, before she could decide what to say.

    ¡°You know. What this is.¡± he snarled with effort, but he needed her to understand him. He needed to know.

    She shook her head violently, more tears flying into the air around her. ¡°I-I got mine from k-killing my teacher. He was, was in my dreams from earlier. I never¡ªnever thought¡ªI thought that he would b-be gone.¡± Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    He growled in irritation. She was hard enough to understand when her words were whole, but now she was limping like a lame pup. He pressed her harder, continuing, ¡°Where you get. How.¡±

    She blinked furiously, wiping tears from her eyes as she hiccuped. ¡°I was d-dreaming. When I was still in Telavir. I was d-dreaming, but I was walking. And I, I could see h-him as I dreamed. I killed him.¡± She let a little shuddering gasp as she said that last sentence, the tension draining from her back as let out a short huff. ¡°I killed him.¡± she repeated, as if confirming that statement. He snorted, as if she had never killed before. She was acting like a whelp that had never been blooded.

    ¡°When I¡ªwhen I killed him, I woke up. And I saw him, in his eye there was a stone. I-I took it out; I have no idea why. But I clawed it out, and he¡ªhe spoke to me. Even though his throat was cut.¡± She hiccuped, a little laugh slipping out of her mouth like she was filled with madness. Perhaps she was, but he needed her answers nevertheless. She had been dreaming? She had killed him while dreaming?

    Yet as he waited for her to continue, she spoke no more. She was only laughing, in between her sobbing hiccups, and slowly, she crawled onto her side in the grass. Madness was draped around her like a cloak, and he could tell his words would not pierce through that fog. It seemed that he could press her no more, and as the crackling of the fire wore on, she drifted off into to sleep. And so he was left alone, eating his damnable berries with only the dead for company.

    Yet the dead of his were not nearly as quiet as most were. They writhed in his mind with much to say, it seemed.

    She speaks the truth. They were a thousand voices, their wrath palpable in their words. The blackstones were forged by Oa¡¯kul to further Sin¡¯s grasp. They were hidden in the mind, within dreams. That was where you found us, scion of Andahiel: within your dreams.

    He realized now the import of their words, scratching the blackstone in his flesh with a claw. This small gem, what power did it hold? To be able to imprison so many dead, and to hold them for so many years, what was its true strength?

    She has been bent by Sin. Already he has claimed her dreams, has claimed her flesh while she dreamt. Her mind will be next, and then she will be his thrall in full. They spoke of this with a certainty that his breathing pause. Sin held thousands under his thrall. What is one more?

    But then, why was she made to kill a man? What use could that have?

    The blackstones hold the spirits of the dead. They will be pulled closer in scenes of death. For you it was your own. For her it was her master¡¯s. Eons now, Sin has slept. Now he wakes, seeking to gather the stones of his power once more. With them, the world will weep.

    The dead waited, perhaps for a response of his own, but he knew not what to think. His mind was a mess, his body tired and worn. Perhaps sleep would serve to sort everything out, and so he slumped onto his back with a weary single-mindedness. Yet as sleep rose to claim him, he could not help but wonder what this Sin looked like. And the dead, as if in mockery, spoke laughingly. You have seen him already. And his forehead burned with cold fire as he drifted off once more, a brand like a pair of eyes that loomed over him.

    When he woke, it was before she had. The sun had just crawled over the horizon, and she was still resting with the deep sleep of a pup. Her flesh truly was weak; it was irritating. Unable to run far, and yet needing more rest than his own¡ªif it was not for her magic her kind surely would have died off ages ago.

    She mumbled as he roused her, yet her eyes snapped open fast enough when he snapped his teeth next to her ears. ¡°Five and three curses, you demon.¡± she swore as she sat up. ¡°Haven¡¯t you ever been told to leave a sleeping woman alone? I suppose not, eh¡­¡± she muttered, dusting the grass off her sleepily.

    ¡°Go.¡± he replied as he jostled her, pulling her to her feet with a casual strength. ¡°How far.¡± She wanted to go south, but he knew not where their destination lay. They were just following the Hope, and the mountains that lay just beyond it.

    ¡°Not f-far¡± she yawned, brushing her short hair out of her face. ¡°If we keep following the Pikes south, we¡¯ll run into the Twisting Spires soon enough. Through them, we can get to the Capital by carriage in a matter of days.¡± Startled, she turned to see that he was already loping off into the distance. Hurriedly, she started after him, muttering under her breath about ungentlemanly behavior and waiting for a lady.

    ¡°Through them.¡± he grumbled as they walked. As if stone was so simple. Even with his claws, it could take weeks to carve through a mountain, and he doubted that these Twisting Spires were merely one mountain. It would be plenty of time for the Skal¡¯ai to catch them, and he worried that she underestimated their strength. She placed too much value in her magic, as the fool places too much strength on his claws. He forgets the thing in his skull, and his claws break when they meet stronger scales. They could not hope to fight the Skal¡¯ai; they were innumerable and unkillable.

    ¡°Worry not.¡± she continued, panting as she ran alongside his strides. Not nearly an hour since they began, and already she was beginning to show signs of wearing down. Her flesh was pathetic, and he believed that it struck a new low every day. Soon she would begin heaving, and then not long after she would need to be carried.

    He only wished that she would at least be able to make it past halfday this time.

    ¡°The king¡¯s got diggers to mine these mountains. The Twisting Spires are full of silver and iron, and the old man in Telavir said that there¡¯s a war right now. They¡¯ll be needing the steel, so there¡¯s bound to be some mines that we can use to get through.¡± she explained, in between short puffs and gasps for air. It was difficult to discern her words, but he managed to make most of them out.

    ¡°Mines.¡± he asked, not knowing what she meant.

    ¡°C-carved stone.¡± she elaborated, sweat soaking her clothes as the sun wore down. ¡°They tunnel through the, the mountains. To find metal.¡±

    ¡°Tunnels.¡± he mused, imagining something much like his old cave. ¡°What like?¡± he asked as they ran.

    ¡°Well,¡± she panted. ¡°Something like that.¡± Her finger pointed off to the distance, where the walls of stone to their left began to curve in front of them. Great pillars rose out of the earth, towering and piercing the sky. Their moniker of Twisting Spires truly was apt.

    And as they drew closer, he could see holes in the stone, framed by what seemed to be the same material used in her daggers. Steel.

    There were hundreds of those holes in the mountains, reminding him of anthills and their burrows. These even had ants, milling about as they worked the mountain.

    Only these ants, he realized slowly, were men.

 Book 1: Chapter 25: A Promise for Fools

    Kail sprinted through the crowd, elbowing aside passerby without apology as he ran through the streets. His heart with a war drum, thumping like thunder in his mind with every booming stroke. Blood dripped from his wounded palm as he rounded the corner, splattering stark crimson onto the weathered stone. He was panting hard as he opened the door to Sir¡¯s house, dropping his pack on the floor before pressing his left hand hard against the cut. Stepping outside, he forced himself to remain calm as he poured some of the rainwater into a cup, washing the wound on his palm. He scrubbed at the wound vigorously, which was burning with an unnatural heat, his fingers feeling thick and swollen. No matter how hard he scrubbed to clean the wound, however, the blood kept flowing. He could barely move his hand, his fingers unresponsive. Peering close, he saw a thick, clear white slime that coated the lips of the wound. He sniffed at it, recoiling at its putrid smell. Even without any knowledge of what it would do to him, he knew that it was poison.

    Making himself take deep breaths to slow his heart rate, he walked back inside and rapped gently on Sir¡¯s door. His breathing was coming in fast, a sensation of lightheadedness threatening to grip him as he fought to focus. A low grunt came from inside the room, telling him to go away.

    ¡°I¡¯m poisoned.¡± Kail said softly, not moving from where he stood. His one hand squeezed tight, and he could feel his swollen flesh pulsing with every heartbeat.

    A low-pitched curse snuck its way past the door, and he heard movement¡ªa low scuffling sound as Sir got off the floor. An angry face greeted Kail as the door opened, stern and flushed with livid fury.

    ¡°Are you stupid, boy? You got yerself poisoned? Tell me I¡¯m just going deaf.¡± His expression was one of incredulity, as if he was embarrassed even to know the fool in front of him.

    Kail shook his head apologetically, replying simply, ¡°I was cut. The blade had poison.¡± He offered to palm to show Sir. The old man¡¯s face reeled in response, eyebrows raised in shock.

    ¡°Frost lily poison?¡± he remarked lowly. ¡°And you¡¯re still alive?¡± Kail merely looked at Sir, not responding.

    ¡°The hell were you doing, boy? I just fixed you up from death, and you go off chasing it again?¡± Sir grumbled, carefully pressing down gently on the inflamed flesh.

    Kail mumbled, ¡°I was going back to the Black Wolves territory. There were marks there¡ªfrom the rat things. But when I looked further, a cleaner got me.¡±

    Sir heaved a sigh before grabbing Kail¡¯s palm in both of his hands. Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he muttered, ¡°I can¡¯t believe I¡¯ve raised an idiot after all these years. What a wasted effort.¡± When he opened his eyes, they were gleaming white, wisps of smoke curling from the edges. ¡°It¡¯s already spread through your arm and most of your chest.¡± Without preamble, he slapped Kail hard on the shoulder, making Kail recoil in shock. He had not felt anything from the blow, only a numb burning that traveled down his arm. Concerned, he looked at Sir only to find a grim set of lines etched into his old face.

    ¡°This will be hard. Lie down.¡± he grunted as he stepped aside to let Kail enter the room.

    Kail nervously lay down onto the old wooden floor, hearing timber creak under his weight as Sir shut the door. After pressing his hands against Kail¡¯s skin, Sir took a deep breath before closing his eyes. They opened again wreathed with that milky white, his mouth muttering short phrases in an unsettling cadence. There was a tension in his body, the cords on his neck bulging against papery skin. With each beat, Kail felt heat surge against his flesh; in a mere manner of seconds, he was sweating profusely. His arm felt like it was on fire, the skin being seared raw by an unyielding heat. Sir was chanting still, his body swooning slightly in a gentle pulse. Slight ribbons of purple danced around his fingertips, sinking into Kail¡¯s flesh with each beat, pulling more and more of the fire to the surface.

    The chanting grew to a climax now, Sir¡¯s eyes gazing upwards as his tongue voiced guttural sounds with an fervid intensity. The heat was excruciating, steam rolling off the surface of his skin as beads of sweat sizzled into vapor in the air. Some of the sweat stayed, slowly creeping out of his pores until he realized that it was not perspiration but rather clear poison. More and more of it oozed onto his arm, the tugging of the magic bringing it to the surface.

    Each beat of the chant came faster now, the cadence speeding up. Sir¡¯s head was swooning, his brows furrowed with concentration. The magic pulsed with greater urgency, the poison now coating Kail¡¯s arm in a viscous fluid that dripped out of his pores. More and more of the magic poured into his flesh until with a final breath of relief Kail felt the sudden snap as the heat left his skin. The flaming heat left him, making him feel naked without its scalding presence. He was breathing hard, the poison coating his arm.

    Sir was still chanting, his magic now scooping poison off Kail¡¯s arm. Purple ribbons wrapped around the venom, swelling as they began to absorb the toxin with a greedy hunger. The magic circled his arm, squeezing tighter and tighter with each beat as they expanded until they suddenly fell to the floor limply. Slowly, the magic dispersed into purple dust that dispersed into the air, taking the poison with it. Kail¡¯s arm was dry and red, the skin peeling off in flaky bits. The poison had completely left him.

    Sir collapsed onto the ground with hardly a sound, his chest heaving rapidly as a bright sheen of sweat covered his wrinkled face. The veins on his face and neck were bulging as his pulse skyrocketed, teeth chattering as his mouth ran off nonsensical sounds. The wisps of white from his eyes were a dense smoke that poured forth in a milky fog. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    The old man had exerted himself too much; now he was paying the price. Purple magic vented from his pores, a crackling sound filling the air as massive amounts of heat filled the room. The very air became hard to breathe, Kail¡¯s lungs being scalded with every breath. The magic that gathered around Sir was becoming dense as the backlash grew larger and larger.

    Suddenly the chanting stopped.

    The smoke from his eyes cleared as his body spasmed, clearing the smoke from his body. His eyes rolled furiously in their sockets, muscles straining to their limits before settling back down. His body was running through its functions after venting so much magic, fighting to regain control of a cart thrown askew. His back arched violently, his chest thrust into the air as the bones of his spine cracked one by one. Finally, he fell down to the floor, chest breathing normally.

    A light snore told Kail that his master had fallen asleep.

    Kail had draped a blanket over the old man¡¯s chest before lying down to sleep, only to find that he could not even close his eyes. Sir was sleeping soundly, his mind tired from the burden that wielding magic had upon him. Kail sat on the floor for a while, thinking. His thoughts wandered as he absentmindedly rapped his fingers on the floor. His mind was filled with countless questions, his body tired but his spirit filled with boundless energy. And so, he wondered.

    He wondered about the gangs and the dead that littered the streets. It would be dark outside soon, and with the disappearance of the sun would come the deaths of countless in the city. Their screams would punctuate the night like a shrill staccato. Kail knew the sound; he had grown up with it every night. His heart had already grown cold to its presence.

    He wondered about the rat things, and why they were here. For as long as anyone could remember since the founding of the city, the rat things had been there. Some said that it was a part of the curse of the night on Maris Tor, a part of the Devil¡¯s curse upon them. They were the eyes of the darkness, its teeth and fangs. They were savage beasts, but worst of all, they were once human. They were corrupted beasts and broken men, driven to madness and feral insanity. They were monsters, pitiable and deadly.

    He wondered about Sir, about the master that he owed so much to. The old man had raised him, taught him, and saved him countless times now. He owed to this man his very life and every fiber of his heart swelled with a sense of burning loyalty. He was proud, proud to know this man. He was proud of his mentor¡¯s strength and utterly devoted. Closing his eyes, Kail swore thrice upon his heart as a sign of his filial loyalty: once for all he owed in the past, once for all that he knew in the present, and once for all that he would give in the future. The boy¡¯s eyes burned bright as a sense of complete admiration and love filled his chest.

    He swore to live a life like that of Sir¡¯s, to live a life that would make his mentor proud.

    It was with those words that determination dripped its way into his coursing veins, a surge of energy filling his muscles. This web of conflict and lies that had wrapped its way around the city, he could feel it closing tighter and tighter. He would break it open, he would do it. He knew now as a sudden sense of hope and resolve burned bright on his spirit. He was meant to break this curse upon the city. He would make Sir proud.

    The faces of the dead flashed through his mind, but there was no longer hesitation. To make Sir proud, no matter the price.

    Opening the door to Sir¡¯s room, he took a long look at his master¡¯s face, a fondness and pride bringing a small tear to his cheek as he realized how much he owed to the old man. With a quiet promise that he would see him again, he shut to door, silently creeping his way out of the house. In his excitement, Kail hardly noticed that Sir¡¯s quiet snoring had long since stopped.

    With his weapons gathered, Kail stepped onto the streets, slipping into an alleyway before realizing a sudden wetness on his fingers. It had started to rain.

    The water splashed off the stone, at first gentle but slowly growing into a downpour that drenched the city. The splatter of the rain on the ground slowly cleared the mists that covered the ground as the night came.

    Rain had not fallen in Maris Tor for over a year. The air was humid from the sea, but there were no mountains at its back and the winds that merchants loved so faithfully blew with them any wisps of clouds in the sky. Yet, on this rare occasion, rain pattered on roof tiles, trickling down shabby buildings as real as any other water.

    Amongst the soft sound of falling water, Kail heard a faint whimpering and the sound of scrabbling claws. He felt his body suddenly tense as he waited, hearing the sound come again. Quickly, he ran, worn boots splashing through rain puddles as he rounded the corner fast enough to catch a glimpse of a slender tail, black in the night as it slipped behind a building. Sprinting, Kail ran in its direction, feet sliding in the wet dirt, mud splashing onto his pants.

    Sure enough, when he closed in on the source of the sound, he found a rat thing, still small and skinny. It was clawing at its head, clearly disliking the rain that fell from the sky. Shaking its head vigorously, it scampered off down the alley, claws slipping on the wet stone. Clawing furiously at the metal grille at the end, it slipped into the sewers below, the scraping nails on metal clearly heard echoing down the tunnel.

    Kail knew where this tunnel led: it ran down to the western part of the city, where Blood Hawk territory was. These men had set monsters upon the city; they would be sure to hold answers. Taking a deep breath, he set into a jog towards the west, staying close to where he knew the sewer ran underground. Here, he was already far from the vice-filled center of the city; now the streets were mostly empty save for the occasional fresh trail of blood trickling down the wet brick.

    After ten minutes of running, the moon started to peek out of the clouds, the rare stint of rain already ending as the last drops of water drizzled down from the sky. Kail could hear the scrabbling and whining of rat things nearby, their pups mewling as the rain clouds parted. Slowly, Kail shrugged his claw-shield off his shoulder, fingers tightening around his hook. Remembering his promise, remembering his pride, he strode forward, confidence in his step. To make Sir proud, no matter the price, he thought, and his grip tightened around his hook.

 Book 1: Chapter 26: A Costly Slumber

    ¡°Is, is there a particular reason why we need t-to run ourselves into the ground?¡± Lily panted, her legs burning until she thought they might simply collapse. She had thought that they would rest, now that the mines of the Twisted Spires were within reach, but rather, seeing their destination seemed to have only further inspired the crow-cursed demon.

    ¡°Skal.¡± he grunted simply, not even winded despite having ran for the better part of the day.

    Finally, unable to continue, she collapsed onto the ground with her chest heaving. Every breath was like acid in her lungs, and her throat felt like it was ripped raw. She could taste blood in the back of her mouth, bitter and metallic on her tongue. Tears and sweat blurred her vision, burning in her eyes as she struggled to wipe them with dirt-covered hands. A shadow fell over her as she struggled to stand, and a clawed hand suddenly grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to her feet.

    The demon had told her that the Fells this time were different, that the Skal¡¯ai were hunting them. She shuddered, remembering the black mist that had smothered her into sleep and nearly death. If those words were truth, then they would need to flee beyond the mountains. The Capital could have the resources to help them, especially if the Skal¡¯ai continued to spread. She knew a Me¡¯jai of influence there, who could potentially convince the king to turn his efforts away from this war with Malifor. These Skal¡¯ai were born from magic, if the old stories could be believed. Surely, magic could spell their end as well.

    She had told the demon such, and now she regretted those thrice-damned words. It might be able to run sunup to sundown without stopping, but she was a mere mortal. Every day thus far had been a living hell; when she could run no more, then she had to put up with being carried like a sack of grain.

    And so, wordless as a sack of grain, she found herself being hoisted once more. Although, admittedly, they covered far more distance when the demon was running, she was loathe to concede the point. She could only tolerate it in silence, letting the time wear on until finally they were at the foot of the mountains. It was dusk now, the sun throwing curious shadows on the stone, the openings to the mines hundreds of feet above them. Beating on the demon¡¯s back with a sudden bout of urgency, she slid off with an awkward motion.

    ¡°Ca-can¡¯t we stop a bit? We need¡ªto plan.¡± she gasped, leaning on the demon¡¯s shoulder as she suddenly swooned from a bout of vertigo. Pain shot through her limbs and through her chest, her bruised body protesting. Her heart felt like it was rupturing with every stroke, and her blood seemed to be made of fire.

    The gods had heard her plea, and the demon sat on its haunches with an exasperated snort. ¡°What?¡± it growled impatiently, tilted its head to the side in a gesture almost like a dog.

    She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before speaking. ¡°We need to convince the diggers to let us through the mines.If they see you with me, they won¡¯t even let us talk.¡± She looked up, meeting the demon¡¯s gaze. ¡°I need you to stay back and wait while I negotiate.¡±

    With a snort, the demon blinked slowly and swallowed in nervousness. She had no idea how it would react; would it even be willing to consider her words? And yet, much to her relief¡ªand to her unexpected surprise¡ªit gave curt nod.

    ¡°I wait.¡± it growled, eyes flickering to look at the mines in the distance. ¡°In grass.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Lily remarked, still shocked that it had been so easy. ¡°We should rest, at least. I¡¯ll leave in the morning.¡±

    Once more the demon made a fire, striking the flint with those curious claws. Yet as it took the first watch, she began to wonder about how she could convince the diggers to let them through. She had glossed over the fact, yet she began to doubt in the silence that she truly could make them listen.

    The Altarosan mines were dangerous and arduous, demanding great stamina and strength to work through stone and haul back the precious ores. The diggers were men once, but they had been changed by spells and generations of isolation in the mines. The first were said to be prisoners, criminals and the condemned who were forced to live out the rest of their lives in labor for the crown. Me¡¯jai twisted their flesh to better work the stones, and, following their apparent efficacy, women were sent as well to grow a colony.

    With broad stature and thick, corded muscle, they were well suited to the caverns that they dug. Coarse hair and tough skin protected against the cold air, while heavy brows and wide-set eyes let them better observe their dim surroundings. Ages of disuse made their eyes smaller and beady, functioning poorly in bright light outside. In the comfortable darkness of their mines, their skin took on a pallid color with a coarse, mottled texture like leather hide.

    Their feet and hands were shaped like spades, their fingers twice as thick as a normal man¡¯s. Some individuals even lost their fifth digit all together, not needing the dexterity but rather using the space for even more raw strength. Their shoulders merged with their necks, the sheer amount of muscle bound to bone and body making them unable to greatly turn their heads.

    Every aspect of their bodies were made for working these mines. Their very bones were harder, strengthened by frequent fractures and minerals from the strange moss that they grew for food. Some were said to be able to fall from heights that would kill ordinary men only to walk away unscathed, and even their infants were supposedly able to be dropped with impunity.

    The men labored in the mines, breaking through stone to find iron and silver, of which these mountains were full of. They would be hauled up in bucketfuls, where women would refine the ores in massive fires heated by coal. The products would be delivered to the Capital and other cities with carts and horses. In exchange, they received the meat and fruit which they held in short supply. The diggers were the lifeblood of the Altarosan army, and their services would be even more strained in these times of war.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    A hoarse shout roused Lily from her sleep, a guttural noise of primal fear. Sitting up in shock, she gazed around in confusion and panic. There was an abnormal coldness to the air, familiar in its emptiness. She saw the demon recoiling, sinking on its haunches like a beast. She saw the fire throwing its shadow on the dirt, its tongues dancing as if it were alive.

    And then the shadow reeled like a snake and threw itself at the demon¡¯s throat.

    The demon danced back, rolling to the side, and the Skal¡¯ai landed on grass with a graceful motion, black mist billowing in the air around it. Without pause, it turned with unnatural ease and launched itself at the demon with a blur of shapeless darkness. The demon gave a wild swipe, its black claws sinking into the formless shadow, but there was no effect. The Skal¡¯ai tore into its chest, the serpentine body undulating as it gorged on flesh.

    Being devoured by Skal¡¯ai, the demon could only thrash wildly. It rolled and tossed, striking itself against the ground and even clawing at its own flesh. Yet the Skal¡¯ai refused to detach itself, clinging madly like a hideous leech. And as more and more of its strength was sapped away, the demon¡¯s efforts began to slow.

    In a panic, Lily turned to the fire and grabbed a bundle of the still-burning grasses. The flame scorched her hand and caught on her skin, but she struck the Skal¡¯ai with it nevertheless. The hungering fire latched onto the shadow with unnatural ease, burning it like oil. Slinking back from the demon with a sickening squelch, it writhed and twisted like a convulsing snake, beating out the flame. Once no longer aflame, the Skal¡¯ai bled back into the shadow of the campfire, shaking off glowing embers in an orange trail behind it.

    Lily swatted her hand against her thigh to put out any lingering fire, turning to the demon hurriedly. It was sitting up with effort, bleeding profusely from a hole torn into its chest. The scales and flesh and been ripped apart, the bone visible underneath. Yet that blood was not from the wound itself, but seemingly rather from when the Skal¡¯ai had pulled away. Instead, as she watching before her very eyes, the bleeding stopped as lingering tinges of black mist coagulated the wound. Even though the demon was breathing hard, it seemed not to have any sensations of pain.

    ¡°Are you alright?¡± she stammered, not used to seeing such a serious injury being ignored. The demon glanced down with almost a surprised look on its face, as if just realizing the ragged hole in its own chest. Yet before any answer could be given, there was a sudden flash of light.

    She turned in surprise, seeing the campfire abruptly flare with brilliance. It took Lily a moment before she understood what she was seeing before her; the campfire¡¯s own shadow was wrapping around it¡ªover it¡ªswallowing it inside a membranous mouth. The black Skal¡¯ai snuffed the fire, even as the tongues of flame were desperately feeding on it. Ultimately, there were a few licks of flame that snuck out along the edges. Then, the fire was gone.

    The Skal¡¯ai writhed, coiling like a whip. That whip flashed itself at Lily without hesitation, without a single sound.

    There was no weight on her body, no feeling of pain. There not even a single sensation of hers whatsoever; if it were not for the fact that her eyes were most certainly open, she would not even be aware of anything tearing open her own chest.

    She fell on her back with a thud, head striking the ground with a crack. The Skal¡¯ai was on her in a ironic reversal of just a few moments ago, yet this time this was no more fire to aid her. Fire, she realized. She could conjure it¡ªat the price of her vahma, admittedly, but it was better than death no matter the price¡ªand she opened her mouth to begin the chant. Yet before she had even started, the Skal¡¯ai covered her mouth that cold numbness. Unable to chant, she could not form the needed rhythm to form the pact. Black mist numbed her muscles and stole away her strength; she could not summon even a spark.

    Eyes wide, she bucked and twisted, scraping herself against the ground in the hopes of throwing the Skal¡¯ai loose. Perhaps the gods heard her prayers, for there was a brief instant where she had feeling once more over her jaw. Hurriedly, she shouted at the demon, ¡°A fire! Make a fire! Bu¡ª¡± Then, the shadow covered her once more, and she could not breathe.

    She could only watch the demon with pleading eyes, hoping that it understood. Yet her hopes felt dashed, for it did not even utter a sound. Was it dazed? Was it frozen in fright? She did not know, and she could feel unconsciousness clawing at her door. Her vision swam madly as her mind began to fade without any air. Half blurred by tears and eaten away by madness, she saw faint tongues of purple wrapping around her, twisting through the air around her. Yet she had heard nothing, and surely she was dreaming now.

    But the sudden flare of heat against her skin made her realize that, in fact, she was not dreaming.

    The air around her burst into fire as the demon finished the spell, the hungry flame immediately searching for substance. It sank into the Skal¡¯ai with primal voracity, and this time there was too much for the shadow to bear.

    The Skal¡¯ai spasmed and twitched, hopelessly consumed by orange flame. As Lily threw it off of her, it lost more and more of itself to the fire. Finally, the blaze too grew smaller and died as the shadow disappeared. There were only embers, glowing gently on the grass, and the sound of her heaving chest as she struggled to remain conscious. There was no pain now, but she was certain that there would be agony in just a few moments.

    Raising a hand to her chin, she felt raw flesh and torn skin from where the Skal¡¯ai had ripped away her lips. Her finger came away awash with blood, numb from the black mist that the Skal¡¯ai left behind.

    Her voice raspy and her mouth struggling to form words, she looked at the demon, who had collapsed after its spell. ¡°Chantless?¡±

    There was a faint smile on the demon¡¯s mouth, before it collapsed.

 Book 1: Chapter 27: A Nest of Rats

    It seemed that the brood of rat things in this section of the city were large enough in number to sleep on the surface. There simply was not enough space in the sewers to accommodate their vast numbers; they stuck close to the sewers and alleys, but their pups slept in ramshackle buildings and holes carved into the brick. It was an abandoned section of the city, in the middle of Blood Hawk territory, and it seemed that they kept it empty just for their grotesque pets. That they allowed the rat things to live in the heart of their territory was proof of their collusion and corruption.

    If nothing else, Kail could put an end to their hideous playthings.

    A broken fence lined with bits of bone showed their territory. Some decaying skulls with bits of rotting flesh clinging to the bone stuck on pikes sent a crude but effective message: outsiders not welcome. Taking a breath, Kail crossed through the ramshackle fence to the other side, feet crunching on the bits of bone and scraps of rotting flesh.

    He could hear the scratching of claws, smell the putrid stench of the rat things that hung damp in the air. A massive brick building with broken windows and towering stone columns stood before him, a remnant of more pleasant times. Before, it had housed trade princes and merchants, now it housed scavengers and aberrants. Webbed cracks ran up the stone, even the foundations of its construction questionably sound. Claw marks on the brick that ran up to the roof showed evidence of its newfound occupants.

    There were footsteps from the side, and Kail quickly hid behind some rubble and ruin, peeking out as two men approached. They were pushing a cart filled with raw meat, its origins unknown yet almost certainly human in nature. Hurriedly, they emptied the contents on the doorstep of the building before hauling the cart off, presumably to feed the next brood of rat things. ¡°Quick,¡± one of the men hissed, ¡°before they wake up and throw you in with the meal.¡±

    He needed no more proof of the Blood Hawks¡¯ implication. Kail patiently waited for them to leave before rising, nearly stumbling on a bone while making his way over to the building. The rat things would be weakest now, while still sleeping; he needed to hurry.

    The weathered door with its marble frame and bronze knocker reminded Kail of the stories he knew about ages past. Those stories of heroes made his heart ache with a dull throbbing, but he ignored it. The intricate shapes and carvings in the metal were long since smoothed over by age and abuse. Yet they were a mere memory now, nothing more.

    With a grunt, he leaned on the door with his shoulder and pushed it open, the time-worn hinges groaning as it slowly creaked with the characteristic resistance of disuse. After it had barely turned halfway, there was a shrill screaming sound of tearing metal as the hinges broke, the door collapsing with a thud on the tiled floor, a thick plume of dust rising from the impact. So much for damnable stealth, Kail thought as he coughed.

    Slabs of broken stone and shattered brick crumbled around the wreckage, obstructing Kail¡¯s entry until the air cleared. He carefully picked his way through the debris, shoving aside the fallen pieces of the doorframe. After passing through the rubble with some difficulty, he slapped the dust from his clothes before looking around at his surroundings. The noise was sure to have woken at least some of the rat things; he would have to be careful.

    Inside the building was dark; all of the former candles had long since burned out, as the rat things had no need for light. Broken tables and torn carpet on shattered tiles sparked a fleeting sense of former grandeur. Faded paintings covered with mildew hung on the walls, and the weathered silver banisters indicated that this was once a place of great beauty and splendor. Even in the peeling paint, there was evidence of faint patterns and designs that had been painstakingly fashioned to cover the entire building. There was even a ornate chandelier that hung from high above in the ceiling, the glass bits already broken and littering the floor, but a metal frame still creaking on its hinges. Dried wax capped the tips of its prongs as it swung gently in the air.

    Kail suddenly stopped, sensing danger in a primal part of his mind. He heard clicking. Above him.

    Spinning around, he dropped into a crouch as a rat thing fell from the railing on the second floor onto all fours. The tiles under its feet cracked with the power of its claws, its yellowed teeth sharp with bits of greying flesh trapped between them. Beady white eyes bulged in too-small sockets, darting to focus on Kail. A short hiss slipped out of its throat, skinny arms and thick legs bunching up with a sudden elastic tension. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, it leaped onto him, claws tearing holes in the air.

    The rat thing had pounced quick as lightning, but Kail¡¯s shield was already up. Its entire body struck his arm with immense weight, but he slanted his arm so that the force was redirected, sliding off him as the metal claws raked into the rat thing¡¯s stomach. It shook his arm and jarred the bone, but better that than having a broken arm. With a grunt, he swung the hook over and around, striking the rat thing in its back, and pulled out with the chains, ripping across its spine. A fountain of thick, black blood sprayed out of the gaping wound, and the creature collapsed, twitching limbs still clawing at the air. Its mangled corpse fell to the floor with a thud, a horrible stench of waste and sewage rising from its skin. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    As he flicked the blood off of his hook, Kail heard a chittering in the rafters above him. A clacking of nails on tiles. A putrid stench of fetid waste and decaying flesh. With the pale moonlight that filtered in through cracks in the wall, he saw the gleam of white eyes surrounding him. A slow hiss emanated from the waking mass of rat things.

    ¡°Hungry¡­¡± croaked a dry voice as one rat thing, larger than the rest, groggily plodded closer. ¡°So hungry...let¡¯s eat.¡± Its white eyes shone as they swiveled to find Kail. ¡°Please¡­please¡­¡± the whisperings continued as more and more of them woke, stirred by their hunger and the scent of blood. A chattering laughter rose from the rat things as they inched closer, more and more waking from their sleep around Kail. With a hiss, they suddenly surged forward like a tide of disease and decay, pouncing onto Kail with an insatiable hunger that drove them well past the brink of madness.

    It was a flurry of claws and snapping teeth that greeted Kail as they pounced. They swarmed out of the rafters, out of rooms in the back, from under tables and broken tiles. They swarmed out of holes in the wall and climbed down the walls. They were an unyielding tide that gave him to room for pause, no space to breathe. He could deal with the rat things, but not in these numbers. He had to thin them out.

    The bodies of the former orphans changed as a result of the magic that turned them into beasts, the spell even enhancing their tenacity and durability with an increased rate of healing from wounds that stemmed from a voracious appetite. While he was uncertain of the specifics of their anatomy, Kail did know that in their current half-sleeping state where they were still waking slowly around him, they were easily confused. Reaching inside his pockets, he pulled out three small metal pellets. They were a mixture of brimstone and and saltpeter, enchanted with magic to serve as a spark. They were Sir¡¯s tinkerings; the old man always insisted that spells were never a substitute for ingenuity. While the small balls were harmless, they were still useful as distractions.

    He hurled them into the surging masses, the dim moonlight glinting as he saw them land amidst the crowd. When the metal struck the tiles, the spell sparked, igniting the powder and producing a loud explosion and plume of dust. The rat things¡¯ blood was already up. When the smoke cleared, Kail could see them wrestling with one another, clawing and biting one another. Yet he had brought more of the toys as well. In an instant, the rat things became a writhing mass of bodies and corpses piling on top of each other. The smell of blood and dead bodies drove them into a feeding frenzy, and more rat things leapt into the growing mountain in the center of the room. It was a grotesque mound of bodies and blood, with shrieks and yelps of pain filling the air.

    It was disgusting how the animals devolved to their primal urges. The room had fallen to madness, with the creatures clawing at one another in their hysteria. Some males had mounted females and were breeding in the confusion. Other feasted on the dead that covered floor, hungrily tearing strips from their brothers and sisters. They had all lost interest in Kail, who was standing by the shattered doorway.

    ¡°A life Sir could be proud of.¡± Kail reminded himself quietly as he pulled out a canister of lamp oil with a rag, match ready in hand. Even if nothing else, he could at least finish off these monsters.

    Even if he did not have magic, Kail could still turn the room into an inferno. Setting the rag alight, he hurled the canister into the chaos. The flame burned bright as it caught, as it devoured the rat things, their oily hair and dry skin quickly catching ablaze. The smell of burning flesh and squeals of panic filled the room. They beat at their chests and clawed at themselves in their futile attempts to stop the growing flame. How quickly, he remarked, did the madness had changed to terror.

    Quickly, Kail grabbed his things and ran out the building before the hulks of metal and brick came crashing down. The old building had crumbled to rubble, licks of flame shooting out as twitching limbs and bodies littered the debris. Hundreds of their pups and rearers had been killed in the fire. But it was not enough, it was only one nest. There would be more of them, surely. Without a sound, Kail turned and ran.

    The fire had drawn attention: their cries filled the air and he could hear their scuttling below him. There was another group of rat pups by the entrance to the sewers, where the water emptied into massive drains that led under the city. They had already woken, and he could sense their confusion as they looked in the direction of the fire. They had yet to notice him as he hid in the rubble behind a slate of stone, peeking out from around the side. The older ones were too busy keeping the pups in check. One pup in particular got too excited and its rearer clubbed its face, blood spraying into the air. The others hissed at it as it dropped on all fours. Reeling, the pup pounced onto another rat thing and the two tumbled onto the ground, snapping at each other¡¯s faces and clawing wildly. Some other rat things whooped with delight and joined the two, biting at flesh and limbs. Quickly, the mass of bodies grew as more rat things joined the pile. It was remarkable how quickly the situation resembled the previous one.

    Kail thought that they almost did not need his help as he reached for another canister of oil. As a was preparing to light it, however, a scrabbling sound filled the air as more rat things streamed out of the sewers. They were older, not like the rearers and pups. These ones were larger, covered in scars with patchy skin stretched over thick muscle. In an instant, they pounced onto the pile of bodies, ripping apart limbs and bone with ease as they quickly devoured the mass, devoured their own kind in voracious cannibalism.

    Not even a minute had passed before the wave receded, the surface-dwelling rat things now only stains of blood on the ground. The crowd parted as a massive rat thing came forward. The beast was taller than Kail, with thick hide covered in oily gray hair and black claws that clacked on the ground. Two pale scars ran across his face, leaving his eyes blind. Patches of skin without fur evidenced further battle wounds, but its muscular frame and healthy constitution showed its triumph. The massive rat thing sniffed at the smoke-filled air slowly before it turned to face Kail¡¯s direction, slimy tongue darting across rows of sharp teeth.

    ¡°Come out, meat...I can smell your fear...¡± came its garbled hiss.

 Book 1: Chapter 28: A Shattering of Hope

    A bolt of cold dread shot down Kail¡¯s spine as he heard the thing¡¯s rasping voice, hoarse and dry. It was blind, but its face stared right at him. Hundreds of unblinking white eyes shone alongside it. A slow hiss escaped from its mouth as it strode forward.

    ¡°Are you deaf? I said to¡­come out.¡± it croaked. It entered a low crouch as the other rat things slowly moved forward with it. ¡°Perhaps I should...help you.¡± Without another word, its legs bunching, its claws gripping the ground, it threw itself into the air. Kail was hidden behind a wall, but its claws struck out to the side of a nearby building. Scrabbling, it found purchase in the old brick and took another short sniff. It was above him now, its face unmistakably pointed in his direction. A short snarl, and it leaped, claws bared, mouth open, with blinding speed right at Kail.

    With a bright clink, the canister of lamp oil that he was holding tightly fell from Kail¡¯s hands as he hurriedly brought his left arm up. He had just raised it in time as the rat thing pummeled into him. Yet the force was so great that it knocked him onto his back, a dull crack ringing through his ears as his head struck the ground. His vision was blurred, his arms jarred from the impact, and for an instant he was stunned.

    The beast was on top of him, spit flying everywhere as it clawed madly over the edge of the shield. He rolled left and right, trying to shake it off of him, but it clung on fiercely as it swiped at Kail. His right arm was pinned underneath his back, the weight of the creature stopping him from getting it free. He felt a wetness running down his chest and saw streaks of red from his left hip to right shoulder¡ªthe beast had managed to cut him. With a shout, he swung his head forward to strike the thing, scoring a hit on its nose with a vicious crunch. As the blood sprayed, he shoved forward, pushing it off his chest and managing to reach a sitting position. Quickly, with his arm now free, he pushed himself on top of it, keeping his shield between them as he used his weight to pin it on its back. A dim voice in the back of his mind noted how quickly the situation had reversed, and he bared his teeth in a grimace of a smile.

    Slipping his dagger out of its holster, for he had foolishly failed to bring his hook in the hopes of traveling through the city unmolested, he stabbed it in the stomach. Putrid black blood sprayed his hand as it gushed out of the wound. With a yelp of pain, the rat thing spasmed, weakening Kail¡¯s hold momentarily. With its right hand it swiped, sinking its claws deep into Kail¡¯s left forearm. Its left hand grabbed his right hand that held the knife, claws digging deep into the flesh. Before he could react, it had spun sideways under his hold, claws ripping deep furrows into his left arm, his other hand turned at a hideous angle.

    Despite being cut open, it showed no sign of weakness, swiping Kail across the face as it snapped at his hand with crooked teeth. He jerked it back, but not quick enough; he saw his right pointer finger held between its teeth, blood spurting violently from the stump on his hand. Howling in pain and blinded by the blood covering his face, Kail fell onto his back, scrabbling away from the rat thing. It got onto its haunches, clutching its stomach with its right hand. Despite the wound, the only reaction it gave was another dry hiss, the oily hairs covering its body standing on end.

    ¡°Meat¡­.I¡¯ll kill you...Eat you...¡± Those sightless eyes twitched in their sockets, darting back and forth at nothing as it licked its teeth with a slimy tongue.

    Wiping the blood and tears out of his eyes, Kail slowly got up into a standing position. His left arm was torn ragged, his fingers were slick with blood. His right hand hung uselessly by his side. The wrist was broken, twisted. He was gasping for breath, the ground spinning under his feet. He had lost too much blood. He did not have time to prepare, not even time to think, the thing leapt in a blur of motion.

    It tackled him in the chest and he felt the snapping of his ribs, but he managed to throw it off of him. Like a bug, its limbs scrabbled on the ground, claws scratching the stone as it steadied itself. A yell of rage tore from his throat as it charged again, this time staying low to the ground. He stepped forward as it leaped up, meeting its pounce with the claws on his shield. The spray of rancid blood coated his chest as the claws broke through its skull, its own momentum impaling it. It still carried enough force to knock Kail on his back. Even death had not stopped it from landing its final blow¡ªits claws had embedded themselves firmly into Kail¡¯s shoulders with the force of its lunge.

    The little strength he had remaining left his body as he felt his pulse get weaker. He turned his head to the side, the blood blurring his vision into a haze. He saw the dull outlines of the other rat things slowing inching forward. They approached him on all fours, heads close to the ground, cautiously sniffing at him and the dead rat thing. Perhaps they would kill him, perhaps they would eat him alive; he did not care anymore. All he knew was that he was dead for certain: he had lost far too much blood to even dream of life.

    They prodded him carefully, but he could not even feel it anymore. With a gentle sigh, he closed his eyes. He heard a squeal of pain, or perhaps it was of delight, but he did not care anymore. He felt nothing. The darkness opened its arms, and he walked forward willingly.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    But death did not come. And slowly, he woke.

    Kail woke in the dark, the putrid stench of refuse bringing tears to his eyes. He could not see anything; the darkness surrounded him completely without a single speck of light. A steady dripping of water from the ceiling echoed off the walls, reminding him of the broken water clock in Sir¡¯s home, and a slow hissing from around him told him where he was. He was in the sewers, surrounded by rat things. Why he was still alive, he did not know.

    He tried to move his left arm, but it did not respond. That alone was worse than pain. His right arm stirred, pain like nails shooting through his head, but at least he could move it. The hissing around him grew.

    ¡°It wakes.¡±

    ¡°Eat. Kill.¡±

    ¡°So hungry..¡±

    ¡°Silence. He wants it for himself.¡±

    A yelp of pain echoed off the walls, followed by a meaty rip and a howl. Kail felt himself grabbed roughly by the shoulder, sharp claws digging into his skin. He was lifted up, back screaming in protest, and thrown in some direction. The rat things chittered in amusement as he struggled to move, legs refusing to respond. A low rumbling rattled his bones. It was the growl of a beast. Every fiber of his being trembled in fear, his primal instinct telling him to run.

    He could not see anything in the dark. He did not see the fist that struck him in the stomach. He did not see the claws that opened his chest so that blood sprayed out in a fountain. He did not see the foot that stepped on his throat and ground it until it crushed under the weight.

    He certainly felt the pain, however, and soon lost consciousness and his abused body lost the will to stay awake.

    With bleary eyes, he woke as he felt his head forced back, his mouth tugged open. A scalding hot water burned in his mouth and he coughed and sputtered. Holding him back by his hair, the water was forced down his throat. A rough slap across his face made him spit out a mouthful of blood.

    ¡°You awake, boy?¡±

    He forced his eyes open, blinking away the sweat and tears. He found himself tied with rope to a wooden chair, although it was rickety enough that it seemed likely to collapse if he tried to move. The wood was covered with dark stains, likely blood judging from their coloring. A dim lantern hanging from the center of the ceiling lit up a small room with stone walls. Water dripped from cracks in the ceiling onto a dirty floor covered in waste and scum. It seemed likely that he was deeper in the sewers, perhaps in some long-abandoned, long-forgotten portion buried within the twisted labyrinth.

    The thing that held his attention, however, was the massive figure standing in front of him. Looking vaguely like a rat thing, the monster was a good foot taller the Kail, covered in muscle and thick mottled skin. Coarse grey hairs lined its arms, its fingers tipped with cracked yellow claws. A smell of rot and death emanated from its body, stifling the air around it. Dully, he forced himself to look at its face.

    Kail instantly regretted it.

    A massive scar ran from its left eye across all the way to the corner of its mouth, shearing away flesh all the way to the bone and taking out half of its nose with it. Grey and black flesh met pale white bone that gleamed in the torchlight. A mouthful of craggy teeth and rotting flesh coupled the misshapen face. A single white eye stared at him, unnerving and penetrating. It was a hideous aberration, a horrible mistake in every facet of the word, and the very sight of it threatened to eat away at the vestiges of his sanity.

    In the silence following its question, the thing struck Kail again, leaving claw marks across his face.

    ¡°I asked you a question boy. You will answer me.¡±

    Reeling, he lolled his head on his neck, his head racing faster than a horse. In a sudden flash of red-hot defiance, Kail spat in its face, a wet glob of blood and spittle that struck it cleanly on the corner of its mouth.

    With a sickly smile, it gleamed at him. ¡°Good answer. I worried she wouldn¡¯t let me kill you twice on the first meeting.¡± Without waiting for a response, it struck Kail clean in the gut, twisting with its claws before pulling back a closed fist with a sickly pop. Coughing up blood, he looked to find a fleshy pink lump in its fist. A glance down confirmed that it was his stomach, and a sudden bout of vertigo nearly made his vision flash to black. Prying open his mouth, the thing forced the lump of his own flesh into his mouth despite his protests, then proceeded to punch him in the jaw. The bloody organ fell out along with some of his teeth, his chair tipping over with the force as he struck his head on the stone tiling.

    ¡°No games here, boy.¡± it hissed, its one eye twitching ecstatically. ¡°No games, but plenty of laughing.¡±

    Snarling, the beast grabbed him by the shoulder, intentionally choosing the same one that burned in agony. It ripped him out of his bonds, the ropes taking some layers of skin with them. Shifting its grip so that it held Kail by the throat with its left hand, it reached onto the floor, holding up a rusted metal stake, sharp on one end with a circle for chains on the other. With a feeling of despair in his chest, Kail realized what it was going to do.

    Pinning his back against the wall, it drove the stake straight through his right shoulder, crunching through bone and stone alike. Without pause, it grabbed another, hammering it just below his left rib cage. Two more on his left arm: one in the bicep, another straight through the bones of his wrists. Another for his right arm, punching clean through the elbow. There was hardly any time to breathe, and already he was hanging on the wall like a grotesque tapestry. Kail felt more going through his leg, but the pain had driven his mind numb and he fell into darkness again.

    ¡°Let¡¯s see how many deaths you¡¯ll last.¡± came the raspy voice, intimately close to his ear, and Kail¡¯s flesh burned even as he greeted dreams, sinew and tendon twisting in hideous unlife.

 Book 1: Interlude: The Encroaching Plague

    The sun had just risen against the sky, its light a dull red and warm against the boy¡¯s skin. He had just let the flock out to graze and was resting on a weathered rock, stretching his toes on the smooth stone. The breeze was calm as he closed his eyes, feeling the gentle wind tousle his short hair. All around him was the gentle crooning of the avair, their throats humming with low brays as they grazed on the short grass.

    There were eighteen of the animals that the boy had to watch over. It was a simple job¡ªhe just had to make sure that none of them were injured or grew too aggressive. The young would rarely wander off by themselves and more often than not predators would slink away at the sight of the bull¡¯s curved horns. It was a simple job, and a boring one at that, and the boy found himself thinking of home as he often did.

    He opened his eyes to hear a sudden lowing from the middle of the herd, the adults gathering in a circle, blocking his view. Confused but not quite concerned, the boy grabbed his wooden staff, hopping off the rock and hurrying over to see what had happened. The bull snorted at his arrival, its eyes low to the ground but unblinking, those massive curled horns still deadly despite being dulled by Pa¡¯s file. The boy stretched out his open palm and whispered in a gentle tone, dropping the staff slowly on the ground to show that he meant no harm. The beast knew him¡ªtrusted him¡ªbut even still, it was on edge. Something was wrong, he knew. Lightly, he inched closer to the bull, voice quiet and mild. Ever softly, he touched its muzzle, stroking the hide with a knowing touch. Gradually, the bull closed its eyes, snorting softly as the tendons in its neck relaxed.

    ¡°Good boy.¡± he whispered, patting its muzzle before stepping closer. The herd shuffled nervously at his arrival, lowing uncertaintly before skittering out of his way. He braced himself before looking at what the avair were hiding. When he saw, the boy slowly released a breath that he did not realize he had been holding. A chill of fear rippled down his back, his legs trembling and his skin prickling with goosebumps in spite of the heat. It was a small calf, the newborn that had been born hardly a week ago. Its legs thin and spindly, its hide short and snow-white. Its head too large for the rest of its body, the horns only bony stubs in the back of its head.

    It lay on its side, something horridly wrong with it. The joints were all twisted, the muscle seemingly torn under the skin. Black clung to its underbelly like dye on its fur, the inky patch throbbing with a grotesque heartbeat. It bled out of its mouth too, the black, dribbling but too thick to be blood. It came from inside the calf, and he could see that black writhing in shapeless form. There was a thin wheezing that he finally realized was not the wind¡ªit was the still-breathing calf, its darting eyes rimmed with shadow and blood. It was still alive, sitting in a puddle of blood and worse.

    The boy found himself shaking, the fingers on his hand trembling uncontrollably. He forced himself to steady his breathing, forced himself to hold his breath. He could not allow his nervousness to get the better of him, else it would scare the herd into a stampede. Calm down, his thought with a panicked heartbeat. C-calm down.

    Shakily, kneeled down, pulling out the short knife that he kept around his waist. Mostly he used it for cutting vines and other tangles that the animals found themselves trapped in, but its would be sharp enough for what he wanted. Holding the animal¡¯s head down, he whispered calmly, covering its eyes with his hand as he spoke soothing words into its ear. He waited until it slowly relaxed and it stopped tossing its head about before he slit its throat in a smooth cut. Blood pooled out onto the ground and the nearby avair backed away at its metallic scent.

    Getting up, the boy grabbed his staff, giving three short whistles to tell the herd to follow. Their long ears perked up, the constant lowing growing soft as if they understood that one of them had just died. The bull fastened those big eyes on the boy, not blinking as it stared for a moment before moving. The rest of the herd followed and the boy led them home. He needed to tell his Pa.

    Pa would know what to do. He must.

    The boy led the avair back into the pens before locking up and setting out to find his Pa. The kitchen was empty, and so he made his way out back where he heard the faint sounds of striking trees. The man was cutting lumber down next to the river.

    ¡°What¡¯re you doing here, Sky? S¡¯not even halfday and you led the herd back already?¡± he asked, grunting softly as he hacked at the fallen lumber.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°There was somethin¡¯, Pa, somethin¡¯ weird. Wrong. The babe, he was bleedin¡¯ black.¡±

    ¡°What? You speakin¡¯ nonse, boy?¡± Pa set the axe down on the ground, stopping to look at Sky. Those thick brows were drawn together with an expression like thunder, and he hastened to explain.

    ¡°There was somethin¡¯ on his chest. Inside it too, was bleedin¡¯ out his mouth. It was just wrong, not natural. I killed the babe and got the herd back quick as I could. I thought you¡¯d know what it was.¡±

    Pa furrowed his brows, coughing dryly the way he did when he was thinking hard. ¡°If you killed it then it should be fine. Probably just some bug that found its way into the babe. I¡¯ll clean up the body later today, you go find Sun and yell at him to start milking before they go dry or I¡¯ll have his skin on a post.¡±

    Sky wanted to protest, but Pa had turned his back, ending any further discussion. Thwack, thwack, that steady rhythm was Pa¡¯s steady strength. Sighing, he went to go find his brother Sun, heart still unsettled by that strange black thing on the calf.

    He opened the door to the house, expecting to find Sun somewhere in the kitchen helping Ma, but he was not there. Half muttering to himself, Sky suddenly heard a rasping in Granpa¡¯s room and opened the door to find the old man awake, sitting up in his cot. Those eyes were glassy and unfocused, a strange whiteness coming out of the corners. His mouth was muttering something, thin fingers outstretched and splayed in the air.

    ¡°Granpa? You alright?¡± Sky asked nervously, rushing forward.

    The old man turned quick as lightning, catching Sky¡¯s wrist in a bony hold. Those glossy eyes swiveled to focus on him. He spoke, voice hollow and dry.

    ¡°The night is coming. It will take and consume. The dark god¡¯s time has come, and man will fall.¡± Having finished, his eyes rolled back into his head and the old man fell back onto his cot, chest heaving and forehead covered in sweat.

    ¡°Granpa? Granpa?¡± the boy cried out, shaking the old man gently by the shoulder.

    ¡°Sky? What¡¯re you doing here?¡± a voice spoke behind him, quiet and firm. It was Pa¡¯s voice. Sky turned around to see him standing in the doorframe. ¡°I thought I told you to go find your brother.¡±

    ¡°I was lookin¡¯, Pa, but then Granpa started talkin¡¯. His eyes were all strange and white, and his voice was off too.¡± He shivered, ¡°It felt wrong. He was talkin¡¯ about night coming and the dark god, Pa. What¡¯s it mean?¡±

    Pa¡¯s face turned into a scowl, eyes angry. ¡°That old man¡¯s just speaking nonse and lies, like he always is. Don¡¯t listen to him boy.¡±

    ¡°He comes.¡± cried out a thin voice on the cot. Grandpa spoke, voice wheezy and frail. ¡°He wakes, and man will fall.¡±

    Pa stormed forward, grabbing the old man by the arm. ¡°Shut your mouth, you fool!¡± His mouth was twisted in fury, eyes thunderous. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of your lies.¡±

    ¡°Pa, no!¡± Sky cried, grabbing Pa by the shoulder, but the man sent him sprawling with a backhanded blow. Shadows danced across his face, throwing strange angles against the furrows in his expression.

    ¡°You¡¯re in my house, under my roof!¡± he yelled at Grandpa. ¡°You eat my food and don¡¯t work a damn drop, and now you¡¯re scaring my boys with crazy lies and nonse.¡± Spittle flew from his mouth as he struck the old man across the jaw. ¡°I long shoulda¡ª¡±

    Yet he suddenly stopped, falling silent.

    Pa¡¯s hands clawed at his throat, as if he was grasping for something, as if he was gasping for air. Hideous black veins spread from his mouth, like roots of a flower, growing to cover his face. He turned to look at Sky desperately, those eyes pleading, tears running down his face.

    ¡°Pa, what¡­¡± Sky whispered, frozen in shock. His heartbeat seemed to have stopped, time frozen as he could do nothing but stare. The black spread across Pa¡¯s face, pooling out of his mouth and spilling onto the front of his chest. The air around it seemed colder, shards of ice forming on the edges from sweat.

    ¡°Help¡­¡± Pa rasped, reaching out at Sky with grasping hands. The boy backed away nervously, but Pa lunged suddenly, as if possessed, the black now covering his eyes. With a howl, Pa grabbed Sky¡¯s head, cupping the boy¡¯s face with coarse fingers. He leaned in, mouth touching the boy¡¯s, muffling the shriek that almost escaped Sky¡¯s lips.

    Sky felt that awful black writhing, felt it enter his mouth, and he heaved in revulsion. He wanted to run and scream, but Pa held fast onto him with an awful strength. That terrible coldness filled his mouth and slid down his throat. It spread through his body like a freezing fire until he felt nothing and collapsed on the floor, body covered in black. His father lay next to him, his body a mirror image. The shadow that swallowed them both pulsed slowly, as if it were a snake digesting its meal.

    ¡°It comes.¡± the old man whispered on his cot, face twisted in a helpless smile of the condemned.

    ¡°It wakes.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 29: An Unintelligible Ally

    ¡°Hello?¡± Lily shouted, cupping her hands around her mutilated mouth only to wince in pain. Strips of skin had been torn away from her mouth, the flesh scarred and cracking with blood from the movement. She craned her neck, gazing upwards at the vast expanse of stone that stretched to pierce the sky. The wind whipped her short hair madly, and it obscured her vision of the little scrabbling figures that worked the mountain.

    At least one seemed to have heard or seen her, for soon there were countless of those ant-like persons scrabbling and gesturing down towards her. They wore thick corded rope around their waists while standing on wooden platforms¡ªsmall scaffolding that they used while boring new tunnels into the side of the mountain. These surface tunnels were used to facilitate the transfer of materials to and from the heart of the mountain, for the initial tunnels would be unable to handle the workflow once the mountain truly began to be excavated.

    A simple metal elevator ran down the mountain, likely one on either side, powered by muscle with a crank system at the top. The diggers on the side facing the Outlands used it to haul their ores to the top of the mountain, where they could be processed. Once refined, the metals would be sent down the other side, where they would be sent off to traders. The clear delineation helped maintain a clear workflow and prevent any conflict from arising.

    Unfortunately for her, Lily came to realize as some diggers rode the elevator down to the ground to meet her, it meant that all the linguistically adept diggers were on the other side of the mountain. None of the ones that worked the mines needed to be particularly skilled at common.

    Isolated as they were, diggers were very much a different species, with a rougher physique and a rougher tongue. ¡°Ouja haffa¡¯ loo¡¯, whan¡¯now?¡± came a laughing bellow as three diggers came out of the groaning elevator. They all bore thick manes of coarse, reddish hair that stretched to cover their bodies. Simple rags covered their bodies, perhaps more for the sake of memory and tradition than actual purpose; some seemed to disdain the shirts and pants in favor of their more¡­natural attire. ¡°Hoo¡¯zi?¡± asked the digger in front¡ªwith pale white skin and curled hair¡ªin what seemed to be a question. He peered at her with beady eyes, barely visible through the thicket that covered much of his face.

    ¡°H-hello.¡± she choked out, thrown off by their appearance, only to wince as the movement sent pain through her mouth. Whatever ointment the demon made to heal her, it stung like the devil. Hastily, she drew a small cloth up to cover her mouth, lest the cold wind lash that tender skin as well. The diggers before her seemed almost more beast than man, in both appearance and behavior. She had heard tell of these creatures, certainly, but their rather brutish mannerisms were still a shock. ¡°My name is Lily, and I¡¯ve come to ask¡ª¡± she began, yet before she could even continue, one of the diggers cut her off.

    Throwing his thick arms around her, he sank a set of craggy, yellowed teeth into her neck. While it was not enough to draw blood, the crushing force of his arms was enough to squeeze nearly all air from her lungs. When he finally let her go, she nearly fell over as she sucked in a deep breathe.

    ¡°Iss¡¯a she, heh.¡± her assaulter chuckled, clapping the one with the curly hair on his back. Yet in a sudden, impassioned motion, the third struck him without warning on the back of the head, shouting out, ¡°You¡¯ka kill¡¯d its, Boga. loo¡¯zi kakkin¡±

    ¡°Ya shad ya mou¡¯, Moga, innit¡¯ fine? Jus loo¡¯, zee?¡± he retorted, pointing at her with a thick finger. Lily was coughing, massaging her throat gently and rubbing the bite mark was a hand. Blood oozed from her mutilated lips, dripping slowly down her chin and splattering in drops on the grass. It took her three breaths before she recovered, and then her anger struck her.

    ¡°Five and three curses, what was that?¡± she howled, spittle flying in flecks from her mouth as she raged. She only had enough for that one outburst, before she threw a hand up to cup her stinging lips.

    ¡°Ou¡¯sa, its mad.¡± the curly haired one chuckled, clapping her assailant on the back before all three of them let out a rippling laugh. Kekekekeke, it rang off the mountainside and echoed until even the laughter itself seemed to be laughing¡ªat her. Lily did not dare to speak, instead clenching her jaw and trying to suppress the murderous instinct in her hands.

    It was not long before the diggers calmed down, and her assaulter began to apologize. ¡°Sa¡¯sorry, yi didun mean ta¡¯ hurt ya. Boga wus givin a goo¡¯ welcome, but ya didun know ¡®bout ¡®sit. Boga sa¡¯sorry.¡± he guffawed, clapping his stomach with a spadelike hand.

    ¡°You¡¯re¡­Boga?¡± she asked nervously, still trying to fight the hysteria that threatened to sneak into her voice. The digger nodded, still chuckling, and his friends struck him good-naturedly.

    ¡°Iss¡¯a Junga.¡± Boga replied, pointed to the one with curly hair. ¡°An¡¯ iss¡¯a Moga.¡± he said as he gestured to the third. ¡°Ya¡¯sa?¡± he asked, pointing to her.

    ¡°I¡¯m Lily.¡± she repeated, taking in a deep breath as she calmed herself. Oh how she wanted to sink some steel into the foolish digger¡¯s arm, but she needed their permission to go through the mines first. After, she thought dimly, she could see about revenge. ¡°I need to pass through the mountains with a friend, and we¡¯d like to go through your mines.¡±

    Boga scratched his stomach with yellowed nails. ¡°Boga dun know ¡®bout sa fren¡¯, but Boga can sees.¡± he muttered, thinking perhaps a shade more deeply than the task required. His features darkened, or perhaps that was just the furrowing of his brows as his little-used mind whirred into action. Junga slapped him on the shoulder with a violent blow, yet it hardly seemed to faze him.

    ¡°Boga ya¡®sa cran¡¯er, no ¡®sa miner. Ya cand let¡¯sa go in sa mines.¡± Junga bellowed into Boga¡¯s ear to the point that spittle flecked the digger¡¯s hair, shaking Boga out of his reverie. ¡°Ya dun know ou¡¯sa doin.¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    That last comment seemed to anger Boga, for he struck Junga square in the jaw with a hard punch. Junga went flying onto the ground with a puff of dirt, falling like a sack of meat. Lily felt her eyes fly wide open in surprise, unprepared for the casual violence. ¡°Ya dun tell Boga ou¡¯sa Boga do.¡± he howled, beating on his chest with that calloused fist. ¡°Boga ou¡¯sa go in sa mines. Boga ou¡¯sa do anythin!¡±

    Having asserted his dominance over this strange little troupe, Boga once more turned to her. ¡°Ya brin¡¯ sa fren. Boga take ya to sa mines. Iss¡¯a sorry, from Boga.¡± he replied, thumping over his heart. The entire scene was almost comical, to the point that she half-expected a lyre to start playing from behind her.

    Not understanding, Lily shook her head. ¡°We need to get through the mountains.¡± she repeated, afraid that Boga did not comprehend the words. She struggled to enunciate clearly, her mutilated mouth proving a pain to work with.

    Yet Boga simply nodded, gesturing for her to come with him. ¡°Ya brin¡¯ sa fren. Ya ou¡¯sa go in sa mines.¡±

    ¡°My what?¡± she repeated, furrowing her brows. The thing spoke like it had a rock in its mouth, like its tongue was too thick for the words.

    ¡°Sa fren.¡± Boga replied patiently. ¡°Fren. Ya say iss¡¯a has fren. Ya ou¡¯sa brin¡¯ sa fren. To sa mines.¡±

    ¡°My friend?¡± Lily asked, starting to understand. ¡°I can bring my friend? We can go into the mines?¡± Her breath nearly caught in her throat. It could not possibly be this easy, could it? Some part of her mind nibbled away with doubt, yet she pushed it down forcefully.

    Boga nodded cheerfully, ignoring Junga as he just got up from the blow. Junga was scowling, not at Boga but rather at her, and he clapped Moga on the back as if gesturing for them to talk. Lily did not notice this, for she had turned to wave at the demon to come out of the grass. When the lupine creature stood, the diggers fell quiet from shock.

    As its tall form began to stride through the grass, Lily turned around and saw the diggers visibly taken aback. Of course, they had no idea that her ¡°fren¡± was a demon, and she was certain that if she had told them, that passage would not have been so easily secured. With any luck, now that Boga had already promised her that she could go into the mines, he would be less likely to take back his word.

    ¡°Iss¡¯a¡­¡± Moga gulped, his eyes wide. ¡°Ya iss¡¯a big fren.¡±

    The demon loomed by her side, glaring imperiously with those mismatched eyes. Even slouched over as he was, he easily towered over the short diggers, and the fact that they were standing in his shadow did little to ease them of any fear. Junga¡¯s jaw began to quiver, his hands clenched into fists.

    ¡°Boga, Junga, Moga,¡± she started, feeling a little ridiculous from saying their names, ¡°this is¡ª¡± She paused abruptly, realizing that for all their companionship, she did not even know the demon¡¯s name. A name. ¡°¡ªmy friend.¡± she finished, gesturing to the demon. Had it just never told her its name? That had to have been it; what kind of fool thing would not even have a name? Even these diggers had names, she remarked internally, watching a dim-witted Boga scratch his side lazily as he looked up at the demon.

    ¡°Ya no ou¡¯sa brin¡¯ zem, Boga!¡± Junga suddenly howled, and he struck Boga in the stomach with a fast blow. Boga keeled over, coughing violently as he fell onto the ground with a thud. The punch came suddenly, and Lily¡¯s eyes went wide.

    ¡°Why ya sa dat?¡± Moga shrieked, punching Junga square in the nose. There was a loud crack as the cartilage broke, blood proceeding to gush out like a fountain. Lily gave a huff, half expecting this entire scene to devolve into complete violence. We''ll never make it into the mines, she wailed, putting her face into her hands hopelessly before suddenly wincing. Clowns and fools, the lot of them. Her flesh was still raw from when her skin and lips had been torn off by the Skal¡¯ai, and touching it made the scarring area burn with pain.

    ¡°Ya cand do dat.¡± Boga cried out all of a sudden, and to her surprise, he cuffed Moga in the chin. ¡°Junga sa fren! Ya cand hit¡¯sa fren!¡±

    The irony of his statements was still decipherable through his words, if barely.

    Yet as Junga prepared to punch Boga once more, the demon suddenly intervened. Striding forward like a black blur, it grabbed either digger in a clawed hand. Before anyone could react, it slammed the two together with a vicious blow, striking their foreheads against each other before letting them fall to the ground. The stunned diggers bled onto the soil, their foreheads and hair soaked with dark, brown blood. They were motionless, save for the flowing blood. Everything was motionless.

    The demon stood over them silently, breathing calmly despite what it had just done. Moga stood stock still, his body seemingly made of stone, his expression unreadable. Lily could only watch in horror, silently cursing at the demon for preventing them from crossing the mountains. You crow-cursed fool! Now how do you expect us to get out of these thrice-damned Outlands?

    Finally, there was movement as Boga and Junga sat up slowly with a groan.Yet as the two diggers slowly turned at looked at each other, the silence was broken by a sudden and unexpected sound.

    Laughter.

    Both Boga and Junga were overtaken by an irrepressible mirth, their shoulders heaving and tears streaming from their eyes as they howled and bellowed with boisterous laughter. Moga joined in heartily, stomping on Boga¡¯s chest with a wide foot as he too nearly fell over.

    ¡°Ya sa¡ª¡± Junga started, clapping his stomach as he struggled to even breathe. He pointed at the demon. ¡°Ya sa good fren, ya ¡®ere?¡± Then Boga cuffed him in the back of the head, screaming at him, ¡°Iss¡¯a Boga fren!¡± As the three diggers raved on the ground, the demon scratched its head with a claw, perhaps as confused as she was at the scene befalling them.

    Once they finished punching each other onto their feet, Junga spoke up with a hand scratching his arse. ¡°We brin ya to sa mines, den.¡± he decided, gesturing to the rusted elevator that lay waiting for them at the base of the mountain. The blood streaming from his squashed nose could not hide the toothy, cracked smile that covered his face. ¡°Ou¡¯sa go, fren.¡±

    As the three of them made their way to the elevator, the demon loped after them with hardly a pause, leaving Lily by herself. Still stunned and confused by the whirlwind of events that had happened around her, she could only mutter to herself before following them up the mountain.

    ¡°Men.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 30: A Refusal of Death

    Kail woke in burning agony, shards of pain like molten metal filled his mind as he struggled to breathe. His arms were dead, muscles screaming in torture as they bore the weight of his body. He opened his eyes only to be greeted with blinding light, the flame of a candle inches from his face. His body felt rigid, not daring to move a muscle as a single twitch sent his entire body into throes of violent spasms. Blood matted his hair, trailing down his chest and legs to drip into a puddle on the floor.

    Looking down at the wound in his stomach, he saw that the flesh had healed, not even a scar being left where the ragged hole once was. Probing his mouth with a tongue, he felt all of his teeth, even though he clearly remembered his molars being knocked out onto the floor. Even the wounds in his arms and legs where he was pierced by stakes were healed, in a manner of speaking; the flesh had grown around the injury, rising up and swelling in an inflamed ring. Thick pus oozed from the wounds, dripping slowly down to his fingers and toes, where they mixed and lingered with the caked blood.

    Any further thought ceased when a rusted metal door in the back of the room opened, flooding the room with blinding light. He recoiled instinctively, regretting the movement when it sent sharp pain down his neck and back. The monstrous figure walked in, slamming the door shut behind it with a ratcheting lock.

    The beast wore an old apron on its front, black leather that was stained with blood and viscera. A hideous smile was stitched across its ruined face, its sharpened and yellowed teeth clearly visible against its cracked lips. In its right hand was a large metal hook, end sharpening to a fine point, the blade covered in rust and blood. In its left hand was a clamp, end snapping as the thing closed and opened it seemingly out of habit. In two strides it covered the distance to stand in front of Kail, snaking out a disgusting tongue before turning to the side. There was a brief pause as it tapped the stone, suddenly hissing and pulling a loose brick out of the wall. From the small cavity behind it, it pulled out an assortment of small blades, some sharpened and cleaned, others looking like they had sat there for years. Blowing off some cobwebs, it picked the insects off, tossing them into its mouth with a single crunch before setting the tools onto the ground. Leaning in to look at Kail, it smiled, showing off its stained teeth.

    ¡°We still alive boy? Good.¡± Those words could not have possibly been spoken by a man; no man could have a voice filled with such trembling ecstasy at the mere thought of butchery.

    Taking the candle off its holder, it waved it in front of Kail, the flame licking at the hairs on his face. Suddenly, it turned it upside down, dropping it on top of his head. The candle flickered for a moment and suddenly burst, an orange blaze swallowing his head in fire. It burned his oily hair and charred his skin, the heat causing him to shake his head and beat it futilely against the wall. With his movement, the stakes embedded in his body sent waves of pain and nausea coursing through his veins.

    With a short bark of laughter, the beast grabbed Kail behind his neck and pulled him off the wall, stakes and all. He hit the ground with a thud, flames now licking all over his body, burning his shirt and pants and searing his flesh. He tried to roll on the ground, but his body would not move, abused muscles screaming in protest. Beating his hand against the wall as it howled in laughter, the thing gave him a kick to the stomach, turning him over onto his back as he coughed and sputtered.

    ¡°Let me help you out there boy.¡± it said with a sadistic grin. Pulling down its torn breeches, it relieved itself on Kail, taking additional care to aim for the face in particular. The brown urine doused the fire, reducing it to small tongues of flame. Stomping on him viciously, it drove out the last remnants of embers before pausing as Kail coughed up blood, retching onto the tiled floor. The stench clung to his skin and eyes, burning his open wounds.

    ¡°Now then boy, let¡¯s get to the fun part.¡± Grabbing Kail by the throat, it slammed him against the wall, cracking stone and bone alike. ¡°We know you¡¯ve been in Blood Hawk lands killing our pets. Who told you about them?¡± it snarled, leaning in close to Kail¡¯s face. He was coughing up blood and spit, but some part of him registered what it had asked him. So they were looking for Sir. That was a debt that he would have to pay back, even at the cost of his life.

    Grinning a bloody smile, he stuck out his tongue. ¡°Go fuck yourself.¡±

    It suddenly snorted, a hideous laugh worming out of its throat. ¡°Wait a moment, you¡ªweren¡¯t you the one in the hospital? In the damned Black Wolves hospital?¡± Its shoulders heaved with mirth as it laughed, its one eye bulging in its socket as it howled. ¡°I beat your fucking head in and you came back for more? This is fantastic!¡±

    With a growl, it punched him in the stomach, raking its claws upwards against his rib cage. Blood splattered out of his mouth as he felt bones cracking. Slashing viciously down his thigh, it cut open muscle down to the white. It grabbed his leg, holding his thigh down and pulling it so high that the tendons popped and the bone shattered. He thrashed and howled as searing white-hot pain coursed through his veins. ¡°Yes!¡± it cried out enthusiastically, half-mad with laughter. ¡°This is incredible!¡±

    It pulled open his mouth, pouring a foaming green liquid in that seared it throat and spread like wildfire through his body. His skin steamed as he felt the heat grow out from his stomach. Every ounce of his being felt like it was being burned alive, but he opened his eyes and saw his wounds closing, muscles knitting themselves in front of him. No¡­his thoughts shuddered as his own body betrayed him. In mere seconds, the broken bones and torn muscle were mended, not even a faint scar left.

    The thing smiled at him with rows of broken teeth. ¡°I do so love torture when you can¡¯t die.¡±

    ¡°You see, I¡¯m not sure how much about us Blood Hawks you know, but we serve a higher god. And his Lordship has blessed us with immortality.¡± The creature let out a hissing laugh, gesturing to its face. ¡°Don¡¯t you just love life? And that¡¯s why I share it with all my delicious guests. So drink our god¡¯s ichor, boy. Enjoy his gift of life.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    On and on, that knife dug into his flesh. On and on the lips of the wound stitched closed by green gods-blood, only to be opened once more. The blade bit into his skin slowly, parting flesh with a wake of red blood. It was a slow cut that opened his leg from calf around to thigh before running up to bite into his stomach. His torturer was quite the artisan, tracing spirals and patterns into his skin like some horrific tattoo. The blade was coated with molten wax, globs of which dripped off to burn the trail shut. It was a slow agony, the kind that swallows the mind gently.

    Kail was a miserable sight, an emaciated body pinned against the stone wall with metal stakes. Chains hung from the tips that connected to pins in the ground in the event that he attempted escape¡ªas if he even had the strength in this state to stay awake. His torso was bruised and scarred; whatever potion he was given did nothing to heal burn wounds. A veritable webwork of knife lines circled all around him, wrapping up from his back and legs like serpents coiling around his limbs.

    ¡°So boy, did you remember something?¡±

    ¡°Go die in a hole.¡±

    A slow hiss as the heated blade dug deeper into the flesh, biting into bone.

    ¡°And now?¡±

    ¡°Fuck you.¡±

    A sudden tearing sound as the blade was ripped down his body with so much force that handle broke.

    It let out a frustrated growl, only for its face to twist once more into a smile. ¡°You¡¯re nothing but a mouse, and you¡¯ve walked in on something far greater than yourself. You know, we¡¯ve been a bit too gentle with you, boy. You have three more days to talk.¡± it said as it tossed the broken handle away, blade left embedded in the side of his gut. ¡°After that¡­¡± It slashed across its throat with a finger, smiling cruelly. It paused, taking a step back to admire its handiwork. ¡°We¡¯ll have to see if you can stand under our god¡¯s test.¡±

    ¡°Let''s start here.¡± It grabbed a handful of metal needles, an entire hand long and flattened at the tip. Grabbing Kail¡¯s left foot, it shoved the tip under his nail, driving it deep into the flesh. He howled in pain, but it merely smiled in response. In a few minutes, he was left looking like a human pincushion, needles sticking out from under his nails, blood dripping onto the floor, already stained a dark red. They went in deep and ramrod straight, grating against bone until he could not even curl his toes. Without a sound, it grabbed a needle and twisted, small barbs at the tip ripping the soft flesh underneath and sending Kail into fresh bouts of agony. It then granted him a few moments respite as it dug for something in the ground.

    Searching in the cracks between the tiles, it finally lifted up a small grub from the dirt. It writhed in its palm: a pale white, hairy segmented body with a large beak on one end. It had no eyes, but its mouth snapped open and closed as it twisted in the thing¡¯s hand. Pinching the worm between its fingers, it dropped it onto Kail¡¯s shoulder. The maggot twisted around for a moment, searching its surroundings before settling in. With its bone-like beak it burrowed into his flesh, tunneling under his skin into the soft muscle below. He could feel it, abnormal and unnatural, violating his own body with its presence. He was too busy yelling in pain to notice when the second was placed on him, this time digging into the soft flesh on the underside of his foot. Nerve endings fired, his mind already overburdened with messages of pain from every part of his body.

    The thing waited for him to calm down before speaking. ¡°Those things are burrowing grubs, a personal favorite of mine. You see, I can¡¯t be here to play with you all the time; I¡¯ve other guests to host as well. So these pets will keep you company when I¡¯m gone. Can¡¯t you feel them, digging into the muscle?¡±

    ¡°The one in your shoulder¡¯s a male, the one in your foot female. They¡¯ll feed on your flesh, growing larger and maturing until they reach adulthood. When then meet, they¡¯ll mate, the male leaving thousands of eggs inside the female. When they hatch, they¡¯ll eat every last scrap of flesh on you down to the bone.¡± It cackled, beating its fists with laughter as a sense of quiet dread filled Kail. There was no more escape for him. ¡°So if you don¡¯t give an answer in three days, you¡¯ll die. Of course, I might just choose to kill you before you become maggot food.¡±

    ¡°So many ways to die; why do I only get to choose just one for you?¡± it whined like a petulant child. Without warning, the creature punched him in the stomach, forcing Kail to spit up bile and blood. The liquid splashed onto the floor under him, and as he looked down a bout of dizziness struck him from seeing himself suspended on the wall by his own flesh.

    ¡°Hmm, that¡¯s a good color, boy.¡± it muttered, reaching down to touch the bile. ¡°You¡¯re taking to the god¡¯s ichor rather well.¡±

    Its voice spoke once more, rough as sand against his ear. ¡°You know something, boy? They give us all names. Names of something that¡¯ll kill a man in the end. That¡¯ll kill Man in the end. You want to know what they call me?¡± It pried open Kail¡¯s eyes, forcing him to look at its grotesque face.

    ¡°You want to know my name?¡± it hissed, foul breath bringing burning tears to Kail¡¯s eyes.

    No, he thought desperately, wanting nothing more than to bury a stake in this monster¡¯s heart. You crow-cursed monster¡­ I want nothing more than your death.

    ¡°They call me Hope, boy. And its hope that¡¯ll bite you in the end, with teeth so gentle that you¡¯ll be crying tears at how sweet it is. You¡¯ll be wanting it. And then you¡¯ll die.¡± Its whispers were rancid and soft, repulsively gentle.

    In the stories he had read as a child, the heroes always lived. They faced terrible challenges and obstacles, but they always survived, saved by their companions or with a secret inner strength. They were special, better than others, and that quiet spark had always burned within Kail as his secret inner wish. It had slowly faded over the days as doubt ate away at him. With this final desperation, it was utterly shattered to fine powder. He was not strong. He had no power. Sir would not be coming to save him. No one would come for him. He would not survive. He was going to die.

    Sir, he wept silently, alone now in the dark.

    Where are you, Sir?

 Book 1: Chapter 31: His Hunter

    The strange men watched them with curious eyes¡ªlike those of rats, perhaps. Their features were obscured by hair, but they postured aggressively as the metal box screamed to a halt. Sister remained quiet inside the box, but he walked forward without pause into the opening in the side of the mountain. She knew not how to posture, how to threaten. These creatures were more beast than man; that much he could feel. One must give no concession to them, must rise to challenge them with a back as straight as stone. Only then, could one pass through unmolested.

    Their guides spoke in that strange blabbering of theirs; it gave him a headache just from listening. There were tens, perhaps hundreds, of those strange men in this tunnel, and there were hundreds of tunnels bored into the mountainside until it looked reminiscent of a hive. Ants, he remarked, thousands and thousands of ants in these stone hills.

    The tunnel itself was at least twice the size of his cave, sloping and cavernous, like the maw of some great beast. The ceiling rose far above him, perhaps even twenty body lengths, and it was wide enough to fit four grown krull placed end to end across. The walls were rough and angular, with small pockets and crevices from where ores had been taken out. Small, luminescent moss grew in patches along the ceiling, fed by small droplets of water that fell to the ground on occasion. Lanterns hung along the sides of the wall as well, glowing faintly with a mixture of wax and animal fat. Multiple rail tracks ran through the center of the tunnel-cave, the men hauling carts along them. Those that were exiting from the bowels of the cave were piled high with lumps of metals, pushed by often times two or three of the men up the sloping track. More tunnels branched off to the side, burrowed even deeper into the mountainside, or perhaps even connecting the tunnel-cave to other neighbors around it.

    Many of the strange men were scattered along the walls of the cavern, suspended by strong fingers and thick rope around their waists that hung from the ceiling. With metal picks they worked the walls, chipping away at the stone in the hopes of finding more ores. They swung their tools will powerful blows, every strike causing more and more stone to slough off and fall to the floor, where it would be carried off by others and discarded. On occasion, they were lose their footing on the wall, falling a short distance only to be stopped short by that length of rope.

    Yet as they walked past, one man lost his grip like many others before him. But there was a snapping sound of rope, the piece either frayed or loose, and he was not stopped. Instead, there was a crashing sound as his body struck the ground, throwing up a cloud of debris and powdered rock around him.

    Interestingly, there was no commotion regarding the fate of the corpse. The others continued to carry on, as if nothing had ever happened. And he watched with shocked eyes as the cloud of dust dispersed, revealing that same man slowly rising to his feet looking hardly any worse for wear. Blood trickled from wounds on his back, but he merely patted himself off with a casual roughness before going off to get a new length of rope.

    Me¡¯jai workings, whispered the dead, sensing his confusion and amazement. Denser bone and redirecting mahji to cushion the organs. The voices of the dead were not as restless as he was used to; they seemed calmer, tamer, ever since he had first summoned fire that night.

    That night.

    Sister had been dying, swallowed by Skal¡¯ai, and she had screamed for fire. His mind had nearly flown into a panic, watching that formless black shadow smother her thrashing figure. It was the dead that had spoken to him then, rousing him to action. It was them who had stirred him out of his shock.

    A beat and a purpose, he remembered them saying. Feel the pulse of the earth.

    She had spoken of chanting, but when he closed his eyes he could feel it all around. Animal feet striking the ground as they ran. Water trickling over rock and gravel. Snow melting from atop mountains. Wind stirring the grass. Even the earth itself, moving at the speed of eons. He felt it. It had been his womb, had been the cradle that had shaped him; to him the pulse of the earth was a mother¡¯s breath. It was nothing foreign, nothing that he had to find.

    To him, it was home.

    And as he closed his eyes, as he thought of that pulse, there had been a tugging in the base of his stomach. It had felt like an trickle at first, like a dammed river, but as more and more unraveled, it grew to a torrent. It poured out of his center, flowing through his chest down his limbs. Heat burned down the tips of his claws, and when he opened his eyes, he had seen the ribbons of purple dancing in front of him

    Mahji, the dead had hissed, and they had reminded him of the next step. Purpose. Fire.

    Fire burned. Fire ate. Fire breathed. Fire was alive.

    Fire swallowed flesh, its teeth ripping apart skin and muscle. Fire took in air with hungry lungs, exhaling plumes of black smoke. Fire sought out its prey, spreading with snaking tendrils blown by the wind. Fire bred, leaving behind its eggs in its corpse of ashes, glowing embers that threatened to grow once more. Fire was alive.

    And as he remembered all of this, as his mind understood the life behind a flame, he willed his mahji to burn. To ignite. To bring out that single spark of life. He felt that hunger, that will to live, and from it he summoned forth a flame.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    It had been something small at first, a single tongue of flame at the tip of his claw, but he had fed it. He had willed it to grow further, and in the span of a single breath it had blazed its way down the ribbon of purple. Fire danced from his claws, scorching and beautiful and very much alive.

    And as he had wrapped the flame around the Skal¡¯ai, he felt the exultation inside him, swelling forth like a tide. He had done it. Flame plumed and pillared as if it had felt his raw joy. Fire gorged on the Skal¡¯ai, pulsing and swelling as the shadow within twisted and writhed. And as the Skal¡¯ai waned and became consumed, so too did the fire die away until in the end there was nothing more than ashes.

    Well done, scion of Andahiel. Well done, Shai¡¯mon.

    The sounds of talking roused him from his thoughts. Some of the strange men were arguing with their guides, and Sister seemed impatient. They yammered on in that strange tongue, their bodies full of posturing. It was a waste of energy, but Sister tapped his shoulder with a slender hand.

    ¡°Do you¡­¡± she murmured, eyes downcast. ¡°Do you have a name?¡± A name?

    ¡°Ya cand brin ¡®zem, Boga! Dey no ou¡¯sa be¡ª¡± screamed one of the strange men, his voice cut off abruptly by a punch to the jaw. A name?

    ¡°Dey¡¯s Junga sa fren! Junga brin ¡®zem!¡± howled a guide, beating his chest proudly, until he was shoved to the ground by another.

    ¡°Dey¡¯s Boga sa fren! Boga sa fren first!¡± screamed the first, and Sister strode forward with a look of incredulity on her face. A name?

    The dead coiled in the back of his mind. You are nameless, scion? Without self or identity? Such is a name.

    He was not without identity. He was the stalker of the lands, the strongest of his plains. He was born from the earth, his very flesh carved and shaped from the mud and dirt. His mother had been the stone, his father the spirit of Andahiel, if the dead were to be believed. He bore the spirits of a thousand restless dead within him, bore the blackstone jewel of a corpse¡¯s crown on his flesh. He was the only demon to wander these lands in a thousand years, and the last of the Shai¡¯mon. His claws could tear through steel; his will could compel the very soul of men. He was the survivor of thirteen Fells, slayer of the formless Skal¡¯ai. He was hunted by the shadow-mother, and marked by the unliving corpse. That was his identity; that was his self.

    How could a single name encompass that? How could a single name carry that weight?

    ¡°Boga, stop this. Please! Sir, we just need to pass through the mountain to the other side, to get out of the Outlands.¡± Sister spoke to the strange man, her face imploring. ¡°We won¡¯t cause any trouble.¡±

    The man spat out a glob of blood and spittle as he sat up, his features obscured by hair. ¡°Ya sa brin plenta¡¯troub already. Why ya ou¡¯sa go ¡®ere?¡±

    A name is more than that scion. It is more than what you have been. The dead heard his thoughts, and again came their hissing voices. A name is what you will be, and that which you strive for. It is your traits, your hopes, your ideals.

    Sister let out a sigh, pulling out a steel fang. She only had the one now; he had left the others behind when he had to flee from the Skal¡¯ai across the plains. Twirling it brilliantly in the dim light, she strode forward in a quick motion. There was a blur, a flash where the light glimmered off the edge of the blade, and then she had struck the man with the blunt end. The handle had clubbed him in the forehead, and he had crumbled like an infant.

    ¡°Boga, can we go now?¡± he smiled, spinning the dagger back into its place on the side of her leg. The guide let out a happy little laugh before leading them further down the tunnel.

    Her name is Lily, the dead whispered, and he remembered it from a campfire. A flower, invoking grace. A poison, invoking strength. Qualities she seeks, not just those she has. What do you seek, scion? What do you see for your future?

    There was a scream.

    It was a lone scream, out of place and piercing in the tunnel-cave. It echoed off the walls, resounding and rebounding until it seemed like it was multiplying. And yet, as this scream echoed, it did not get softer as echoes do. Instead, it grew in volume until it was a tide.

    And then he realized, it was not a lone scream.

    Behind them, the howls and screeches of agony sundered out of the side tunnel like a wailing beast. The shadows danced as lanterns flickered out, the dim illumination suddenly shrinking away into darkness. And that darkness grew, even after all the light had been snuffed out, until he realized that it was moving all on its own.

    And as the Skal¡¯ai poured out of the tunnel like a flood, men succumbed to its grasp in screams and silence. The Skal¡¯ai gorged itself, swelling to tremendous size as it swallowed hundreds of miners. A chill ran down his back as he realized it would not be stopped by a simple flame this time. His head throbbed, ached with a memory, and he saw that corpse once more before him. Its skeletal hand touched his forehead, and he let loose an agonizing howl.

    ¡°RUN!¡± yelled the guide, grabbing his arm in a wide palm and dragging him forward. When he opened his eyes, he saw Sister and the others already ahead of them, bolting down the tunnel. He did not need to look back to see the shadows along the wall growing larger, more and more of the lanterns extinguished by the cold touch of the Skal¡¯ai.

    Fear took hold of him then, fear that was raw and primal and terrifying. He threw off the hand of the short guide, sinking down to his haunches and bolting forward on all fours as fast as he could. In the span of three breaths, he caught up to Sister, her face flushed and her expression stricken.

    ¡°Surely they will not chase us past the mountain?¡± she huffed, fear starting to make her breathing erratic.

    He merely smiled, his heart thumping loud in his veins.

    ¡°Sister, I don¡¯t have a name.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 32: A Loss of Innocence

    It was two days of agony that Kail endured¡ªor so he believed. In truth, time had long since slipped out of his grasp, his mind already numbed by the pain and his spirit crushed. He did not think of anything; he did not dream. He ate when given food; he drank when given water. He screamed when he was cut open, and he wailed when he was burned. Every second was spent in torment as he felt his each inch and fiber of his body being methodically ripped apart. A fleshy lump the size of a fist was under his collarbone, another one on his left hip. The grubs had already grown and would soon meet, working their way through muscle and sinew with an inexorable danger. They were large enough that he could feel their own heartbeat against his own, a slow, foreign pulsing in his body. It was disgusting, revolting. Every time they twitched, every time they tore out a piece of his flesh, he felt it with a sharp spike of agony.

    Over and over his muscle and tissue had been ripped apart, hacked apart, shredded and twisted and mutilated beyond compare. And over and over that god¡¯s ichor dripped down his throat, trickled into his empty stomach, and over and over his body betrayed him. Sinew and tendon knitted back together, severed limbs rejoining their bloody stumps. His damned heart kept pumping, even when he desperately wished only that his veins would simply run dry. Death was a release that he craved, and yet over and over it was denied.

    Sir, he had remembered pleading. Where are you? Why aren¡¯t you here?

    But yet that sneaking voice in the back of his mind grew louder as the torture wore on. He¡¯s gone. He¡¯s left you. He¡¯s gone.

    He heard that clacking of nails of stone that meant his jailer was coming, a tired terror dripping through his veins. He did not struggle; had already resigned himself to this fate.There was no future for him here, no promise of life in these. The only question about his death was when.

    ¡°A shame boy, that your time is up. I¡¯ll have to hand you over. It¡¯s too bad really, I had so much fun.¡± It grinned as it twirled a massive cleaver in its hands, the edge abnormally clean in contrast to the bloodstained walls. ¡°I¡¯d feel bad if I didn¡¯t give you a parting gift.¡±

    Kail gave no response, his head bowed, eyes closed in submission.

    ¡°Now, now, don¡¯t be like that, boy. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll like it. What use did you have for your limbs anyways, pinned up like that?¡±

    Heaving out a breath, Kail, croaked out with dry lips, ¡°Why¡­? What do you...want?¡± Why do you let me live? Why do you play with me?

    It paused, leaning in repulsively close. ¡°Hmm?¡±

    ¡°What...do you want...from me?¡± Blood trickled down his neck as he spoke, but he hardly noticed.

    A pause. Then it leaned back, a disgusting smile stretching across its ruined face. ¡°For my god. For fun.¡±

    Kail twitched, a slight ripple that shook across his face. It did not escape the monster, which smiled in response.

    Grabbing Kail by the arm, it pulled him off the wall, the stakes tearing larger holes into his arms and legs from the force. He lay on the ground, gasping for breath, but the thing would not have any of it. Without pausing, it flipped him over onto his back roughly, pulling the stakes out one at a time with a wet squelch. They came out with a sickly popping sound, the blood slowly oozing from the holes in his body.

    Grabbing the butcher knife, it gave a smile, sickly in the dim candlelight. ¡°Sorry if I miss a little.¡± It came down in a blow, striking his ankle and cutting straight through the bone, cracking the tile underneath. Blood gushed like a fountain from the stump, dark black and thick. Grabbing one of the candles off the wall, it crudely shoved the tongues of flame into the wound, flesh sizzling and crackling as it was seared shut. The stench of burned muscle was horrific, yet he had long since grown dulled to such sensation.

    Picking up a cupful of the frothing liquid, it forced Kail to drink. The liquid burned down his throat and he struggled to breathe through the pain, spluttering as his flesh struggled knit the flame-scarred wound back together. Without even a moment for respite, the cleaver came down again, striking the same spot and severing the limb once more. Again came the candle, the muscle burning black with char. Again the potion burned down his throat and again his flesh mended itself.

    So the gruesome cycle repeated, the sound of hacking and screams an unnerving rhythm that echoed off the walls. After ten or so cycles, a thin band of black grew where the cleaver kept striking, the flesh not quite healing completely. Whatever magic the god¡¯s ichor held, it could not deny the strength of flame. With another five or so repetitions, it became a solid shade of black, thicker than a finger, wrapping like a cuff around his ankle.

    It smiled, its broken teeth horrendous and mocking. ¡°Now isn¡¯t that beautiful?¡±

    Not even waiting for a response, it brought the cleaver down again, this time on his fingers, taking off three in a single strike and splitting roughly through half of the fourth. And so the game started again, as each of his joints was repeatedly severed until they were branded with black. The sound of the blade striking flesh grew metronomic, almost hypnotic. Crack, struck the blade against bone. Ssshh, whispered the flames against his skin. His screams were silent to his own ears, long since having faded to the background.

    Finally, after an eternity of pain and suffering, the thing set the cleaver down, hardly even out of breath. Rings of black surrounded his limbs, like strange tattoos carved into his own skin. The flesh was brutally mutilated, the surface of the skin pitted and cracked as strands of sinew struggled to hold together muscle and bone. Blood and pus oozed from the wounds, cracking and hardening on the surface to form a grotesque layer. Char crackled on the surface, the skin underneath pink and white.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    With a crash, the monster buried the cleaver blade down into the stone, turning to face the door as a woman strode in. His eyes were closed, his breathing hard and his heart about to burst, but he still could feel precisely when she entered; there was an aura, a sensation that stirred the senses, and it accompanied her like a veil. She walked slowly, deliberately, circling around Kail before running a hand down his torn chest. His breathing caught, hitching in his thought at her soft touch. Letting out a low murmur, she turned to speak to the beast.

    ¡°Is this the boy you were talking about, Hope?¡± That voice was enchanting, demurely quiet.

    ¡°Yes. He¡¯s managed to stay sane through the whole ordeal. Quite remarkable really.¡± he responded, not sounding sorry in the least as he spoke. His voice was dry, without warmth, breath fetid and putrid.

    ¡°Well isn¡¯t that a shame. Are you giving him to me?¡± A slender finger traced his new bands, dancing over scarred skin. Every touch brought pain, a sharp shock that danced up his limbs.

    ¡°You said you needed a new toy. You last one broke quite some time ago right?¡±

    ¡°Well aren¡¯t you so sweet. I hope this one will last longer.¡± That voice was so painfully sweet, like warm honey, like summer¡¯s sap.

    ¡°Do be careful when you play. The last time you had almost brought down half the city.¡±

    She stuck out her tongue. ¡°You¡¯re no fun, Hope.¡± Turning to face Kail, she raised her palm up, tendrils of pink mist swirling into the air. There was a fine dust that clung to her fingers, pluming into fog the instant that it touched the air. ¡°Come along now, little boy.¡± With a gentle puff, she blew the swirling haze towards him, his mind suddenly feeling groggy with a single breath. She smiled, voice becoming distorted to his ears. ¡°We¡¯ll have such fun together.¡± His abused body offered no protest as his mind tumbled into blackness.

    Kail swam in and out of consciousness, his mind feeling like molten lead as he vaguely felt himself being dragged down a twisting spiral of stairs and hallways. Time clawed by, and he could hardly care for its passing. He did not know how many days had passed, he did not know how many days he had yet to live. At some point he knew that he had left the sewers¡ªthe unbearable stench that had burned into his nostrils during his torture had finally left him.

    He woke once to find himself in a tub, the dried blood and filth being scraped off him by a small boy. The child¡¯s touch felt soothing, soft, a gentle comfort long-forgotten by his torment. It hurt to even stare at the light, so he closed his eyes and felt the water around him. He merely exhaled deeply as the child scrubbed at his skin, the warm water soothing his aching body and the pleasure soon letting him drift off to sleep.

    Another time he roused from slumber to feel something against his mouth. A voice whispered in his ear, telling him to open. He complied, feeling a warm broth trickle down his throat and warm his stomach. His head felt groggy, throbbing with pain, and before he knew it he was gone again.

    He dreamed during his sleep, dreaming of home in Maris Tor. He dreamed of Sir, and the promises that he had made. To live a life Sir would be proud of. How distant those thoughts were, now. He dreamed about the to hopes that he had, of the hero bathed in golden light he had wanted to be. He dreamed of the sunlight that had warmed his face eons ago. Had it been so long ago? Since when did his flesh feel so old?

    Since when had his heart been filled with such doubt?

    It was all just a dream. They were nothing more than smoke now, slipping through his fingers.

    He felt blackness eating at the edges of his dreams, the visions slowly going black. He felt the light fade until he could see no more, only that same darkness that that swallowed everything. The voices whispered to him, offering him power, bidding him to take it. It was ancient, eternal, archaic, omnipotent. He felt like an ant standing in the shadow of a giant, like a blade of grass in the heart of a storm. He heard the voice of a woman, sweet and soothing. It told him to take the power, to accept it. Please, it begged, gliding gently over his heart.

    Yet he could not. The darkness repulsed him, sickened every fiber of his flesh. It did not belong, and he rejected it with every bit of strength he had left in his ruined body. Please, it begged, and he pushed away with a feverish strength. He pulled away from its thrall, waking in a cold sweat.

    With a gasp, he opened his eyes for the first time in how long he did not know. And yet now, alone in the dark, even that small comfort was stolen from him. He felt a sinking in his stomach: he could not see anything. The blackness that had eaten his dreams surrounded him as well. He felt fear that consumed all thought, sending him into a blind panic. With aching arms, he waved his hands in front of his face, seeing no motion. Something was off. Feeling his face, he felt nothing where his eyes once were, only empty sockets of bone. Scarred flesh outlined the ruined cavities as he felt his arms fall limp to his sides, the truth cold and uncaring.

    He was blind.

    He did not know how long he lay there with his spirit broken. He did not know how long he would have to wait for his suffering to end. He heard a clicking on stone, a sound that echoed off of walls he could not see. A light breath fluttered on his neck, nails tracing down his chest. A voice whispered in his ear, painfully sweet: ¡°So you wake, sweet boy. I¡¯m sad. You rejected my gift. You punishment is only fitting for such discourtesy.¡± Her fingers ran gently up his chest, up his neck, tracing the outline of his sallow cheeks before feeling the empty sockets of his eyes. ¡°Such a shame. You had such beautiful blue eyes.¡± she murmured, her voice almost mocking to his ears. ¡°Blue like the sky. Such a shame.¡±

    He heard more clicking as she walked around him, her fingers tracing his flesh. ¡°You won¡¯t thank me? I healed your wounds.¡± She paused as she waited for an answer.

    He moved his mouth, but no words came out. His throat was dry, unused to the work, his lips cracked with blood. His throat worked, tongue forming words that felt foreign in his mouth. His throat was aflame, his flesh already charred. In a dry whisper, he spoke, his voice sounding old and broken even to him. ¡°Kill me now.¡±

    She chuckled, a sweet sound that honeyed his ears. ¡°Dear boy, I won¡¯t be granting you that wish any time soon.¡± Gliding her fingers on his chest, she started to trace a light circle over his heart. ¡°Even with what Hope has done to you, you still refused my gift.¡± Her fingers started dancing faster, gliding over scars and muscle.

    ¡°You will accept my gift¡ªour god¡¯s gift.¡± Her nails broke the skin now, and he felt hot blood trickling down his chest. ¡°There¡¯s no fun in killing you. No, I want to break you.¡± Her fingers slowed now. ¡°I will give you pleasure and pain unimaginable. I will drive you to the brink of madness. And when you have committed sins unimaginable and stare at yourself in the mirror, only then will I grant you your wish.¡±

    Without warning, she plunged her nails deep into his chest. He screamed in pain as she pulled them out, five finger forming holes in a perfect star over his heart. ¡°And then your stalwart heart will break. And then you will accept our god¡¯s gift. Dear child, I¡¯m not going to kill you.

    ¡°I¡¯m only going to make you into a monster.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 33: His Desperation

    I fear that I am lost. I fear that I am broken. There is a madness in my veins, and it surges with every passing heartstroke. I shudder to imagine what has been stolen, what has been torn from my veins. There has been too much sacrificed, too much that I have forgotten and failed. But still I suffer in His name. Why do I bleed longer still? Why do I suffer longer still? Why¡ª

    Why do I still hunger so?

    <hr>

    The darkness roared silently, swallowing all in its path as they ran through the tunnel. Already, Sister was beginning to tire, her weak body worn down by days of running. She needed time to rest, to recover, but the Skal¡¯ai were a tireless hunter. They would chase over the plains, chase through the mountains, chase by day and night without pause. They would run their prey to the ground if needed, and their final step would come with as much ease as their first.

    ¡°We can¡¯t¡ªwe can¡¯t keep going down this way!¡± she huffed, pointing to a side tunnel that many of the strange men were fleeing into. ¡°This path ends! We need to go up the mountain to get down to the other side.¡±

    ¡°Aye, iss¡¯a truth. Ya ou¡¯sa work sa cran¡¯ ta git up.¡± huffed one of their guides, surprisingly quick despite his clumsy size. They were one of a flood, a surge of bodies that struggled to cling to life. As they barreled down the path, he could not help but sneak a glance over his shoulder to see the Skal¡¯ai.

    The great mass of writhing shadows spanned the entire tunnel, engorged with the corpses of men bulging beneath its depthless surface. Black mist plumed from its edge, smoke billowing from where water crackled into ice on the stone floor. If there was one fortunate thing, it was that its insatiable hunger was also a flaw; the more it consumed, the slower it became as it digested the flesh and bone. In a way, he was grateful for those wrenching screams behind him. At the very least, their deaths still gave him hope. Still, as the living shadow crept along the walls and smothered out the light, he felt a creeping cold dread slither down his spine.

    As they entered the side tunnel, they saw a large crowd gathered before a massive shaft running up through the mountain. In the center of it was a metal basket that hauled men to the mountaintop, suspended by chains that stretched all the way up the shaft to the surface. Intuition told him that this was the ¡°crane¡± that the guide had spoken of, although it did not nearly seem large enough to accommodate the number of men here. Yet the crowd streamed in, shoving and fighting for a spot in the basket. They piled on with shouts and screams, their small build a gift as far too many tried to enter the basket.

    A loud clank rang out from above, a low groaning of metal, and then the chains began to scream as they move. Slowly but surely, the basket began to crawl upwards, pulling what seemed like almost a hundred of the men up to the top of the mountain. There were far too many trying to escape. Many were forced to cling onto the edges, entrusting their lives to the strength of their grip as the metal basket was jostled and shoved inside the narrow shaft. As their strength failed them, they slipped and fell, plummeting to a sickening crunch somewhere far below at the bottom.

    ¡°Is there only the one? Aren¡¯t their any more.¡± Sister cried out, and their guide shook his head sadly.

    ¡°Iss¡¯a only way ta surface. No many cran¡¯ers, and most o¡¯ ta miners ne¡¯er leave da tunnel.¡± He muttered, suddenly sinking his face into his hands. ¡°Junga...Moga¡­¡± he wept, fat tears slipping through his fingers to fall to the floor. ¡°Dat¡ªdat thing a-ate dem¡­¡±

    He let out a growl. There was no time for this. The Skal¡¯ai was certain to get here before this damned basket even made it to the top, at the rate this was going. His mind scrambled to think, to come up with some way to make it out of here. But these walls were too thick, the stone to hard for him to break in the needed time. They were not even halfway through the mountain; he could feel it around him. But there needed to be some way.

    ¡°W-wait!¡± someone cried out from amongst the crowd, voice full of panic. A horrendous screeching sound tore its way through the air from above, and there was torrent of screams that echoed down the shaft. The chains must have snapped, for the basket plunged down the shaft with the shearing sound of torn metal. Sparks rained along the wall, showering men who stood too close, the chains whipping about like snakes. As the basket passed those still waiting on the ledge, some tried to jump to safety in that briefest of instants.

    They failed.

    Their faces twisted in fear and horror, they all fell short of the stone ledge and howled down the shaft, incapable of stopping their death. Even the closest could only bring his knuckles to touch the stone; their small stature and size betrayed them in this time of need.

    When the basket struck the ground, there was no sound.

    ¡°No¡­¡± their guide gasped softly, only for a quiet sob to sneak out of his throat. ¡°W-we¡¯s all ded now, n-no way¡­¡±

    Black mist billowed from the bottom of the shaft, numbing those it touched with that terrible cold. Some men became rigid, others collapsing like mere infants. It crackled over their skin, sapping away their heat and stealing away their strength. Those that stood too close to the edge fell over without a sound, and their bodies were swallowed by shadow in silence as well.

    ¡°Skal¡¯ai.¡± he hissed, and he knew that there was no more time. Grabbing Sister by the waist, he bolted towards the shaft with as much speed as he could muster, pushing aside men in the way. ¡°Wait! Fren!¡± their guide called out helplessly as they left him behind, callous and uncaring.

    ¡°Wait¡ª¡± she cried out, not understanding. ¡°What are you¡ª¡±

    And then he leapt.

    Weightlessness took over him for a breath of time, and they were flying through the air. Nothing but death waited for them below, nothing but momentum keeping them from the maws of waiting shadow. For a moment everything froze, his heartbeat, his movement, and there was only his body, minute against the consuming darkness. They were floating, suspended motionless in the air. He dared not to breathe.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    And then there was a jarring sensation as he struck stone. Sparks flew as his claws dug into the stone, every muscle in his body taut as a cord as he struggled not to fall. He fought his own weight, fighting not to fall. Fear and doubt shouted at him, worrying that he would slip, that Sister would fall, that the Skal¡¯ai would pluck them off then and there. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to ignore his own uncertainty. It would serve him no purpose here. Weight and momentum carried them down, although their speed began to slow as his claws began to find purchase. Above him, Sister let out a shrill scream as they slid downward, seemingly towards certain death.

    There was only a tense silence when they slowly ground to a halt, claws buried into the cracked stone.

    ¡°N-now what?¡± Sister stammered on, her arms around his shoulders the only thing keeping her alive. Her fingers dug into his fur, struggling to keep a grip.

    He let out a toothy grin that none could see as his legs tensed. They had survived the jump, now they just had to climb out of the shaft. It would be just like running, he reminded himself. Just, instead of forward, it would be up. ¡°Hold on. Tight.¡±

    Pushing up with every last fiber of strength in his muscle, he swung his left arm up and buried his hand in cracking stone. There was a brief moment of tension as the stone began to crumble, began to come loose from his endeavors, but it passed and a tight breath snuck out of him. Once more, he buried his right hand in stone, pulling himself upward.

    Over and over he repeated these motions, clawing his way out of death¡¯s jaws with nothing but primal strength. His muscles burned, his heart about to burst, his veins aflame with molten fire. His body was a dead weight, his Sister made of lead and steel. His limbs were made of water, his shoulders and legs protesting the very notion of motion. He howled and cursed the useless flesh that he bore. What use was it to him if it failed him now? If it broke in his greatest moment of need?

    And as he searched with his foot for purchase on the sloped stone, his hand slipped.

    Fear shot through his stomach like a poison, lacing through his blood with its icy touch. He was dangling, hanging on with only his right hand. His progress had been too slow, and now shadow began to dance around them. Coiling darkness, serpentine hands of the Skal¡¯ai, they circled like a predator to prey.

    Far, had Skal¡¯ai chased them. They had waited in every shadow, behind every corner, waiting only for their mother¡¯s call. Now, their hunt was over. As that black mist settled on his hand, he felt his grip begin to loosen. Already, Sister had fallen silent. His body was worn, his mind feverish and tired. So tired. There was no more strength in him, no more drive. It was all just so cold.

    ¡°Demon!¡± Sister gasped, trembling on his back. ¡°These mountains. There must be heat beneath these mountains!¡±

    Heat? But it was so cold.

    But he was so tired.

    His eyes closed, that familiar numbness spreading to his chest. Without sensation in his fingers, the shadows began to lap greedily at his flesh, sinking formless fangs into the muscle. His eyes closed, and he could only feel that which was around him. Feel. It was a familiar sensation, one that he had experienced before. He felt spirits around him, the slow pulsing of a thousand souls in these mountains. He felt life fade, those light below him slowly guttering out as they were consumed. He felt the earth around him, felt the trembling of the very stone that he still clutched. Above him, he felt the sky, its winds harsh and cold as they struck the mountaintop. And below him, he felt the chilling cold. The numbing void. That consuming emptiness that swarmed ever closer.

    And yet, below that, he felt heat.

    His eyes were closed, and he felt heat. His eyes were closed, and he saw heat.

    Like a blind man gifted back his sight, he saw everything around him in vibrant color. He saw the brilliant white of the spirits in these halls, pulsing with gentle life. He saw the threads of mahji in the air, even saw the green of tainted marai. Above him, he saw the sky, even hidden as it was behind stone and snow. Below him, he saw heat. Red-white with power, with life, with brilliant fire. That heat warmed him as he gazed into it, as he saw it with sightless eyes.

    Well done, scion. Once more, you have opened your Mind¡¯s Eye. Those hissing voices spoke once more

    Indeed, this sensation was familiar; he had felt it once before, when he had freed the dead from the blackstone. He had seen then, and he saw now. He saw the flame beneath him, and he felt it burning his blood.

    He felt the heat pulsing, felt the heat ebb and flow¡ªfor this was liquid fire, and it ran like a river under the stone. He felt it churn, felt it rise and fall. He felt its pulse, and he felt his own heartbeat slow to match it. And as he felt its pulse, unbeknownst to him, threads of purple wound their way out of his fingertips.

    Fire, whispered numb lips, frozen by cold shadow, and he wanted to pull it closer. He wanted to draw it into him, to have this scalding heat warm away the numbness in his bones. He wanted to pull it out of the earth, to feel it suffuse him with warmth, to feel it cascade against his skin. And as he felt that need, unbeknownst to him, ribbons of purple mahji sank into the stone.

    All around them, the shaft began to tremble. Pebbles and rock fell loose from the walls, large cracks splintering like veins along the surface. Rumbling filled the air, steam hissing and popping as it surged towards the surface.

    ¡°Was that you?¡± shouted Sister, but his ears were frozen.

    ¡°Run!¡± shouted Sister, but his legs were frozen.

    All he wanted was the heat, to thaw off the cold shadow that ate away at his heart.

    So why did Sister climb into a hole in the cracked shaft wall, formed from crumbling stone? Why did Sister pull him into the collapsing rock, away from the heat? Why did Sister drag him farther and farther from the opening that they had entered through, farther and farther away from that blessed heat?

    Why did Sister seal the opening off, hardening the stone around them with vahma until they were in a ball of unbroken rock?

    And then the surging current of magma that he had called forth struck the boulder that she had made, and the movement made hit strike his skull against the stone. Heat, he thought, feeling that numbness slink away from his flesh. And then, broken and weary and drained by the effort, his vision went black.

 Book 1: Chapter 34: A Lost Memory

    Lily was dreaming. Slowly shaking the fog from her thoughts, her gaze fell upon a familiar figure slowly forming out of the parting smoke. She saw her sister before her, that brilliant smile shining brighter than a star. With those twinkling eyes, those dimpled cheeks, Lily could not help but break out into tears.

    ¡°I missed you.¡± she murmured through muffled sobs, gazing into those gentle eyes. ¡°Why¡ªwhy did you leave me?¡± She reached out a hand to touch her sister¡¯s face, and a single tear ran down that tanned cheek. It was wet to the touch, wet and hot. And yet, as it touched her finger, that tear blossomed crimson and scarlet, a rivulet of blood that trickled down her arm.

    ¡°Why did I leave you?¡± sweet sister whispered, and Lily nearly cried out at the sound of her voice. So dearly had she missed that laughing voice, always filled with joy no matter the time of day. So dearly had she missed that quiet murmur, like velvet against her ears. ¡°But you left me.¡±

    More tears fell from her face, more red covered her skin. Lily saw blood coating her hand, saw hot crimson flow over her palms. She saw the men before her, kicking her sister¡¯s corpse in front of her eyes. And the corpse of her sweet sister wept blood, wept sanguine rivulets as she whispered, ¡°You ran, sweet sister. You left me.¡±

    Panicked and blinded by blood and tears, Lily raised her wrists to wipe her eyes. When her hands fell away, she saw a white flame eating away at sweet sister¡¯s corpse. Soulfire, she noted dully. She felt empty, thoughtless, as the fire engulfed the corpse. She made no response as the burning arm reached out for her. She made no movement as her sister screamed at her, screamed for her to help. A cost, she realized suddenly, even as the last of sweet sister¡¯s image was burning away. A price to vahma.

    Those beautiful lips were shaping soundless words, those brilliant eyes cracked and caked with blood. Those dimpled cheeks were sallow and pale, that brilliant smile now ruined and grotesque. As her flesh turned to ash, sweet sister kept clawing for aid. Those fingers seemed more and more skeletal with every passing breath, those arms almost bone-thin now. The soulfire soared to an all-new height, blindingly white. And when it finally fell away, when the vision finally returned to her blinded eyes, she saw nothing but spiraling smoke, shimmering smolder that rose away into a formless sky.

    ¡°Sweet sister.¡± she whispered, fat tears rolling down her face. The words were foreign, strange in her mouth. Why do I weep? Who are these tears for? She could not remember, could not recall, no matter how hard she tried. She could not understand the words she spoke, no matter how hard she tried.

    Did I have a sister? The sloane could not recall. Her memories had long since joined that billowing smoke. There was a burning in her chest, a fierce flame that ate away at her. It tugged at the pit of her stomach, gnawed away at her very thoughts.

    <hr>

    There is nothing but the hunger, nothing but that insatiable appetite that smothers the thought and inundates sanity itself. It transfixes my every action, my very nerve. I fear that I have become nothing more than a beast, no more than a feral abomination, driven by instinct and desire. Even now, it gnaws at me, like the incessant touch of a lover. And there is nothing here to drown it out, nothing here to take away the suffering.

    Since when did I become all alone?

    <hr>

    When Lily woke, it was with a throbbing headache. Curled up beside the demon, she found herself surrounded by white soulstone and utter darkness. Rock formed by vahma, hardened by magic, solid as steel. Her mouth twitched with an itching pain, her fingers trembling stiffly. With a groan, she sat up in the cramped, hollow space, remembering the circumstances that had led to this situation. The demon had pulled magma from below the Twisting Spires, drawing it up the crane shaft and burning away the Skal¡¯ai underneath them. It had been a desperate maneuver, a hopeless last resort, and it had been good fortune that had lent to them their survival.

    As the molten rock had surged forth, the walls around them had begun to crumble. She had pulled them into a crevice formed by falling stone, using the space to start a chant. The demon had already grown numb, and so she was forced to burn vahma once more. It was easier the second time, the fabric of her soul already frayed. She tugged on those loose ends, unraveling more to set aflame. It had sunk into the stone, the magic of her pact hardening the stone and drawing it around the two. As the magma had shot upwards to fill the shaft, she could only pray that the soulstone would be enough.

    Right before the final gap in the stone closed, she saw the remaining diggers on their ledge, frozen with fear as molten stone rose to claim them. She saw Boga, his features torn and twisted with loss and grief. It was impossible at the distance, over all the noise of fracturing stone, but she thought that she had heard him screaming. Fren, she thought she had heard him scream in that strange tongue of his. Don¡¯t leave me, he had screamed. His naivety had been refreshing, certainly, at there was a part of her that wept when she saw the terror and betrayal cover his face. We have left you behind, she thought. We are no true friends of yours.

    And then the soulstone had sealed up, and the space was plunged into darkness. Magma caught them as it shot to the surface, and she struck her head on the ceiling with a force harder than any blow. That was the last that she remembered¡ªthe cracking of her skull on the stone¡ªthe last she recalled before dreams overtook her.

    It seemed that they had survived, although she had no way of surveying the situation. Indeed, even if this rock had been their savior, it would kill them both in moments if they could not break out; without fresh air, they could only last minutes at best. Already, she could feel her breathing speeding up as the air ran out. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    ¡°Demon. Demon, wake up.¡± she muttered, jostling the sleeping figure beside her as best she could, yet she found no response. Could it have died? It was certainly possible, if it had been wounded by blows from the stone. If so, then she was alone. A gentle fear bit into her at that thought. Alone, like so long ago.

    She needed light, even if it was just for an instant. As if without even trying, flame jumped from her fingers with greedy eagerness at the mere thought. Her vahma burned seemingly of its own accord, without command or even effort. The more frayed the fabric of her soul became, the easier it was to unravel more and more strands to burn. Soon enough, there would only be a single strand left, and she would not even know what she had lost.

    Why did it feel as though she had already lost too much?

    Yet with that white flame, she saw the smooth rock that surrounded her. It was fractured, chipped and cracked by the force from which they had been jostled. Working her pale fingers into the largest crack, she struggled to pry it open. But the stone was still too hard, her body still too weak, and her breaths were coming even faster now. The flame had eaten its own share of her air, and the hourglass had only a few grains left in the top.

    Hurriedly pulling her dagger out of its sheath, Lily began to chip away at the soulstone. Small pieces began to fall away, and she continued with reinvigorated strength. Yet as more and more broke off, she found her breathing grow shallow, matching the pace of her racing heartbeat. She hammered away with feverish blows, her palms covered with sweat and her arms burning. Yet it seemed to be of no use. Her vision blurred, her consciousness growing fuzzy, and she felt her blows grow weaker with every passing moment.

    Ghostlike inklings of light began to shine through the veinous rock, bleeding faintly through the stone. So close, she thought. Just a little more. Yet she felt her body failing her, felt her consciousness growing dim. ¡°No,¡± she whispered, her lips cracked. So close.

    A strength filled her then, a bubbling fire that roared through her arms. Renewed strength soared through her, magic in her limbs. With a gasping roar, she drove her dagger into the last bits of stone, breaking through and seeing blessed light beam through. Ash-filled air filled her lungs, making her cough and heave from exertion. Her heart throbbed as she drew in a new breath, suddenly swooning as her head cried out for air.

    For a moment, she simply lay there gasping, her chest heaving, her arms weak as water. White smoke fizzled from her skin as she realized that once more vahma had burned without her even calling it forth. ¡°I wonder what I lost this time.¡± she muttered, twitching her fingers as she struggled to rise. ¡°But my crow-cursed head feels like it on fire.¡±

    Picking up her dagger, its edge dulled and nicked by her improper use, she began once more to chip away at the soulstone. Gradually, the hole began to widen, allowing the bright light of a halfday sun shine onto her face. Over and over, the monotonous motions began to wear her out. Her tired arm swung down and the blade flew out of her sweaty hands, drawing a line of red across her palm as it clattered onto the floor. She cursed, spitting onto the cut as she picked up the dagger with her other hand.

    A growling sound behind her gave some warning before something struck the stone with tremendous force. It seemed, Lily noted dully, that the demon was still alive. ¡°Five and three curses!¡± she swore, caught off-guard as the demon woke. Perhaps it had been the scent of blood that had stirred it from sleep, for it was still in a weary state of torpor. Carelessly, it crashed it horns against the rock, nearly grazing her in the half-mad process.

    ¡°Sworn stars, what are you doing!¡± she screamed, feeling chipped stone fly into her face. ¡°Over there! Break the hole open over there!¡± She gestured to the small opening that she had managed to make, hoping that her words could break through the demon¡¯s stupor somehow.

    It let out a low growl before sniffing, half-lidded turning to focus blearily on her.

    Uh-oh.

    With a roar, it charged towards her head, the movement awkward in the confined space. She dodged in a hopeful motion, striking her head and arm against stone in an effort to avoid those goring horns. The demon crashed into the stone, striking it with all the force of its charge and breaking through the weakened rock. There was the sound of splintering stone, a shower of cracked rock that fell on her. She raised her arm reflexively, feeling stinging cuts as the edges drew a latticework of scarlet across her skin. Blood oozed from her arm and forehead, smearing her vision with a haze of red as she saw blessed sky above her.

    The demon gave a toss of its head before climbing out awkwardly into the light, its skull unhurt despite breaking through the stone. After its large form lumbered out, she pulled herself out of the soulstone outside with a grunt of effort. Falling onto black ash and stone, she collapsed with weary breaths as she gave a huff of relief. It would seem that they had survived.

    But what was the price that she had paid for it? As she searched her memories, her jaw clenched with the knowledge that she would likely never know what she had lost. She saw familiar faces flashing through her mind¡ªher aged mentor, the diggers that had met them, even the face of the king when he had paraded through Telavir in the past. Yet they were all faces, familiar but distant, and she realized then that she had lost their names. Try as she might to recall that which should wholly be in her grasp, she could not remember the names of those around her. For her life, she had burned away her memories once more.

    As the demon rolled onto the ash and dirt, it tossed its head in confusion. Finally shrugging off the weight of its sleep, it gazed around briefly before letting off a deep throated roar. The grass trembled, groundbirds scurrying away and insects taking flight in a storm of buzzing wings. There was a primal joy in that roar, a undeniable pleasure that from being alive. It filled her blood with vigor, made her face flush with warmth. Names, she thought.

    ¡°A name.¡± she muttered, and the demon turned to face her in surprise. ¡°Don¡¯t you still need a name? How about Joy?¡±

    It recoiled in surprise, cocking its head like a dog in curiousity. She had seen the pleasure that had filled it when it hunted, when killed, and even just now, when it lived. It seemed to contemplate that word, running a black tongue over its teeth before suddenly lunging towards her. Not an inch from her face, it suddenly snapped its jaws shut with a crack, its muzzle close enough that she could feel its breath on her face. Then, ever slowly, it pulled back.

    Seeing her flinch, its face was stretched with a savage smile, those mismatched eyes staring into her own. A series of guttural grunts tore their way out of his chest, and it took her a moment to realize that it was laughing.

    ¡°Joy.¡± it nodded, turning away and slowly rising to its feet.

 Book 1: Chapter 35: A Glimmer of Love

    Kail wondered how long it had been since his capture, how long it had been since he¡¯d last seen the sun. Day and night held no meaning for him, who counted by the cycles of pleasure and pain. His mind was sluggish, muddled in a dreary haze, his thoughts tired and fuzzy. He no longer had energy enough to think, only to feel. He felt the pleasure then the voice rewarded him and the fear when he was punished. He felt the satisfaction when he did as commanded, and the pain when he resisted. He no longer fought the voice, for he no longer had the strength nor the will to do so. He questioned why he resisted, questioned why he sought out the pain. He questioned why it was worth living if death hurt less.

    The voice teased him, it held him in contempt. It taunted him for his strength and whispered for him to let go. Each night he held on longer through the pain, each day he wondered why he held through the bliss. It was a slow seduction, one that ate away at his mind and ate away at his spirit.

    Longer and longer he hung on that rope, dangled on that small sliver. But his hand was slipping, his grip growing weak. Those whispers chipped away at him, like waves against a rocky shore, and every passing moment threatened to sweep him away.

    He did not know the meaning of reality any longer, when time was eternally dark and he was alone but for his thoughts. The pain hurt his body, but it did not strike his soul. The whispers did that enough, and they would not leave him. When he was being whipped, when he was being branded and flayed, he hid himself in a corner of his mind. He left his body behind, a body that was broken beyond repair. But he could not hide from the whispers that were always with him. They mocked his resolve and told him to let go. They told him to stop struggling. They promised peace. They promised salvation.

    He would have broken long ago, had it not been for a child, perhaps real, perhaps not. He could not tell, for his sight had been stolen from him and his senses were forever scarred. To him, the child sounded a small boy, perhaps five or six in years. He cleaned Kail¡¯s body and healed his wounds. He fed Kail water and food. He cared for Kail, and he gave Kail strength.

    The boy was small and had never seen the world. He had a sister, a year younger, that filled his heart with pride. They were orphans in the darkness, and she his light. He sheltered her and cared for her, just as he did for Kail. The boy was a kind soul, not innocent but still pure. He asked Kail about the outside, about the sun. He asked about the stars and he asked about the moon. He dreamed of the grass under his toes and the wind on his face. The child was pure, and in that purity Kail found strength.

    Each time the child came, he would tell Kail about his dreams. He would tell Kail about a future on the surface, where there was no need to hide. A future where there was no need to run. He told Kail about his sister, who he loved with all his heart. And Kail loved the boy, for the boy was like him.

    And so the seasons turned, and so his heart withered. The cycles of pain and euphoria, the cycles of wanting and hating. He felt the pleasure in the voice, and he felt the need in his body. He felt the bliss from his sin and he felt the disgust from his weakness. He felt the corruption growing around him, felt the light in his heart fading. And yet he was still not broken. The voice that whispered did so because he fought. The voice that whispered did so because he struggled. The voice that whispered did so because his heart did not break, because did spirit remained.

    The child gave that to him, the strength from its hope. The child gave him strength from its wonder, from its dreams of a better future. The child gave him strength to hang on, for the child believed in him. The child believed in Kail, even though he was broken and mangled. The child believed in Kail, even though he was weak and feeble. The child believed in Kail, even though Kail hated himself. He hated the pain. He hated the darkness. He hated the voices and their words. He loved the pleasure and the bliss, he loved the craving and the need, and he hated himself for it. But the child did not hate him. The child believed in him. Kail loved the boy, for he reminded him that he was not alone.

    In the lonely hours when it was silent, in the dark times when his heart weeped, Kail found solace from the boy¡¯s companionship. He found happiness in his laugh, he found joy in his pride. Without him, he would have been broken. Without him, he would be shattered. The boy¡¯s wishes were his own. His hopes and dreams were Kail¡¯s. The boy was his love. The boy was his heart.

    The boy was his star, his light in the darkness. The voices loved him for it, for the seeds of sin and vice had been planted. It is well known that every seed needs some light to bud.

    <hr>

    I know not what drives this burning hunger, what would satiate it. Yet I cannot turn back not, I cannot ever return to what was before. There is blood on my hands, and He feeds me more and more. Yet their corpses never allay my appetite, serving only to further the raging storm that swells inside my chest. More, and I grow. More, and my children spew forth. The madness grips me in my throes, and I lose myself to this ruination. What will it take to end this¡ªthis curse?If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    <hr>

    For his entire life, the darkness was all that the boy had known. He was born there and it was what had greeted him each day. He did not have parents nor friends, only a sister that he loved with all his heart. For as long as he could remember, they had been together. When their masters came to torture them, he had protected her. When she was starving, he gave her his meager food. He loved her more than his own wretched life. They had both been born to this wretched hell; they both were bound to it.

    It was then one day that she was taken from him. He woke to find her gone. His heart broke then, for he no longer found a purpose to live. His masters approached him, promising her return if he did as they asked. He agreed, for even his life meant nothing to him if he could not protect her. They led him to a room that reeked of blood and death. Metal hooks hung on the walls and dried blood caked the stone. There in front of him lay a hunk of flesh, no longer a man, but not quite a corpse. With every breath it convulsed in pain, with every movement agony. Its flesh writhed and twisted as it knit itself together, smoke billowing as the god¡¯s ichor did its work. The boy¡¯s heart went out to the thing, which knew only of suffering and only of pain. It felt strange to feel pity for something, to he on the other end of that all-too-familiar blade.

    His masters gave him their will then, for they ordered him to care for the dying man, to give him companionship. They had him scrape the caked blood off its flesh and wash the broken skin. They had him feed it water through cracked lips and shovel cold gruel into its mouth. He put salve on its wounds and bandaged the cuts. He spoke mindlessly as he worked, talking about the only thing he knew of: his sister. Each day, he cared for the mangled body until slowly, it began to resemble a man in his eyes.

    It took many long days of care until it spoke to him at last, and even then it seemed delirious. Even so, the boy loved the creature who was always in pain. Once, the boy asked him about who he was and where he came from, and the creature told him about the surface. The notion filled the boy with wonder, the boy who had only ever known the darkness. The creature told him stories about wonderous things. It told him about balls of light in the sky so bright that it hurt to look at. It told him of tiny stars that twinkled, and a moon that shone gently in the night. It told him of forests and rivers, of mountains and valleys. It told him tales of adventure, stories of old about knights and valor. It told him stories of castles and glory, of princesses and treasure. The boy wanted to see it for himself, this surface. He wanted to see these wonders before his own eyes.

    Each night, he left having healed and cleaned the man, and each morning he returned to find him caked with blood once more. He did not ask questions, for his masters would not want him to do so. Healing was the most he could do to help the man, and so he did it all that he could. It pained him to watch wounds cover the creature, and he wondered if he was even helping. He questioned if it would be kinder to let the man die, but he could not find it in him to do so.

    One day he came too early, hearing voices behind the door. He stood there in waiting, uncertain and nervous. It was the mistress¡¯s voice, quiet and sweet. She was whispering to the man, telling him to let go, telling him to stop struggling. He heard the cracks of the whip and the sound of tearing flesh. He smelled the drug in the air, and he realized when she was doing. It was fireweed, the sweet scent that followed her wherever she went. The drug dampened emotion and thought, heightening the senses. He knew, for he had seen her use it. Men became reduced to mere husks as they grew addicted to the flower. And the boy shed tears at the thought of the man facing it every night, at the image of that battered creature broken in the mind.

    The boy knew then what he could do to help. That night while he bandaged the man¡¯s wounds, he asked again about the surface. He asked about the stars and the sunlight, and he asked about the stories of old. He promised to take the man there, promised that the future would hold better. The boy knew that he could not stop the pain, that he could not heal the man¡¯s wounded soul. But he could give him hope.

    When he lay before him, broken and crying, the boy could give him strength. The boy could not save the man, he could only ease his pain. If he could not see in the darkness, if he was drowning in despair, the boy would give him light, he would give him hope. It was the least that he could do. It was all that he could do for him. For the boy loved the man with all his heart, just as he loved his sister. It was the purest of love¡ªthe love a child gives to a mother, the only kind of love a child knows.

    The boy had no way of knowing that the hope he gave was all that kept the man going. He had no way of knowing the frayed rope the man clutched, the single string that was running out. The light in the dark that the boy gave was all that held together his broken soul. But the darkness was unending, and the light slowly extinguished in the face of it.

    <hr>

    I know now that all is lost. My heart is but a shriveled thing, too broken and weary to continue. Too long have I been fighting, with nothing to show for it but a ruined soul. Even now, the hunger closes in on my sanity. My hunger, irrepressible and incorrigible. It swallows my every thought, and in the end, when I have succumbed and the need abates, I am left marred and blighted by guilt. When¡ª

    When did I become a monster?

 Book 1: Chapter 36: A Sudden Incursion

    The mountain behind them was covered in black soot and newly hardened stone. The magma that had been drawn out of the earth had surged through the tunnels and mines, blasting apart the rock before being jettisoned into the sky. None of the diggers in the mountain had survived, and perhaps some from neighboring peaks had been caught in the aftermath as well. The ash and heated stone still lingered in the sky, painting the clouds black and swallowing the sun. Even the ground was covered with veins of still-oozing lava, the air blurred with bubbling heat and shimmering steam.

    Lily felt a tremor run down her spine as she took in the spectacle; they had been blown far enough away to take in the mountain and the sky at the same time¡ªjust how strong had that force been? The ash here was thick enough to hide her thumb in, the air hot enough for skin to be covered in a pale sheen of sweat. She shuddered to imagine what it was like closer to the volcano, what it was like in the crane shaft that they had been just moments ago. It seemed death still sought her hand, and its repeated attempts to sway her heart lingered like a kiss.

    Just how much mahji did this demon have? The thought struck her suddenly. Such feats of carnage and destruction were not impossible, not even unheard of. The greatest channelers served on the front lines of war, and they could remake the world if needed. Yet their strength came from ages of tutelage and studies, learning to focus and refine their strands of mahji until they could do with a drop what others needed an ocean for.

    Yet this demon¡ªJoy¡ªhad done a similar feat without practice or even understanding. He had not even understood magic until she had explained it not a week ago, which meant that this accomplishment had been made in the simplest manner: with brute force. Without refinement, with immense waste, he had drawn the magma out of the rocks below. So just how much mahji did Joy have inside of him?

    Joy¡¯s rough words shook her out of her reverie. ¡°Now what?¡± He was squatting on his legs, claws scraping the stone and ash in curiousity. Mismatched eyes started into her own, and she swallowed from sudden nervousness.

    ¡°We¡¯ve crossed the Twisted Spires, meaning we¡¯re out of the Outlands now. This Kingsroad won¡¯t be far from here.¡± she spoke, gesturing further south towards a thicket of trees and tall grass. ¡°If we follow it, it¡¯ll take us straight to the Capital. With any luck, they¡¯ll take us for some more war refugees and we won¡¯t be questioned any further.¡±

    Joy grunted, standing slowly and stretching his back. ¡°And Skal¡¯ai? Will they follow?¡±

    Lily scowled, thinking. ¡°The legends said that Skal¡¯ai were bound with their mother in their prison. If that prison is the Outlands, they shouldn¡¯t be able to escape.¡± They¡¯ll merely breed and swallow the whole Outlands, but the rest of us will be safe.

    He gave a snort, tossing his head like a dog. ¡°Then why go to Capital? If they not chase?¡±

    Brushing the soot from her now-ragged clothes, she stood up as well. ¡°Because if the stories are true, then their master was buried there as well. And if the Skal¡¯ai are waking, then Sin is as well.¡± She pointed to the gem in his arm, the black stone that made her skin crawl just from gazing at it. ¡°He wore three gems of power around his collar. Yours there is one. I have¡ªhad¡ªone as well. He was supposed to have been buried and his blackstones broken. If they aren¡¯t, well, they¡¯re the source of his power. If he gets them back¡­¡± She did not finish the thought, instead reflecting on what she had just said. The blackstones were the source of Sin¡¯s power¡ªthe legendary Sin who was supposed to be able to swallow the world in darkness. Could they have been providing Joy with his strength as well?

    ¡°So if we can make it to that Capital and convince them that the Skal¡¯ai are a threat, then maybe we can stop this crow-cursed plague.¡±

    ¡°Why do you care? Why not run?¡± Joy grunted, and it was a thought that she had occurred to her before.

    ¡°Because if Sin¡¯s really waking, then he¡¯ll be able to break out of this prison with ease. Then these things won¡¯t stop chasing, and I think¡ªI think they¡¯re hunting us. The ones that found his blackstones.¡± She remembered whispered to her, in her broken dreams. Child. You cannot hide. Your demons will tear you apart. They chilled her, sent tremors to her very bones. ¡°No matter how far we run, if Sin wakes, we¡¯ll never escape. So I¡¯d rather fight him now, when he¡¯s still weak.¡± Having said that, her face flushed red with a mixture of embarrassment and determination.

    Joy was silent for a moment before suddenly nodding, turning to gaze off towards the south. ¡°Then I follow. Sister.¡± A gratitude rose in her, unbidden and unexpected. That brief happiness was swiftly swallowed up by surprise and guilt. Since when had she allowed herself to get so comfortable with this demon?

    <hr>

    They are monsters, ruin made manifest. They are insatiable, inexhaustible, irrepressible, immortal. They are my hunger given flesh , my weakness incarnate. They are a scourge on these lands. They are a blight on my soul¡ªon that poor shattered thing that I so arrogantly call a soul still. They are monsters.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    They are my children.

    <hr>

    ¡°What are these...flowers?¡± Joy hissed, tugging another burr free from the fur on his leg. The brambles caught fast onto his pelt, digging in tight with a surprising tenacity. She could only laugh at the struggles of the great demon, the brambles and bushes proving to be a greater inconvenience than initially expected.

    ¡°I¡¯m telling you, just wait until we camp and get rid of them all at once. You¡¯re just wasting time for now.¡± She gave a sigh as they trudged onwards through the vegetation, the demon crashing through vines and vegetation with all the grace of a butchered cow. ¡°And could you be quieter, aren¡¯t we supposed to be hunting for food?¡±

    Her stomach screamed in agreement, the pangs of hunger already a familiar sensation. Ever since he had left her pack behind in the Outlands, they had to subside on meager berries and leaves. With any luck, this could be their chance for some glorious, heaven-blessed meat. Of course, that would be only a dream if he scared off all the rabbits and deer before they could even see any.

    Joy gave a grunt in reply before continuing forward, more careful as he slowly placed his large feet. Yet he did not even make it ten paces before stepping on a fallen branch with a snap, the noise loud enough to be mistaken for breaking bone. Lily could only give a sigh before letting her dream of meat go. It seemed that she would have to get used to the taste of berries, at least, until they made it past this vegetation to the Kingsroad. Once there they could, ah, ameliorate any excess goods from wandering merchants.

    ¡°Quiet.¡± Joy suddenly hissed, crouching down in the brush until his black form was nearly completely obscured by shadow. Every aspect of his body and posture warned of danger, from the fur that was raised on the back of his neck to the corded muscles of his legs that seemed ready to pounce or flee. Uncertain of what was going on, she could only kneel and peer through gaps in the leaves. Confusion made her nervous, made her heart start to race and her palms start to sweat despite not knowing anything. She did not know what he had seen¡ªor if he had even seen anything, for that matter. Yet it was not long before she heard something rumbling on the horizon.

    There was a sensation like the earth beneath her was trembling, and that rumbling sensation grew louder until it was reverberating in her eardrums. It took her a few more breaths before she realized that they were hooves. It sounded like a rolling tide, like thunder was crossing the land, and awe filled her as she realized how many must be coming. Furiously, she began to think.

    Altarosans never used cavalry; they simply lacked the resources and infrastructure to support such an investment. Without a largely nomadic lifestyle, they never had a great use for horses. Ever since the early days of the country¡¯s history, riders were only used as messengers along the Kingsroad. Even chariots and carriages were little used over such long distances, and for shorter travel some nobles preferred to use Abaratt palanquins from the east. For such a large force of cavalry to be traveling along the Kingsroad would simply be unheard of.

    A shiver ran down her back as she contemplated the other option. Malifori, in comparison, were expert cavalrymen. The sand-covered plains and arid grasslands of their country meant that horses were a necessity for hunting and travel. Even after the development of metalworking, they continued to pursue cavalry in warfare in their ever frequent raids into the west of Altaros. Their land lacked resources, and so the frequently expanded and plundered their neighbors for much-needed steel. Without large iron stores, the largest masses of the Malifori army were mounted archers, still using bronze-tipped arrows with armor made of horse leather.

    Indeed, their greatest strength was always their numbers and speed. When compared to Altarosan legions, they could outmaneuver and outpace infantry with ease. As such, after the regained control of the west from Malifori conquest in the past, Altarosans had swiftly built the Gates. The huge ramparts of stone and steel stood as tall as the Peaks, manned by soldiers day and night. Malifori speed and numbers would do nothing against those massive walls, and they lacked to tools and techniques needed to construct siege weaponry. The Gates had stood strong for over four generations, and their strength had passed the test of time over and over.

    Indeed, they were so strong that there had been practically no threat of conflict from the Malifori for over forty years. Much of the Capital¡¯s so-called war now was sending prisoners and convicts out past the Gates, hoping to kill as many Malifori with those ordained to die in any case. The Malifori never retaliated past those first two times, for the blood spilled by their people in front of those ramparts was surely a horror passed on for generations. And the Altarosans were safe in their security behind those walls; the Gates were the only way to enter Altaros by land; all other routes were by sea.

    Yet the thunder of hooves could only mean Malifori, could only mean conquest. Lily found herself holding her breath, praying that she was mistaken. Perhaps the king is expanding his interests, she thought, hearing the noise draw closer. Perhaps it is just a delegation of merchants from the west. Yet she knew they were empty hopes, and she already knew what she would see before it passed before her eyes.

    An army of horses and men stormed along the Kingsroad, without banners or any coats of arms. Their leathers were dyed red, the youngest and unblooded with paint, the veterans from warfare itself. Their horses were great beasts, coats tan and white to resist the hot sun of their nation. Their riders bore massive bows of wood and sinew strings on their backs, with short daggers strapped to their legs.

    But behind the rows of warriors, closer to the center of the great mass, she saw many of the horses carrying unarmed riders. Mothers, she realized. Children. This was too small for a scouting party, and a raiding party would never bring dependents. This was a conquest, an incursion.

    They intended to invade Altaros. They intended to colonize it.

    Indeed, these were Malifori riders in the heart of Altaros lands. And that could only mean that the Gates had fallen, that the Malifori had managed to break through those fabled walls. Yet, unexpectedly, that was not what she feared. These howling barbarians and bloodsoaked raiders were not what drove frigid fear through her veins. For these vicious, hard-hearted people to bring their children with them¡ªno, she did not fear them.

    She was afraid of what made them leave their homeland.

 Book 1: Chapter 37: His Blood

    Horses. That was what the dead called these strange beasts, with long maws ill-suited for meat and bodies too slender to fight. They were made only to run, every aspect of their structure built for speed. Atop them sat riders armed with curved wood and string. Bows, spoke the dead, and Joy had visions of warfare. He saw black arrows falling in horrendous volleys, punching through steel and armor and sending blood spraying as they thudded into men. He saw them blotting out the sky, saw soldiers cut down without ever seeing the faces of their killer. His heart shuddered at the thought. Truly a fearsome thing, this bow was.

    He had felt the sensation of danger, and the dead had hissed at him to hide. When he saw the horses and their riders storm past, a sensation of danger and fear rippled through him as he realized just how many there were. With tanned, dark skin and thin leathers, they bore the signs of hardship and triumph. They brought their sires, dams, pups, all manner of their people. It was a never-ending flood that just continued to pour through along the wide road.

    Behind him, he could feel Sister¡¯s fear pouring off of her like rain. Even with magic, even with his strength, they would be swarmed if they were noticed. He could only hide there like an ant, like prey, waiting for them to pass.

    He hated the feeling¡ªthe feeling of weakness, or helplessness.

    When the final rider had passed and the road was empty, he hissed at Sister. ¡°Who are they?¡± He could tell that she knew them, or at the very least of them. It was etched all over her face, in her nervous posture.

    ¡°Malifori.¡± she murmured. ¡°Invaders from another country, here to burn Altaros.¡±

    He grunted, slowly standing. His leg burned from staying still for so long, and he brushed off the thorny leaves that had once more stuck themselves into his fur. ¡°Do we care?¡± he snarled out casually.

    She paused as she stood, looking at him strangely. ¡°They¡¯ll burn the Capital if they have the chance.¡±

    Turning around to face her, he cocked his head in confusion. ¡°Then they are stronger. If you want help, why not theirs?¡± The words were coming easier to him now, after days of practice with her.

    Sister opened her mouth to answer, only to close it in consideration. ¡°I suppose you have a point.¡± Slowly, she mulled it over before shaking her head. ¡°In any case, we have a more pressing issue. We can¡¯t get past them on the Kingsroad, so we can¡¯t get to the Capital now. At least, not without running into Malifori.¡±

    Joy hissed, clutching at his head in annoyance. ¡°So then what?¡± It was frustrating; he was tired of all this plotting and planning. He knew best how to fight and how to flee. To him, all of these hypotheticals were best resolved by barreling forward through them until they shattered into dust.

    ¡°Well,¡± Sister spoke suddenly, looking up at him with a broad smile. ¡°What if we were to join them?¡±

    <hr>

    I had a name once¡ªor at least, I believe so. It all is a hazy memory to me now, lost to time and madness. I used to have a body, used to have a face. I used to smile; I used to smile. I used to laugh with a bright voice, used to dance and twirl under moonlight. I used to sing valley songs; I used to play the harp with delicate fingers. I used to love. I used to live. They¡¯re all just memories now.

    Or is it all just a hopeful delusion?

    <hr>

    Joy hissed in annoyance as he crawled behind Sister, the sun already beginning to set. They had followed the Kingsroad for the day, trudging on those cracked stones. All the lush grass, the thick vegetation, it was all foreign to him. He could not help but wonder if this was what the rest of the world was like, filled with such abundance and vigor. The birds that flew above with easy grace, the clear, uncovered sky¡ªthere was a completely different atmosphere of life that suffused the air around him. He wanted to revel in it, in these lands outside of the Outlands, wanted to bathe in it and relax in its gentle warmth.

    He hissed at himself, reprimanding his thoughts. Such foolish desires would only make him weak.

    Finally, they saw the camp that the smoke in the sky had been coming from. The Malifori had settled along the road, women and child building rudimentary tents and cooking food over small fires. The horses had been turned loose to the grass nearby, men keeping watchful eyes over their mounts as they settled in to eat.

    You need to stay behind me, Sister had told him before with quiet urgency. If know you¡¯re a demon, they¡¯ll probably panic. If I can pass you off as a strange beast, they might be more open to negotiations. He had no argument to give, and so Joy found himself crawling on all fours, eyes downcast as they approached the camp.

    Yet before she could give a greeting, he saw movement in the crowd of men. ¡°Move.¡± he hissed, and she instinctively dodged to the left. A grey-fletched arrow buried itself in the grass behind them, flying through the space where her head had been just a moment ago. ¡°Hail!¡± she called out belatedly, raising an arm towards the scowling figures.

    ¡°And what does a pale-skin witch want with the blood of Mali?¡± called out one warrior, his bow nocked with another arrow despite being the one who had fired that first shot.

    ¡°To share in his food, and claim the gift of the firstborn.¡± Sister replied calmly, almost as if reciting from memory. With a free hand, she tugged down the cloth around her face, revealing her ravaged mouth. ¡°I approach without blade or bow. I am due a meal in hospitality, am I not?¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    The bowman¡¯s face grew even more ugly at her reply, the shadows of the fire throwing themselves over his scowl. ¡°Those rites are for the firstborn of Mali, not a pale-skin! And certainly not for a witch!¡±

    Yet as he was about to loose his arrow, another man placed a hand on his arm. ¡°Peace Ahtoka. She comes in peace. Do not forget our pride. We should at least hear what she has to say.¡± Grudgingly, Ahtoka lowered his bow, his expression still twisted from anger and now from embarrassment as well.

    ¡°Come, blood of Altaros.¡± called out the new man, his head shaven and covered with war scars. ¡°Let us hear what a whiteblood witch has to say.¡±

    As they walked forward, another arrow buried itself by Joy¡¯s neck, plowing into the dirt. ¡°Leave your beast behind.¡± called out Ahtoka. Joy gave growl, but Sister shook her head.

    ¡°Stay.¡± she commanded, addressing him as one might a beast of burden. Irritation flickered across his face ever briefly, but he hissed and stopped. She continued ahead of him, bowing before the shaven-headed warrior. He strained to hear what they were saying, carried on the wind.

    ¡°I see your eyes, blood of Mali. I am the student of Master Horan, who has known your blood in years past.¡± she murmured, meeting his gaze confidently. The man started, clearly surprised by what she had said.

    He grinned suddenly, replying, ¡°Horan, eh? The old bastard still lives?¡±

    Sister shook her head. ¡°I found him with a knife in the throat one night.¡± Her face seemed to go pale at this, one hand clenched into a fist as Joy watched.

    ¡°A shame then. It seems he went soft with age. But what does the sul of Horan want with the firstborn?¡± asked the man, his stance relaxing slightly.

    ¡°I am a wanderer. When my master died, I was cast out by my people. I would think it better to wander with others than to wander alone.¡± she replied.

    ¡°And your beast?¡± called out Ahtoka, gesturing to Joy who lay crouched in the grass a ways away.

    ¡°Rescued as a pup from the slums.¡± she replied calmly. ¡°He is of no harm to you, unless you be a cow.¡± Her words provoked the hot-blooded warrior who had to be restrained by others around him when he threatened to lunge forward.

    ¡°Enough, sul. You will not rouse my people like snakes in a pit. You say that you are a wanderer, but we are not. We do not come to your lands to wander¡ª¡±

    ¡°Nay, you come to flee.¡± she interrupted, and the air fell silent.

    The man¡¯s face twisted, but behind there was some trace of truth. Joy could see it in their eyes, even at this distance. ¡°How dare you! The blood of Mali does not run!¡±

    ¡°No?¡± she asked. ¡°Then why do the firstborn bring their women, bring their children. Can your infants fight? Do your babes come out swaddled in leathers?¡±

    His jaw clenched in response, the cords in his neck bulging as he struggled not to lash out. ¡°Chief!¡± cried out Ahtoka suddenly, breaking free from the grips of his friends. ¡°Let me face the one who insults the blood of Mali. In combat.¡±

    Joy¡¯s ears perked at the sound, his gaze focusing on that young man. His body was well-muscled, built lean rather than tough but with enough strength to work that massive bow he used. His eyes were sharp and his flesh still pulsing with the vigor of youth. Yet there was an absence of scars or wounds on his body, no signs of battle. He was unblooded still, still eager to prove himself. Still foolish.

    Sister could take him.

    In a blur of motion, she flew in close, too fast for him to use his bow. Yet as he postured to defend, Sister suddenly fell to the ground. Pushing up with her legs, snake-like arms threw a quick jab at his throat. His eyes bulged visibly at the blow, the warrior caught off-guard by the strike. Without pause, she swept his legs out from under him in an almost casual motion. He toppled onto the dirt gracelessly, coughing and choking violently.

    ¡°Is that enough?¡± she asked, reveling in the silence of those around her. Calmly, she cocked her head to the side as Ahtoka slowly got up with bloodshot eyes. His face was stricken with humiliation and rage, and he staggered over to his friends with a look of pure hate.

    The chief merely shook his head in exasperation. ¡°Enough, whiteblood. It is enough.¡± he turned around and made to leave before gesturing for her to follow. ¡°I¡¯ll let the Warchief decide what to do with you.¡± He paused before adding, ¡°And bring your beast.¡±

    The other Malifori parted before them as they walked through, women and children watching nervously, men glaring with hateful eyes. Joy bared his teeth as he crawled behind Sister, tossing his head from side to side. His claws dug deep tracks into the dirt, and some of the Malifori refused to walk near them even after he had passed. He snorted at the thought. A people of posturing, and weak of heart.

    He was filled with a certain sense of wonder as they walked through the camp. There was so many people, all soaked with sweat and weary. Absentmindedly, he wondered if this was what those cities Sister spoke of were like¡ªjust a mess of people sprawled out over the earth. Seeing so many fearful gazes upon him, Joy could not help but feel the slaver begin to drip from his jaw. Yet he restrained the urge in his stomach that cried out desperately for meat; even a lion could be killed with enough ants.

    They neared a tent like any other, horse leather draped over long sticks that served as a meager shelter. It was large enough for four people, yet it seemed that there was only one in this tent. ¡°Warchief,¡± called out the chief. ¡°I bring you sul of Horan, who was han to Messa.¡± There was a pause before a tired, hoarse voice from inside spoke, ¡°They may enter.¡± The chief pulled back the flap of the entrance, and they both entered the tent.

    There was a single man inside, yet he was truly a monster of a man. Almost twice Sister¡¯s height, his body was all muscle and scars. Beads hung from his long, braided hair, and a single, long bracelet looped around his left arm. His chest bore a massive gash, running from the shoulder to the hip. His left hand was missing a finger, his right shoulder bearing an arrow wound. His legs were crisscrossed with scars from swords, likely from when he was on horseback. Even his face bore signs of battle, from his crooked nose to his partially sheared ear.

    ¡°You are sul of Horan?¡± he growled to Sister, and she nodded. ¡°He knew the blood of Messa, who was my blood as well. He was her han.¡± Joy did not understand what he spoke of, but Sister seemed to agree nervously. The Warchief smiled suddenly, his teeth crooked and some missing but his smile still broad nevertheless. ¡°In your words, that would make you my...my niece, no?¡±

    Sister returned the smile, cheeks flushing deep red. ¡°Aye, uncle.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 38: A Breaking of Minds

    The darkness greeted Kail as it had for days, a dull ache in his scarred eye-sockets. Time slowed for him until hours felt like ages, the stabbing pain unending in its tide. The voice whispered into his ears, teasing him with honeyed words that bled into his thoughts and dreams. He felt his grasp on reality slipping, the frail grip that he had starting to break. The darkness stole from him his dreams, his memories. In the dark, he did not know the truth from the lies. Reality mixed with dreams until he did not know when he was awake. Even those maggots that lingered in his flesh, that ate away through his muscle, they seemed almost ethereal now. The only thing that was constant was the pain, the slow pulsing pain that flared into fire every time he moved.

    It was not the blunt pain that he had felt in the sewers. It was not so simple a pain. The agony that he felt seared into his very spirit, breaking his will and shattering his resolve. It reminded him of vows and dreams made long ago, now crumbling to dust. It reminded him of his solitude, how he was utterly alone. It was a gentle pain that ate away at his heart and mind, finding the cracks and worming its way in. As the pain grew, so did his doubt and loss. Self-loathing and regret weighed heavily on his spirit as he wept silent tears.

    To live a life Sir would be proud of. Those words echoed dully in his mind as time wore on with indefatigable strength. They had meaning once, he knew, but bit by bit their weight began to bleed away. He wanted to believe in them, wanted so desperately to remember what they meant to him. Yet with every passing moment his resolve was battered, his virtue checked. He was but a moth before a raging flame, a single flower in a storm. Who was he to stand? Who was he to fight? Yet fight he must, such was demanded of him. So he could only persevere, could only wait and pray and cling onto that single hope. Sir, he murmured, cracked lips shaping the word, yet nothing but rasping air escaped his mouth. Now even words failed him; how much longer would it be before thought did as well? Why did you leave me, Sir?

    Why am I so alone?

    The creature they called Hope no longer came for him, no longer sank its brutal fangs into his flesh. Instead, she took its place with honeyed words and poisoned breath. He had never thought that he would have preferred that harsh pain, that simple pain, but it was blunt. That pain was a primal pain, a blinding fire that scalded and scorched him. Her pain was insidious, was a poison where his was an axe. Where he used a cleaver, she used words. Where he used a brand, she used venom. She would play with him, toy with his body and spin him around a pointed finger. When she tired of him, she would leave, and he would weep.

    Rat things would come for him then, their greedy fangs and oily claws tearing apart his flesh. No longer held back by stakes, he fought and twisted, but they devoured him despite his efforts. Icy cold manacles bound his arms and legs, ensured that he could not flee from his fate. And after his limbs had been stripped clean, after his skin was torn and ragged and after his empty sockets wept blood for tears, he would hear her return. She would whisper sweet-things into his ears and cup his chin with a gentle hand. He would feel that warm motherly embrace, and she would pour that ichor down his throat. And when she left, he would weep.

    ¡°Why?¡± he had asked her once, had asked the darkness. His voice had sounded strange and detached, as if it had not truly come from his mouth. ¡°What do you...want from me?¡± The words had come with difficulty, for his little-used throat and tongue seemed to have forgotten their roles. In response, she had merely traced his jaw with that gentle touch.

    ¡°Our god¡­¡± whispered that enchanting voice. ¡°...is dying. He has need for a new vessel.¡± Her hand traveled down his throat, ran along his collarbone. ¡°You are a...mmm...candidate.¡± Her fingers settled over his heart, in that familiar position over his heart. ¡°Every death you have, you walk closer to Atal¡¯s flame. In the end, you will take it or it will burn you. So my role, dearest, is to break you.¡± Her lips were numbingly close to his ear, her breath warm on his skin. ¡°Over and over, until either outcome happens.¡±

    When she left, he wept empty tears. Clacking claws surrounded him¡ªpanting breaths, ripping teeth. He screamed, but it sounded hollow to his ears. When his screams stopped, when the sounds of death ceased, he felt that ichor pour down his throat. His body burned with the feeling of life, with that feeling of crow-cursed life. Why could he not just die? Why could this not just end?

    He had begged, had pleaded for merciful release. Yet that bliss was denied to him with sweet words. Yet that favor was denied to him with a poisoned tongue. And then those rattling claws and hissing rats came again, his death coming upon him once more.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    He could hardly tell the difference between dreams and waking. With the darkness came offering him power once more, his weary spirit very nearly gave in. Either take it or it will burn you, she had said. Either way, this would be over. That was all that he wanted, was it not¡ªfor this all just to be over? Escape was blessedly close, tantalizingly close. Just take it, whispered that crow-cursed voice in his mind. Just take it and damn the consequence. Just one more step, and it all be over.

    But he could not. He could not betray that last spark of light that burned bright in his blinded world. To live a life Sir would be proud of. Those words felt heavy on his shoulders, but he just could not turn them away. Again he rejected that gift, preferring instead to remain in this world of torment and torture.

    Where are you, Sir?

    <hr>

    My god speaks, and I must answer. My god calls, and I must listen. His voice rings in my mind with the rattling of shackles. His words whispers demand servitude, and I accede with rapturous glee. My body is bent and broken to better serve my god, my children crafted in his image. He commands me, and I must obey. Yet what is the voice that screams out inside of me?

    What is this pain that fills me when I have already made my choice?

    <hr>

    He did not know when he woke, or even his was really awake. Was it all but a dream? Was it all ever going to end? His chest heaved, his empty socket weeping ghost tears. He felt so alone, surrounded only by thoughts and dreams and memories and sightless eyes. He could not speak, could not feel, could hardly remember to breathe. Everything felt so numb.

    The sweet voice came again, her honeyed voice, a soft breath against his skin. It spoke cloying words in his ear, words that he did not bother to listen to. There was no meaning, only sound, only noises that drowned out the loneliness and emptiness that pervaded his heart. They muddled with his thoughts, much as a dream does. He did not feel the words, only the tone, sweet and intoxicating. With every breath, he felt his mind growing cloudier, the pain ebbing. It did not fade, merely his tolerance to it grew alongside the pleasure that he felt radiating throughout his body.

    It was a warmth, a comfort that filled him with satisfaction. It was a drug, a depraved satisfaction that broke through his inhibitions and weakened barriers. It blossomed out from his chest, reaching to the tips of his fingers. His limbs felt heavy, the weight of his burdens dissolving into nothing. He did not see why such worries would matter. They were of the past. He should revel in the now. The pleasure filled him, his body shivering.

    He felt more and more of the drug enter each time he breathed, the fragrant aroma heady as it filled his lungs. A small part of him resisted feebly, but it was swallowed by the sense of indulgence that came with the drug. As more and more of the laced poison flowed through his blood, he felt his thoughts decay. Less and less of him resisted, his tired body and broken mind already accepting its fate willingly.

    Where are you, Sir? Those words sounded hollow to him now. Why struggle? Why wait? There was no future for him anymore. There was no hope in tomorrow. It was only fitting to pursue satisfaction in the now. The voice appeased him with these thoughts, the last of his resistance fading like a flickering flame swallowed by dust.

    Gentle fingers danced down his chest, heated kisses on his skin. His mind was fuzzy, every one of his nerves buzzing as a single touch tracing his arm made him burst into flame. Every breath made his chest burn with need. Every murmured word made him shudder and shiver as sparks tingled down his spine. He heard the voice humming into his ear. It promised pleasure. It promised satisfaction. It promised sin and pain, and he accepted. He could not refuse. He did not feel guilt. He did not feel anything but desire that bloomed in his body, taking root at the base of his chest.

    With the first seed that planted itself in him came the breaking of the walls of his heart. His mind now lay broken, his body as well. All that remained of him was spirit, desperately clinging onto hopes of salvation. All that remained to ruin, to shatter, was that feeble spirit. The first flower of sin had been planted, with its blooming would come a thicket. The vines of depravity would stifle the light of hope as the roots of vice tore out the purity of the heart. That seed would blossom, both eternal in its patience and insurmountable in its strength, and its petals would herald the coming of a god.

    He sought release from the pain, that their god promised him such. Death, or power beyond it, he cared not which. All he needed was to give in. He would have to cast himself aside. He had to lose the shackles that chained him, the shackles that branded his limbs and had brought him nothing but suffering. Those shackles of morals and virtue had given him naught but cost him everything. To discard them would bring him euphoria.

    They would bring him rapture beyond comparison. Their god would bring him exaltation beyond comparison. Such the voice whispered in his mind. Such the voice promised to him.

    The god called. His god whispered. Atal whispered to him power, whispered to him release. He was hanging on a thread, the only remainder of what had been a rope. Now he only had a single thread of spirit, a single thread of hope. So simple it would be to crush that hope.

    <hr>

    Is this my final choice?

 Book 1: Chapter 39: A Pervasive Foe

    ¡°And how is Horan? Last I knew, he left after Messa¡¯s passing.¡± asked Warchief Moktoga, and Lily looked up nervously.

    ¡°He...is gone now. I woke to find him with a slit throat one night. ¡° The words were not quite lies, and so they came to her easier than any falsehood could. She found it difficult to lie to him, to face those hard eyes that seemed more stone than flesh.

    Moktoga scowled, his age showing suddenly on his weathered face. ¡°Is that so? Then it seems I am the last of my bloodline.¡± He took a deep breath, running a hand through his braided hair absentmindedly. In that moment, his scarred skin seemed less that of a warrior in his prime; she saw him as an old man, too weary and too tired for the role that he was given.

    Lily had heard stories from her master, from the old professor in Telavir. He had been a traveler in his youthful years, and he had snuck his way into Malifor along a trading vessel. There, he had met the dark-skinned riders and managed to earn their trust, healing their wounded with his magic. He had lived with them, learned their tongue, and eventually fallen in love. Her master had spoken fondly of his late wife Messa, and of her brother Moktoga as well. He had learned much of their history, of the rich and tragic history of Malifor.

    It was said that Malifor was founded from a fleeing traitor, who strayed from his duties to the new king. Yet when he had his men made to settle the red sands, they found that they were not the first to those harsh lands. Native tribes, riding horses and roaming the scarce plains, were scattered throughout. They did not know steel nor magic, and so they were forced to labor as serfs under the former Altarosans.

    When war broke out between the traitor and the boy king, it was those natives who were forced to fight against the Altarosan legions. Yet they did so with ironic eagerness, for the magics of the traitor¡¯s channelers had watered their fields and healed their people. So they took his name in respect and honor, took his blood until they were the blood of Mali, and they threw away their lives for his sake.

    Where there were once natives scattered throughout the land, there were now only a few pockets along the coast, where the Malifori did not touch them. They were the ones that survived the war, returning to their beloved king only to find rejection and hate. They were used and discarded, cast aside like the tools they were. While they honored the channelers and their magic, they held only disdain for the ordinary men who only took away their lands, and so they grew to hate those ¡°whitebloods¡±, with their too-pale skin.

    Yet as time passed, and those whitebloods worked the lands under hot sun, their skin too grew dark. That hate became muddled, because clouded, and the two peoples began to meld into one. Their words and legends began to bleed into one another, and the hate for fair folk spread as well. When the Altarosans returned to wage war once more, that hate for the whitebloods returned as well. Ironic, how the word that had once divided the people now held them together against a common enemy. Ironic, how the former Altarosans now held such hate for what ran in their own blood.

    When King Mali died, the country split itself. Different parties were led by their chiefs, each vying for the crown. Legend said that a boy managed to challenge and defeat all the chiefs, naming himself as the next Mali, and claimed the title of Warchief. The title of King, he declared, was to be sacred and never held again. So it was held down through the ages, until the Warchief now stood before her eyes.

    Her master had managed to reach their Capital aboard a merchant vessel, a short travel across the Crimson Sea. He had presented himself as a scholar and healer, offering his services in exchange for information. While at first skeptical, the people grew elated after he had demonstrated his abilities. Malifor had never birthed a channeler after the traitors had fled there, and magic had quickly become the things of legend. Horan soon drew the attention of the Warchief, Moktoga, and he was led into the palace. It was there that he met Messa and courted her, and two were soon married.

    When she grew ill, Horan could not heal her despite his best efforts. Her death was a great blow to him, and he eventually fled, unable to face Moktoga. His failure had harmed him deeply, and he hid himself in Telavir, poring over tomes and volumes in the hopes of learning why he could not save his love¡¯s life.

    Lily had learned of this from him, over the course of her years in his service. She had never imagined that they would come to her aid now, of all times. The Moktoga before her was unlike the grand figure that Horan had painted for her. He was old, worn, weary, and wasting. His body bore the signs of a warrior past his prime, his eyes shadowed and sunken with too-little sleep. His shoulders bore a heavy burden on them, and his back seemed to struggle to remain straight.

    ¡°Why do your people flee?¡± she asked, her heart starting to race. What kind of danger could force a Warchief to lead his people into their enemy¡¯s heartland? But even worse, was the problem that had been itching at her ever since they had entered the camp. ¡±And where are the rest of them?¡±

    Malifor was a nation of millions, nearly triple the size of Altaros. Their armies could swallow the horizon when they charged; their horses could wear away mountains with the rumbling of their hooves. Yet this camp could only be a thousand at most, and nearly a half of them women and children. Where were the rest? Lily could only imagine that she would not like the answer. Moktoga looked up at her with haunted, baleful eyes.

    ¡°Dead.¡±

    The word struck her like a hammer, making her suck in a sharp breath. An entire people, dead? ¡°H-how?¡± she murmured.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    Moktoga placed his face into his hands, the great man looking as if he was holding back tears. ¡°Monsters. I thought that I was dreaming, or perhaps that it was a nightmare. They swallowed my men, my people. I wanted to grab a blade, to hold a bow, but how do you kill a shadow?¡±

    A shadow.

    ¡°Skal¡¯ai? In Malifor?¡± she whispered, horrified. He merely shook his head, his face wrenched in an expression of terror that chilled her very core. It was not a look that belonged on someone with such strength; it was not a look that belonged on the leader of a people.

    ¡°I know not what they were They ate my people, those that were lucky. Others had shadows inside of them, and they were turned to puppets. I saw my men butcher each other, and darkness bleeding on the streets.¡±

    Lily felt fear in the pit of her stomach, that Skal¡¯ai had swallowed a nation seemingly overnight. It could happen to Altaros; it could happen so easily. And what could she possibly do to stop it? ¡°How did you escape?¡± she asked gently.

    ¡°We burned our way to the port. There was an Abaratt trader fleet that was leaving the next day, and they had more than enough space to take what little people we had. They took us around your Gates, and we rode to this road from the harbor. We gave them all that we had in exchange; we hardly had a use for fine tapestries and ornaments now.¡±

    Moktoga gestured around him with a large hand. ¡°This is all that we have left. This is all that remains of our proud people.¡±

    ¡°And now what will you do?¡± Lily murmured.

    He shrugged his shoulders tiredly. ¡°We will go to your Capital and plead with your king. We are nothing now; all we can do is hope.¡±

    She did not want to tell him about the Skal¡¯ai in the Outlands, nor of the danger that would soon befall Altaros. His people were broken enough; they had no need to fear that this desperate bid for freedom had taken them only closer to what they had been running from. Yet as she opened her mouth to bid him good night, he suddenly spoke.

    ¡°Your beast, sleeping in the corner. It is a demon, no?¡±

    She was taken off guard, unaware that he could know what Joy was. Joy was breathing slowly, seemingly having fallen asleep during their conversation. ¡°Aye, but h-how?¡±

    Moktoga smiled. ¡°We¡¯ve had our fair share of demons in the past. Do you know how they are made?¡± When she shook her head, he explained. ¡°When someone dies with enough hate, with enough purpose, his soul can imprint on the world around him. The stone forms a vessel, its strength corresponding to the degree of emotion. If it is strong enough, it can make a demon. What better place for anger could you imagine than a battlefield?¡± Moktoga chuckled shaking his head gently. ¡°We are a people of war. But we always bloodied ourselves on the sands instead of solid stone, so that a demon would not be born in the midst of our ranks. Your beast seems strong; I wonder what soul gave him life.¡±

    Lily was left reeling from his words, her mind feeling dazed. Yet if it was true, then something must have happened in the Outlands in the past. ¡°How¡ªhow long ago must it have been?¡±

    Moktoga shrugged. ¡°It depends on the strength of the soul. A strong impression can linger for years, maybe even decades. As for your demon, who knows?¡±

    Lily nodded before getting up slowly. ¡°Thank you, uncle, for your time.¡±

    He smiled. ¡°Be careful. Many of my people still hold hate towards your kind. If you are to travel with us, you must watch your back.¡±

    ¡°The noble Malifori would dare strike from shadows?¡± she questioned with a raised eyebrow. ¡°I thought that your people had more honor than that.¡±

    Moktoga could only shake his head ashamedly. ¡°We have little honor left, after our ordeal. What we have left, we are about to offer to your king. Many of the young ones are...frustrated.¡±

    ¡°Aye, uncle,¡± Lily nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll bear it in mind.¡±, she replied before lifting the cloth around her neck to cover her mouth once more. The Malifori had seen their share of scars, but still she wished not to provoke them any more than needed. As she rose inside the tent, Joy suddenly cracked open a yellow eye. Seeing her prepare to go, he too sat up on his haunches before stretching with a toothy yawn. Maktoga blanched at the sight of his fangs, and Lily did not notice as his attention was drawn to the gem buried in his arm. She did not notice the fear that crossed his face, nor the fist that he clenched suddenly.

    ¡°Done?¡± growled Joy, and he sank down onto all fours as she opened the flap to the tent. With one last smile to her weary uncle, she stepped outside into the Malifori camp. The sun had already fallen, and the only warmth now was from the numerous campfires around the tents. Men and women were huddled around the flames, eating dried meat and berries as they talked in hushed voices. Those that saw her had their expressions suddenly turn sour, quickly looking away as they ignored her.

    Lily saw a familiar chief eating not far by a fire, hurriedly making her way over to him. ¡°I see your eyes, chief.¡± she greeted, and he grunted in reply. ¡°Should we rest in the camp, or would you rather we sleep beyond your guards?¡± She did not intend to sleep surrounded by men who wished her to be short a head, and she could only hope that he would understand the sentiment.

    ¡°So the Warchief has allowed you to stay?¡± he grumbled, wiping some water off of the side of his mouth as he rose. ¡°You¡¯ll sleep past the guards then; we don¡¯t have enough space inside for more people. You¡¯ll be responsible for your own fires.¡± He pointed along the side of the Kingsroad where there was still some space, a small clearing within easy bow range of the three guards that rested nearby.

    ¡°And the meal of hospitality?¡± she asked, her stomach screaming in anguish. Irritatedly, the chief tossed her a string of salted meat before gesturing for her to go. ¡°We¡¯ve no more to give.¡± Joy growled behind her, hearing his words, but she motioned for him to calm down. ¡°You¡¯d best go, before those glares turn into something more.¡± the chief cautioned.

    Lily nodded before making her way to the clearing, her back turned to the camp. She could not see as Ahtoka watched her with hateful eyes. She could not see as Ahtoka carefully peeled a gnarled root in the shadow of his tent. She could not see as Ahtoka wrung the juices dry from it, letting them drip into a small cup. She could not see the scornful sneer that crept across his face.

 Book 1: Chapter 40: An Unseen Blade

    ¡°We have some pack horses that we can loan you.¡± began the man that seemed now responsible for their care. Hatsura was one of the few Malifori in the camp that seemed more likely to greet her with a smile than a knife. Lily was not sure how she felt about that¡ªat least with the others she knew what they were to do. With people like Hatsura, she was never quite sure if they were going to bury a blade in her back the moment that she turned around. A strange part of her mind was almost hoping for such a thing to happen, for she had a dire lack of knives and needed some new ones.

    Hatsura clapped a stocky roan, tightening its saddle and readjusting some of the straps. ¡°Irris will take care of you, in a manner of speaking. Although, he¡¯s been carrying clothes for the journey, so he might not be used to a woman on his back. Not that any man can ever get used to a woman¡¯s company.¡± he laughed, grabbing the horse¡¯s mane and tugging firmly as it tried to walk away. With a smile, the Malifori clamped both hands around the horse¡¯s muzzle, holding it firm as he spoke to it. The words were in his native tongue, a rapid-fire mess of words, some stolen, some twisted. Lily did not know if the horse could understand, but it seemed to calm itself enough for Hatsura to gesture for her to get up.

    Swinging a foot into the stirrup, she managed to seat herself atop the beast in an awkward clambering motion better suited for climbing cliffs than riding horses. She had never been fond of horses, and she had never learned how to ride properly either. Irris seemed to sense her discomfort, taking advantage of it to toss and turn like a mule. Lily could only scream, grabbing onto the horse¡¯s neck with all her might to avoid falling off. It did not help that Hatsura only stood there laughing, waiting for the horse to eventually calm down. ¡°He likes you!¡± the Malifori laughed, slapping the horse on the flank with a loud clap. ¡°Off you go!¡±

    ¡°Wait what do you¡ª¡± she started, only to be interrupted when Irris suddenly bolted down the Kingsroad at a gallop.

    Her breath caught in her throat as every fiber in her body was focusing on one thing: do not fall off. She dared not to even breathe as she was jostled atop the horse, tossed about like a doll at Festival. Her knuckles were white as they gripped the reins, and when gave a tug inadvertently, she was shocked as Irris turned in an instant. Slowly, she began to find the rhythm of the horse¡¯s gait, loosing up her tense body and riding with the rise and fall of its back.

    A feeling of exhilaration and euphoria filled her suddenly, and she could not resist letting out a whoop as she pressed her heels into the horse¡¯s sides. The sudden burst of speed took her by surprise, and she relished in the feeling of the wind in her face as she rode Irris back towards the camp. Her face boasted a massive smile as she waved to Hatsura, only to bury her face in the dirt when Irris shook her off in her distraction.

    ¡°I see you two have bonded well.¡± Hatsura guffawed as Lily spat out a mouthful of dirt and dust. ¡°We¡¯ll be leaving soon, whenever the Warchief calls for us to move. You¡¯d best ready your things.¡± He left, walking off towards his tent and leaving her behind quite rudely in the dirt.

    ¡°Crow-cursed horse.¡± she muttered with a smile. ¡°I ought to butcher you and turn you into jerky.¡± Irris snorted in offense, tossing his head before trotting off to graze without her permission. Lily could only give a huff as she stood up, brushing the dirt off of her new clothes. She had been gifted them by Moktoga; her old rags were more thread than fabric, and they showed more than they covered. Hardly befitting a lady, she thought, or at least one outside of her bedroom.

    ¡°Sister!¡± came a shrill scream, filled with blood and terror and cutting through her thoughts like a knife. Lily whipped around in an instant, her heart skipping a beat and her veins plunging into ice. Yet there was nothing behind her, nothing but grass and trees in the distance. Her chest was heaving, her skin suddenly covered in sweat. As she looked around, she saw nothing out of place, yet she was almost certain of what she had heard. Why had it been so familiar? So feminine and filled with fear?

    Did I have a sister? The sudden thought pierced her mind sharper than a spear, and she crumpled to the ground in pain clutching her head. Her breathing grew ragged, her eyes screwed shut as she let out a hoarse scream. Did I have a sister?

    ¡°Sweet sister¡­¡± she muttered, running her nails through the dirt and clawing furrows in the ground, yet she could not remember anything. As her breathing calmed and her heartbeat slowed, something trickled onto her hand. Looking down, she saw that it was a tear and that she had been crying without even noticing. ¡°Have I gone mad?¡± she wondered dully, looking up into the blurry sky. ¡°Is it the vahma that I¡¯ve burned?¡±

    She could not help but imagine herself having gone mad, an empty shell with a soul all burnt up into fire. A cruel smile tugged at the side of her mouth as she panted, getting up with an effort. ¡°Not quite yet, my dear lover. I¡¯m not done quite yet.¡± If death was to court her, she could only continue to rebuff him.

    ¡°Not quite?¡± growled a voice from nearby questioningly, and she saw Joy crawling over to her. They were still within vision of the camp, so still he pretended to be a mere beast. It was curious how quickly they dismissed him as a mindless animal just because he had claws and fangs.

    ¡°It was nothing. Will you be able to keep up with us on horseback?¡± she asked the demon. Certainly, he could run fast, yet could he keep up with the Malifori horses?

    Joy tossed his head with a grunt. ¡°Can¡¯t run with you. Will panic horses.¡±This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    She furrowed her brows. ¡°Then what¡¯ll you do?¡±

    He gestured towards the side of the Kingsroad, by the unkempt trees and dense vegetation. ¡°Can follow there. Join you at end of day.¡±

    ¡°But then¡ª¡± she began, but then a sudden blaring of a horn startled her out of her thoughts. Behind them, the Malifori camp began to move, the people getting up onto their horses and rallying at the Kingsroad. Their tents had all been dismantled, the sticks and hides loaded onto pack horses. Women and children rode in the middle of the group, men flanking the outside. The Warchief led at the front as they prepared to move, and Lily hurriedly ran over to Irris. Awkwardly clambering onto the saddle, she waved at Joy. ¡°Go ahead then. I¡¯ll meet you at nightfall.¡± The demon quickly slinked away into the underbrush, his form melding into the shadows.

    They soon set off towards the Capital, hooves pounding up a cloud of dust into the air. Along the way, Lily saw various villages off to the side, signs stuck in the dirt showing where the branched off from the Kingsroad. She could see their huddled figures hiding inside of wooden huts, the utter lack of motion as the Malifori passed. The riders paid no attention to these small villages, instead riding onwards without a word. While a few babes cried, all of the other children were stone-cold. They were a tough people, beaten and hardened until they were practically made of worn leather.

    They rode on, past Dulovar and River¡¯s Edge and a hundred nameless towns that bled into the horizon. On and on the Kingsroad wound down the grasslands, like some massive stone snake. Along the way, they saw merchants and farmers, driving their carts down the Kingsroad in the hopes of reaching market or home. Their faces turned stark white at the sight of charging Malifori, many turning and bolting off into the grass or back the way they came. Some took their products with them, while others left their carts abandoned on the side of the road. Malifori riders along the sides of the mass scavenged what they could from them, taking food and supplies with ravenous glee.

    As the journey wore on, Lily found her inexperience with riding to become more and more painful. Her hips and thighs burned with every gallop, the skin chafed and sore. When they finally stopped for halfday, it came as a gracious respite from her torment. The hot sun had left her soaked through with sweat, her throat dry as sand and her lips cracked. Hurriedly, she pulled out a flask of water and a pouch of food from where they hung on Irris¡¯s side. Turning the horse loose to graze and rest, she sat to eat what she could before her stomach threatened to undo her efforts.

    Looking around her, she could see the other Malifori, gathered together with friends or family, where they were. Hatsura was off with a woman, laughing as they chewed hard bread. Moktoga was surrounded by other chiefs, their faces sunken and serious as they murmured in a circle. She even saw Ahtoka alone in the crowd, his expression sullen when he tore into a strip of salted meat. He locked eyes with her when he looked up, his gaze more venomous than a snake, his features twisting in anger and hate. She responded with a chilly smile before opening her flask, downing the water in thirsty gulps. It tasted rather strange, almost sweet, and it sat poorly in her stomach. Yet she forced it to stay down as well as it could, using it to finish off the dry meat. When she looked back at Ahtoka, he had already left somewhere into the crowd. ¡°Crow-cursed coward.¡± she muttered, realizing that his anger could not be left unaddressed.

    Soon the horn sounded, and they mounted once more. She got onto Irris with a groan, her legs more sore than after a day of running, despite less work. She could only steel herself, resign herself to that monotonous and agonizing fate. ¡°I never would have thought that sitting could be so hard.¡± she bemoaned before they took off once more down the Kingsroad.

    Lily had not seen Joy as they ran, and she occasionally would turn her head towards the trees in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his form. Yet she never seemed to find him amidst those shrouding branches. Once, she thought that she saw a pair of eyes flickering in the shadows. Another time she had imagined a corpse lying on the grass, its eyes smoking black and stunningly clear despite the distance. It had sat up as she approached, its skeletal, mummified hand outstretched. Yet when she had blinked out of shock and confusion, it had disappeared. A tugging sensation had filled her chest after, like something was clenching her heart, and she coughed violently in reflex. She had spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground beside her as they galloped, her stomach wanting to heave.

    ¡°Five and three curses.¡± she murmured, wiping her mouth with a wrist as Irris neighed, sensing his rider¡¯s distress. Is it from magic? From burning vahma? It was terrifyingly possible. Hallucinations, so vivid and so tangible that they seemed more reality than the memories in her head. She shuddered, knowing now that her life was very much a wax candle with but a stump left. Irris tossed his head wildly, and Lily had to pat the horse¡¯s neck. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, boy. It seems you¡¯ll be rid of me soon enough.¡±

    Yet even those words took a toll on her, and she coughed up more blood, her throat feeling as if something was torn. Her vision swooned, her balance lost, and she clutched the reins with all her might in an effort to stay on her horse. Other Malifori watched her struggles from nearby, yet they kept their distance. No one wished to come near the whiteblood witch, especially when she could easily take out one of them if she fell.

    Yet Lily managed to steady herself, managed to calm her breathing. Her vision was still hazy, still fuzzy at the edges, but she forced herself to stay on Irris. Just a little further, she told herself. Another five seconds. Another three seconds. Every little bit more bled into one another, and she clenched her jaw tightly as she rode on with pure effort. Tears streaked her face, sweat burning where it ran into her eyes. Another five seconds. Just a little more.

    There was a shout; it sounded like something faint, almost like something far away. Another five seconds. There was motion around her, something indistinct that she could not quite make out. Her vision was too blurred to comprehend anything. Another five seconds. Those screams grew closer, and she felt her grip growing weak. Another fi¡ª

    And then she fell.

    She shoulder crunched as she struck the ground, the pain making her gasp out in shock. For a brief moment, she her vision grew clear. She could see Malifori around her, their faces covered with disgust and contempt. She even saw Ahtoka on his grey horse, his expression one of satisfaction and vindictive pleasure. And then a shadow fell across her.

    Two eyes were the last thing she could make out before collapsing: one a gleaming blood-red and the other a pale yellow.

 Book 1: Chapter 41: A Burden of Choices

    There was a great pain that roused Kail from his eternity of slumber. It was a white agony that burned his face, the searing heat and pain causing him to scream until his throat tore with blood. The sound echoed around the room relentlessly, bouncing off the walls which such intensity that it was not until he had to gasp for breath that he realized he was not the only one screaming. He heard the boy, his voice young and shrill, howling with fervid intensity. It was a scream that pierced Kail¡¯s ears and heart, filled with wrenching torment.

    Kail spent an eternity in the pain before he realized something was different. It was a sharp pain in his eyes, hot whiteness that sent lances of agony racing to his brain. So strong was the torment that he could not think, merely yell and wail and wait for it to pass. It was an eternity before he realized that the light was not fading. It was an eternity of hopeful agony before he realized that the blinding light was familiar.

    From pure white, it changed, growing tinges of orange and yellow. The light moved, changing hues and depth as it flickered. Kail felt his heart in his throat, hoping against hope that it was as he thought. Slowly, it grew clearer, tongues of flame flickering before him, dancing. His heart stopped as the realization struck him, washing away the aching in an instant. He could see again.

    Breathtaking euphoria filled his body in a rush of adrenaline as he realized the truth. Darkness, the darkness that had surrounded him for eons, lifted from his soul. The light shone through, mesmerizingly beautiful, and it took his breath away. The torches on the wall with their orange flames. The black shadows that flashed in mimicry. The grey stone and the very floor beneath his feet. His heart broke as a wellspring of emotions burst out from inside of him. He could see again.

    Slowly, his vision returned, pieces of the light becoming clearer, vibrant shades becoming distinct. He saw the room of stone, torches burning on the walls. He saw the caked blood at his feet, a dirty rag and bucket filled with water already deep red from use. And before him, as his newfound eyes adjusted, he saw the creature that had haunted his dreams for ages past. His heart, just lifted out of the despondence that it had grown accustomed to, sank once more.

    She had called it Hope, the grotesque butcher that had carved open Kail¡¯s body time and time again. Once more, it stood before him, toothy smile showing with the flesh sheared off half its face. In its scarred hands was a short knife, blade comically small in proportion to the being that wielded it. Blood dripped from the tip of the blade, covering its hand and pooling onto the floor. With a long black tongue, it lapped up the blood, closing its eyes as it savored the flavor.

    Apparently just noticing Kail¡¯s awakening, it gave a malicious grin, dark glint in its eyes as its tongue snaked its way back into its mouth. With a voice like sandpaper, it rasped, ¡°So you¡¯re awake, boy. I hope you¡¯ll like my present. Your friend over here just insisted that I give them to you.¡± With a clawed hand, it grabbed Kail¡¯s head, twisting it to the side as it forced him to stare into a shard of glass held by an outstretched palm. Kail saw his face, bloody and haggard, the hair long and shaggy, wounds and scars crisscrossing the skin. But most importantly, he saw his eyes. They were pure white.

    There was no iris, no pupil. A clear, milky white filled the skinless sockets, edges of the bone still visible. It looked unnatural, as if the eyes had simply been tossed into the socket without care for direction. Wispy white vapor curled out of the edges, evidence that the magic used was still fresh.

    Grabbing Kail¡¯s head forcefully, Hope leaned in close, broken nails scraping against the ridge of bone underneath his eye. ¡°Look¡¯s like everything went in all nice. Why don¡¯t you go and say hello to the donor? It¡¯s rude to ignore him for all this time, you know.¡±

    With yet another grin, it turned before giving a vicious kick to a figure in the corner. In the shadow of the torches, Kail had not even noticed the figure until it moaned after being struck. Grabbing it by the arm, Hope dragged it before Kail, throwing it face down in front of him. Grabbing the person by the hair, it lifted up the face to give Kail a proper look. What he saw made his stomach heave.

    A young boy¡¯s face, skin tanned but smooth, contorted in pain. His eyes had been torn out, blood pouring from black, empty sockets with ruined cords in the back still visible. A trail of blood and tears flowed down his face, dripping off his chin and onto the ground.

    Slapping him across the face, Hope barked into his ear, ¡°Don¡¯t be a mute, boy. Say something. Go talk to your hero.¡±

    The boy¡¯s head lolled, hoarse from screaming, throat working but no sound coming out. It moved vaguely to try and search for Kail before giving up, head downcast as he sobbed.

    ¡°H-help me.¡±

    Kail¡¯s heart broke; he felt the last vestiges of his strength slip away. The boy that he had loved with all his heart, who had been kind and innocent. The boy that had been the star of his life amidst a boundless sea of agony, now torn to pieces before his very eyes. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he realized the irony that his salvation would only ever come if someone else paid the price.

    Hope let go of the boy, letting him crumble to the floor sobbing. The blood dripped into a pile around his face, hands clawing feedly at torn skin. Hope sneered, grabbing Kail by the throat before leaning in. ¡°Aren¡¯t you thankful, boy? Thankful for your vision? Thankful for your health?¡± He let go of his grip and Kail fell back, coughing up spittle and blood as tears blurred his eyes. ¡°I know that your little friend is hurt, but don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ve a ticket for a vacation in Hell. But I¡¯ll need you, boy, to help me decide.¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    It slammed open the metal door and walked out before returning with a small girl that it held by the hair. She was young, perhaps four or five years of age, with golden hair and smooth skin. Tears streamed down her face from pain as it dropped her onto the floor, giving the boy a kick in the ribs before dragging him over next to her.

    It leered at Kail, yellowed teeth showing as it rasped, ¡°You see, this little gem caught my eye. That boy over there didn¡¯t want me to meet her, but hoarding¡¯s no fun. People have to share. And I¡¯m thinking of making this my present to her.¡± Hope struck her square in the nose, blood gushing out like a fountain as she screamed in pain. Despair filled Kail¡¯s heart as he realized that she was the boy¡¯s sister, the one that he so adored. His thoughts were racing, but everything was going by too fast to think.

    ¡°So then now, boy. Make up your mind. Which one of them dies? The boy?¡± It cuffed the boy across the jaw, the loud crack of broken bone echoing off the walls. ¡°Or the girl?¡± It gave a savage kick to her stomach. She spasmed, retching bile onto the floor as she coughed. It howled with laughter as it kicked her again, reveling in her pain. Turning to look at Kail, it grinned. ¡°Well then boy? Make up your mind.¡±

    ¡°Tick. Tock. Time¡¯s slipping away.¡± It grabbed the two by their throat, hoisting them up its shoulders as they choked and struggled. ¡°Which one lives?¡± That ruined smile on Hope¡¯s face was like a set of blades, menacing and chillingly cold.

    Kail was filled with shock, his heart stopping as his mind froze. Which one would live? Which one would die? How could he possibly choose? This¡ªthis is not my choice to make, he thought, his heart racing. He hesitated, uncertain and confused. His mouth formed words but no sound came out, his throat working but hopelessly dry.

    The boy struggled to talk with his broken jaw, spitting out a wad of blood and broken teeth before croaking out, ¡°...Ishtuh¡­.Sabe ma ishtuh¡­¡± Eyes gouged out, jaw broken, body dying, and still the boy insisted that Kail save his sister. It broke Kail to see the boy in pain, to see him this way. He wanted to see the sky. He wanted to see the sun. How could you take that from him?

    Kail¡¯s heart was torn, broken between saving the boy that was his light and giving him his last wish. The weight burned heavy on his shoulders, sin waiting regardless of either choice. He wanted to scream out to save the boy, to let him live, but he could not. His throat froze, tears in his eyes as he sobbed. He could not do it, could not find it in him to break the boy¡¯s heart as well.

    ¡°Time¡¯s slipping away, boy. Which one do you choose?¡± Hope asked, eyes gleaming as he watched Kail struggle. ¡°Which one? Will you satisfy your own desires and save the boy you hold so dear? Will you see him break before you as you take his sister away, knowing that you were the one that did it?

    ¡°Will you save his sister, and watch him die before you? The child that did nothing but help you? Watch as he healed you and cared for you and died for you? Watch as all that love you dies for you?¡±

    ¡°Which do you choose, boy? Time¡¯s running out.¡± It howled with laughter, watching the tears stream down Kail¡¯s face as he failed to decide.

    The boy¡¯s hand grasped at the air, gripping Kail¡¯s foot feebly. He could not see Kail, but still he tried futilely to look for him with eyeless sockets, broken jaw quivering, blood covering his body. ¡°...ease¡­.ease ail¡­.sabe mah ishtuh.¡± the boy gasped out before collapsing onto the floor, chest heaving as his muscles twitched involuntarily. His breathing hiccuped, his body spasming on the tiled stone.

    Tears streamed down Kail¡¯s face, his voice hiccuping as he weeped. He could not do it. He could not leave the boy to die. He loved the boy, loved the boy more than he loved himself. If the boy hated him for it, so be it. Forgive me. If not, I am too tired in any case. With a broken heart and sin in his chest, he bawled out, ¡°Save the boy! Save him, please!¡± His head hung with the effort as he heard the girl and boy cry out.

    Hope smiled¡ªa cold, cruel smile that stretched across its face like a knife.

    The candlelight glimmered with a dark gleam in its eyes as it spoke. ¡°Too late, boy. Your time is up.¡±

    Grabbing the girl¡¯s head, it crushed her face into the floor, blood splattering as bone crunched into stone. Gore and pulp dripped across the tiles; not even a single sound had escaped her mouth before she had died. Lifting her up, Hope rammed her head once more, twisting her head violently before crushing its palm, skull shattering under its grip. It grabbed her throat and tore it out, pink flesh in its hand as blood gushed out like a river. Laughing wildly, it turned to face the boy, who lay in the corner crying as he heard his sister die.

    Claws raking open his chest, it carved out a hole in his gut before pulling out his intestines, a heartrending scream of terror and agony escaping the boy¡¯s mouth as his entrails were torn out with a snap. ¡°What a beautiful look.¡± Hope whispered, both hands cupping the boy¡¯s cheeks as it smiled. With a grunt of effort, it pulled up in a savage motion, snapping the boy¡¯s neck before ripping his head clean off his body. Blood sprayed like a geyser from the severed neck, bone and skin tearing under the monster¡¯s raw strength.

    Kail¡¯s heart froze as he could do nothing but watch as the children died before his eyes. He felt violently ill, the ground swooning before his eyes. He heaved, retching out yellow bile onto the ground as he looked away from the boy¡¯s face that was tossed at him. The boy that he had failed. The boy that he had let die. He could not take it anymore, could not handle any further. Hanging on a rope, on a thread. And now he finally slipped.

    He felt the darkness come for him and he closed his eyes, wanting to run away, wanting to hide. He fled from the scene, fled from the horror that lay in front of him. He wailed as felt his spirit break, felt the feeble light that had burned in his heart be snuffed out so completely. As he fled to the darkness, as he tried to avoid the bloody image that was burned into his mind for eternity, he heard its voice whisper in his ear, whisper with glee.

    ¡°And it was all your fault.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 42: His Hate

    Sister had fallen, and Joy had bolted out of the brush in an instant. He had been watching her with a careful eye as he ran, worried from the way that she kept swooning on her horse. Her face was too pale, too thin, and her eyes lacked focus. When she toppled, he had been by her side almost before she struck the dirt. The startled Malifori guards on the flanks hardly had time to react before his blurred form streaked across their ranks. Only one of them managed to snap out a hasty arrow, its head burying itself in the dirt, before he positioned himself protectively over Sister¡¯s body.

    The horses around him all bucked and tossed, kicking away from him in instinctive panic and fear. Their riders fought on the reins, but they could do little to calm their beasts. Joy ignored them all, turning instead to look at Sister. Her skin was pasty, sunken and sallow, and it was too cold despite the constant sun. Hurriedly, he sliced open a small cut on her arm with a claw, lapping up the blood that oozed through. It tasted sickly sweet, more so than the metallic tang blood usually had. Joy hissed in reflex, eyes flickering through the crowd that began to surround her. Poison, hissed the dead, crackling and popping like ice in his mind.

    One of the Malifori approached on his horse, the animal tossing its neck but still inching forward nervously. His braids named him a chief, and he carried himself with presumptive confidence crossing into arrogance. ¡°Leave her.¡± he spoke after a contemptuous look, waving his hand for the others to disperse. ¡°We cannot slow our march for a single person.¡± They left with hardly a moment of thought, kicking up dust down the Kingsroad as their skittish mounts fled. Only a single man showed some hesitation, pausing awkwardly before riding over.

    Joy recognized his face; he was the one who had given Sister the horse. He snarled as the Malifori approached, lips peeling back to reveal wickedly curved teeth. ¡®Calm, boy.¡± the Malifori laughed nervously, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice. Joy could see it in his stance, in the twitch in his fingers¡ªit was all just posturing. There was fear flickering in the back of his eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to hurt her. I just want to see.¡± he continued, raising up both palms like one might to a cornered animal.

    Joy growled, a low rumbling that started in the back of the throat. ¡°How can you help?¡± he forced out, holding the man¡¯s gaze. The Malifori was startled and clearly taken aback, recoiling suddenly, the blood draining from his face.

    ¡°Y-you, can speak?¡± he stammered, licking his lips and looking around for anyone else. Most of the others had already left, the few remaining keeping a wide distance as they rode down the Kingsroad. In a few moments, it would just be them. ¡°I d-didn¡¯t realize¡­¡±

    With a snarl, Joy rose onto his hind legs. He cracked his neck, stretching his limbs as he loomed over the Malifori. Baring his fangs and running his black tongue over his teeth, he hissed, ¡°What do you. Want?¡±

    The man flinched before straightening, gritting his teeth and steeling himself. ¡°I just mean to help. If she¡¯s overheated or needs water, I have things on my horse that can help.¡± He met the demon¡¯s gaze calmly, unblinking. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to hurt her.¡± There was truth in those words. Joy could see it in his expression.

    A low growl rumbled through his throat as Joy stepped away, allowing the Malifori to lean closer to Sister¡¯s form. ¡°Is poison.¡± he said gruffly as the man felt her cool skin. The Malifori blinked in shock, running a finger along her pulse.

    ¡°It could be. She¡¯s so cold.¡± he muttered, feeling her forehead and limbs. ¡°Seems like sugarleaf poisoning. But if it is, we¡¯ll have to hurry. Once she starts to sweat on her own, it¡¯ll be too late. We need to force her to sweat.¡±

    ¡°How?¡± Joy asked tersely, frustration making his blood race through his veins.

    The man shook his head helplessly. ¡°If we had hot stones, maybe. But without any way to start a fire quickly¡­¡±

    Scion, hissed the dead, their voices roiling. You have power in your blood. Use it.

    Joy paused before smiling, flexing his claws as he spoke. ¡°Fire?¡± A pulse and a purpose, that was all he needed. Reaching inside of himself, he felt the mahji coiled up within him. It was like a vast pool, and he drew from it strands of purple that rose through his arms, coiling out of his claws. He remembered fire, from the heat that he had drawn out of the earth in the mountains. Fire was familiar to him; it was simple and strong, and he could understand it well. He willed a spark to catch on those serpentine ribbons, whispering, ¡°Breathe.¡±

    The flame drew in a deep breath, licks of red and orange dancing vibrantly as they sprung to life. In front of him, the Malifori suddenly recoiled, his features displaying shock and amazement. He spat out something that sounded rather like a curse before looking at the demon. ¡°Miracles. You can bring miracles?¡± He swallowed before turning to Sister once more. ¡°We need to take off her clothes. We need to draw out as much water as possible from her body.¡± Glancing up briefly at Joy, the man set to work peeling the leathers away from her clammy skin, cutting with a knife when some proved too tenacious. When her too-pale skin was exposed, he nodded at the demon to start.

    Joy worked the flames, carefully bringing them closer to Sister¡¯s skin. Those cordlike ribbons of fire wrapped around her flesh, hovering a finger¡¯s length away from touching. Yet the heat billowed in waves, warming and scorching her body, and soon color was once more flushing to her face. Her breathing sped up as the smoke and steam filled the air, further driving the poison through her blood and hopefully into her sweat. And as she began to sweat, small droplets beading on her skin, Joy felt relief lift the clamps from his chest. He let out a long breath that he had been holding, still concentrating on keeping the flames under control.

    As the fire burned the water of her sweat away, there was a white powder that was left behind on the skin. ¡°Stop.¡± spoke the Malifori after a long period of silence, gesturing for Joy to put the flames out. He did so with the sensation of dropping long-held weights, feeling the strain and effort suddenly disappear from his mind. Despite the mahji that he had used, that massive pool inside of him felt as though it had hardly been touched. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    Truly powerful, scion. You have inherited Andahiel¡¯s will and strength. The dead writhed in pride, in a seething arrogance.

    Joy could not help but wonder who this Andahiel was that they kept speaking of, yet he could only resolve to do so later. The Malifori was drawing in close, using a length of cloth torn from an undershirt to wipe the powder from her skin. ¡°Sugarleaf dust.¡± he muttered, his features twisted with disgust and dismay. ¡°What coward would do this?¡±

    ¡°Coward?¡± Joy asked, leaning down and carefully sniffing her skin. It still held tinges of that distinctive sweetness, stronger than honey and too sickly to be mistaken for anything else.

    The Malifori shook his head, scowling as he stood up. ¡°Poison is a woman¡¯s weapon. No true warrior would use it in place of a bow.¡±

    Joy did not understand. A blade was a weapon. A bow was a weapon. A poison was a weapon. They were all tools, much as a bucket and a cup both held water. The anger that boiled in his chest was not from poison. It was not from the tool. It was from the hand that had used it. That someone had tried to kill Sister. She was his pack, his family¡ªhis only family. All these damnable people on their horses were not worth nearly as much as she was, and he would butcher all of them and burn their corpses if that was what it took to save her.

    The more that he thought about it, the more that his heartbeat sped until his vision began to bleed with hints of red. Blood rage, some part of him noted dully, yet it was a small voice in a tempest. His breathing grew heavy, his muscles tensing as he felt the urge to kill pound through him. It had happened before, but it had been for him. This time, it was for her sake, and the anger that burned felt magnitudes stronger.

    Someone put a hand on his chest, and he snapped at it reflexively with his jaws. They clamped down on empty air, teeth clacking violently as they struck nothing. Before he knew it, there were hand on his horns, gripping him as one might a struggling beast. They fought him, held him steady as he wrestled and tugged. He shook his head, feeling anger course through him as he struggled to buck this thing off, yet it held fast.

    ¡°Calm, ma seh¡¯va!¡± something shouted in his ear. ¡°Calm!¡± Those words were loud and piercing, cutting through his battle haze and tearing apart the film over his vision. Blinking rapidly, Joy saw the Malifori before him, his expression stern and challenging. ¡°Calm.¡± he repeated, and slowly Joy felt his bloodlust begin to abate. After a few breaths, he blinked and stepped back.

    It was not until after he looked up that he saw the Malifori panting heavily, his face flushed as his expression one of relief. ¡°I was not expecting that to work. I was expecting a hole in my chest.¡± he gasped out, smiling tiredly as he fell onto the dirt. ¡°But if she was poisoned, it was most likely Ahtoka. Only he is bullish enough to want to kill her, and weak enough to use poison.¡± He looked over at Sister¡¯s sleeping figure before throwing his head back. ¡°We need to catch up with the others. Here, help me bring her over to her horse and we¡¯ll figure something out.¡±

    It was with an awkward difficulty that they secured her onto the beast, partly because it kept acting skittish whenever Joy drew near. Once she was lashed firmly onto the saddle, the Malifori held her horse¡¯s reins in one hand as he got onto his own. Seeing that Joy had taken off into the vegetation, he pressed his heels into his horse and started off down the Kingsroad to follow his people.

    Joy tore through the brambles and underbrush with a bestial intensity, ignoring the thorns and broken branches as they scraped against his scales. He was utterly intent on reaching the Malifori camp and tearing out the throat of her poisoner. The blood rage bubbled within him, and he fought to preserve his faculties as he ran. His heart raced, his heartbeat thumping in his skull, and in his distraction a low hanging branch caught him across the muzzle. He snapped through it savagely with his teeth, shaking his head back and forth before throwing it to the side and continuing. The pain served only to further his rage, and he wrestled with himself to remain calm.

    Horses, for all their apparent weakness, were well-suited for speed on the open road. Joy found himself unable to catch up to the Malifori despite his efforts, and it was dusk when he saw the mass of people beginning to set up tents in the grass along the side of the Kingsroad. Sister and the other Malifori were not far behind, pulling into the side tiredly. Joy stayed hidden in the underbrush as he dismounted, clapping his horse to go eat as he walked into the camp. His eyes searched the vegetation as he walked, and Joy started a small tongue of flame from the tip of his claw. The Malifori man noticed quickly, letting a small smile slip across his face in acknowledgement as he strode towards a surprised group of his people.

    They spoke in hushed whispers, and Joy could not quite make out their words, yet soon another man came out of a tent, his expression one of shock and anger. Joy recognized him¡ªthe one they called Ahtoka and Sister¡¯s poisoner. He felt hot wrath start to bleed into his vision once more, and he fought to stay silent as the two walked out of camp. The first was luring Ahtoka, he could tell, and their arguing served as useful distraction. Joy caught their words in the wind as they approached.

    ¡°¡ªassa he¡¯en. You were one who supplied her horse. You were the one that gave her food and water. Those are Chief¡¯s commands; it is known.¡±

    ¡°And what does that mean, Hatsura? What are you accusing me of?¡±

    ¡°You already know it. You poisoned her, Ahtoka. You fought her with a woman¡¯s arrows.¡±

    There was a pause before an ugly smile crept across the Malifori¡¯s face. ¡°Aye, I did. And she was a woman, so what of it, dar¡¯a khalei? She is dead. She was weak.¡±

    Those words were enough for Joy, and he let his blood rage swallow him as he burst out of the underbrush. The man did not even have time to turn before fangs clamped shut around his throat. Scarlet blood sprayed like a fountain as he screamed, until his cords were torn in a savage motion. The two fell onto the ground from the force of Joy¡¯s charge, and the demon buried his claws into the man¡¯s chest. With a prying motion, he heard bone crack and splinter as he forced the rib cage open, exposing punctured viscera underneath. The man was dead in nearly an instant, yet that did not stop Joy from plunging his muzzle into the mess of organs, tearing out the still-beating heart and swallowing it with a jerk of the neck.

    And as he stepped back to admire the ruined corpse before him, a savage smile crept across his bloodied face.

 Book 1: Chapter 43: A Blackened Requiem

    Dreams were ever changing as they gripped her, holding her close in a lover¡¯s embrace. She saw faces dancing in front of her¡ªlaughing, smiling, crying, dying. They flickered in and out as if illuminated by a candle, dancing to a strange, unfelt rhythm. She could not recognize any of them, despite the intimate familiarity that she felt. It was as if they had been torn out of the pages of her memory, fire-blackened leaflets where there were once words.

    She saw a girl smiling, blood trickling down her cheek and painting those white teeth red. She saw an old man laughing, black shadow crawling out of his open mouth. She saw another man staring in fear, thick hair obscuring all but his pleading eyes as they wept. She saw a monster, a tattooed creature with mismatched eyes that glinted with anger and strength. She saw them all, yet when she raised a hand to touch them, they merely rippled like images in a pond and scattered into dust.

    She was alone then, surrounded by the creeping shadows that billowed with black smoke. They wrapped around her, obscuring her vision and numbing her senses until she realized suddenly that she could not breathe. While she had felt nothing before, the moment that she noticed her chest felt like it had burst into flame. She fought and writhed, trying to draw in a desperate breath to no avail. Her body burned, her limbs growing weak, and she was on the verge of collapse when the shadows peeled away.

    Falling onto her knees with a coughing gasp, she felt her vision blur and her limbs tremble. Yet when they cleared and her strength returned, she looked up to see a dessicated figure upon a throne of shadows. The black curled and twisted itself around him, obscuring that withered flesh within its darkened grasp. They billowed around that greying skin, dancing around a golden collar. Two of its sockets were empty, yet in the center was a blackened gemstone that emanated tempestuous power.

    Once more, you come into my service. The voice that spoke in her mind was not a single voice, but rather it echoed with the sounds of a thousand rasping throats. It was impossibly old, resonating with insurmountable power. She did not question who it was, for she knew already.

    In her heart, she knew this living corpse to be Sin.

    Truly your mind is strong to hold me twice. His voices were like ice in her mind, and she felt stabbing pain that shattered her thoughts. There was a presence in the mind, the sensation of something else worming into her thoughts. It was small at first, yet it grew and swelled until suddenly there was only throbbing pain that slowly numbed itself. There will not be a third.

    Now wake, and deliver me my power.

    Black shadow crept into her mouth, slipping down her throat with a chilling numbness. Mist billowed out of her eyes, pluming as the dreamscape around her fell away. Yet she was still dreaming, unable to wake, even when she opened her eyes to find herself in a Malifori tent. She was still dreaming as she gazed around, as she lifted her hands in front of her. She was still dreaming as she rose, her fingers unfeeling as they felt her body for a dagger. She was still dreaming as she turned and saw Moktoga sleeping on the ground nearby.

    Her heart sank as she realized what would happen, and she realized she was powerless to do anything. Please, she begged silently, yet her hands still held that knife. Please, no. Yet her legs still took those steps closer. She wanted to weep, but even her tears were stolen away from her.

    The scene flickered, and she saw a black shard. Wailing voices screamed in torment, and she knew them to be the dead. The third blackstone, the third gem of power that Sin needed. Her hands reached out slowly, enraptured by that impossibly deep surface. Her fingers stroked the chillingly cold stone, steam crackling from where she make contact. And the voices of the dead howled a raging tempest. That screaming drowned out all other sensation, the sound of a thousand voices wailing in eternal agony.

    And then their thousand voices became one, a single voice screaming in death. Her eyes blinked, and she saw Moktoga before her, his throat slit. In her hands lay the bloodied knife, his fingers trembling helplessly. No, she mouthed silently, horror seizing her heart in icy hands. No, please. Not again. Yet he was dying before her, his eyes bulging in their sockets and disbelief written across all of his features. That screaming pierced her ears, sounded like it came from inside her skull. It continued even after the blood stopped bubbling in his throat, even after his eyes had stopped twitching and his chest had ceased all movement.

    It was only then that she realized the screaming was her own.

    Her hands moved of their own accord, numbing fingers prying open his blood-splattered mouth. They dug inside despite her horror, despite her protests, for she was merely a spectator inside her own body. That sensation of helpless dread only grew inside her as her hands came back out, and glittering in her fingers was a single black gem.

    Bound on the precipice of death, between life and dreams. I thank you for your service. That voice¡ªthose chilling voices, they swept through her mind like a storm. She felt like an ant in their presence, like nothing more than a grain before the raw strength that they possessed.

    Her screaming had yet to cease, only building in intensity as a cold pressure rose inside of her. The voice became garbled, strangled as she felt black mist begin to plume out of her mouth, as her terrified eyes saw twitching shadows begin to crawl out of her throat. They coiled and twisted in the air, stretching down her arm before wrapping themselves around the blackstone in her fingers. Lifting it out of her fingers with a whispering precision, they coiled themselves back inside her with a wordless crackling. When at last the final writhing shadow had disappeared and the black mist had dispersed, only then did her screaming cease.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Now sleep. Those voices of Sin echoed once more in her mind, and she found herself powerless to resist. Her eyes closed of their own volition, her legs growing weak, and then blissful sleep swallowed her whole.

    It was a dreamless sleep, a thoughtless sleep. For that, she was grateful, for she did not wish to think about what she had done. She did not want to think about the blood on her hands, nor the blade they had held. She did not want to think about the look of betrayal that had been on his face, nor the helplessness that had seized as her body was no longer her own. Dreamless sleep was a wonderful retreat from consequence, and when she woke it came an eternity too soon.

    When her eyes opened, she found herself on her cot, the scene before her terrifyingly familiar. Yet she was not dreaming as she found herself in a Malifori tent. She was not dreaming as she lifted her hands in front of her, shocked to find clean fingers. She was not dreaming as she rose, pulling out her dagger to find the blade unstained.

    A sneaking hope slithered into her heart then, hideous and beautiful. She dared not to hope, not to hope that it had all been a horrific dream. Yet when she turned, she saw with unbelieving eyes a whole Moktoga, sleeping soundly on the ground. His throat was unharmed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Tears filled her eyes helplessly, and she blinked vigorously in the hopes that the scene before her was not a lie. The hope that had been seeded inside of her began to grow into a flower.

    Hope is such a fickle thing. It was all a crow-cursed lie.

    When her vision cleared, her heart felt strangled in an icy vise. She saw the man with his throat sliced open, dried blood caking his chest and pooling onto the ground around him. His eyes were open in that familiar expression of disbelief and confusion. She looked away hastily, unable to face what lay before her. Desperately, she peeked out of the corner of her eye, hoping beyond hope that it would be a lie. Yet the blurred image of blood and ruin that greeted her dashed that hope to the ground, and she fell to her knees with a sob.

    ¡°Sister!¡± screamed a gurgling voice, blood bubbling in its throat. ¡°Sister, please!¡± It screamed from behind her, from outside the tent, and she threw the flap open in hasty confusion. Yet there was nothing that greeted her, merely the few Malifori that had already woken and were preparing for today¡¯s march.

    Her heart pumped, her mind racing. Her breathing grew ragged and her thoughts flew past, too quickly to be understood. One stood out, struck her across the jaw harder than a punch:

    What was her name?

    <hr>

    My god is the truth and the light. His word is mine, and his will is my own. He had refashioned me in his image, as a tool to better serve him. My old body is no more, useless and abandoned. I have only the one he has given me, to bear him a thousand children. My old name is forgotten, discarded, vestigial. I know only the name that my god has given me, the name of Skal. Glory to my god.

    Forever may he reign.

    <hr>

    The girl without a name worked quickly, panic and hysteria clamping her heart in a painful vise. Her memories evaded her no matter how hard she tried to recall them; they had been burned into ash and smoke, gone forever. No name, she thought herself with a maddened giggle. How could I forget my own name?

    The words were there to distract her from the task at hand. With her knife, she hacked at the corpse¡¯s neck. His name, too eluded her, although she was more grateful for it. Everything around her felt foreign, felt like a lie. Was it because of Sin¡¯s possession? Was it a consequence of burning vahma? She did not know, she was not certain if she wanted to know. All she knew was that madness had her in its grips, and that her sanity was perched precariously on the edge.

    With a final crack, she broke through the bone and sinew that still held the head. Wiping the knife before returning it to its sheath, she picked up the head in trembling hands. Those terrified eyes winked at her, and she giggled maddeningly before standing up. She could not stay here, she knew. The Malifori would burn her or fill her with arrows once they found out what had happened. Her only chance was to make the most of the situation, and use the man¡¯s head to get into the Capital. While few would believe a lunatic, surely some would be convinced by the head of an invader as proof.

    Throwing the flap open, she hurriedly made her way through the camp to Irris. The name came suddenly to her, unbidden, and she had to resist a scream at the notion that of all the things to remember, she remembered a crow-cursed horse. The roan was sleeping in the field, yet it woke as she appeared. Irris seemed nervous as she approached with the head still dripping blood, yet she managed to stow it away into a pack on the side before putting a foot in the stirrup. Yet as she she prepared to ride, two boys ran through the tents, shouting out, ¡°Hurry! We¡¯ll miss it!¡± She furrowed her brows in confusion, wondering what kind of event could take place in the camp before the sun even rose. Smoke billowed from a collection of tents, pluming into the unlit sky, and she suddenly was filled with an urge to see.

    Bolting through the tents, the sounds of voices grew louder until she reached a gathering of perhaps twenty. They had built a pyre in the dirt, wind blowing the smoke into her face. As she coughed, she managed to make out what looked like entrails on stakes. They burned as the fire ate away at them, bursting into flame and crumbling into ash. Around the pyre, Malifori were chanting what sounded like a dirge in their tongue. Hurriedly, she murmured to one of the children watching, ¡°What happened here?¡±

    The child flinched before responding, muttering, ¡°Ahtoka died last night. They were fighting his killer.¡±

    His killer? She was about to ask when the crowd turned and she saw them bring forth a beast. Its black body was bound by rope and chains, and four men handled it with caution as it tossed and bucked. Its claws were bloodied yet sharp, the scales on its chest torn and wounded. Arrowheads littered its body, far too many for just one creature, yet it still fought with the vigor of two men. Clearly, however, its strength was greatly spent, and its roar was more one of desperation than power.

    ¡°What are they doing?¡± she whispered hurriedly to the boy.

    ¡°They¡¯ll burn it.¡± came the excited reply.

 Book 1: Chapter 44: His Strength

    As the Malifori dragged him towards the pyre, Joy snapped at their throats with a dangerous lunge. Four men hauled him cautiously, keeping their distance. His teeth closed in on nothing but air, his captors already having anticipated the attack. He fell back from the attack, panting hard as he fought for breath. He was too tired to fight back, not after having struggling through the entire night. His arms burned uselessly, his legs almost too weak to stand upon, and he cursed himself for it.

    They had fought him after he had killed Sister¡¯s poisoner, after he had swallowed the thing¡¯s disgusting heart and ripped its arms from its body. Three arrows had buried themselves in his chest, their metal heads punching through his scales and striking with enough force to knock him onto the ground. They had thrown rope over his body, as if he was a beast that they were hunting, lashing him and keeping him bound as he struggled. His claws had torn through the rope at first, had buried themselves into the stomachs of the first two men two had attempted to wrestle him.

    Their corpses had fallen beside their brother in the dirt, and he had charged towards the rest with the blood rage pumping through his veins. There was screaming, howling in the air that drowned out thought and reason. Some of it was from the dying, some of it from the Malifori as they tried to kill him. Some of it, he realized dully, was his own.

    It was his own scream that escaped his throat as an arrow struck his left arm, punching through the muscle and rendering it useless. He could feel the tip grating against bone whenever he tried to move. It was his own scream that tore out of his mouth another arrow buried itself in his thigh, followed by more until his leg gave out. Even then he wanted to claw forward, wanted to tear out their eyes and rip out throats to slake the flaming wrath that filled him.

    More arrows struck his shoulders, the shafts snapping as he struck the earth. More ropes lashed around him, binding his arms and holding him down as they approached. More screams ripped his throat raw as he howled in blind anger, thrashing and bucking as he fought his protesting body. One Malifori came too close, foolishly trying to force Joy¡¯s arms back, and the demon lunged with the force of an arrow from a bowstring, burying his fangs into his shoulder and tearing a chunk of flesh as they fell. The man howled as Joy buried his muzzle into the wound, savagely working through muscle and tendon before ripping out bone. In his blind bloodlust, he struck out at anything that moved, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. When he finally stopped, his chest heaving, his vision blurred by red, there was nothing but a ragged mess of flesh and ruination before him. The former man¡¯s neck and upper shoulder had been utterly dismantled, bits of cartilage and tendon flapping in the wind for the sun to see.

    ¡°Demon.¡± the Malifori around had hissed, as if it were a warning or an insult. He merely smiled, baring those crimson-stained fangs as a warning of his own.

    More arrows were loosed, burying themselves in his back and limbs. They refused to fire at his skull; it seemed that they still wanted him alive. For what purpose, he did not know. He could hardly even think through the haze of his blood rage and the pain of his wounds. When the strength began to flee from his limbs and his vision began to dull, he felt the rope tighten around his arms and the arrowheads burn in their wounds.

    They began to beat him as he lost his strength, kicking him as they held fast to the ropes. As his resistance grew weaker, so too did their boldness grow in turn. He coughed as they beat him, choking on blood and bile as he lay on the ground. As he forced his eyes open, he blearily made out the crowd that he had attracted. They cursed him and spat at him, whooping with every blow to his flesh. Hateful rage boiled inside of him, yet his body was too weak a vessel for it. He could only watch and wait as they hauled on his ropes, bleeding out his strength until he was too weak to resist. He merely lay there as his lifeblood pooled around him in a crimson puddle.

    Soon he moved no longer, using all his strength just to breathe. His lungs burned, his heart pounding out a frantic and futile rhythm. They dragged him, two pulling on him while two more kept his ropes tight. He was meek at first, hoping to lull them into overconfidence. The sun still had yet to rise above the horizon, the sky faintly lit with the knowledge the night would soon be over. Malifori were gathered in a crowd, their voices chanting and reaching a fever pitch.

    Joy could see the remains of Sister¡¯s poisoner burning in a bonfire, could smell his charred scent on the wind. As his captors dragged him closer, a sense of danger welled up inside of him. He knew that if he was to fight, it would have to be soon. Yet it could not be now, for they would be anticipating it. So he waited, dragging his limbs and feigning uselessness.

    As he approached, the Malifori mocked and jeered him, cheering as his captors approached the pyre. He smelled a familiar scent in the crowd, turning his head and peering blearily before seeing Sister¡¯s shocked face in the crowd. His heart began to pound, his claws flexing. Yet as his captors pulled on the ropes, he knew that he was not strong enough to break free.

    What are you doing, scion? Why do you still wait?

    Certainly, he could use magic. Yet with his mind so fatigued and his body so weary, he did not trust that he would be able to direct it. To channel a blaze would mean burning himself in it as well.

    Think, scion. You are Shai¡¯mon. Spirits are yours to command.

    Spirits.

    Joy closed his eyes, twitching his head as he felt for the souls of those around him. He had seen them before, when he had opened his Mind¡¯s Eye. He could see them again. He remembered that sensation of wholeness and oneness, remembered how it had felt to be aware of all that was around him. And so while his eyes were closed, he saw. Pulsing white souls surrounded him, blazing red from where the fire danced in front of him.

    He felt their souls, full of anger and wrath not unlike his own. Heart pounding, he pulled on the mahji in the pit of his stomach. Where it was typically a pool, right now it seemed more a storm. Trying to command it in this tired state was like fishing in a typhoon, trying to pull out a single strand from a raging torrent. Yet as he tried and slipped, mahji running through his hands, he finally managed to find a grip. He reeled it, pulled out that strand, and from it came power. Power flooded through his limbs, running through his claws and the air like purple snakes. They writhed before lunging, burying themselves into the Malifori around them.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Yes, scion. Command them. Their lives are yours to use.

    With his Mind¡¯s Eye open, he saw that purple mahji latch onto the pulsing white, surround it and constrict it like the ropes that bound him. He willed the men around him to let go of the ropes, to stop, and he felt the pressure on his body loosen. Gritting his jaw as the weight on his mind grew, he willed the mahji to tighten around their souls. He saw as that white light grew dimmer and dimmer, blocked by the ribbons of purple until only a few stray beams of light could escape. Their pulsing forms grew smaller and smaller, until finally the ribbons of mahji fell away to reveal nothing.

    A sharp, piercing pain stabbed at his skull and Joy clutched at his head, closing the Mind¡¯s Eye out of reflex. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and when he opened his eyes his vision was blurry and filled with black spots. The world around him swooned as he staggered, his heartbeat racing. Yet he looked at the men around him, at their soundless figures on the ground. Blood trickled from their noses, dripped from the corners of their mouths. Their eyes were open and unmoving, staring at empty sky. Their hearts still beat, their bodies untouched, yet they would not act. Certainly, they would move if commanded. They would eat if told and piss when needed. Yet they would live no longer, for their souls were gone. Without it, they had only body and mind left. They were automatons now, mere constructs and vessels without memory of the lives they once held. For all uses of the word, they were dead.

    Gazing around him with dull eyes, Joy saw his mahji still threaded to the Malifori in the crowd. Their eyes were bulged, blood trickling as they fought his will. Yet it was not enough, and he held their lives still. Sister ran over quickly, throwing away the ropes around his legs in a hurried motion.

    ¡°We need to leave.¡± she insisted hurriedly, looking up at him. ¡°We¡ªwe can¡¯t stay here any longer.¡± She did not explain, yet he felt her urgency in her voice.

    He let himself be led through the camp, holding on the mahji that enthralled the Malifori with all his might. Blood filled his throat, his claws trembling and his vision growing fuzzy, yet still he held onto it with a clenched jaw. Dimly, he noticed Sister binding him, setting him down. Dimly, he heard brass clanking, the sounds of pins and locks being snapped. DImly, he noticed the sounds of horse hooves, of wheels clacking against stone. Then he could hold onto it no longer, the purple ribbons from the tips of his claws abruptly being torn. He coughed a mouthful of blood, his vision flashing black. It felt as though a mountain had been taken off his mind, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. For a brief moment, terror filled him as his vision remained black and he was afraid that blindness might have seized him.

    Then he realized that he was asleep.

    His lucidity was a strange sensation, as if he was detached entirely from his body while he slept and thought. There was a dull throbbing from his wounds and the pains of his body, but it was as if they were numbed. It was then that he realized this sensation was a gift, and a time for much-needed answers.

    You seek us, scion? The dead felt his call and rose in the back of his mind like a nest of vipers. Aye, he sought them out. He had questions, had held them within for too long. These fools lived in him, lived with him. Yet who were they, truly? They were spirits that had been bound in the blackstone, that he had freed in the Outlands before the Fells. They called themselves Shai¡¯mon like him. Yet what were they?

    Few know of our story. Shai¡¯mon were once the strongest of our kind, able to control even other channelers. What use was fire and storms when your own allies turned against you by our will? We had built grand cities and seats of power, spanning across the land and crackling with arcane brilliance.

    When Sin rose to power and sought to blot out the sun with his darkness, he first tried to stifle all magic that could oppose him. He fashioned the blackstones, gems of power, and he aimed to seal the Shai¡¯mon inside of them. Me¡¯jai and Oa¡¯kul abandoned ourselves to that fate, left us to fight him alone. We blasted him with flame in our citadels, froze him in our streets, buried him in our tombs. Our thrones became wastelands, what you call now the Outlands. In the end we failed. He shackled us in his blackstones, drawing upon our power to augment his own.

    There was truth to their words; he could feel their sincerity. He could feel the anger and hatred that they held, so strong that he thought his mind might burst into flame. Yet if they had failed, then how did Sin come to fall?

    There was a single man who challenged Sin in his own temple. He strode forth, a Me¡¯jai and his child. His daughter. He had burned with such strength that the Skal¡¯ai could not touch him, and that the Skal itself shirked from his presence. And as he approached Sin, he plunged his hand into his daughter¡¯s heart, drawing from it a blade of blazing light. With it, he struck through Sin¡¯s heart. Yet the creature would not die, for it had bound its will to the blackstones. As long as they remained, his thread would wind on.

    So the Me¡¯jai shackled him, bound the weakened Sin with magics and buried the blackstones into his daughter¡¯s corpse. With his spells he enchanted them so that they would only be found on the brink of death and dreams. Then he entombed himself with Sin, knowing that the forbidden magic he had used was too great a sin of its own.

    A single Me¡¯jai succeeded where an army of Shai¡¯mon could not? Joy found himself doubting these words as truth.

    Yet it is truth, no matter how you deny it. He was called Andahiel, peerless in his strength. And you, scion of Andahiel, are born of his hate.

    Now wake, scion of Andahiel. You are needed.

    Questions filled him, clawed at his mind. He had a million things to ask the dead, but he felt a familiar tugging sensation. When he woke, it was with a knife at his throat. Sister was standing over him, looming over him as she glared down with eyes of white that danced with madness.

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 45: A Rapture of Desolation

    It hurt. Everything was in pain¡ªthrobbing, aching, dull-white pain. Kail did not know why he had resisted before, why he had even bothered. Everything around him died, everything around him was in shambles. He had killed the boy, he had killed the girl. His heart was broken, his spirit crushed. He wanted to die. He wanted to be at peace. He did not deserve death. He did not deserve peace. He deserved this suffering, to atone for his sins. He hated the suffering, wanted it to end. He was just so tired of it all.

    He was tired of crying, tired of pain. He was tired of hope and tired of wishes. He was tired of living. Will death never come for me? He wanted so desperately to die. Then, at the very least, it would all be over. And yet, even that would not be granted to him.

    He heard footsteps walking closer, echoing off the walls. He did not care. He smelled the sweet scent in the air, but he did not feel anything but apathy. He could look, but his eyes were closed. He dared not to open them, dared not to use what had cost him too much. He did not deserve these eyes, did not deserve to see. She cupped her hand against his cheek, whispering something in his ear. He did not hear her, did not bother to try to listen. What was the point of listening? He was broken. He wanted to die. Tears rolled down his sunken cheeks, burning the skin.

    She traced a finger down his chest, crooning gently as she drew a circle. His mind wandered, he dreamed about the outside, about the sun and the stars. They seemed so distant now, like mere stories. Were they truly what he had seen? Were those memories truly real? It seemed all a lie now, all a fleeting dream. He remembered the boy, who had wanted to see the sky so badly, and his heart tore all over again. His shoulders heaved, his breathing heavy. He had already cried until his eyes burned; he had no more tears left to give. He had no more fear, and no more strength. He was merely tired. He felt empty inside, his will completely shattered.

    He heard her murmur in his ear. ¡°Does it hurt? Do you want the pain to stop?¡±

    He was tired. He wanted an end. The feeble resistance that stirred in his heart was no longer enough. He nodded feebly, head lolling to the side as he took in a shuddering gasp.

    ¡°Good.¡± she purred, fingers leaving his skin. His eyes were closed, unwilling to open. The image of the boy, the boy that he had failed, was still burned into his mind. It followed him, never leaving him. He began to hear whispers, stirring from the past. He heard Sir¡¯s voice, from a time long past. He heard the boy¡¯s voice, still soft and bright. He wept silent tears, apologizing. He apologized for failing them both, apologized for his weakness. He was too weak, to be falling like this. He was truly too weak, to be so broken. Yet he was too tired for shame, to weary for guilt.

    He heard her return, felt the room grow cold as the air snapped and buzzed. Opening his eyes feebly, he saw her holding a mantle of black, a cloak of shadows darting around an ornate golden collar fashioned in the shape of a skull. It thrummed with energy, thrummed with power that numbed his mind and froze his heart. He remembered it, remembered the feeling that pervaded his body. He had been offered it before; he had refused. See now what that resistance had given him. See now what that strife had bought for him. See now the price that had been paid.

    She promised him salvation. She promised him an end. An end to the pain. An end to all of the suffering. She promised to him release. Release from his bonds. Release from his life. Release from the shackles of his sins. Release from his worries. He was broken. He wanted to die. She promised to him death.

    It was such a simple word: death. It was such a soft word, a gentle sounding word. Yet it was so final. It was that finality that he craved, that he demanded. So it was with a similar word, a hoarse word, that he accepted.

    She placed the mantle over him, let the metal and bone rest on his shoulders. It was an elaborate collar of gold, resting on his shoulders. It was light as a feather; it was heavy as a mountain. The shadows writhed darting about, tasting like the tongues of serpents before suddenly piercing his skin. He howled in pain as they tore his flesh, ripped apart the skin and let the blood spill to the floor. Death was coming. There was no numbness to this; he felt every sensation as he was killed. He felt his body being shredded, his bones being snapped. His lungs, his heart, all wreathed and strangled by suffocating shadow. Death was coming. He accepted it, wanted it. He waited for the end, waited for his promised release. He wanted to die, wanted an end to the aeon of suffering. He waited for his death.

    It did not come.

    He felt the pain slowly fade, felt his body leave him, but he did not die. He opened his eyes slowly, unsure of what he expected to see. Looking down, he saw wispy, black flesh smoking gently, charred the color of ash. His fingers smoked gently, tendrils of the darkness worming out of him. The cloak billowed out around him, shadows nestling inside of him. He could feel their presence.

    He was no longer human. He no longer held a heart. He felt the power flowing through him, felt the strength in the shadows and the darkness. He was incorporeal, drifting through the shackles that had held him for so long. This body of his was flesh no longer, and it was with a dreamlike trance that he stood and stepped forward. He gazed around him, at the room filled with his blood and suffering. I had wanted to die, he thought. Even now, that is denied to me. With this body, now can I even die?

    As he turned, he saw an unexpected spectacle before him. His tormentor lay before him, gaze filled with rapturous wonder as she looked up at him. There was a madness swirling behind those too-wide eyes, her beauty unnatural as he gazed at her with apathy. ¡°The mantle accepted.¡± she whispered, eyes aflame with zeal. ¡°The will of Atal walks once more.¡± Sinking into a low bow, she proclaimed with fanaticism, ¡°Hail to my Lord.¡± Her body trembled, her breathing shallow as she knelt in his presence.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    He looked at her figure, once thought to be so strong, once feared so much. Curious, how she looked weak before him now, looked flimsy. Her skin was so easily broken. Her heart was so easily crushed. The very blood that flowed through her was so easily boiled. I had wanted to die. Was it that you wished to do so in my stead?

    He strode in front of her, cupping her cheek with one hand. Her eyes looked up, gaze filled with wonder and adoration. They glistened with devotion and exaltation that bordered on madness and hysteria. Her lips trembled, her breathing a light fluttering in the presence of her god. He gently blew out a soft puff of air into her face, black mist covering her skin. The shadows writhed in delight as he had them feed. They tore her apart, gouging open muscle and flesh and crunching bone. Her face was caught frozen by the black fog, a beautiful expression of terror and sublime dread. An ecstatic scream tore out of her throat, her body convulsing as if it was in the throes of pleasure. In a manner of seconds, there was nothing left, not even bone.

    Absentmindedly, he plunged his fingers into a lump of flesh that had swelled near his heart. Brown blood gushed out, splattering onto the stones and staining his nails. When his hand came out of his flesh, there was a squirming mass held in between his fingers. Grey and pulsings, the two worms were intertwined so tightly they could have been mistaken for a single misshapen creature. The blood from the wound he had made inside of himself dried quickly, and he clenched his fingers into a fist. Blood and gore showered out of his hand, dripping thickly onto the floor.

    Mixed in between the guts were masses of white eggs, throbbing and twitching as they fell. Some began to break, translucent worms crawling onto the stone with stubby, segmented legs. Their hook-like teeth began digging into the dirt between stone tiles, instinctively burrowing before he crushed them with an uncaring heel. The grubs were reduced to a paste under his foot, their bodies too soft to have resisted.

    A quiet apathy stirred within him at the sight of blood and gore. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, his flesh tingling with the coiling shadows. When he finally spoke, his voice was faint and hazy.

    ¡°I am no lord. I am a Sin. May I carry the weight of my burden for an eternity.¡± he whispered to her corpse.

    Kail¡ªno, rather Sin¡ªleft the ground that had held him prisoner for so long. A time unknown spent in pain, spent in torture, and he left it as easily as opening a door. Without even flesh, he strode through the stone as easily as breathing. Silent as the shade that he was, he drifted through the corridors, feeling the surface calling to him, feeling his will drive him. He left the sewers, wake of blood and corpses in his path. His shadows feasted on the rat things that he had feared so long ago. Now they broke against his strength, buckled before his power. Finally, after an eternity of endless struggle, he could see the end in sight. The light that glowed in the darkness, beckoning him to come forth. Heeding its call, he traveled outside, beholding in wonder as the light shone in his eyes.

    Pain. Sharp pain. A burning agony. It covered his body. He saw the shadows around him shirk from the sun, the light driving them away. he saw his image burst into flames, the blaze igniting on his arms and chest. It was excruciating and he was forced to return to the sewers, back to the dark. Even this one small comfort was denied to him. Even the light was denied to him. Even death was denied to him.

    He felt the shadows darting around him, steam filling the air as they sizzled and shed the heat. They wrapped his body, knitting and twisting his body back together. It hurt, but he did not care anymore. He would find no happiness in this world. He would find no satisfaction, would seek out no pleasure. Life was nothing but suffering and pain.

    Break it, he heard his god whisper. He felt his heart harden, the shadows around him fanning out as he grew resolute. This world of torture, he would break it. Destroy it. He would spread the gospel of his god.

    He heard a tapping behind him, claws on steel. He turned to see Hope kneeling before him, head down upon the ground. His torturer, now on knees before him. It spoke, gravelly voice no longer filled with contempt but rather fervent submission.

    ¡°My lord, the Cult of Atal stands before you. We are your loyal servants, vassals to your every end. This one apologizes for his crimes. This one will die if the lord wills it.¡±

    Sin felt himself recoil in shock. Murderous intent swelled up inside of him, shadows writhing in eager anticipation as they felt his desire, but it faded just as quickly as it had came. Use him, spoke his god, and he understood. He would use this creature as a means to an end. He would see this world break before him and if he could use this thing, then so be it. Sin commanded the beast to rally his forces, every shadow around him flickering as he grasped for the power inside of him. He would raze this city of depravity to the ground.

    Fanatics at his back, shadows at his command, he left at night. Overlooking the town, he beheld the place of his birth: Maris Tor. He did not feel nostalgia, did not feel regret. He did not feel anticipation, did not feel excitement. He felt hollow, felt nothing. Raising his fist, he felt power surging through every inch of his being, every shadow of the city under his command.

    His eyes glowing black as he felt the magic surge out of him, he saw the land before him devoured in an instant, swallowed by a tide of roiling darkness. The shadows were silent in their feasting, but the dying city howled so loud the sky shook. Screams of terror and pain filled the air, the crumbling of stone and the crunching of bone percussive against the sounds of the night. In mere seconds, the longstanding harbor of perversion and duplicity was consumed utterly, a gaping void of black shadow filling the space where it once stood.

    Releasing a slow breath, Sin felt the last remnants of the power trickle out of his fingers, the shadows slowly twitching before stopping their feast. He turned gradually, letting his gaze settle on each of the zealots gathered before him. The Cult of Atal would obey him. They would heed his will and die for him willingly. He saw the gleam of wonder and fear in their eyes when he looked upon each of them. They were a small army that spilled over the hillside, with Hope standing next to him as a general does to a king. Sin raised his hands, addressing his troops.

    ¡°Servants. This is my power. This is my will. Tear this world apart. Raze it to the ground and see it broken before you. This endless cycle of strife and ruin, I will have it broken.¡±

    ¡°Go now, carry out my will. Carry out the will of your god.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 46: His Choice

    Sister stood above him, her eyes practically aflame with maniacal hysteria. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes too wide and her hands trembling as she held the knife to his throat. As he watched, strands of white began to wisp out of the corners of her eyes, popping and hissing as they crackled through the air. It was vahma, he realized with a thought, and a sense of danger filled him. She was burning vahma. The fuel crackled on her skin, worming its way out of her flesh and steaming off her skin. Upon touching her ruined lips, those sparks began to knit the tissue together in instinctive healing, yet this magic was not truly mending her. She was killing herself with it, he knew, and that maddening smile sent his heart racing.

    With a roar, he abruptly rose up, claws swiping at her chest as he ignored the blade. It bit into his flesh, but she was too shocked to send the metal in deeper, his gamble working as he struck her and sent her onto the ground. Her dagger went clattering off to the side, her arms going wide as he loomed over her in a reversal of their previous position. Stop her, he had to stop her from burning vahma before she died from it. But how?

    The moment of clarity came unexpectedly, yet it was welcome. He was Shai¡¯mon, commander of spirits. He had done it once before, he could do it again. Hurriedly, he reached within himself, gritting his teeth as he pulled out the strand of mahji within his core. His pool was depleted after his previous stunt in the Malifori camp; enthralling others was a taxing stunt. What had once felt like a bottomless lake was now a shallow pond, his claws hardly sinking below the surface before skimming the bottom. Yet it would have to be enough for what he wanted.

    Once more he opened his Mind¡¯s Eye, feeling the pressure push onto his thoughts with the weight of a mountain. It came easier every time, the sensation becoming more and more like blinking with each use. He saw her spirit, the white soul pulsing gently in her chest. Flame ate away at it, tongues licking away under the surface of her flesh and the smoke billowing out through the cracks. She was burning vahma, it was certain. What he was to do next was equal parts foolhardy and deadly.

    That thin strand of mahji that he had pulled out coursed through his limbs, pulsing through his veins. It ribboned out of his claws before coiling around her, wrapping around her soul as it sank through her flesh. She struggled all the while, her body bucking and squirming as she fought to escape the grip that he had over her. Yet he held her fast, held her as mahji cocooned her soul.

    He commanded it to stifle, to swallow and snuff out. With every one of his throbbing heartbeats, the shell of mahji constricted. Smoke and steam snuck out of the gaps at first, sparks of the flame still managing to escape. Yet as the mahji tightened, gradually the signs of fire decreased, until at last they disappeared entirely.

    With a hoarse gasp, he collapsed, his energy and stamina utterly depleted. His eyes blinked rapidly, the Mind¡¯s Eye flickering away like a guttering flame. His pool of mahji felt completely spent from influencing another soul¡ªnear the end of his efforts, he had almost drawn upon nothing. His heart felt as though it might burst, his throat coughing up blood. His arms were trembling underneath him, his breathing ragged and his lungs aflame. Something sticky trickled down his cheeks, and he wiped it with a wrist under the assumption that it was a tear. Yet when that hand came away, it was stained crimson from the blood that leaked out of his eyes. Only then did he realize just how close to death he had come.

    Sudden pain blazed through his shoulder, and he screamed hoarsely as his body went out from under him. His muzzle cracked against wood and metal, his vision blurred as tears reflexively filled his eyes. Rather dully, he noted that the sensation grating against his shoulder blade was that of a knife; Sister must have stabbed him.

    She was talking, muttering from nearby. His hearing felt distorted, as if he was underwater or perhaps had hands over his ears. Her words were warbled and too far away, his own heartbeat a raging tide that crashed against his skull with every stroke. Slowly, he turned onto his side, pushing himself upright with a supreme effort before tearing the dagger out of his back.

    ¡°Sweet sister!¡± she laughed, eyes alight with madness. ¡°How kind of you to join us, now! I nearly thought you had left me¡ªnay, I know that you never left me. You¡¯ve been there the whole time, haven¡¯t you? Over my shoulder? I know it?¡±

    She staggered as she stood, her leg crumpling under her and causing her to fall. They were a pallet of sorts, a cart that the Malifori used to haul large amounts of supplies. It sat on wheels nearly waist height above the ground, and there was a sickening crunch as she fell off. Her voice never ceased, never even paused even as she broke bone.

    ¡°You always were a jealous type, sweet sister. You had to be the first at it all¡ªfirst to lay with a man, first to court death, first to take his hand. See now how he greets me, with that gentlemanly kiss!¡± A hysterical laughter rent through the air, shrieking and piercing and far too shrill. ¡°Be patient, sweet sister. You never were one for patience¡ªI¡¯ll be there with you shortly.¡±

    Panic filled Joy¡¯s mind as he realized just how far she had fallen. He rose with difficulty, lumbering off the pallet with awkward steps before tumbling to the ground with a cloud of smoke. The horse pulling the cart whinnied with worry, dancing away from the demon and pulling on the ropes so hard its hide nearly bled from the effort. He ignored the beast, staggering to his feet and gripping Sister¡¯s shoulders. Her leg was clearly broken, the limb twisted at a horrific angle, and he was more holding her up than supporting her.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    ¡°Sister!¡± he called out, afraid to shake her lest her flimsy flesh finally fail. Her eyes were glazed over, unfocused and staring through him as she tittered.

    ¡°You¡¯ve nothing old man! Nothing! I killed you, and I¡¯ll kill you again!¡± Her face was twisted into a grotesque smile, flecks of spittle flying from her mouth as she howled. A solitary bolt of white light spark across her cheek, and a sense of danger strangled his heart as she realized she might burn vahma again. If she did, this time he would not have the mahji to stop it. She would die.

    ¡°LILY!¡± he screamed desperately, a strange sensation that he had not held in his heart before now coursing through him in the place of blood. It was the feeling of loss, of the loss of another held closer to his heart than any other. She was his pack, his family, his first and his only. She was going to die. He screamed at her, hoping that his words would pierce through the madness that had held her now.

    Her chest heaved, her breathing growing short. His body went rigid, her grip on him so strong that he winced as she clenched his arms in a vise. Her eyes fluttered, steam billowing out of the corners as white sparks danced across her flesh. When they settled, the sparks dispersing and her body relaxing, she opened her eyes once more. And they were clear.

    ¡°B-brother?¡± she whispered shallowly, her body going weak as she fell forward. He caught her with the last of his strength, holding her before she could hit the ground. Unfortunately, that act was truly with the last of his strength, and so he too collapsed. His head cracked as he struck the dirt, his vision going hazy and his hearing disjointed. It was the span of five breaths before his senses cleared themselves.

    ¡°Wh¡ªwhat?¡± came a stammering gasp beside him, yet he was too tired to answer. He could only squeeze her shoulder gently as relief coursed through him.

    <hr>

    I see it now. I smell them. My god has commanded me, has spoken. I smell their blood, pumping hot through their veins. So gloriously hot. I crave that warmth. Who are they, to be warm when everything is so cold? They hide behind stone walls and metal scales; it is not enough. My children will take them, give me that warmth from their undeserving flesh. I see it now.

    I see that golden crown upon that delicious head.

    <hr>

    ¡°Malifori. Skal¡¯ai. Sin. So many enemies, and I hardly know which one to kill first.¡± Sister muttered on her horse as they ran down the Kingsroad. Joy was on the pallet once more, pulling the shattered arrowheads out of his flesh where they were buried. Sister had not the chance to pull them out when they fled, and so his wounds had healed with them still inside. New flesh had crept along the stone, tearing apart once more when his dug the damnable things out with his claws.

    ¡°We still go to Capital?¡± he asked gruffly. Lucidity seemed to hold her for now, and she seemed sane as any other. Instinct told him that her next bout of madness would also be her last. Even when he had opened his Mind¡¯s Eye previously, he had been struck by how weakly her spirit glimmered. Surely if the embers caught fire once more, there would be nothing left to burn after a few breaths.

    ¡°Aye. If nothing else, because we can use them.¡± she spoke, shaking her head slowly. Days of travel had made her quiet, and he wondered if it was merely fatigue that lessened her tongue. Three words had been all she had said in as many days, after her episode of madness. These were the most words that she had said since then.

    The time had begun to bleed over, the days blurring into one another as he had drifted in and out of sleep. He had nearly overdrawn himself when he had snuffed out her soulfire, and his body had utterly collapsed after. His dreams had been feverish and incoherent, and she had not spoken to him after he had woken either. A sour mood held him, all the more reinforced by the fact that he had no idea how much longer until they reached this damnable Capital.

    ¡°You¡­¡± she started, coughing and clearing her throat before continuing cautiously. ¡°How do you feel?¡±

    He grunted in surprise, confused at her words. ¡°I hurt. Am tired. Am nervous. Am irritated.¡± What did she mean?

    Sister sighed, shifting in her saddle. ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant. Listen¡ªI had a dream. Or maybe it wasn¡¯t quite a dream, but I saw something. From a while ago.¡± she sounded frustrated, as if she had been keeping this to herself. Her words came quickly, stumbling over one another as they raced to roll off her tongue. ¡°I saw a¡ªa withered corpse. On a throne. I think¡ªI think that it was Sin.¡±

    Shock filled him as she spoke, as she spoke of a creature matching what he had seen. Yet she continued, in her haste to tell him what she had been holding inside her. ¡°I...I had heard him talking, and he¡ªhe did something to me. I know not, but I was dreaming. While I was dreaming, he was moving my limbs and my body. I¡ªI killed someone like that.¡±

    Her hands gestured to the sack on the side of her horse, the bottom stained dark with what reeked of blood and decay. Her body trembled as she admitted her guilt, and she refused to turn to look him in the eye. Yet when he thought that she was finished, she continued.

    ¡°He made me kill Moktoga. A-and I pulled the blackstone out of his head. He took it; I gave it to him, and I couldn¡¯t do anything to stop it. But it wasn¡¯t even the first time. When I killed my¡ªmy master, the same thing had happened. I just didn¡¯t know it, but I must have gotten the blackstone the same way. When we left it in the Outlands, Sin got that one as well.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s two of his gems of power, returned to his hands because of me. And he could possess me again at any time and I¡¯ve burnt too much vahma and my life is dripping through an hourglass and I don¡¯t know when I¡¯ll become mad again and I might just kill you and¡ª¡± she cut off herself hysterically, breathing hard and swallowing before continuing. ¡°I¡¯m useless to you. The longer I stay around, the more of a danger I become.¡±

    She turned in her saddle, gazing back at Joy with desperate, pleading eyes. ¡°Please. Kill me.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 47: His Decision

    ¡°Please. Kill me.¡± Sister pleaded desperately, and for the first time Joy noticed that her eyes were green. They were rich as emeralds, glinting with the same hue as the skies in the Outlands. Had they always been so green? So verdant? Yet they glistened with tears as he gazed into them, glittering faintly in the sunlight.

    Kill her? The thought caught him across the jaw and struck him in the stomach; even his heart froze in his chest. His first instinct was to refuse, to shield her from anything no matter the cost. Yet questions followed that impulse, a certain hesitation and doubt about what he had once accepted without pause. Since when had she begun to matter so much to him? Since when had her weak figure become second nature by his side? Since when had her worth surpassed his own inside his heart?

    He knew how he would have answered in the past. The strong lived and the weak died. The weak belonged to the strong, in lives and in fate. She was weak, useless and vestigial to him now that madness threatened her with every passing breath. Letting her live could only prove a hindrance, could only possibly be a mistake. By every code of the creed that he had known in the Outlands, he ought to kill her.

    And yet every instinct screamed at him to protect her.

    He saw her bloodstained face as they had fought, her hair whipping madly as it was stirred by wind and magic. He saw her tired expression as she had struggled to keep up as they fled the Outlands. He saw her wonder and disbelief as they had talked around the campfire. He saw her desperation and wild beauty as she howled and screamed and ran and stabbed and tore and struggled. She was family, his first, his only, and perhaps his last. She was pack and blood. She had given him his name.

    That shadow behind him had long since been joined by another. To part with it now was to part with a piece of himself, was utterly impossible.

    Joy¡¯s expression turned bitter as he snarled, ¡°Never. You are sister.¡± He tore out an arrowhead with a vicious motion, tossing the damnable thing off the pallet and making it bounce off the stones on the road. The force was so savage that it threw up sparks, the arrowhead flying high before landing amongst the grass. ¡°My Sister.¡±

    Her face went slack with shock, clearly not having expected that answer. ¡°B-but¡­¡± she stammered, meeting his gaze with surprised eyes. Such green eyes.

    ¡°You will live. You will not die here. On the road. By the grass. Useless and broken.¡± he snorted, throwing his hands wide as a spark in his heart burst into a flame. ¡°You will die fighting. With blade. With magic. With purpose. Your death will have meaning.¡± He pointed at her with a black claw, his fangs clacking as he spoke hoarsely, ¡°You will not die until then. I will not allow it.¡±

    Sister could only blink, her weary and defeated face suddenly breaking out into a smile. ¡°You¡¯ve learned to use your tongue.¡± was all she said before she turned once more in her saddle to face the Kingsroad. Joy fell back onto the pallet with a grunt, feeling the blood stain the wood as his reopened wounds began to crust over. Inexorable exhaustion sank into his bones, and he wished nothing more than to sleep. Yet as his vision swam and his breathing slowed, the rattling of the cart on the stones and the bouncing of the wheels on the cobbles kept him from sleeping. He was perched on the precipice, dimly aware of the passing of time around him.

    A sudden screeching halt and a loud whinnying of the horse roused him from his half-sleep. His blood surged as he sank into a crouch, instinctively expecting an attack. Yet as he took in a breath to smell the assailants, his thoughts slowed with confusion. There was blood in the air that was not his, but it was also old. Decay was mixed in with it, that pungent scent that brought bile to his throat. ¡°What?¡± he growled out before gazing around in bleary uncertainty.

    Sister had already gotten off the horse, striding over to the side of the road with an arm over her mouth. Quickly, he lumbered off the pallet to join her, his steps unsteady, for his legs had grown weak from disuse the past few days. It was not until he neared that he made out the details of the sun-burnt figure by the road.

    It was a corpse.

    From its size and structure, it had been young when it had died¡ªperhaps only six or seven, for its head was too large compared to its hands. Its flesh was withered and desiccated, the skin sunken and dry like leather under the sun. There was no blood around it save for the brown liquid in its wounds, where the bugs had begun the laborious task of turning it into dust and dirt. Maggots and beetles squirmed and burrowed underneath that sun-tanned skin, their bulging figures and twitching movements giving the faint illusions of life in the corpse. There were no clothes on the thing, likely taken away, and it had died in a ball with its knees tucked up against its chest. Dirt and mud caked its feet, where the blisters had burst and were now beginning to blacken with rot. Two of the toes had fallen off already, being devoured by flies where the flesh was still pink and not necrotic.

    It had clearly been a boy in its life, likely having collapsed along this road and died in the same spot. There were only a few tufts of ragged hair still left in his small skull, loose and blowing in the faint wind. His nose was already beginning to fall apart and crumble, without any bones to support it through death. His lips were pale and shriveled, utterly colorless and peeling back to reveal yellowed, rotten teeth. Blood and pus oozed from his face, from numerous boils that scarred his image.

    Sister seemed about to retch from the image, her face growing pale as she looked away. ¡°A crow-cursed child.¡± she muttered, a hand over her nose as she dragged in a difficult breath. ¡°Sworn stars, what was he doing here?¡± Unable to face it any longer and likely fighting her weak stomach, she turned to get back on the horse. Joy took one last look at the corpse, confirming that it was too far gone to scavenge. Any part of it that he ate was more likely to make lose strength as he recovered from doing so. He merely snorted, blowing the stench out of his nose before he followed her back onto the pallet.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Yet as they left that boy behind, it was the same day that they saw another by the road. Its circumstances were similar, and they did not stop this time. Sister merely took a short look before turning away, muttering under her breath. The wind tore most of it away, but he caught a short bit of ¡°¡ªfaces watching me¡ª¡± as he listened with perked ears. Worry gnawed at his heart, but he did not ask as they pressed onward. It was nightfall soon; surely this Capital must be near?

    ¡°How much longer?¡± he asked by the fire as they ate, the horse spending what little time it had to graze and rest. They were pushing the poor beast hard; it likely would not make it to the end of the journey.

    Sister shrugged as she tore into a piece of salted meat, eyes unfocused as they stared into the bonfire. ¡°I know not. Follow the Kingsroad; it will take you to the Capital. That is what they said in the cities. So I¡¯m following it. I assume that the crow-cursed city will be there at the end.¡± She spoke no more after, soon slipping into a deep sleep, and Joy gave a low huff as he settled in for first watch.

    <hr>

    They are mere pawns in the face of my god, rabble and waste that must be removed. These fools know not how far I can reach, how far my children have been birthed. They underestimate my power, his power. They think me shackled and bound, as if I am long spent and gone. I grow in lands past the seas, spreading where they are too simple-minded to even imagine.

    I will paint a trail of corpses, and the final flourish will be waiting at the end.

    <hr>

    As the sun rose, so too did they continue their journey. The grueling clack of hooves and wheels against stone wore on, growing monotonous and tiresome as the silence grew. Joy spent his efforts reaching into himself, searching the pool of mahji that was inside him. Where it had been utterly empty days ago, there was now a thin film over the bottom. Yet it was trickling back at a meager pace, far too slow for his liking. When he had done magic on the world, making fire and pulling flame through the earth, it had never spent him in this manner. Yet for the simple task of enthralling a few men, even just for a few moments, he now faced an empty pool of mahji. Truly, a spell acting directly on the sphere of man, as Sister had put it, was taxing.

    The dead grew more common as they continued, growing in frequency and number. Soon there would be two and three lying together, their flesh so decayed and ruined that they blended into a single mass of blackened, rotting meat. Flies swarmed in numbers so thick, they seemed almost clouds around the dead, and the sweltering sun made the stench of rot linger in the air.

    Yet he found them stopping near halfday, the wheels screeching on the stone. He sat up in confusion, looking about before noticing. There were more dead, along the road. Yet their end must have come not long ago, for two were kneeled by the corpses, looting what little they could from the bodies. The scavengers recoiled as the horse and cart neared them, squinting through heavy cloths that covered their bodies.

    They were short and hunchbacked, what little skin he could see tanned and withering. They were muttering quickly, too low for him to hear, and when they finally spoke it was with a voice like sand. ¡°Please, my lady. The road is long and the end is close. Have mercy on a few weak souls.¡±

    Sister paused before answering to them. ¡°The end is close? Do you mean the Capital?¡±

    They nodded hurriedly, seemingly eager to please her. ¡°Aye, my lady. Hardly over these few hills, and you can see the walls. Please, grant us a favor for these weary legs.¡±

    She held up a hand for them to stop before gesturing to the corpses on the ground. ¡°And the dead? Why do they litter the stones? And what purpose do beggars have in the Capital?¡±

    They bowed deeply, trembling on weak limbs as they replied. ¡°Please, my lady. We flee from villages no longer of this world. There have been many of us, these past few days. Those too weak to make it to the end pass along the way. They have no more use for¡ªfor baubles and trinkets. It is only fitting...please my lady.¡±

    ¡°No longer of this world? What do you mean?¡±

    They shook as they remained bowed, their wrinkled hands clasped almost as if in prayer. ¡°Monsters. N-nightmares. They came out of the s-shadows¡ªnay, they were the shadows. They butchered us, like...like cattle. When I think of it...¡± Their voices trailed off, growing more and more erratic. Nonsensical words danced on their tongues, their mutterings more and more incomprehensible until finally they straightened. The wind blew back the cloaks that they wore, revealing hideously scarred flesh that wept black mist. When they spoke, tongues of shadows crept out of their mouths, crawling down their throats and dancing in the air before darting back inside. The corruption was a blight on their bodies, seeming to cling to the very air it touched.

    Joy growled in anger and hate and horror and fear. Almost instinctively, he threw out his hand, drawing out a thread of mahji from within him. It flew out of his claws, bursting into flame as it traveled, showering the scavengers with sparks and it wrapped around their flesh. Their screams were swallowed by smoke and quickly turned to ash, the horse whinnying in terror and fighting to bolt. Sister relented, letting the beast follow its instincts, and they fled with the flame still burning bright behind them.

    So shocked were they that they did not speak, hardly even thought as they rode hard from the pyre. The wind blew the stench to them, and the horrific smell of charred flesh clung to his fur. He hardly even noticed as they passed more and more corpses, hardly even noticed as some of them were still moving. They groaned and reached out as the two passed, some whispering and pleading. He hardly even noticed as the stones became laced with dried blood, bordering the cobbles with dark brown and scarlet.

    He finally noticed when they came over the hill, looking down to see a massive wall stretching from each side of his vision. Corpses and the living littered the Kingsroad, crowding the outside of the walls in ragged huts and thatches. Archers leered behind the crenelations, the gates of wood and metal raised ominously. Screaming and yelling rose to a fevered pitch audible even at this distance as the ragged masses begged to be allowed inside.

    ¡°Behold,¡± muttered Sister despondently, ¡°the great Capital.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 48: A Turn of Fate

    ¡°M-monster!¡± they cried out, slinging fire and gales of air from their hands as they fled from him. They did nothing to Sin, passing through his ethereal body much as anything from reality might do to a dream. Flame and smoke shot through his empty chest, not even doing so much as fizzle through his incorporeal flesh. It was not nearly enough to stop Sin, not nearly enough to stop him from walking forward.

    Vae Derada¡ªThrone of Virtue¡ªwas the largest of the cities that the Shai¡¯mon had fashioned. There were twenty of the Vae, each a different Throne, and every man in these stone walls was Shai¡¯mon, save for the thralls that served them. The air crackled with mahji, drawn from crystals below the surface to augment the strength of every man in the city. The stones swallowed echoes and sound, the weavings in the sky keeping out rain and snow, all to prevent any distraction from spellmaking. Every aspect of it suited a city for channelers, for the greatest of the channelers.

    It was these same streets that he now strode through, the walls and stones shattered to dust as Skal¡¯ai burst through. They were servants of his god, birthed from their mother and fashioned to better serve his will. Their writhing, shapeless bodies were constantly shifting, much as shadows do from a flickering light. With formless fangs, they tore into the bodies of idling thralls on the streets, the black mist that they released stifling any screams.

    The thralls were bound to the Shai¡¯mon, prisoners or their children, with runes carved into their skin that dulled their will. Their souls were broken or stripped entirely, their bodies now vessels and tools. Some were subjected to experiments, others to trivialities, but they gave no resistance in either case. They made no resistance as they died, either.

    See how they are twisted, broken. See how this world is misshapen beyond repair. You cannot carve out the rot that had taken over the entire tree; you must burn it to the ground, that a new sapling might sprout from the ashes. His god spoke the truth, and he did not question the veracity. These channelers were no miracle-workers, no blessings upon this blood-caked world. They were abhorrent abominations. He would rid this earth of their presence.

    As he opened an outstretched palm, he felt power wreathe his fingers. Skal¡¯ai danced around him, whispering in their strange, wordless tongue. He could feel their excitement, their anticipation. It would not be something simple, but his god demanded it of him. Drawing in a deep breath, ignoring the spells that were being hurled at his image, he began to swirl the Skal¡¯ai around him.

    Their black shadows spun in a spiral, growing ever darker in the center until it seemed like he was gazing into a bottomless pool. Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, tighter and tighter they spun, until he pushed on them with his will. That tempest shrank in size, growing in speed until its surface seemed utterly still. His hair was whipped from the storm, thrown in the wind as the shadows grew denser and smaller. Finally, there was no more motion. In his palm, there was only a small stone, its surface glossy and bottomless, practically trembling with frenetic energy.

    ¡°Atal wills it,¡± he whispered, eyes dancing as he gazed at the gem, ¡°and so it shall be.¡± There was the faintest of tugs against his being, as if ants were tugging at a giant, as he glanced over in irritation. A circle of Shai¡¯mon had just collapsed, the backlash causing blood to pour from their ears and eyes as they twitched on the ground. The fools had tried to strike at his soul, knowing that his flesh was there no longer. They found themselves against the strength of his god, who shielded him with indefatigable strength. They would have better luck shattering the world into dust than they would disrupting his spirit.

    ¡°You all will serve my god.¡± he proclaimed, his voice echoing off the stones and carrying down the streets as he rose, supporting by the churning mass of Skal¡¯ai underneath him. His field of vision grew, until finally he could gaze down upon the whole of Vae Derada, could see all of its antlike people fleeing for their lives. Such noble Shai¡¯mon, people of such grand power and even grander arrogance. How satisfying it was for them to face humility, to know their true position in the face of his god.

    ¡°Kneel in service.¡± he demanded, and the writhing shadows that proliferated the city suddenly burst into motion. Like an array of spears, they suddenly buried themselves into the bellies of every Shai¡¯mon, a sudden blur of black that came faster than any arrow. They hardly had time to cough before the shadows twisted in their chests, withdrawing viciously with a soundless squelch. Blood dripped as they retracted, crackling as it touched the black mist. Every flickering tongue of shadow held a faintly glowing presence within its clutches, a gentle light sneaking out of their black wreaths.

    A thousand people fell, suddenly butchered on their own cobbles. A thousand souls rose, borne before him like offerings to his god. Sin raised the stone in his hand, the countless Skal¡¯ai surging towards him before throwing the souls that they bore into the gemstone. Like so many faceless serpents, they lunged towards him in a shapeless wave before burying themselves into the boundless surface of that stone.

    Flickerings of light escaped briefly as soul after soul was carried into the depths of the stone, Yet they were chained once they entered, unable to escape and only ever able to be siphoned for the service of his god. Their voices screamed in a cacophonous symphony, in riotous torment as they felt the shapeless fetters close around them. They were bound now, bound for an eternity. Or at least, Sin thought, until this world is remade.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Then, they can be graced with the gift of death.

    As the Skal¡¯ai under him billowed out into mist, he slowly returned to the ground, the gem in his hand thrumming with power. The mantle around his shoulders had no spot for it, yet he slowly raised his hand towards the gold nevertheless. As it neared, the metal began to ripple and shimmer not unlike the shadows that he commanded, its surface growing malleable and reshaping itself until there was a socket in its center just perfect for the gemstone. With a single click, it was secured, resting gently against his throat. An icy coldness spread from it, mingling with the shrieks of torment from the souls trapped inside.

    The sound of coughing drew his attention as he prepared to leave, surprising him that anyone was still alive. He turned to a pile of rubble, a section of a collapsed wall and stone that the Skal¡¯ai had broken through. Blood puddled from underneath, and a figure managed to claw her way out after some difficulty. Stone and wood had to be shifted aside to make way for her, and the entire mass threatened collapse before she could escape. Ultimately, she had no more strength after her torso made its way out, deciding to lie there with the other half of her body buried amidst the rubble. Blood trickled from a gash along her skull, and he finally noticed a large chunk of stone that had pierced through her stomach.

    ¡°You¡­have no true strength.¡± she coughed out, this girl that ought not be alive. No runes, no Maes, she was neither thrall nor Shai¡¯mon; she ought not be here in this city. Yet here she was, dying yet unafraid. ¡°Your...your god blinds you. You flee from what you are too afraid to face, trusting¡ªtrusting his lies instead of thinking for yourself.¡± She threw up a mouthful of blood, her face pale as she faced him. ¡°You are weak...pathetic. No strength to speak of.¡±

    Rage filled him, unbidden and unquenchable. Who was she to judge him? Who was she to speak as if she knew him? She knew nothing of the hell that he had been through, of the hell that his world had become. Ignore her, whispered his god. She is nothing. Sin clenched his fists, Skal¡¯ai chittering as they danced expectantly, waiting to sink their teeth into her flesh. With but his slightest command, he would tear her apart.

    ¡°Go then.¡± she spat out, her voice filled with disdain and mockery. ¡°Set your hounds on me. Cower behind¡ªbehind your god. Y-you are nothing with them, just a puppet¡­foolish enough to have imagined himself power.¡± Her words were scathing, utterly contemptuous, as if she were speaking to a mere child.

    Her arrogance made his clench his jaw in anger, but he opened his hands and the Skal¡¯ai fell back with disappointed whisperings. ¡°I am a puppet,¡± he rasped out, ¡°but you are dying. Your words have inspired me; I think I shall pay a visit to the cities you hold so dear. I had not planned to turn your entire people in blackstones of power, but know that this world will know no Shai¡¯mon, from now forever.¡± Her face turned pale at his words, as he leered at her dying form. ¡°Know that you will die here. Slowly. And know that your arrogance has doomed your people.¡± With that he turned, leaving Vae Derada with a newfound hate and anger. The dying girl, he left behind, despite her screams and curses. A faint smile crept across his ghastly lips as he imagined her corpse, buried among the ruins of the broken city.

    Hope was waiting for him outside the wreckage, the man¡¯s disgusting face unsightly in the sunlight. He had been hideous enough underground, but the light only accentuated his maggot-pale skin and brought his putrefying wounds into further detail. Those rotten teeth smiled at his lord¡¯s return, and he knelt with fanatic reverence. Behind him was an army of zealots, their faces obscured and scarred by robes and rituals. Some bore masks, others tattooes. There was not a single man without a sign of his rapture on his flesh, and some wore them with such eagerness it was as if every scar brought them closer to their god.

    Ten thousand of them knelt on the ground, their black robes rippling in the wind like a sea, none of them daring to move before the bearer of their god¡¯s will. Foolish creatures, Atal whispered in his ear. Yet they have their uses. Let them transcend the limits of their flesh, that they may closer reach the immortality they crave.

    ¡°Cult of Atal,¡± he spoke, his voice carrying easily across the crowd. Just those simple words brought many of them to tremble, and some shook so hard it seemed they might topple over. ¡°You have served your god well. With this success, will come glory unto you. Accept the grace of your god,¡± he proclaimed with upturned hands, hearing the Skal¡¯ai whisper greedily around him. ¡°That you may better serve his will. Be blessed, my people.¡±

    With those final words, ten thousands cultists suddenly threw their bodies back. Ten thousand Skal¡¯ai plunged themselves into their mouths, black shadow swarming into their flesh with an image like a torrent pouring into the masses. Ten thousand ecstatic screams tore from the men undergoing ascension, their eyes bleeded and rolling frantically as they wept. Many twitched and collapsed in bliss and rapture, their flesh cracking and sloughing off like clay.

    As they screams died away, the shadows fell away from their bodies. Their eyes were pitch black, weeping that dark mist from the corners. Cracks and veins ran along their flesh, pulsing with alien heartbeats as they flowed with liquid shadow. Their skin flaked, the color paler than ghosts. Their blessing finished, the Skal¡¯ai made their vessels kneel, the sound like a sudden storm in perfect unison. The earth itself shook in fear, as his army prostrated before him.

    ¡°Rise.¡± he commanded, turning to look at Hope. His general was the only one left unturned, his expression a mixture of jealousy and relief. The emotions were fleeting on the man¡¯s face and he bowed his head before his god. ¡°We march.¡± Sin rasped, flowing forward like a dream as his face twisted with boiling hate. An army followed him, their every movement with machine-like precision as they marched, a sound like unnatural thunder.

    ¡°We have a people to exterminate.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 49: An Empty Hourglass

    ¡°Have you any water?¡± croaked a gasping refugee, his leathery skin dry and weathered from the hot sun. ¡°Please, some water?¡±

    ¡°Any food? Any crumbs?¡± begged another, a woman with an infant at her breast, her face gnarled and covered with warts. A bulbous growth had sprouted so close to one eye that she could hardly peer outwards, the skin calloused and cracking.

    ¡°Mercy. Please, mercy. Anything.¡± gasped another, tugging at her shirt as they passed. More and more of the refugees clambered forward, rising out of their sun-heated stupor as they saw the opportunity for blissful reprieve. They saw fruitless salvation, bittersweet hope in these newcomers.

    Lily ignored them, ignored the pestering voices that clawed at her. These people were nothing; they would die soon with or without anything that she did. Already the small outcroppings of shade that they had built against the city walls with sticks and cloth were stinking with the odor of rot and decay. There were corpses littered amongst the crowds, some still lying in puddles of their own piss as flies settled in to feast. Many still clung to life with pathetic determination¡ªa twitching finger here, a belabored breath there, anything to eke out another struggling heartbeat.

    As she rode Irris through the crowd, a blade danced out of its sheath into her hand. Blood sprayed from the arm of one beggar who had gotten too enthusiastic, dark crimson splattering on the ground and prompting a round of screams as they fell away. Peace at last, she thought as the fools scurried away like rats. A faint smile graced her newly-healed lips as she flicked off the traces of blood from the blade, sheathing it once more in a smooth motion.

    ¡°Halt!¡± called a forceful voice full of command and purpose, and clearly far too young for any of it. Five and three curses, she swore, resisting the urge to roll her eyes even before she saw him. Another of these self-confident fools who parade their pride like an painted ass at Festival. Yet she kept her face neutral as she reined in Irris to a halt, the demon making no noise in the back as they clattered to a stop. She had told it to act dead, hidden under cloth and shadows. With any luck, they could get through without too many questions. If necessary, well¡ªher eyes flickered to a bag on Irris¡¯s side, the leather bottom long stained brown by dried blood and rot. She had not touched the head since the had thrown it there in half madness; hopefully it was not too broken by rot to have lost its use.

    ¡°King¡¯s orders are that none are to enter the Capital.¡± barked a guard who strode forward, likely the commander who had spoken earlier. A black plume rose out of the top of his metal helmet, ostentatious and utterly disgusting¡ªat least until it moved. Then, she realized that it was a massive raven, nearly the size of a grown man¡¯s head, its plumage a glossy black and its eyes beady. It twitched as the guard walked, jerking its beak from side to side as it gazed at her.

    The commander was young, perhaps ten-and-eight years, with skin too light to have served as guard for long and cheeks too round to have seen many hardships of life. A scar was carved into his skin just below the eye, in the symbol of one of a thousand runes that had long since escaped her memory. She struggled to recall the meaning, eventually giving up as the guard stopped in front of her.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been traveling here far, all the way from the Peaks. I¡ªI bring dire news, for the king¡¯s ears.¡± she started, hoping that the guard would at least listen to her words. Her hopes were dashed when the arrogant fool sneered, spitting onto the ground as he brandished his ornate spear.

    ¡°Aye, and I¡¯m the king meself. Nay, pretty miss, what makes you think your words are worth more than a horse¡¯s wind? See all these lovely people waiting patiently outside?¡± He gestured to the crouching refugees, their shaking figures nervous at being pointed to. ¡°They¡¯ve all as much claim to enter as you.¡± The commander shook his head, the raven¡¯s eyes fixed on her despite the movement. ¡°The king¡¯s words were simple: none are to enter the city.¡±

    Lily sighed, untying the string to the sack. ¡°I bring news of invasion. By the Malifori.¡± Swiftly, so that she would not think about it, she grabbed the soft hair and tugged it upwards. She wished not to see, but from the way that the guard¡¯s face paled, she could tell that it had served its purpose.

    Moktoga¡¯s head was still undeniably Malifori despite the decay that had set in. Maggots squirmed in one eye, burrowing quickly at the unexpected sunlight. His skin had grown slack, but it was still characteristically Malifori tan. His war-braided hair was long and loose, falling off the patchy skin in clumps. They stump around his neck had grown black and soft, the blood oozing brown from the newly broken crust. The stench of rot festered all around it, making her eyes water and her lungs to burn. Yet there was no mistaking the head, the head of Altaros¡¯s long hated foe.

    ¡°And how did you come by a brown-skin¡¯s head?¡± the guard sneered, attempting to mask his fear and nausea with contempt and arrogance.

    It did not work on Lily. She shrugged casually, replying, ¡°I killed him, and then I used a knife.¡±

    The young man blinked, shock etched into his face. ¡°And how does a fucking slum brat too skinny to run a day like you manage to kill a Malifori warrior? A chief, from the length of his braid?¡± This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    She smiled, gesturing to the Maes that covered her face. How many times she had wished she could hide them, but now a fierce pride welled up inside her at the fear on the young man¡¯s face. ¡°I¡¯m Me¡¯jai. I burned a hole through his heart, until his legs melted off his horse. Then a threw up a wall of fire so that their arrows were burned as I took his head with me. And then I ran, to warn your crow-cursed king.¡± Pointing a sharp finger at the man with such ferocity that he jerked back, as if afraid that she might stab out an eye, she seethed, ¡°So don¡¯t fuck with me, you crow-cursed imp. Else who knows what I might do.¡±

    The guard¡¯s face turned a sheen of purple as bottled rage burst force. Raising his arms, he screamed, ¡°Archers! Nock!¡± A rasping movement came from the crenelations on the walls, three bowmen slowly nocking arrows. There was the noise of shifting cloth from the pallet behind her, Joy clearly anticipating a fight. Lily even clenched her teeth, expecting the next commands to send arrows flying towards her throat.

    Yet before those commands could come, the man suddenly winced as the tattoo in his flesh burned bright red, weeping blood down his doughy cheeks. The raven perched on his helmet let out a rattling caw, throwing its wings wide as it stared at Lily with unblinking eyes. The guard¡¯s face went pale, losing all color as a thin sheen of sweat covered him. ¡°Aye, m¡¯lord.¡± he gasped out, before turning back.

    ¡°Raise the gates!¡± he screamed, stunning the men standing lazily by the massive thing of stone and metal. They paused, as if uncertain or perhaps in disbelief. Even the archers above were hesitant, unsure of their course of action.

    ¡°FUCKING OPEN THE GATES!¡± he howled, apparently going mad as spittle flew from his mouth. ¡°OR I¡¯LL ROAST YOUR FUCKING HEAD ON A PIKE!¡± Blood flew from his cheek, dripping onto the ground below in a dark puddle. His insanity was enough to jolt his men into action, the clattering sound of chains ringing out as a winch was turned. The stones groaned with effort as the massive gate began to raise, the enchanted portcullis behind it inching up as well.

    ¡°FASTER, DAMMIT!¡± wailed the commander in frustration and desperation, looking as if he would soon come to blows with his men. Lily could only glance briefly at Joy¡¯s shrouded figure before pressing her heels into Irris¡¯s, slowly clopping over to the massive machination.

    When the gate finally slammed open, the commander snatched the reins of his horse from a fearful guard, mounting it with a look like he would just as soon take a bite from the beast¡¯s throat. Without pause, he quickly rode into the city, Lily hurriedly following.

    She had grown up in Rat¡¯s Dam, a city that was more slum than civilization. When she had fled, she had thought Telavir large, with its streets and buildings and sheer people. Yet the Capital dwarfed them all, just from the first street. Massive constructs of magic-supported stone stretched up to the sky, winding and groaning where the architecture grew aged. Rags and cloths covered patchwork wood and walls, evidence of the poorer districts of the Capital. Yet something was off, and it took her a moment before Lily realized what it was.

    The poorest parts were always the most crowded, with the alleys and streets lined with bodies of wasting and wasted. They ought to have been so crowded and flushed with the stench of sweat that they seemed more sewer than street. Yet these roads here were utterly empty, devoid of both bodies and sound. It was as if the entire population had vanished, their homes intact, save for their own presences. It was utterly bewildering and unnerving, and she asked the commander.

    ¡°Where are the people?¡± she called out, hesitantly expecting an answer. To her surprise, one came.

    ¡°The Capital has faced traitors in the city. The king has purged all who are evil.¡± he spoke with stilted words before falling quiet. ¡°No more words. You are to be taken to the palace.¡±

    ¡°The palace?¡± she wondered aloud, but she quickly closed her mouth from the look that he gave. Winding their way through empty street after empty street, she was rendered wordless by the utter lack of people, of humanity in the Capital of Altaros. There were only guards marching in formation, the occasional flash of a glance through a cloth-covered window. Otherwise, there was nothing.

    Even as they neared the heart of the city, there was no commotion. The wealthy lavished in these quarters, their gardens pruned and their estates ostentatious, yet they themselves were not present. When they finally arrived at the palace, she found herself in a disbelieving trance. ¡°He removed those who opposed him from the city. Just how many were there? Just how many are left?¡± Her questions were not answered as the commander motioned for her to halt, striding forward to a pair of ornate, golden doors. Without him even knocking, without him making a single motion at all, they swung open silently of their own accord.

    Suddenly, the raven let out a raucous caw, speaking with a voice like sand in an hourglass. ¡°Lily of Rat¡¯s Dam, Student of the Late Me¡¯jai Horan, with one companion, a demon of the Outlands, here seeking audience with King Alerick of Altaros, the first of his name, Protector of the Heartlands.¡± A sudden wave of shock and fear rippled through her, that raven knew seemingly all of their secrets with such casual ease. Her throat felt dry, her heart suddenly weak as the air filled with a sudden tension. He removed those to had opposed him, she remembered, and now that sentiment felt utterly terrifying. Behind her, even Joy sucked in a sharp breath.

    Slowly, they dismounted, the guards suddenly tensing as Joy clambered off of the pallet, shaking loose the cloths that had hidden him. Yet they did not act, the raven glaring at them with black eyes. Resisting the nervous tremors that seized her limbs, she strode up the steps, Joy right behind her. Yet she paused at the door, beside the commander with that massive raven. She was utterly transfixed by the beast, some urge pulling her gaze towards it until even time felt warped by its gaze.

    Within the halls, a sonorous voice suddenly rang out, stirring her from her trance. It was audible at the doors as if he was right before them, as if the distance between them had been broken and remade to suit his needs. ¡°Well then? Will they kneel before their king?¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 50: A Final Endgame

    It was with nervous footsteps that Lily passed through the doorway, swallowing hard as she tried to suppress her imagination. He was the king, the strongest man in all of Altaros. He had murdered his own city to solidify his seat of power, afraid of usurpation. Her fingers would not stop trembling as she smelled the paranoia and madness that lingered in the air.

    The great hall was a massive construction of alabaster and elaborate gold carvings, stretching up to the glass-image ceiling. Ornate statues of soldiers lined the sides, each one different in its stance and armament. Some bore swords that gleamed in the brilliant light streaming in from colored windows, others spears nearly twice as tall as a man, and others still longbows with arrows nocked and ready to fire. Tapestries along the walls bore the sigils of various houses of power, families of influence in the Capital. It seemed partly a cathedral, from the grand and regal appearance.

    Or rather, the appearance that it used to have. Sculptures and stitchings were not what attracted her gaze; rather, she found her eyes drawn to the rampant magic that flowed through the room. Strands of purple mahji danced like snakes through the air, weaving in and out of spontaneous spells and brimming with power.She was shocked to even find green marai present, decaying and warped. The magic was free-flowing, twisting and coiling in serpentine motions, yet they formed a massive net-like image in the air as they writhed. Lily found that the harder she looked, the finer the strands of magic became. Their detail became impossibly small, growing finer and finer the more she looked, until finally she made out images in them.

    ¡°Impressed, are we not? A hundred thousand ravens watch over every corner of this realm. I saw you dying in the Outlands, saw you fleeing through the Peaks. I saw it all.¡± rang out a deep voice from the other side of the hall, and she saw King Alerick resting on his throne. Hurriedly, she kneeled, afraid to do anything that might find an arrow in her throat; one does dance with a madman, after all¡ªshe knew so from rather personal experience. Yet Joy did not move behind her, and she hurriedly hissed ¡°Kneel.¡± before the king could say anything.

    ¡°There is no need for demon to. That will be enough.¡± the king boomed quite jovially, apparently in a pleasant mood as he waved his hand for her to rise. ¡°I have known that you would be coming for quite some time. It is fortunate that you came now and not earlier. We had a mild stint in the city, but all the disagreements have been sorted out.¡± As she watched, his eyes danced with amusement and wild light, glinting eerily in the magic-colored light. Truly a madman, she remarked, although she noted that she was one as well.

    ¡°My king, I could not help but notice the empty streets. Are the people¡ª¡± she began hesitantly, but King Alerick suddenly cut her off with a vicious tone.

    ¡°Traitors! Usurpers and turncoats who lusted after my power. They dared to challenge me, here, in my own palace! They shouted in the streets and rioted in my halls. I had every last one of them put to the blade, and their families as well. Their polluted bloodlines were torn out by the roots.¡± He ranted with a fervent passion, standing up as his voice crescendoed. ¡°I am the king, the true king. And you¡ªyou girl, are you one of them?¡± His gaze suddenly turned to her, his eyes sharp enough to pierce steel. Yet before she could respond, another voice spoke in the hall that she had not been expecting, had not even ever heard.

    ¡°Please, my king. We have need for them, remember?¡± rasped a voice that stepped out of the shadows behind the throne. Its owner was a wizened old man, his head smooth and devoid of hair. He wore a robe of purple and red that stretched out onto the ground, ornately covered with runes and scratchings. A faint scar traced along his cheekbone, running under his left eye. ¡°Please calm yourself, my king.¡± A faint smile danced on his pale face, making her quiver in discomfort.

    ¡°My king, forgive my insolence, but who is this man?¡± she asked nervously, aware of those piercing eyes stabbing into her skull. Behind her , she heard Joy digging his claws into the stone as the tension in the room heightened. She dared not move her hands closer to her blades, lest the king order her executed. How did I find myself in this madness? This was not how it was to happen.

    ¡°He is the Grand Magister, girl. The strongest channeler to grace the lands, and the only loyal branch on this whole rotten tree. You will not disrespect him, or the¡ª¡± he replied, only to be cut off by the Magister who gestured to the magic that hung in the air.

    ¡°They come, my king. Watch.¡± As he pointed, the spell danced and wove around his outstretched finger, the purple coiling like wraiths. There were images spun by the mahji, and Lily saw a massive procession of figures crossing the lands. They were faint, indistinct at first, yet as she looked further she saw them riding horses. Men and women and children, they streamed over the horizon like a flood. And as the image began even more focused, Lily confirmed the sneaking suspicion that she had: they were the Malifori. She made out their fanned skin, their braided hair and their characteristic bows. They rode with a strangeness about them, an uncharacteristic silence and stiffness in their motions.

    ¡°What magic?¡± Joy grunted out from behind her in surprise, yet before she could respond the king spoke to his Magister with rushed words.

    ¡°Is this the army that you promised me? Loyal and unflagging?¡± he demanded, reaching out with a fist to grab them and by his robe. Lily saw a brief look of annoyance flicker across the Magister¡¯s face before disappearing, but the king seemed not to notice.

    ¡°Aye, my king. Look how they rush to your side in your time of need.¡± he soothed, as if speaking to a petulant child, and the king quickly turned back to the image with fervent, excited eyes. As Lily watched as well, she found herself stunned by creeping dread.Stolen story; please report.

    The Malifori grew more clear in the picture, and she found slithering lines of black on their skin. They were like veins of shadow, pulsing obscenely, abhorrently. Black mist curled from the Malifori¡¯s skin, gathering like a dark cloud around the horsemen. Even their mounts were not untouched by the corruption, shadows shrouding their hooves and blackening their eyes. It was a horrifying procession, and utterly terrifying army of damnation. They were claimed by Skal¡¯ai.

    As she watched, she recognized section of the Kingsroad that they were on, with the corpses lining the side and the smooth-paved stones. They were hardly a quarter of a day¡¯s march from the Capital, and at the pace they were riding, they would arrive in half of an hour. She was stunned that they could ride so hard with such large a number, but then she realized the numbing shadow around them could drive them to the brink of collapse without sensation. Loyal and unflagging, the Magister had just said, and then she realized the import of the first word.

    ¡°Joy!¡± she cried out in panic, immediately reaching for her blade. The demon burst out from behind her with a blur of motion, magic crackling from its claws as it shattered stone with powerful strides. She had the blade half out of its sheath, Joy roaring mid-charge, when a sudden icy sensation froze her limbs. Joy crashed to the ground with a thud, stiffer than a statue. She watched as the Magister waved his hands, the free-flowing mahji wrapping around her and sinking into her as it bound her in chains. Her eyes watered, her lungs burning as she could not even take a breath. Slowly, she began to topple over, her body too rigid to even right itself until she struck the ground with a flare of pain in her shoulder.

    ¡°Now, my king. We must begin soon.¡± the Magister spoke, gesturing to the prone figures on the floor. He held a golden mantle in his hands, its surface ornate and rippling like the surface of a lake. Three empty sockets on its surface made her heart tremble as she realized what it was.

    ¡°Yes, yes. Give it to me. I am ready.¡± King Alerick replied impatiently, his face like a child about to receive a toy. Slowly, the Magister settled the collar over his head, gently lowering it until it rested on the king¡¯s shoulder.

    The instant that it touched the king¡¯s flesh, shadows around the room suddenly flared to life, writhing and twisting as they joined the mahji and marai in a primal, impassioned dance. They grew and shrank like flickering candle flames, suddenly throwing themselves up the walls until they covered even the ceiling. The entire hall was swallowed by shadows, by Skal¡¯ai. They crept around her foot, wrapping around her limbs and exuding that crow-cursed mist that numbed her heart.

    Yet her eyes were drawn to the king, whose expression turned to agony the instant that the mantle touched him. He bore the look of a man unable to scream, his skin first flushing red, then growing a pale white. The shadows danced around him, suddenly lunging forward and burying themselves into his stomach. He coughed and screamed then, howled and wailed as his body was no longer rendered mute.

    Guards streamed in through the door, brandishing their arms in worry. Their shouts of concern were abruptly halted when they saw the procession inside the palace. Madness, Lily realized with a coughing smile. It was all sheer madness.

    The Magister waved a lazy hand, the runes carved into the soldiers cheeks suddenly weeping red blood. They crumbled to the ground without even a scream, dead as stone. Crimson pooled around their bodies, hungry Skal¡¯ai inching forward hesitantly like vultures before descending to gorge upon the corpses.

    The king¡¯s wails did not abate as unfelt winds strew his hair wildly. Scarlet blood oozed slowly out of his wounds before stilling, crackling and freezing on his flesh. The Skal¡¯ai were like worms as they tore into him, the mantle glowing gently as its bearer died. As the frenzy continued, Lily noticed that the Malifori were now crossing the final hill before the Capital. They rode at an unholy pace, their horses practically frothing at the mouths. As she watched, before her very eyes, some of the beasts were split open from the inside. Black lines cut through the stomachs and throats to birth shadows from inside. The black tide carried the Malifori the final distance, the men¡¯s eyes pulsing black.

    The Magister was chanting now, uttering guttural words in a bestial tongue as the king died before him. King Alerick¡¯s screams were growing quieter, becoming more whimpers as the twitching of the shadows began to slow. Blood caked his embroidered clothing, cracking as he moved. As the Magister¡¯s chanting reached a peak, the shadows suddenly pulled out, letting the king go. Without any support, his body did not collapse. He stood on those trembling legs, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he coughed up a mouthful of blood. Black mist poured from the wound in his stomach, his skin growing paler and paler by the second.

    His flesh aged before her eyes, becoming withered and wrinkled as the gash in his stomach began to stitch together. It was as if his life was being drained to heal the wound, his nails yellowing and becoming cracked. The shadows danced ominously behind him, black mist pluming like a shroud until his transformation was complete. Finally, he opened his eyelids, revealing eyes that were black as night, without shape, without form, without depth.

    And upon the golden mantle, on that shimmering, fluid surface, Lily saw two blackstones glinting darkly.

    ¡°Hail.¡± whispered the Magister, his voice nearly cracking from some sensation in between reverence and fear. ¡°Hail, to my lord.¡± He kneeled shakily, prostrating himself as what was once King Alerick stepped forward slowly. Lily saw the Malifori outside the city, loosing arrows at the crowds of refugees just outside the gates. The guards on the walls were unnaturally still, standing rigid in puddles of their own crimson blood.

    Fear filled her heart, a helpless fear as she realized that Sin stood before her. The Sin of the stories, the Sin the legends, the Sin of nightmares. As he turned his neck to face her, she felt hysteria pierce through her skull like a lance. Sharp pain made her eke out a shuddering gasp as the shackles of magic around her fell away. She collapsed onto the ground, weeping blood from her eyes that splattered onto the stone.

    Twice, I bore his will when I dreamt. It broke my mind, she remembered, trembling uncontrollably as she gazed up at the monster. Sin threw his arms out wide as he smiled, a horrific and unnatural expression on his ancient face. When he spoke, it was with a thousand voices that stretched across a thousand eons.

    ¡°Now, we approach the end.¡±

 Book 1: Chapter 51: His Weakness

    ¡°My lord, I am your humble servant.¡± the robed Magister began, his face twisted in reverence as he knelt. The former king seemed to glance over him, hardly even noticing the man who had ruined a nation. ¡°Y-you had promised this one a seat at your side in the new world, my lord.¡±

    There was a seething pause as Sin turned to face the Grand Magister, those black eyes settling on the man¡¯s face. ¡°I remember what I said. You did as I commanded, and you have sacrificed greatly to prove yourself.¡± The Magister¡¯s face seemed to brighten with hope as he looked up, only to fall at the next words.

    ¡°You were a fool to do so. And I have no further use for fools.¡± With hardly a wave of his hand, the black-shrouded king turned away. The moment that he did so, waiting Skal¡¯ai burst into motion with a single-minded hunger, tearing into the screaming Grand Magister with insatiable viciousness. In a few moments, the thrashing figure fell still and silent, joining the other piles of bones and sinew on the ground.

    There were only three figures in the dark-shrouded hall. Joy was frozen on his side, his lungs burning for air and his vision swimming as his body failed him. Sister was collapsed behind him; he could hear her gasping for breath even though he could not move to see. And the third¡ªhe looked like a corpse. Fear ran through Joy¡¯s heart as he wished not to believe, as he hoped it was not true. Yet he knew it to be so, that this man was Sin. He felt the dead in the back of his mind suddenly surge to the front, their rage unbidden and unrestrained. Sin wakes again. Now is the time for our vengeance, scion. Their words were like a crashing storm, like a torrential wave flooding over him.

    Sin gestured for him to come, a single bony finger extended. He felt the Skal¡¯ai wrap around him, numbing him as they slowly dragged him forward. Small wounds wept frozen blood as they did so, until his fur was covered with innumerable scars. He needed to breathe; his body was long past burning and now merely swimming in numb distortion. The dead were screaming in his ear, screaming for him to stand and fight and bleed and kill and a thousand other things that bled into a river of wrath and anger flooding his thoughts. They were muddled and foggy, distant and too faint for him to understand. His vision was fading to black, his heartbeat feeling faint. He needed to breathe.

    There was a sudden thump as he fell to the ground, the shackles around him suddenly falling away. In an instant, he dragged in a desperate breath, feeling his body scream in relief as his greedy lungs gasped out for more. He struggled to prop himself up on his arms, chest heaving as he struggled to find the strength to live. In bleary confusion, he looked around him in hopes of orienting himself.

    There was a fire in the midst of the room, a blazing pyre that had been ignited. He was confused¡ªwhere did the flame come from? He thought it was a star, perhaps, so brightly did it burn until his eyes watered from gazing too long. It threw back the Skal¡¯ai, their bodies turning to hissing smoke as light and smoke consumed them. It had burned away his shackles, filled his chilled and numb body with warmth and the heat of life. It had filled him with renewed vigor and hope, had filled him with newfound life.

    Yet as his vision cleared and the scene before him came into focus, he realized that it was no mere star. He saw Sister inside the light¡ªno, rather, the light was pouring off of her skin. She was burning vahma, he realized. Burning it at an astonishing rate until the strands of white had caught flame and became a ball of flame. Her hair whipped madly, her expression one of intense pain and bliss as she strode forth.

    ¡°I might not have much time left, but I¡¯ll burn you to ash.¡± she whispered, her hand suddenly whipping in a motion too fast to even register. The vahma augmented her motions, loaned strength to her weak frame. From her hands spat forth a glint of steel that buried itself in Sin¡¯s shocked frame. The once-king had enough time to turn his shoulder, so that the blade found itself in his flesh instead of the mantle. Had it flown true, perhaps it would have shattered a blackstone.

    The blackstones, Joy realized with a desperate hope. He is protecting the blackstones. The dead were howling at him to break the two blackstones, to free their trapped brothers. But as he pressed down his eyelids, forcing open his Mind¡¯s Eye with a ragged gasp, he realized why.

    He saw the trapped souls, so many trapped inside that each blackstone was a nucleus of brilliant white. Yet equally present were the chains, bonds of black that trapped each tormented soul inside. There were thousands of Shai¡¯mon inside the blackstones, and he watched as their spirits were drained by Sin. He uses their power, scion. He is weak now, unused to this body, and they fight his will. You must kill him before his strength returns, before his control over them returns! The dead filled him with urgency, with a sudden rush of strength that brought him to his feet. He charged forward with a roar of rage, claws swinging wide only for them to close in on nothing.

    Yet they had not missed. Rather, Joy had watched as those claws passed through Sin¡¯s body as if it was but dust in the air, as if he was trying to catch the wind. It was then that he realized with a sinking fear that they would not work¡ªneither claw nor fang nor sword nor bow nor spear nor blade would find its way through that fallen thing¡¯s heart.

    Yet Sister¡¯s blade had. And as he watched, she threw herself forward, a tongue of flame whipping along the ground before spreading up Sin¡¯s leg. Joy watched, astonished, as Sin did not resist. The flame spread across his body with gluttonous abandon, only to be suddenly snuffed out as the Skal¡¯ai threw themselves into him with the sound of crackling wind. They were dying, he realized, using their own bodies to put out the flame. And as hungry as the flame was, it too was swallowed by the torrent of shadow until not even embers remained. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    As Sister let loose another blast of white soulfire, Sin dodged deftly, the shadows lending him speed as he fled. Over and over Sister hurled flame, each one striking the walls of the palace and making the shadows there fall away. Soon the tapestries and statues were wreathed by brilliant soulfire, the flame spreading like oil over any surface it could find. Yet it did not spread to Sin; he ran on a tide of Skal¡¯ai. The shadows lent him their bodies for safety as he evaded the flames, but he did not return the attacks. His face was twisted with focus, strained with effort, but did not harm Sister in the slightest.

    He is fighting our brothers, stifling their strength! Hurry scion, before he is done!

    Joy felt the pool of mahji inside of him, depleted and near-empty, but it would have to be enough. Its ribbons flowed through his right arm, wrapping around his claws until they were sheathed in purple light. More mahji sank into his legs, loaning his strength and speed as he vaulted over the rubble of a falling statue, his sword and helmet covered in soulfire. His jump took him behind Sin, behind that roiling carpet of Skal¡¯ai. The shadows must have warned him, for he turned his head to see Joy flying through the air.

    Bleed, damn you! The thought was all he had as struck the once-king with all the force of his flight. His muzzle, his chest, they all flew through the specter and for a moment his heart sank. But his arm, covered in mahji and with all his hate, dug into Sin¡¯s back with a jarring crunch. There was an unholy wail, the sound of a thousand screams compressed into one, and he realized that it was Sin¡¯s scream.

    Black blood and shadows poured out of the wound, the impact throwing Sin to the floor. Sister did not miss the opportunity, unleashing a torrent of flame over the both of them as ran closer. The soulfire poured over demon and shade alike, Joy screaming in pain and anger and hate and wrath and rage and desperation and a hundred other emotions that poured through his veins like magma. Mahji covered his claws, coated his teeth as he tore into Sin with a animalistic savagery. The soulflame ate away at him as well, but he cared not. Vengeance, screamed the dead, and it was all that he felt.

    Yet as fatigue wore him away as his swipes slowed, he realized that something was wrong. Every wound healed in an instant, black shadow knitting ghostflesh back together. And as the last strands of mahji fell away from his claws, he realized that it had been for naught. Sin stood up with a deliberate anger, Skal¡¯ai flaring around him like a cloak as he faced Sister¡¯s burning figure. Our brothers! The dead screamed in wrath and defilement. He steals their strength! His dominion over them grows!

    Sister¡¯s hair was white, her skin withered as she lunged forwards. Sin tried to evade to the side, but a blade of white-hot soulfire burned through his arm. The flesh healed itself, yet Joy noticed that it was slower this time. Sister¡¯s movements were slowed as well, however, weary from the effort and the strain and her impending death. Her life was an hourglass now, and the grains on the top were few enough to be counted on one hand.

    Her hand buried itself in Sin¡¯s stomach with a sudden blow, the shade coughing up shadow as the soulfire began to devour him from inside. With her other hand, Sister gripped her dagger, still buried in Sin¡¯s shoulder. While its flame had gone out, the instant that her hand touched it the steel blazed alight once more. It left a ghastly line of white along Sin¡¯s face, from cheek to mouth as the shade turned and rolled away.

    Sin fought the flame, Skal¡¯ai working desperately to stay alive, and a fierce hope gripped Joy as he realized that Sister was close to striking the final blow¡ªso damnably close. The end was in sight as he stood up with shaky legs, intending to burn his own vahma if it was what was needed. Soulfire licked away at his limbs, the heat driving air from his lungs. A little more, came the shuddering thought. His claws were reaching out to a distant ledge, reaching out for life. Yet, he realized with broken hope that his reach fell short.

    ¡°BURN!¡± cried out Sister in madness, throwing rampant flame at the statues around the hall. ¡°BURN!¡± she screamed with a hoarse voice, torching with Skal¡¯ai dancing on the walls with desperate soulfire. ¡°BURN!¡± she howled as her flame covered Joy, setting his flesh alight with undiscerning fire. Madness and hysteria had swallowed her eyes, reason fleeing as she began to burn all near her. Her lifeforce was running out, the river trickling dry, and every blast ate away more and more. Over and over she hurled tongues of white, until her strength slowed and the fire burned low.

    And guttered out.

    Sin strode forward then like a striking snake, his bony hand grasping her throat and holding her up. The flames around her had already died away, her skin smoking and withered. She was laughing with madness as she began to choke, laughing as shadows dug into her flesh. She was laughing with madness as her body began to fall apart. She was laughing as her fingers crumbled into dust. She was laughing still as Sin slashed with a hand, and her flesh from right hip to left shoulder fell away and crumbled on the ground.

    She was laughing still as she threw a hand of her own around Sin¡¯s own throat. She was out of air by then, merely twitching and frothing with a lung full of blood. Her eyes danced with fading madness in those final moments; they danced with a horrific clarity as she decided her fate. ¡°Die, you crow-cursed bastard.¡± she gurgled, her wide green eyes suddenly burning white, her hand not letting Sin move.

    Joy watched, unable to move, burned alive by her own flame as Sister¡¯s eyes shot out flame. He watched as her body burst alight with one last surging pyre of soulfire. He watched as brilliance shone through her failing flesh, turning her body to dust with blazing heat, turning the Skal¡¯ai around her into smoke and ash. He watched as the flame seared through Sin¡¯s throat, a spear of fire that shot out of the other side.

    And as he watched, her gaze met his. There was no more madness there; she died aware of every last moment. Those white eyes burned with a sadness and a relief that made him wish to weep for the first time in his life. Joy felt nothing as he watched Sister die, as he watched her mouth move in that strange tongue of man. It was a tongue that was more familiar to him now, after all those days by her side.

    Brother, she mouthed, before her lips turned to smoking ash.

 Book 1: Chapter 52: A Curse of Sin

    The boy once called Kail, now a monster called Sin, reclined on his throne of Skal¡¯ai. His shadow-possessed army gazed back at him, zealots with flesh covered in black veins and cold mist. Hope knelt by his side, the creature perhaps the most human of all that stood here. They stood before a massive city crackling with magic, a thousand people in robes standing at the gates. Those people seemed like ants on the horizon, and Sin lazily swept his hand as if he could wipe them away with that motion alone.

    Vae Serenis was all that was left of the Shai¡¯mon, all that remained of their precious people. Their other cities were all dust and broken bone, all empty streets filled with corpses. Sin¡¯s lips twisted into a smile as he thought of that insufferable girl, spiting him even as she died. How he wished that she could see him now, with her people on the brink of extinction. He would burn these lands and salt the dirt, curse their bones so that these lands would never birth another Shai¡¯mon. That would be his vengeance for her impertinence.

    Why do you delay? His god spoke to him, urged him forward. Slowly, his fingers clenched. These people were mere beasts to be crushed underneath him, but even cornered beasts were to be feared. Even cornered beasts could kill. He knew not what traps awaited him, what desperate plots they had bet their lives upon.

    ¡°Forward.¡± he commanded, his voice whispering like ice through the ranks of his cultists. They rose in concert, ten thousand men suddenly standing like a wave. They marched in unison, ten thousand feet striking the ground with a sound like alien thunder. Ten thousand shadows sprung from their hands, straightening into spears as they prepared to hurl. With Skal¡¯ai inside, these men had unnatural strength and limitless stamina. They could push their flesh to the very precipice without faltering in the slightest. They were tools, machines, weapons in and of themselves. Without a sound, ten thousand spears flew through the air in a deadly rain, every one falling with unerring precision at a defender on the walls.

    The Shai¡¯mon had already begun chanting the moment that the zealots were marching, their voices audible on the wind even at this distance. Purple mahji crackled into the air in a terrifying amount, arcing up before hanging with a deliberate pause. At the height of their flight, they suddenly burst into flame, shooting to the ground like arrows. They streaked through the sky like a stream of falling stars, blazing brilliantly.

    The two armies traded volleys, the possessed soldiers crumbling whenever they were struck by one of the Shai¡¯mon¡¯s spells. They made no sound, gave no reaction as the Skal¡¯ai inside them slithered out of the vessel of their flesh and retreated back to shadow. For the Shai¡¯mon, they needed not fear the mass of black spears. As the projectiles neared, wards in the air sprang to life. Runes hung in the air, circles of mahji that burned the spears to ash as they flew through. The Shai¡¯mon had won the trade decisively, without a single loss on their side. Sin clenched his teeth in irritation as he leaned forward on his throne.

    ¡°Charge.¡± he seethed coldly, and his army responded immediately. From a march, they changed to a sprint. Shadows pulsed out of their black veins, sliding over their skin until they wore darkness as an armor. They ran at an unholy pace, matching cavalry as their strength was aided by Skal¡¯ai. They came like an unbroken tide, an impossible mass of people streaming towards those too-few defenders.

    As his men approached, Sin kept his eyes on the Shai¡¯mon. They were chanting once more, ribbons of mahji sinking into the earth. As their voices rose, the dirt and earth seemed to become slick with water. At the distance, it was hard for Sin to make out what was happening; he could only watch as his men charged forth without hesitation. Yet as they strode on the strange earth, there was nothing. Crackling ice formed, black as the water froze over from black mist and shadow. A faint smile crept on Sin¡¯s face, only to be swept away in the next few moments.

    As his army reached the walls, shadows slung out of their arms. Like massive ropes, they shot up the wall, hooking onto stone and occasional flesh before pulling their owners up the wall. Yet the Shai¡¯mon were chanting, tongues of flame shooting at the possessed army. At first Sin sneered, knowing that such a small amount of fire was not enough. Yet he soon realized that they were not aiming at his men, but rather at the ground. At that ice-covered ground.

    And then he realized that the ice was not black from the reflections of the Skal¡¯ai, but rather because it was not ice at all. It was frozen oil.

    The fire finally caught, spreading in an instant until nearly the whole of his army was caught aflame. The wave of brilliant heat surged through the air, even warming Sin¡¯s face at this distance. His men were in the center of the inferno, their flesh burning into ash. It had been a trap, and he had walked into it like a fool.

    Gritting his teeth, Sin stood up and threw his arms wide. His mantle flashed, a sudden wave of frigid air blasting through the battlefield like the wail of tormented spirits. It was a massive gale, strong enough to topple trees and flatten stone walls. As it passed over his army, flame and conflagration was abruptly snuffed out, smoke still curling as the fuel froze over once more. Bits of ash and sloughing flesh became stuck to their bodies by frozen blood, skin cracking from the sudden change in temperature.

    Yet that wave continued, slamming into the wards with imposing strength. The mahji crepitated and flickered, resisting briefly before shattering with purple sparks. And the wave surged forward still, into the surprised and weary defenders on the wall. Having used much of their strength already, they were caught off guard by the gale. As it swept over them, their bodies froze and their magic fizzled, ice crackling over their skin in a clear sheen until they were almost statues.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Their state was only for an instant, as many of them fought the frost and began to fight through the ice. Yet that instant was enough; with a wave of his hand, a horde of Skal¡¯ai streamed out of the mouths of his army. The moment that the shadows left, the possessed men crumpled to the ground as if all strength had fled them, the earth thundering as they fell in unison.

    The shadows that shot towards the Shai¡¯mon on the wall seemed to blot out the sky, burying themselves into flesh and bone with enough force to knock many of them to the ground. Like worms, they squirmed and wriggled as they ate away at their hapless victims, their shapeless bodies distending as they gorged themselves. Helpless wails rose out into the night, only to be silenced as Sin stamped his foot.

    With that single motion, the Skal¡¯ai pulled out with a vicious snap, bearing pulsing lights inside their formless maws. They were like stars in the distance, obscured by the living shadows as they flew closer. Slowly, his servants returned to him, each one bearing a glinting soul. They flew into his palm, into the black gem that he held in his grasp, the night screaming with the desperate pleas of a people that the world could not hear. They were the last of the Shai¡¯mon, the last of their kind. And as he clenched his fist, he smiled. Now, they were no more.

    ¡°Look at you. What happened to you, boy?¡± rang out a tired voice behind him.

    Shock gripped his heart, strangled all emotion. He did not reply, the voice of a lifetime ago stopping all other thought. He turned slowly, afraid of what he would see¡ªknowing what he would see. He saw Hope¡¯s charred figure, his general burnt by fire and mahji. He saw Sir standing before him, face twisted in horror, contempt, regret, and determination.

    ¡°What is this madness? What are you doing, boy?¡±

    Sin spoke, his voice hollow and thin. ¡°I have had enough of pain. I will see this world of anguish and misery fall before me. My god has promised it to me. I will erase suffering from this world and swallow it in darkness.¡± The shadows danced behind him, their figures dark as Sin¡¯s eyes. He gazed at his once-protector without expression, his face a mask. ¡°You cannot stop me anymore, old man. You left me, left me alone in that damned hell. You did not save me; now no one can.¡±

    Sir shook his head, wrinkles lining his face as he sighed. ¡°No one can save you anymore, boy, except yourself. Stop this madness while you still can. Kill yourself, and find the peace that you seek.¡±

    Kill the impertinent fool, whispered his god, and his eyes lit with fury. ¡°Even you will oppose me now?¡±

    Sir smiled, a weary, aged smile amidst his wrinkles and sadness. ¡°Not just me.¡±

    ¡°My daughter.¡±

    It was then that Sin noticed another figure behind his old caretaker, a young girl. The same young girl from Vae Derada. The same young girl that had been buried in the rubble. The same young girl that he had left to die. And as their gazes met, she gave a light, mocking grin.

    With a sharp breath, Sin felt excited whispers behind him as the Skal¡¯ai coiled behind him, waiting to strike. Yet before he could even give the order, there was a blinding brilliance as Sir plunged his hand into the girl¡¯s chest, revealing a searing light that burned through the flesh. When he withdrew his hand, it was with a sword of blazing fire and stunning light, so bright that it threw back the Skal¡¯ai with its very presence.

    The girl coughed up a choking mouthful of blood, falling to her knees with vacant eyes. Yet even as her heart stopped and her body died, that damnable grin did not leave her. She was laughing at him, mocking him in her death.

    ¡°I have failed you, boy. Let me fix my mistake.¡± Sir murmured despondently, brandishing the blade as he ran forward in a flowing motion. Mahji crackled in the air, augmenting his speed until it was almost instantaneous. Yet it was not fast enough.

    He saw it. He could see the movement, could see the strike coming. He could have dodged it, easily as breathing. Yet Kail did not move, only stood stock still as the blade drove through his heart. It was a searing heat that threatened to purge him, threatened to burn him into dust from the inside out. He felt as if his soul was being blown away, the protection of his god shielding him no longer.

    In the midst of that storm, there was a rope dangled before him. He grasped it on instinct, in a desperate motion, even as his world was burnt away. He grasped it as his flesh was turned to ash, as his vision turned blinding white. He held onto it still, until the storm died away and death still did not close in on him.

    Even now you do not die, he heard Sir whisper. Very well, then this shall be your grave. Shall be our grave. There was a hopelessness to his words, a desperate fatigue as he spoke. You were like a son to me; it is fitting that this will be a grave for our family.

    Let it be known that this is where the Me¡¯jai Andahiel fell, with his son Kail and his daughter Serafiel. May the world forget these names and the crimes blackening them until the times turn and the earth crumbles to dust. Kail felt the shackles close in around him, around the hand grabbing on so wretchedly to life.

    The weight of an eternity fell onto his shoulders. He was to be buried here, here with that girl. He could still see her face, mocking him. Smiling. Laughing. He could still hear her gurgling laugh as she died.

    <hr>

    Sin could still hear her laugh as she died, her hand around his throat. A single lifetime was not enough for him to escape it, and now she came for him again in this new one. He could still hear her accursed laugh as fire punched through his neck, as his vision turned blinding white. He could still hear her damnable laugh as she died. Gurgling. Bloody. Desperate.

    Mocking.

    Mocking him.

 Book 1: Chapter 53: His Faith

    Joy could not take his eyes from the spot of air where Sister had once stood, now empty. It had been only an instant, only been a moment before that she had still been there. The flames of her soulfire seared his flesh still, like a lingering memory, but he did not even register the pain through his shock. His hand was extended, claws grasping futilely at empty air. His breath caught in his throat, his lungs burning from the heat of the flame on his skin. He watched as Sin staggered back, a hole burned through his neck, waiting for the once-king to finally fall.

    Yet that ghostflesh knitted itself back together with horrific speed, causing Sin to twitch as worming shadows wriggled in the hole. Sister¡¯s final blow, the one that she had given her life for, it was healing as Joy watched. Guilt and fear gripped him, doubt whispering that she had given her life for nothing. Yet it was something, for Sin was gasping and reeling still from the blow, his expression weakened and his body stumbling.

    The dead were howling for him to finish it, were howling for that twisted specter to fall. A part of Joy¡¯s heart told him to run, the primal part that wished to flee on instinct. Run. He was tired of running. He had watched Sister die in front of him, and he had been too frozen with fear to stop it. A hoarse roar was all that he could hear as he charged forward, some part of his mind noting that it was his own scream.

    Sin turned to see him, spectral mist flying from the wound in his neck. He twisted to dodge, yet Joy¡¯s claws still caught him along the arm. Covered in Sister¡¯s soulfire, they left blazing wounds across the withered flesh. Sin let out an unheard scream, one that rattled the mind, for his voice had left him. Black mist sprayed from the swipes, making the very air crackle and pop as it froze.

    As Sin recoiled, a hand clutched the gashes on his arm. Slithering shadows crept out of his palm, smothering the lingering flames of soulfire and beginning to stitch the wounds together. Joy lunged once more with a guttural cry, his fangs closing in on nothing but air as Sin dodged with unnatural speed. Sister¡¯s wound had not been lethal, but it had slowed the fiend. The evasion had been a matter of hairs, and Sin¡¯s movements were no longer graceful but now almost desperate.

    The demon had been anticipating the movement, immediately pushing off the ground with his arms with enough force to draw sparks, turning his body around with single-minded ferocity. The flame on his flesh had long since sent him into the fevered blood rage, his vision tunneled on that damnable once-king. With the dead urging on his every moment, he buried his right arm into that ghostflesh of Sin¡¯s chest. Long-dead bones shattered into dust, tongues of wounded shadows slithering and writhing like worms. That numbing mist from the injury covered Joy¡¯s arm, snuffing out any soulfire it touched.

    Yet Sin did not respond to the wound, instead latching his hands onto Joy¡¯s curving horns, his mouth drawing in a soundless breath. Swiftly, Sin blew out with an expression of exertion, a chilling wind spreading out from his mouth. It crackled as it struck Joy¡¯s flesh, swallowing the demon¡¯s body and settling on the flesh as a layer of ice. Joy found himself unable to move, even the soulfire that had charred his body now snuffed out. The ice numbed his body, slowing his heartbeat and making even thought a labor.

    He wants your blackstone. He wants us. Fight it, scion! Feel the heat of your hate! The dead were screaming at him, pushing for him to resist. Yet their voices seemed garbled and distorted, as if he was drowning underwater and they were howling on the surface. His muscles pleaded for air, his vision growing dim, but he could not even move to breathe. He could only watch as Sin gasped, the effort clearly having costed the once-king dearly. He could only watch as Sin threw his arms wide, Skal¡¯ai pouring out of the mantle and lunging at Joy¡¯s frozen figure.

    They plowed into his stomach, piercing through his fur and scales with voracious appetite. He could feel them tearing chunks from his flesh, despite the numbing effects of their touch. He could not fight them, could not resist. He was too weak to even burn vahma; it was like a flame floating out of reach, and his arms hung useless by his sides. He could feel his vision growing black, his strength fleeing as it bled out of him. The screams of the dead were ever faint, like lingering whispers that he wished to brush off of him. He felt only sadness, a fleeting guilt that Sister had died for nothing, that he would die for nothing. He was just so damnably useless.

    So we meet again, my child. I came to you at your birth; it seems only fitting that I usher you again at the moment of your death. A warm whisper, like a gentle caress, filled him. It wrapped around his flesh and suffused him with kind warmth. It was a familiar voice, the voice of the earth. Only he knew the truth now, that it was the voice of a spirit: the voice of Andahiel.

    I promised you that I could save you once more, at the cost my what remains of my life. It would seem that moment has come. That warmth filled Joy as Andahiel spoke, and he opened his Mind''s Eye to see, his eyes of flesh unable to move.

    He saw the pulsing white of a soul leaving his body, saw the aspect of mind giving it shape. That shape was one of an old man, aged and weary. Yet those eyes were still clear, his will still strong. When Sin saw him, he recoiled in shock and apparent recognition. Those colorless lips worked silently, yet there was no speech that escaped them. It was only after the span of three breaths that Sin finally spoke, and when he did it shocked Joy. For no longer was his voice filled with the echoes of an eternity, no longer was his voice one amongst a thousand. When he spoke, it was a single voice, a single broken voice of a young boy.

    ¡°Even now, after all these years, you still haunt me?¡± he whispered, his expression one of disbelief, of dismay, of terror, of relief.

    Andahiel shook his head in sadness, his voice warm and full or grief. ¡°I loved you like a son¡ªI still do. Perhaps that was my greatest failing. That, and never putting you to rest. The latter, I intend to remedy now.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Andahiel¡¯s image began to burn, soulfire spreading over him in a tenuous proposition. He is nothing but spirit and will, the dead told Joy. As his spirit unravels, his magic will lose shape even faster than it did for the girl. He has seconds at most. Those seconds were enough to melt the ice on Joy¡¯s body, weakening his bonds enough for him to shatter through them with a grievous roar. Rage fueled him, made him wish to charge forward, yet in that instant the doors to the palace hall slammed open once more.

    The demon turned to see silent wraiths pour into the hall, the possessed bodies of the Malifori streaming in like a tide. They were covered in arrows and wounds, wriggling shadows dancing where their vessels were exposed. Black mist poured out like froth on a wave, coating the stones with ice. Hideous shadows wrestled with flesh and air, racing towards their king. They were coming for him, he knew. They were coming to save their liege.

    Andahiel threw out his hands, white flame pouring out, hot enough to make even the Skal¡¯ai at the door halt in fear. It was not like Sister¡¯s soulfire¡ªthis was controlled. Where hers was a torrent, this was a whip, bright enough and strong enough perhaps to even be chains. They lashed around Sin¡¯s limbs, binding the once-boy as Andahiel strode forward. He has seconds at most, the dead had said. Those seconds were all he needed.

    His legs crumbling into ash, his face disappearing as it was consumed by flame, Andahiel struck out with his hands, closing them around the middle blackstone embedded in the golden mantle that Sin wore. There was a hideous cracking sound, a horrific keening so sharp that the stones cracked and Joy felt his vision shatter and shift. Mahji in the air recoiled and withered, flashing purple and green sparks as they unraveled utterly. Sin gave a tormented wail, a single lone scream that was soon joined by thousands. Soon joined by tens of thousands.

    As he watched through his Mind¡¯s Eye, he saw Andahiel¡¯s image finally burn away, not even dust remaining as the spirit died with a faint smile of finality. As he watched through his Mind¡¯s Eye, he saw Sin¡¯s spirit, the poor, withered, blackened thing, shatter like glass. As he watched through his Mind¡¯s Eye, he saw a massive wave of souls, age-old, drained, maddened souls pour out of the remains of the blackstone, each one clawing past the other to escape. Their prison now broken, they streamed into the air with hopes of dying, with the hope to escape the hell that they had to endure for so long. Our brothers, whispered the dead. Without a pact like we made to you, they are freed at last.

    Indeed, Joy had made a pact with the dead in his blackstone. He had promised them vengeance. And as he watched Sin¡¯s shattered soul begin to disperse, he thought feebly that vengeance had come. He had thought it over.

    He had been a fool to think so.

    Before he turned away, his vision was drawn to the strands of black in that shattering soul, wisps of shadow amidst the faint white. They bound the soul, drew it together like rope until with a horrifying scream Sin lurched and opened his eyes. And when he spoke, it was again with the voice of eons. It was again with the voice of a god.

    ¡°Fools.¡± he rumbled, and the Skal¡¯ai behind Joy chittered in agreement. ¡°While the blackstones remain, I cannot be felled. I have another, here on my mantle. And you, demon, bear the last. So tell me, Andahiel the ever-wise, how is this vessel to die?¡±

    Fierce rage poured through Joy. Rage that this thing still lived. Rage at the sacrifices that had to be made. Rage that he had been to weak to stop them. The strong survive, and the weak die. His first lesson. His hardest lesson. It drove him to rage. It drove him to madness.

    With a guttural howl, he plunged his left hand into his right wrist, black claws blazing with soulfire as he ignited vahma. But it was not his soul that he burnt, for that would not nearly be enough. Vengeance, screamed the dead, and he promised it to them. He burnt them with that oath, felt their eons-old hate only strengthen his claws. And alive with flame, they shattered the blackstone that he bore in his own flesh. Again came that keening noise, with a pitch that was terrible and piercing and alien and utterly wrong. Black mist and black dust was all that remained when his vision cleared, his throat filled with blood. His eyes wept scarlet, the liquid dripping from his ears and nose. But it would not be enough to stop his vengeance.

    Sin screamed, an unholy wail that threatened to shatter the stones of the hall. The Skal¡¯ai leapt forward, their shapeless forms bursting out of the Malifori vessels as they were gripped with urgency. Joy ignored them, leaping forward with all the strength that he still had in his legs. He felt shadows wrapping around his ankles, felt his feet growing numb as Skal¡¯ai tried to save their lord. He cared not about them. He cared only about this one strike.

    He had hate. He had anger. And he had faith. He had faith in his body, born from the earth. He had faith in his legs, stronger than any other mortal flesh. He had faith in his claws, peerless and unbreakable. He had faith that he would strike true.

    He had faith that Sin would fall.

    There was a moment of burning white, the soulfire wreathing his hand suddenly flaring into a pyre that scorched him and punched through the ceiling of the hall. There was a numbness, starting from his legs creeping up his body until it wrapped around his neck. There was a sudden, sharp pain in his back that pierced through to his stomach, and fear gripped him in venomous hands. He was not afraid of death. He was afraid of failure. And in that instant, he saw the face of the earth, of his sire, of Andahiel. And he saw Sister¡¯s face, those emerald-green eyes, dancing with madness and laughter and a thousand other emotions too twisted to make out.

    They were dancing with Joy.

    And then he saw nothing. There was a sensation of dislocation, of piercing, of breaking that did not belong. It was a presence that was utterly alien, utterly malign. And went it broke, he felt his mind shatter with it. He felt his vision tear away, felt his breathing rip out of his throat, felt his hearing clamp shut. And then he felt no more.

    And then he felt nothing.

 Book 1: Chapter 54: His Pack

    He was sleeping, perhaps. That must have been what the feeling was. Or perhaps he was dead, senseless and shattered. He could not tell the difference; he did not know if there was a difference. He was thinking still, but there was no sensation at all.

    He was drifting, surrounded by darkness. It was not the black of shadows and Skal¡¯ai, twisted and malign, but rather an utter absence that deprived him of all feeling. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he felt nothing. Half-heartedly, he wondered if he had lost his body, wondered if he was now a spirit like Andahiel and the dead. All this assuming that he still lived, and if he lived then surely Sin must have fallen.

    On and on he lay in the silence and darkness, drafting aimlessly. Was he waiting? He did not know. There was something off, an eerie disturbance that unsettled him. It was not for a while that he realized what it was¡ªit was not an interruption, but rather a lack. He had lived so long with the voices of Andahiel, with the voices of the dead. From the instant of his birth, he been surrounded by the presence. In the Outlands, he had felt the world around him, like the familiarity of a mother¡¯s womb. During his travels, he had heard the voices of the dead inside of him, the sounds of a thousand incorporeal spirits inside of him. He had been with Sister, grown so accustomed to company and companionship that he now found himself at an utter loss without it. The thought came to him suddenly, a chilling truth.

    He was alone now.

    He had no voice to scream with, no hands to claw with, not even a body of his own that he could feel. He was drifting in the darkness, utterly alone. And without a heartbeat, and without body to keep alive, could he even die? Could he even find an end to this? Or was he merely doomed to wander in this abeyance without resolution?

    Time passed, although he had no way of knowing it. Time trickled through senseless fingers, although he had no way of feeling it pass. Hopelessly, he waited for something, anything, a change from this boundless nothing that he was stranded in. Finally a moment of inspiration struck him, or perhaps a thought of desperation. He wondered if this darkness was truly senseless darkness, if he was truly in this broken world.

    Slowly, he pressed down on his thoughts, pain shooting through him as he opened his Mind¡¯s Eye. Pain. Never had he thought that the sensation would be so welcome, that he could have wanted it so much. But the pain was a reminder of life, a reminder that he was still there. Where there was pain, his thread wound on.

    And when his Eye opened, he nearly wept, for after so long alone in the abyss, he saw. He saw the ruined walls of the palace hall, saw the charred stone and the burnt tapestries. He saw the melted glass, misshapen and malformed with a myriad of colors. He saw them all.

    He saw his hands, the claws on his left hand shattered and broken. Blood caked the stumps of each claw, dried and crusted. He saw his scarred fur and torn scales, his flesh marred by sulfide. He saw his bruised and battered body, covered in wounds that might seem mortal for any mere man. He could see them all, and he nearly wept at the relief that granted him.

    But he could not feel his wounds, did not feel any pain from them. Gingerly, he pressed the claws of his right hand into the naked, flame-scarred flesh of his stomach, anticipating the stab of agony. Yet even as the claws cut and the skin wept blood, there was nothing.

    Hurriedly then, he drew in a breath. His eyes saw his chest rise and fall, but his body felt nothing. Breathing in through his nose, he could smell nothing. Raking his claws against the stone until sparks flew, he could hear nothing. Slowly, trembling with nervousness, he closed his Mind¡¯s Eye. The sensation of vision left him, and once more he was sent back to that eternity of darkness, that mindless, senseless nothingness. It was as if his body was no longer his own, as if he was a spectator.

    Opening his Mind¡¯s Eye once more, he fell forward gasping hard. Slowly he stood, the sensation utterly foreign and unexpectedly difficult. Over and over he struggled to rise to his feet, yet the moment that he did, he lost his balance and toppled over. He growled soundlessly, irritated at how far he had fallen, at how he was now no better than a newborn calf. When he finally staggered up and held his stance, only then could he focus on the world around him.

    Corpses littered the front of the hall, their tanned skin split open and their bones shattered from where the Skal¡¯ai had burst forth. Yet there were no shadows now, not even a lingering black mist from their presence. It was as if they had never been there, as if there had never even been any Skal¡¯ai.

    Slowly, Joy¡¯s gaze swept throughout the ruined hall. He saw shattered statues and broken stone, saw collapsed columns and cracked glass. Black scorch marks charred almost the entirety of the once-grand walls and floor, lingering traces of soulfire. Yet there was nothing where Sin had stood, not even bones, not even dust. There was nothing.

    Tiredly, he stumbled away from that hall where far too many prices had been paid for such a thankless endeavor. Sister had died. Andahiel had died. The dead had died once again. All for Sin to die. And there was no trophy to take back home¡ªnot that he even had a home any longer¡ªthere were no spoils for this battle. Only wounds, he thought as he gazed down at his right arm, the flesh blackened and necrotic where the blackstone had once been buried. Only scars.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    What now is there for me to live for, now that everything is gone? What purpose now do I hold?

    As he was about to leave, he saw the pebbles on the ground begin to rattle. Turning in surprise, he saw hall itself come alive with motion, feral green marai in the air sinking into the ground with dancing sparks. The earth was churching, stone and dirt sliding and morphing in unnatural movement. It was not until he realized there were figures coming out of the ground that Joy realized what was happening.

    Some took advantage of the statues already present, those charred figures suddenly groaning to life. Others formed raw from the dirt, the mud and earth shaping and sculpting muscle and hide. The strongest came from stone, the cracked surface almost like a liquid as it sloughed and fashioned blood and tissue. Ever slowly, Joy watched as earth and stone turned to flesh, grey and brown flaking, morphing into hide and skin. He saw with his Mind¡¯s Eye as their spirits blossomed, as the spark of white inside of them pulsed and throbbed and grew. He watched as they twitched with life, as the tendons and muscles worked, as their pallor lifted. He watched as their chest heaved with struggling awkwardness, fluid and mud coughing out of their lungs.

    Some bore ruffling fur, others leathery skin, others still shimmering scales. Some bore horns, others crests, others nothing at all. Some looked vaguely like men, others bestial enough to sent an armyman fleeing with fright. No one looked alike, their eyes glittering in a myriad of colors. Some bore claws, others scythelike bones, others leathery wings large enough to almost span the entire hall. The largest was nearly twice his height, the smallest no larger that a pup. As he watched, their eyes blinked in quiet recognition, their mouths opening as they let out a howl that pitched towards the sky.

    And Joy heard it.

    Not with his senseless ears, but he heard it nevertheless in his mind. He felt it resounding through his head, a prideful gale loud enough to break steel. He felt it through the earth, through the tongue of his birth. He knew what they spoke, for these were same as him, born the same as him. They were demons.

    They were young yet, their flesh weak and their senses poor. They had little but instinct holding them up, some of the weakest scrabbling awkwardly on the stones. Joy could see it in their souls; they were formed from the wills of the Malifori that had died here. They were formed from the ashes of those slaughtered people, who had died in lands not their own, in flesh no longer their own. They had died hopeless, without a bloodline nor a legacy. They had died with nothing left.

    Joy had lived his life for the sake of vengeance. That was the will that had created him, that had carved him from the Outland stones. The Malifori had left a different will. Prosper, the commanded to the only children they had left. Grow and prosper.

    Joy watched as the hundred demons met his gaze, their eyes glistening with primal instinct and curious intelligence. He watched the first demon strode towards him, holding the flesh of one of the statues that once stood in these halls: a swordsman guarding the king. He watched as those blue eyes blinked under a helmet of bone, watched as slowly, the demon knelt.

    He watched as others of the hall¡¯s statues fell to their knees, the ground shaking as their bone armor struck the stone. He watched beasts crouched, as they bowed their heads in obeisance. He watched as the hall was filled with their downcast figures, until their tide covered the rubble-covered floor. Sunlight poured in all of a sudden from the ceiling, the star¡¯s path finally letting its light shine through the broken ceiling. The sudden radiance fell over the gathered mass of demons, glinting off of their still-wet flesh.

    The first bladedemon struck his fist against the ground, letting out a savage growl. It was not like the tongue of man, with that strange inflection and twisting of the throat. This the primal tongue, the natural tongue. Joy had known it from birth, had known it from instinct. That growl was a word, a position, a promise. Pack, it spoke. Leader, it conveyed.

    King, it howled.

    Next came a demon borne from a cavalryman statue, his flesh melded between man and horse. He reared up on his legs, hooves striking the ground with a cloud of dust. King, he howled, his voice a deep-chested whinny. Then came a bat-like thing, with wings large enough to block out the sun. Throwing its wings wide, it scraped its claws against its own flesh, hard enough to draw blood. King, it howled, its voice a rattling shriek.

    Then came a demon with bone-scythes large enough to fell a tree, striking them against the floor. King. Then came one from the statues of an archer, the arms of its bow formed from its own flesh. King. Then a shieldman, with forearms broad enough to protect two men each. King. A dog-like beast with four eyes, bristling with tusks and horns and spurs and spines that dripped with venom. King. King. King.

    On and on it went through the hall, until the once-palace was filled with the rumblings and cries and howls and shrieks of demons. King, they demanded. King, they praised. King, they called him. Slowly, Joy felt his spine straighten, felt his doubts clear and newfound vigor run through his tired will. They wanted a king to lead. King, he howled, adding his own voice to the raucous cacophony that made the ruined walls tremble.

    These were his people. His brothers and sisters. Prosper, their wills commanded. Grow and prosper, that the Malifori may live on in a new name. He would lead them. He would live on for their sake. For the sake of his people.

    Joy roared in his namesake, his entire body trembling even though he could not feel it. He had been afraid. He had been mournful. He had lost his Sister. He had lost his pack. He had been alone.

    He was no longer alone.

 Book 1: Epilogue: His Grief

    Joy stood on the hill that overlooked what remained of the broken city. It was a desolate corpse now, not even a single man left alive inside its walls. The new sun shed its light on the horizon, clouds painted vibrant shades of purple and red. Its light shone over armies on the march, bannermen showing the arms of various houses that had come to lay claim to the throne. With the king dead and the Capital shattered, now was the time for any man with ambition to strive for the title. The first wave had come already, bearing the arms of a hound on black. They would be joined soon enough, and this blood-soaked city would be bathed in crimson once more.

    Those foolish men came on foot, their armor polished and their blades sharpened. Their commanders rode on horses, plumes plush on their helmets. Their banners flew high and proud, declaring all around them to kneel or flee. Joy scoffed at them all, sneered at their ignorance. They came too late to face the true foe, bearing arms that would do no better than words could against shadows. They were useless, scavengers and crows come to feast on the carrion and claim the rewards without sacrifice. Aye, they were vultures, but these men were also the entire damned country. These were the people that they had fought so hard to save. These were the people that Sister had died for.

    They did not even know her name, did not even know her face. Should she have approached these lords and noblemen, they would have thrown her to the streets. And yet she had died for their sake. Blood filled his mouth, although he could not taste it. He could not feel where his teeth had torn his tongue out of irritation and frustration. He only noticed when he spat it out, seeing the glob of red staining the ground.

    Joy stood lost in thought as he watched, thinking about the Skal¡¯ai and the monsters that had been so real a mere dream ago. Even now, his heart sped whenever he saw a shadow flicker. Yet they had vanished without even a trace, surely as a dream. Surely, Sin was defeated; he had heard the shattering of the last blackstone, had even paid the price to his mind. Surely, the darkness was safe once more. Surely, the battle was over.

    Yet instinct made that surety pause.

    With the bloodshed come to end, now was the time to grieve for the fallen. For Sister. A pillar of black stone grew out of the ground, smooth and gleaming in the light of the new day. Obsidian, it was called, forged from the fires beneath the earth. Joy had pulled it up out of the ground, his mahji forging the tombstone. It was featureless and glass-like, not unlike the blackstones that he had known all too well. Sister would be buried beside the enemy she had died fighting, such that her sacrifice would not be forgotten.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Lily had died, but she did not lay forgotten. A bed of frost lilies bloomed beside besides the grave, white flowers glistening with clear poison, the mingling dew still clinging to their white petals. They too had been his doing; spells had pulled the seeds from afar to this hill. A light wind stirred, blowing some loose petals clear into the air and they fluttered in the breeze. They rested on a bed of sand and dirt that he had pulled out with magic, a different composition from the earth around the hill. Ordinary soil could not accomplish what he wished to achieve.

    Joy did not have any words to say. Words were unnecessary, superfluous. He merely stood over the grave, a spirit in a shell of his senseless body. He watched with his Mind¡¯s Eye, slowly kneeling before sinking his claws into the dirt. Strands of mahji coiled out, worming through the earth. Breathing out, he willed them to burn. Fire licked away at the sand, burning it and searing the ground until it was molten. Smoke and soot billowed into the air, sparks flashing as the flame licked over the tomb like water. It smothered the sand and the stone and the flowers with orange light, with a sudden blazing surge of heat. Then, as abruptly as it had come, the flame left.

    Pristine glass was the tomb now, clear and magic-enchanted. It covered the hilltop, an ethereal cap that stood stark against the desolation around it. Joy struck his claws against the grave, but there was not even a scratch, merely purple sparks. Even the flowers were glass now, their stems and petals translucent as they swayed in the wind. Glass lilies, he thought, kneeling over with mournful silence.

    He closed his eyes, feeling the earth beneath his feet, feeling. He felt the earth beneath him, steady despite everything. He felt the wind against his skin, felt the heat of the new sun. He willed the earth to rise, felt the dirt grow loose. The wind stirred, sending the glass lilies seeds aflight. They settled over the churning earth, blooming swiftly before his eyes. Soon, they were a carpet, a field of sprouting glass flowers.

    Joy got up slowly, rising now to a stand. The ground crunched as a demon strode beside him, the bladedemon that had been the first to kneel. ¡°Where, King?¡± he growled, his voice like rattling bones. Behind him, the silent horde waited for an answer, their number sprawled out over the lands. Bestial, man-like, they encompassed a myriad of forms. Some were covered in plates of bone, stark white in the sunlight. Others had leathery hide, thick like a krull¡¯s and studded with callouses. Others still bore fur coats, smooth and silky. Their forms were all quiet, not daring to speak as they waited. They had grieved with their king, had remained silent as he fashioned the tomb. But not the time for the dead was over; now the journey of the living wound on.

    Joy turned, his mourning over. When he was younger, he had dreamed of seeing the world as his, of his territory stretching out from sea to sea. That dream had changed. He had a people to lead now, a people to settle. A people to see prosper, until they covered the earth much as the flowers did here. There was only one place he knew where they could settle without contestation. He drew in a deep breath, rumbling loud enough for all of his people to hear.

    ¡°We go to the Outlands. We go home.¡±

    End of Book 1

 Appendix

    Excerpts from On Magic and Life by Master N. Florell

    Map

    Magic

    Magic is the influence of the world around you through the use of energy inside of yourself. This is done through pacts between oneself and the world¡ªalso called spells. Pacts require one to have a clear purpose in one¡¯s mind and also be able to feel a clear pulse that matches the heartbeat of the world. The former requires focus regardless of the situation, the latter becomes easier as one is more attuned with nature.

    The energy inside of oneself takes the form of mahji, a purple-colored ribbon that is coiled inside of oneself near the pit of the stomach. Mahji is formed through the decay and death of the spirit, made in various amounts. Mahji is normally shielded from decay itself by the body it resides in; outside, it is protected by the structure and stability of spells. Should a spell unravel, through destruction or age, or mahji somehow become loose, it will degenerate over time. Once mahji has broken down sufficiently, it becomes the sickly green marai.

    Marai is wild and uncontrollable, the entire opposite of its former form. It induces mutation and madness in those that are frequently in contact with it, poisoning both the blood and the mind. It is also energetic and aberrant, prone to spontaneously showering sparks or darting through the air. It cannot be used in spells of any nature, and marai poisoning in warfare is a forbidden taboo.

    Another option for fuel in spells is vahma, or the pure spirit. Mahji gets its strength through the distillation of the soul itself; naturally, the soul where therefore be an even more potent fuel. However, directly burning the soul accelerates the process of death and weakens the lattice of the soul. After the first burning, one will find it easier and more appealing every time, until it occurs without thought or desire. Madness awaits those who burn vahma, for it is an addiction that tears apart the body and soul.

    Channelers

    All men produce mahji and possess vahma, but not all men can use the strength inside of them. Those with the ability to feel mahji and manipulate it are called channelers. They develop the Maes frequently overnight during adolescence¡ªblack, swirling tattooes that differ in structure from person to person but are similar in form. All channelers, without exception, bear the Maes when they grow into their powers.

    All channelers are able to cast spells to influence the world around them directly. For example, they all can burn grass, manipulate earth, and freeze water. However, there are restrictions when they wish to directly influence a living thing with body, mind, and spirit. They possess differing names to clarify this distinction

    Me¡¯jai, or Magi in the Old Tongue, are able to cast spells that affect the body of other men. Much as this is the easiest aspect to understand, they are also the most common and comparatively the weakest. For example, they can freeze the muscles or boil the blood.

    Oa¡¯kul, or Oracle in the Old Tongue, are able to affect the mind. They are the rarest, and their abilities are little understood. They can induce vivid hallucinations that trap the mind, or even keep one trapped in a state of dreaming, unable to wake. Some of the strongest could shatter the mind completely, leaving the soul trapped in a vessel that it could not influence.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Shai¡¯mon, or Shaman in the Old Tongue, are able to affect the spirit. As the spirit, or soul, is the most important of the aspects, Shai¡¯mon are also the most powerful. For example, they can command others, enthralling them to obey commands. Some of the strongest could burn the vahma of others to augment their own spells.

    The Aspects of Life

    True life hinges upon a balance of three aspects: body, mind, and soul. These three aspects are key to creating a living being and as also crucial to magic.

    The body is the vessel that the soul is kept in. It is the simplest and comparatively, the least important, as it can most easily be replaced and holds nothing of value. A mind and spirit without a body can be considered a ghost or specter, loose vahma capable of sensing its environment, but doomed to unravel without the protection of a vessel.

    The mind is the senses, the means through which the being can interact with its environment. It serves as the connection between the body and soul. While the distinction between it and the soul is unclear, it is known that the mind holds nothing of permanence. While there may be some memories, there are more accurately imprints¡ªlingering sensations without much clarity or purpose. The mind is also known to control instincts and impulses, basic commands that are not distinct enough for a soul. A body and soul without a mind is a prison for the soul, the spirit inside unable to interact or even sense anything around it.

    The soul, or spirit, is the essence of the living being. It houses its will and memories, the impressions and aspects that make it distinct from others. It is the aspect of life for rational thought and reason, for decisions and expression. It is formed with every new life, growing until adolescence, when it peaks in size. From there it will decay until death, growing weaker as it breaks down into mahji. A body and mind without a soul is a puppet, capable of executing orders and commands but without personality or learning.

    Demons

    Demons are living beings formed from imprints of the dead or dying. When the dead has a particularly strong will or memory, or if there is a shared grievance across many who have died in one place, they can induce a demon. Because there is no biological parent, the body is instead formed from the earth itself. The strength of the demon corresponds to the durability and amount of the substance it is able to manipulate to form its vessel, with mud and dirt being weaker and stone and even metal stronger. Sand is the only known substance that will not form demons, likely due to its particulate nature. They have been known to appropriate sculptures and carvings that suit them on occasion, as opposed to constructing a completely new body.

    Demons will pursue the imprint that formed them, often times a general emotion or thought, such as revenge or bloodlust. Because these negative emotions are often much stronger than positive ones, they are more likely to induce a demon and contribute to a perception of demons as bloodthirsty beasts. In reality, the intelligence and development of the demon corresponds to the strength of the dead soul or souls that created them.

    Stronger demons are capable of independent thought and are in virtually ways equal to or superior to men. Weaker demons are more animalistic and servile in nature, often unable to perform complex tasks and prone to succumbing to their instincts over reason. Some have argued that gargoyles were once attempts in the past to use weaker demons as protectors or guards, by providing vessels that allow otherwise too-weak demons to form.

    Demon shapes vary individually. As they are unable to procreate, their forms are influenced by personality and environment at birth. They are often influenced by their imprint. For example, a demon birthed from revenge might have a strong sense of smell to track down the target and long legs capable of sustaining a hunt. Demons formed from the madness of battlefields are particularly violent, often boasting horns, claws, spines, and an assortment of other accessories.

    Communion

    A Communion is essentially a bond formed between a dead soul and a newly birthed soul. Note the dead soul is dead in the sense that it has lost its vessel, and is therefore in the process of unraveling. The newly birthed soul must be nearby and attract to the dead soul in some way. For example, they could have a shared bloodline, similar fates, or it may simply be the only soul in the area. The dead soul will seek out the living, eventually making contact and merging with the new spirit. In this way, they will effectively fuse, the new soul gaining the memories of the old. A successful fusion is rare, as it requires the primal soul not to reject the intrusion and allow it to merge. A failed fusion results in death for both souls, although the body may not die in rare cases. Infants born in this way without a soul are incapable of thought and development and will remain degenerate for the rest of their lives.

 Book 2: Prologue

    ¡°I still don¡¯t understand why you wish to go here, Master Hassan. The Outlands are known to be dangerous enough that armies stay out. And you want us to sneak in?¡± he asked from his place beside the horse. Master Hassan was riding the horse next to him, hauling a cartful of seeds in massive sacks.

    ¡°Boy, one thing you¡¯ll learn is that to be a good merchant, you¡¯ve to look where others won¡¯t.¡± Master Hassan chuckled, taking a swig from the old flask that he always kept near him. The thing was chipped and worn from years of use, the ceramic beginning to crack around the neck, but his Master kept it close like a third hand. Finishing up a long pull, he waggled a finger down the rocky path that they were walking along.

    ¡°Let me ask you something, boy. How much do you think a direbear pelt sells for in the Capital? Not even if you send it by to Ossia or Abaratt, but if you stayed here in Altaros, how much could you fetch a price for.¡±

    The boy thought about the words, believing it to be another test from his master. As an apprentice, he had long since grown accustomed to these questions of worth and trade. ¡°For a full pelt, well-skinned, I would imagine at least a hundred gold.¡±

    Master Hassan nodded, his shaved head gleaming where it caught the sunlight. ¡°Aye, good. And why is that?¡±

    Falling silent as he thought, the boy nearly stumbled over a protruding root. His master always wanted a full answer. ¡°An adult direbear would need at least ten men to take down. At least one would be a houndmaster, to flush it out of its den. The rest would have to be experienced enough to work together as a unit, so most likely a troupe of hunters willing to risk themselves for the sake of a single bear. That is sixty gold for the hunters at least, and the houndmaster will be fifteen if he¡¯s worth his salt. After the skinning¡¯s done, the costs are at least eighty to ninety gold.¡± The boy shrugged, mulling it over. ¡°But all these are estimations based on minimums. If you want to be safe with your men, it could easily reach over a half-hundred. At the end of the day, it¡¯s still just a pelt. Squeezing out more than ten gold profit from that would be a fortune.¡±

    His master gave a rare smile in pride. ¡°Good, boy. And that¡¯s why no merchant worth the name ever deals in direbear pelts.¡± His gaze turned further down the trail, through the dense trees to where mountains stretched out of the horizon. ¡°But what if I told you I could get three direbear pelts for all the seeds in the back of this cart?¡±

    He almost stopped in his tracks, the tip of his boots catching on a stone as he stumbled in surprise. For the seeds in the cart? Those were grain sacks, filled with seeds for azhe and other common grains. One sack was perhaps forty silver at most; all together they were not even two gold. But what kind of madman would even have three direbear pelts, let alone trade them for seeds?

    Seeing the disbelief in his apprentice¡¯s eyes, the merchant smiled. ¡°Aye, that¡¯s what I¡¯d think as well. Now hush. They don¡¯t take too kindly to intruders, especially loud ones. They might know my smell, but they won¡¯t know yours.¡±

    The boy fell quiet, mind spinning in confusion. Know his smell? So lost in thought was he that he hardly noticed as they approached the foot of a mountain, as they strode out of the trees. He only realized when the horse began to whinny and nicker in nervousness, his master nearly shaken off the mount. The boy looked up then, a sudden gasp sticking in his throat as he saw the sheer mass of stone and weathered rock.

    ¡°The Pikes.¡± he breathed softly, seeing those massive pillars that seemed to scrape the sky and pierce through the clouds. Birds circled eerily, their distant forms black against the sky. Against a green sky, and that was proof by itself that they neared the Outlands. A green haze crackled with darting sparks, giving the air an electric energy that tingled the hairs on his skin. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    But his vision was drawn to the base of the mountain that they neared, where the stone had been broken. A massive hole¡ªcloser to a tunnel¡ªhad been bored seemingly through the entire mountain. They were no lights, shadows hiding the depths. Yet it was wide enough to easily fit three carriages side to side, high enough for man to stand on a wagon. And then he saw the men standing at the entrance¡ªonly those creatures were not men.

    The first had a hunched body with unnaturally long arms that fell to the ground. Thick cords of muscle wrapped around shoulders almost as broad as two men, ending with spade-like claws. A calloused hide covered its body, with ridges of bone running down its back. Its face bore a squashed nose revealing a squat, wide mouth lined with rows of thin teeth. Two massive yellow eyes sat in its skull, seemingly too-large to even rotate; the creature was forced twitch his head just to adjust its field of view.

    The second was a bat-like thing, with two pairs of leathery wings for arms. They seemed more like gliders than wings, running from torso along the sides of the chest all the way to the tip of the tail, supported by spiny protrusions. Three claws tipped the limb, wickedly curved like a scythe. Even worse were the feet, scaled like a bird¡¯s legs with talons large enough to serve as knives. Its face was long and tapered, with a bizarre beak that held serrated teeth inside. Beady eyes darted incessantly and independently of each other, constantly searching around.

    ¡°Be quiet, boy.¡± Master Hassan whispered, and he swallowed nervously before nodding in agreement. These things, they were demons¡ªfrom the stories. But demons were animals, bestial and simple minded. They were servants at best, back when the faith used them as protectors of steeples. These demons seemed nothing of the sort; they eyed the two with a casual ease, sniffing the air for their scent.

    Wordlessly, his master stopped the horse before disembarking with shaking fingers. The horse seemed ready to bolt at any moment, frozen in fear for the moment. The boy hurriedly carried a sack from the back of the cart, uncertain of what to do with it. His master pointed at the area in front of the demons, carrying a sack of his own, and the two approached in tenuous terror, slowly placing the seeds as if too fast a movement might cause those beasts to descend upon them with claws and teeth. The boy kept his eyes downcast, his heart pounding so loud he thought it might burst in his chest. Together they walked back to the cart, repeating the horrifying process in a silence so stark the winds themselves seemed to hold their breaths.

    When they had finished, his master stood up with a head covered in sweat, looking nervously at the demons. The winged one pecked at one of the sacks, tearing open a ragged gash in the burlap as if it had been parchment, the seeds of azhe inside spilling onto the ground. It looked at its partner, nodding in a jerking motion that seemed almost like a bob of the neck. The big-eyed demon disappeared into the depths of the tunnel, returning after a brief moment with massive furs on its back. Brown and speckled, large enough to wrap around two grown men, they were undoubtedly direbear pelts. From the Outlands, the boy realized nervously, not daring to meet the demon in the eyes as it dropped them onto the ground with a cloud of dust.

    Hurriedly, the boy and his master worked to load them onto the cart. The fur was soft as velvet, thick and of immaculate quality. The skinning had been done coarsely, muscle and tendon still stuck underneath, but refinement was a simple process. With skins like this, a fortune was too conservative a word.

    Mounting the horse with a short huff, Master Hassan nodded to the demons. ¡°P-pleasure doing business w-with you.¡± he stammered, uncharacteristically nervous. To the boy¡¯s surprise, an answer came.

    ¡°The same.¡± grunted the big-eyed demon, with voice like grating stone and screaming steel. The two turned and disappeared back into that gaping maw in the mountain side, leaving the two men stunned in silence.

    It was a few seconds before Master Hassan recovered, whispering softly to the boy, ¡°Quickly now.¡± Hurriedly, they departed down the way that they had come, escape from these terrifying lands not coming swiftly enough. As they left, the boy snuck one last glimpse at the tunnel mouth. He noted dully that the sacks of seeds had all disappeared, only inhuman footprints in their place that led into the tunnel.

 Book 2: Chapter 1

    ¡°Bloodweed by the stone! Ten coppers, fresh from the Skaavosi Isles!¡± cried out a vendor on the bustling street, his cloth-wrapped stalls displaying all manner of produce. The wood was painted a lurid red, jewels and gaudy baubles ringing in the wind as the hung in front of his tanned face.

    ¡°Cloths!¡± cried out another. ¡°Fine cloths from the west, durable and cheap! Fourteen coppers a hand!¡± She bore some of her product around her face, hanging it like a veil to shroud her mouth.

    The street was filled with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, but that was to be expected in Mea Vatal. It was one of the busiest ports¡ªperhaps even the busiest port¡ªin all the Edgelands. All manner of merchants came from across the Golden Sea, hailing from islands and lands at the edge of the world. They bore fruit and beads, fabric and carvings, knives and arrows from these foreign lands. Any good one wished to find, it could be found here in Mea Vatal¡ªfor the right price, and if one knew to look in the right place.

    It was not the merchants that the boy was eyeing, however. As he peered through his mask, he rattled a small bowl in his hands at the bustling passersby. Most ignored him, scurrying along their way like so many rats on the street. Some eyed him with scornful gazes, painfully cold and searing at the same time. Others went out of their way to mock him, throwing waste and kicking stones at his empty bowl. A few came to blows with him, striking his stomach and legs before spitting on his unresponsive figure.

    But there were some that threw scattered coins into his bowl. Perhaps it was out of kindness, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of boredom. The boy did not know what went through those people¡¯s minds when they flashed their coppers at him, but it was enough. Day after day, he endured this pathetic ritual, begging for scraps in this majestic port of wealth. Day after day, he found just enough for another meal, scraped together just enough favors for some long-needed amenity. Day after day, he managed to survive one day longer.

    It was never enough to get him anywhere. He was dragging himself up a sisyphean slope, always only to slip and fall back to the bottom when a day¡¯s luck ran out. He borrowed for more food, stole clothes, even fought vendors for where he begged on the street. All this because he was an orphan. All this because he was a cripple. All this because he was a leper.

    Or at least, that was what he was perceived as. With the metal mask over his features, that was the disguise that he wore. In reality, the truth of his nature was even worse than mere disease. There were no blisters on his face, no sores on his skin. Underneath that mask ran oily black lines, swirling tattoos that covered his features¡ªthe Maes. They were not paint; they were carved into his flesh, as much a part of him as the hairs on his head. He would burn them off if he could, would pay any price to be rid of those brands on his face.

    A scar ran along his cheek where he had tried to carve it off with a dagger one night in the rain, when they had first appeared. He had not been born with them¡ªhe had woken one night to find them covering his face. Horror had gripped his heart that day; he had tried everything to scrape the marks off his skin. Soap, cloth, blade, it had all been to no avail. He had been forced to hide himself behind this bronze mask, lest he be chased out of the streets with torches blazing behind him.

    As the sun began to set over Mea Vatal, he slowly rose from his seated position on the stones. Rubbing his sore legs, he bent over to pick up his bowl. It was pitifully empty, only forty-and-two coppers inside. That would be enough for something at least, and his screaming stomach reminded him that something was more than nothing. Cupping a hand over his bowl, he slowly began to stumble his way down the street. His one wooden leg clacked loudly against the stone, too short for him now that he was beginning to grow. It had fit him since a child, but he would need a new one soon.

    Turning the corner, he soon arrived at the Crown and Lady, a well-known tavern in the city. They were kind enough to beggars¡ªkinder than most, at least¡ªand they were one of few places that did not spurn the boy away at first glance.

    ¡°Miss Kayla.¡± he spoke hoarsely as he limped through the door, his voice rusty from a day of disuse. Inside the tavern smelled of sweat and booze, both clinging to the wood and lingering heavy in the air. Candles flickered in low light through the main hall, a few women cleaning the scraps off of the tables. The boy eyed them with a hungry glance, but he dared not to overstep his bounds; this was perhaps the only place that would feed him in this crow-cursed town. He had to watch his behavior.

    ¡°Ah, Willem.¡± she called out cheerfully. Kayla was the singer at the tavern, her face flushed red from work and her cheeks ruddy. What makeup she wore came off in patches as she dabbed her face with a handkerchief, resting in a chair. She could not be called skinny¡ªno Edgelander woman truly could¡ªbut her features held a motherly grace and warmth that the boy had long lacked in his life. ¡°I had the cook save some for you.¡±If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°I can¡ªI can pay.¡± he stammered, rattling the bowl with his hand. Yet his grip was weak and tremorous, and the bowl slipped from his grasp. Copper coins scattered over the floor, rolling under the tables and chairs, and he scrambled to pick them up with weak fingers.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that.¡± Kayla replied, struggling to hold back laughter. ¡°We¡¯ve extra on the house. There¡¯s some bits of lamb that someone didn¡¯t finish, and some pie that got too burnt to go out.¡± She bent down to help him, gathering some of the coins under table legs, to far for him to reach.

    His wooden leg scrabbled uselessly as he tried to get up, nearly losing his balance and flailing out with a hand for support. Inadvertently, it landed on the arm of one of the waitresses, and she stiffened suddenly with a sharp breath. ¡°S-sorry.¡± he stuttered, grateful for the mask hiding his embarrassed features. He saw her eyes turn to his hand, saw the look of disgust that flickered across her expression and made her recoil out of instinctive shock. He could only pull his hand back quickly, putting it behind his back, every fiber of his body wanting to hide desperately.

    ¡°Now don¡¯t be that way, Sasha.¡± Kayla chided. ¡°You know he didn¡¯t mean nothing.¡± She clattered the rest of the coins into his bowl, waving a hand for him to follow her. ¡°Come, I¡¯ve been keeping them warm in the back.¡± Humming a little tune, she bustled through the chairs towards the kitchen, and he made to follow her, keeping his gaze to the ground. He pretended not to notice the disdainful glances that the other women flashed him, clutching his coins painfully close to his throbbing heart.

    ¡°Now you just sit right there.¡± she commanded, disappearing through some curtains. The boy sat on a chair, his bowl of coins in his lap. If he was not to pay today, then he could put this money into his pouch. Together with what else he had already, that was eighty-and-three coppers. One hundred for a single silver, and he owed Old Man Karson three silvers for the mask. It had been a simple favor that he had asked for¡ªKarson had been throwing the thing out anyway¡ªbut he had not expected to be charged regardless.

    Still, a good leper mask stopped questions and drew more coin his way than without. He was a little closer to ridding the debt; that was still something, and in this pitiful life he learned to take what he could. Taken by a sudden urge, he lifted his shaking fingers to his face, undoing the leather straps that fastened it to his face. Slowly, it fell away, and he traced the edge with a thumb. The mask was still a strange thing, foreign to him despite the years that he had spent with it on his face. Yet before he could think any further, sudden footsteps rang out on the floor and Kayla appeared through the curtains without warning.

    Hurriedly, he lifted the mask to his face, heart thumping louder than a drum as he wondered if she had seen him. Noticing her downcast gaze, a sudden relief coursed through him as he refastened the straps, inwardly cursing his own stupidity that she had almost seen.

    ¡°Here, Willem. It¡¯s not much, but it¡¯s still good. We¡¯ve taken in a boy to help with the cooking¡ªa little older than you, I¡¯d imagine. But he burned a perfectly good pie, can you imagine? Cook Miriam was furious.¡± she laughed as she handed him a fork and a plate with the food. He gripped the utensil awkwardly, eager to dig into the meal, and his stomach echoing the sentiment with an echoing growl. Yet he stopped, lifting his gaze to meet hers, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth.

    ¡°Of course, of course, so sorry.¡± she replied as she turned away, disappearing out of the hallway. ¡°One of these days I¡¯ll see what you¡¯re keeping secret, you know.¡± she called out in a singing voice.

    ¡°I hope not.¡± he muttered under his breath, lowering the mask and letting it rest on the floor before picking up the fork. It was awkward in his grip, not quite fitting in his crippled hand. His gaze was drawn to his own limb, and he looked at it with disgust. Three fingers covered with grime and dirt, a thumb with yellowed nails. And the fifth was but a stub, a twitching nub that gave a memory of wanting movement. He had no fifth finger¡ªhad been born without one. He had been graced with that stump instead, on both hands, and a stump below the knee on his left leg as well. A cripple, he thought bitterly. Nothing but a bitter cripple, and the gods thought to curse me with more still.

    With shaking hands, he stabbed through a bit of the burnt pie, lifting the contents to his mouth carefully. Sauce dribbled over his chin, the food lukewarm and too-salty¡ªclearly the work of an amateur. Yet to him, it was heaven and bliss. He chewed slowly, uncertain if he ought to savor it or shovel as much as he could. Swallowing, he felt the warm lump slide down his throat to where his clamoring stomach greedily accepted, and he decided upon the latter.

    There was lamb as well, with bits of garlic and cloves of something else that he did not know but loved the taste of. It was chewy, stringy, and deliciously tender until it seemed to slide down his throat. Tears filled his eyes as he fought not to drop each piece, his body too weak to even savor this food.

    There was clamoring outside as the waitresses cleaned the tables and tidied the hall after a busy night. A door opened, the wind outside ringing a bell, and the sound of footsteps. A gruff voice spoke, ¡°You¡¯ve any ale?¡±

    ¡°So sorry, sir.¡± came a reply, likely one of the waitresses. ¡°The barkeeper''s just went on break. I¡¯ll go fetch him.¡±

    ¡°No need, I¡¯ll speak to him myself.¡± he slurred, and the sound of footsteps drew closer.

    ¡°Wait, sir! You can¡¯t go in¡ª¡± Kayla cried out suddenly, and a sensation of panic gripped his heart as he let the fork fall. Yet it was too late as he bent to pick up the mask, the door flying open to reveal his unobscured face.

 Book 2: Chapter 2

    The burly man standing in the doorway had a sailor¡¯s tan, his skin weathered and worn from frequent winds on the sea. His beard was dyed red in the customs of the Skaavosi, his hair braided into locks that fell below his shoulders. His shirt was plain and stained from hard use, his leggings stiff from salt spray. But where his clothing was dull, his eyes glittered a dull purple in the way of his people, evidence of his heritage from the Isles.

    It was those same eyes that met the boy¡¯s gaze, that saw the Maes on his face. And too late, the boy noticed the chains around the sailor¡¯s neck, saw the three interlocked rings of the Faith of Nhys. Too late, he lifted the leper¡¯s mask to cover him, utter fear and cold shock running down his back. ¡°I¡ª¡± he started, choking on the words; he knew not what he ought to say.

    ¡°Vais¡¯throk.¡± he breathed, the term all too familiar to the boy on these streets. Monster. Devil. It was a slur of the Faith, a brand of disgust and hate. A vein on the man¡¯s neck bulged, his hand falling to his side where his blade lay.

    ¡°Wait, sir!¡± Kayla shouted in panic from outside, her footsteps ringing out on the wood. The boy bothered not to hesitate any longer, throwing back the chair in a sudden burst of motion. There was a twinge of regret in his heart as he threw the plate of food at the sailor, the mash and sauce splattering over the man¡¯s eyes. With the moment of distraction that it gave him, he grasped his bowl and coins in one hand, the other hurriedly tightening the straps on his leper mask as he ran towards the kitchen.

    Slamming the door open with a shoulder, he found himself facing two surprised cooks busy cleaning plates from the dinner service. ¡°Blood and bones!¡± one swore, but he did not stay to listen any further. Hearing the footsteps of the sailor swift behind him, he bolted out the backdoor onto the street with his paces matching the racing drumbeat of his heart.

    It was late out, the sun long since having fallen past the horizon, and there were few souls still out walking. A few merchants were packing up their wares, having stayed out trying to sell a little more to meet their quota. One man was smoking a pipe, sitting outside the door to the Crown and Lady. As the boy barreled out, he stumbled over the unexpected obstacle, throwing his hand out for balance and cuffing the smoker onto the stone tiles. His wooden leg scrabbling awkwardly on the smooth stone, he managed somehow not to fall himself as he made a sharp turn. He barely had time for a short ¡°Sorry!¡± before fleeing down one of the back alleyways. The curses behind him only hastened his steps, his limping gait disappearing into the shadowy backstreets.

    Mea Vatal was an old city, and the labyrinth of sloped streets was easy to become lost in. Without growing up inside of them, it was a simple thing to become disoriented and cut off from any main street. The boy took to them with a kind of desperation, hearing the sailor fast behind him as he turned and sprinted through backways. He jumped over potholes and bundles, ran past sleeping figures and questionable piles that he dared not look more closely at. Finally, he turned the corner, hoping that he had thrown off the sailor inside that maze.

    Ending up near Kassa¡¯s Street, he paused to catch his breath while listening for any footsteps. After hearing nothing for a few breaths, he made his way over near one of the older buildings, wood rotten and full of holes, the bricks cracked and loose from years of disrepair. This section of the town was farther from the port, lacking the funding and importance of the marketplaces. There was less risk of eviction here, so it was where he made to sleep.

    A narrow crevice blocked by rotting crates was placed neatly in between two walls. Making his way through them, the boy walked over to the rusted ladder along the side. It was well hidden from a casual glance; he had only ever found it after hiding from some fruit sellers that he had stolen from years back. While the rungs were coated with red rust and creaked with every movement, it was still enough to support his weight. One hand holding his bowl of coins, he began to awkwardly climb. His wooden leg made it difficult, his grip on the metal weak, but laboriously he managed to make it to the roof.

    Throwing his panting figure onto the stone roof with a gasp for air, his bowl clattered and spilled on the roof. He took a while to calm himself before slowly sitting up, feet dangling off the roof edge. He could hear the distant voices of men in the city, could see the flickering torchlight that was gradually snuffed out as people went to sleep. Turning to the scattered coins, he slowly began to pick them up, counting as he did so. ¡°Thirty-six.¡± he reached despondently, knowing that he had felt several slip out during his sprint. Still, it was more than nothing, and all the money in the world was worth nothing if he was dead.

    ¡°Damn Faith.¡± he swore, remembering the necklace that the sailor had wore. The Faith of Nhys had been spreading through Mea Vatal, had been gaining weight in the past weeks. More and more men in this streets were wearing their chains, and he spat at the ground in disgust.

    Getting up slowly, coins and bowl in hand, he made his way over to a small bundle, discreet enough to be missed if one did not know to look for it. It was a ragged cloth, the color long since having faded from the fabric. As he unrolled it, he took out a small leather pouch, stained and beaten by the years, its drawstrings frayed. Inside were his coins, and he carefully added today¡¯s coppers. There were other things inside the bundle as well¡ªsome string, some sharp bones for picks, some good bits of leather; whenever he saw useful scraps on the street, he brought them back. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Carefully, he took off the leper mask once more, setting it down beside the rest of his things and gently massaging his face. Unrolling the blanket and laying onto his back, he eyed the stars as he waited for sleep. So many of them, he thought tiredly. And all so far away. He wondered if he could grasp them one day, if he could hold one in his hand. Would it burn him? Would it sear his flesh? Would it burn the Maes off of his skin? Would it kill him? The fleeting thoughts disappeared as hs slipped into dreamless sleep, the night wind cool against his arm.

    He woke to the sensation of water on his face, trickling slowly from the tip of his nose down to his lip, running out the corner of his mouth before dribbling to his chin. Groggily, he blinked open his eyes, rubbing at them with a wet hand. He stared in confusion for a moment before the answer came to him. Rain, he swore, sitting up in a hurried motion. Mea Vatal had not received any rain for months; the Faith of Nhys claimed it to be a good omen since their arrival. That it was falling now was even worse¡ªthey would press for some fool sacrifice to appease their angry gods. And what better scapegoat than the crow-cursed vais¡¯throk that ran yesterday?

    Indeed, he could hear shouting on the streets already. Peering down carefully, he saw bald Skaavosi priests chanting with heads turned towards the sky. There were perhaps ten of them, having gathered early in the morning before much of the city had even woken. Their skin was tanned and hairless, Skaavosi in origin much like the rest of their Faith. They wore white and black robes, their Nhys chains glinting wetly in the rain around their neck. Their voices echoed off the walls in the city, carrying far and over the pattering sound of the rain. ¡°N¡¯vra angers, see his lamentous tears. He angers that vais¡¯throk walk through your city, that monsters are allowed to live amongst you. See how he weeps for you, how his great heart bleeds.¡±

    ¡°There are no such vais¡¯throk in our Isles, no such creatures elsewhere in the world. Only your strange country is cursed with their blood, and see what blood and strife they have brought upon your people. Look what they have done to your king, what they have done to your Heartlander cities. Those fools did not kill the vais¡¯throk and now they are ashes; will you make the same mistake?¡±

    More priests were gathering now, adding their voices to the cries. They were drawing out more people from their dwellings with their speech, the crowd growing larger as the rain continued to fall. ¡°They claim to have power! It is blasphemy! What arrogant man would claim right to the power of gods? By what right do they wield this power of theirs? What man deserves the strength to burn others alive, to freeze blood in the veins. What sole man deserves to dictate when others die, and run rampant across this earth like a plague? The vais¡¯throk are no men¡ªthey are monsters!¡± The priest in the center raised his hands in climax, his bald head thrown back. His robes were more ornate than the others; clearly he held the highest rank here.

    A man made his way through the crowd, shoving aside the others in front of him. The boy fought back a breath as he watched¡ªit was the same sailor that he had met in the Crown and Lady. The man bowed before the priests, hurriedly whispering something into the leader¡¯s ear. The boy felt a chill run down his back; he did not hear what was said, but he knew what it was. A scowl stretched across the Nhysian¡¯s face as he turned to the crowd, his voice cold.

    ¡°Already a vais¡¯throk is in your city. He eats your food, steals your gold, like a rat in the alleyways. See now how the gods hate him.¡± he spread his arms out wide, a sudden downpour accentuating his words as the rainfall began to surge. Already the cobbles were beginning to build up with water, flooding the random rags and bundles that littered the streets.

    ¡°He curses you! He curses your city! This rain shall not cease until he leaves¡ªuntil he leaves this earth!¡±

    Turning away, the boy hurriedly gathered his things. While not all men believed the words of a Nhysian, the Faith was spreading still. This city was never much to him, but it was at the very least safe. He had managed to grow up here, had managed to stay alive. There were some that had helped him, that had cared for a filthy cripple. With food, with the mask, with his leg¡ªthere were people that had given him aid when he had most needed it. Yet, as he wrapped up his bundle of things tight and clutched it in one hand, he knew that he would have to leave it behind.

    This city was no longer safe for him.

    The Nhysian priests had spread word of a vais¡¯throk in their midst, and even those that did not believe their words dared not resist the fanatics that did. Any man with a mask was a suspect now; he could no longer beg on these streets without having his mask torn off and his face exposed. The sailor was sure to have told the Crown and Lady¡ªto have told Kayla¡ªall about him, so now he had no place for food. The longer that he stayed here, the longer he risked his life. Now was the best time to leave, when word had yet to spread and before the Nhysians could spread their men throughout the city.

    And so his gaze turned towards the docks, towards those massive ships that had men running across the docks like ants even this early in the morning. Gritting his teeth with determination, he threw his bundle off the roof before descending the rusted ladder with a racing heartbeat.

    Aye, this city might be safe for him no longer, but then he merely had to leave. And as fell to the ground, picking up the soaked bundle, he was grateful for the leper mask that kept all this rain off his face.

    No one could see his smile behind that mask.

 Book 2: Chapter 3

    ¡°Hold your shield straight dammit!¡± Kat cursed, whacking the recruit on the arm with a whipping branch. The stick was fashioned from springy wood, the tip coated with brass and the handle bound with fabric. Never had he imagined that such a crude tool could be fashioned so eloquently. It gave a satisfying crack as it struck across the bone, where it would hurt exceptionally but do nothing else. Already the recruit was covered in welts, his skin covered with a thick sheen of sweat as he drilled on the campground with the others.

    ¡°You tired, Beran? Need a seat on the ground?¡± he asked the recruit, who had stumbled hard enough to fall on his arse. Kat¡¯s words were innocent enough, but there was a malicious glint in his eye that made Beran swallow and shake his head. ¡°Good! Then pick up your crow-cursed shield before I made you carry it for the rest of the day!¡±

    The recruits were still struggling to learn legion fighting¡ªit was something that nearly everyone struggled with. It was better with the weak and the inexperienced; they picked it up quicker than the others. It was the ones who thought they knew how to fight that were the worst¡ªthe city brawlers and fancy noblemen who had trained with a sword. They refused to learn the basic drills, insisting that they already knew how to step and stab.

    Take Beran here, a bloody boy from some wealthy goldbags family, sent off to fight so that he could learn to grow a spine. I can use a broadsword, he had proclaimed proudly. Why do I need to practice swinging around a stick for hours? Kat still smiled when he remembered that glorious day, when he had gotten the chance to beat those recruits with impunity. Would you call this a good swing, Beran? Oh sorry, I didn¡¯t see you there. So sorry about your leg, but my swing was perfect, was it not?

    Legion fighting was about fighting together, about stepping as one and striking as one. Those bastard Malifori could ride and shoot their bows for days, but they always crumbled before a wall of good Altarosan legionaries¡ªand it was not for chance. Teamwork was worth more to a legion than gold. As Kat watched these struggling recruit smack each other with shields and swords while trying to march, he could not but remember this point. ¡°Renna, if that stick was a sword, you just shoved a blade five inches into his ribs.¡± he called out laconically. Teamwork.

    ¡°First Shield Kat.¡± called out a sneering voice behind him, and Kat took in a deep breath, tightening a hand around the hilt of his sword so that he could not use it as a fist. ¡°Second Sword Ossus.¡± he bowed, not quite lowering his head as much as was customary. ¡°What can I do for you?¡±

    Legions in Altaros followed similar structure, and Lord Florell¡¯s was no exception. Soldiers were grouped into tens, the oldest of that group being their Spear. Ten Spears and the men under them went under a First Sword. First Swords were responsible for all men under their command, although their assistant First Shield was typically in charge of logistics and day-to-day activities. In a similar vein, ten First Swords and Shields sat under a Second Sword and Shield. Five Second Swords and Shields answered to a Third Sword¡ªno Shield. With four Third Swords in a normal legion, the total count sat at around 2,000 fighting men.

    For Kat, Ossus was his Second Sword and as such his commanding officer. And an arse, he thought dully, meeting those oily, snake-like eyes with some hesitation. With pallid skin and a slender stature, Ossus certainly seemed reptilian, although Kat knew that it was not a natural appearance: those bloodshot veins near his eyes spoke of whiteleaf addiction. The plant grown near the Frozen North was a known narcotic, less addictive and more an irresponsible habit despite its strength. Many looked down on its users, although it was not grounds enough for any official removal, which was likely why Ossus was still in the legion despite it.

    ¡°Working hard, First Shield? I know how...taxing the recruits can be.¡± Ossus smiled, the expression not quite reaching the desired effect in his eyes. Nearby, there was a shout of pain as one of the men inevitably stepped on another, followed by the swift sound of falling and wooden shields cracking into skulls.

    ¡°Your damn feet go in front, not on a face!¡± Kat called out without even looking before replying in a lowered voice. ¡°Sir, with all due respect, what the hell do you want?¡± His patience was worn thin just by looking at Ossus¡¯s face; he dared not to test it any longer, not by the way his knuckles were growing white.

    Ossus put on an affronted expression, like one of those painted women in a theater. ¡°Why First Shield, is that any way to address someone merely looking out for you?¡± Dropping the act, his eyes suddenly glittered with a hint of malice. And now his motive sneaks out, Kat thought, recognizing the look of a man with a card to play and wanting desperately to play it. ¡°Besides, I heard some simply disgusting rumors about you, Kat. Simply repulsive.¡± he sneered, eyes suddenly dropping from Kat¡¯s gaze and lowering below the belt.

    There was a sudden crack as Kat slapped the Second Sword across the cheek, the sensation utterly rewarding beyond belief. ¡°Why Second Sword, I hadn¡¯t taken you to be a man of rumors.¡± Kat mocked, shaking his stinging palm. ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind next time I visit my grandmother; she just loves her gossip. In the meantime, did you have any important reason for interrupting me, or do you just like the feeling of your lips flapping?¡± Kat growled, his fingers rattling out a coarse rhythm on the hilt of his blade.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    Ossus bowed, his cheek a wonderful red, his lips stretched tight into a revolting smile. ¡°If I was a lesser man, I might remind you of your place, First Shield. I might remind you that the punish for assaulting a superior is something along the lines of hanging. On. Your. Way.¡± he murmured, not moving. Kat spun on his heel, turning to the tangled mess of limbs and wood that was his recruits. He could still feel the heat of Ossus¡¯s gaze on his back, could still hear those words.

    He knew precisely what rumors the turtle-bellied bastard was speaking of. They were even worse, because they were true. He clenched his teeth in irritance, knowing that he had brought it all upon himself. For First Shield Kat of Marhold was truly Katherine of Marhold¡ªor at least, soon to be of Marhold.

    She had been born to a family of relatively low standing, fond of climbing and swords and all manner of things that made her mother scream. Why, she had climbed her way into the Lord of Marhold¡¯s garden, landing with a thump right in front of a young boy. With her short hair and unwomanly appearance, she easily had her gender mistaken and became fast friends with the Lord¡¯s son. After she told him her secret, their friendship became something more as the nights wore on. Soon she found herself betrothed, much to her mother¡¯s elation.

    Yet word came of King Alerick¡¯s death, and soon every House worth the name was scrambling for the throne. Marhold was sworn to House Florell, and so every loyal lord was ask to have any sons of age serve Florell¡¯s legion. Her fiance was sent off to war, and she had demanded to join. Her mother was aghast, her father jubilant, but there was a small flaw¡ªno woman was allowed to serve in the legions. So naturally, Katherine became Kat, with the aid of some pulled strings and greased palms. But secrets had a way of being spread, and Ossus always did love his secrets. It¡¯s no issue. The man¡¯s a snake; no one worth knowing trusts him, she reminded herself.

    She was still trying to dislodge the doubt in her heart at dinner, in the tent with the rest of the legionaries. Much of the legion was still fresh, and they were covered with the bruises and scuffs that reminded others of their inexperience. Kat looked through the crowd of Spears and legionaries as she ate, breaking her teeth on bread hard enough to be used as brick. Soon enough she found who she was looking for, waving a hand so that he could find her.

    ¡°First Sword Revan.¡± she mocked formally, unable to stop a smile from breaking out across her face. Her fiance sat down next to her, a tight squeeze with the crowded nature of the hall. ¡°How was the ever-impressive meeting?¡±

    Revan shook his head tiredly as he broke his bread, dipping it in some lukewarm gruel to soften it. ¡°Too many words for my pretty little head, I¡¯m afraid. House Highwater still holds the Capital as of now, for what it¡¯s worth. Houses Rill and Sande are vying for the lands north of the city. Lord Florell grows impatient without his throne; he wants to march soon.¡±

    Kat began to grow concerned, speaking awkwardly with her mouth half full. ¡°But they aren¡¯t ready. Half these boys don¡¯t even know how to walk and think at the same same, let alone wave a sword at something that isn¡¯t an ally. They¡¯ll be slaughtered their first fight.¡±

    Revan nodded, lowering his voice until she had to strain to hear him over the noise in the hall. ¡°If he could lift his crow-cursed eyes out of his dinner plate long enough, he¡¯d see that. Unfortunately for us, he¡¯s content with listening to what happy-to-please goldbags whisper to him.¡±

    Kat chuckled, lowering her voice as well. ¡°Speaking of whispering goldbags, Ossus talked to me earlier today while I was working the fresh recruits.¡±

    ¡°The white snake? What does he want?¡± he asked in surprise, his face something comical with stuffed cheeks and raised brows. She felt a sudden surge of pride and pleasure at the insult, that he found the man as detestable as she did.

    ¡°He knows, Revan. At least something. I¡¯m not sure if he knows about us, at the very least, but he knows about me.¡± she whispered, seeing the concern on her fiance¡¯s face.

    Revan paused before scoffing, eating another spoonful of that bland gruel. ¡°Even if he knows, I doubt anyone will believe his words. I don¡¯t know how much gold he needed to make it as a Second Sword, but it¡¯s not enough to get any higher up to listen to him.¡±

    ¡°Still,¡± she insisted, ¡°he could report it and they could investigate. And I¡ªI slapped him.¡± She looked down for a second, her cheeks growing red. ¡°I got angry and lost control. Sorry.¡± Kat looked up nervously, unexpectedly seeing Revan¡¯s mirthful face.

    He looked as if he was struggling not to burst through a mouthful of gruel as he laughed. ¡°Was it¡ªwas it covered with slime?¡± he chortled out once he had managed to swallow without coughing. ¡°I¡¯ve a bet going with Mikael that he slimes instead of sweating.¡±

    ¡°Revan,¡± she hissed, struggling not to laugh herself. ¡°I¡¯m serious.¡±

    ¡°I am too! Have you seen him sweat? I¡¯ve got two silvers on it.¡± he laughed, finishing up his gruel quickly. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ve got some weight still. M¡¯lady not going anywhere. Not unless you wish to.¡± He leaned in swiftly, giving her a quick peck on the cheek and staying so that anyone watching might think him whispering in her ear. Smiling that crooked smile of his, he gave a small little bow before leaving with his food, disappearing into the crowd of sweat and soldiers.

    Kat turned back to her own meal, smiling slightly despite everything that had happened. How does he manage to eat this horseshit so fast? Her own meal was relatively untouched, and she pushed it away with a groan.

    Looking up, a sudden chill ran down her spine as her gaze was drawn to a certain figure in the corner, his bloodshot eyes leering at her clearly for quite some time now.

 Book 2: Chapter 4

    Kat did not know what it was exactly that roused her from slumber. Perhaps it was a sound outside, perhaps it was merely a feeling¡ªshe could not be for certain. Sleep was something that came easily to any legionary and was worth far more than gold; a day¡¯s march was more than enough for any man to fall asleep the moment he touched a bed. Kat was no exception to this rule, despite the worrying that the day¡¯s events had given her. It was no wonder, then, that when she woke it was with a sensation of annoyance and confusion.

    Yet than irritation quickly gave way to a sense of danger, an instinctual response that made her feel for the hilt of the dagger that she kept nearby. Wrapping her hand around the familiar grip, she placed it underneath her pillow before feigning sleep. Peering from the slits of her eyes, she saw the shadow of a figure outside, faint from the lack of light. An invader in the camp? The thought made adrenaline run through her, and she forced herself to calm her heartbeat in order to slow her breathing.

    As the entrance to the tent opened, the moonlight shone down briefly to illuminate a pale figure. While her vision could not quite make out who it was, she had an approximation when he lunged at her. Cold hands wrapped around her throat, a rag forced into her mouth as she tried to scream. Ossus was on top of her, his weight pressing down on her and refusing to budge even as she tossed and tried to throw him off. That rag seemed to sting her tongue, making tears fill her eyes out of reflex. There was a slight sweetness to the taste that seemed to spread through her mouth, creeping throughout her body will a blissful numbness. Whiteleaf, she realized with a bout of fear¡ªthe narcotic would leave her comatose if she was exposed to enough of it.

    ¡°Be a good girl, now. If you keep quiet, maybe I won¡¯t be so rough.¡± Ossus breathed excitedly, making a wave of revulsion and disgust run through her. Twisting as hard as she could, Kat slashed out with the dagger that she had kept hidden. There was a satisfying sensation of resistance that she knew to be the feeling of striking flesh, and a short scream of surprise confirmed it. Something wet splattered her face but she ignored it, using the opportunity to roll to the side and spit out the rag. Already she could feel the effects through her system, could feel her arms growing weak and her heart rate slowing. Drowsiness was settling in, a dull throb of pleasure accompanying every breath. She fought it hard, standing with a huff.

    Her strike had landed on Ossus¡¯s face, in a crimson line that ran just below his eye. He raised a hand to cup it, his expression one of shock and indecision. Before Kat could speak, he seemed to have made his mind up, bolting out of the tent like the snake he was. The flap had just barely closed before she fell to the ground with a hiss, her limbs tingling with warm pleasure. All her strength had fled her, the narcotic coursing through her blood. Her thoughts fled from her with every passing heartbeat, the sensation swelling like a wave until she closed her eyes helplessly. Reason left her, surrendering to the primal bliss that blinded her. Her skin was numb, tingling with a thousand needles as her fingers roamed along the cot, feeling for a damp rag. He was gone, was he not? Then, if none were watching¡­

    The high that coursed through her did not abate quickly.

    There was guilt in her heart afterwards, of course; there always was. As the sunlight streamed in and she woke, the nausea that seized her only served to remind her of the consequences of that indulgence. The light outside made her swoon for a moment, piercing her eyes like arrows as she struggled to stand. A slight numbness lingered still in her fingers, making them twitch uncontrollably despite her efforts to stay still.

    The camp was lively with movement despite the time, messengers and First Swords hurriedly preparing for the day¡¯s training. As Kat stepped outside to the water barrel to wash her face, she heard a young voice call out to her. ¡°First Shield!¡± spoke someone from behind her and she turned suddenly, slapping a salute after a momentary confusion.

    ¡°Second Sword Bryndan. What can I help you with, sir?¡±she asked briskly, forcing the drowsiness out of her system. He seemed to eye her with something of disgust or disappointment before pointing to towards the west.

    ¡°Third Sword Mors wants you.¡± he replied simply.

    Kat could not fight the shock that ran through her. Third Sword was twice her superior; surely he had more important things than the affairs of those under him? ¡°What does the Third Sword want with me?¡±

    Bryndan scowled, making to leave. ¡°How should I know? I do not pretend to know the motivations of our betters.¡± He stopped suddenly, casting a scornful gaze on her. ¡°I would advise that you freshen yourself before going. What you do at night is your own, but you shouldn''t remind others of it in the day. Some of us still have to stay in condition to fight.¡±

    Shame seized her then, and she bowed as he left. The Second Sword¡¯s views were not just his own; many in the legions looked down on whiteleaf users. The drug was not outlawed, if only because of its proliferation, but its effects and aftereffects were potent. For any soldier, to serve alongside a haze-minded abuser was an affront. These men were brothers¡ªthey put their lives in each others¡¯ hands on the field. No one wished to place that trust into an addict.

    Just once, she thought dully as she splashed water onto her face. It won¡¯t happen again. As she gazed into her reflection in the basin, she could see the lingering consequences. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot, not as hard as Ossus¡¯s, but still obvious. Use it too much and the eyes could weep blood, leading to blindness and even loss of sensation. While there were no symptoms for withdrawal, the progression did not halt with time. It only made it ever easier for people to promise themselves a small dose over the years, until they were little more than husks asking for more.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Not like those, I won¡¯t be like those. I don¡¯t even have any, she reminded herself, wiping off her face and putting on a tunic before making her way over to the Third Sword¡¯s tent. It was all Ossus¡¯s doing in any case. The bastard can go fall on a blade any day. Her expression grew dark as she reminded herself of the Second Sword and his attempt the previous night. Even worse was that there was little she could do in the future without exposing her gender and being forced to leave. ¡°Crow-cused piece of shit.¡± she swore, shaking her head. Her sour expression drew the gazes of some confused onlookers, but she ignored them as she strode forward making her way over to the slightly larger tent.

    Two guards stood outside the entrance, serving the Third Sword personally. The four men of that rank answered to Lord Florell personally, and were of far more importance than Kat; it was only natural that he had bodyguards. ¡°Name?¡± called out the man on the right, a northerner from the looks of things.

    ¡°First Shield Kat, reporting as requested.¡± she spoke crisply, standing stiffly as the guard nodded. These men were equivalent to Second Swords in status, superior to her as well. Almost everything here is my superior, she reminded herself sardonically. The only things less than me are the new recruits, and they¡¯re worth hardly more than fish on land. The guard opened the tent, speaking something softly with a pause before nodding at her to enter.

    A Third Sword was subject to certain amenities, and Mors was no exception. He had a desk inside his tent¡ªan actual wooden desk of sorts, covered with parchments and ink and a low-burning candle. Mors dimly sat in a chair nearby, his tanned face wearing a scowl. The Third Sword was a large man, bearing the scars of many campaigns on his skin. He was a southerner by the shape of his jaw, his arms wide as her thigh. His body was still covered with corded muscle, even if the ease of his position had softened him somewhat¡ªhis stomach held a peculiar bulge to it that no lower-rank could afford.

    Yet there was another man in the tent as well, if he could be graced with that title. Ossus leered at her, his expression revolting and bringing up bile in her mouth. She noted with a bit of satisfaction the line of red along his cheek that she had caused; it would scar terribly.¡°That¡¯s her, sir.¡± he spoke excitedly as she straightened. ¡°She¡¯s the woman.¡±

    A sudden wave of fear ran through her, and she dared not to speak, instead gritting her teeth. Mors tilted his head, looking at her with a leisurely gaze, as if he was not particularly interested. ¡°And?¡±

    Ossus started in surprise, clearly not expecting the response. ¡°S-sir, women can¡¯t serve in the legion.¡±

    Mors nodded thoughtfully. ¡°Aye, they can¡¯t.¡± he replied before turning in his seat, not making a further response.

    Ossus seemed confused, unsure of whether or not he should respond. Kat found herself holding her breath, her heart rate unnaturally loud in her ears. ¡°Sir?¡± Ossus asked, his expression deliciously fearful.

    ¡°You may leave.¡± Mors waved thoughtlessly, turning back to his paperwork.

    ¡°But sir¡ª¡± Ossus began.

    ¡°That will be enough, Second Sword.¡± Mors growled. ¡°You have claimed the First Shield to be a woman and I will bear your claim in mind. Until then, it remains your word against his, unless you decide to press this matter further. If I am to have him pull down his breeches for a look, then I must do so for every legionary in this camp¡ªand then perhaps I should start with you.¡±

    ¡°S¡ª¡± Ossus could not seem to get a word in edgewise, his face turning beet red¡ªquite a rare color for him.

    ¡°If you press further, I might become interested into why you seem so confident as to the contents of the First Shield¡¯s breeches.¡± Mors barreled on. ¡°I might become interested into that lovely scar you have on your face, and where you got it from. I might remind you of the consequences of assault in the legion¡ªmale or female. So I will ask you one more time, Second Sword: do you wish to push this matter any further.¡±

    Ossus¡¯s face was warm enough to cook an egg, but he swallowed hard before bowing. ¡°No, Third Sword.¡± he replied, not daring to meet the man¡¯s gaze.

    ¡°Then leave, before I start wondering who¡¯s the real woman in this tent.¡± Mors waved, turning once more to his paperwork. Ossus left the tent with what little dignity he could muster, flashing Kat a look of hate before disappearing. Kat stood nervously, unsure of whether or not she too should leave. Yet as she was about to turn, Mors suddenly boomed out.

    ¡°Not you.¡± The Third Sword stood up, meeting her somewhat terrified gaze. ¡°I have no particular interest in your affairs below the belt, but I won¡¯t have you stirring up commotion in my ranks. Not when that fool wants to march on the Capital soon.¡±

    ¡°Sir?¡± Kat replied uncertainly.

    Mors handed her an envelope, sealed with a Florell crest. ¡°Your orders. You know of the Gates, yes? The men there are beholden to the crown, and they¡¯ve stayed neutral ever since King Alerick died. You¡¯re to go there with some other men and convince them that House Florell is the true crown. Get their arses off that crow-cursed wall and onto this field.¡±

    ¡°But sir¡ª¡± she started, shaking her head.

    ¡°That wasn¡¯t a request, First Shield.¡± Mors murmured ominously, and Kat nodded in defeat.

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± she sighed, knowing full well that she would have to leave Revan behind. ¡°But what how do you expect me to help? I¡¯m no diplomat, and I¡¯m not much of a fighter compared to some other men.¡±

    Mors smiled, a strange twinkle shining in his eye. ¡°No, you¡¯re not. But these things always seem to go better with a woman¡¯s touch.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 5

    The rain fell heavy as the boy ran through Mea Vatal. The puddles splashed mud and grime onto the leg, but he cared not as he wove in and out of the morning rabble. Some vendors were setting up their stands in spite of the water, tossing some rags or sheets over the wood as if it would be enough to keep them dry. Others sat on the cobbles under meager shelter, trying to keep the water off of them¡ªthe expensive fabrics and opulent garb that many wore to entice customers would quickly fall apart if they got wet. As for his own rags, they were stained with far worse than rain.

    The docks were in the western quarter of the city, below an overlooking bluff and packed with people regardless of time or day. Trade from the Skaavosi Isles and Ossia to the west was frequent and lucrative, to the point where the body of water between was called the Golden Sea. Currents ran west to east until they hit Altaros, before running north to south in a clockwise circle. Since inhabitants of the Frozen North were few and far between, for many traders from the west Mea Vatal was their first stop on Altaros. There were bound to be some leaving , that would be willing to take him elsewhere.

    Where precisely mattered not, he thought dully. Perhaps they would be going south to Malifor, filled with the dark-skinned barbarians that covered themselves with horse leathers and butchered themselves on the walls of the Gates. Perhaps they were heading west to the Skaavosi Isles, where the seafaring people were born with purple eyes to better see the stars. They wore their hair in long braids, decorating themselves with shells and beads regardless of gender or status. Or perhaps they were going even farther, to the other end of the Golden Sea where the forests of Ossia grew. The people there were pale-skinned with hair that glittered golden like the sun, both their men and women equally fair. Their dirt was black with earthfire and carpeted with green, lush forests and juicy fruits blessing their people with abundance.

    The ports of Mea Vatal were like a gateway, and where they led the boy could not know. He only knew that if he stayed here, the Nhysians would seize his head one day. And so he stumbled his way through the port, through the busting men who were hauling crates of goods off the ships. Some carried nets and rope, preparing to set out for another day¡¯s catch. Others loaded their own boats with wares from the previous day¡¯s trade, intending to set off. It was those that he eyed and followed, hoping to secure passage with perhaps one of them.

    The first that he found was a massive vessel with red sails that seemed to reach the sky. Its prow was well adorned with the figurehead of a maiden, the curving script along the side illegible to the uneducated boy but beautiful nonetheless. He followed its crew, stopping awkwardly as they loaded crates up the boarding plank.

    ¡°S-sirs¡± he began hesitantly, all-too aware of his appearance as a cripple. Now that he had begun, he became struck with doubt and dismay, nervousness strangling his voice in his throat. ¡°Excuse me¡ª¡± he spoke once more, louder this time, and one of the men turned to look at him. Suddenly he noticed the chains around the man¡¯s body and the collar that sat around his throat. They were no mere adornments¡ªthis man was a slave.

    Slaves were not uncommon in these parts of the world, especially in port cities where different customs met. Their trade was lucrative as well, despite the disputes that tended to arise. There were slaves in Mea Vatal as well; he had seen them for sale on occasion. Yet their prices were outrageously expensive¡ªa healthy man could go for over a hundred gold. For the boy who dreamt of owning a silver, that amount was an impossible sum to even imagine.

    ¡°What do you want?¡± he growled gruffly, setting down his crate with a huff. For a slave, he certainly lacked no confidence. Perhaps it was easy for the low to look upon those lower than themselves; he seemed to have a certain satisfaction as he gazed upon the crippled leper.

    ¡°S-sir I, I was wondering if you had space on your vessel¡ª¡± Willem began, grateful to his mask for hiding his features. Embarassment and ineptitude had colored his cheeks red, and he wanted to shrink away so badly that he feared his legs might give way.

    The slave fixed him with a look of utter disgust and distaste before there was a sudden shout from the deck, a loud crack ringing through the air as someone used a whip. Fear darted across the man¡¯s features as quickly as a rat, and he bent over to once more begin loading the ship. He seemed to have forgotten about the boy as he disappeared without a sound, and Willem stood there hesitantly for a few seconds before another man appeared from the deck.

    ¡°Git off, ya¡¯ fecking piece of shit.¡± he swore, waving at the boy to clear the gangplank. ¡°We paid ta¡¯ use this dock, not for some fecking one-legged bastard to block our goods.¡± His hand danced dangerously close to a whip that he kept holstered on his belt, and Willem turned with sudden haste. So quickly did he run that he stumbled on the dock planks, his foot catching an upraised portion and sending him sprawling like a fool. Jubilant laughter rang out from behind him as he fled, struggling to hold back tears.

    Don¡¯t worry about them, he reminded himself. There¡¯ll be more. Someone here will let me on. Having faced such blatant rejection, doubt and self-loathing began to eat away at his resolve. Why could they possibly let me on? What could I bring for them? Yet he steeled himself against those thoughts just as quickly as they had come, looking up while gritting his teeth. He would get out of this city, even if he had to sneak aboard a ship.

    Again he approached another ship, smaller this time with a carving of some strange water beast along the side. There were no men working nearby it as he watched, and he wondered if the owner was inside perhaps. The board was lowered, and so he strode nervously onto the deck, peering about for someone to plead to. Yet it was to no avail¡ªthe entire deck was empty. As he hobbled over to the door that led presumably to the lower deck, he heard a shout from below.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    ¡°GET YOUR SLIMY ARSE OFF MY SHIP BEFORE I RUN A SPEAR THROUGH IT!¡± bellowed a coarse voice, choked with furious anger. His heart jumped into his throat, sudden terror driving all other thought away as he vaulted off the edge of the boat, intending to land on the planks below. Yet his false leg caught on some rope, snagging in the rigging, and he was too far gone to stop. He plunged towards the water with a scream, a dim thought running through his head.

    Five and three curses, I can¡¯t swim.

    The astounding revelation did little to prevent cold seawater from surrounding him, driving the air from his lungs with the force of impact. His limbs flailed desperately as he struggled not to drown, his legs kicking wildly. The accursed mask on his face only served to trap water near his mouth, preventing him from breathing in the split seconds that he was offered when he broke the surface. His strength began to fail him as he fought, bubbles flying from his mouth. His lungs screamed for air, until they were empty and he breathed in a reflexive motion. Seawater flooded them, burning his throat, and his vision began to grow dim.

    A sudden grip seized his arm, hauling him up with abrupt strength. His vision swam, filled with tears and stinging from the saltwater, and he found knelt over on the dockside. Water and bile poured from his mouth as he coughed, spilling onto the planks as he gasped and wheezed for air. A hand clapped his back as he struggled, his thoughts swimming.

    When he had finally calmed himself, he turned to look at his savior. The man was peculiar, with long hair that hung to the waist if he was standing straight. A coarse beard was braided into two prongs, tinged with hints of red among the black and grey. His eyes were green like gems, glittering with a distant humor as he smiled. His teeth were yellowed with age, but his fangs were filed sharp all along the front.

    ¡°What kind¡¯uv a deck mankai can¡¯t swim, eh?¡± he laughed, seeing the boy regain lucidity. His voice was just as strange as the rest of him¡ªnot an accent that he recognized. It was heavy on his words, until Willem could hardly understand him.

    ¡°S-sorry, I¡ª¡± the boy started, wiping his face only to pause. His wrist was touching his skin, he realized. His wrist was touching his skin. Hurriedly, he turned to look at the water, seeing something glint vaguely as it sank in the water. His mask, he realized with a similarly sinking heart. His crow-cursed mask was gone.

    ¡°M¡¯sorry, mankai. Could¡¯n save your gold¡¯n mask.¡± he apologized, scratching his face with a bejeweled hand.

    Willem shook his head, replying, ¡°It wasn¡¯t your fault. And it wasn¡¯t gold. I was just trying to find a ship.¡±

    ¡°Plenty¡¯uv ships ¡®ere.¡± he drawled.

    ¡°N-no, I mean I was trying to see if any of them captains would let me on their ship. I need to get away from here, you see.¡± he explained, shaking the water from himself as he stood up awkwardly. The strange man smiled, taking a bow.

    ¡°Well you¡¯re in luck, mankai. Cap¡¯n Is¡¯shil, if it please you.¡± he proclaimed proudly, his wet hair throwing a rain of its own as it swung.

    ¡°You¡¯re a captain?¡± Willem asked, shocked.

    ¡°What kind¡¯uv a man would be ¡®ere if he wasn¡¯t. Come, mankai, let me show you my ship.¡± He beamed with a certain pride as he latched onto Willem¡¯s arm, dragging the boy along with a viselike grip. They navigated their way through the crowded dock, the rain finally beginning to let up as they neared the end. When they finally stopped, he threw his arms out wide.

    ¡°A beauty, no?¡± The ship certainly was pretty, painted a stark white in contrast to the other gaudy colors of the dock. There was no figurehead at the prow, and the railing was instead an ornate vine that seemed to creep along the length of the vessel. The single mast boasted no flag for the moment, while the rain fell. Compared to other ships at the dock, it seemed nothing extraordinary, yet its captain seemed practically dancing with pride.

    ¡°A-aye.¡± he nodded, and Captain Is¡¯shil dragged him aboard without a second thought. ¡°Wait, are you really letting me aboard?¡± he asked nervously, confused by the pace and the strange workings of this man.

    Captain Is¡¯shil smiled, rubbing his hand on Willem¡¯s head. ¡°Nessa thinks well¡¯uv those cripples and broken things. You¡¯ve got Nessa¡¯s blessings, mankai. You¡¯ve got good luck on Nessa¡¯s sea, and that means good luck for us as well.¡± Willem winced at the man¡¯s words¡ªcripples and broken things¡ªbut the captain seemed to mean well.

    ¡°What are you calling me? Monkey?¡± he asked, running down the list of questions that had sprouted in his head. The captain spoke it like a title, but his accent was so thick that it was hard to even be sure of that.

    ¡°Mankai!¡± he laughed, clutching his stomach. ¡°You¡¯ve got a mankai¡¯s lines, don¡¯cha?¡± He waved his fingers at the Willem¡¯s face, at the Maes that covered them. ¡°A cripple and a mankai, you¡¯ll bring¡¯s good luck on this trip!¡±

    Mankai? Perhaps that was what this man called channelers, much as the Nhysians called them vais¡¯throk? Yet Willem had questions still. ¡°Where are we going?¡± he wondered, seeing the captain prepare to go below deck as the rain let up. ¡°After you leave port, where are you going?¡±

    The captain let out a coarse laugh, gesturing out towards the water. ¡°South, mankai! We be going to Malifor.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 6

    As yet another wave sent the deck of the ship rolling, the boy retched once more over the vine railing. Water and bile splashed into the sea, his stomach heaving until there was nothing inside. His face was covered with sweat, his clothes soaked through. The salty spray coated his arms, stinging his eyes. Behind him, there was a rich laugh.

    ¡°Still can¡¯t hold it down, eh?¡± a crewman called out, swabbing the deck. Bes¡¯sahn was a heavily built man, adorned much in the same way as his captain. He wore a light jacket that did little to cover his chest as he worked, his long hair braided into a single coil. His accent was much less, however, and Willem found it easier to converse with the deckhand.

    ¡°I¡ªIt¡¯s getting better.¡± the boy gasped out, his vision swimming as the convulsions abated. As the ship rolled again, he stumbled and caught himself, his stomach once more upending itself with twitching motions. Bes¡¯sahn merely laughed, handing the boy a bucket of water with what seemed to be a ladle inside.

    ¡°Make sure to drink after, or else you¡¯ll just be a husk on the deck. I¡¯d hate to have to mop you up, mankai.¡± He smiled as he tapped the ladle on Willem¡¯s head gently, clapping the boy on the back before returning to his work.

    ¡°¡±Where¡ªwhere¡¯re you people from?¡± Willem asked, his head swimming with the roiling sea. He fought to control his stomach, hoping that conversation would keep Bes¡¯sahn close by enough to catch him if he fell. ¡°You¡¯re not Skaavosi.¡±

    Bes¡¯sahn raised an eyebrow, his mouth curled into a bemused smile that hid in his beard. ¡°No, we aren¡¯t.¡± he began, but before he could continue a large arm wrapped around his neck and hauled him back.

    ¡°Aye, iss¡¯a men¡¯hara, Bes¡¯sahn.¡± spoke another crew member, wrestling with Bes¡¯sahn good-naturedly. He turned to face Willem, his mouth a yellowed smile. ¡°We¡¯re Vysians, mankai. From south of Skaavosi, It¡¯s a¡ª¡± he began, only to be cut off as Bes¡¯sahn broke free and flipped him to the deck, the two men falling with a thud.

    ¡°Mehna y¡¯hara, Kes¡¯ssan.¡± Bes¡¯sahn hissed, his face red with exertion as he wrestled to stay on top. ¡°To afraid to face me head on, so you sneak up like a mouse, eh?¡± He was breathing hard as he forced his arms on Kes¡¯ssan¡¯s throat, legs wrapped around the smaller man¡¯s waist.

    Kes¡¯ssan fought for air, not wishing to yield, He squirmed and twisted in the viselike grip, looking for a way to break free. They seemed unwilling to resort to punches, instead grappling and pulling. ¡°Only¡ªbecause you¡¯re a¡ªa blind cricket.¡± he gasped out, before suddenly falling slack, all the tension fleeing his body. The movement threw Bes¡¯sahn off, the larger man suddenly falling forward without any resistance. Kes¡¯ssan took the opportunity to twist sideways, squirming out of the hold in a movement that reminded Willem of a worm.

    ¡°Oy, ladies. What kind¡¯uv women¡¯re fightin¡¯ on my deck?¡± drawled an accented voice, coming up from below deck.¡±I an¡¯t paying you ta¡¯ kiss on my ship.¡± Captain Is¡¯shil called out, and the two men stood up slowly, both gasping for breath while trying to appear unfazed by each other.

    ¡°Ya don¡¯t even pay us, Cap¡¯n.¡± Kes¡¯ssan replied, scratching at his beard. The man was younger than Bes¡¯sahn or the captain, his beard a lanky thing of fuzz that was just starting to grow out, his hair only growing to his shoulders.

    Bes¡¯sahn snorted, hawking up a wad of spit that flew over the railing in a glorious arc. ¡°You don¡¯t get paid, mouse. My wallet is very much full, unlike yours.¡±

    ¡°Indeed?¡± Kes¡¯ssan smirked, twirling a bit of hair as he looked in the other direction lazily. ¡°I seem to recall a rather large debt to Maa¡¯sera for drinking, back in Vysia. Have you forgotten, you booze-bellied cricket?¡± he teased, and the bigger man¡¯s face began to grow pink.¡±I didn¡¯t think you had it in you to forget Maa¡¯sera. What did you say about her¡ªbeautiful teats like plums, and you were waiting for them to ripen¡ª¡±

    The larger man tackled Kes¡¯ssan, his face flushed with embarrassment. Kes¡¯ssan, for his part, did not even seem to fight back; he was laughing hard enough that tears streamed down his cheeks. Captain Is¡¯shil had to intervene, pulling Bes¡¯sahn away with a poorly hidden smile.

    ¡°Alright, women. You¡¯re leavin¡¯ a bad imp¡¯ression on the mankai. Get back to work, or there an¡¯t going to be any halfday for you, y¡¯hear?¡± He walked away, leaving behind a cackling Kes¡¯ssan and a livid Bes¡¯sahn.

    ¡°Kessa y¡¯han meshal.¡± he barked in his native tongue, cuffing the younger man on the shoulder. ¡°How dare you bring that up, mouse? I was drunk!¡± he accused, his face still pink enough to be mistaken for a peach.

    ¡°You¡¯re always drunk!¡± Kes¡¯ssan refuted in between tears, struggling to his feet as his laughter continued. Willem could only shake his head at these lively people, unlike any that he had ever met before.

    A sudden thud rocked the boat, sending it careening dangerously and making Willem¡¯s chin strike the deck with a resounding crack. Shock stunned his thoughts, his vision swooning as he found himself jarred from the impact, both Kes¡¯ssan and Bes¡¯sahn struggling to keep their balance despite being capable seamen.¡±What the hell?¡± the larger man swore as he reached out for the railing, the vessel rocking as it tried to balance itself. Two more crewmen appeared from below deck, clutching what seemed to be weapons as they ran.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°J¡¯hara!¡± one of them cried out, throwing one of the objects to Bes¡¯sahn. He raised his eyebrows in shock, turning to look out into the water.

    ¡°This early in the morning?¡± he asked, twirling the thing in his hands. It looked vaguely like a harpoon, with a length of rope coiled into a loop. At its end was a metal spear, pronged with three length barbs that were held back at the moment, yet joints at the base suggested that they could open and lock upon an impact. More curious was the notch at the back of the metal piece, which fit smoothly into a wooden handlepiece Bes¡¯sahn held in his hand. The limb added to his throwing power, giving greater leverage and force that ordinarily could be afforded.

    The other crewmen had there own harpoons, quickly spreading out along the deck. There were no bows and arrows, no swords or spears. Willem was not sure what exactly he had been expecting, but surely not this. They were wrapping the ends of rope into the deck, around reinforced pieces of metal that he had noticed but never quite questioned. He felt out of place here, out of his element on the seas. He could only watch as they worked, another impact jarring the ship and drawing the captain out of his quarters.

    ¡°Y¡¯bleed me that fish, y¡¯hear? I want ta¡¯ eat well tonight!¡± he called out, and the crew cheered in response. Kes¡¯ssan was the only one without a harpoon, having clambered up the rigging with unnatural grace. Willem hurried away from the railing to join Captain Is¡¯shil¡¯s side, uncertain of what he was to expect. The captain merely smiled, seeing the boy¡¯s nervousness. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, mankai. Nessa looks after her own.¡±

    ¡°Along the port!¡± Kes¡¯ssan suddenly shouted, before the captain could say any more. Bes¡¯sahn and another crew member there suddenly sunk into a throwing stance, their harpoons at the ready. Their boots had slotted into the same metal plates that they had fastened the rope to, securing them to the deck so that they could keep all their focus on what was to come. ¡°It¡¯s breaching for air!¡± Kes¡¯ssan yelled from above in the rigging, and there was a sudden spray of seawater as something broke through the surface.

    Willem was not sure quite what it was at first, its figure obscured by speed and the sea spray. It seemed like an eel, long and snakelike as it soared out of the water. A massive fin ran from its neck and continued down its back, a bright blood-red. Its scales shimmered in the sunlight, a vibrant emerald green that transitioned to murky blue towards the belly. There were two fins that stuck out of the sides, likes webbed fingers that flailed in the air.

    Yet strangest of all was its head, unlike that of any other fish Willem had seen. Its eyes were massive, large as a grown man¡¯s fist, and they bulged out of either side, above a squat mouth lined with rows upon rows of thin needle-like teeth. From nose to forehead bulged a massive lump of bone and scale, like a ram. It was stark-white, flaring out in front of the eyes. Clearly this was what the fish had used to strike the boat¡ªit did not even seem damaged from the attempt.

    The entire beast was massive, perhaps three-quarters the length of the boat. As it arced, Willem could see its body flying in a crescent, from head tapering towards its eel-like tail. There was a graceful elegance to its movements, a dangerous power inside its muscular body. He was almost enraptured by the fish, unable to blink.

    The crewmen had no such qualms. Both hurled their harpoons in a coordinated movement, aiming for the flank of the fish. The first missed, flying over the upper fin where it tapered towards the tail, landing in the water past it. Yet Bes¡¯sahn¡¯s throw was true, the head of the harpoon burying itself into the side right above the pectoral fin, throwing a shower of scarlet as the fish dove back into the water.

    The length of rope spooled out, following the fish until it reached the end, tightening and pulling on the metal plate that it was fastened to. Bes¡¯sahn hauled on the rope as well, and the other crewmen ran over to aid him. They fought the fish, heaving as they pulled it back with concerted strength. The animal resisted, the rope flailing wildly as it tried to swim away.

    ¡°Come on, boys.¡± the captain muttered, watching intently as his men fought the fish. They seemed to be winning, reeling in the length of rope slowly. The seawater around them was stained a dark red, the froth against the side of the ship a deep crimson.

    ¡°Is there a danger here?¡± Willem asked nervously, ignorant of the ordeal. The captain shook his head as he watched, unblinking.

    ¡°If the J¡¯hara tried to swim away, that¡¯s fine. The problem is if it dives under the ship to the other side or tries to flip us¡ªthen we¡¯ll have to cut it loose, and we won¡¯t get the is¡¯shil back.¡± he muttered.

    Willem felt his eyebrows go up in surprise¡ªso the harpoons shared the captain¡¯s name? Ye before he could ask, the captain shouted to Kes¡¯ssan. ¡°How¡¯s it doing, boy?¡±

    There was a pause as Kes¡¯ssan watched, struggling to see clearly through the blood and foam. ¡°The rope¡¯s going straight, captain. Look¡¯s like a good one!¡±

    ¡°How are you going to kill it?¡± Willem asked, confused. He saw no weapons other than the is¡¯shil, and they did not seem to be lethal. Yet the captain merely smiled, clapping a hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder. The crew kept hauling on the rope, and the pace seemed to be growing faster. The fish¡¯s struggles slowed, the movement of the rope more erratic and infrequent now.

    ¡°You never seen J¡¯hara fishing, boy? You¡¯ve ta bleed the fish out¡¯n let it run itself to the ground.¡± he explained as the crew began to pull in coordinated motions, reeling in more and more of the rope. The ship rocked as the fish slammed against the side in its final death throes, the water all around a vibrant crimson. Other fish would be drawn to this; they had to work quickly.

    Bes¡¯sahn and another crewman threw more ropes over the side of the ship before the vaulted into the water, blades out. Willem ran to the railing, watching as they descended into the froth to cut away at the massive fish. When they had a large piece of meat, they threw them onto the deck, where waiting crew members caught them. They worked quickly, coordinated with practice. Yet Willem found himself fascinated with how they could swim so easily; they had to stay afloat as they hacked away at the J¡¯hara, on occasion diving under to get at the other side. The captain placed his hand on Willem¡¯s shoulder, and the boy found himself staring at those fingers. How had he failed to notice earlier?

    Glistening in the sea spray was a translucent membrane, stretching between the fingers like a webbing. It was thin, yet it stretched and snapped with a tenacity of rubber. Captain Is¡¯shil, seeing were he was looking merely smiled.

    ¡°We¡¯re Vysians, boy. Seafarers need some perks, after all.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 7

    ¡°It¡¯s amazing.¡± Willem muttered through a mouthful of the J¡¯hara. Nis¡¯shan was the cook on this ship, although Willem had been afraid that he had earned the title from lack of competition and not through skill. He was wonderfully wrong; the roast J¡¯hara meat was fragrant and savory. The texture was soft, to the point where it seemed to melt in the mouth like butter. The skin was crunchy and well salted, and the Vysians fought over pieces of the eye with a strange eagerness that disgusted Willem. With only six men on the vessel including himself, there was plenty to go around for everyone.

    ¡°Ya like it, don¡¯t ya?¡± Nis¡¯shan laughed, clapping Ves¡¯shen on the back. The two had been working below deck, so they were the last that Willem had been introduced to. Nis¡¯shan was an older man, his long hair greying at the base and his pronged beard hanging to his chest. Ves¡¯shen was his son, younger and closer to Kes¡¯ssan¡¯s age. He bore a single scar along his nose, his beard not yet long enough to be shaped. ¡°The secret¡¯s in the sauce.¡± Nis¡¯shan whispered conspiratorially, waving a bit of fish bone at Willem. ¡°I use just a hint of mint to go alongside the black salt, and it draws out the juice of the fish from the inside. Then you¡¯ve just got to rub some of the fat over the muscle, so that when you cook it there¡¯s a nice sizzle¡ª¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t ya see you¡¯ve lost him?¡± Bes¡¯sahn laughed, pointing at Willem confused face. ¡°He doesn¡¯t want to make it¡ªhe just wants to eat it. Like me, if you¡¯ve to say.¡± he chuckled as he took another bite.

    Nis¡¯shan shook his head in dismay. ¡°You brute; how can you possibly respect the food if you don¡¯t know what it takes to make it?¡± he muttered, sucking on a bit of bone. Bes¡¯sahn merely snorted in response.

    ¡°I respect this plenty. My stomach respects it too.¡± he decided, picking up a bit of fish eye and tossing it at Willem. ¡°Here, mankai. You can use it in your dancing.¡±

    Willem flinched as the thing rolled near him, scooting away instinctively in disgust. ¡°What are you talking about? Dancing?¡± he asked in confusion, drinking some water now that his stomach had began to grow accustomed to the rolling sea.

    ¡°Y¡¯know,¡± Bes¡¯sahn muttered through a mouthful of J¡¯hara. He began to wiggle his arms in sinuous motions, undulating his body in an utterly comical motion. ¡°Dancing.¡±

    Kes¡¯ssan slapped him, snorting through his laughter. ¡°Stop that.¡± he managed before turning to face Willem. ¡°He¡¯s talking about your spells, mankai. Can¡¯t you make some spells, or something?¡±

    A spell? Aye, he was a channeler, but he had never tried to use magic before; if he had been caught in Mea Vatal, the Nhysians would have burned him alive, or worse. He did not even know how he was supposed to cast magic¡ªthere certainly were no others that he could watch and learn from. He could only shake his head, rubbing the stumps of his fingers in a habitual action. ¡°I don¡¯t know how. I¡¯ve only ever heard stories.¡±

    Captain Is¡¯shil stroked the prongs of his beard thoughtfully, picking at his teeth with a bit of bone. He picked up a loose bit J¡¯hara skin, tossing it over to land in Willem¡¯s lap. ¡°Can¡¯t you burn that, boy? An¡¯t that what they do¡¯n the stories?¡± The other crew members muttered the agreement, nodding their heads as they watched Willem in interest.

    ¡°W-well, I can try.¡± he stammered nervously. How the hell am I supposed to do this? Yet they were all watching him, expectant gazes in the starlight. He could only swallow a gulp, closing his eyes hard. Burn! The thought felt foolish, stupid. Yet it was all that he could think of; he had no idea how he was supposed to cast magic. Burn, you stupid thing. Burn!

    His eyes were screwed shut, his heart thumping fast as he thought. His face became covered with sweat, his stomach roiling nervously as he thought it over and over. Burn, dammit! Burn! His fingers squeezed the bit of fish skin so tightly that he thought they might bleed, his arms so tight with effort that they began to tremble. Burn, you crow-cursed thing. Why won¡¯t you burn!

    Yet when he finally opened his eyes, that spiteful bit of fish skin was untouched. There was not even a wisp of smoke; it was in pristine condition. A droplet of sweat fell from his brows, stinging his eyes as he panted, throwing the bit of skin to the deck. His heart was racing, his throat raw and burning. Even his vision swam, blurring slightly at the edges.

    ¡°Ah, well,¡± Bes¡¯sahn muttered offhandedly, ¡°don¡¯t worry about it if you can¡¯t.¡± Willem heard the words, but they seemed to swim in one ear and out the other. His fingers tingled numbly, the stump of his leg throbbing painfully in its wooden cup. A sudden wave of nausea seized him, and he crumpled to the deck with a thud, his head striking the wood.

    ¡°Mankai!¡± someone shouted, but he could not quite make out who it was. His vision was blurred, everything appearing in twos and threes as he looked helplessly at the night sky. There were so many stars, so many of them lining that blackened sky. They glittered and twinkled with a distant beauty, and he wanted to raise a hand to touch them. Yet he knew that they were out of his reach, knew that no matter how hard he tried, they would always dance just out of his grasp.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    With his double-vision, they seemed like two separate layers that stacked on top of each other. He watched as they swam around each other, wanting to reach out and touch them. He could see the stars, could see each star in minute detail. They burned with a flame that was quiet with distance, yet impossibly loud in intimacy. He could feel their searing heat, scorching his skin as he touched them. He could feel the ripples of their warmth, stripping away his skin and flesh with every passing heartbeat. He could feel his own heartbeat slowing down impossibly, slowing to match that quiet, throbbing pulse of the stars. He wanted to touch them, wanted to see them burning before him.

    In that trancelike state, he could feel a trickling warmth from the pit of his stomach, a tingling sensation unlike any other that he had felt in his life. It was a strength, a gentle warmth that burned up his chest to his arms. It traveled down his limbs, searing the bone with an impossible heat that should have melted his bone, and yet there was no pain. It traveled to his fingers, pooling briefly in his fingertips before traveling out. His gaze was still fixed on that starry night sky, unblinking, unthinking. He knew not what was happening, knew not what he was doing. He was merely feeling, acquiescing to his body. He was a spectator, as much an onlooker as the Vysians that surrounded him.

    ¡°Mankai¡­¡± the captain breathed in stunned silence, drawing the boy out of his reverie. Willem blinked, looking around in a beleaguered confusion. It was a moment before he understood what he was seeing, and then his breath hitched in his throat.

    A thousand lights floated around him, a thousand tiny, flickering flames that danced in the air like so many sprites. Words fled him in that instant, and he gazed down at his hands. Thin strands of purple trailed out of his fingers, raveling loosely around the flames where they burned. Struck by a sudden thought, Willem lied back down in the same position that he had been in, watching as the lights fell into position, matching the stars in the night sky.

    ¡°Magic.¡± one of the crew members whispered, and that same thought echoed through him before a weariness suddenly ran through his bones. Magic, he thought dimly, before exhaustion made his eyes close of their own accord and his vision went dark.

    He dreamed wildly, scenes shifting as if they were in a storm. He saw a man in robes with hands upraised, the lands in front of him aflame with a conflagration that reached the sky. He saw a man knelt as if in prayer, the ground around in him covered with ice as far as the eye could see. He saw a man in the midst of a downpour, his robes soaked through as he held a single outstretched finger, lighting crackling forth with the work of some maddened god. He saw a thousand other scenes of men with unimaginable power, commanding magic at their fingertips. Power, he thought. Strength, and force of will.

    He saw garbed men standing before a crowd, before what seemed like a kneeling army. In one glance, they were all ghosts, spectral visages that floated with translucent light. In another glance, they were constructs of stone, fashioned with horrible fangs and claws that seemed almost bestial in appearance. Yet another time he looked, and they were ordinary men, collars fixed around their necks with strange symbols. Their eyes were dull and lifeless as they knelt, their movements machinelike and inhuman. Magic, he realized with a weakness in his heart. This is the strength of the magic in my limbs? Where the Nhysians wrong then, that I truly am a monster?

    His dreams changed then; they became consumed by shadows. He saw them like a swarm of insects, like a cloud of locusts that descended upon the lands. A thousand black mites, impossibly small and finer than dust, flew through the air with a voracious hunger. He saw them land on a man in a swarm, settling over his skin and clothes until he was completely shrouded by them. He saw them eat him alive with their impossibly small teeth, his screams garbled as they crowded his throat. When they finally left, even the bones were gnawed clean.

    He watched as the cloud of darkness and shadow turned to him, those insects descending upon him, and he screamed helplessly. He felt them chewing away at his flesh, felt them eating away at his veins with a thousand bites. And he could only scream soundlessly as they ate away at his heart from the inside.

    Willem sat up with a gasp, his forehead covered with a sheen of sweat, his clothing soaked through. He was on a cot below deck, apparently having been carried there by the crew. Disoriented and full of adrenaline, he stood up awkwardly before staggering to the door, his head full of bad omens. What had that dream been? What did it mean? There was a part of him that screamed in terror, that howled at him to get off this ship. It was an instinctual fear, a primal terror that begged him to survive.

    I need to speak with the captain, he decided. Whatever that dream had been, it was not ordinary. He pried open the door with trembling hands, his heart still racing from the aftereffects. Those monsters, he thought shakily. Those things ate me.

    He stumbled into the hallway half lost in thought, uncertain of where the captain¡¯s room even was. Reaching the first door that he saw, he opened it with a strange desperation. Yet with only the flickering moonlight that come in from the porthole, he could hardly see inside.

    It was not the captain¡¯s room, that much was clear. Perhaps it was where they kept the cargo, for there were crates stacked against the walls. As he stumbled in further, a sudden wave rocked the ship and he fell to the ground. His chin striking the wood, his thoughts were jarred by the impact and his vision swam. His fingers struck something hard that rattled, and he winced from the pain. As his vision settled he reached out and felt for them, feeling their cold touch.

    As the moonlight shone down, he saw the rust that covered them¡ªor at least, he had thought it to be rust. Yet rust did not take that color, nor that odor. This was blood, he realized dimly, and then shock ran through him. He recoiled instinctively, backpedaling away from the chains on the ground, for he saw them to be chains. He realized then their purpose: they held humans.

    They held slaves.

 Book 2: Chapter 8

    ¡°Land!¡± Kes¡¯ssan shouted from his position up in the rigging. The young man seemed to never tire up there, serving as lookout for the crew as they sailed. As of right now, he pointed off in the distance, along the coast.

    ¡°Aye, and we¡¯ve seen coastline for the past few days.¡± Bes¡¯sahn grumbled, scrubbing the deck. He stood up briefly to stretch his back, peering up and drawling irritably, ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s saying it¡¯s a port,¡± Captain Is¡¯shil replied suddenly, appearing from below deck unexpectedly, ¡°aren¡¯cha?¡± He peered up at the rigging, seeing Kes¡¯ssan clamber through the ropes like some strange monkey. ¡°We¡¯ve been sailing for nearly a week. We should be close by now.¡±

    ¡°Close?¡± Willem asked, leaning on the vine railing, trying to peer into the distance. There was a sheer rock face that he could see in the distance, a massive cliff of red that seemed to rise out of the sea. It loomed imperiously over the horizon, like some great wall of stone that lined the horizon. Malifor, he thought dimly. The lands that lay to the south of Altaros, home to barbaric horsemen and swathes of desert. He had wondered at first what business the Vysians had coming here, but after seeing the chains nights ago, he now understood.

    Many men took to slaving, not as their only source of income, but as another option to fill the coffers when purses ran low. Yet slaves were expensive for a reason¡ªthey were hard to procure. They were most common in lands frequented by war, where prisoners could be traded for goods. And so Malifor was an excellent place for slavers, if nothing else because of the structure of their society.

    Centered around honor and strength, they disdained the cowardly and the infirm. With their lands devoid of many resources save for the grasslands along the coast, trade was essential for their survival. And so many slavers would come to Malifor, offering all manner of fruits and metals in exchange for slaves. It seemed obvious that the Vysians had come to do the same.

    It was with this in mind that reminded himself that he was a guest on their ship. The best way to judge a man was how he treated inferiors, not his peers¡ªWillem had learned that on the streets of Mea Vatal. The Vysians treated him kindly enough, but he had the sneaking suspicion that it was only because he was a channeler. After he had cast magic for them that night, he had woken to find himself in his own cabin with a cot and clean clothes waiting. What would he have been given if he had failed, if he had not proven himself useful? Would he have found himself sleeping alongside the crates¡ªor would he have found himself in those chains?

    Don¡¯t be a fool, he reprimanded himself, shaking his head as he turned away from the railing. No one would ever take a cripple for a slave¡ªthere would be no buyers. His leg stump throbbed painfully as he thought, and he rapped his fingers on the wood. Taking in a deep breath, he watched as they neared the coast, approaching an inlet where the cliff face sloped downwards to yield what seemed to be a small bay.

    As the vessel approached what seemed to be a crude harbor, the rest of the crew came up onto the deck. ¡°Damn, no other ships?¡± Ves¡¯shen asked, peering at the motionless dock. There were some bits of wood that made a pier, but the entire place seemed eerily quiet. Captain Is¡¯shil seemed to think for a moment before looking up at Kes¡¯ssan.

    ¡°Can you see anything, boy? People? Maybe¡¯ve some people on th¡¯plains?¡± he asked, gesturing to the rock that rose out of the sides of the harbor. As the ship drifted in closer towards the pier, there was a strange silence that fell over the crew. They all waited for Kes¡¯ssan to give an answer, and yet there was a strange sensation in Willem¡¯s stomach¡ªhe already knew what would be said.

    ¡°None, captain.¡±

    ¡°None? M¡¯hara issei.¡± Bes¡¯sahn swore before striding towards the front of the ship, hands holding a length of rope. As the ship neared the pier, he lashed the rope around a pillar, pulling in the vessel and securing it before vaulting onto the wooden planks. ¡°What happened here, captain?¡±

    ¡°The ports¡¯ve never been empty before. Did something happen t¡¯the people?¡± he mused before waving a hand. ¡°Bes¡¯sahn, mankai, come with me. We¡¯ll go t¡¯look around. Nis¡¯shan, Ves¡¯shen, Kes¡¯ssan, watch the ship. I don¡¯ trust this place, Nessa watch us.¡± he decided before joining Bes¡¯sahn on the dock. Willem paused for a moment before clambering down, his wooden leg awkwardly striking the pier.

    ¡°Aye, cap¡¯n.¡± Ves¡¯shen muttered lazily, waving them off with a sloppy salute. The three disembarked with a curious caution, heading towards the stairs carved into the cliff face that took them up the stone. Willem found himself swallowing hard despite the company, a strange dread settling into his bones. Perhaps it was the eerie stillness of the entire surroundings, or perhaps it was merely the unexpected situation, but he found himself expecting the worst. It was merely his instincts speaking, but as a lifelong cripple he had long since learned to trust his instincts before any other men. They had kept him alive on too many occasions to count.

    His instincts right now screamed at him to flee.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    <hr>

    They come close now, so warm, so hot, so soft. It hurts so much, I¡¯m so hungry. So hungry¡ªso, so hungry. I can see them, yes. I can see them. It¡¯s so close¡ªso painfully, painfully close. They are coming closer, yes, yes, a little closer. Can I go now? Can I go eat?

    Please?

    <hr>

    There was a town at the top of the cliff face, overlooking the harbor¡ªor at least, as much of a town as could be expected of the Malifori. Without the resources for a strong infrastructure, their towns consisted of tents made from hide and leather, sprawling out over the lands. Wells dug into the ground were the only thing that kept people close¡ªwithout them, there could be miles before reaching some meager river.

    This town was no exception, the main landmark a massive stone well with a handle of metal, one of the few things important enough to warrant the material. Tents circled around the well, supported by sticks and large enough for three men on average. There were pits for campfires and trenches for waste, bones and bits of rotten food scattered around and blowing in the wind. Yet it was all disturbingly empty.

    All the people there had vanished seemingly without a trace.

    Silently, they walked towards one of the tents, an air of tension and nervousness surrounding all of them. Bes¡¯sahn was the first to peel back the entrance, letting the halfday sun shine inside of the tent. A sudden stench of death and decay poured out from inside, cloying and heavy like a shroud. Willem flinched instantly, his eyes watering and his heart freezing in his chest. ¡°Five and three curses!¡± he swore, peering over Bes¡¯sahn¡¯s shoulder only to stop in fear.

    There were nothing but bones inside the tent, scattered into vague piles. While some were large, there was one that clearly belonged to a child. The dirt around them was stained with dried blood, and bones themselves picked utterly clean. Even at this distance, Willem could see the gnawing marks on the bones, where the flesh on them had been utterly devoured.

    ¡°What...happened?¡± Bes¡¯sahn asked in horror, and Captain Is¡¯shil suddenly ran. Making his way over to another tent, he threw open the entrance as well, the stark white of his face delivering a clear message. Again and again they went through the town, finding nothing but bones of the dead waiting. Above them, Willem saw carrion birds cawing in circles. A few dared to land, but they were withered and skinny¡ªclearly there was not even anything left behind for them to eat.

    Captain Is¡¯shil shook his head sadly, his eyes downcast. ¡°They¡¯re all dead.¡± he muttered sadly before stopping by the well. There were bones inside there as well, from men that seemed to have fallen inside out of desperation. There were bones everywhere, from grown men to the smallest of a newborn infant. They had all been picked clean, like something done by starving animals. Yet what animals could decimate a village like this?

    ¡°Most of them were inside their tents.¡± Bes¡¯sahn replied softly. ¡°They were most likely sleeping when they were killed. And it doesn¡¯t seem to be the work of any men.¡±

    No, not men, came the thought. Willem remembered the dream that he had on the ship. He remembered the swarm that had descended to feast upon his body. He remembered the bones that were left behind after, picked clean to the marrow. They had looked just like these bones. The swarm had devoured these people¡ªhe knew it.

    ¡°We need to get back to the ship.¡± he spoke quickly. ¡°It¡¯s not safe to stay here, if whatever killed them is still around.¡± His eyes were wide, his heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears. Certainly, he had no evidence that this plague had not left as quickly as it had come, but that sensation of danger and doom refused to leave him. Together they ran back to the harbor hurriedly, yet Bes¡¯sahn let out a shout as they were still making their way down the steps.

    Looking out at the port, he saw the ship drifting out on its own accord, the rope fastening it to the port now loose and fallen into the water. There was no movement on the deck, the ship apparently abandoned as it left the port.

    ¡°What the hell?¡± Bes¡¯sahn yelled, bolting across the pier. Willem looked into the rigging, seeing movement amidst the ropes. Was it Kes¡¯ssan? Yet as he looked harder, he saw something tangled in the ropes, blowing in the wind. As the gale picked up speed, they began to fall and clatter on the pristine deck.

    Bones. More bones.

    Willem froze on the steps, watching in horror as those bones clattered onto the wood. Bes¡¯sahn had stopped as well, and an eerie silence descended upon them. There was only the lapping of the waves, the whistling of the wind in their ears.

    ¡°Wait¡­¡± Captain Is¡¯shil muttered, his face pale with sweat. And Willem strained to see, strained to listen. There was more to the silence¡ªa soft humming. It resonated through his flesh and blood, building in his ears like a distant pressure that only grew.

    Louder and louder the humming grew, until it was more like a buzzing. Bes¡¯sahn began to inch backwards nervously, the ship suddenly stopping its drifting.only to turn as if pivoting. It wheeled about to face them, the prow pointed straight at Bes¡¯sahn. That buzzing noise grew louder, and abruptly Bes¡¯sahn began to run.

    He bolted down the pier without preamble, a look of raw fear on his face. Captain Is¡¯shil was still as ice, staring at that ship with an unreadable expression. Even Willem could not look away, despite the terror that seized him¡ªor perhaps because of it.

    A black cloud flew out of the ship, slipping out of the cracks and seams in the wood only to coalesce in the air. That buzzing grew louder, became a veritable scream as the cloud of shadow flew towards Bes¡¯sahn. Despite his efforts, it swallowed him whole. That incessant buzzing only grew louder still, such that Willem could not even hear the Vysian scream.

    There was blood dripping from the shifting cloud, dripping onto the dock below. In the span of a few seconds, the cloud lifted, dispersed. What they left behind was enough to make Willem turn away, to make him run back up to the cliff and run through the dead town. He did not know where he wanted to run, did not know how he planned to get away. He only knew that he needed to get away from that buzzing, needed to distance himself from that cloud of voracious shadow.

    He only knew that he needed to get away from those bones.

 Book 2: Chapter 9

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me.¡± Revan insisted, drawing Kat in for a hug. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine with the recruits. I¡¯m more worried about you, after all.¡± He held her close for a moment before pulling back to gaze at her face. ¡°I don¡¯t know who¡¯s coming with you, but don¡¯t give them too much hell.¡± he smirked.

    Kat punched his arm lightly, pouting. ¡°And why shouldn¡¯t I? Men are disgusting creatures, every last one.¡± she smiled. Alone in the tent, it was one of the few times that had to themselves before she had to go off to the Gates. Even so, they kept their voices low; there were not many in the camp who would care to eavesdrop on a conversation, but imprudence was never a virtue.

    ¡°Even me?¡± her fiance gasped in mock shock, pulling his hands away from hers. She laughed before leaning into his chest, rocking slightly against the cold armor. ¡°I put up with you.¡± she replied, going up to plant a kiss on his lips. ¡°Mmm...and besides,¡± she muttered, head swimming a little, ¡°all this mud and dirt suits you.¡±

    She looked up for a moment, her gaze catching his brown eyes before his lips caught hers once more. ¡°I like the armor on you as well¡­¡± he mused, smiling appreciatively. ¡°And the sword fits you quite well.¡±

    Kat¡¯s eyes glimmered teasingly as she asked, ¡°Even more than that necklace you gave me?¡± His mouth twitched at the corner in a half-smile, and he pulled her in for a long kiss. ¡°I liked the way you looked with that on as well, my lady. In fact, I would like to see you with nothing else.¡± he murmured, breath hot against her ear. Playfully, she nipped at his jaw in response, drawing a slight hiss from him that made her heartbeat start to race.

    Yet footsteps outside the tent made them pull apart in an instant, both straightening their armor hastily. A slight smirk danced on her lips when she saw the dissatisfaction in Revan¡¯s eyes, and she turned to face the entrance of the tent just as it opened.

    ¡°First Shield.¡± came a gruff voice, and she nodded in acknowledgement. Throwing one last glance at Revan, she made her way out of the tent and turned to the First Sword.

    ¡°Norus, was it?¡± she asked as they walked, and he nodded. ¡°Do you know how we¡¯ll be going to the Gates?¡±

    He pointed towards the center of the encampment, and her eyes widened in surprise. ¡°W-waygate?¡± she stammered in shock, and his mouth twitched into a smile. Yet there was no reply, and her gaze was drawn to his throat. A massive scar ran diagonally from jaw to collarbone, evidently healed by magic. Seeing her looking, he tilted his head as if in challenge.

    ¡°Sword?¡± she asked nervously, and he nodded. ¡°But you can still speak?¡± He looked at her expressionlessly, his eyes unreadable. ¡°Hurts.¡± was the terse reply before he broke the gaze, and they continued their walk in silence.

    The waygate was a massive formation in the middle of the camp, formed from a circle of stones covered with runes. The runes served as a code of sorts, matching up with a corresponding waygate elsewhere in the land. Channelers powered it with magic, allowing for rapid transport of people¡ªand in the largest cases even armies. With only limiting factor was the raw amount of fuel required to keep it open, and so for most of the time the waygate was closed.

    We have channelers in the legion? The thought came as a surprise, because channelers were a rarity even in Altaros. She knew that they were nearly impossible to find in other lands¡ªeven in neighboring Malifor. For some reason, this country was the only place that would birth channelers. Yet even so, they were salt grains hidden in a pile of straw. For the Lord Florell to have one could only be described as immensely great fortune. It was likely, she realized suddenly, why he was so willing to march on the Capital.

    ¡°So they¡¯ve come.¡± came the grunt as they neared the center of the camp, finding a small group already gathered there. Nine other men were gathered, most First Swords. Kat did not recognize them¡ªthey served under different leaders, but she did recognize the only Second Sword there: Ossus. He smirked as she approached, and a sinking feeling filled her chest. Yet she soon found her vision drawn to a bit of movement behind the men.

    A young boy stepped out, perhaps of ten years at most, yet his cheeks were still round with baby fat and his fingers squat. He was accompanied by a Second Sword that she did not know, the man holding his hand as he waddled forward. The boy had a look of nervousness about him, like a child about to be tested. Yet Kat found her eyes drawn to his face, drawn to the black lines that covered the boy¡¯s skin there. Channeler, she thought with a mixture of awe and dread. But he¡¯s just a boy!

    ¡°Sir, it¡¯s time to begin.¡± the Second Sword spoke, and she noticed the chains he held in his hand. Her eyes followed the metal along the ground, until she saw them connected to shackles. Shackles that bound the limbs and throats of four men, that clattered noisily as they shuffled forward. Slaves, came the realization, and they looked up at her with pathetic eyes.

    These men were prisoners, perhaps captured from another House vying for the throne, perhaps miscreants in the cities, perhaps innocent men caught by slavers and sold at auction. They were not soldiers by trade, but rather laborers¡ªshe could tell from the callouses on their hands that bulged while the rest of their bodies shriveled in malnourishment. Their eyes were empty, their gazes tired and lost. Yet when they turned to look at the boy she saw something similar flash through their eyes. She saw the raw terror in all of them as they looked at the boy, at the channeler.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°Ok.¡± the child replied nervously, his feet squirming as he closed his eyes. Breathing slowly, he raised his chubby hands before beginning to chant. The gibberish rolled out of his mouth in a steady cadence, and the air began to buzz with an electric power, her hair tingling as the spell began.

    ¡°W-what are the slaves for?¡± she whispered to Norus beside her, afraid that she might interrupt the spell with her talking. The First Sword glared at her before gazing at them, his eyes suddenly becoming fixed.

    ¡°Fuel.¡±

    Fuel, he said, and she felt ice push through her veins. Kat could only watch as the boy began to convulse, steam billowing from his eyes and ears as his chant grew ever louder. She watched in astonishment as purple strands began to pour out of his fingertips, dancing like ribbons as they unwound through the air. She could only watch as the shackles around the slaves began to tremble, glowing with runes, and then purple strings began to pour out of their mouths.

    They were screaming, their bodies tense and their veins bulging as they trembled, the cords not so much dancing as writhing. It was as if they were being torn out, forced out, and they fought against whatever will commanded them. Yet that struggle proved to be in vain, as the twitching of the magic gradually abated. They bundled together, forming a massive mass that sunk into a pile of stones.

    The very instant that the purple ribbons touched the stones, they began to glow with runic symbols. Quivering as if they were alive, they slowly began to lift into the air. Circling and carried by the purple magic, they gradually formed an arc in the air. Like some archway, they outlined a gateway. Crackling purple sparks danced along the edge as the boy¡¯s chanting reached a fever pitch, the steam curling off their bodies shrouding the waygate. The slaves twitched feebly on the ground, lying in a puddle of blood and bile that reeked even from this distance. Crimson wept from their eyes, tracing red rivers down their cheeks as their breathing grew ragged and erratic. They will be dead soon, she thought to herself, and she knew it to be true. The air was upon them.

    The purple continued to line the archway, the steam gathering until it formed a dense surface that plumed into the air. When the chanting finally died away, the boy collapsed onto the ground, supported by his Second Sword. He was gasping hard, his face covered in sweat. ¡°Did I do a good job?¡± he gasped out, his eyes glazed over and unfocused. ¡°Aye, sir.¡± his companion responded, and a faint smile crossed the boy¡¯s lips as he fell unconscious.

    Kat much preferred to look at the sleeping boy over the dying slaves. Conflicted feelings arose inside of her, a torrent emotions that she did not know how to sort out. Instead, she tore her eyes away from them. She looked at the waygate, its edge crackling purple that danced across floating stones. Vague, indistinct symbols covered those rocks, unclear no matter how hard she tried to focus on them. In the middle was a cloud of smoke¡ªa screen that billowed and steamed, although it seemed unaffected by the wind.

    Waygates required a corresponding waygate on the other side, to become connected. On the other side, she mused, gazing into that roiling screen of smoke. Yet she could not make out anything, not even a silhouette. The Gates are on the other side.

    ¡°Well then, the channeler¡¯s done his job.¡± Ossus remarked dryly. As the only Second Sword, he had the highest rank here¡ªit was only natural that he was the leader. They formed a line, Kat and Ossus at the end, before slowly walking forward into that mist. It seemed to swallow them whole past a certain point, once enough of their body had entered. It wrapped out around them, pulling them in through the threshold.

    No turning back now, she told herself, and before she knew it she was next in line to enter. Her feet stopped, refusing to listen to her commands. She stood there stiffly, staring at that ever-shifting surface of the waygate.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong, First Shield?¡± came the oily voice behind her, and she whirled around in anger. Yet before she could do anything, two hands pushed her into the waygate and she stumbled inside. ¡°Try not to die, whore.¡± were the only words she heard before the steam wrapped around her with a strange elasticity, blinding her and stealing away her senses.

    Die? The thought was alarming, making her heart suddenly race. She could see nothing, could feel nothing. Darkness swallowed her, and then she felt a sharp pain in her fingertips. It started at the nails, working its way up to her knuckles. They it took her wrists away, working its way to her elbow. Her legs as well, from the toes to the knees to the hips. There were stabbing, lancing pains as they were torn away from her.

    She felt teeth digging into her flesh, stealing away more and more pieces of her in the darkness. She wanted to scream, yet she could not even hear herself. She could only soundlessly wail as it tore away chunks of her stomach, as it ate her lungs. Then it took her heart from her, and surely she died. Surely she died?

    Then it took her neck, and her unheard screams stopped. Her jaw next, working up to her ears. Her eyes were gouged out of the sockets with claws, then her skull was cracked. Finally it took her mind in one large chunk, and she died.

    Surely I¡¯m dead?

    Light. There was light. Something was pushing her forward, for she had no legs of her own. And she stumbled forward into the light, feeling a suddenly stabbing pain pierce through every fiber of her being. Toes, fingers, stomach, lungs, throat, eyes, every aspect of her being had been torn away and then stitched back together. She did not scream, not because she could not, but because her throat refused to obey her.

    She stumbled onto the stones, tumbling onto her knees with a shuddering gasp. A strong arm caught her before her face struck stone. Her vision swam, her heart racing, and she struggled to stand. When she had finally caught herself, she looked around. The other soldiers were all standing, and as she turned she saw the smoke part and Ossus step out.

    ¡°The Gates.¡± he smiled, his arms thrown out wide.

 Book 2: Chapter 10

    ¡°The Gates.¡± Kat muttered, walking down the sloped hallway and coughing as her lungs filled with dust. There were lanterns along the walls, but they had long since guttered out. Instead, the only source of illumination was the torch that she held in her hand. ¡°Crow-cursed elite soldiers¡ªwhere the hell are they?¡± she swore irritatedly as she swept her fingers through the air, tearing apart cobwebs as she went further through the hallway.

    They had arrived out of the waygate, but there had unexpectedly been no soldiers to meet them. Instead they had found themselves alone at the top of the Gates, the wild wind chilling their skin. Ossus had them try to search for any soldiers, but it seemed unlikely. ¡°They probably deserted once they caught wind of the King¡¯s death.¡± she grumbled to herself, the air in the tunnel making her sneeze.

    The Gates were not a solid wall, despite their outwardly appearance. They sat in a gulley, in between two sheer rock cliffs hundreds of men tall. Soldiers manned the upper walkways regularly¡ªor rather, were supposed to. There, they could use mounted ballista and hot oil from a position of strength, with the wall far too tall to climb with rope or ladder. The soldiers slept inside the wall as well; the top levels were hollow inside and served as living quarters underneath. It was here that she was investigating, taking one of the many hallways that branched out underneath the upper floor of the Gates.

    As she neared the end of the tunnel, sunlight began to shine onto the grime-covered stones. Walking up the steps, sheh found herself on the upper walkway once more, the cold wind blowing her hair wildly. Seeing Norus standing nearby, evidently having finished his run as well, she shook her head. ¡°Nothing.¡± she had to shout over the wind, which beat against her ears and threatened to swipe the words out of her mouth.

    Yet just as she had finished, there was a sudden scream from below. Flashing a look at Norus, she bolted back down into the hallway, her footsteps ringing out against the stone. Norus followed her swiftly, joining her as she ran through the maze of tunnels.

    ¡°Help!¡± came the shriek, off to the right, and she drew her sword as she rounded the corner. She was shocked to see one of the First Swords on the ground, his torch guttered out by his side. He lay on his stomach in a puddle of dark blood, clawing forward desperately. From what she could make out, one of his legs had been torn into a stump, his face trickling blood.

    ¡°What happened?¡± she cried out as she ran forward, but as she approached him he shied away from the light of her torch. Her gaze was drawn to his eyes, and she suddenly backed off as fear shot through her. A hand grabbed her shoulder abruptly, and Norus dragged her back hurriedly.

    The First Sword¡¯s eyes were utterly black, his mouth twitching as blood dribbled out of the corner. His throat worked, as if he wanted to scream, but there was no sound. Yet suddenly the air was filled with a wrenching howl. ¡°HELP!¡± came the piercing noise, so loud that she covered her ears in reflex. But that sound did not come from the First Sword; it seemed to have come from a thousand voices echoing in the air.

    As she watched is mingled disbelief and horror, a fine black dust began to pour out of the man¡¯s mouth, spilling out over the stone and scattering.into the air. More and more poured out of him¡ªfrom his eyes, from his nose¡ªstreaming out in the place of blood. As the dust came out, it began to take pieces of him¡ªbits of skin and flesh. His body became desiccated, only bits of shriveled and withered skin underneath that pristine armor. His body no longer twitched, and she realized that he was already dead, that he was merely a bait. Too late, her gaze was drawn to something at the end of the hallway¡ªtoo late, she realized that they were pieces of armor. And scattered amongst that armor were bones.

    That black dust began to whirl, as if stirred by some unfelt wind. It billowed and gathered into a cloud, a pulsing swarm that throbbed in the air. A quiet buzzing filled the hallway, and she realized that it was not dust, but more like insects. They descended upon the remnants of the First Sword hungrily, blotting out his figure and shrouding him from sight. When they finally pulled back, there was nothing left but armor and bones.

    She stood there, frozen and watching like some fool. Her legs were bolted to the floor, her eyes unable to tear away from the horrific scene displaying before her. Her breath was held in her chest until her lungs began to burn, her fingers clenched so tightly around the handle of her torch that her knuckles turned white. Fear, she realized helplessly. This sensation was simepl, paralyzing fear. It filled her and stole away her body, froze all thought until she could do nothing but stand there. Until she could do nothing more but watch.

    She still did not think as Norus pulled her back, dragging her unmoving feet through the hallway. ¡°Help...me?¡± came the distorted noise from behind the corner, formed from the voices of a thousand buzzing insects. Too late she understood that it was a trap, that this devouring cloud of shadow and death with a predator.They had killed that man, had killed others as well. Most likely, they had butchered all of the guards here. They had turned the Gates into a gravestone.

    A black cloud swarmed around the corner, and she finally had the sense shaken into her to run. Run. She turned and bolted after Norus, running up the steps as fast as she could. That cloud flew after her, lunging at her leg with a voracious hunger. She swung the only thing that she had at it¡ªher torch. Instantly, the cloud dispersed as if struck, individual specks catching fire and burning away into nothing on the ground. ¡°Help¡­¡± came the chittering cry as they pulsed in apparent anger.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    She swung the torch again, desperately, and the cloud lunged at her arm. Yet she danced back, whirling the flame through the air, and more of the black cloud seemed to burn. ¡°Help...me¡­¡± they shrieked in that borrowed voice, slowly retreating as more and more of their number crumbled into ash. She only stood there, waving her torch slowly as they sunk back into cracks in the stone, finally disappearing into the walls of the Gates. It was only after they had all disappeared that she finally fell to her knees, utterly weary and shaken.

    ¡°What...what the hell was that?¡± she managed as she staggered up the steps. She collapsed weakly against the stone, Norus sitting down next to her. Her torch guttered weakly in her hand, the wind on the wall threatening to blow it out, and she hurriedly braced her body around it to protect the flame. The fire, she thought dimly¡ªit was the only reason why she was still alive. It seemed that the black cloud could be harmed by fire, and she remembered how the First Sword¡¯s torch had been blown out on the ground beside him.

    ¡°We¡ªwe need to warn the others.¡± she said, turning to face Norus, and he nodded in agreement. Yet as they got up, her gaze was drawn to the now collapsed pile of stones at the waygate. They seemed light, yet when she had tried to move them it had felt like moving a mountain with each stone. Initially, there was supposed to be a channeler at the Gates that could send them back, but how was it to be expected that everyone here was dead?

    ¡°We need to find the others.¡± she decided firmly, turning to face Norus. He looked at her wordlessly for a moment before taking the torch out of her hand. He strode down the steps back below the stones, pausing for a moment to look at her. His head tilted, gesturing for her to follow before he descended further into the darkness.

    Go back? Fear welled up in her once more, but she pushed it aside swiftly and followed Norus. She was not certain if he knew where the others were¡ªthey were supposed to meet back on the surface by nightfall at the latest. When they reached where the other First Sword had died, Norus handed her the burnt torch on the ground, setting it ablaze with his. She held it carefully, the sensation of warmth bringing much-needed security in these dark depths.

    Down the hallways, around the cracked corners where cobwebs and dust billowed in the air, they walked with cautious footsteps. The shadows danced on the walls, thrown by their torches into massive, watching specters. Every noise made her jump, until she began imagining the buzzing all on her own. She had to clap her glove to her forehead, the leather coming away slick with sweat. Focus, she reminded herself. Find the others, and get them to the surface.

    She was so lost in thought that she nearly walked into Norus as she turned the corner, stopping abruptly as she saw what appeared to be a larger room. From the meager furnishings, it seemed to be one of the sleeping quarters for the soldiers. Yet that was not what made Norus stop; she noticed it as the light threw away the darkness.

    More discarded armor, and more discarded bones were scattered around the room. She saw fingers and toes, ribs and jaws. Skulls rattled in their helmets, some of the finer pieces crumbling to dust as she bent down to pick them up. There were at least five men here, likely holed up and dying together. The armor was not the same quality as that of the soldiers from the Gates¡ªit was unmistakably their fellow troops from Lord Florell¡¯s army.¡°Found them.¡± Norus spoke bitterly, and suddenly there was more screaming from nearby.

    Hurrying forward, she saw the flickering of light from farther down the hallway, and she ran towards it. With a sudden gasp of astonishment, she realized that it was Ossus who was fleeing for his life, and then she saw the shadowed cloud surrounding him.

    It swarmed up his arm, crawling over his torch and suddenly blocking out the fire. Those that touched it instantly crumbled to ash, falling away onto the ground, but there were thousands, hundreds of thousands of them that swallowed the flame. They wrapped around the fire, occasional tongues still slipping out, but gradually the fire died away, and Ossus was surrounded by darkness.

    She stopped, once more unable to move as fear sank its venom into her. She only watched as Ossus staggered and fell to the ground, screaming helplessly as the shadows began to tear into him. Suddenly, she was shoved to the side as Norus pushed her away, rushing over to the dying man¡¯s side. She could only watch helplessly as Norus waved his torch at the shadows, but they were already on Ossus¡¯s flesh. He swung the flame again and again, closer each time until inadvertently it clung to Ossus instead.

    Greedy flame spread once it got hold of its meal, creeping from his arm all along his side. His screaming reached an even higher pitch as he began to roll helplessly, struggling to put the flame out. Yet that which was killing him was also keeping him alive, for it drove away the cloud of shadows that surrounded him. As the flame continued to grow, the cloud lifted and hovered in uncertainty. ¡°Any...one...please...¡± they whispered in the wind eerily before Kat let out a scream and lunged.

    She swung her torch at the cloud, the flames catching some of the bugs that were too slow to avoid it. Still whispering dying moments, they slowly sank back into the stones. Her attention turned then to Ossus, whose flesh was crackling as it was devoured by flame. Norus was swiping at his skin, trying to put out the flame, but even Ossus was no longer screaming. His eyes were merely wide and unblinking, staring emptily at nothing, his mouth fixed in a silent scream. There was only the crackling of the flame, the popping of his burnt flesh as the smell of burnt hair and skin filled the room.

    Finally, Norus stepped back, unable to help as Ossus died. Kat could only watch, conflicted emotions filling her heart. It was not so much that she had been unable to help; it was not so much that she mourned his death. Rather, it was that she felt nothing as she watched him die.

    She had hated everything that he had done to her. Yet he did not deserve that death, even still. He had been half-eaten by shadow, half-eaten by flame. And as she had watched, she had felt nothing. The notion frightened her. If those things ate Norus, would she still feel nothing? If they ate Revan, would she still feel nothing?

    If they ate her, would she feel anything?

 Book 2: Chapter 11

    ¡°Run, mankai!¡± Captain Is¡¯shil had screamed before being swarmed by that black cloud, tears streaming down his face. The Vysian¡¯s legs had fallen out from under him, his fingers clawing desperately at the sand and stone as black shadows ate away at his skin. The last thing that Willem could see were his eyes, before that cloud covered him completely. The boy turned at ran, not waiting to see what would be left of the captain¡ªhe knew it in any case. There would only be more bones.

    He stumbled up the steps, his false leg catching on the stones and proving more useless now than ever. His chest heaving hard, he ran through the dead village without any goal in mind. He knew not where he was, nor where he intended to go. He only knew that he had to run away from that cloud, before it turn him into bones as well.

    The village sat on the cliff overlooking that harbor. It was the only hint of civilization that could be seen in the region, the rest all grasslands that grew near the sea. Knee-high grass stretched for as far as the eye could see, and he ran towards it helplessly. Run, mankai. Ran away. Tears dripped from his chin as he followed those orders, hands going up to wipe his cheeks.

    These hands¡ªthey were a cripple¡¯s hands. A vais¡¯throk¡¯s hands, broken and useless. Those few days on the ship had almost made him forget what he was¡ªa useless cripple, fit for nothing more than to beg. Tears streamed helplessly at the thought, but he knew it to be true. With this broken leg and these broken fingers, how could he ever hope to be of use? Why was he the one to live when all the other Vysians had died? Why him?

    His vision blurred as he remembered that night on the ship deck when he had conjured the flames, when stars had floated in the air around him. There had been a joy in him that night, a sensation of accomplishment and hope. His magic had given him a sensation of strength, of ability. It had been a fleeting feeling, foreign and fragile, but it had been there. He had been a fool to believe it.

    Where was your magic now? Where is your crow-cursed strength? The thought stabbed through him like a blade, gouging into him as he ran, and he began to wail. You watched them die, and you could not do anything¡ªbecause you are worthless. The reminder hit him like a punch to the stomach, and he stumbled with a cry. His knee struck the ground as he fell, his body rolling through the grass over and over before stopping. When he finally came to a rest, his chest was wracked with heaving sobs.

    So utterly useless, he thought as he clawed at his face, clawed at the Maes that covered him. ¡°Why me?¡± he gasped out, staring at the empty, uncaring sky. ¡°What have I done?¡± he asked, although whether it was to deserve this misery or to deserve living, he was not certain. Blood and torn skin sat underneath his grimy fingernails, the pain managing to wash away some of his madness. Heaving in a deep breath, he sat up tiredly, his shoulders trembling. His tears stung ruined skin, the wind whipping him with a cold caress. He stood on shaking legs, his thoughts desperate and tired.

    There was buzzing behind him, and a newfound panic spread through his limbs. Sudden motivation made him run once more¡ªrealization that he was not yet ready to die. Even if he was useless, even if he was a cripple, he was not yet ready to become a pile of bones and broken dreams. I want to live, came the wailing thought that made his tired legs pump and his weary arms swing. His lungs dragged in fire, his vision growing black at the edges, but still he ran through these endless grasslands. I want to live.

    But that buzzing grew louder as he ran, grew closer as he stumbled. It became keening, sharp against his ears until he thought they very well might bleed. Then, horrifyingly, he realized that they were shaping words, voices that were disturbingly human. ¡°Help...me¡­¡± they whispered. ¡°Mama¡­¡± they cried like a child, and Willem realized that they were the voices of the village, of the Malifori that had been butchered.

    Yet his heart only clenched more as he heard another voice. ¡°Run...mankai¡­¡± the shadows gasped desperately, in the voice of Captain Is¡¯shil, and he had to fight the urge to let out a scream. His feet caught on something, the shock throwing him off, and he tumbled to the ground. His arms went out to catch him and he turned, rolling to face the cloud bearing down on him.

    No, please¡ªI, I don¡¯t want to die. Raw desperation surged through him, his mind flashing back to the night when he had conjured the stars. What had it felt like then, when he had done magic the first time? It had been like a trance, almost like sleeping. How could he possibly do that now, with the cloud of shadows flying towards him?

    His pulse skyrocketed, his breathing growing ragged. Help me, anyone¡ªanything. I want to live, please. His hands were trembling, his vision growing fuzzy as his death seemed certain. Anything, please. A way out¡ªget me out of here! Yet there was no aid, no magic that flew out of his fingers. There was nothing except his trembling figure, facing that insidious black cloud.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    And then it struck him, the bits of black attacking his flesh with insatiable hunger. He could have screamed. He could have ran and tossed and struggled and fought. He could have resisted, but he was so tired. His eyes gazed emptily at nothing, staggering to his feet as the black tore into his skin. His pulse began to slow as he died, his eyes closing. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. His heartbeat grew even slower, stretching out until it became a familiar sensation¡ªone that he had experienced before.

    He felt a stirring in his stomach, drawing up through his chest, out his limbs and towards the fingers. Purple magic crawled out of his fingertips, coiling through the air. The cloud around him drew back with a buzzing hiss, as if assaulted and affronted. They danced carefully around the magic, unsure what to make of it. A quiet urgency seized the boy¡ªif he was to make a move, now was the time. What was it that he had wanted?

    A way out¡ªget me out of here. Were those not the last words he had thought?

    The magic surged and crackled, following his will as it tunneled into air and broke open the space. A great heat surged out from inside him, building until he had no choice but to scream. Yet when he finally did so, there was no sound¡ªinstead there was only surging steam and smoke that poured out of his mouth. It burned his throat and scalded his skin, forcing the shadows to draw back away from him. The smoke billowed up towards the massive rift that the magic had rent, a hole torn in the air that was bordered by crackling purple.

    An opening, he realized dully, fatigue settling in now that the spell had seemingly finished. He felt drained, as if having run without pause for an entire day. Every part of him was aflame, his mind burdened by chains of lead, but even still he could see this. A way out, he decided, stumbling towards it with the desperation of a dead man.

    Yet the shadows seemed to sense his intent and they threw themselves forward onto him with a primal viciousness. He could feel them burrowing into his flesh and leg as he fell through the rift, feel them tearing at his skin. Then there was a sensation of being pulled him, the smoke surrounding him, and he was dragged into the opening without a further thought. Behind him, the purple magic crackled and hissed before closing up like a lips of a wound being stitched together, leaving behind not even a scar as the rift winked out of existence.That purple crackling snapped shut, biting clean through a part of him too slow to enter¡ªhis leg. A piece of wood clattered onto the ground where the rift once was, smoking from touching the edge of the gate.

    Surrounded by apparent smoke and magic, Willem could neither see nor feel anything. Even the pain of the shadows had left him, everything disappearing from him until he was utterly alone. Then he felt a sharp pain in his toes, like they were being torn away from him, and he let out a wrenching scream. The noise fell on unhearing ears as his fingers were taken away next.

    He lost bits and pieces of himself, more and more being stripped away from his legs up to his stomach. He lost his arms, his lungs, and his heart. Then it was his jaw, although he could not speak. Next was his nose, although he could not smell. After were his ears, although he could not hear. Finally were his eyes, although he could not see. And then it was just his mind, cut off and surrounded by utter nothing. And then that too was taken from him.

    And then what was left?

    The thought was sudden, but before he could think any further, there was a sharp pain down his back. He had been taken apart, and now came the sensation of being put back together. His face, his neck, his spine, his chest, his limbs, they all snapped into place with abhorrent force, shooting pains running throughout his body as he screamed. And he could hear himself screaming as his body returned to him. Something shoved him from behind, as if he was being rejected, and he stumbled forward out of an unseen opening.

    He fell onto stone, his shoulder striking the ground with a crack. Blood oozed from too many wounds to count, his skin torn with chunks ripped out. His false leg, too long abused, finally snapped as he fell, shards splintering off and skittered away on the ground. Willem merely lay there gasping, his chest heaving with desperation, his gaze running over his battered body. There was no sign of the black shadows on him; he must have lost them in the magic. In his ignorance, he had no idea of the risk he had just taken. In his ignorance, he had no understanding of the power he had just wielded.

    He had opened a waygate, his mahji responding to his desperate intent of an exit. Yet without the runes surrounding the archway, it was unstable. The very construct was prone to collapse; had he been unlucky, it could have snapped through half of him as he entered. Without runes, it had no destination in mind either. Instead, it merely spat him out at the nearest gate. If there was none, then he would have been trapped¡ªstripped of body and mind until he withered away and died in that limbo.

    Should he have known the dangers, perhaps he would have more respect for the life he still had. But he had no way of knowing, and his ignorance truly was a bliss. He merely lay there gasping, taking in his surroundings slowly. He sat on some cobbles, almost wide enough to be a street, although instead of buildings there was nothing but empty air and a long fall on either side. The wind shrieked in his ear and he slowly stood, only to stumble on his ruined leg and fall onto a pile of smoking stones.

    They scorched his skin and he pulled away with a gasp of pain, trying to push them off him but instead pushing himself. There were as immovable as a mountain, despite seeming an innocuous pile of rocks, and they were covered with strange symbols that seemed to shift as he stared.

    What is this place? He wondered as he looked around, seeing no people nearby. Was he alone? Was he to be stuck here, unable to get down? The thought made him weary, and for a brief moment he contemplated the fall. Surely, a swift death is better than bleeding out on these stones.

    Yet noises from below startled him away from suicide. He staggered up, one arm clutching the cobbles for support as he rose. The action was just in time to see a wooden door on the ground swing open with a clack and a metal helmet rise up from below.

    Soldiers?

 Book 2: Chapter 12

    A sudden crash from above startled Kat, made her head jerk up abruptly. There was a tension in the air, an energy against her skin that made her hairs stand on end. It was familiar, this sensation¡ªmagic. Her eyes immediately flickered upwards, towards where she had heard the noise from, and it confirmed her thoughts. ¡°The waygate.¡± she breathed, turning to face Norus. ¡°Come on!¡± she urged, holding her torch aloft as she made her way towards a ladder.

    They had been looking for more of their companions, although all they had managed to find were piles of unidentified remains at most. Together, they had ended up going even further down the Gates, below the living quarters towards the boilers. Coal would be used to heat water into steam, which would run in pipes between the floors and help prevent ice from forming on the walkways at this altitude. Unfortunately, without any people to work the boilers, they had long since fallen into disuse and disrepair. They network of pipes and cobwebs had let even farther down than they had expected, and they had still found nothing other than a few scattered bones.

    She hurried towards the ladder that they had used to descend, climbing as fast as she could with one arm still holding the torch. Their lives depended on that fire¡ªwithout it, the cloud of shadows would emerge from the walls in an instant. She had seen them on occasion, small black specks that twitched in the corners of her eyes, only to vanish when she turned her head. She knew that they were watching, that they were waiting. Kat looked down at Norus for a moment, seeing him close behind her, and she let out a breath of relief. At least she was fortunate to still have company; she could not imagine facing these creatures alone.

    Above her, she heard scuffling and scraping on the stones. Hurriedly she hauled herself up the aged rungs, awkwardly locking her feet around the ladder as she opened the latch on the cover. Beating it loose with a fist, she wound up punching the wooden door open, it flying open to crack on the stones. She managed to climb out of the passageway to see a person leaning against the wall.

    He was covered in blood, his skin torn in enough places that he seemed to have been half devoured by beasts. His clothing was ragged and torn, more rags and string than any cloth. Steam billowed gently off of him, blurring the air around him, making him seem almost illusory at first glance. It was not until she focused that she could make out more details.

    He seemed young, too short and thin to have been older than ten-and-two. His right leg was missing, a shattered wooden peg in its place, apparently now broken. His eyes glittered with intelligence and perseverance, even though his body bore the abuse of a harsh life. But most striking were the black markings on his face, nearly lost amidst the blood and muck. They were the Maes, and she knew him to be a channeler then.

    Kat¡¯s gaze swiftly turned to the waygate, seeing the stones still billowing steam from the heat of their use. The air still crackled with lingering magic, and she knew him to have used the waygate. Norus clambered out after her, his form suddenly freezing in shock as he stared at the boy.

    ¡°Who¡­¡± the boy muttered, gasping hard. He seemed to be eyeing the walls and the fall below, and Kat was struck by a sudden urgency.

    ¡°Wait!¡± she cried out, trying to dissuade him of any foolish notions. ¡°We don¡¯t mean you any harm!¡± Hurriedly, she unfastened the strap on her helmet and took it off, tossing it gently onto the stones with a clang. The boy merely stared at her for a moment, his gaze glossing over.

    ¡°Oh, good.¡± he muttered softly before collapsing, striking the stones loudly as his body went limp.

    ¡°Norus!¡± Kat cried out, running over to the boy¡¯s side. Clearly his wounds had taken their toll on him, and his magic as well. For such a young child to use a waygate would clearly have been a deadly drain¡ªeven after using four slaves, the one in Florell¡¯s army had still been breathing hard. Yet this child had done it as well, and seemingly on his own.

    A quiet hope welled up inside her, unbidden but unrestrained. Could he use the waygate once more? Could he send us back? The notion of return and safety was a much-needed comfort on this damnable wall. Perched here on the precipice of the world, with death lurking behind a snuffed flame, she could only dream of returning to Lord Florell¡¯s camp. And now that opportunity presented itself before her; her heart would not stop racing.

    ¡°We need to stop his bleeding.¡± she urged, kneeling beside the boy. She struggled to lay him down comfortably, straightening his limbs and placing him on his back. Yet as the cold wind on the wall blew against her skin, she nearly slapped herself for her stupidity. ¡°We can¡¯t treat him up here.¡± she spoke to Norus. ¡°Help me carry him to the living quarters. We can do more there.¡±

    She lifted him by the shoulders, Norus by the waist, and slowly the stumbled down the stairs to the lower levels. They had lit the candles before with their torches, although the things were prone to going out from the wind, and the quarters were still relatively clean. Making their way in, they laid the boy down on a small cot before sitting down with a huff.

    Kat wiped her forehead, panting hard. How could such a small boy possibly weigh so much while asleep? With a grunt, she began to take off her armor¡ªit would take a while to clean the boy, and it made no sense to keep the metal on. ¡°Can you fetch some water from the boilers?¡± she asked Norus, who paused for a moment before giving a terse nod.

    ¡°Will find.¡± he grunted out, his voice strained. They would need cloth as well, to bind the wounds after. There would likely be some bandages and wrappings in the living quarters; the former occupants had been soldiers, after all. She searched the room, uncovering some in a worn chest not yet claimed by mold. They were covered in dust, but they would serve. While she waited for Norus to return with water, Kat took off her gloves and began to peel back the layers of cloth that were stuck to the boy¡¯s skin.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    The blood had began to dry and crust, causing the fabric to stick to his skin. As she tugged it apart, scabs came wth them and made the wounds bleed once more. The boy twitched and groaned in pain as she worked, but she slowly exposed the ruined skin hidden underneath. When she had managed to remove the tattered remains of his shirt, she finally stepped back and let out a wince.

    The flesh was covered in bites, bits and pieces missing as if they had been cut away. Yet there were no visible bite marks; rather, it seemed as if it had been taken apart with pinpricks. There were needle-sized holes covering him, and masses of them clumped together had managed to take out chunks of skin and muscle. Instantly, her thoughts turned to the black cloud that she had seen. They certainly were capable of something like this¡ªwere capable of wounds this small and numerous. Did this boy run from them?

    If he had, then that gave her hope. She had only ever seen men die, seen them scream and spasm and be turned to gnawed bone. That the boy lived meant that there was a chance, if not of victory, then of survival. In her current situation, survival was a welcome compromise.

    She heard Norus lumbering back with water, and she rushed over to help. He held two buckets full of water from the boilers¡ªthey would have to suffice. Setting them down next to the boy, she took out a rag scavenged from the quarters and began to work. Soaking the rag, she meticulously began to clean the wounds. The skin was red and sensitive where it was there at all, bleeding the moment that she touched it. Gently, she worked to clean the dirt and grime from the exposed skin.

    Milky white fluid wept from the tissue, yellow on occasion and other times clear. She knew not what it meant, knew not if she was doing something wrong. She could only hope to clean him as best she could before binding him. Norus watched her as she worked, before suddenly leaving down the hallway.

    ¡°Where are you going?¡± she called out, but there was no reply. ¡°Five and three curses.¡± she swore, gritting her teeth as she continued to wash the boy¡¯s arm. As she turned to his hands, her eyebrows went up in shock¡ªhe was missing a finger on either hand. There was only a small stump on his fifth finger, and his fourth finger was abnormally short as well. Truly a cripple, she could not help thinking, and she wondered where this boy had come from.

    Once she had finished cleaning the boy¡¯s upper body, she turned to the wrappings. Would there be enough? She could not help but wonder. She knew to bind the wounds, but his entire bond was a massive wound¡ªought she simply cover him with bindings? Letting out a sigh, she decided to at least try. Slowly and carefully she worked, the boy beginning to toss and shake where she touched him. ¡°It¡¯s alright, it¡¯s alright.¡± she murmured to his sleeping form, trying to calm him¡ªor perhaps trying to calm herself.

    Once he was sufficiently mummified like those Abaratt priests, she turned to his lower body. His one leg was utterly ruined, the flesh torn and ripped until she could almost see the white of the bone. His toes were stripped, his nails cracked and weeping pus. Black blood oozed out of the numerous wounds, and she knew there was no way she could clean this like she had with the upper body. She swallowed hard, resolving to ask Norus for advice when he returned. Thinking of the man made a wave of irritance run through her. Was he truly such an idiot to venture off on his own, without even telling me why?

    Instead, she turned to his false leg. The wood was splintered and broken into shards, and she slowly unfastened it from the cup. Gently, she tried to work the cup off from the stump of his leg. It seemed stuck, almost refusing to come off, and she had to brace herself as she tugged until it finally came off with a nauseating squelch. That was not a healthy sound, she reflected as she set the wooden cup down.

    There were bits of cloth that wrapped around the stump, offering some form of padding against abrasion. Yet they were utterly soaked through with blood, to the point where they were rife with the stench of rot. Does this fool know that he ought to change his wrappings? Her eyes watered as she slowly began to peel back the cloths, each layer proving more disgusting than the last. As she neared the stump, the color changed from scarlet to deep yellow, and she began to worry. When she finally exposed the flesh underneath, she almost regretted it.

    The tissue was black, weeping pus freely from numerous cracked wounds. The entire festering thing smelled of rot, and her her vision teared as a reflexive response. Carefully, she prodded gently with a finger, and yellow pus immediately oozed out of the necrotic flesh. She blanched pushing harder, and a clear white fluid squirted out against her skin.

    Stepping back, she fought to control her stomach and gather her thoughts. I¡¯m no doctor, she thought, reeling, but now I know why they¡¯re all skinny bastards. What little rations she had in her stomach churned and threatened to come to the surface.

    A clattering noise from nearby proved to be a welcome disturbance, and she gladly turned away from the boy¡¯s wounds. Norus had returned, from the bowels of the Gates, and his hands bore wood. Firewood, she realized, and a bitter shiver along her arms made her realize just how dearly she missed heat. Hurriedly, she clambered over, helping him to set the mess on the floor. Norus took out some flint, starting to strike up a spark. ¡°Where did you get the wood?¡± she asked out of curiousity, and Norus looked up at her with a short pause.

    ¡°Boiler.¡± he grunted out, his head twitching towards where he had fetched the water, and it made sense that they would need the wood there. Slowly he fed the flame until it began to crackle. Close enough to the stairs as they were, the smoke billowed up towards the walkway and outside. Kat stuck her hands out, feeling the blissful heat against her skin. She trembled in reflex, breathing out slowly as sat beside the fire. Yet a groaning noise from the cot demanded her attention, and she motioned for Norus to come look.

    ¡°What should we do?¡± she asked nervously, gesturing at the boy¡¯s legs. One was half eaten, stripped nearly to the bone. The other was a stump already, festering with rot. They did not have the tools to treat him¡ªno alcohol, no leeches, no herbs. Yet left as it was, fever would soon take him.

    Norus was silent for a while, his jaw clenched as he examined the wounds. Finally he turned away, meeting her gaze with eyes hard as rock.

    ¡°Cut it off.¡± he grunted hoarsely.

 Book 2: Chapter 13

    Willem was sleeping, feverish dreams swallowing his thoughts. He saw the Vysians again, only this time they were all kneeling before him. Rope bound their arms, their heads downcast and slumped. There was a voice counting down, every number like a punch to the gut. When it reached one, the Vysians suddenly bolted up, turning to run as far away from him as they possibly could. A sudden enthusiasm filled his heart, a sensation of euphoria coursing through him at the sight of all this prey fleeing before him. His heartbeat pounding so hard it seemed to split in number, he took off after him.

    There was no sensation of running¡ªrather, it felt as if he were gliding over the ground. No feet, no arms, he lunged after the first with a gleeful hunger. Ves¡¯shen was the first to die, and he tore into the man¡¯s flesh greedily. It broke under his teeth, melting away as he greedily slurped up more and more until there was only bones left. Ves¡¯shen had screamed desperately, yelling at the others to run. Run? Aye, he hoped that they would run. ¡°Run¡­¡± he commanded them, and they obeyed with tearful wails.

    Next was Nis¡¯shan whose face was stricken at the death of his son. Willem descended upon him as well, crippling the legs first so that the Vysian fell forward and struck his head upon the ground. Blood trickled down his face, but Willem wanted to savor the kill. He burrowed into Nis¡¯shan¡¯s stomach, tearing into the soft belly. It was like a sweet nectar, a savory flesh that melted on the tongue. More, he thought dimly as he dug deeper. I need more.

    Nis¡¯shan had been rendered into nothing but scattered remains, yet still he needed more. Again and again he hunted down the rest. They ran as hard as they could, but their arms were restrained and their bodies were weak. They had tried to hide, but they could not hide their scents, could not hide the smell of their blood. They had tried to flee, but their foolish legs were not faster than the wind, were not faster than a shadow. And when the last one had fallen, he found himself needing even more still. His gaze swept throughout the land, his hunger demanding more.

    More, he insisted, the thought maddening. That single word echoed in his mind, repeated over and over until it was an irresistible cadence. Moremoremoremore it thumped in his head, driving away all other thoughts until he practically collapsed on the ground in agony. I need more. And then he saw another figure on the horizon, and the thought of slaking this thirst nearly drove him to hysteria.

    He flew forward, flew forwards towards that strangely familiar image. It was himself, he noted as he dug into the shoulder. These are my fingers, he noted as he ripped them off one by one. This is my heart, he noted as tore the thing out with a ragged lurch. This is my blood, he noted as he watched it spray through the air like some majestic fountain. These are my screams, he noted as that glorious choir resonated in his ears. His heart was thumping as he killed himself, as he gorged on his own remains. And yet at the end, he still needed more.

    Yet as his gaze once more swept around him, he saw nothing. There was nothing around, nothing to sate this hunger. His screams of frustration and agony turned to the heavens, a hideous amalgamation of the death throes from hundreds of victims. They blended together into a horrendous cacophony that churned the hearts of any onlooker. I need more¡ªI need more. His hunger consumed him as he burrowed into the sand, trying to find anything that might satisfy him. Yet the grains of sand slipped out of his grasp, fell through his teeth. He could only scream, scream for more.

    There was a tugging sensation in the back of his mind, and the change prompted a sudden euphoria to run through him. More food? The thought was beautiful, to the point where he thought he might weep. Hurriedly he followed the urging, soaring across the land at the speed of a shadow. So eager was he that he hardly took note of his surroundings, the journey entirely instinctual until he found himself in some great hall. There was a single coffin inside, the cover thrown open and lain against the wall. Inside was a single withered corpse, mummified and dried of any fluid whatsoever.

    Yet strangely, the insides of the coffin could not be seen. It was as if the man was resting on a cloud of black, surrounded by some mist that shrouded his features. That mist seemed to be made out of a thousand specks of black, swarming around him. Brothers, he thought, and he lunged into the cloud to join his kin. His own swarm dispersed throughout the larger, until he was part of the greater whole. It was then that the corpse¡¯s eyes opened, revealing black pupils that filled the entire sockets.

    An intruder in my tomb, he whispered with a voice like sand. A hero? Or a fool? His gaze turned until he was gazing straight at him, and then the boy suddenly remembered exactly who he was. A sudden fear ran through him as he saw the corpse¡¯s mouth stretch into a faint smile. So you have seen my servants. You have felt the bite of my skal¡¯va. Go on, then. Go tell the others.

    It rose up out of its tomb, sweeping a single gnarled hand out wide. Willem saw his vision fly out until he was like a hawk, until he was like a god, peering over the land. He saw the whole of this place, that the mortals called Malifor. He saw it shrouded in black, skal¡¯va lurking in every shadow. They spread out from the corpse¡¯s tomb in the center of the land, spreading out until they broke against the warded stones of the Gates. This entire land was his, was already claimed by this living corpse. An incredible fear filled Willem as he saw, as he felt the power that this corpse wielded.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    See now that I have won this land. Where Sin failed the god¡¯s will, I have succeeded. Go and warn your people¡ªmake them rally and fight, that I might crush them at the height of their pathetic power. My skal¡¯va will descend upon your lands like a plague, and your country too will hear the voice of Atal.

    Willem felt a hand grab him by the throat, some incredible grip that seemed to seize him and drag him. Go then, intruder in the tomb of Faith. Go and tell the others. Spread the word of my god. With that, the corpse laid back inside his coffin once more, and Willem felt himself being hurled through the air, flung so hard that his vision turned black and his heartbeat seemed to stop.

    He woke with a shuddering gasp, his heart pounding so hard, he thought that it might burst out of his chest. His shoulders heaved as he drew in short gasps, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. His chest was covered in sweat, his clothing peeled away from him. Cloth wrappings bound his torso and arms, his body aching with pain from even the slightest of movements.

    ¡°He¡¯s awake!¡± a sudden voice called out, and Willem turned sharply only to wince as a red-hot lance of fire shot up his back. A soldier strode over quickly, holding a wet rag. Pressing the cloth gently to Willem¡¯s forehead, he asked, ¡°How do you feel? You had a fever for a while, but it seems to have broken.¡±

    Willem coughed, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. ¡°Who¡ªwho are you?¡± he managed to get out, the cold cloth soothing against his skin.

    The soldier sat down beside him with a smile. ¡°I¡¯m First Shield Kat. The scary one over there¡¯s First Sword Norus.¡± He gestured to another man seemingly asleep against the wall, but when he was mentioned a single eye cracked open with a glare. ¡°We¡¯re part of Lord Florell¡¯s army, although we seem to all that¡¯s left of our team.¡±

    Willem laid back, his head beginning to spin and his breath growing short. Slowly, he raised a tentative arm to take the cloth from Kat and press it against his forehead. ¡°Where...am I?¡± he gasped, the thought difficult to manage with the storm that raged in his thumping head. He seemed to be in almost a dungeon of some sorts, surrounded by stones with dim torches on the walls. Yet these men seemed to be legion from the east¡ªwhat were they doing here?

    Kat seemed to smirk, his head tilting up. ¡°We¡¯re in the Gates right now, right on the border with Malifor. We were sent to try and win over the garrison here, but when we arrived they were all dead, so here we are.¡± He cocked his head suddenly, as if just thinking of a question. ¡°Why do you ask? Didn¡¯t you know which waygate you were going to, at the very least?¡±

    ¡°Way¡ªwaygate?¡± Willem coughed violently, the movement sending spasms of pain through his body, and Kat hurriedly fetched some water. ¡°Drink slowly.¡± he told Willem, handing over a small stone cup.

    ¡°The waygate.¡± Kat replied as Willem drank. ¡°You know, the gate that you used to come here, with the magic and the smoke and all that. Didn¡¯t you know where you would be going?¡±

    Willem could only shake his head. Clearly, this soldier thought far higher of him than truth allowed. It made sense¡ªKat thought Willem to be a channeler, some incredible user of magic that could conjure storms and fire on command. Oh what a disappointment, he thought with a twinge of a smile. ¡°I was being¡ªbeing chased. I had to get out, so I must have opened the gate in my panic. I just¡ªwanted a way out, and the magic...came out.¡± he muttered, gesturing with his hands helplessly.

    ¡°Still, you could use the waygate.¡± he replied enthusiastically. ¡°That means you could end us back! You¡ªyou¡¯re a channeler after all.¡± Kat smiled for a moment before frowning thoughtfully. ¡°But you said that you were hunted? By a black cloud?¡± he asked nervously, eyes flickering to the stones around them. ¡°Almost like a¡ªa swarm of insects?¡± he asked. A sudden shock went through Willem¡¯s heart, a cold realization that they were here as well.

    ¡°You know? A¡ªabout the skal¡¯va?¡± That was what the corpse had called them, right? He had called them his servants, in the dream. Had it merely been a dream? Everything had been so lifelike. Their faces when they had died, their screams¡­ He struggled to turn his thoughts away.

    The soldier shook his head sadly. ¡°They must have killed the garrison here. We came with eleven men; now there¡¯s just the two of us. The rest were killed by¡ªby these skal¡¯va.¡± His eyes were downcast as he mulled thoughtfully. Suddenly, his gaze flickered up to meet Willem¡¯s. ¡°They did quite a number on you as well. We saw you when you came out the waygate.¡±

    Kat gestured to the bandages on Willem¡¯s chest. ¡°We tried our best to patch you up, but we¡¯re no healers. This was the best we could find here.¡± He sat back carefully, almost refusing to meet Willem¡¯s eyes. ¡°You were covered in wounds¡ªI¡¯d never seen anything like it. It was like¡ªlike pieces had been torn from your body, all over. I tried to clean you up, but it¡¯ll take a while to heal.¡±

    Willem opened his mouth to speak, but Kat suddenly shook his head. ¡°There¡¯s more.¡± he continued. ¡°Your legs, they were a mess. Your foot was a crow-cursed mess. They¡¯d gotten your toes to the bone. And your other one was festering; the skin was black.¡±

    Willem did not quite understand what Kat was trying to say. He struggled to sit up, looking down at his leg slowly. When he finally made out what he was seeing, his breath caught in his throat. Hesitatingly, he tried to twitch his foot, only for phantom pains to shoot through him like a stabbing dagger. His gaze could not move, his eyes fixed on what he was seeing.

    Kat finally looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes filled with a quiet guilt.

    ¡°We...had to amputate.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 14

    Feel the fire, Willem thought to himself, trying to slow down his heartbeat like when he had cast magic before. Feel the heat of the flame on your skin. He tried to reach for the magic in the pit of his stomach, tried to pull it up and out of him like before. He tried to remember the feeling when he had opened the rift, that sensation of desperation. Yet once more it eluded him, and he tried to reach out even harder. Yet an uninvited voice spoke in his mind¡ªgo and tell the others, it whispered. A sudden jolt of pain shot through his mind as he fell over panting, his face covered in sweat. There was a slight heat in his palms, but nothing more. Not even a spark, he noted glumly as he breathed hard, his heart rate suddenly spiking from its previously leisurely pace.

    He fell back on the stones, feeling the harsh winds scrape against his skin and chill his body. His hot breath plumed in the air, and he stuck his fingers into his armpits in an effort to keep them warm. There had been some too-large clothes scavenged for him from the living quarters, the rough cloth abrasive against his skin. Pain shot up his leg, in the toes that he knew would not be there when he looked. They ached dully, serving as a constant reminder of what he had lost even as he recuperated. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the sky, refusing to look at the bindings on his legs. He needed no further reminding that he was a cripple¡ªwas a lifetime not enough already?

    He had lost his foot, his right leg now ending just above the ankle. As for his left leg, it now ended only a hand¡¯s length from the hip. The open wounds had been cauterized, sealed by flame in the hopes of preventing any infection after they had been cleaned. Bandages were secured around them both, wet with blood and pus almost constantly. He had to change them daily, hoping that the flesh would not get corrupted. If that was the case, well, there was not much left to cut off.

    Two wooden crutches lay on the stones next to him. They were there to give him some semblance of autonomy, but in truth he knew it to be a facade. His leg ached painfully whenever he put the slightest pressure on it; he could no sooner walk on his own with those crutches than he could dance a jig. He had to carried by Norus up to the walkway just to practice magic.

    Had it been a week already since I met them? The days seemed to blend together, like some constant pressure that he bore on his back. He was not sure what to make of these legionaries; they seemed nice enough, but he felt a danger whenever he stood near them. His instincts were practically screaming at him to keep his distance. He could only smirk inwardly at the thought¡ªif he kept his distance any further, he would fall over. Cripples had no right to be independent, he reminded himself as he sat up.

    Norus cocked his head questioningly, watching. The man was silent most of the time, although there were talkative days where he almost spoke in whole sentences. Willem had never quite worked up the courage to ask where the scar on the man¡¯s throat had come from, although from its shape it seemed to be some kind of blade.

    ¡°Done?¡± he asked, getting up slowly. He and Kat took turns watching over Willem and exploring the Gates. The hope was that Willem would be able to work the waygate and send them all back the way that they had came, but they also tried to find the way down from this massive wall in case he never could. With limited food stores and the lurking threat of the skal¡¯va, the sooner they could leave, the better.

    A week¡¯s time had borne little fruit, at least in trying to open the waygate. Whenever Willem tried to bring the magic out of him to cast a spell, he was either struck by phantom pains of his missing limbs or interrupted by those voices from that corpse. Nevertheless, he resolved to keep trying. Magic was the only thing that might drive this helplessness out of his heart, that might help lift the shackles of a cripple that he had worn since birth.

    He rose awkwardly with Norus¡¯s support, hobbling over to the waygate. The rune-covered stones were motionless on the wall, pristine and untouched by any wear whatsoever. Yet without any formal magic training and without any people to help him, Willem had no idea how to use the waygate. Just try to move the stones for now, Kat had told him, but how was he even supposed to accomplish that? These crow-cursed things were heavier than grown men; even when Norus had hauled with all of his strength, they had not even budged. He was supposed to use magic, he resolved, but he could not even move the magic from where it lay coiled in his stomach.

    Taking a deep breath, he sat down in front of the stones to try once more. Gently, he cupped his hands around one of the stones, his gaze fixed on those indiscernible carvings. The runes seemed to change shape even as he watched, and so he gave up on trying to make out each individual symbol. His gaze grew unfocused, taking in the entirety of the image before him as he settled into that trancelike state once more. His breathing grew more even, his heartbeat slowing as he repeated what he had done many times before.

    Slowly closing his eyes, he reached inside himself, searching for the familiar feeling of the magic. It was coiled and tangled in the pit of his stomach, like so many strands all wrapped around each other, and he needed just one. Yet even as he reached, they slipped through his grasp like sand, like water. Over and over he tried to pull out just a single strand of magic, and over and over he failed. Frustration grew inside of him, his heartbeat beginning to rise in speed as his thoughts churned. Five and three curses, just a single damned piece of magic! Yet the harder he tried, the more it eluded him. His heartbeat continued to rise, until the sensation of the magic began to disappear altogether, as if he was reaching for something that was fast flying away from him.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Someone placed his hand on his shoulder gently and his eyes snapped open, fury and frustration making his features red. Glancing around, he saw Norus standing over him, the soldier shaking his head gently. Breathing hard, Willem hung his head in defeat, knowing that in his state, and further attempts would certainly be fruitless. His face was covered with sweat, despite the cold wind that chilled his skin. Taking his damp palms off the runic stone, he wiped them on his shirt before having Norus help him up. Leaning against the side of the wall with his crutches, they slowly walked towards the wide stairs that would take them below to the living quarters.

    Another day for failure, he muttered inwardly before shaking his head. Those thoughts would get him nowhere, and this was no place for self-pity. There would be time enough for tears when he was dead; right now, he needed to make that time as far off as possible. THe skal¡¯va, the corpse, even this battered body of his, they were nothing that he had wished for. They were nothing that he had deserved, unless some perverse god was mocking his past life. This life was not one that he had asked for, not one that he had wanted. But complaining would not make it better; self-loathing would not make the pain go away. That was the resolve that this harsh life had taught him.

    Kat came back later that night with news to share. As they sat around the fire for dinner, there was a gleam of pride in his eye. Norus ignored him and Willem was busy gnawing on the bricks that they called food, and so he continued to squirm until finally he burst out. ¡°Is no one going to ask me?¡± he demanded, snatching one of the rations for himself and tearing into his with unnecessary viciousness.

    ¡°What?¡± Willem muttered through a mouthful of what seemed to be both paste and sand, crumbs flying out of his mouth. Blood and bones, there¡¯s enough salt in this thing to cure a corpse, he grumbled, feeling all moisture leave his mouth the more he chewed.

    Kat smiled widely, seeming inordinately proud of himself. ¡°I found the way to the bottom.¡± he proclaimed, holding his stance as if waiting for some form of applause. When there was none coming, a glum look quickly spread across his face before he sunk back into his meal. ¡°Really? Nothing?¡± he grumbled, throwing his arms wide. ¡°I found us the way off this crow-cursed rock. Blood and bones, I knew the mute over there was going to say anything, but nothing from you either, Willem?¡± he pouted.

    ¡°Oh,¡± Willem managed as he forced the lump of food down his throat. ¡°Congratulations? But then where are we going?¡± he asked before taking yet another regretful bite, wincing as the harsh food abraded his sensitive tongue.

    Kat shrugged noncommittally. ¡°We can always take the Kingsroad back to the Capital. Lord Florell¡¯s camp is close enough¡ªjust a day¡¯s march off the Kingsroad at most..¡± How did he manage to eat this dried mud so easily? A sudden thought seemed to strike Kat as he stopped chewing¡ªdid he break his tooth on the food?

    ¡°That is, if we haven¡¯t already marched.¡± he mused, and Norus seemed to give a grunt in agreement.

    ¡°Marched?¡± Willem asked. ¡°Where to?¡± He had to resist the urge to spit out the food, almost resorting to using his fingers to push it down his throat.

    ¡°Marched on the Capital.¡± Kat explained. Norus stood up¡ªdid he already finish this crow-cursed shit? How? Kat continued, chewing thoughtfully. ¡°House Florell¡¯s one of the parties fighting for the throne after King Alerick died. We were sent here to win over support of the garrison at the wall.¡± A cold smirk crossed his face. ¡°An amazing success that was.¡±

    Kat too stood up, brushing some of the crumbs off his legs. He was done too? How did these soldiers stomach this? Willem set his half-eaten brick on the ground, shaking his head. ¡°I can¡¯t finish this.¡± he muttered, coughing as some of it threatened to come back after all the effort it had taken just to send it down.

    Kat merely laughed, tossing a few more sticks into the fire. ¡°It¡¯s godawful, isn¡¯t it? The food at camp isn¡¯t much better. You get used to it after a while. Come on, finish it up. You¡¯ll need your strength for tomorrow¡ªI¡¯m not carrying your arse down a thousand hands of ladder.¡± he remarked dryly before making his way over to his cot. ¡°Make sure to change your bandages.¡± he reminded.

    ¡°Aye, mother.¡± Willem grumbled, breaking another tooth gnawing on that brick. Tomorrow, he mused. What would it be like, to travel with them? His whole life, he had been trapped in Mea Vatal. Then, two weeks ago, he had resolved to flee. That first voyage of his life had taken him to brink of hell. Now, one week later, he was going on another journey. What kind of hell is waiting this time? The thought troubled him as he forced the last of the rations down.

    He thought about his dream, about the corpse that had spoken to him. What had he said? What had he called Willem? Intruder in the tomb of Faith. Was that his name then¡ªFaith? What a farce; what a mockery. Yet his grasp had swept over all of Malifor, and he said to have succeeded where another failed. His servants, the skal¡¯va, dwelt and lurked in every shadow. What was he to do in the face of such strength? What was he¡ªa mere cripple¡ªto do in the face of a foe that he could not even flee from?

    Go and tell the others, Faith had commanded him. Spread the word of my god. A cold twitch fought the corner of his mouth.

    What kind of crow-cursed god used a cripple as a prophet?

 Book 2: Chapter 15

    The rungs creaked under Kat¡¯s weight as she slowly descended down the aged ladder, the rust on the metal making her question the stability of the structure. Down look down, she reminded herself. The ladder plunged straight to the bottom¡ªif she slipped or go tired, it would prove to be a long fall. She had found the passageway behind locked doors and rusted gates, and it seemed to go down far enough to reach the bottom of the Gates. It was most likely used during construction, based on the lack of maintenance and its sealed nature.

    ¡°You all right, Norus?¡± she asked upwards, the soldier only a few rungs above her. He was supporting the boy on his shoulders and they were descending together, coordinating with breaths and grunts as they moved step by step down the rungs. Willem had their only torch bound to his arm with cloth and rope, the heat from it enough to make them all sweat in their armor. Norus gave a terse growl in reply, and Kat decided that it was as close to a yes as she would get from him.

    The monotonous nature of the activity began to bite away at her, and soon she began to count. One...two¡­ The rungs gave a sharp squeal as she placed her foot down, and she flinched in response. Testing it awkwardly, she shifted her weight and avoided the too-rusted step. Twenty-and-four¡­ Her arms were beginning to burn, her grip beginning to grow tense. Her fingers were clenched painfully, and she found herself almost prying them off the metal when she had to move.

    Her count reached three-hundred, and yet higher still it rose. Don¡¯t look down, she reminded herself, and yet the light from the torch that Willem was carrying tempted her. Shadows danced on the walls, and a faint buzzing filled her ears. It was just imagination, she reminded herself, gritting her teeth as she continued to count. Three-hundred forty-and-seven¡­ Something flickered across her field of vision, like a gnat that landed on her arm. She swatted at herself instinctively, yet when her hand pulled away, there were no smashed remains on her palm. On her wrist, there was only a pale patch of blood¡ªa small wound seemingly gouged out with a needle.

    Her heart rate suddenly rose, a wild panic surging up inside of her faster than she could fight it. ¡°H-hurry!¡± she stammered out to Norus above her, her fear galvanizing new strength into her tired limbs. Four-hundred, she counted in her mind, her jaw tense as she saw more flecks of black flitting around her. They were like hounds, smelling her scent as testing the waters. Yet that torch was enough¡ªit had to be enough. The shadows were still hesitant around the flame, and so they waited.

    Five-hundred, and her arms were screaming in pain. Sweat ran down her back, drenching her clothes. Her armor felt like a leaden weight on her body, like a mountain that she was carrying. Again and again, she forced herself to descend. Her boots rang out against the metal, clanging as she struck the next rung. Above her, she could hear the panting and ragged gasps from Norus and Willem. Blood and bones, how much farther? The thought made a weary dizziness strike her, and she finally glanced down with a gasp.

    Below her was only a plunging fall, a pitch-black that seemed to stretch on forever. Vertigo seized as she stared, until finally she had to look away with breathless gasps. Damnit, she panted, struggling even to maintain her grip. Damnit, damnit, crow-cursed¡ª

    ¡°Keep going.¡± Norus growled out from above her, his gravelly voice finally startling her into motion. Sweat burned as it dripped into her eye, but she did not have the luxury to even wipe it away. Where was I? Yet her count had been lost, and so she started over once more. One...two¡­ Her limbs were already burning was more, the brief respite insufficient. Above her, the flame from the torchlight continued to dance, the shadows on the side of the tunnel nauseating and disorienting.

    Two-hundred seventy-and two¡­ Her foot struck the rung below, but it gave out with a screech of tearing metal. Her heart plummeted instantly, her stomach feeling a jolt of red-hot agony run through it. The loss of support made her swoon, her tired arms howling at her as she struggled not to fall. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the next rung, her heart about to burst in her chest. ¡°There¡¯s a missing rung.¡± she warned Norus above her as she continued, breathing hard.

    Two-hundred ninety-and-one¡­ Her head began to grow dizzy, her arms no longer responding to her commands. Her vision blurred at the edges, and she found herself lolling sideways. One foot slipped on its rung, flying out, and suddenly she found herself falling. The cold air was almost soothing against her skin, black shadows buzzing loudly as they descended greedily upon her. Two-hundred ninety-and-two, she thought dimly before there was a louch crunch. She struck the ground, her metal helmet jarring the back of her skull, and her vision went dark.

    Screaming. Someone was screaming her name, but it felt far away¡ªalmost like she was underwater. Her eyes blinked open slowly, a throbbing pain running through her head. When she tried to move, her body wailed in fervent protest. Even breathing was taxing, each breath of air seemingly covered in fire as it was forcefully dragged into her chest. Someone was standing over her, his features blurry and obscured by the light of fire. Norus? She could only wonder dimly, slowly opening cracked lips in an effort to speak. No, that¡¯s not him.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    Ever slowly, her vision focused and she saw Willem standing over her, the markings on his face half-hidden by shadow. The flame danced around wildly nearby, and she turned painfully to see Norus waving the torch around protectively. Skal¡¯va had gathered in a cloud, buzzing angrily around the three of them, yet they dared not to approach any closer. That fire was the only thing keeping them alive¡ªand she suddenly felt as though the length of wood was far too short.

    ¡°Blood and bones, get up Kat!¡± Willem practically screamed in her ear, and she finally seemed to hear. Her throat worked, but no sound came out of her parched lips, only wind. She struggled to sit up, the movement proving to be too much for her until Willem helped her up. The boy was propped up on his arms, his single knee against a wall. They seemed to be in some room surrounded by metal and steel, the skal¡¯va closing in quickly. While Norus was holding off the swarm for now, more and more poured in from every creeping shadow,

    ¡°Fire¡­¡± she gasped out, coughing. Blood oozed from gaps in her armor; it seemed that the skal¡¯va had begun to have their way with her when she had first fallen. Her wrists and elbows, where there were gaps in the leather and metal, were sticky with crimson. Yet she hardly noticed that pain amidst all the fear that filled her mind. The buzzing of the skal¡¯va, the throbbing of her own heartbeat, they far drowned out whatever minor protestations of her body. Her gaze turned to Willem, whose face was stark white with fear. She grasped his shoulder with bloody hands, scarlet staining where she had touched him.

    ¡°We need more fire.¡± Kat rasped, her breathing growing ragged from the effort. Already Norus was beginning to tire, his flame beginning to flicker and wane. While the air was filled with the scent of char and smolder, that foreboding buzzing noise only continued to rise in volume. ¡°Please, magic¡ªanything.¡± she begged, tugging on Willem¡¯s shoulder.

    Panic covered the boy¡¯s features, but she knew that there was nothing more she could do now. Tears fell from his eyes in terror and helplessness, but she fell back in a limp motion, all her remaining strength fleeing from her body. It was out of her hands now¡ªher battered body had nothing more to give. Her limbs were unresponsive, like stone weights against her sides. Her chest felt as though it carried the weight of twenty men on top; every breath was a labor. Her vision grew strained and tired, a lightheaded sensation blowing her thoughts aside.

    She saw the boy crying out of the corner of her eyes, saw his slumped frame slowly straighten. She watched with a quiet hope as he went still, his breathing slowing in that now familiar trance. Her body went tense as ribbons of purple coiled out of his fingers, crawling along the floor and walls along the metal. Crackling energy and raw power filled the air around her, making her hair stand on end and her breathing grow heavy.

    Even Norus sensed the change, throwing a surprised glance backwards before some of the skal¡¯va descended upon his arm. The man was silent as ever while his limb was suddenly swarmed by shadow, holding the torch to his body. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air as the skal¡¯va around him crackled and burnt. The flame ate away at his own arm as well, but it was a small price to pay. The single mindedness of the action seemed to give the skal¡¯va momentary pause, and that pause was enough.

    Willem was muttering something under his breath, although Kat wondered if he even knew. The words were faint, repeating like a chant over and over. Yet as his eyebrows scrunched and his expression grew tight with concentration, she found his chant growing ever more fervent. His arms clenched, his fingers clutching like claws at the air, and he made a sudden motion like he was strangling an invisible figure. ¡°Burn.¡± he gasped, his voice choked and rasping from the effort.

    Those ribbons of magic had lined the walls and floor of the room, spreading like vines from his fingertips. At his command, they suddenly combusted with a roaring flame, the force of the blast loud enough to make Kat¡¯s ears pop. Norus had just enough time to fall flat to the ground, throwing his hands over his neck as the scorching fire blasted through the air. A brilliant display of red and yellow rippled through the confines of the room, searing the metal and distorting the air as it passed with steam and vapor.

    Fire, she thought dimly, foolishly even as it seemed it might kill her. The blinding light and numbing heat drove away all other sensation, until she found herself unresponsive on the ground, awash in the afterglow. The air around her rippled and shimmered from the force of heat, scalding her skin.

    It was a single blast, taking the span of only a single breath¡ªeven as it sucked her own breath out of her lungs. The fire passed as quickly as it had came, leaving behind lingering embers and tongues that struggled to catch root on any surface it could find. Soldering remains covered Norus¡¯s body on the ground, and he tossed and rolled hurriedly in an effort to extinguish them. The metal walls glowed red from the heat, but aside from the occasional flame that burst out for a short-lived moment, there was no more fire.

    The skal¡¯va left behind no remains, but there was a distinctive smell in the air. It was like blood and brimstone, repulsive and familiar yet decidedly inhuman. There was no more buzzing in her ears¡ªalthough to be fair, she could hardly hear anything. As she struggled to sit up, she found that there were blisters all over her body, steam and smoke curling off her skin. The numerous wounds on her joints from the skal¡¯va had been scalded such, the tender flesh swollen and pink.

    Beside her, she saw Willem breathing hard, the purple magic gone from his fingertips. Steam and white smoke billowed from his hands, the smell acrid and stinging. He was hauling in shuddering gasps, struggling to even remain upright as he was. Sweat covered his skin with a sickly sheen, with expression stark white and utterly drained of any blood from the effort. His lower lip quivered for a moment, his gaze growing unfocused, and his throat worked as if he was about to say something.

    Yet nothing left those tired lips, and his eyes suddenly rolled up into the back of his head as his figure went limp. She hardly had a moment to react before his weary body keeled over to strike the ground with a crack.

 Book 2: Chapter 16

    ¡°Willem!¡± Kat cried out, coughing with a scorched throat full of blisters and dust. Pain shot through her muscles as she tried to roll over, tried to rouse him. Yet she could do no more than turn on the ground, her bruised body incapable of any further movement. Falling back on the ground with a huff and a racing heart, her weakness made unconsciousness creep over her wearily.

    Not yet. She was lucid in her dreaming, aware of her state. Not yet, I need to wake up. Yet her mind felt like it was restrained, like there was a heavy force pulling her back where she wanted to stride forward. Frustration seized her, an utter inability to act even in this time of greatest need. Wake! Blood and bones, wake up!

    As if at her urging, she felt a sudden strength pour in through her arms, a clarity and vitality that seemed to sweep away the pain and leave behind only throbbing aches. She drew in a ragged breath, the air cool and cold against her lungs. Slowly, she winced as her eyes opened, the faint light in the room too much for her. Yet that light was not the orange-red of the torch. Rather, it was a purple glow¡ªmagic.

    Kat found her gaze drawn to the figure standing over her, a figure that she faintly recognized as Norus. She was confused until she realized that his upper body was bare, shirtless. The scar on his throat continued down his chest¡ªsomething that she had never realized. It curved and swirled on his chest, scars carved into his flesh and lining his torso down to his wrists. It was And they were glowing.

    Those scars pulsed with a faint light, glowing with dim purple. He clasped her hands in his own, threads of purple coiling out from his scars and worming into her own battered body. They were nowhere near as thick or numerous as the Willem¡¯s, but they were enough to cleanse the fatigue and pains from her body. She exhaled slowly, her heart beat calming as he slowly released her from his grasp. Settling back, he sat down carefully, his face and chest covered with sweat.

    ¡°H-how¡­¡± she stammered out, watching as the glow of magic faded from his scars. He looked up to meet her eyes, his own almost lifeless and dull. A faint twitch tugged the corner of his mouth into a smile before he fell back, utterly weary. Weary, she realized. All this time, she had never seen Norus show any sign of tiring. He had taken first watch every night; he had even carried Willem down the ladder. Yet he had never seemed out of breath.

    And his arm¡ªthe limb that had just been half-devoured by skal¡¯va and the burnt by flame just moments before. She had seen it happen with her own eyes, and yet she could see quite clearly that it was unharmed. ¡°What...are you?¡± she asked slowly, something like dread rising up inside her. All this time she had traveled alongside him, yet not once had she considered he might be something other than human.

    Sitting up and breathing hard, he blinked slowly before pulling out his sword from his side. Kat flinched instinctively, tensing in reflex only to watch in surprise as he drew the length of metal along one of the scars on his arm. He showed no sign of flinching at the pain, setting the sword down on the metal floor before peeling the lips of the wound apart with his fingers.

    Underneath that pink flesh glowed purple magic, the ribbons pulsing like worms as they writhed and twitched underneath his skin. A mixture of awe and horror filled her as she watched, looking up to see his face tiredly smiling. ¡°A monster.¡± he replied, pushing the flaps of skin back together. She saw threads of magic lash out through the skin, stitching the cut until it fully healed without even a trace of former injury.

    ¡°Your body¡ª¡± she began, but he cut her off, shaking his head.

    ¡°Not mine.¡± he gestured to his neck, turning so that she could see. The scar along his throat ran diagonally through his neck, from the center of his throat at the front and ending level with his shoulders at the back. It was a single wound, as if he had been decapitated with a sole blade. A fluttering sensation in her stomach made her realize that statement may have been closer to truth than she expected.

    He gestured to his body, gazing down at his fingers. ¡°My mind. My soul. This body¡ª¡± He waved at everything from his neck down, tracing the swirling scars carefully. ¡°¡ªan experiment.¡±

    ¡°But you can use magic.¡± Kat breathed, her eyes growing wide at the thought. ¡°Like Willem. Like a channeler. Why¡ªwhy didn¡¯t you use it earlier?¡± she asked, remembering how he had healed her. Yet his shaking head once more stifled the excitement in her heart before it could take root.

    ¡°My magic weak. Keeps me alive, no more. My fire is just a spark.¡± He gestured at her wounds, and she saw that they were not truly healed. ¡°I cleansed fatigue. You are still injured.¡± he explained, slowly rising to his feet. As if in agreement, her body failed her when she tried to stand up as well, a stab of pain shooting up her leg. Holding an arm out, Norus helped pull her up before turning to face Willem.

    The boy was resting on the ground against the metal, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth from the force of the magic that he had used. Gently, Kat tried to pull him up, his body heavy despite his small figure. He was utterly asleep, his chest rising slowly as he tossed and groaned softly. ¡°Blood and bones.¡± she gasped out, her abused body unable to do much more. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Norus was off to the side, holding the smoldering remains of the torch aloft to provide some form of illumination. The light shone over the metal walls of the room where he was standing, and he gestured to what seemed to be a dial protruding from its surroundings. Kat strode over hurriedly, her curiosity getting the better of her.

    The dial was a circular wheel made from steel, polished utterly smooth to the point that she could see her distorted reflection on the surface. Five depressions in the dial seemed to match her hand, and she instinctively reached out her hand to fit her fingers into the matching impressions. There was nothing at first, and she tried to pull them back dissapointedly. Yet before she could, there was a sudden searing heat in her fingertips, and she drew them back sharply. Steam billowed from her fingertips, the skin burnt and already beginning to blister. Five and three curses, she thought dimly, gasping through the pain as she clutched her wrist.

    She watched silently as Norus slowly extended his fingers to fit them into the sockets, half-distracted by her own pain and unable to stop him. There was a faint hum as he did so, the scars on his body glowing a dim purple. Smoke plumed out of his mouth, his body beginning to shake, yet the moment was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Before she knew it, he was collapsed on the ground, white smoke curling from his fingertips. The dial remained unmoved, unchanged apart from a slight glow in the metal.

    ¡°Are you alright?¡± she asked hurriedly, kneeling by his side as he drew in a bracing breath. His chest heaved erratically, his scars pulsing with a distant light before slowly returning to normal. Gradually he seemed to collect himself, sitting up and wincing as he shook his fingers.

    ¡°Not enough.¡± he grunted, his voice oddly disconnected. His gaze focused on the dial, its material still casting a faint glow in the dark room. The torch on the ground was beginning to gutter out, making the dial¡¯s faint radiance more visible.

    ¡°Not enough? Of what?¡± she asked, her eyes trying to focus on the dial. It was as if there were symbols carved into the surface, but they were far too faint to hope to make out. Even as she watched, they seemed to pulse on the edge of visibility, winking out just after she noticed them.

    ¡°Magic.¡± Norus responded, and he rose up to his feet only to stride over to where Willem lay in the corner.

    Kat blinked in surprise, hurriedly moving over to help him as he began to drag the boy over. ¡°Are you sure?¡± she asked nervously, yet Norus gave no response as he placed Willem in front of the dial, grabbing his arm and carefully planting each finger in the corresponding depression.

    There was a hum once more, but this time there was a trembling sensation that filled the air, a vibration that made the walls quiver and her jaw rattle. Kat watched as some unseen force threw the boy¡¯s head back, the Maes on his face glowing with purple. Ribbons and sparks of magic danced from his fingers in the air, erratic and ecstatic with their movements. Similar lines of purple began to glow on the dial itself, those symbols that she had seen before now clearly glowing on the surface. As always, they seemed to change the longer she stared, shifting into obscurity despite her best attempts.

    That trembling in the walls continued to grow, the air growing hot. Kat could not help but cough as dust filled her lungs, dust that billowed into the air in a blinding cloud. It was like sand and grit that filled her mouth, each cough forcing her to drag in another aggravating breath. The space surrounding her continued to grow more and more scorching until the air near the metal walls were rippling and distorted. She found it difficult to draw breath, the air dense and packed with debris.

    Yet that trembling grew stronger still, the humming in the air growing louder until she had to clap her hands over her ears. The walls continued to shake, the motions throwing up more and more dust until finally they almost seemed to melt before her. The air around them twisted and warped until the metal appeared almost liquid. Bit by bit, it fell away from her, light peeking in from outside. Sunlight, she realized, as it threw back the shadows and cast light upon the dark metal room.

    More and more of the wall fell away, a sharp keening sound filling her head as the dial continued to glow. Then, abruptly, it stopped¡ªa sensation like a taut cord cut clean through with a knife. The thrumming and the trembling ended, the heat quickly falling away from the air. Steam billowed from the ground, filling her vision and scalding her skin at the touch. Where there were once smooth walls, there was now nothing¡ªthe metal had dripped slowly into the earth. In its place, she could see the grass and sky from outside, a view that she had only enjoyed previously at the top of the Gates.

    An exit, she realized jubilantly, as soon as her thoughts had gathered. The dial had fallen silent once more, the runes and all signs of magic disappearing from its surface. Willem¡¯s hand had fallen to the ground, smoke curling from the Maes on his face, sparks and energy crackling in the air around him from the presence of magic.

    ¡°Norus!¡± Kat cried out, gesturing to the rugged, half-hidden path that continued outward. From the angle of the shadows, she knew that it led north. The Kingsroad, she remembered faintly. Back to Revan and the camp. This crow-cursed mission, the damnable skal¡¯va, they were so close to leaving them behind. ¡°We can get back, Norus!¡± she cried out, waving to the no-longer-man who lay crouched over Willem¡¯s sleeping form.

    Closer now, she thought with jubilation. Closer to safety, and home, and leaving all this behind. The sunlight shining down on her body was like a warm embrace, shedding away an eternity of despondence and despair. It¡¯s almost over, Kat reminded herself with irrepressible enthusiasm, seeing the grass and road before her.

    She could not hear the carrion birds that cawed above, nor the buzzing that was faint in the distance.

 Book 2: Chapter 17

    Exhaustion had made his dreams hazy, but Willem found the experience almost relaxing as he slept. His weary body had collapsed almost immediately after he had channeled flame at the skal¡¯va, all strength leaving his limbs. Not even a gasping word had managed to escape his lips before he had fallen over, sleep claiming him.

    His dreams were shifting and feverish, unclear and indistinct. He saw himself in Mea Vatal once more, only in his dreams he was no longer a cripple. He walked those streets with whole legs, like how the taller men always had. He strode on the roads, tossing handfuls of coins for wares from the merchants, ignoring and scoffing at the beggars on the sides of the roads. In his dreams, he was whole¡ªhe was the one staring down at the weak. It was a liberating feeling, one that filled him with a quiet pride and exhilaration.

    Yet before he could revel in the sensation, he suddenly keeled over. Jeers and mocking laughter surrounded him as he groaned and tried to rise, only to find his legs gone. Puddles of crimson were all that remained of those now-bloodied stumps, the pain unbearable as he screamed. He was in the middle of the cobbles, surrounded by ridiculing onlookers. Embarrassment and shame made him want to hide, made him want to disappear and sink into the earth. He wanted to fly away, to join those uncaring birds in the sky, and so he did.

    Wingless and legless, he caught a sudden gust of wind and rose up into the air. The angry crowd shouted and hurled stones at him, but still higher he rose. He left that crow-cursed city behind, climbing higher and higher until finally he was safe. He was riding the wind, weightless as a feather. Slowly he drifted, uncaring and unthinking, until a familiar sensation gripped him.

    There was a buzzing in his ears, and his gaze hurriedly turned down. As he did so, he plummeted back to the earth, a terrified scream tearing its way out of his throat. He struck the ground with a plume of dust, dirt and debris flying around him and blinding him. He coughed violently struggling to sit up only to find his crippled legs defying him once more. When his vision finally cleared, he saw five coffins bare before him. A sinking feeling filled him as they opened, knowing in his heart what he was about to see.

    Inside were the Vysians, their corpses shriveled and withered with age. Kes¡¯ssan had his stomach devoured, and Bes¡¯sahn was missing an arm. When they opened their eyes, there was only depthless black in those sockets. Their mouths opened in an unheard scream, that buzzing sound growing louder as a cloud of black dust poured out of their throats. Skal¡¯va gathered, whispering in that rasping tone. ¡°Co...ward...¡± they mocked, ¡°Cripple¡­¡± The voices grew louder and louder as the skal¡¯va circled him, gathering around him like a stifling storm.

    His breathing grew ragged, his chest growing tighter. Hands clutched at his head and ears, falling onto his side as his eyes gazed emptily at nothing. His heartbeat grew erratic as the voices grew more numerous, their mockery and jeering blowing away all other thought. Tears streamed down his face as he trembled, twitching helplessly until he could do nothing more but wail in remorse. As he did so, the skal¡¯va seized the opportunity to swarm down his throat, dust and beetles pouring into his mouth greedily.

    They clawed at his insides and devoured his flesh, eating him alive until the pain was almost a blessed release. Is this death? The sensation was strange, a warmth in his chest growing hotter and hotter until he convulsed involuntarily, white smoke curling from his nostrils. It was like the burning of magic, filling him with a tingling feeling from inside that stemmed from the pit of his stomach. A flame seemed to burn inside of him, the smoke searing his lungs and scorching his throat until the buzzing and whispers of the skal¡¯va turned into their death throes. He could feel them twitching inside of him, crumbling into ash and nothingness as they were consumed by fire. And in the end, he found himself lying there, shoulders heaving as he struggled to breathe.

    Are you the Oa¡¯kul to the south that has piqued my king¡¯s interest? A sudden voice filled his head, rasping and reptilian in the way that it hissed. Shock filled his head, making him twist and turn as he tried to identify the source of the voice. Yet it seemed to come from inside him, echoing inside of his skull. The voice sounded distorted and strained, as if it was an effort to communicate.

    What was it saying? Oa¡¯kul? King? He did not understand the strange words in his mind, the strange voice that spoke to him. It beseeched him, tugged at him like it held a rope. Come north, it cried out to him. Come north to meet my king. Come north to the Outlands.

    He wanted to ask more to the voice, ask more of what it meant and what it had called him. Yet he could feel that tether pulling away, feel that connection wither and withdraw, and then his thoughts were all his own once more. That thing had been an envoy, whatever it was. Its message had been delivered, its purpose fulfilled. A slow trembling filled him, a quiet urgency that compelled him to wake quickly. Wake, cripple. Wake, fool.

    Willem rose up with a gasp, his forehead covered with sweat as he sat up. His chest was heaving, drawing in heavy breaths that were fever-hot. He gazed around dimly, his flesh swollen and pink, unnaturally hot to the touch. His head throbbed with a dull ache, his mere thoughts making him nauseous as he struggled to remain lucid. While his bandages had evidently been changed, the crusted, bloodied sensation that covered him did not leave. His entire body felt worn and consumed by fever, flaming and tired. Yet confusion was enough to keep him awake as he examined his surroundings, his breathing ragged.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    He was lying on a bed of straw, inside of a wooden room too-small to be described as anything other than cramped. Light shone in from a small window, letting him see the treeline that extended outside. The sounds of voices came in from outside, and he shifted in his cot in an effort to get up.

    ¡°Mmmf.¡± came the mumbling sound from next to him, and he nearly fell off the bed in surprise. Clearly, the room was not as small as he had initially taken it to be. What he had first taken to be a wall was merely an outcropping to another section of the room, where Norus lay dozing on a wooden chair. He had evidently been woken up by the noise, slowly rising and bending over to carry Willem on his back.

    ¡°Where are we?¡± the boy asked, feeling rather embarrassed as the soldier hoisted him up like some child. He swooned, the movement fortunate enough to prevent his head from striking the top of the doorframe as they left the room.

    ¡°Whitestone. Village.¡± Norus replied tersely, leading them out into a cozy hall with a fireplace and rugs. The furnishings were well enough. Kat was talking with an older man, sitting on the fur rugs with a small cup of what seemed to be tea.

    ¡°Ah,¡± the old man smiled, seeing Norus come in with Willem. ¡°So the channeler has woken. I hope our humble village has enough to service you adequately.¡± he beamed, bowing lowly as Norus set Willem down on the ground.

    ¡°Uh¡ªyes, of¡ªof course.¡± Willem managed nervously, awkward and confused at the sudden formality. The old man seemed to relax at the sound, previously unseen tension leaving his back as he breathed out in relief.

    ¡°He is pleased.¡± he murmured before turning to bow apologetically to Kat. ¡°I am sure there is much you have to discuss. I will trouble you no longer.¡± he replied before making his way to the door, leaving the space so that there was only the three of them left.

    ¡°How are you feeling, Willem?¡± Kat asked, being the first to break the silence. He smiled gently, turning to face Willem who was lying awkwardly on the ground.

    ¡°Well enough, I suppose. What is this place?¡± Willem replied, thrown off entirely by the way that the older man had treated him. It had been a strange mix of reverence and fear, to the point that he had almost been afraid that Willem was unsatisfied with this village. For the cripple that had long been abused and ignored in Mea Vatal, it was a stark change.

    ¡°This is Whitestone Village, a bit west of the Kingsroad. It was two hours march from the Gates; we carried you here two days ago. You¡¯ve been sleeping since burning the skal¡¯va.¡± Kat explained, making a motion to sip from his tea only to frown as he found the cup empty. ¡°We¡¯re in the village head¡¯s house right now. He¡¯s been letting you rest in here.¡±

    ¡°Why¡ªwhy is he so afraid of me?¡± Willem stammered out, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Norus strode over to a chair half-falling into it and giving a loud snore almost instantly.

    Kat watched with a vague smile, remarking, ¡°He¡¯s been watching over you two days now. I suppose even he has to sleep.¡± The statement confused Willem, yet before he could ask on it any further, Kat continued. ¡°The people here have never seen a channeler. Most channelers are born east in the Heartlands, don¡¯t you know? And even still, they¡¯re rare. There will hardly be more than five alive at once that the king knows of. To these villagers living on the border of Malifor, you¡¯re like a legend come to life.¡±

    He waved his hands wildly, gesturing to the air and the walls. ¡°You can burn them, freeze them, or steal the air from their lungs. You can till their fields, water their crops, or bless their children. In their eyes, you¡¯re a god. Why would the village head dare to trouble you?¡±

    ¡°But I¡¯m just a useless cripple.¡± Willem protested, looking forlornly at the stained bandages that covered the stumps of his legs. Even his fingers throbbed, the stunted things a constant reminder as well. There was hardly a piece of him that was whole at this point. ¡°I¡¯m not god¡ªnothing could be farther from the truth.¡±

    Kat shook his head, smiling gently. ¡°You burned the skal¡¯va, Willem. That was you. That was something neither of¡ªthat I couldn¡¯t have done.¡± he paused, glancing briefly at Norus before continuing. ¡°You have a power inside of you that most men could only dream of. You keep mourning your legs, Willem, only to ignore the wings on your back.¡± He got up slowly, striding over to hug Willem gently. ¡°Fly. Don¡¯t crawl, fly.¡±

    Hesitation seized Willem, and his thoughts turned suddenly to the skal¡¯va in his dreams. Surrounded by Kat¡¯s gentle warmth, he felt the sudden urge to share the weight that he had been carrying on his chest. ¡°I¡ªI need to tell you something.¡± he started, and Kat pulled back curiously. Willem fidgeted with the frayed end of a bandage awkwardly, uncertain of how to continue but having gone to far to stop.

    ¡°When I...saw the skal¡¯va first, it was in a dream. And in that dream, I saw more than just the skal¡¯va. I saw a¡ªa corpse, and it was still alive. It spoke to me.¡± he explained, shuddering slightly as he remembered that vivid dream. ¡°He called the skal¡¯va its servants, and I could see them covering all of Malifor. He said that he had succeeded where others had failed. He called himself Faith, and he told me¡ªtold me to tell the others, to warn the others.¡±

    He looked up finally, meeting Kat¡¯s gaze. Willem had no way of expressing the fear that he felt, the hopeless dread that filled him just from gazing upon this thing. It had been abhorrent in every possible way, a living corpse that simply did not belong in this reality. And the power it wielded, the harbingers that it called mere servants¡ªhow could anything hope to stand in the face of that? The skal¡¯va would descend on this land like locusts, blotting out the sun. And all they would leave behind would be bones.

    His lips trembling, Willem struggled to gather himself.Kat seemed about to interrupt, to ask something, but he pressed on. ¡°There was something else, another voice. I don¡¯t know what it was, but it spoke after we had left the Gates. It said something about a king wanting to meet me.¡±

    ¡°It wanted me to go to the Outlands.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 18

    ¡°We have to keep moving.¡± Kat urged them, although it had been hardly a day since Willem had woken. ¡°Best start before halfday. It gets hot down here in the south.¡± Willem watched as the soldier rolled rations and clothes into a cloth pack. He had seemed eager to start moving again in the hopes of returning to the Capital, even though they could not have possibly stayed in this village for more than three days.

    Willem had been rehabilitating with what little time he had been given. With a short cap fitted over the stump of his foot and a new wooden leg that was carved from some of the redleaf trees around here, he was getting used to walking on his own once more. Balance proved a precarious thing to maintain, especially now that he lacked the coordination of his other leg. Too many times he intended to take another step, only for one limb or another to fail him, and he found himself facing the sky with a strange swelling in his head.

    There was a knocking at the door as they prepared to set off, and Kat answered it curiously.A young woman was standing behind nervously, homely and warm with an expression of nervousness. In her arms was bundle of clothes that, upon closer inspection, seemed to hold a young babe. She was rocking it gently, the child evidently asleep.

    ¡°P¡ªpardon me,¡± she stammered, her face going beet red upon seeing Kat¡¯s figure in the doorframe. ¡°I¡ªis this where the c¡ªchanneler is staying?¡± She fidgeted awkwardly, playing with her fingers until it seemed as though she was rocking herself instead of the baby. She noticed Willem in the back of the room, making out the Maes that covered his face, and her expression nearly went white as stone from shock and terror. Kat gave a gentle smile and nodded, letting the woman continue.

    ¡°I¡ªum, w¡ªwe just had a¡ªa¡­¡± she stuttered, her voice slowly dying away as she grew more and more embarrassed until finally she had to look away. ¡°A child.¡± she finally managed, her voice little more than a squeak. ¡°A baby girl. Mila.¡± Her chest was heaving at this, her face slick with sweat, as if she half expected to be beaten just for introducing her child.

    ¡°Congratulations.¡± Kat beamed, leaning over to take a look at the sleeping girl. ¡°Is she healthy?¡± he asked, and the woman nodded hurriedly.

    ¡°A¡ªaye. She was squalling louder than my husband.¡± she proclaimed proudly, before stopping awkwardly, as if realizing what she had just said. Her body stiffened in mortification before Kat laughed, and then some of the hesitation seemed to rush out of her. She smiled softly, her gaze turning once more to the girl who had just seemed to have woken up.

    ¡°Hello there,¡± Kat waved, sticking out a gloved finger to shake her chubby hand. He turned to the girl¡¯s mother then, asking, ¡°So then what brings you and Mila here?¡±

    Her mother once more went rigid, swallowing hard as she worked up the nerve to speak. ¡°W¡ªwe were h¡ªhoping that the channeler here might¡ªof course, if you aren¡¯t too busy¡ªmight be willing to¡ªto bless our child.¡± she finally managed to get out, going still as a statue at the end with embarrassment and something like fear. The baby, as if sensing her mother¡¯s predicament, immediately began to wail loudly. This in turn prompted the woman to shush her loudly, shoulders shaking like she was about to break out into a sob.

    Kat looked pleadingly at Willem and he was stunned for a moment. Bless her child? He hardly knew how. The only thing he had ever done was burn the skal¡¯va, and this was nearly the complete opposite. How could he possibly dare to do such a thing with a life at stake. Yet as Kat continued to stare at him and his gaze turned to the wailing girl with her chubby fists, he felt his expression soften.

    ¡°Aye, I can try.¡± he spoke softly, and her gaze suddenly snapped up to meet his, disbelief covering her face. Her throat bobbed a few times, her body entirely still as she seemed to process what he had said.

    ¡°T¡ªtruly?¡± she gasped out finally, as if not daring to believe it. Willem merely nodded slowly, fixing his gaze on the crying child.

    ¡°I¡¯m not much good at it, but I can try.¡± he repeated, walking over awkwardly, his wooden limbs clacking on the ground. He held out a hand towards the child, and he saw something indiscernible flicker across the mother¡¯s face as she saw the crippled fingers. She pulled the child back instinctively at the sight before realizing what she had done, immediately dropping her gaze with her shoulders trembling.

    The child, for her part, stopped crying as Willem came near. She looked at his hand curiously, grabbing at it with fat fingers before letting out a happy squeal. ¡°Hello.¡± he greeted under his breath, smiling gently as she giggled. Then, knowing that he would have to deliver on his promise, he closed his eyes.

    He knew not what it meant to bless a child. Give her strength? Give her intelligence? He knew not how to do those things. He could have her grow up healthy¡ªbut would that of itself be a blessing? He could try to give her beauty, but he knew not how to do any of those things. Magic, he decided finally. Magic had almost a mind of its own; if he used sent magic into her with the intent to bless her, it would work on its own.

    Calming himself, he reached inside himself for the strands of magic that lay in the pit of his stomach. They were fewer since they had left the Gates¡ªeven these days of recovery were not enough time for his magic to fully replenish. And so he had found himself pulling on the strings of magic, lips moving almost of their own volition as he drew the strength up through his limbs to his fingertips. His heartbeat slowed to an impossible degree, matching the beat of the earth around him, that age-old, timeless heartbeat.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Purple ribbons bloomed out of his fingertips, all the onlookers silent as he worked his chant. It spiraled out and danced through the air, swirling around the child. Her mother was trembling in terror, drawing back her arm whenever the magic neared as if afraid to let it touch her. Kat watched in fascination, staring at those purple ribbons and their gentle, pulsing light. Willem saw none of it, however, his eyes closed and his lips moving in a murmuring chant. He knew not what he was saying; it felt instinctual and natural, rolling off the tongue as he drew out more and more of his magic.

    Bless this child, he commanded, sending the magic into her. The ribbons began to sink into her skin, and her smile suddenly faded. May she grow up healthy. The girl began to cry, more and more ribbons sinking into her chest and limbs. May she be intelligent and strong. Her mother was seemed to want to pull away, to tear her child away from this magic, but fear and hesitation held her still. May her beauty blossom like a flower that radiates throughout the land.

    The magic gathered above her heart, burning hot with a searing heat underneath the bundle of cloth. It seared into her flesh a brand, a black pattern not unlike the Maes. Of its own volition, the magic burned onto the girl an ornate flower, impossibly intricate and ornate. Her wails grew louder as this happened, yet it was hidden by the cloth that swaddled her, none of the others able to see. Purple magic sank into her bones and flesh, spreading a gentle warmth out from her chest. Slowly, the child¡¯s crying began to cease, her expression growing relaxed as she swiftly fell asleep.

    Willem was breathing hard as he opened his eyes, unsure of what he would see. Sweat covered his face as he drew back his arms, grateful to see the girl apparently unharmed and sleeping soundly. Yet he found the mother staring at him with hopeless fear and confusion, her expression utterly terrified as she stood rooted to the ground. Her lips began to quiver, and before either Willem or Kat could say anything, she took off towards the town.

    ¡°Wait¡ª¡± Kat called out, but she was already gone. He swore loudly, shutting the door after her. ¡°What happened?¡± he asked Willem, not unkindly.

    Willem could only shake his head, breathing hard from the ordeal. ¡°I sent the magic into her, and I told it to bless her. I don¡¯t know why she started to cry, but I think it worked.¡± He stared at the door blankly, gathering the storm of emotion that had swelled within him. ¡°I hope it worked.¡± What had happened? What went wrong?

    Kat clapped a gentle hand on his shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, you¡¯ve a good heart. I¡¯m sure you didn¡¯t hurt her.¡± he comforted before picking up the rest of their things, heading outside. He was gone for a few minutes, coming back inside only to find Willem in the same stunned position, unmoving. ¡°Come on, we¡¯ve more to do today than mope around.¡±

    Those last words were enough to shake Willem out of his trance, and he began to shuffle outside, his gait uneven and awkward from the wooden limbs. Yet he could not wipe away the look of terror that had been on the mother¡¯s face, nor the strange sensation of guilt that filled him from seeing it. What did I do? Was I expecting something else? Aye, that must have been it. He had been imagining the girl with a glow of gold around her. He had been imagining the mother breaking out with a smile, her eyes beaming and tears streaming from her face as she bowed profusely, thanking him. He had been expecting success and praise, achievement and pride. He had forgotten that he was an incompetent and a cripple.

    The thought bittered him as he walked outside, finding Kat and Norus affixing their supplies to a wooden cart. Two horses knickered impatiently, grazing on the patchy grass as they waited. ¡°Are those ours?¡± he asked, stopping to examine the beasts. They were short and stocky, evidently workhorses built to plow fields for hours without pause. Shaggy hairs ran down their muscled legs, their manes longs and coarse.

    ¡°Aye.¡± Kat replied, loading their packs of supplies onto the cart. ¡°We bought them from some of the villagers for three gold apiece, and the cart here too.¡± he grunted out with a huff, finishing and clapping the dust off of his hands. Norus was busy saddling one of them, struggling to keep it steady as if twitched and bustled.

    ¡°There¡¯s only enough space for you to ride in the cart,¡± Kat explained, ¡±So we¡¯ll be in front on the horses. We¡¯ve got rations and supplies that should last us to the Capital, and the trip shouldn¡¯t take more than two weeks at most.¡±

    ¡°What about the Outlands?¡± Willem asked, remembering the voice that had spoken to him. Come north to meet my king, it had told him.

    Kat paused before frowning. ¡°There¡¯ve been strange rumors about the Outlands recently, after King Alerick died. Farmers nearby have been complaining of missing livestock, and we haven¡¯t heard from the diggers that work in the mountains. It¡¯s probably too dangerous to head into them, but the Kingsroad passes by the Twisting Spires.¡± He shrugged noncommittally, turning around to straighten his back. ¡°We can see when we get closer, but I wouldn¡¯t advise you to go there.¡±

    Willem frowned turning his gaze north towards where the voice had asked him to come. A king to the north. Feeling a strange fluttering in his stomach, he made his way onto the cart with a huff, turning south back towards the Gates where they had came from. A corpse to the south.

    And a cripple in between, he remarked dully as the two soldiers mounted their horses, preparing to leave Whitestone Village.

 Book 2: Chapter 19

    The sun bearing down felt incredibly hot against Kat¡¯s skin, and a sudden gratefulness filled her when she remembered that they had taken off their armor. Soldiers away from the Gates were a rare sight in these lands, especially those bearing some distant lord¡¯s sigil, and they had decided earlier that the armor would attract more attention than it warranted. As it was, even their light leather garments were slick with sweat from the halfday heat.

    ¡°Should we stop soon for food?¡± she asked Willem in the back. Norus seemed to function just as well with or without rations; ever since he had revealed to her his nature, he had refused to eat. Upon remembering what he had shown her, she felt a ripple of nervousness run through her, snatching a quick glance at him on the horse next to her.Ever since that day, she had started to notice smaller details about him that had slipped past her previously¡ªhow his skin seemed to glow faintly when the light grew dim, how he slept with his eyes open as slits instead of truly being at rest. They served as small reminders of what he had shown her¡ªthat his body was inhuman.

    ¡°If you¡¯d like.¡± Willem responded, tearing her thoughts away from Norus as they disembarked off the Kingsroad. Turning the horses loose to graze, they took out some of the bread and bitterfruit that the villagers had given them. They sat in a loose circle in the grass, bugs and beetles darting away as they prepared to eat.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to eat, Norus?¡± Willem asked, and Kat started in shock, looking over at the soldier. He flicked his gaze over at her for a brief moment before shaking his head, turning away to keep an eye on the road.

    ¡°Not hungry.¡± he growled out, his voice rasping and dry as always. Willem seemed unsatisfied with this answer, but before he could press the issue any further there was the sound of hooves, beating out a frantic rhythm against the cobbles of the Kingsroad. The three of them swiftly turned towards the source of the sound, seeing four horses pulling a covered wagon down the Kingsroad.

    ¡°Hail!¡± Kat called out, seeing the driver approaching. The group stopped momentarily on the road, the curtains pulling back to reveal some curious eyes. ¡°We¡¯ve not seen much company on the road. Where are you from?¡±

    ¡°A coastal town, a ways northeast of here. But we be hurryin¡¯ west now.¡± The driver called out, his voice brisk as if every moment spent speaking was a moment wasted. ¡°You best not go that way, if it¡¯s where you intend. The diggers in the mountains have gone mad.¡±

    ¡°Mad?¡± Kat asked, surprise evident in her voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Willem start in surprise, his interest piqued.

    ¡°Aye, they¡¯ve been coming down from the mountains.¡± the man replied, his grievances evident in his voice. ¡°They¡¯ve taken our children, our grain, and our water. Those who tried to fight them were butchered. We¡¯re all that¡¯s left of our village, after two raids.¡± There were perhaps four families clustered in that wagon, malnourished and thin, huddled together in those cramped quarters.

    ¡°Mayhaps we can settle in some Edgeland town.¡± the driver snorted, waving his hand before grabbing the reins tight once more. ¡°Take my advice or ignore it, I care not.¡± he spoke before continuing down the Kingsroad, the wagon wheels clacking loudly against the stone. Curious eyes watched them from the back of the wagon, curious children that were swiftly restrained by worried mothers.

    When they had left, Willem turned to Kat. ¡°What did they mean, the diggers are raiding? What were they talking about?¡±

    Kat frowned, trying to recall what she knew about the strange men. ¡°The diggers mine the mountains for metal. They used to be men, but they had their bodies changed by magic to be tougher and stronger.¡± she explained, remembering what she had read in her father¡¯s study when she was supposed to be learning how to sew. ¡°They¡¯re covered with coarse hair, and their bones are three times more durable than any other man¡¯s. But they¡¯re simple-minded and rarely leave the mountains. I¡¯ve never heard of them raiding villages.¡±

    ¡°What could drive them to do such a thing?¡± Willem asked.

    Kat muttered thoughtfully, ¡°What indeed? Perhaps it has something to do with King Alerick¡¯s death.¡± She had a sudden thought, turning to meet Willem¡¯s gaze. ¡°Or, perhaps this has to do with that king of yours in the Outlands. The mountains border the Outlands, after all. This king of your might be having some influence on the diggers.¡±

    She thought for a moment, hurriedly finishing up her meal. ¡°In any case, we¡¯ll need to use to Kingsroad to get back to the Heartlands, so we¡¯ve no choice but to keep going. And if he was telling the truth about the diggers, then we¡¯ll need to know more to warn the Third Swords. They can¡¯t do anything off of rumors and the words of panicked villagers; we need to tell them precisely what we¡¯ve seen.¡± she decided firmly, standing up.

    ¡°So then we¡¯ll still be heading along the Kingsroad?¡± Willem asked nervously. ¡°Despite what those villagers said?¡±

    Kat turned her gaze to the distance, seeing those tall peaks standing stark against the sky. ¡°We¡¯ve no other choice. And if they come for us, they¡¯ll find us harder prey than some frightened villagers.¡± she growled, her hand resting on the sword at her hilt. Although, a part of her mocked, legion fighting won¡¯t do much good with only two legionaries. Perhaps a flaw you¡¯ve overlooked? She stamped out that voice just as quickly as it had sprung up. There was no time for doubts and hesitation here, not when they needed to hurry back to the Heartlands. They had seen things that the Third Swords needed to know. The skal¡¯va, the empty garrison at the Gates, even this living corpse that Willem had called Faith¡ªthese were not things that could be ignored over some petty throne in the east. She had seen those shadows that swallowed men like a cloud¡ªit would not care who held the crown, and it would turn them all into bones all the same. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    With that being said, she cleaned up the remains of their meal and readied their cart, Norus off bringing back the horses. Willem stood up awkwardly, making his way over to join her. ¡°If the diggers come,¡± he murmured softly, ¡°I don¡¯t want you all to die trying to save me. Leave me behind if you have to.¡±

    Those words startled Kat, and she flinched back in shock to look at Willem. The boy¡¯s gaze was downcast, his eyes dark but hard with determination. And he was just a boy, she realized, still impossibly young despite all that he had been through. A cripple, a beggar, and a channeler¡ªhe had been all of those things, and at an age when he ought to be playing on a farm still, watching and helping his father till the soil. She had known that Willem was mature past his years by virtue of his upbringing, but even still she had not been expecting those honest words.

    He continued, his voice low but firm. ¡°I don¡¯t want any of you dying for a cripple. If I¡¯m caught out, just run.¡± His shoulders were trembling, fear evident on his face, but he seemed to be fighting back tears. For the first time, Kat realized just what he ought to be thinking. That he was nothing. That he was a cripple. That he was useless. Those thoughts would be what he had been told begging on the streets. They would be as familiar to him as his name¡ªperhaps even more so. It was no surprise that where she saw a channeler, a wielder of magic, he looked at his own reflection in the water and saw an incompetent.

    Gently, she wrapped her arms around him and drew him in close. ¡°It won¡¯t come to that.¡± she whispered into his ear, feeling his shoulders heave as he cried against her chest. Tears of her own seemed to want to slip down her cheeks. Once more, she was reminded that he was just a boy. With all that he had been through, all that she expected of him, all that he believed of himself, at the end of it all he was still just a boy. Would I be any better? The thought struck her like a knife in the stomach, and her arms tightened around him. Could I expect more of myself, if I were in his place?

    No, she ought not to be comparing herself to him¡ªnot when she did not fully know the terrors that he had lived through. ¡°It won¡¯t ever come to that,¡± she reminded him as he began to calm down, ¡°I promise.¡± Yet a part of her regretted those words the moment that they left her lips. You don¡¯t know that, a voice whispered inside of her, eager to be given the opportunity to stab its words into her heart. You can¡¯t promise that you¡¯ll even live yourself. That doubt bit into her like a viper, and she felt her limbs begin to grow weak even as she tried to squelch the feeling. You¡¯re just as much of a fool as he is, that voice reminded her before disappearing.

    ¡°Come on, we¡¯d best get going.¡± she murmured, stepping back as Willem nodded. Norus was busy hooking the horses back up to the cart, apparently not having listened to their conversation. Yet as Kat made her way over to her horse, he tilted his head sideways and gave her a glance.

    ¡°Alright?¡± he asked, coughing a little at the end of the word. She paused slightly as she considered everything that had flashed through her head before finally giving a short little smile. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± she allayed, swinging one leg up as she got onto the horse. ¡°Come on.¡±

    While the Kingsroad proved to be uneventful, it gave her time to think. She thought about family, about Revan who was waiting for her in the camp. Was he still there training the recruits, or had they begun to march already, even without hearing word of from the garrison at the Gates. They did have that child channeler, but even so, surely it was foolish to march on the Capital when half the legion was still raw. And what did Revan think of her? There had surely been no news ever since they had been sent through the waygate. Did he think that she was dead? Or was he still waiting for her patiently, despite the weeks that had passed?

    Thoughts fluttered through her head, each once a chain that pulled on another, until she found herself tired and weary from merely thinking and considering everything that might be happening around her. Revan led to the legion. The legion led to the Gates. The Gates led to the skal¡¯va. The skal¡¯va led to Willem. Willem led to diggers and on and on until she found herself swamped by what if¡¯s and perhaps.

    So distracted was she that Kat did not even notice as night was beginning to fall. The sky darkened, the air around them shimmering slightly. The horses began to nicker, Norus turning his head swiftly, as she suddenly sat upright in her saddle. Her skin tingled, her body tense, and she hurriedly called out, ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± Her voice was pathetically shrill, panic creeping in even when she needed it most to be steady.

    ¡°Ya dun know ou¡¯sa here. Ya dun know ou¡¯sa doin.¡± came a little laugh, unintelligible and hoarse. The air around them shimmered and rippled, peeling back suddenly like cloth being folded away. Veils, she thought dimly. Magic.

    Out stepped numerous short, stout creatures, with bodies covered in stiff hair. Their arms were thick and covered in bulging muscle, their shoulders wide and broad. Diggers, Kat realized, her hand falling to her sword. Yet they let out shrill screams, lunging at her horse with a leery viciousness, and her mount whinnied his panic.

    Kat found herself falling to the ground, striking her shoulder against the stone and feeling something pop. Her horse fell on top of her, the beast tossing in panic but unable to shake off the weight of the diggers that had covered it. Her half-stunned gaze turned to Norus, who had managed to get off his horse more successfully than her. He was surrounded by five of the diggers, facing the unarmed creatures with his sword. Yet any hope she had was swiftly quenched when he swung his blade, the steel burying into their thick hide and unable to cut any further. Norus fought to pry it loose, but the screaming digger struck him in the stomach with a blow that sent him reeling.

    ¡°Wait!¡± came a sudden cry from behind. Willem¡¯s voice, she noted dimly, her ears still ringing from her fall. ¡°The king in the Outlands wanted me!¡± he called out, and the diggers suddenly stopped.

    ¡°Ou¡¯sa king?¡± one of them grunted in confusion, and Willem nodded.

    ¡°Take me to him.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 20

    ¡°You¡¯sa keep quiet, ya¡¯hear?¡± one of the diggers hissed into Kat¡¯s ear. ¡°No talkin¡¯.¡± She could only nod slowly, surrounded by a group of their captors. Those small, beady eyes gazed out at her underneath a mane of matted hair, their large, spade-like fingers brushing against her skin as they bound her wrists with lengths of rope. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see them doing the same to Norus and Willem. While they had walked here unrestrained, they could not enter the mountain without being leashed like an animal.

    They were standing in front of the Twisting Spires, facing one of the numerous mountains that the diggers worked. Tunnels were bored into the side of the stone until it looked almost reminiscent of a beehive, the diggers like ants as they poured over the side of the rock face. With their strong muscles and thick nails, they were easily able to clamber over the stone. Even on occasion when they fell, they would merely stagger back up and wipe off whatever blood made it way through their thick hair before continuing where they had left off. Truly, whatever magic had twisted their bodies had been effective.

    At ground level, there was a single massive tunnel that went apparently through the entire length of the mountain. Large enough to fit five carriages side to side with ease and tall enough for five men, a constant stream of diggers poured in and out of it as she watched. Most of them were merely passing through the tunnel, some carrying burlap sacks likely filled with whatever loot they had been taking from the nearby towns. What was it that man had said¡ªwater and grain? What could they hope to be doing with that? The diggers were not known to farm¡ªthey were too simple-minded for that. It was unlikely that they even knew what farming was, for they rarely left the cold, damp confines of their tunnels. They merely traded whatever they mined for food from the Heartlands¡ªat least, that was what she had read. Clearly, she noted to herself, things have changed now since then.

    As their group walked forward, the diggers carefully restraining the motions of their prisoners with their rope, Kat noticed more of the strange men clinging to the walls of the tunnel. With metal picks, they labored away at the stone, ever widening the tunnel. Others scurried along the bottom, hurriedly collecting the chips and scattered rock that fell from above to be brushed off or carried away in buckets. Some were drinking from carved buckets that lay scattered throughout the floor seemingly at random, that held water which dripped from the ceiling. There were a few that sat on the side, gnawing on what looked like shards of stone at first, but upon closer inspection appeared to be scraps of meat covered in greying mold. The putrid smell was enough to upset her stomach even at this distance, and she found herself suddenly respecting the hardiness of their bodies even more.

    Kat was about to ask something to her captors, but a sudden movement out of the corner of her eyes stopped her. Fear and panic filled her stomach instinctively, a plummeting sensation as she realized that whatever it was had moved at an inhuman speed. It could not have possibly been one of the diggers; this thing had flickered nearly five paces in the span of one. There was a sudden scream as one of the diggers on the wall seemed to fall, clutching at his arm. Or rather, she quickly realized, what was left of his arm. The limb was now a bloody stump, severed and spraying blood onto the stone.

    The other diggers seemed to ignore their wounded brother, scurrying around him and continuing their mindless work. Another digger swiftly scrambled up the wall to where the injured one had used to be, holding the bloodstained pick and resuming his work. From the top of the wall, she heard a sound like the crunching of bone, and when she looked up she saw something hanging from the stone, the digger¡¯s arm in its mouth. Yet before she could truly make out what the thing was, one of her captors struck her on the head and forced her gaze down.

    ¡°No lookin¡¯.¡± he hissed softly, tightening the rope to pull her arms back. ¡°They don¡¯ like it when ya look.¡±

    Blood and bones, she thought, peeking out of the corner of her eye to see the former dripping from the ceiling freely where the thing feasted. The maimed digger was on his feet once more, washing his wound with water from one of the buckets. He wouldn¡¯t¡ªshe thought before he began to work once more along the bottom of the walls, gathering bits of fallen stone, even as his severed stump was still dripping a trail behind him.

    ¡°Why is he still working?¡± she whispered nervously to her captor as they shuffled forward. The crowd of ever-moving diggers moved out of their way without so much as a glance, but she could feel the sharp gaze of the thing hanging from the walls on her back even without looking.

    ¡°He wans¡¯ta live. Took¡¯is arm ¡®cause he work too slow. If ¡®e don¡¯ work, take more uv ¡®im.¡± one of the diggers responded, yet it was not the fearful tone that she had been expecting. He spoke calmly and tiredly, like a man resigned to his fate. And as she looked around, Kat saw that none of the others were even shocked by this; this was commonplace to them. They were slaves, prey consigned to labor in these damp tunnels.

    ¡°But¡ª¡± she began before the rope binding her legs together was tugged sharply and she stumbled, falling forward. Her arms went out instinctively to soften her fall, only for them to be restrained by rope as well. Instead, she could only turn her head slightly before she struck the ground, her jaw cracking with a sharp spike of pain. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    ¡°No talkin¡¯. I told ya.¡± grunted the digger behind her, his eyes glinting with an almost perverse pleasure at her pain. Or perhaps, some part of her realized, it aws just the pleasure of asserting dominance over another. The pleasure of a creature so long abused below another, to finally exercise that same role on something weaker than it. And here, she thought dimly as her vision swam, nothing is weaker than a soft human.

    ¡°Git up.¡± one of them commanded, kicking her legs and pulling on the rope, half hauling her back to her feet. The coarse rope dug into her wrists, drawing blood where it abraded her skin, but she managed to rise once more. Her jaw felt locked, the joint swollen, and when she tried to open it she found that it could not open farther than halfway. Before she could contemplate any further, however, a swift kick to her back sent her stumbling forward, and she only barely managed to catch her balance before resuming those shuffling steps.

    ¡°Dis damn king¡¯a theirs,¡± she heard one of the workers nearby complaining as he gnawed on his mold-meat, ¡°comin¡¯ in an¡¯ makin¡¯ us haffa work like dis. I an¡¯t ever swung¡¯a pick that much inna week b¡¯fore, an¡¯ now its in a day.¡± He grumbled noisily as he broke the meat with yellowed teeth, and Kat winced as she realized that not only was the meat moldy, but it was also frozen.

    ¡°Ya shaddup b¡¯fore dey hear ya.¡± his compatriot reprimanded, punching him in the chest so hard that he fell over. ¡°Dey gons eat¡¯ya like dey did ta Korga, if ou¡¯sa keeps talkin¡¯.¡±Before Kat could hear them saying anything held, a hairy hand clapped on her shoulder.

    ¡°If ya don¡¯ keep movin¡¯ those feets, I¡¯ll toss ya to one of tha¡¯ overseers.¡± one of the diggers hissed lowly, his beady eyes glinting wetly, and Kat hurriedly shuffled forward. What were they saying? She tried to remember, but it was hard to decipher what they were muttering through their thick tongue. A king, she decided. He had definitely said something about a king.

    So it seemed that there truly was some king in the Outlands, and he had apparently taken control of the diggers in the mountains. Whether through fear or some other arrangement, they were mining the walls for him and raiding nearby towns for grain under his command. This king was most likely the one that had called for Willem to come as well, she realized. If that was the case, then perhaps there was some chance that they might live through this encounter¡ªit seemed unlikely that he would personally summon them just to devour them in his court.

    Yet before she could continue that thought, she found that they were nearing the end of the tunnel. Light shining in from the outside revealed a green sky, crackling with the same wild energy that tingled in the air after magic. Only this energy felt different, more capricious. It darted around her and over her with a frenetic frenzy, jumping from limb to limb and causing her pulse to accelerate just by being in its presence. It felt feral, primal, unrestrained and uncontrolled where magic normally felt calm and constrained. This energy was wild, and it was everywhere.

    At the mouth of the tunnel, she saw a massive figure sitting on the ground, his gaze sweeping over all the other scrabbling diggers as he chewed on bones. Bones of what, Kat did not wish to know, but they were inordinately thick and remarkably resembled a femur. Her mind remembering the thing that had taken an arm from one of the diggers, she had a sneaking suspicion on the origin of the corpses.

    This beast was a massive affair, three hands taller than her despite sitting on the ground. Its arms were perhaps twice as long as they ought to be, even for a creature of its size. They were abnormally thick with muscle as well, the limbs practically like two trees ending in numerous clawed fingers. Its shoulders were accordingly massive, broader than two men with a neckless head in the middle. Its legs were inordinately short, ending in three stubby toes each tipped with a curved claw. A short tail twitched on the ground behind it, almost like an afterthought compared to the rest of the monstrosity. The entire creature was covered in a calloused hide, dark blue scutes looking almost like pebbles on its skin.

    Its face was squat and flat, with a nose resembling one of a pig¡¯s if it did not protrude outwards. Its mouth was far too wide, stretching nearby across the entirety of its skull as a gaping smile filled with rows and rows of thin, needle-like teeth. But most remarkable were its eyes, each one large as a fist and a baleful yellow. They sat in unmoving its its skull, the round pupils massive and well suited to the darkness of the tunnel. As their group approached, the head tilted ever slightly, both of those massive eyes fixating on her.

    ¡°Dey¡¯ve wanted to see the king. Said king wans¡¯ta see ¡®im.¡± one of the diggers spoke quickly, shoving Willem forward and holding fast to the rope. There was a brief silence as the creature stared at the boy, nobody daring to breathe. Those massive eyes blinked slowly, even that ordinary motion terrifying as they waited for an answer.

    ¡°King.¡± it growled finally, rising to its legs. Standing, the thing hulked over her at twice her height, its arms dangling to the ground. Any thought of escape were swiftly dashed as the beast came over, its casual stride twice her own and deceptively fast for something of its size. Thrusting its face forward until he was not even inches from Willem¡¯s own, it leered.

    ¡°You meet king?¡± it remarked, smiling to bare the rows of thin teeth, each one sharp as a dagger. Slowly, it opened its jaw further, moving closer as if to swallow Willem. Kat found her chest hurting, unable to breathe as she watched. Norus seemed tense, veins bulging in his neck as if he was about to burst free of his restraints.

    Wordlessly, Willem raised his hand. Tongues of flame shot out of his fingertips, greedily latching onto the creature. It recoiled swiftly, swatting at its body and stamping out the flames. The smell of burnt flesh and the crackling of magic filled the air as it stared at Willem, those yellow eyes unblinking. Finally, it nodded.

    ¡°Come.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 21

    As he strode behind the creature, Willem found himself stunned by what his gaze revealed. He had been expecting a wasteland, from what he knew and what he had been told of the Outlands. They were supposed to be nothing more than cracked earth and ruined stone, an utterly uninhabitable expanse that stretched to the Cold Sea. Certainly, he supposed that the arrival of this king of theirs must have changed things, but still he found himself surprised. Whatever he had been expecting beyond the tunnel, it was not this robust stretch of plains that ran on underneath that blasted sky.

    Yellowed grass covered the ground, growing almost knee-high in clumps and tufts. Occasional shrubs dotted the landscape wherever they managed to take root. Small rodents and insects scurried underneath the cover, running away hurriedly as they approached. Above his head, birds circled in small flocks, cawing loudly despite the distance. While the landscape seemed sickly underneath that green sky, it was undeniably full of life¡ªfar more than what the Outlands ought to offer.

    His gaze turned behind him, hearing Kat gasp in shock. Gazing up at the mountain that they had just came from, he was shocked to see a seeming network of canals and ducts carved into the stone. They carried water from the melting snows, gathering them and directing them down the side of the mountain. That water flowed in small rivers that had been carved into the ground, bringing water to the otherwise parched lands. Diggers worked the mountainside, carving more of the aqueducts and further refining that elaborate latticework.

    They were walking on a road, he came to realize quickly. While it was not the paved cobbles and careful craftsmanship of a city¡¯s walkways, the flattened dirt and pressed earth was clearly a path that led through the plains. And as they continued to walk forward, past a small hill Willem gazed down to see what could only be described as a town.

    With the stone harvested from the mountains, these creatures had built homes and dens. Mud served as mortar in between the ground stone, the mixture hardened by flame to produce sloping walls. The roofs were capped with massive slabs of rock, ground smooth by the diggers and hauled over. There were perhaps twenty of these buildings, sprawled out over the small gulch. They all circled an empty center, where a well dug deep into the earth brought bucketfuls of water up to be emptied into something remarkably resembling a trough.

    Additional water from the mountains was ferried over by stone construction, emptying into wooden barrels. Some houses had pens in the back, where strange animals were kept seemingly as livestock. With long, thin legs and short coats, they almost resembled warped deer. Yet the strangest of all were the people who lived in this village.

    Some bore horns and hooves, others wings and claws. None seemed alike, but many were bestial in appearance and nature. A few seemed more humanoid, however, with plates of bone covering their bodies with an unnerving appearance. They wore no clothes and held no weapons as they milled about, many gathered around what seemed to be a butcher¡¯ shop. Racks of meat hung from an outcropped roof, and the creatures handed over what appeared to be strange stones in exchange for slabs of meat. Many devoured them voraciously, entire chunks of flesh disappearing down their gullets with a single gulp.

    A strange feeling filled him then, as he watched. It was a moment before he understood, that this sensation was one of awe. This king, whoever he was, had brought life to these lands. Even in the distance, Willem could see what appeared to be farms. Grain grew out of the patchu fields, fed by the mountainwater. They would feed the livestock that would in turn feed these creatures. This was no mere survival, no animalistic instinct. This was a coordinated society¡ªa growing civilization. Led by a single one of these monsters, he thought.

    ¡°King!¡± their captor called out, the massive beast coming to a halt before bellowing through the village. His brethren lurched to a halt, all turning to gaze at him with unreadable expressions. ¡°These ones want you.¡± he growled, and Willem felt his eyebrows raise in surprise. Not just single words and harsh grunts, but whole thoughts as well? A growing fear nestled inside of his heart from the notion that these creatures might be smarter than appearances suggested. Wits are all you have, a voice inside him whispered. If their wits match yours, then what is left to protect you?

    Hearing the creature call out, a crowd of the beasts in the center of the town parted to let a single pass through. It was not as large as the others, barely larger than average man. Its body was vaguely lupine in appearance, with dark fur everywhere except for the scales that covered its arms. Stripes ran down its backwards-bent legs, the powerful limbs full of corded muscle. Its claws were night-black, wickedly sharp to the point that he half expected them to cut the very air they swing through. Underneath that layer of fur, he could see rippling muscle that flexed with its movements. Where their captors was entirely bulky and raw strength, this creature was refined and lean.

    The creature waved its hand as it neared, motioning for their captor to leave, and Willem was able to better look at the face of this king. Its muzzle protruded like that of a dog¡¯s, blunt-tipped and housing curved teeth with a black tongue. Its eyes were disconcerting as well, mismatched and piercing with one blood-red and the other yellow. Yet most shocking were the oily patterns that swirled across the fur on its face: the Maes. The boy inhaled sharply as he realized what this meant¡ªthat despite whatever it was, this king was a channeler like him.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    ¡°You.¡± it growled, coming to a halt in front of Willem. Their captor had let go of the ropes, and the cords had fallen slack at their sides. Yet they were frozen in uncertainty and fear, not daring to move as they watched this king. In return, this king watched him with those dissimilar eyes. ¡°You are Oa¡¯kul?¡±

    Willem could only blink briefly, not understanding what this king was asking of him. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know what you mean.¡± he stammered out, trying not to flinch as he felt that thing¡¯s hot breath on his cheek. The king peeled its lips back in a snarl, closing its eyelids slowly. When they opened next, they were a glossy white, snowy smoke billowing out of the corners. A single outstretched claw slowly moved towards Willem¡¯s chest, right above his heart. He was screaming at himself to move, to run, but he found himself seemingly rooted to the ground as that black claw drew closer. And when it finally touched, he felt a radiant heat spread out from his chest.

    There was a pause where none seemed to breathe, where none seemed to move, before the king finally drew back. His eyes closed once more, and then they were normal once more¡ªat least, normal for the creature. ¡°You are the one. Kha spoke to.¡± That last statement made Willem pause, and it was a moment before he realized that it was a question. Hurriedly, he nodded, his throat dry even as he tried to swallow.

    The king snorted briefly before turning to call out to one of the others that were gathered in the center of the town. They were strange human-like ones, with bone and blade for bodies. ¡°Give the others a den. Do not let them come to harm.¡± the king growled, and one of the bone-things nodded before coming over. With a ridge of bone sliding over its face, it was impossible to read its expression. In place of hands, it had plated growths that tipped its limbs. One was broad and shield-like, the other clearly a blade¡ªthe entire monstrosity was like a mockery of a knight. It prodded Kat in the back with its shield, clearly gesturing for them to move.

    ¡°Wait, I¡¯m not leaving¡ª¡± Kat started to shout before the bone-thing slammed into into his chest with its shield-arm. The soldier began to topple, the creature delivering another blow to his throat. Veins in Kat¡¯s neck bulged, his voice choking as the bone-thing gave a swift strike to his forehead. It deftly caught him in the crook of its limb as he fell, stopping him just before he struck the ground. The entire exchange occurred perhaps in the span of a single breath, before Willem even had time to think, let alone move. Even Norus was unable to respond in time, taking a step to move just as his compatriot was beginning to fall.

    The legionary let out a short hiss as he sank into a crouch, his blades and armor having been taken away by the diggers. ¡°A construct,¡± the king suddenly grunted in apparent surprise, and Willem saw shock flicker across Norus¡¯s typically expressionless face, ¡°tethered to a soul. Pitiful.¡±

    ¡°Do not do what you will regret.¡± the king growled, lips peeled back in a challenging expression. Norus tightened his jaw, veins bulging in his forehead and throat as he struggled. Willem wanted to say something, wanted to do something, but in this time he found himself unable to do anything. He was an utter spectator as Norus let out a ragged scream, lunging towards the king with a surprising bolt of speed.

    No, Willem wanted to scream, even as the king raised his hand. Purple strands of magic flew out¡ªbut not from the king. They came from Norus instead, tearing wounds in his skin as they flew out as if being drawn. Norus let out a heart-wrenching wail as more and more of the magic was pulled out of him, sinking into the king¡¯s claws with a burning heat. Finally, as the tide slowed, the king lowered its hand and he collapsed to the ground. His skin was as pale as snow, his body unresponsive even as the bone-thing approached him. Slowly, it raised its masked head to look at the king, as if in question.

    ¡°That one is fine.¡± the king growled offhandedly. ¡°Its soul is strong. Take them to a den.¡±

    ¡°Wait!¡± Willem called out, making the king turn to face him. ¡°What are you doing? They¡¯re my friends. I won¡¯t let you just hurt them like that!¡± A hot rage built up inside his chest, a rage at himself, for being so bitterly useless. For standing as they fell, for watching as they screamed. He had no doubts that they would not watch if the same happened to him. So what made him different? What made him weak? Tears streamed down his face, utter frustration and disappointment with so much that he wished to lash out¡ªif only he knew what to lash out at.

    ¡°They will wake.¡± the king spoke, as if that was an end to the matter. ¡°You are what matters.¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± Willem breathed in shock, not daring to swallow as he once more found himself trapped in that creature¡¯s gaze. He was a deer about to bolt, prey before a hunter.

    ¡°You have magic.¡± the king hissed softly. ¡°You are of use. Will you serve?¡±

    The question shocked Willem, made him step back in surprise. ¡°W¡ªwhat do you mean, serve? How?¡± he stammered, not understanding what this thing was asking of him.

    The king threw its arms out wide, gesturing to the village behind him. It gestured to the mountains, to the diggers and creatures that worked them. ¡°These lands. My people. Serve with us. Serve me.¡±

    ¡°What if I refuse?¡± he gasped out nervously, feeling his knees begin to tremble despite all he commanded.

    ¡°Then I break your body and enthrall your soul.¡± the king responded, a small smile tugging at the corner of its lupine mouth.

    Willem swallowed hard, unable to break its gaze. ¡°And if I agree?¡±

    ¡°Then I can help you.¡± the king replied almost immediately.

    ¡°How can you help me?¡± he started in reflex, his voice incredulous.

    The king merely smiled, revealing those wickedly curved fangs. ¡°I can give you a new body.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 22

    ¡°You are afraid.¡± the king rumbled as they walked, its voice like gravel and stone. They approached what seemed to be a house still to be constructed. Claws and boots scraped and crunched on the earth below. The ground had been flattened, despite there being no evidence of tools. All of this shaping and work had been done by tooth and claw, from the ground to the walls of rock. Civilization was not an easy thing to accomplish, but these beasts took to it was a singleminded determination. No matter what he felt towards them, Willem could not deny these creatures his respect.

    ¡°You are¡ªstrange things. I do not even know what you are.¡± Willem murmured, not certain how he should approach the king. He bowed his head deferentially, afraid to offend or antagonize these thing that could easily rip him in half. Yet that statement made the beast snort in apparent laughter, and the king gestured to his brethren that stood nearby.

    ¡°We are demons. Born from the earth. The stone is our flesh. The mud is our blood.¡± the king replied, voice fervent and stirring. With an outstretched palm, tendrils of coiling purple sank into the ground. When they withdrew, they pulled up with them chunks of mud and dirt. The magic crackled with energy, the clods of dirt mashing together into a roiling clump. It churned and spun in a small brown ball in the center of the king¡¯s palm.

    The ribbons of magic tugged on different ends, shaping the ball of dirt. Stumped limbs sprouted, a squat face forming in the brown earth. Willem could only watch as, before his very eyes, that clump of dirt formed the body of a grotesque beast. Its expression was fierce, its body squat and broad. Yet, upon a closer look, its eyes were utterly dim and without life.

    ¡°This is a vessel.¡± the king growled, seeing Willem¡¯s interest. ¡°It has no soul, and thus no will.¡± abruptly, the king¡¯s claws closed around that small figure, the mud and magic worming and crackling as it collapsed. With a shake of the palm, bits and pieces of dirt flew out onto the ground, the action of creation seemingly as simple for the king as waving a hand.

    The king had worn an expression of wonder and ardor when magic had shaped that vessel¡ªit had not escaped Willem¡¯s gaze. There had been nothing but passion in those mismatched eyes, a quiet pride in its race and people. Their very flesh was a distinction of their heritage, of their creation. They had been shaped out of the ground, their flesh molded by magic. Even Willem could feel only respect for this king, as evident by all that had been done to these lands.

    The king said that he could give me a new body, Willem reminded himself, and he wondered just how that could be done. Was it to be much as these demons were born? To have his flesh reshaped¡ªor perhaps to have a new vessel crafted with blood and bone. Almost unconsciously, he twitched his stunted fingers. A throbbing pain echoed from his legs with every step, and he wondered if losing this body truly was something to be remiss about. What has this crippled body ever done for me anyways? But it was the body that he was born with, the one given to him by whatever gods watched down from above. Would it truly be so simple to spurn it, to discard it like worn clothes?

    Yet as his thoughts turned to bodies, he once more remembered seeing magic fly out from Norus¡¯s chest. He had seen them like veins underneath his skin, writhing as they bursted out. Just what was it that the king had called him? A construct? Willem remembered how Kat seemed to have been acting strange around Norus. Just what was the enigmatic soldier, with that scar at his throat?

    ¡°We farm the murak.¡± the king growled as they approached one of the pens fashioned from old wood, and Willem was able to better see the strange beasts. They were reminiscent of deer, with slender legs and thin heads. Their coats were short and light, with brown and speckled patterns running across their bodies. Small tusks jutted out of their mouths, with matching horns sprouting from their foreheads. They were not quite antlers, curling towards the front. Beady eyes watched warily, pink nostrils flared in caution as they danced skittishly around. Shallow trenches had been dug into the ground inside the pens, where grain and water were offered to the beasts.

    They seemed to offer little meat, but any amount of portions were appreciated in these harsh lands. With bodies built to weather drought and starvation, they gained weight quickly¡ªalthough they shed it fast as well. Yet most importantly, they whelped early and often. A single mother could yield a litter of six every few weeks, and the calves grew up fast as well. While this was needed in the wasteland, it also proved useful for raising them as livestock. The only issue was their prey behavior, for they threatened to panic whenever a demon came close. Thus, the demons could only fill the trenches regularly and send the murak into other pens in order to remove the accumulated waste.

    ¡°We grow the grain that they eat.¡± the king explained, gesturing to the fields in the distance tended by the smaller demonfolk. They were rudimentary affairs, without rows or tilled earth. Instead, fresh soil and fertilizer was merely added on top, the hardy azhe growing easily as long as it was given water. ¡°The waste from the murak, we collect and ferment. It feeds the growing crops.¡± Willem saw a pile of compost and waste near the farms, in a structure that he had at first taken to be a silo. Mold and fungus grew greedily on the pile, which had to be turned regularly. The material would serve as a fertilizer for the crops, much needed in these arid lands where the soil was greatly devoid of nutrients.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    ¡°We require new seeds.¡± the king continued as they walked, throwing a glance at the green sky. ¡°The marai ruins the seeds after generations. They become stunted and weak. We must bring in fresh ones from beyond the mountains.¡± Willem suddenly understood why the diggers were raiding the nearby villages for seemingly unimportant seeds.

    ¡°The¡ªthe diggers.¡± he stammered out nervously, his thoughts turning to the worn and tired people that labored in those damp mines. ¡°You¡¯re using them like slaves.¡± The words slipped out of his mouth almost of their own accord, and he half regretted them. Fear rose up that he would provoke the king, that he might offend this lupine beast. He had intended for the words to invoke some response from the creature, to better understand the king. Yet he was surprised when the demon merely cocked its head, as if in confusion.

    ¡°They are weak. My people hunger. They are better suited for mountain labor. They will serve, or they will feed my people.¡± the king growled, and Willem found himself once more reminded that this creature before him was no human¡ªits mind and its values were inhuman. Its views on death were not the same as his¡ªand it certainly did not hold life to the same value. As if hearing his thoughts, the king¡¯s lips peeled back in a grisly smile. ¡°Much like you. You still have a choice. Choose well, Oa¡¯kul.¡± the demon hissed before turning away.

    As they walked, Willem could feel the king¡¯s presence pressing down on him¡ªnot merely an imposing sensation, but a tangible force from the magic inside the demon. It was a crackling power that pushed him back, made every movement more difficult. Much as a rabbit cowered before a bear, so too could he feel the palpable pressure from the king¡¯s magic.

    But even more so, he felt the wild magic that ran rampant in the air, that seemed to warp and corrupt all that it touched. Marai, had the king called it? Whatever it was, it was a creeping taint. Even inside of himself, he could feel it trying to influence him. It poisoned his blood with every breath; how could these creatures even hope to live here? Yet as he watched them, he came to realize that they were far sturdier, far more durable than any man could ever hope to be. Where these conditions ought to be uninhabitable, these demons merely found it an inconvenience.

    And so as he followed the king, Willem could not help but tremble in a faint nervousness. It was a nervousness at his own position amongst all these beasts. He had seen the gazes that they had given him. The creatures had all watched him as they strode through the town, their myriad eyes glittering underneath that warped sun. Their gazes were those of a hunter to its prey, those of a curious wolf to a scrabbling rabbit. It was a curiosity awarded to the strong, an idle interest one took in the scurrying of the ants below. And I¡¯m the ant to them, he thought, keeping his eyes low as he followed the king through the town.

    His thought were interrupted as they approached one of the stone houses, walking in through the open entranceway only to find that it led to a burrow below the ground. It was perhaps more apt to describe it as a cave, or as an entrance to whatever lay underground. The dirt and stone underneath had been dug out, revealing an underground burrow that branched off in myriad directions. It was almost as if the walls above were merely a facade, serving only as a cover for these tunnels underneath the ground. Even as his feet stepped on that carved stone, he could feel a crackling sensation against his skin. Magic, he realized, in the walls and the floor and the ceiling all around him. It strengthened this underground network of burrows, preventing them from collapse. Having not seen any other channelers amongst the demons, he assumed that this was the work of the king.

    ¡°D¡ªdoes this stretch to all the other dens?¡± he asked nervously as the king strode forward. There was a brief pause before it turned, throwing a quick glance at the boy and shaking its head. ¡°We are different people. Some live in the earth. Some on it. Others hang from the walls. However they choose to live, that is how they build their dens.¡± the king growled as he descended into the tunnels, pausing for a moment and gesturing for Willem to follow. ¡°This is my den. I carved it alone.¡± The king grazed those black claws against the stone as they passed, throwing out sparks that glinted and sprayed onto the ground.

    A pale blue moss grew on the stones, giving a dim glow to the tunnels that had been hollowed out. That eerie light shed over the king as it strode forward, casting a dim shadow behind it. Willem could only follow hurriedly, his false legs clacking noisily on the ground. The entire sensation was foreign and disorienting, as if he was no longer in a place of this earth.

    When the king finally turned the corner, Willem followed to find himself facing a small room. Moss and lichen grew all along the stone, casting a pale whitish glow upon the lone figure that knelt inside. ¡°Kha. Wake.¡± the king growled, and the demon that knelt there slowly rose.

    It seemed vaguely lizard-like in appearance, thin and slender almost beyond belief. Green scales covered its body, from its skull to the end of its whiplike tail. Its jaw was lined with spiny teeth, a purple tongue snaking its way out on occasion. Two yellow eyes blinked open, the eyelids opening sideways to reveal horizontal pupils..They glistened wetly as they focused on Willem, the gaze disconcertingly foreign and inhuman. Yet what Willem first noticed were the black marks on the creature¡¯s face, the Maes that covered it.

    ¡°My king¡­¡± it hissed softly, rising up and blinking slowly. ¡°You have brought the Oa¡¯kul¡­that I found...¡±

    The king merely nodded, clapping a clawed hand on Willem¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Tell him of the vessels, and he will choose. If he does not, then kill him.¡±

    Kha bowed, the gesture alien and abhorrent with the creature¡¯s slender frame and snakelike appearance. ¡°Of course...my king¡­¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 23

    Dreams were restless and fervent, pressing and heated despite their incoherency as they seized Kat. She found herself twisting and turning, thrown about in that roiling sea of her own thoughts. A mixture of faces, half-fleeting and indecipherable, flashed before her in that churning mass. They bore voices known and foreign, speaking in a hundred tongues that she could not hear nor understand. Like a storm, like a gale, they battered her with their words until she tumbled astray in the tempest.

    She saw Revan in front of her, in his full legion armor marching. There were no others beside him, no soldiers by his side. He stood alone, and she wanted desperately to run forth and join him¡ªto hold those hands that gripped the handle of his sword so tightly that the knuckles turned white. His jaw was clenched, twitching in that way that it did when he was thinking hard. His eyes, normally so gentle and warm, were now harder than granite as they gazed unflinchingly at some distant target.

    And then there were more soldiers, more men by his side. They were a shieldwall, pressing forward slowly against some unseen foe. They shouted and grunted as they lashed out with their short swords, the blades flickering out of the gaps in between their rectangular shields like darting tongues. They came out silver, pulling back covered in crimson. Over and over those stabbing blades struck, yet on occasion a man would let out a scream. His side would spray with blood, a scarlet gash appearing on his side. He would stagger only to rise up, half supported by the man behind him. That towering shield would be a pressing weight on him, and the wood and leather would begin to list as his strength failed him. Blow after blow would rain down on the weakened soldier, until finally his shield fell and he found himself greeting cold steel.

    His corpse would strike the ground, still warm with departing life, and the man behind him would take his place in the wall. Boots would march over the fallen, striking out that heartless cadence of steps. They were soldiers. They were parts of a machine, to be replaced as needed. They were legion, pressing forward relentlessly against that unseen foe, whatever it would be.

    She felt a great pride as she watched them, felt her heart shudder whenever Revan avoided a lethal blow. A blade would sneak in between the shields, only to be clamped together by wooden edges. A hook-like scythe was dart in from above, narrowly glancing off the helmet. A slash would graze his arm, narrowly missing the whole of his wrist. Over and over they pressed on, words and commands inaudible over the incoherency and madness of the fevered battle. Over and over she saw him greet death¡¯s fleeting grasp, saved only by luck and the grace of the gods. Over and over she watched, waiting for the blow when that luck would run dry.

    More and more beside him fell, spraying blood from wounds as screams slipped out of gurgling throats. Soon there were only three, pressing forward with shields still raised. REvan stood strong in the center, his armor stained with crimson, his shield dotted with arrows and sword hacks. His steps were labored, half staggering as he tried to press on over corpses of allies and fallen foes alike. And finally, when the last blow came, when the last sword had struck flesh and the last wail had been given, their march came to a halt. The two other soldiers set their shields on the ground, their swords clattering as they fell. Raising their fists in salute, they crumpled to the ground with a sickening crunch from the toll of their wounds.

    She saw the cloud lift, saw the fog of war disperse. Kneeling together, huddled miserably, were two familiar figures. Her parents, she realized with a sensation of despair. No, she half screamed as Revan strode closer, his massive shield clattering to the ground as he drew his blade. No, no this isn¡¯t real, she half screamed to herself, trying to dispel the scene before her. She clawed at the ground, tried to claw at herself. Yet those boot struck the ground inexorably, warm crimson dripping a trail behind him as it fell from the tip of his blade. And she saw dear Revan lift that short sword, saw the tears streaming down her mother¡¯s face.

    Her kind mother, who had so many times yelled at her to stop climbing the garden walls. Who had sewed new dresses for her to wear, even if she would only throw them into her closet. Who had watched with a white face the first time that she had ever held a sword. Who had smiled when she had first talked about marriage, and who had nearly fainted when she wanted to join the legion. And beside her mother, kneeling protectively over her, was her father.

    Her proud father, who had always taken pride in raising her like the son they did not have. Who had laughed and cheered her on to keep climbing higher. Who had caught her when she finally fell, his shoulder striking the ground and bruising for two weeks. Who bought her breeches and tunics to wear, despite her mother¡¯s protests. Who had given her the first blade that she had held, and had guided her arm the first time she had swung it. Who had beamed with pride when she had spoken of marriage, and who had laughed heartily when she discussed the legion.

    Her parents, who had loved her. They knelt there, in the ruins of whatever battle this proved to be, and she screamed out helplessly that this was a dream. She screamed for them to run, for them to flee, but they could not hear her. Their faces were speckled with mud and blood, their expression listless as Revan drew closer. She wanted to run forward, but she had no legs. She wanted to yell at Revan, but she had not voice. She could only watch as her father stood slowly, his fine clothes torn ragged. There was no blade by his side, and so he lifted his fists. His eyes were hopeless, his jaw set and taut. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    With a staggering cry, his fist lashed out at Revan¡¯s face. Yet the soldier sidestepped the blow easily, bringing his blade up to bear. Her father danced back, the slash catching him along the chest instead of the throat. Throwing himself forward, he tackled Revan, his fist striking the man¡¯s throat. The two went down in a wrestling bundle, the sword clattering to the ground in the fall. There was a sickening crunch as Revan¡¯s blow landed, blood spraying from her father¡¯s nose. Again and again that gloved fist struck his mouth, his eyes, his shattered nose until her father¡¯s once-familiar face was but a pulpy mess of battered flesh. Blood leaked from the twitching mass, broken teeth and bone scattered amongst the ruined tissue. One final crack across the skull made her father stop moving, save for the occasional erratic spray of blood from a wound.

    Revan stood up, the front of his armor utterly covered in crimson and gore as he picked up his sword. She could see her mother crying, see her shoulders heaving as Revan staggered over. With an arm on her shoulder, he hauled her up onto her feet, grunting from the effort. In that same motion, his blade buried itself in her stomach, twisting savagely before pulling back out. Blood and bile spilled out of her mouth as she coughing, falling limp on the ground twitching in reflexive death throes. The dark puddle around her only grew larger as Revan stumbled back, flicking the blood off of his blade.

    His eyes were uncaring, unfamiliar as he turned away from the corpses. His gaze traveled through the ruins, through the haze of her dreams until finally it settled on her. And then a smile crept across his face, making a trembling fear clutch at her stomach. That was not the kind smile she knew, despite the familiar face that he wore. Whatever this was, it was not her Revan. And yet she could not look away as he held that blade sideways, slashing brutally across his own throat. She could not look away as spurting scarlet blossomed from his neck, that gruesome smile unflinching as he crumpled and died.

    Tears fell from her face, although she could not feel them. This is a dream, she told herself, trying to rouse from sleep. No one is truly dead, nothing here is real. Yet as if hearing her thoughts, there came a droning buzzing from the horizon. Shock gave way to recognition, in turn giving way to terror¡ªa clawing horror that ate away at her. She dared not to turn, knowing what she would see. A swarm of skal¡¯va flew in from the horizon, a cloud so large that it blotted out the sky. They swallowed the dead, gorging themselves on the corpses amidst the ruins. Black, dotted shadow tore away at flesh and blood until there was nothing left.

    When they were finished, there were only bones and dust. The swarm gathered and billowed, condensing tighter and tighter until they seemed to form a single figure. The blood and sinew that they had stolen knit itself together, stretching and contorting until they finally formed what seemed to be a corpse. It was withered and hideous, the thing warped with the loss of life. Greying, pallid skin sat on top of too-thin bones, eyes slowly blinking open to reveal pools of black in those sockets.

    How does it feel, to join the dead? The voice rasped something hideous, like a thousand vipers burying their fangs in her mind. This is all a dream. I¡¯m not dead. Her thoughts were pleading, even to herself as she fought to wake. All that she elicited from her efforts was a chuckle from the living corpse.

    You cannot wake, for you are already dead. My god has claimed you, and so you join the ranks of the dead. Cackling laughter crept its way out of those cracked lips, and she felt the madness they brought sneaking into her mind. Know my god, Katherine of House Black. Know his name; know his call. Kneel in service; kneel in Faith. Tremble in prayer; tremble at his touch. Serve him well, and he will show you the way as he has shown me. Serve Atal; have Faith in the truest god. The god of death and decay will always be the victor in the end.

    With that rasping laughter, the corpse dispersed once more into a cloud of skal¡¯va. They billowed towards the sky, their buzzing growing louder and louder until they drowned out her thoughts. With a sudden viciousness, they plunged towards her waiting figure. Black swarming shadow flew into her mouth, shot through her throat even as she screamed and fought and writhed. Horrible, inescapable pain seared her mind and finally, blissfully, she woke.

    A gasping scream was all that she could manage as she woke, her body covered in sweat, her heart racing frantically. Hurriedly, she patted herself, her gaze flying over herself as if to make sure that she was safe. There was no blood on her, no wounds save for a pain in her head and a soreness to her throat. Her chest felt tight, and she spit out a glob of blood from where she must have bit her tongue in her sleep.

    ¡°It was a dream.¡± she gasped out desperately, as if trying to remind herself. ¡°It was only just a dream.¡±

    Yet even as those words escaped her breathless lips, that same rasping laughter of a thousand voices could be heard echoing throughout her thoughts. Her gaze turned to her hand, her fingers growing hazy as her vision blurred. My god has already claimed you, Katherine of House Black. It was no mere dream. Join us.

    Join the dead.

 Book 2: Chapter 24

    ¡°A¡ªare you the one that spoke to me? In the dream?¡± Willem stammered out, not daring to meet that lizard-thing¡¯s gaze. Those slitted eyes were disconcerting and alien, and he felt skittish under its stare. Its sharp tongue darted out from its mouth, flickering briefly before pulling back in as i let out a slow, creeping hiss.

    ¡°Indeed...although doubtless your mind made my voice...more palatable to your ears...¡± Kha replied, eyes darting all around the moss-covered walls. Willem could not read that thing¡¯s expression, nor could he even tell what it was looking at. He could only squirm awkwardly, questions sprouting in his thoughts.

    ¡°What do you mean? How did you talk to me?¡± he asked, only to flinch as Kha walked towards him.Thin claws traced his face, running along the black Maes gently. He could not tell precisely where the demon was looking, swallowing nervously as those slender claws threatened to break skin.

    ¡°You are Oa¡¯kul...master of the mind...much as me¡­¡± it murmured softly, voice rasping as if such speech was unnatural to its throat. ¡°What is a dream...but a musing of the mind...a simple matter...to twist the senses...until my words reach your ears¡­¡± Kha pulled back, kneeling once more in the center of that small room. There were no furnishings here, no comforts save for the soft padding of the glowing moss. The demon motioned for Willem to join it on the ground, and it seemed as though he would have no choice in the matter.

    Swallowing hard and clenching his jaw to press down the nervousness that crept taut in his stomach, he awkwardly sat down on the damp moss. While he did not know what was happening, just the sheer closeness of the demon and its claws made his heart rate beat out a hasty rhythm.

    ¡°No...that will not do¡­¡± Kha admonished, letting out a popping whistle that Willem almost took to be choking until he finally realized that it was laughter. ¡°Do you know...how to use magic...Oa¡¯kul¡­¡± Opening the palm with claws tipped upwards, Kha slowly unraveled small ribbons of purple. They crackled and hissed, sparks flying as they grew in intensity. Heat filled the small room, making his hairs stand on end and his body tense with the sensation of anticipation. Kha pointed a single finger to the stone in the tunnel leading to the entranceway, and a brilliant flash blinded Willem¡¯s eyes, scorching the breath from his lungs and and sending his heart pounding in his tight chest. His vision failed him, blurring with spots of black until he could not even make out his fingers outstretched before him. It was not until after a few breaths that the sense returned to him and he could once more see that which was in front of him.

    That stone on the side of the tunnel was blackened, charred and smoking with a searing heat. ¡°W¡ªwhat was that?¡± he gasped out, his heart still racing from what seemed to have been just a single blast. Even fire, even the utter inferno that he had conjured at the Gates had not driven such awe and terror into him, had not elicited such frantic panic from his very body. It was as if the air itself had melted under that heat, as if it had been raw power and unhinged strength that had flown out of Kha¡¯s claw tips.

    ¡°Have you never seen...a true storm...it was lightning¡­¡± Kha replied, curling his claws back into a fist and flexing the fingers. Smoke curled from the tips, stinging Willem¡¯s eyes with their acrid burn. ¡°It was magic... do you know how¡­¡± the demon asked, those horizontal pupils apparently focusing on Willem once more. He could only nod carefully, trying to hide his discomfort as he saw those translucent eyes slid sideways in a slow blink.

    ¡°I¡¯ve u¡ªused fire before.¡± he replied, although that magic seemed to fly out of him now. Even as he reached inside of himself, it kept slipping through his fingers like he was trying to grasp water. The strands of magic merely slid over and out of his reach, and there was a frustration as he realized he would be looking like a fool.

    Kha shook its head, once more making that popping laughter. ¡°Not like that...calm yourself Oa¡¯kul¡­¡± the demon spoke, leaning back into a seated posture. ¡°Feel your heartbeat slow...until you can feel the earth...around you¡­¡± As if slipping into a trance, its eyes flickered closed and its body went stiff, utterly unmoving even for a breath. Under the pulsing light of the moss, it seemed like some strange statue carved immaculately from stone. After a few moments, however, there was a single movement¡ªits mouth began to twitch ever slightly, and Willem soon realized that it was mouthing words.

    Willem could only close his eyes and fight to let his heartbeat slow. He tried to find the same feeling as before, that floating state where he could feel inside of himself. His fingers dug into the soft bed of moss around him, feeling for a heartbeat, feeling for a pulse. ¡°It helps at times...to chant¡­¡± Kha murmured softly beside him, and he felt his lips begin to move unbidden. It was a natural sensation, one that came without thought. It felt familiar, and he could not know that he had been chanting unheeded in the past. Yet as the cadence of his words slowed, so too did his pulse, until it reached an impossible beat matching that of the trees. It was the heartbeat of stone and earth, of churning fire beneath the ground. It was slow and pulsing, when eons could pass in between beats, when the land itself crept along shifting stone. As he chanted, he could feel that slow pulse.

    ¡°And what do you feel...Oa¡¯kul¡­¡± Kha whispered as Willem reached out around him. He could the presence of those around him, could feel the other demons in the ground above. He could feel their sensations, like so many threads that wound around their heart. Their sight, their smell, they were all myriad colored threads that wrapped around the core of their being. He could feel it all, like so many strings dangling within his reach. ¡°Their¡ªtheir senses.¡± he murmured, not daring to move too much lest he break that trancelike state. Nearby, he could feel Kha grunt appreciatively. He could feel the demon¡¯s senses and thoughts, like so many bundled strings. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was a vindictive need to find some leverage in this situation, but he cautiously tugged on one of the threads of thought.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    ¡ªuseful indeed, if he learns this quickly. It is a shame he holds those weak companions in such¡ª

    There was a sudden repulsive feeling, the threads tearing themselves out of his grasp. He clutched at them desperately, but they danced farther and farther out of reach no matter how he tried. Next to him, Kha laughed once more. ¡°You learn quickly...perhaps too quickly¡­¡± the demon cackled, and Willem felt a sudden tugging sensation at his thoughts. It was like they were being pulled apart, each individual fleeting thought peeled away from the others. ¡°Your mind...your thoughts...I can see them...much as you can see those of others¡­¡± Kha hissed before retreating from Willem¡¯s mind, or so he thought. Fear and panic pulled him out of his trance, and he once more opened his eyes.

    He was sitting on a bed of flames, the tongues greedily devouring his arms and legs. He could only scream, but even that sound was denied to his ears. Fire crackled his flesh apart, burning his lungs as he tried to drag in a ragged breath. Yet just as quickly as it had come, the flame departed.

    His limbs were stone, petrified flesh that was weathered and cracked. It was as if he was some aged statue that had been left bare to the world, his fingers and limbs worn away to bare nubs. His skin was grey and flaking, shards and pieces falling off. When he tried to move, his body was utterly unresponsive. Even when he tried to breathe, there was no muscle to command. Listening harder, he found that he could not even feel his own heartbeat. And then the world around him warped once more.

    Darkness. Total darkness surrounded him, so pitch black that he could see nothing. He waved his hand in front, but there was no sensation. Even when he tried to press it against his stomach, there was nothing. It was an utter void, cut off from all other senses. All he had were his thoughts, not even a body to call his own.

    Such is the mind, something whispered in his thoughts, and he realized that it was Kha. This voice was his will, unaltered by his body and his flesh. Such is what I can do to you. There was a flash of tearing pain, and then his senses returned to him. He was panting on the ground, sweat dripping from his face as he dragged in a desperate breath. His vision blurred, his hearing distorted as he struggled to orient himself. That feeling had been utterly foreign, as if all that he had was torn away from him in an instant. All his senses, his very body had been taken away. He shuddered at the thought, even at the feverish memory.

    ¡°The mind is the senses and thoughts...a bridge...between the body and the soul¡­¡± Kha hissed next to him, purple tongue flickering. ¡°As Oa¡¯kul...you can bend that bridge...shape it...or even tear it out¡­¡± Willem could not help but tremble at that, his body weak. It was as if he had been forced back into a space that did not quite fit him anymore, as if everything around him was just the smallest bit off. His own body felt different, almost imperceptibly so. The mind, he wondered, musing over what the demon had said.

    ¡°Your king.¡± he began. ¡°He is not Oa¡¯kul, is he?¡± Kha shook that snakelike head, tail whipping across the floor like a cord.

    ¡°My king is...Shai¡¯mon...shaper of souls¡­¡± the demon explained. ¡°As you can bend the mind...he can bend the spirit¡­¡±

    Willem was stunned.¡± S¡ªso when he was speaking of giving me a new body¡­¡±

    Kha nodded. ¡°To take the spirit out of this vessel...and place it in another¡­a simple task for my king...¡± The possibility practically made him start in surprise, a dim hope starting to well up inside of him. A new body, one that was whole and healthy. It seemed almost too good to be true, and so a seed of doubt became planted firmly in his heart.

    ¡°What will it cost me?¡± he asked, knowing that these demons would not do anything for the sake of charity. The king had demanded service, but what did that mean? Just what did they want with him¡ªor was the question rather from him?

    ¡°What will it cost...your past life...your friends...your family...your enemies¡­¡± Kha hissed, standing up slowly in the dimly lit room. ¡°Cast them aside...in service to my king¡­¡±

    My friends? The soldiers then¡ªthey were the closest things to friends that he had. Family? He had none. Enemies? He would only be too willing to leave the skal¡¯va behind him. This price of theirs was no price at all, and so his doubt only grew. ¡°No matter what, I will not have you harm my friends. But just what, demon, would you have me do?¡±

    ¡°There are few in this world...proficient at magic...you would aid our people¡­¡± Kha replied, flexing a clawed hand with that reptilian gaze. ¡°We would grow...we would spread across this land...we would claim it all for our people¡­¡±

    Willem felt a mocking little smile creep across his face despite everything else he was feeling. ¡°You would build an empire?¡± he asked, and the demon gave a deep nod in response.

 Book 2: Chapter 25

    You cannot escape the whispers of my god. He is inexorable, inexhaustible, the victor in the end. Life is a winding wheel running out of thread. But the thread will run out in the end, and the end will come. There is no victory for you here in resistance; there can only ever be defeat. Why resist my god?

    The voice in her mind was ever present, as if it were her own thoughts corrupting her to insanity. The whispers did not cease, no matter how she paced about in that cold room that seemed a cell. The walls around her were all sloped stone, covered with a pale, white moss. The strange tunnels seemed to have been carved without tools, with chips and pieces where claws had broken off whole chunks. The place was utterly foreign, without a single feature reminiscent of human craftsmanship. From the walls to the illumination to the very creatures that walked these halls, it was all disorienting and alien.

    The creature that had struck her served as both her guard and jailor, keeping her alone inside this room. There were no furnishings, nothing inside to distract her from the constant whisperings from Faith in her ear. She could only pace back and forth in irritation, struggling to separate her own thoughts from what that creature was telling her, from the taint that was spreading throughout her mind. Her breathing grew ragged in desperation, her fingernails chipped and torn from clawing helplessly at the walls.

    There were no physical doors preventing her from escape, but when she had first tried to step outside of the confines of that cramped room, purple light had sprung out of the ground. It had lingered in the air, collecting and coalescing into a solid barrier that resisted her efforts to push through. When she had touched it with a cautious finger, hot sparks had flown off of her skin. It proved sturdy as well¡ªeven when she had thrown her entire body weight at it, it had still stood unscathed afterwards. And all the while, that crow-cursed voice had never ceased to whisper incessantly, to the point that it almost disappeared into a static behind her thoughts. You cannot escape. You are doomed to rot here, alone, afraid. Is this how you would have it end?

    Kat grit her teeth, clawing madly at her hair as she forced herself to turn her thoughts elsewhere. What of the others? Norus was elsewhere, most likely trapped in his own room. She was not worried about the soldier¡ªhe was tougher than the armor he wore. Her concerns lay with Willem; she knew not what the creatures wanted with him. Yet, as if hearing her thoughts, the whispering answered. Your so-called friend has left you to serve these demons. He has abandoned you to this sealed fate. They have offered him power in return for service, and he will graciously accept. See how quickly your allies flee.

    Trying to ignore that incessant voice, she was almost grateful to hear the scraping of clawed footsteps on the stones outside. She saw some dimly lit figure approaching through the tunnels, and she struggled to suppress the fear and nervousness that rose up inside of her. From what she could tell, these things were beasts. They could not be shown weakness, lest they be tempted to strike¡ªthat much, she had learned from her father even as a little girl. You think foolish posturing will be enough to sway a demon?

    The creature strode closer, its features coming into detail. She recognized it as the one that had struck her, that had knocked her out when she had first tried to resist their king. It was reminiscent of a knight from the east, with the armor that encompassed the entire body and the bulky frame. Yet most defining were the sword and shield that it bore on its limbs, the blade far larger than anything a serving Altarosan would use in combat. The curved sword was perhaps closest in size to a broadsword, with a massive heft and weight that almost threatened to crush just as quickly as it did to slice. Similarly, its shield was of eastern origin as well, smaller than the massive rectangular walls used in the legions. Yet where eastern knights used steel and wood, this creature boasted of bone and flesh.

    Like some perverted, corrupted knight, its armaments were fused directly to its body¡ªor perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that they sprung out of the flesh itself. The blade was like a continuation of the forearm, the curved bone sprouted into a blade supported by pink muscle and veiny tissue. The shield was a massive ridge of bone based around a central stump where a wrist ought to normally belong. Plates sprouted along the side, so that the shield sat along the length of the demon¡¯s forearm. Similar plates covered its entire body in a living armor, pulsing flesh just visible through the dim cracks. Even its face was obscured by a visor of thick bone, if anything sat behind there. While she could not meet its eyes, she most certainly could feel the heat of the creature¡¯s gaze upon her. A massive warbeast, and as rabid as a wild dog. Can you put it down?

    ¡°Who are you?¡± she demanded, posturing aggressively even if she did not feel it inside. Her legs were placed out wide, her hands balled into fists as she fought the trembling notion that her body had. ¡°What are you?¡± Perhaps that question was more apt¡ªwho implied humanity, and nothing of what she had seen from these things affirmed that notion. This was the first of life that she had seen since being trapped in this cell; it was a shame it had to be a monster.

    The demon stopped just outside of her door, its breath pluming gently on the cold air. There was no light down here, and the only warmth came from herself. She could only have been asleep for hours at most¡ªto have been down here for days would have rendered her a corpse, frozen to the ground. ¡°A servant to my king.¡± the demon finally spoke, the words distorted and altered as if it could not quite get the shape right. Perhaps it was the armor around its head, or perhaps it was from lack of use, but be it physiology or psychology, its speech was warped. ¡°The traders called my kind boneguards. We have no need for such names.¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    His kind? She wondered for a moment before remembering the others creatures that had stood beside the king. They had been plated in bone much as this one was, although there had been differences difficult to make out at the distance. So there were more of these travesties, she thought, not daring to speak it aloud. ¡°Do you have a name?¡± she asked.

    The demon paused for a moment before shaking its head, the plates of bone scraping against each other from the motion. ¡°The king names those most useful. We are but servants. He has not named us.¡± Yet as she listened, she could hear no bitterness in the demon¡¯s voice. It held no ill will towards its king, only a rapturous devotion. See how they honor an abomination, an atrocity to lead atrocities. See their fanaticism. Would you rather see them burning your lands, devouring your children?

    ¡°Well then, nameless demon, what am I doing here?¡± she challenged, her tone adamant even as her legs were beginning to tremble. The thing was abhorrent even to look at; she struggled not to turn away in fear as her instincts screamed to do.

    ¡°You were waiting. Our king spoke, and now you no longer wait. Now you meet your fate.¡± the demon replied calmly, as if it was perhaps speaking of the weather. Those words held just as much import to it as the fact that a bear pissed in the woods. Rejoice, that you are corralled like cattle. Rejoice, that you are to be butchered at the block. The whispering in her head seemed to never pause, and she felt tempted to break her skull open on the stones, if only to see whether anything would come slithering out.

    ¡°Shut up!¡± she cried out, clutching at her ears even as the voice began to laugh. ¡°Shut up, shut up, shut up!¡± Something warm trickled along her lips, and when she finally opened her clenched eyes, she realized that it was blood, dripping warm from her nose. She fell to the ground with a scream, tears falling from her eyes even as that voice continued to laugh.

    A rough kick struck her in the side, and she realized that the demon had kicked her. But the barrier¡ªshe started to think before seeing what looked almost to be a ruby, buried in the flesh of its throat. The gem glowed, soft smoke billowing off its surface, and she realized the king had no need to keep his own guards in cells. ¡°Enough.¡± the creature grunted as it lowered the blade arm, that length of bone sitting dangerously across her throat. ¡°You will go to see the king.¡± Inside her head, that voice continued to laugh in a thousand tongues. What a choice¡ªdie here in the dark, or outside in the light? Everyone is an enemy. Everyone wants you dead. Who are you to resist? When death is the final option, why resist my god?

    With blood dripping out a soft rhythm on the stones, she slowly staggered to her feet. Throw yourself across his blade, the voice suggested. Slowly, the demon led her outside of her cell, that gem in its throat glowing as they crossed the barrier. Fight, that you might go with pride, the voice laughed. The tunnels were almost like a maze as they wandered through, her footsteps irregular as she half stumbled through. Are these creatures any worse than my god? I offer senseless, painless release, where there would see you raped and butchered.

    When they finally reached the surface, she saw other figures standing there waiting. Willem was standing beside the king, his face pale but his eyes set with determination. See already how he stands beside whom he has chosen. See already how he has betrayed you. Norus was there as well, escorted by another boneguard. Yet she was surprised to see that the soldier was haggard and limp, his figure slouched over and his face pallid. His expression was blank and his eyes lifeless, the guard behind him having to prod him forward like some mindless cattle. Useless¡ªvestigial. Wandering eyes and a broken spirit. This one is doomed to fall.

    ¡°Willem.¡± she called out, seeing the not quite met her eyes, and a sudden sense of doubt and gnawing fear set into her. That ceaseless voice in her head continued to laugh, as if it were speaking truth. ¡°What¡¯s going on.¡±

    ¡°They offered me a new body if I serve them.¡± he finally managed after a pause, fidgeting and not quite looking up at her. ¡°I said only if they would let you go, and they agreed.¡± He finally turned his gaze up, his expression nervous but determined. ¡°I can learn magic here¡ªthey can teach me. I can get a new body, a¡ªand start over this crow-cursed life. I have that chance.¡±

    See how he leaves you. He uses your aid, and he leaves you at the first chance. ¡°Please, Kat. I¡ªI wanted to thank you for all that, that you¡¯ve done for me. I¡¯m sorry, but I¡ªthis might be the only chance I have.¡± He has brought you here for farewell. What will you be leaving behind? What is there left? What can you do now?

    Go back to your lover? He is dead on the field. Flee to the west? My god has spread there as well. There is nothing left for you now, except my god. Embrace him. Her vision seemed to blur, her gaze distorting. Something glimmered in Norus¡¯s hand¡ªa blade. She could not make it out, but she knew it to be true. It was flashing out at her¡ªwhen had he gotten so close? But she had a sword as well, did she not? Of course she did, what soldier did not carry with them a blade.

    His knife was falling across her arm, even as she moved to dodge. There were question running through her beleaguered mind, but there was no time for them now. She needed to act, and so she slashed out with that blade. It dug deep into Norus¡¯s throat, running along that curious scar on his neck. Blood spurted out like a fountain, wriggling strands of purple magic dancing in the air like so many worms.

    He had wanted to kill her, had he not? She had killed him, had she not?

    In her head, the voice would not stop laughing.

 Book 2: Chapter 26

    Willem was taken aback as Kat lunged forward, hands swiping in some ragged motion. His gaze was fixed on Norus, feverish and full of madness even as his legs stumbled forward. Yet that single motion was all the soldier would take; be it from weakness or disease, his legs suddenly gave out from under him.

    As he watched Kat collapse to the ground, Willem could not help but let out a scream of concern. Bolting forward, he hurriedly fell to the side of the convulsing soldier, even as crimson blood flew out into the air and speckled his face. ¡°What happened?¡± he cried out, knowing who he was talking to. Yet there came no response to the question, the demon standing as guard not giving a response even as its prisoner crumpled to the ground.

    Kat was twitching helplessly, spittle and blood trickling out of his mouth. His eyes were wild and unfocused, unblinking as they gazed at empty air. Veins bulged on the back of his fingers, bulging horrifically as he clutched at nothing. Even Willem dared not to come too close; in this strange state, Kat seemed just as likely to lash out at him with those jerking movements. Even Norus dared not approach, slouching over by the side without response.

    His heartbeat thumped out a frantic rhythm, his hand with sweat and his fingers jittery from indecision. Those stunted fingers proved all the more useless now, and he cursed himself all the more for it. A clutching sensation of fear strangled his stomach, instinct warning of danger. Everything¡¯s going wrong, he thought frantically, even as Kat stopped convulsing and became horribly rigid. This was not how it was supposed to go!

    He was supposed to have gotten a new body. He was supposed to have learned how to use magic. He was supposed to have found a true purpose in this crow-cursed world, a new life after discarding his old one behind him. This was his chance, his opportunity to leave if all. Cripple. Vais¡¯throk. Monster. Useless. He could have left it all behind. So why¡ªwhy now¡ªwas it all falling apart?

    Frustration clawed at him, that sensation of helplessness even after all that he had been through after all that he had suffered. Was it truly selfish to want to be of use? To want to be strong? Was it truly selfish to seek recompense after a lifetime of abuse? Was this world truly so unfair? He hardly even noticed the hot tears streaming down his face until they fell on Kat¡¯s rigid face.

    The soldier¡¯s lips were moving, although there was no sound coming out. He watched them, trying to read their movement with difficulty. At the very least, he thought, she¡¯s no longer having the fits. He did not know what was wrong with her¡ªhe hoped that it was perhaps just some simple fever. Yet he had seen the disturbed look that Kat had worn, the haggard expression of distrust. Does he mistrust me? The thought was entirely possible¡ªhe was asking to be left behind, and with demons nevertheless. Yet this was a chance for him, they had to see that. Perhaps it would be his only chance, to learn and lose that title of cripple.

    Norus, he thought suddenly, turning to face the old soldier. Kat had lunged at him¡ªwhat had happened? He struggled to recall something, anything, that might prove useful. Hurriedly, he remembered that he had seen the king draw magic out of man¡¯s body, had seen those purple tendrils being pulled out of his body. Just what was Norus? And what was he doing¡ªthe thought struck him as he realized that Norus was unresponsive as well, being half held up by his guard. His skin was pallid white, his eyes dark and bloodshot. Those shoulders barely moved with every tired breath, his muscles slack. There was no life in that figure; it was as if his soul had fled him.

    ¡°Norus? What¡¯s going on?¡± Willem demanded, confused. Was the soldier ill? Was he weak? Had the king done something to him, perhaps? A sneaking worry even managed to whisper at him¡ªthat whatever damage had been done, it had been permanent. Yet there came no response to his words from that limp figure; Willem may as well have been yelling at a wall.

    A shadow fell over Kat¡¯s face, rousing Willem out of his thoughts. The king was looming over them both, those mismatched eyes bearing something at the very least resembling concern. Yet before the king could say anything, Willem stood up in frustration.

    ¡°Blood and bones, what¡¯s going on?¡± he demanded, tired and nervous and at the end of his wits. These were his friends, if he was fortunate to call them that. Now one of them was frozen on the ground, and the other a mindless thing. ¡°What have you done to them?¡± he yelled, not caring even as the bone-thing nearby stalked over.

    There was a sharp sensation of almost tickling pain underneath his chin, rivulets of blood beginning to run down his neck to his collarbone. The bone-thing had its blade against his throat, a rasping voice sneaking out of his shadowed helm. ¡°No one demands anything of our king.¡± it growled with a voice like bent steel.yet Willem would not have anything of this pathetic display of aggression. He was tired of it. He was tired of posturing, of waiting, of respect and these crow-cursed demons. He was tired of it all, and his patience was utterly snapped.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Thrusting his chin up, he felt that blade dig even deeper into his flesh as he continued to speak without heed. ¡°A curse on that, I want answers.¡± He met the king¡¯s gaze, and he saw nothing but bestial nature there. This was no man, to be reasoned with. This was an animal. ¡°Kill me, if you damn well dare. Go ahead, but tell me. What. Did you do. To my friends. ¡° he hissed, challenging the king.

    There was a pause before the king suddenly lifted those pitch black claws, a deep growl tearing its way out of its throat. A plummeting sensation seized Willem¡¯s stomach as he realized he had taken a gamble¡ªand lost. Half closing his eyes, he tightened involuntarily in anticipation for the blow. And yet, it never came.

    A dim scratching sound filled his ears as those claws scraped against bone, the king pushing the bone-thing¡¯s blade back. ¡°Enough.¡± the king grunted, turning to throw a glance at Norus. ¡°That man is a construct. His soul is trapped in a body fashioned from magic. He needs magic to function, else he grows fatigued.¡± The king flexed those claws casually, and Willem noticed that Norus made the barest of movements upwards at the mention of him. The guard holding him up made a hiss before the king waved at it, as if to send them away. ¡°Send him back, he needs to recover. Even if his mind his whole, his body cannot support it.¡± The bone-thing merely nodded before half-hauling Norus away, carrying the soldier in appearance like one might a sack of grain.

    ¡°I drained his magic, of course he is tired. Give him a week or so, he¡¯ll be back.¡± the demon muttered noncommittally, as if he were discussing some cat that had ran away from home. Its gaze instead turned to Kat.

    ¡°This one¡­¡± it muttered more softly, and its gaze suddenly fell serious. ¡°There is something strange¡­¡± Willem felt that sensation of danger spring up inside of him once again, even as Kat continued to mouth things in that restless state. ¡°Mother...father¡­¡± he whispered, just barely audible on the wind. And something: ¡°...skal¡¯va¡­¡±

    Willem had thought nothing of it, but the word suddenly made the king snap out of its thoughts. ¡°What did she say?¡± it asked hurriedly, those mismatched eyes wild in a gaze that Willem had never seen before on the demon. Even the bone-thing seemed taken aback, its stance tense and nervous at the sight of its king so keyed-up.

    She? Willem wondered briefly but did not comment on it. ¡°Skal¡¯va¡± he repeated, about to elaborate on it, yet before he could the king interrupted him.

    ¡°Shadows? Living shadows?¡± the demon asked, and Willem felt that sense of danger only grow inside of him.

    ¡°Aye, but how¡ª¡± he was about to ask, only for the king to turn to the bone-thing.

    ¡°Fetch me Kha. Tell him I have need of him.¡± the demon commanded, and the bone-thing gave a brief bow before departing. The king then turned back to Willem, its expression urgent and hurried. ¡°I need you to tell me. Everything.¡±

    Willem could only swallow hard, his thoughts scattered and his heart pounding out an erratic rhythm. What is going on? Everything seemed to be going by too fast, he was on a river that had suddenly morphed into churning rapids. Dammit. Blood and bones, and dammit, he thought to himself, forcing himself to focus despite all the madness that was happening around him.

    ¡°We first met the skal¡¯va in Malifor.¡± he began, recounting the adventures that he had hoped he could put behind him. ¡°They were like a cloud of¡ªof locusts, only they were impossibly small. Whenever they moved, there was this buzzing sound, and they were always hungry. They would eat anything with meat, leaving behind only bones. And they could talk too¡ªof sorts. They could mimic dying words.¡± Willem shuddered as he remembered, as he was forced to recall those nightmarish things.

    ¡°They came out of shadows, wherever there was a shadow. The walls, the stones, as long as there was a shadow they would swarm out of them.¡± As he spoke, the king listened intently, those mismatched eyes unblinking as they watched him. ¡°The only way that we know to kill them is with fire. It burns them into ash, and they are afraid of it. Without fire, they¡¯ll eat you alive in seconds.¡±

    He paused for breath, and the king pressed him urgently. ¡°Is there more? A leader?¡± Willem could only nod in surprise, his heart thumping madly in his chest. How did it know?

    ¡°Aye, they have a leader.¡± he replied. ¡°A¡ªa corpse, although its alive. It was sitting in a¡ªa coffin when I saw it in my dreams. It called itself Faith. It spoke to me, about commanding the skal¡¯va, and about a god.¡± he explained.

    ¡°Atal.¡± the king interrupted, and Willem nodded, almost expecting it at this point. ¡°Aye, he was talking about some god named Atal. he said that he controlled the land with his shadows, and that he was going to do the same here in Altaros. But the last that we saw of the skal¡¯va was at the Gates. They can¡¯t seem to break through whatever magic is there, even if they can hide in the stones of that thing.¡±

    The king shook that lupine head, and once more Willem felt his stomach fall. ¡°No, they can break through. Faith is waiting for some reason, but it can send the skal¡¯va here. I know. The skal has already been in this land before.¡±

    Questions sprouted in Willem¡¯s head like seeds, but before he could ask them the king gave one of its own. ¡°You said that it was a corpse, no? Are you certain that you are the only one that has seen it?¡±

    Willem paused for a moment, stunned, before shaking his head. ¡°I think I¡¯m the only one that¡¯s had the dream, but the others know about it. Why? Does it matter?¡±

    The king peeled its lips back in a snarl, its gaze once more shifting to Kat. ¡°Because the corpses can mark those they touch in dreams. At least, the one in Altaros could. It¡¯s a brand; it lets him follow you and trace you. And it matters, because if you are not the only one with the dream, then it could have branded another.¡± the king gestured at Kat, his lips still twitching in half-roused movement.

    ¡°And that is what I think happened here, because she carries Atal¡¯s smell on her¡ªon her spirit.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 27

    ¡°Can''t you do anything?¡± Willem asked, kneeling down on the ground beside Kat. His heart was pounding in his chest, his thoughts all tripping over each other in his head as he tried desperately to calm himself. He fought not to panic, feeling the surging danger grip his stomach in an icy vise. ¡°Surely you can do something with magic.¡±

    The king remained silent, that baleful gaze fixed on Kat¡¯s whispering figure. Willem had no way of knowing what thoughts flashed behind those eyes, but he could clearly make out the danger and fear stark in the demon¡¯s posture. The lips were peeled back, the hackles raised and the muscles taut as steel. Under that hot Outland sun, the the coat of fur rustled as the king strode closer, placing a claw gently on Kat¡¯s chest. Closing its eyes, the demon settled into a familiar trance, thin cords of magic curling out of its claw tips before long. Yet as time passed, its forehead began to furrow with concern and Willem felt a plummeting sensation snatch away that still-growing hope.

    After a pause, its eyes opened with a flash of white, wisps of smoke curling out of the corners. While that previous gaze had felt strong, this one was utterly piercing. Even caught only on the fringes, Willem could feel it tearing into him, stripping away mortal bone and flesh until his very soul lay bare. He felt helplessly vulnerable, furtive and exposed with nothing to hide behind. He could feel the demon reading his heartbeat, reading his spirit even as it looked instead at Kat. A slow growl slipped out of those bared teeth, a guttural sound more from frustration than threat.

    ¡°There is nothing wrong with her spirit that I can tell.¡± the king growled, closing its eyes. When they opened once more, they were mere flesh again. The king tossed its head vigorously, holding a hand to its forehead as if trying to be rid of some pain. ¡°It is whole, but muddled. It is like there is something else on her; some other half-presence nesting within. It is like...like an imprint.¡± the demon decided, searching for the right words. ¡°It is molding her somewhat, but it is not something I can reach. Not without breaking her.¡±

    ¡°Why are you saying her? Kat is a man, no?¡± Willem asked almost absentmindedly. He wanted desperately to step away from the fact that Faith might be here, hiding in one of his friends. That a living corpse might be corrupting his friend before his very eyes.

    The king blinked hard, still fighting the aftereffects of whatever magic it had used on its eyes. ¡°She is female, or I am blind. Smells like female. Acts like female.¡± The king snorted derisively, even as Kat let out a shudder and broke out into sweat. ¡°I think you are more blind than me.¡±

    Yet the king¡¯s expression swiftly grew somber once more, becoming serious as Kat arched her back with a scream. Whatever dream she was having, it certainly was not kind to her. ¡°This madness is not in the spirit, so it must be in the mind. I would wait for Kha, but we have to hurry.¡± the king growled, its expression becoming unsightly as kat continued to wail. He swiftly turned to face Willem, eyes flashing. ¡°You. You are Oa¡¯kul. You can help her.¡±

    Me? Willem felt blind panic surging up inside of him at the very thought. How was he supposed to help her? He was a cripple, a useless¡ªyet he stopped himself from continuing down that back of thought. This was no time for crippling self-doubt, not when Kat needed him. And even more so, this was not merely about Kat and her life. If that corpse was given a foothold in this land, then it might very well lead to those swarming shadows descending over the horizon. What had happened to Malifor, what had happened in the south, it would happen again.

    He needed to drive Faith out of her.

    Gritting his teeth, he gave a short nod. ¡°Aye. I can try.¡± he hissed, sitting down on the ground and closing his eyes. His heart was still pumping hard, his chest tight, but he had to force himself to calm. How had it felt, when he had been in that room beside Kha? How had it felt, when he had been feeling the earth beating around him? He had felt the heartbeat of trees and stone, of molten earth underneath his feet and the grinding, churning time of eons. It was far slower than his lifespan, than a hundred of his lifespans. The world could blink, and there would be no trace of him, of his line, of his people. It was all fleeting before the stone.

    He remembered that feeling, and he hurriedly grasped it. His heartbeat began to slow, his rapid breathing growing more even as he calmed. His lips chanted nonsensical words, the world around him surrounding his thoughts. He could feel the dirt on his fingers, could feel the wind blowing against his skin. As his eyes were closed, he reached out with his other senses. He could hear the cawing of the birds above, could hear the heavy breaths of the demon beside him. They were distant, the distance warped. They were close, against his skin until they were practically inside of his ear. And as he reached out, he felt something in response.

    He could feel the threads, wrapping around him. They were everywhere, connected to everything. There were fine threads attached to the stones, attached to the grass. There were more threads attached to the birds, wrapping around their wings and their beaks. And there were even more threads around the demon, pulsing gently in that constant heartbeat. They were like string, perhaps, in a myriad of colors. Yet each one was a different color, and they changed even as he watched. Before his unopened eyes, they shifted from a rosy red to a deep blue to something even more obscure and befuddled. They were something intangible, something incorporeal as they brushed against his fingertips.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    They were thoughts, he knew, for this was the sensation that he had felt when he had been with Kha. And yet these were not what he was looking for, were not what he wanted. And so he reached out further still, his attention turning to the person that lay before him. He could feel the threads running from Kat, a myriad of strings so clumped and tangled that it was as if some maddened cat had unraveled a blanket. It was a mess, an utter storm that churned and twisted even as he watched, growing only more complex and confusing the harder he looked. It was like some labyrinth, some cursed maze that grew more entangled with every passing heartbeat. As he reached out to grasp it, the string would slide away, growing ever more tangled and knotted in the process.

    As he watched it was as if there were two conflicting forces at work. On occasion, strands would unravel and straighten, uncoiling from the great jumbled mess into neat lines more akin to those of the demon¡¯s . Yet even as they did so, in the center there would be a twisting, pulling harder and harder on the string around it until they too became even more embroiled in the mess of emotion and thoughts. This conflict had to have been what he needed to resolve, and as he watched, he could tell that one side was winning. If the disorder was Faith dominating her mindscape, then Faith would prove victor at this rate.

    Hurriedly, he began to try and unravel the knotted mess. His fingers tightened around a single string, sinking into it with an unflinching determination. He could not fail here¡ªnot with the stakes as they were. And so he could only grit his teeth and pull, trying to tug the strand loose from the rest of its neighbors. Yet as he did so there was a sharp pain against the base of his head, and his mind¡¯s vision blurred.

    ¡ªa young girl, perched precariously upon a ladder in her father¡¯s study. Her fingers were outstretched, reaching towards some book that hung out with spine exposed, ready for chubby fingers to grasp. She leaned harder and harder, those fingers inching closer and closer¡ª

    Willem let go with a gasp, feeling the flood of the memory inundate him. Yet, this was her mind¡ªit ought not to be her memories, it ought to be her thoughts. So surely then, she was dreaming; yet if she was dreaming, was each of these threads a dream? Was each of these threads a memory, unraveling before her mind? No wonder then, that she was growing mad, memories bleeding into one another, growing tangled without end. Was this what Faith wanted, to drive her mad, that he might better steer her to serve his own purposes?

    An image filled his thoughts suddenly of a Kat with blackened eyes, a horrific buzzing coming out of her gaping mouth. He saw skal¡¯va pouring from her nose and mouth as she shambled forward mindlessly, head lolling sideways as Faith tugged her thoughts like reins on a horse. The image hardened his heart, came him further determination and rallied him against the task before him. He grasped the same strand once more, tugging on it with all his might. Faith resisted, but he fought back harder, locked in some intangible tug-of-war within the confines of her mind.

    ¡ªand as the ladder toppled, her arms went careening sideways. That book once so close to her fingers, now seemed a mile away. The ground was rushing up, gaping maws of some monster rising to meet her. She let out a helpless wail, her eyes slamming shut as she prepared to strike the ground¡ª

    Harder and harder he tugged, struggling not to lose himself in her feverish dreams. It fought back with every movement, but still he persevered.

    ¡ªwarm hands around her. Her stunned eyes opened, seeing the gentle gaze of her father above her, blood trickling from where the ladder had caught him across the temple¡ª

    A sudden sharp tug nearly tore the strand out of his grasp, as if whatever beast on the other end had suddenly jerked back with all its might.

    ¡ªYet she was falling once again from that ladder, and her eyes stayed open. She kept waiting for her father to catch her, waiting for those arms to hold her. She waited and waited. She was still waiting when her head struck the ground, the crunch of shattering bone in her pierced ears. Her broken gaze turned upwards helplessly, and she saw her father staring disapprovingly in the doorway. There was a distorted laughter, like a thousand voices rasping at once in hissing cadence¡ª

    With a final pull, the strand came flying loose. Whatever force resisting seemed to have given up, with that last blow. Without a chance to recuperate, he hurriedly grabbed another strand, plunging once more into the memory.

    ¡ªHer mother, crying tears as she went off for the legion. Her father smiling proudly with an arm around his hapless wife. And her fiance, waiting for her with rein in hand to her horse. Only with every step she took, the grass under her feet seemed to grow sharper and sharper. They pierced her legs, stabbing through her boots and into her foot. Every step left blood behind her, until there was a trail leading all the way back to that doorframe with her beaming father and sobbing mother. So close was her fiance, still smiling like a fool, waiting for her. Waiting for her, even as she collapsed to her knees, the swordgrass stabbing through her legs and piercing through her throat¡ª

    Another cord came loose, and Faith seemed to be growing weaker still. More and more, Wille tugged on the thoughts, pulling them out of the knotted mess of her mindscape. And as he continued to resist, Kat seemed to grow stronger as well. At the fringes, they began to unravel themselves, claiming sanity once more as she fought the storm. The strands straightened, the raging storm abating, and with a gasping cry the final string came loose.

    Shuddering with tears of effort streaming down his cheeks, Willem felt his eyes finally fly open. His shoulders were heaving, his hands covered with sweat as he fought the sudden wave of lightheadedness that tried to claim him. Looking at Kat¡¯s sleeping form, he saw her expression grow relaxed and calm once more.

    Tension flew out of his heart, his body collapsing on the ground from exhaustion. I did it, he thought, clenching his fingers vaguely into a fist. The sensation of jubilation and pride that filled his chest was well-earned¡ªif, unfortunately, premature.

 Book 2: Chapter 28

    Her hand grasped out at Norus¡¯s throat even as her vision blackened, a sudden weakness sapping away her strength as surely as if it was water spilling from a cracked bowl. Her senses felt dulled and distorted, distance all a vague indistinction as the sunlight shone down painfully, piercing her eyes. Her muscles all burned with a fervent tension, every movement as if she was pushing through honey. Yet the blood that splattered against her skin was a small comfort, even as she struggled and fought the unconsciousness.

    Emotion and thoughts swarmed her swiftly, biting her alive much as the skal¡¯va. They were vague and incoherent, although something was speaking to her through that warped bubble of speech. The scene before her kept changing. First it was Norus with wide eyes, bloodshot and bulging in his skull. Blood covered his face, be it from forehead, chin, or even throat. Then it shifted to Revan, with his high brows and smooth cheeks. Yet they were barred with fire, the flesh burnt and blackened by greedy flame.

    Revan¡¯s handsome face slowly withered, shriveling and becoming baked dry from the flame. It shifted and morphed until finally she found herself staring at what seemed to be a dead man, and then she knew it to be Faith. There was fear that shot through her as surely as an arrow, but also a helpless curiosity. Who was this man? What did he want with her? Was he the one that gave her this madness?

    It seems as though now we finally have a chance to talk, the corpse whispered with a strained smile, those withered lips utterly devoid of blood or any colors of life. The skin was entirely pallid to the point that it seemed it might flake off with the slightest movement. She wanted to say something in response, yet before she could open her mouth a sudden spike of pain lanced through her head and the world around her shook.

    Blood splattered from her nose onto whatever hazy ground she was standing. Her vision blurred, spanning two breaths before she could truly focus once more. ¡°What was that?¡± she staggered, breathing hard. There was a sensation of something pulling on her, like she was some cord that was being unraveled. ¡°Where am I?¡± she asked.

    There came the rasping laugh from a thousand voices, pealing like quiet thunder in her ears, and she felt warm blood trickling down her nose from it. You do not know? This is your mind, is it not? Comprehension dawn on her then¡ªaye, was she not dreaming? Yet that surely did not explain everything.

    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± she hissed, knowing that Faith had appeared in her dreams before, that he had been whispering in her thoughts. She truly did not know what he wanted with her, what she could possibly hope to do against something that controlled the skal¡¯va as he did. ¡°What do you want with me?¡± she growled, the effort of sending a sudden wave of nausea through as there was a sudden harsh tug that seemed to make her mindscape tremble. The image of Faith before her suddenly shimmered and flickered, growing fuzzy before her eyes for a brief moment before once more snapping into clarity.

    I am here to bring you truth. You have been deceived, and I would open your eyes. Doubt filled her at those words¡ªhow could she trust this, this thing? No, she must not, surely. Every word spoken from those drying lips was a lie.Yet even as she was about to speak, the ground underneath her flickered and vanished, the clap of thunder only inches away from her ears, and she thought that she might plummet to her doom. Yet before any gravity could take advantage of her peril, the floor was solid underneath her once more. Blood and bile filled her throat, and she coughed it out with a convulsion of the stomach. ¡°Blood and bones,¡± she gasped out, ¡°what was that?¡±

    They would seek to deny you the truth, Faith murmured, throwing bony arms wide. They are trying to tear me away. Surely, you would find no pains in that, but at least listen to what I have to say first, hmm? There is no harm in listening, surely? Those words were sickeningly sweet on her ears, honeyed to the point that it drove her stomach to roil. Yet she had no way to drive him out, at least until Willem and the others drove him away.

    Thinking of the others, her thoughts turned to Norus. Her memory was hazy, even though it had happened not even a minute ago. She had remembered a¡ªa blade? Yet was it he who wielded it, or was it her? Just trying to recall made pain shoot through her mind, and the harder she tried to remember that blade, the more the world around her seemed to tremble at the foundations.

    As if hearing her thoughts, Faith spoke. Your friends are under a thrall, Katherine of House Black. The demons have woven a spell to ensnare their senses. Your Norus fell slave to that spell. It was he who sought to kill you. And you¡ªyou slew him in self-defense, no? The moment that he spoke of it, the memory came flying back. It was as if had been chained back, restrained despite its efforts to flee, and Faith¡¯s words had been the key to unlock the fetters. She saw the blood on her hands, warm and a stark crimson. She saw the fountain spraying from a wound on his neck, saw the sword in his hand that had fallen slack to the ground. And she saw the knife in her hand, black as night.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    She did not doubt that it was her knife. Some part of her knew that fact and dismissed it as surely as she knew that water was wet¡ªshe had no need to even bring it up. It had a sense of familiarity about it, as if it was something she had held since a child, since birth. It was hers, as surely as the flesh on her bones was hers. And the more that she thought about it, the less doubt she had that she had seen Norus lunging at her with that sword. The less doubt she had that she had seen intent to kill flickering in his eyes, clouded by madness and magic. The less doubt she had that she had seen the demons smiling, had seen Willem standing passively¡ªuncaring as Norus had tried to slay her.

    No, surely this could not be true? Some voice inside of her flared up in protest, some small voice of reason that was swiftly crushed by the storm of her thoughts. But before she could express her doubt, Faith spoke. You doubt me, I know. But I was a man too, once. Would you trust them? Would you trust those mindless animals over a man? Open your eyes, Katherine. Do not blind yourself to an unwanted truth. That pulling sensation kept heaving on her, as if her guts were being slowly withdrawn from her flesh. Spittle trickled out of the corner of her mouth, even as she gritted her teeth and continued to speak. ¡°You are not much of a man.¡± she retorted, feeling her heart thumping like a drum in her chest.

    I am still a man, only this vessel of mine has been changed. It has been blessed by my god. And would you doubt the word of a god, compared to the veracity of a demon? Her thoughts were muddled by the strain on her mind, that incessant warping as if she was being pulled apart. ¡°What would the demons have of me?¡± she demanded forcefully, driven half to madness by this unyielding pain.

    Who knows? They are animals, are they not? Perhaps they would see nothing more than your body roasted on a spit. Perhaps they would have their fun with you first. Do you truly wish to wait and see? She saw the diggers laboring in the mountains before her eyes¡ªthey had been little more than slaves. Yet faced with those other options, that labor would have been a blessing. She remembered the demons tearing limbs from that slow digger, remembered that these creatures were beasts in nature and drive. More and more, Faith¡¯s words seemed to make sense, in spite of the small voice in the back of her mind telling her to close her ears and eyes.

    How could she close her ears, when the words he spoke made sense. How could she close her eyes, when she seen it all before her. These were not lies, not when her own senses had confirmed them for her. Yet she had one question still, one question that gnawed at her and filled her with a trickling doubt. ¡°What do you want with me? Why would you see me live now, when you tried to kill me at the Gates?¡± she asked suspiciously, before the world around her flashed with lightning and her vision went utterly black. It was as if the flame of the sun had suddenly been snuffed out, and for a heartstopping moment she contemplated death before her vision returned.

    My time here grows short, Faith whispered, a pained expression on that decaying face. You ask what I would have of you? At the Gates, you were an intruder, another arrogant fool walking on the land of my god. Yet Atal spoke to me, instructed me to approach you. He has need for a new arbiter, and you have caught his eye. And so I give you this offer, Katherine of House Black. Will you throw aside your name and life in service?

    The very question seemed incredulous¡ªserve some dark god that ruled the shadows? Yet before she could spurn him, Faith continued. You would be given power. Power enough to avoid the future that you have seen. Your friend Willem can still be saved, should you slay the demon king. Yet there is still more. Her vision flashed, and she saw corpses in front of her. The scene was hauntingly familiar, and it took her a moment to realize that it was her dream from nights ago. She could see the bodies of her mother and father, strewn amidst the rubble. There were soldier¡¯s bodies as well, with stained armor and arrow-filled chests. And one of them, she dared not approach, for she knew it to be Revan¡¯s. She still remembered how he had locked eyes with her before drawing that blade across his neck, and her heart became filled with fear.

    Aye, this is what the future holds. My god has seen it, but the future can be altered still. Will you take my god¡¯s power, knowing that with it you can save your family and your lover? Knowing that with it you can save your friend. Damn yourself to save their lives? Is that not a worthy trade, or are you merely too selfish to do what surely would have been done for you?

    The scene before her trembled, and she was once more in that murky dreamscape. Faith was flickering in front of her, growing hazy and unclear in spite of all that he had said, in spite of all the questions that she had. My time here has come to an end. My god awaits your answer, no matter when it will come. And you will answer. Faith seemed to dissolve in front of her, as if that withered flesh was dissolving in the air. Some unfelt wind stirred, and he was strewn apart like leaves in the autumn. Black dust and flaking skin scattered into the air, blowing away with hardly a trace, even as she felt questions still pounding inside of her head.

    I will be watching, she heard that whispering reply, and she knew that this tribulation of hers would not be over quickly. That pulling heaved even harder on her mind, as if she was being pulled out of this dream, and her senses went black.

    There was no sight, no sound, utterly nothing before her. She could not tell how long she waited in that limbo, in that senseless void. Yet when at last there came a stirring in her mind, it was a welcome sensation. Like some rope descending down upon her, she clutched at it desperately, letting it pull her up and out of her sleep.

 Book 2: Chapter 29

    The dim light was spotty before Kat¡¯s newly opened eyes, circles overlapping over her vision as she struggled to focus on what lay before her. Her head thumped dully, as if there was some hammer beating on her skull. The dream had been taxing on her; her clothes were soaked damp by sweat and her wet hair was plastered to her face. Yet the coldness of the air around her made goosebumps prickle on her shivering skin, and she was surprised to find some rags reminiscent of a blanket tugged up over her stomach.

    As her vision somewhat returned, she peered around blearily to find herself in a small room carved from the stone not unlike her former cell. A thick covering of that luminescent moss these demons seemed so fond of covered the stone, giving a faint glow to the air. Feeling it clump wetly between her fingers, she slowly sat up with a grunt of effort. As she did so, a faint dizziness overcame her and sent the world around her spinning. Breathing hard, she could only close her eyes and feel her heart thumping hard as she waited for the feeling of vertigo to depart.

    As the world around her ceased to move, she felt some impulse telling her to stand. Perhaps it was her legs, long since tired from lying still on the ground. Trying to oblige, Kat slowly tried to stand up with a slow hiss. With a stagger, she slowly pressed up with screaming legs that refused to move despite her commands. She very nearly collapsed just from that simple task, her arm flying out to the side in an effort to keep herself from falling. Her throbbing head made the task no easier, and she found herself shivering from the cold. Her skin was clammy to the touch, yet her forehead felt unnaturally hot in spite of it all. Even her hearing seemed distorted; the dripping of the water on the stones seemed to be only inches away from her. Was it fever then?, she wondered idly as she fought the weakness in her own body. No, it¡¯s of no matter.

    There was a brief flash of fear as she wondered if it was Faith speaking to her, but that was swiftly overcome by the realization that it was but her own thoughts. She chuckled softly to herself, reprimanding her own foolishness. Was she to be so scared now that she could not pull apart her own thoughts from those of another¡¯s? And besides, he was supposed to have been silenced now¡ªthese thoughts were surely her own.

    There was something waiting for her in these tunnels, she was sure of it. It was not a thought she had considered questioning; she merely accepted it as surely any other fact. Simple curiosity drove her to take a staggering step forward, her legs trembling from a lack of use. Was she truly this weak? A sudden doubt made her question just how long she had been sleeping there, that her body might have atrophied so greatly. Yet that concern was fleeting as well, swiftly departing as she gritted her teeth and took another shaking step. The whole of her weight was on those screaming legs, her arms pressed hard against the stone and her fingers digging into the moss as if it might give her some leverage. Come one, she told herself. You can do more than this, come on.

    Whatever it was that was waiting for her in these tunnels, it surely would be waiting for much longer. The sense of urgency drove her to make her way out of that small room, into the maze of tunnels that sloped over her head. The stones were cold and wet, fed by trickling water that had made its way through the earth. The chill made her skin prickle and shiver, yet she fought on with hardly a pause. It would surely take more than this to drive her away from what was waiting so patiently.

    As she walked, her thoughts turned instead to her dream. The corpse has told her that the demons were deceiving her friends, that Willem and Norus both had been enthralled by such magic. It certainly was possible, but how likely was it to be true? Words, certainly, could be lies, but she had seen Norus draw a blade on her. That, surely, could not have been deception. What she saw before her eyes, surely could not be a lie. Yet she remembered the glamour that the diggers had used to capture them, to bring them to these crow-cursed Outlands. They could warp the light, blind the senses, and so even these senses could be lied to.

    No, she told herself. That is not the way to approach this. If she thought that everything was a lie, then there was no longer anything to be trusted. Yet she had to trust something to be truth then, surely? And so would she rather place her faith in words, or in senses? That question was hardly one worth asking, after all. And so she reached her conclusion, that what she had seen before her was most likely truth. But then if Norus truly had drawn a blade on her, what was his motivation for having done so? She had never felt any danger from the man before, had never seen him give the slightest hint of disloyalty before. For him to suddenly betray her felt unlikely¡ªFaith¡¯s answer seemed to be the only one that made sense.

    So then, she thought with a bewildered heart, it was likely that much of what the corpse had said was truth. These demons had enthralled her companions, and now Norus was dead. Blood and bones, she cursed to herself. She would make these creatures pay. Her heart was pounding louder than a drum in her chest, so tight that she thought it might break her ribs. Yet she took in a deep breath as she nearly stumbled on the stone, forcing herself to calm down. Her vision had begun to blacken at the edges, and she knew then that she needed to ifght to remain cautious. If they found her collapsed here, now, then it would all be over.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    She needed a plan; this much, she could realize even in this weary state. First she needed to find where Willem was and free him from whatever spell had been cast. If she could not break the magic, then at the very least she could incapacitate him and take him with her. Yet how could she escape? In its very shape, the Outlands were like a prison. There were mountains on all sides save for the Cold Sea to the north, and the mountains were under control of the demons. She would have hope of escaping without at the very least being spotted by the diggers, and she had no optimism towards fighting those warped men. She had seen their thick bones and hardy build¡ªshe doubted even a spear would be able to help her fight them off much.

    Would she truly have to take Faith up on his offer then? What would it mean, to accept? She would have to serve that dark god Atal, surely, but he had said nothing of losing her humanity. Would she have her mind, then, at the end of it all? Or would she become tainted and corrupted, like that withered corpse? She simply did not know, she realized. She could not make this choice without knowing more, and she doubted that Faith would be willing to tell her more. And even still, she had no way of talking with him like she had before; that dream before seemed likely to have only been for the one time. What choices were these? She half-cursed to herself as a sudden weakness made her fall to her knees, and she struggled to rise back up. Dammit, this road only leads to dead ends.

    Yet some part of her drove her to stride for even still. She had been walking mindlessly, following that instinctual sense of direction as she had been lost in thought. Where there had been forks in the paths, she had merely chosen one without thinking, seemingly at random. And yet now she heard sounds from farther down the tunnel, seemingly of talking. Her heart began to pump harder and she fought to hurry, knowing that whatever was waiting would be over soon, and she would have missed it. How she knew, she had no way of knowing¡ªand the irony was not lost on her as she coughed out a bitter smile.

    Seeing the light illuminate what seemed to be an opening leading to a room, she heard the voices sounding out louder from inside. She could not make out what it was they said, but one was most certainly a demon, from its guttural, low tone that sounding like crushed gravel. As for the other¡ªinstinct told her that it would be Willem. Her hand instinctively flew to her side as if expecting to find a blade, but there was nothing but empty air waiting for those fingers. She cursed inwardly, realizing that they surely would have taken her blade, and that she was approaching this unarmed. She would have no hope of fighting a demon head-on, and so this would not be her chance to save Willem.

    Approaching the edge of the doorway, she knelt hesitantly just outside. Her thumping heart promised to give her away, but she felt the anticipation racing through send every fiber of every muscle aflame. The talking seemed to have stopped, and her curiosity drove her to cautiously peek around the edge.

    It was a larger room, yet only two figures stood inside. The first was unmistakably the king, with those scaled arms and furred body. Its black claws glinted wetly in the faint light, and it took her a moment before she realized that it was blood that coated their surfaces. They shimmered in the light, dripping crimson onto the stone below. The second figure was Willem, his chest bare and covered with blood as well. Only, as she soon realized, his was flowing out of a hole torn into his chest. The bones had been broken, shard of white visible amidst the pink and scarlet. As for the placement of the wound, it would have led straight to the heart. And as she saw the demon lick its claws in a cleaning motion, saw the red that stained the demon¡¯s mouth, she realized most certainly what had happened here. And it was then that she realized she had come too late.

    Willem fell slack to his knees, those eyes blank and empty. Blood was still spurting from his wound like a fountain, pooling onto the ground messily around him. The demon seemed not to notice, closing those mismatched eyes. Its claws were raised, its arms tense to the point that she could see the muscle rippling underneath the scales. And as the air began to crackle with purple magic, see could see strands of white begin to pour out of the hole in Willem¡¯s chest. They wriggled frantically in the air, as if alarmed by the outside, yet more and more seemed to be pulled out of him.

    At the same time, there was a stirring in the ground. The stone shimmered and rippled like the surface of pond water, growing malleable as clay despite its composition. Slowly, more and more of the earth seemed rise up, like some pillar that was climbing out of the earth. Yet it was morphing even as it moved, sprouting out to the side as it was shaped by crackling magic. She held her breath, unable to turn away despite knowing in her heart what would happen.

    As the stone slowly morphed into something resembling a body, the king flicked its claws, its forehead tense with concentration. Those strands of white promptly sank into the stone, apparently eager as they buried themselves in the still forming vessel. Sparks of white would join the purple then, molding the stone and dirt until more and more features became visible in the newly forming demon. Kat blanched, unable to watch any longer, and she turned away.

    Getting up on shaking legs, she hurriedly fled away from that room, cursing in her heart that she had been too late.

 Book 2: Chapter 30

    ¡°We will have to hurry, Oa¡¯kul.¡± the king told him, growling as it led Willem through the network of crudely carved tunnels. Perhaps there was no threat to him in those peeled back lips, but Willem had been around the demon long enough to know that the gesture meant it felt aggravated. As for what it was aggravated by¡ªwell, that surely had to be the skal¡¯va. Ever since bringing up the subject, he had found the king to have been possessed by a sudden urgency. There was an impatience to its every action, as if even the steps it was taking could not be occurring fast enough.

    As for where they were going, Willem did not know. But he did know why, he reminded himself as he flexed his stunted fingers. His legs ached dully, throbbing with a certain detached pain that made him grateful for what was to happen. A new body he had been promised, and a new body he would be delivered. We can wait no longer, the king had declared, promising to give him his body now. There was no more time to waste; it needed to turn its attention south to Malifor and the skal¡¯va immediately.

    ¡°What do you know of the skal¡¯va?¡± Willem asked the king nervously as they walked, the cold air making him shiver ever slightly in the damp tunnels. He was curiously just what was it that had prompted such a strong reaction from the normally confident and collected demon. Even just now, bringing up the name made the demon twitch and jerk in reflex, a hot breath huffing out of its flared nostrils.

    ¡°Not skal¡¯va,¡± it replied with a growl, ¡°but I dealt with skal¡¯ai. Not this swarm you speak of , but monstrous shadows like snakes. They would wrap around a man and swallow him whole.¡± the demon explained, a dark expression crossing its face in memory. ¡°They were led by someone as well, a creature called Sin.¡± The name made the king blanch, as if in distaste. ¡°We slew him in the Capital.¡±

    ¡°We?¡± Willem asked in surprise, confused. The king bared its fangs, as if he had touched upon a sensitive subject, and he danced back in pure reflex. He had grown comfortable around this beast, but he had almost let himself forget that it was far more bestial than any man, no matter how pure its intentions.

    The demon tossed its head in irritation, running a black claw along its curved horn to send sparks flying into the air. ¡°I had...a sister. She died fighting Sin.¡± Surprise filled Willem¡¯s thoughts, but he dared not to press the matter any further, from the expression on the king¡¯s face. They made the rest of the walk in silence, save for the scraping of their feet against the stone. This will be the last time I feel wood clacking whenever I take a step, he realized with a half-hearted bitterness, uncertain for a moment if this was truly what he wanted.

    Yet he shook his head silently just as quickly as the notion came to him. How ridiculous, of course this is what I want¡ªit¡¯s what I¡¯ve always wanted. Not a day had passed in Mea Vatal that he had not cursed his crippled body. And now he was given a chance to throw it all away; how could he possibly pass this up?

    And all it would take would be your humanity, a small voice inside him reminded him. Yet the notion made anger flare up inside of him. Humanity? Had he found any humanity in those people of Mea Vatal? Had he found any humanity in their scornful gazes and their spiteful glares? Was there any humanity in their strikes and blows, in the alleyways and the cobbles? And if that was truly humanity, then it was certainly nothing worth keeping. Willem almost spat in contempt. Humanity. What a small comfort that notion had been when he had been sleping in the rain, his rags all soaked through and his body shivering in a desperate attempt not to freeze. How he had longed for a stronger body, that might brave the cold. But of course, at least this body of his was human.

    No, there was nothing worth saving in his crippled body. And if he was to become some beast, some horrible abomination, then at least he would be strong. No longer would he flinch and recoil at some looming presence. No longer would he stumble and fall whenever he tried to run. No longer would his legs ache in some faint memory of lost limbs that never were. At least, he thought darkly to himself, no matter what happens, at the end of this I¡¯ll either be whole or dead. Both are preferable to living another day in this crow-cursed body.

    ¡°Here.¡± the king growled, shaking him out of his thoughts as they strode into a large room. The floor was clear of moss, perhaps the only defining characteristic other than size in these luminescent tunnels. Its surface seemed regularly disturbed as well, the crackling presence of magic heavy and cloying in the air. So this is the place, Willem thought to himself dimly, the notion bringing on a sudden sensation of urgency and nervousness. No turning back now. Hclamped one hand down on his arm, that it might stop trembling, only to find the fingers shaking still.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Willem cursed himself for his incessant weakness, making his way to the center of the room. ¡°What is to happen, then?¡± he asked, trying to stamp the tremors out of his voice. These would be his last moments in this body, for better or worse. He would not miss it.

    ¡°I will need to do two things at once, ideally. The first will be to take your spirit out of your body.¡± the king growled, popping its neck as it strode opposite to face Willem. ¡°There is a tether binding it to the body, which must be cut. The vessel must be incapacitated, for me to pull out the soul.¡±

    ¡°Meaning?¡± Willem asked, not quite understanding. He was used to things he could see¡ªswords and gold and other objects that he could grasp. But this, this talk of souls and tethers was foreign to him.

    The king peeled its lips back into something resembling a smile. ¡°Meaning that I will have to kill you.¡±

    ¡°A¡ªah.¡± he stammered out, the statement catching him off guard. ¡°There will be more after, I hope?¡±

    The king merely flicked one hand open to the side. ¡°Well that¡¯s the other part. I need to pull up some of the earth and shape it into a vessel. But I don¡¯t know what would best suit you, to ensure the strongest bonding. If your spirit rejects the vessel, I can lose control of it, and you¡¯ll fly off into the wind.¡±

    ¡°What happens then?¡± he asked, innocent curiosity in his tone.

    ¡°What happens to sand in a storm?¡± the king asked laconically. ¡°It disperses. Gone. Which is why I need to take every chance to ensure that your spirit does not reject the body. The best way to do this is to send it into the vessel while it is still forming, so that the spirit can also influence the shape into something more comfortable.¡±

    Willem swallowed hard. The more he heard, the more he felt his heart begin to race, until he finally struck a clenched fist against his chest and gritted his teeth. ¡°Fine then, enough talk. Let¡¯s get on with it, before I start thinking too hard.¡±

    The king merely nodded. ¡°As you wish. Look up at the ceiling.¡± it commanded. Confused, he did so to find nothing but damp moss and dripping water waiting for him. He had no way of anticipating the blow that came to him, the swift pain that struck his chest and made blood pool into his throat. His vision flashed black, the crippling pain sending him slack as his head fell forward. There had been a popping sound, a tearing pain that had lanced through him in that moment, and he saw the king pull back with a hand covered in crimson.

    Wha¡ªhe thought dimly with a shaking hand, the limb unable to stop trembling even as he fell to his knees. There was a shattering sound as one of his false legs broke, not made for the awkward distribution of weight, but he cared not as the shards of wood buried themselves into his thigh. He could only gaze forward blankly as the king closed those eyes, the air swiftly filled with the crackling of magic.

    Was that m¡ªmy heart? Yet he could not think any farther down that road, for his vision was swiftly crumbling black. Blood filled his throat and poured out of his nose, the metallic taste filling his tongue. He struggled to breathe, coughing frantically as bile and tears streamed down his face. So filthy, he could only think as his muscles went slack, piss joining blood in a growing puddle around him. Was this death then, so¡ªso ungraceful? So humiliating?

    He crumpled, face striking the stone as his vision turned black. One last shuddering gasp, and then his throat was filled with blood and mucus. It was a curious sensation then, as he felt a cord inside of him snapping. More and more of him was pulling outside, in that vaguely intangible feeling of departure. He could feel the cold air blowing against him, even as he struggled to keep himself together. It was like he was a snowflake in a storm, a raindrop amidst an ocean, trying to keep his own identity. Even the slightest unfelt current was enough to threaten to blow him apart. Was it not for he crackling warmth of magic holding him together, he surely would not have lasted for longer than a heartbeat.

    He was being pulled, guided, and he could feel something calling out to him. It was an emptiness¡ªa void in this packed, crowded world. It was a hollow space, like a shelter that promised safety, and he needed no further urging to bury himself underneath its warm surface. A vessel, some part of his primal self noted. It was a curious sensation, to be a spirit without a body, even for that briefest of moments. Merely mind and soul¡ªwas this what it felt like to be a ghost? Yet he had no more time for idle thoughts as he felt the earth and stone closing tight around him. It had been an exhilarating experience, like a slave throwing off the fetters for the first time. He had been free, free to fly through the sky. And yet that had been over almost as quickly as if had happened, the earth closing in around him and holding him tight in that prison of a body once more.

    I am to shape this, then? What was it that he wanted? He himself did not even know, yet he supposed some part of him had already made up its mind. Without even thinking of it, without even having it come to mind, he could already feel the stone around him shaping. There had been a discomfort, like wearing clothes tailored for someone else. It had been a pain in his chest, an irritation in his shoulders. The space was painfully different, to the point that almost felt like brick trying to force itself into piping.

    As more and more time passed, he could feel that discomfort slowly fade. The earth around him molded itself, the magic whizzing around like hustling workers, trimming and shaping the stone. He did not know how long it took, truly; he had no sensation of time. It could have been a week; it could have been an eternity. He could only feel his body being made around him¡ªhis birth, in a way. A new birth, a rebirth, he thought dimly as the last spark of magic slowly sank into his chest and fizzled out of existence.

    A rebirth, he thought as he slowly opened his new eyes, that he might behold this world before him.

 Book 2: Chapter 31

    The light was bright as he opened his eyes, despite the part of him that knew it ought to be only a dimly illuminated room. Even opening his eyelids was a strange sensation, something off-putting and indescribably alien about it. He was like a youngster trying on new clothes for the first time, feeling the way that the larger leather slid over his skin. Only , in his case, it was not leather but new flesh that he worked with a cautious curiosity. He did not know what this feeling was, of awkwardness and unsurety in one¡¯s own body, perhaps because he did not know what he imagined that it would feel like. He had merely died, his spirit floating free, and then he had been drawn to this vessel. It had been brief, to him, almost an instant. There had been no time for hesitant predictions, for imaginings of possibilities and anticipation. It simply was.

    And perhaps that was the most apt way to describe how he felt, as wel, as he gazed nervously around the room. There was a sharpness to his eyes that he had not felt before, as if the smallest of details that had previously gone unnoticed were not clear before him. He saw the hairs of the moss, where before he had not even bothered to look. He saw the veins of the stone, stained dark by rivulets of water. But not just his sight, the other senses felt heightened as well. His smell was a palette, a myriad of scents and flavors that mingled together, distinct in his mind where before he might have just dismissed them all was wet and damp. Now he could smell a cloying sweetness in the air, perhaps from the moss, even. There was a pervasive odor of musk as well, no doubt from the king and the other demons that wandered these tunnels. It clung to the air like some cloying mist, masking over all other scents that tried to sneak their way on the wind.

    Hearing as well, he realized as the dripping of water made his ears twitch towards the source of the sound. Not just his left anymore¡ªit came from behind him, perhaps two strides back and a half to the left. No longer needed he even turn, the notion came to him as surely as blinking. It was a fact, just as sure as he was that when he gazed upon a blue sky, that it was truly blue. It was a trust in this new vessel, in this new body of his¡ªand that sensation of trust and faith suddenly stirred up a rising feeling of jubilation.

    His heart began to beat faster as he flexed his hands, gazing down to find long, slender fingers tipped with short claws. They were grey with hide, cracked, leathery skin covering his hands. Veins and muscles worked underneath the surface, bristling with strength and brimming with power that made him marvel. He drew in a deep breath, feeling the euphoria of his newfound senses mingle and churn inside of his head. This feeling of raw joy and excitement continued to build, even as he hunched his legs and slowly began to stand, feeling the muscles work and the tendons tighten with a prideful pleasure. He was standing, he realized. He was standing, and on his own two feet.

    Willem gazed down, almost hesitant as if it were some dream that would shimmer away if he looked too closely. Two leathery, long legs were under him, almost deerlike in shape. They were thin but packed with muscle, from thighs to calves, and ending in three short toes resembling hooves. Even as he stood, he could feel the barely restrained power there, that could send him bounding upwards without a moment¡¯s hesitation. If he wished to, he could jump right now and find himself soaring perhaps two arm¡¯s lengths above the ground. The temptation was almost too much to resist, the primal joy of this new body almost driving away all other thought.

    He wanted nothing more than to bolt out of these confined tunnels to the surface, to run across the Outlands. He wanted nothing more than to test this new body of his, to take sharp corners on the stones, the dust pluming behind him as he chased after some wild creature. He wanted nothing more than to race with the other demons, to leap and bound as far as he could. He could see himself even now, the wind streaking across his skin as his ran, each strong step sending dust and dirt behind him. All that he had never had, all that he had ever wanted¡ªhe could have it now.

    ¡°Enjoying yourself?¡± the king growled with heaving shoulders, breaking him out of his thoughts suddenly. He turned sharply, blinking in surprise before peeling his lips back. His tongue ran over his teeth, the sensation strange and foreign as he felt the wickedly curved fangs in his mouth, almost threatening to cut the muscle. The king made a grimacing smile, the gesture defeated by the exhaustion that made itself apparent on the demon¡¯s face.

    ¡°A¡ªare you alright?¡± Willem asked, only to be shocked by the sound of his own voice in his ears. It was nothing like the boyish tone that he was used to all his life; this new voice of his was like churning stone, grating in his throat. Even his mouth was not used to the words, his tongue uncertain of where to go. He found himself speaking slowly, trying to shape out what he wished to say half a breath before adding air. ¡°You s¡ªseem...tired.¡±

    The king waved a clawed hand, pushing itself upright with a growl and a hiss. ¡°No time. To be a mewling pup.¡± Breathlessness made its sentences choppy and guttural as it began to turn to leave the room, pausing for a moment before gesturing for Willem to follow. ¡°Work to be done. Skal¡¯va to kill.¡± As if those words were all that were needed to be said, the demon promptly strode out of the room back into the tunnels, a slight tremor in its legs that did not go unnoticed to Willem¡¯s new eyes.

    Even as he swiftly followed, he could not help but continue to marvel at this body of his. He could feel the tremors in the ground as they walked, could hear the echoes of the water and their scraping steps on the stone. Where before these tunnels had seemed an untraversable labyrinth, now he found them to be unmistakably distinct. Every fork in the road was its own, just from the way that the stone sloped. If he was lost, he could tell which way he had came from just by the echoes of his steps. This was not something that he sought out, not something that he was focused on. Instead, he merely found himself recalling the path to the surface while walking, noting the smells and sounds at each corner with an instinctive, habitual action.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    And when they finally did reach the surface, Willem found the king stopping for a brief moment, as if to catch its breath. ¡°The girl.¡± it hissed after a moment, turning to flash a short glance at him. ¡°Your girl. I cannot smell her.¡±

    Willem started in surprise, the words confusing him. ¡°What do you mean? She ought to still be resting underground.¡± They had placed her there to heal, for there were no furnishings above the ground safe enough to be used for someone still healing. He had even been hopeful after intervening mentally with his magic, hopeful that she might recover. Yet the look that the king was flashing him now made a sudden hook of danger latch onto his stomach. Those were not the eyes of someone with good news to bear; he knew it too well.

    ¡°I smelled your sister nearby. During the magic.¡± the king growled, still shaking its head from side to side as if hoping to catch a scent on the flowing wind. ¡°When we finished I did not smell her.¡± the demon bared its fangs in irritation, or perhaps in a threatening gesture. ¡°She has left.¡±

    ¡°Left?¡± Willem replied incredulously, the sound harsh and keening to his sharp ears. ¡°Why...would she? The magic worked, no?¡±

    The demon threw him a blank stare, its expression unreadable even as it locked gazes with him. ¡°I do not know. But she is gone.¡±

    Willem shook his head, still not daring to believe. ¡°She...can¡¯t be. She can¡¯t just leave the Outlands. Surely...she is still here somewhere?¡±

    A low hiss escaped the king¡¯s throat, almost snakelike to his ears. ¡°That is what vexes me. She ought not. She ought to be in the wind. But she is not.¡± The king turned to face him, throwing its arms out wide. ¡°You cannot smell her either, no? She is gone. Gone by whatever black madness the skal use. I smell them not, and I smell her not.¡±

    Willem¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°The skal? But surely...she would not join them.¡± He had to have faith in Kat, if nothing else. Faith in her, why? That small voice rose up in him, unbidden and undesired. She saw Faith too; who is she to resist. You failed to save her¡ªnow she is gone. But he refused to believe it, refused to accept it.

    ¡°I smelled not Sin.¡± the king continued, those mismatched eyes becoming half-lidded almost in memory. ¡°I smelled not the skal¡¯ai. I smelled not Faith on her. And now her scent vanishes.¡± The demon shook its head, its prominent horns almost seeming to carve through the air. ¡°No, she is gone. There is no catching a shadow, and that is what she is now.¡±

    ¡°Then, what?¡± he demanded, his voice rising to a fevered pitch. He could not just accept that he lost one of his friends, not so soon after a success. This new body of his, this new future of his, why did it never come without a price? Norus recovering, Kat gone, and skal¡¯va on the horizon. Would he never be rid of this? ¡°What now, that she is gone? Shall we flee from the shadows? Shall we run from the skal¡¯va, before the devour the land.¡± He became almost hysterical, fangs drawing blood where they slashed his tongue in his haste, but he did not care.

    The demon king wheeled about to face him, those claws swiftly grabbing his arms as that snapping muzzle thrust in close. Slaver dripped from those jaws, madness flickering in those eyes. The demon¡¯s curved horns pressed into his temples, threatening to draw blood even through his new hide. The fright was enough to shock sense back into Willem, his mouth slamming shut almost comically as he held his breath. For a moment, there was only the hot air on his face as the demon exhaled slowly, every muscle of its body taut with tension.

    ¡°We... do not...run.¡± it growled lowly, and Willem noticed behind it that more demons were beginning to gather, attracted by the spectacle and their king. Soon enough, there was a quiet crowd, not a sound being made as they listened to what their king had to say. ¡°We...do not flee.¡±

    ¡°The skal¡¯va can die. This Faith can die. I¡¯ve killed their ilk before. The second hunt will be easier. And behind me,¡± it rumbled, gesturing to the assembled crowd, ¡°is my pack. We will not run. We will hunt.¡± The demons murmured in assent, striking their claws against the ground in rattling cadence.

    ¡°We will not cower behind these stones.¡± the king continued, growing louder now. ¡°We will not hide like prey! We will not run like prey! We have claws. We have fangs. If they come for us, they will find flame waiting.¡± There was more madness in those eyes, a fervent hatred for the skal¡¯va and all that they were.

    The king turned suddenly, wheeling about to face the crowd. ¡°MY PACK IS STRONG!¡± it howled, throwing its head to the sky. A resounding chorus answered him, a cacophony of hisses and grunts and howls and wails in a show of indomitable solidarity. The king turned to Willem then, its voice growing quiet.

    ¡°Will you hunt?¡± it asked, and Willem drew in a sharp breath, feeling the weight of their gazes upon him. It was a moment before he gave a terse nod, answering, ¡°I will hunt.¡± The demon struck a clawed fist against his chest, their air crackling with magic that emanated around it like an aura.

    ¡°Then we hunt the shadows.¡± came the king¡¯s command.

 Book 2: Chapter 32

    Dammit, dammit all! Kat could not help but clench her teeth, struggling not to scream as she so desperately wanted while she hurriedly made her way through the tunnels. While instinct had led her here, that same instinct so gleefully abandoned her as fear and panic took over her senses. The dark flickered and danced under that quiet light, the shadows throwing themselves across her field of vision. She was utterly lost, her blind panic slowly fading as she realized that she knew not where she was nor how she could escape. She was a rat in a maze, helplessly doomed to remain here until she wasted away into nothing but bones. Bones, she thought while fighting back a yell, why is it always with the crow-cursed bones?

    No, there¡¯s still a chance. What was it that Faith had told her? Power, in return for service? Aye, there was always a final option, should the moment arise. But she would not grasp that hiltless sword until there was no other choice¡ªfor such a blade surely cut both ways. Nothing came without a price, and such a promised power would cost her more than her life. But what is this life worth, she asked herself, if I¡¯m to rot away here? If these demons who butchered my friends turn their sights on the rest of Altaros?

    The thought was unbidden, but not unfounded. With King Alerick¡¯s death, the entire country had been thrown into disarray¡ªevery nobleman worth the name scrambling hurriedly to fight for the throne or support someone for a title later. These backstabbers and stringspinners were like old fools engrossed in a table game; they would hardly even notice the demons gathered here until it was too late. Every one of the demons was worth a hundred soldiers, particularly if they were still the drowning fish that she had last seen in the legion. She would not surprised if they only ever realized when they felt the coins falling out of their pockets as they died.

    Skal¡¯va to the south and demons to the north, what kind of god did this kingdom spit in a previous life? Yet if she had to choose between the two foes, the distant one was always preferable, was it not? As far as she could tell, the skal¡¯va could not go past the Gates by virtue of whatever magic still held in those grand stones¡ªeven if their commander had managed to slip into her dreams. These demons sat in the very heart of the country; if they ever made their way out of thes mountains, she doubted there was a force on Altaros that could stop them. That god¡¯s power you¡¯ve been offered might, a part of her whispered, and she could see Revan bleeding from the throat in front of her.

    Yet there was only more to the worry this time, as she relived that nightmare in her thoughts, her heart pounding. The demons were swarming over the rills, the air filled with the echoes of their sonorous cries. There were howls and wails, chattering shrieks, rumbling bassos that shook the earth under their charge. The legionaries that stood in their path trembled, cowering behind wooden shields that would do naught against bone and hide.

    She could see it before her now, those beasts leaping on top of the front line. Shields were only as strong as the man holding them up, and no man could ever fight back against twenty stone bearing down on him. They would crumble and fall, blood and gore spraying out of their bodies as they died. That armor would do nothing against those claws, against those bone-scythes and blades; they would crumple like dry leaves. The first charge would break apart the legion¡¯s formation utterly, and those soldiers would be quick to collapse as well. Even veterans would panic underneath those rampaging beasts, and without their discipline they were no legion¡ªjust fodder.

    But if the legion was to fall, could anything else hope to stop demons turned loose on Altaros. Magic, perhaps, but not with their king at hand. She had never seen any channeler half as competent as that lupine beast, nor any warrior that could hope to last longer than ten heartbeats in battle. Those Abaratt with their heavy hooks, the Skaavosi with their arrows, even the Malifori on horseback¡ªif there were any of them left¡ªthey could not stand in the field against the demons. Abaratt speed, so long famed and so crucial to their fighting, was nothing against these creatures who moved faster than light.

    Skaavosi arrows were no more than an irritant against that hide, against those glimmering scales. She could see them already, a hail of arrows turning the creatures into pincushions. Some would fall surely, but more still would press forward. They archers would be forced to flee, but who could outrun a beast? And their fliers, some part of her reminded herself as she fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Aye, there had been leather-winged demons amongst them. They would plummet down past the fortifications, over whatever trenches were dug and whatever walls were erected. Archers were trained to fire in volleys, even the Skaavosi on their galleys. No volley would work on a foe above one¡¯s own head¡ªand panicked snap-shots would be as useful as prayers when those shrieking demons rained down.

    Malifori used speed as well, relying on horseback and arrows to keep their foes at a distance as they harried their prey. They would fire the first volley and then dance back as their foe gave chase. When the enemy began to tire, the Malifori fired once more. Then they would collapse on the wounded things, perhaps even giving chase until the fools bled out and died of their wounds. That was how the Malifori fought, but it would not work against demons. Speed was of no use to a foe that fought by ambush and surprise. Even the nimblest of horses would fail when one of those demons came bursting out of the underbrush, fangs bared. Even the fleetest of horses could not outrun a demon flier.

    She ran all these thoughts through her military mind, considering all angles she could imagine in the hopes that perhaps she had overlooked something. Yet it was for naught¡ªthis foe was one that would emerge victorious, the most that any Altarosan could hope to do was wound them. Perhaps, if all could be rallied to the cause¡­ Yet even then, what would it be but a slaughter? Soft flesh and weak muscle simply could not compete to those beasts, she knew it in her heart. But shadows might stand a chance against those claws.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Faith had offered her the skal¡¯va, surely she could turn them against the demons? If she could control them, they could be a tool then, something to save her countrymen. Revan, her parents, she could save the Heartlands from these creatures. All that would be needed was for her to supplicate that dark god, to give up her humanity. For your lover and your people, is yourself not worth the price? Or would you consider your own life to be worth more than all of theirs? Are you truly so selfish?

    Another impasse, another fork in the road, and here she stood without any idea how to proceed. A small smirk spread across her lips as she reached a branch in the tunnels as well, reality reflecting her thoughts as she drew in a deep breath. This was not enough, not enough to make her choice. One foe to be defeated first, and the skal¡¯va might be her ally if they could be believed. That was the hope, was it not? That she used the skal¡¯va to best the demons and then restrain them for eternity as their jailor? Kat almost wished to laugh out loud at the notion. So simple, is it not? Truly this is one of those tales that the bards sing of.

    Gritting her teeth, she knelt down against the stone and closed her eyes. Faith, she thought furiously, knowing that the corpse-thing would be watching her. I would speak with you. She did not know what she was expecting as an answer¡ªsome message, perhaps? Some inner voice that whispered softly like a temptress, honeyed and gentle as it poisoned her heart? Yet there was no response, only her sitting there like some fool, waiting helplessly.

    With her eyes closed, there was only blackness around her. Yet, ever imperceptibly, that began to change. She saw the briefest hint of flickering light, much as there was often when first closing one¡¯s eyes, dancing spots that flashed intermittently in and out of existence. They clustered together the center of her field of vision, and sudden everything around her warped with a brilliant flash. There was a popping sensation in her ears, her eyes flying open in surprise, and she could not help but wonder if she was dreaming.

    The floor beneath her could not be seen; it was as if she simply could not gaze at it. She could feel the stone underneath her, certainly. She knew what ought to be there, but in her vision it was only a siwrling black. The tunnels as well, had been snatched away, replaced by that emptiness that ought not to be there. In that empty void, there was nothing. There was no sound in her ears. There was no wind brushing against her skin. It was blissfully quiet, blissfully empty.

    This is the presence of my god, came the whisper and from the darkness she could feel a familiar presence. It took no form this time, took no shape in that empty void. She knew that Faith was there, although precisely how, she could not explain. As if hearing her questions, the shadow-thing continued. This is the blessing of Atal. The body you are familiar with is but a vessel. A tool. My god has stripped away fleshly fetters. I am now in his embrace, whole as was meant to be.

    You know little of my god, perhaps. You associate Atal with death and destruction, perhaps. But he is not the fearful creature you would imagine him to be. He is emptiness. He is peace. Atal is what there was, before there was anything. He was the first void, and he was what we will all return to in the end. He is the womb of this world, and it is from him that your existence came forth. Thus death is not an end, but a journey back into the folds of his embrace.

    Kat tightened, feeling the thumping of her heart draw her away from that mesmerizing emptiness. Enough of your prattling, she thought, for she was afraid to speak in this silence. What of your skal¡¯va? If I serve this Atal, will they be mine to control? There was a pause before any answer came.

    These countries of yours are not so fluid as they would seem. Altaros has stood for thousands of years, resisting the call of my god. Creation resists the call of its maker, despite everything. And so each land will only have one arbiter in its midst. Much as your predecessor was the only one in Altaros, and I was the sole arbiter in Malifor. The children of the skal will be yours to command in your lands, but they cannot travel to another¡¯s lands.

    These pretty words made her rage with impatience. She had no time for this. Meaning what, Faith? Will they be mind to use against the demons? Or will they butcher my own people the moment I loose them upon the field?

    They are but tools, Katherine of House Black. Tools will do as the hands wielding them command. Know this: if you do not take the mantle of my god in Altaros, there will be another. And they may not be as virtuous as yourself.

    She thought hard, knowing that the hourglass she held had only a few grains left. Indeed, this certainly could be a lie. But without a way out of these tunnels, she would die. Without a way to stop the demons, her people would perish. And if she did not accept this offer, it very well might go to another man that would rather see the country burn to ashes. A single choice, to sate all these wants. Such an easy choice, really¡ªjust one word. So small now, in hindsight. I¡¯ve made my choice, she decided with a despairing resolution.

    You made it long ago.

 Book 2: Chapter 33

    Pain shot through her flesh as Kat died. It was a curious sensation, truly¡ªdeath. The feeling was not at all how she expected it to be. The stories always made it out to be something peaceful, a gentle bliss awaiting the fallen warriors, a quiet smile descending over the blood-covered faces. It was the light that shone brilliantly at the end of their path, the glowing stairs that led them to whatever heaven they deserved. In the stories, death was always something noble and calm, a final sacrifice.

    The stories, she decided with a hoarse scream, were full of shit. There was nothing but pure agony that laced through her veins, that seared her flesh with every labored heartbeat. Her body was on fire, her bones shattering into pieces underneath her skin. Her muscles were being shredded, the very fibers that constituted them being torn into pieces. This was no noble death: she was being ripped apart until her body was nothing more than broken scraps.

    The skal¡¯va were consuming her, in whatever strange plane of dreamscape or hallucination this was. The stone under her fingers seemed real enough, the blood spurting from her mouth felt real enough¡ªsurely this was truth, then? The swirling blackness around him was filled with buzzing whines of the skal¡¯va their indiscernible wings scraping out the wails of a thousand dying men. Those wails were what filled her ears as the black dust tore into her skin, gnawing minute holes into her flesh like so many needles.

    With birth, must first come death, Faith whispered into her mind, the calm, quiet voice somehow still maddeningly audible despite the hysteria that surrounded her. She wanted nothing more than to see that wretched thing in front of her, to strike it in the stomach with a good punch and see it crumple in pain. The crow-cursed bastard, she swore inside, unable to give voice to the notion with her shredded throat. The skin flapped uselessly with that hole in her neck, only serving as a futile doorway for the stream of skal¡¯va that poured in. Breathless lungs could do nothing but give that silent scream as they filled with black shadow, to the point where she almost thought that she was drowning.

    The edges of her vision were already tinged with red, flickering and fading as she felt her consciousness begin to swim. Her gaze turned down emptily, and she saw what little remained of herself below her. Her entrails slipped out uselessly, guts dangling like some pathetic rope. Bones and tendons could be seen through the muscle on her legs, the white starkly noticeable through all the squirting crimson. Flecks of black squealed and buzzed hungrily as they dove in deeper and deeper, puncturing in through even the bone to feast upon the marrow inside. Truly then, they were going to suck her dry. She saw Faith¡¯s withered body before her once more and she wondered if this was what had happened to the wretched man as well.

    Twenty silvers says that he didn¡¯t have a hole punched through where his stomach was, though. As the agony flared once more, she found what scattered remnants of thought remained flying away in the wind, leaving her only with a scream that none could hear. Her torso was gone next, the damned things working away under the ribs like she was some pig fattened up for slaughter. Her arms went as well, her fingers becoming little more than pieces of bone connected by shreds of clear tendon. More and more of her was taken away, it a sensation horrifying similar to when she had used the waygate, until at last it was only her mind once more.

    Like in the waygate, she was utterly detached¡ªa mere presence floating without any restrictions of the flesh. Yet unlike in the waygate, she did not feel so weak, as if a slightest of breezes would threaten her to scatter. There was another presence around her, a shield that wrapped around her mind and held it together like mortar to bricks. You feel it, Faith whispered hurriedly, hungrily, and she spun about trying to find him in this sea of black. You feel my god¡ªour god. That is Atal¡¯s blessing, to shield the mind and soul from the ravages of creation. Without a vessel, a spirit would disperse and decay. That is the fate our god saves us from.

    You¡¯ll not find what you¡¯re looking for, the voice replied almost humorously, as if aware that she was trying to locate the source. Yet the effort proved infuriating; one moment it came from behind, then to the left, and even still from above at the same time. In this shapeless, formless sea in between dreams and death, it came from all directions and none. The answer, then, is that I am around you, and a part of you¡ªmuch as you are a part of me. You can feel me, can hear my thoughts after all. But this is the embrace of Atal, a taste of the world before it all came into being. Comforting, is it not?

    Her thoughts swirled¡ªfor that was all she was now: bits of thoughts held together by a dwindling soul. As much as she hated to admit it, there was a certain peace to be found here; despite the hellish baptism that it had taken to arrive. No body to feel pain, no dangers to be felt in this warm caress. She felt an inexorable urge to let go of whatever it was that still held her together, to mere drift in these unfelt currents and let them take her where they would. It would be a simple thing, truly¡ªshe was but a speck, a minor part of the colossal whole. From this amalgamation was she made, to its womb ought she not return?

    No! The sudden warning jolted her back from whatever trance had taken her, pulling back all the loose threads of thought that had begun to fray and pull apart. Dammit, you bastard. Are you so eager to see me die? Yet all that she heard¡ªthat she thought in reply was a rasping chuckle.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    You are already dead, you who was once Katherine of House Black. Your body has been taken, returned to Atal. All you are is an imprint, a vague memory that may still prove to be of some use.

    His words filled her with rage, her thoughts seething and coiling like so many agitated vipers about their nests. This was not the bargain we struck, she hissed at the presence of Faith. You promised me skal¡¯va to slay the demons. Where are they?

    So eager, the voice laughed. Are you truly so quick to meet the Mother? What was that supposed to mean? Ought she wait then? Ought she twiddle her thought-fingers and whistle a little tune, exercise a little patience until the threads of time slipped off the spinning wheel? An inexorable rage swelled up inside of her, a frustration with the choice that she had been forced to make, at this teasing mockery that had been made of her sacrifice for her people.

    Peace, peace, unnamed arbiter. As you will, then. Let us meet the Mother. The currents around them swirled, a sudden tugging filling her as she felt like some driftwood being plucked out of a raging sea, guided by some unseen hand. There was a tearing as she was wrenched away from that warm embrace, from that gentle, calming presence. The winds howled in her ear, a thousand shrieking, jostling pressures thrusting themselves upon her in an instant. She found just to remain conscious, just to remain together as they threatened to pull her mind apart.

    Not so peaceful, is your world now? Without Atal¡¯s blessing, you would not last half a heartbeat. Faith¡¯s voice once more echoed inside of her mind, but this time it felt strained¡ªlike a child¡¯s voice sent distantly through a pipe. I am not so eager to gaze upon Her once more, you must forgive me.

    Her? The thing once named Kat could not help but wonder as she felt her presence plunged into the bowels of the earth, guided and shielded by that blessing of the dark god. Heat and pressure bore down her with a viselike grip, and she fought not to be pulled apart. So turbulent was the journey that she did not even know when she had arrived, only realizing after the world around her began to calm and ceased its spinning.

    There was some massive cavern before her, far larger than any mere city¡ªfar larger than any cavern of man. It stretched on into the horizon, its features indistinct and blurred by ever-shifting shadows that squirmed and writhed in the dark confines. Near the center of the motion, she felt a horrendous presence that bore down on her, that sank its fangs into her very spirit even from this distance.

    She fought as the dark god¡¯s will drove her closer, ever closer to that repulsive travesty that lay in the middle of the shadows. The Mother, some dim part of her noted as was borne into the nest, shapeless shadows squirming as they grazed her. She felt their oily touch against her, slipping off as they glided around with a disgusting curiosity. After a moment, they withdrew from what they were protecting, leaving it bare for her to gaze down with sightless eyes.

    The Mother, that same part of her laughed sadistically as she beheld the perverse creature that was carried aloft by her children. Her distended body was fashioned in a pantomime of a woman, the mottled flesh spilling out over the caverns with great rolls of tissue. Her arms hung long and thin by her sides, almost stick-like compared to the rest of her rippling size. They did not move with the rest of her, as if they were lame and useless. Spider-like legs wormed their way out of the bottom of her body, tens of the appendages twitching against the ground, seeming too small to possibly carry her. The most that they could manage was turn her about that position in the cavern, leaving her trapped in this echoing prison.

    Yet most horrific was her face, so reminiscent of beauty yet hopelessly twisted. Her eyes were clawed out, nothing but empty sockets in her misshapen skull. Her nose was sunken and fractured numerous times at the base, its once-perfect shape now covered with pustules and gaping wounds. Her mouth was nothing but a pair of pale lips, stitched together by some black shadow that throbbed as if alive as it ran through her flesh. Every so often that mouth was twitch as if it wanted to scream, only for the shadowy stitch to pulse and tighten to bind her ever tighter. The stitches continued to circle around her head, continuing up towards the back of the skull where the flesh bulged out. It was as if something had burst out of her skull, the shards of bone visibly breaking through skin as that worm-like extension in the back of her head twitched and moved of its own accord. The expression on her monstrous face was one of utter agony, one of helpless suffering and resignation.

    Below that monstrosity of a torso, bulging holes could be seen lining where hips and legs might belong. Black veins pulsed and throbbed with an irregular heartbeat, covered by a thin, clear film of what might be skin, or might be liquid. Every so often, they would squirm and contract, driving out a black, mist-like thing that oozed its way through the clear barrier to join its brethren in the cavern around it. There were countless numbers of holes on her massive body, perhaps enough to match the population of the Capital at its peak.

    The Mother, she screamed silently, feeling its sightless gaze fall upon her and its presence rip into her own. For an instant, she could feel agony spearing through every part of her mutilated body, her own flesh turned into a prison that she could not escape. She felt something, hopeless dark and twisted inside of her stomach, squirming and throbbing with an abhorrent heartbeat as it split and propagated within her. She felt the Mother¡¯s pain, and she wanted nothing more than to have a throat that she might slice, to have a pair of wrists to slit. So cruel was it that she was already dead, that she might be denied this opportunity to die when she truly desired it.

    Well then, nameless arbiter? What name would you give her children?

 Book 2: Chapter 34

    Flexing still-foreign claws, Willem found himself sniffing the air with a wince as he watched the demons scramble about the land. The stench of oil and charcoal was ever-present, many of the demons managing massive firepits dug into the ground upon which hung buckets full of metal ores. Charcoal burned brilliantly as three demons tended to the flame, the vibrant colors stunning even at this distance. The mixture inside the buckets would be skimmed to be rid of impurities by the diggers, who then poured the molten iron into casts. Water taken from the aqueducts was hauled over by more demons, the air filling with steam as the metal was cooled and hardened.

    More diggers were gathered in the mountains, where instead of mining ores as they had been for the past months, they had now turned to forging. With crude hammers and great force, they bent the metal from the simple molds, shaping them into hollow claws and hooked scythes that were wickedly tipped. There were large plates of armor as well, each sheet sliding over the other like scales on a lizard, the ribs perhaps twice as large as a grown man. Others took to the chisel, carefully engraving strange runes into the surface.

    Hearing footsteps crunching the ground behind him, Willem turned to see Kha slinking over. The snake-like demon blinked those unnerving eyes, apparently meeting his gaze. ¡°What are the runes for?¡± he could not help but ask the demon, gesturing towards the strange tools that were being made. They were weapons, clearly, but what weapons could the demons possibly need? And, perhaps more importantly, what weapons could hope to work against the skal¡¯va?

    Kha was silent for a moment, its eyes disconcertingly focused on the distance before it gave a response. ¡°Those are runes of fire...inactive...¡± it replied before cocking its head curiously to the side, as if in question. ¡±Have you never learned...of runes?¡± it asked Willem, and he gave a shake of the head in response. How could he have? There was never anyone to have taught him such things¡ªcertainly not in Mea Vatal.

    The demon gave a nod then, proceeding to explain. ¡°Runes are a form of storing...spells to protect from decay...each carving corresponds to an aspect of the design...I can see heat...hunger...growth...all aspects of fire...¡± Kha pointed towards the racks filled with finished weapons, their surfaces unpolished but the runes clearly visibly etched. ¡°Those runes are inactive...they have not been given any magic...when given magic the carvings will interact...become blurred and indefinite...from there it is but a simple thought...to trigger the magic in the rune and unleash the spell...¡±

    ¡°Only a thought?¡± Willem asked in surprise, turning his head sharply. ¡°So then those who are not channelers can use these runes as well?¡± When Kha gave a nod in reply, a storm of thoughts and possibilities flashed through his mind.

    ¡°The veils we give...to those of us that go beyond the mountains are runes...defensive ones, fashioned into amulets...these weapons too are meant to be worn...although for what purpose...my king has not told me¡­¡± Kha paused, seeming to muse for a moment. ¡±What foe dies to a flame...but not claws and fangs...I wonder?¡± it asked

    Willem opened his mouth to speak in reply for moment, yet decided against it. If the king had not told Kha of the skal¡¯va, then surely there was a reason for it. He proceeded instead to continue with his questions. ¡°Must the runes be carved into steel? Can it not be done into the flesh?¡±

    Kha blinked in surprise, that purple tongue darting out for a brief moment before it hissed. ¡°Truly you ask...curious questions...indeed, it need not be steel¡­¡± Yet after a moment of consideration the demon shook its head. ¡°The flesh is...mutable, changing...the runes would change shape as the flesh grew...become unstable¡­¡± Kha gestured to an arm, to the scales that lined the surface of its skin. ¡°Should a rune break...the magic inside is released in an explosion...a poor choice for a body, then¡­¡±

    Kha peered at Willem with those slitted eyes, the gaze discomfiting as it suddenly jerked its head in a nod. ¡°Truly curious...but my king has called for me...you must excuse me¡­¡± Willem started with surprise, managing a short, ¡°Of course.¡±, but the demon was already slinking away as if not even listening, its tongue tasting the air. Willem was left alone on the hill, watching the war proceedings below him as the demons began to get fitted for the runed armor, the diggers carefully clasping the metal over muscled frames and massive bodies. The diggers seemed nervous, the demons restless wherever the metal was too tight, or the claw-sheaths were grating, or the armor pinched against the flesh. On occasion, a digger would prove himself too clumsy and the demon would lash out, tearing off a chunk of a limb and sending away the crippled man to go fetch for another with calmer hands.

    Willem found his thoughts turning to Kat and her disappearance. Too much had changed too quickly, ever since they had came into the Outlands. From the crude reception to his learning about Oa¡¯kul, to this new body that he still felt like a stranger in, not a day had passed without the world around him shifting on its axis. And yet, somewhere, somehow, amidst it all she had slipped in through the cracks. Was she dead? That was a question that even the king had no way of answering. Yet she had vanished without a trace, despite his attempts to free her from the twistings that Faith had done on her mind. Slowly, Willem crushed his claws into a fist. Truly then, it seemed that she had left¡ªhe did not wish to think any longer on the reason.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Too much had changed in too few days; Willem found himself flinching still when he saw the reflection in the water. Part of him recoiled still at the smooth, alien face that greeted him. Featureless and lined with a fine coat of hairs, it was utterly foreign save for the Maes that covered him still. His mouth was filled with slender teeth, his tongue far thicker than he was used to. His neck too, was thin and covered with short, stiff hairs that prickled when touched. His arms were long, hanging almost below the knees and ending with four claw-tipped fingers. In comparison, his legs were broader with thick muscle and ropy tendons, ending with spade-like feet that dug into the dirt with every step. It was a body made for speed, a streamlined shape designed to do nothing more than run with the wind. His greatest want, to run across the fields and plains with exhilaration, that was what this body of his promised.

    ¡°You¡­¡± came a low growl from behind him, and Willem spun around hurriedly. He knew that voice, knew what he would see even if he was not expecting it. Indeed, as he turned he found Norus staggering up the hill, behind him one of the boneguards watching impassively. Willem found himself rooted, his heart suddenly racing despite all that he was feeling. There was a nervousness to him, a sudden uncertainty. Does he know it¡¯s me? What will he think of what I¡¯ve become?

    ¡°You¡¯re Willem?¡± the soldier asked, rubbing a hand against his throat. ¡°What the hell did they do to you?¡± Willem found himself unable to look away from that heated gaze, despite the weakness in Norus¡¯s actions. His face was pallid and devoid of any color, the skin covered with a slick sheen of sweat. His shoulders heaved with labored breaths just from walking to here from underground, an unmistakable tremble in his legs that he would not possibly have been caught dead with before.

    Willem had to swallow hard before answering the question, trying to keep any stammer from his voice. ¡°This was...an opportunity. The demons gave me a new body.¡± He threw his arms out wide, gazing at the rolling hills and barren plains of the Outlands that stretched on to the horizon. ¡°Now I can walk on my own. I can run with my own legs.¡±

    Norus paused for a moment before nodding, turning his head to spit off to the side. ¡°Suppose I can¡¯t blame you, can I? Blood and bones, it¡¯s strange for you to be taller than me.¡± he smirked, leaning back onto locked legs and he looked up at Willem. ¡°Enough of the¡ªof the sugar and sap.¡± he coughed, clearly the effort of coming up here far greater than he was letting on. ¡°Where¡¯s Kat? He needs to hear this too.¡±

    Willem could only shake his head, unsure of how to explain. ¡°Gone. Don¡¯t know where.¡± Norus raised his eyebrows in surprise, drawing in a sharp breath before striding in close.

    ¡°Dammit, listen,¡± he gasped out, grabbing onto Willem wrist with a viselike grip. ¡°I¡¯m not a normal human, surely you¡¯ve known by now. I¡¯m an experiment, a human spirit and mind in a magic-powered body.¡± Willem could only stare in shock, yet it was not quite the surprise it ought to have been; he could only remember the sight of those coils of magic being pulled out of Norus¡¯s body, could only remember what the king had called him. Aye, this was a truth that he had known before.

    ¡°I was dead, decapitated.¡± he continued, gesturing to the wound running along his neck. ¡°But I was freshly dead when they threw me in front of the doctors, and that was good enough. They stitched me onto some new body, stamped me off with a number, and shipped me off to the legions for testing. There were some ten of us that didn¡¯t reject the body, out of hundreds. But most importantly, the doctors wove a compulsion into us. A command of sorts¡ªone that cannot be refused.¡±

    Willem blinked, shaking his head. This was all coming too fast; it was too much. ¡°Wait, why would they do such a thing? Give¡ªgive you this magical body?¡±

    Norus snorted. ¡°Looks like we¡¯re all having a thing for new bodies, eh? There¡¯s nothing magical about this, other than the lack of fatigue. I draw in magic from the world around me¡ªeven more around people. If I run out, I die. As for why, to make a new breed of soldiers and slaves. No one fights better than those that don¡¯t tire, and no one works harder either.¡± His eyes flashed with a sudden inspiration, a rare moment of feeling in the stone-faced man. ¡°Imagine it, doctors running through battlefield of the dead, stitching new bodies onto the corpses and letting them rise up again. Two armies bled and died, and a new one rose up, stronger than either before.¡±

    He shook his head, as if dispensing himself of the notion. ¡°Of course, it¡¯s not as if I can¡¯t die like this. I¡¯m just hardier than most. If you lop off an arm, I¡¯ll keep going. And more importantly, it gives each man in the legion two lives to give for his country.¡± He sneered in derision. ¡°The patriots must be shitting themselves in excitement.¡± he squeezed out before coughing hard, a trickle of blood flecking the side of his mouth.

    Willem felt a trembling in his heart at the thought of the dead rising up, but he fought it anyways. ¡°Then this compulsion of yours, what do your doctors want you to do?¡± he knew the man, a stone heart like forged steel. What could possibly drive him to such urgency and emotion?

    Norus growled, drawing in a heavy breath as his face grew even more white, a vein in his temple pulsing with effort. ¡°That¡¯s the damned thing. It¡¯s an order to return. HIghest urgency. But they don¡¯t just do that for checkups or reunions. Its a wartime recall to the Heartlands.¡±

    ¡°The legions are under attack, and they want my arse back there.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 35

    ¡°Do you know where the king is?¡± Willem hurriedly asked Kha, the demon supervising the engraving of the weapons and armor. The diggers worked quickly, motivated by fear and leering eyes. There were perhaps fifty demons in the camp to be outfitted, from what Willem had seen, each to be given both claws and plates. The process would take perhaps three days if all the diggers were pulled from their labors in the mountains, the bottleneck being the engraving. A perfectly forged claw would be ruined if the rune was forged incorrectly, from what Kha had told him. Already there was a pile of discarded pieces, waiting to be melted down and reforged.

    The demon looked up with a startled expression, its purple tongue darting out momentarily with a pause before jerking towards the mountains. ¡°Charging the runes¡­¡± it replied before once more leering over the shoulder of that unfortunate digger, whose trembling fingers struggled to hold the chisel steady. That the ground nearby was damp and dark with bloodstains hinted at the fates of those that had came before him.

    Willem led Norus towards the same tunnel through which they had entered the Outlands, what felt like so many days ago. Was it truly less than a week? Such a notion seemed too foreign to be reality. That gaping mouth carved out of the stone, framed by wood, seemed to draw them closer in like some great beast. Near the entrance, the king knelt with the fruits of its labors surrounding it. Pieces of rune-weapons lay scattered around in the dirt, smoking failures waiting to be carried off by nearby diggers. Those that were successes were collected to be delivered back to the forges, hardened and tempered a final time before being given to a demon.

    Before the king knelt a digger, his form prostrate and trembling as coils of purple danced in the air. It was a moment before Willem fully understood, that the magic was the digger¡¯s, being pulled out of his body and sent into the rune. As more and more purple ribbons were drawn out, a bloody scream was wrenched out of the man¡¯s mouth, filling the air before two more standing nearby quickly silenced him with cupped hands. As the spell was completed and the rune charged, the now-depleted digger was hauled off, another dragged forward to take his place. Willem could only watch, the part of his heart that squirmed in protest not enough to make him take action against this.

    He strode forward as the king finished another of the rune-constructs, coils of purple binding around the metal and sinking into the symbols. The engravings began to glow as more power was added, the surface growing blurry and indistinct as the runes began to blend with one another, separate parts coming together into a hazy whole. There were perhaps six separate runes on this piece, the magic housed in the body of an average man only enough to fully charge perhaps three. And this piece was but a single shell for a claw, designed to slide over the talon. Willem could only imagine more armor plates and more rune-claws for each demon in the Outlands, each requiring magical power. It very well may be that they could deplete these mountains of diggers and still not have enough for all the runes they wished for.

    Yet what were these rune-pieces for? Willem could only guess from what Kha had told him, that the carvings were for flame¡ªthe only blade known to cut the skal¡¯va. Flame would consume the shadows, would burn their mutable forms into ash. Claws trailing fire would cut through swarming clouds. Armor shrouded in a conflagration would resist even the smallest tendril of the darkness. The king had demanded war; these demons would not merely be sent forward to die at the fangs of the skal¡¯va.

    ¡°I would speak with you.¡± Willem growled out, the words distorted to his ears as he approached the king. The demon was crouched over its work, sparks of magic flying off into the air with crackling hisses. As it finished, it threw a brief glance at Willem, that blood-red eye glinting in the sunlight. ¡°We cannot march to Malifor.¡± he spoke, steeling himself for whatever was to come.

    He certainly was not expecting the king to whirl up in a sudden surge, lips peeled back in a threatening snarl. ¡°We? You would command my people? Did they name you king while I labored here?¡± Those two eyes were bloodshot from strain of continuous magic, the tendons in the demon¡¯s neck bulging like thick cords. Clearly the price of its power was taking its toll; it seemed even the indomitable king was still prey to fatigue.

    Lowering his head meekly, Willem felt his heart thumping out a panicked rhythm. The king was like some beast on the brink of rampaging; any careless action on his part might very well push the demon over the brink. Tension made every muscle in his body taut, instinct telling him to lower his gaze subserviently. Slowly, he tilted his head towards the side, baring his neck meekly while keeping his gaze downwards. Unable to see what the king intended, he found himself frozen with anticipation, not even daring to draw in a shaky breath. It was not for the space of a few painful heartbeats until he heard the slow hiss as the king pulled back that he dared to look up and let the tension flow out of his body.

    The demon stepped back, claws balled into fists as it closed its eyes with a grunt. With they were opened once more, its bestial features seemed to somewhat calmer, as if it had gained control of its instincts. The king waved a hand offhandedly, snarling out, ¡°Enough.¡± Drawing in a short, ragged breath, it gestured for Willem to continue. ¡°Speak.¡±

    He swallowed hard, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to see Norus behind him in support. The soldier was clearly weak from the strain of being up and about so early, his body low on the magic it needed to function. Twice on the way here, Willem had heard the man panting hard and struggling to stand, even if he denied it whenever asked. Yet it was important that he be here, for the sake of what was about to be told to the king.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    ¡°We cannot march south to Malifor.¡± he repeated, continuing hurriedly. ¡°We are too few in number to fight the skal¡¯va with what we have.¡±

    The king frowned, throwing a glance towards the war camp that was rallying nearby. ¡°We are forged from stone and earth.¡± it growled in annoyance. ¡°Do not mistake us for your soft men, so easy crippled from walking. Even a pup of ours would be worth ten of your warrior.¡±

    Willem nodded, knowing that he was treading on dangerous soil. ¡°Aye, that I do not deny. But you have not seen the skal¡¯va in Malifor as I have. Whatever it was like here in Altaros, this is different.¡± He remembered his dream, when he had first seen Faith in that tomb. He remembered what he had seen as he had flown over the land. ¡°The skal¡¯va there have swallowed everything. The dirt, the sand, every crow-cursed shadow, they¡¯re hiding inside it. You were able to stop it happening in Altaros. But Faith succeeded in the south. Those are his lands now, and less than a hundred of your men marching into his can¡¯t possibly hope to last more than a few days.¡±

    The king snorted still, although its look seemed more pensive this time. ¡°Not less than a hundred. The diggers will march as well.¡± Willem felt himself start in surprise at the notion. There were easily over two hundred diggers in these mountains; they would be a formidable force indeed. Yet as he thought it over, there was a gaping flaw that stood out at him.

    ¡°Yet there cannot possibly be enough runes for them to use. And without weapons, they cannot hope to do anything against the skal¡¯va. They¡¯ll be fodder, to be shredded in the first few minutes of crossing the Gates.¡± he protested. ¡°Listen to me, you don¡¯t have the numbers as of now to march south and kill Faith. But I know a way for you to get more fighting men.¡±

    There was a pause for a moment after he spoke where there was nothing but silence, the wind stirring the grasses below. Willem was tense, waiting for a response that had yet to come from the king. Yet the longer the period wore on, the more he was afraid of what would come. Finally, the demon tilted its head to the side, giving a gruff, ¡°Continue.¡±

    A short sigh left his mouth before he gestured towards Norus. ¡°The legions to the east, in the Heartlands¡ªthey¡¯re under attack right now. They¡¯re requesting any aid possible. If we come in and save them, I¡¯m certain they would be willing to listen about what we have to say. They have hundreds of men in the legions. And more importantly, they have channelers.¡±

    The king gazed briefly at Norus, snorting loudly. ¡°Softskins with wooden shields, what use are they to us? What hope do they have against the skal¡¯va, if you insist that my demons cannot stand against them?¡±

    Willem felt his mouth widen into a smile involuntarily. ¡°Humans have oil, my king. They have fat and wax and pitch. All these things can be filled with barrels, can be hauled to the field. And they can be burned. Your runes are fine for a single soldier, but they are not enough to stop the tide of shadows. An inferno will.¡± He felt his voice grow fervent, passionate. This was his strongest point; the king had to believe him. ¡°Think about it: a wall of fire that even the skal¡¯va cannot hope to cross. That is the humans offer you, not soldiers. Resources needed to wage a war. The food your men require. The steel for more weapons. The Heartlands have these, and more. A waygate even¡ªthey have the magic to send you directly to the Gates.¡±

    The king seemed to be lost in thought, and Willem dared not disturb the demon. After a moment of mulling over its thoughts, it grunted out, ¡°You spoke of channelers?¡± Willem nodded quickly, knowing that he was on the cusp of convincing the king.

    ¡°Norus only saw the one¡ªa child¡ªbut there are likely more. The humans are divided in the Heartlands; pieces as valuable as channelers are kept hidden. There are many houses all fighting over the Capital. If you can support one and crush all the others, unify the people under a single banner, then you would hold control of the Heartlands. It would be a simple matter¡ªyou take virtually no risk yourself. No humans could ever best demons in the field. All that this demands is a little of your time, to seize control of the entire east. And afterwards, the resources of the legions would be at your disposal.¡± There. That was his pitch. He was no merchant, with no glib silver tongue, but that was his best. Would the demon take it?

    The king smirked, fangs bared in amusement. ¡°Humans squabbling amongst themselves? Aye, then, this diversion could prove interesting.¡± Slowly, the king tilted its head upwards towards the sky, as if reminiscing. ¡°The demons here were born in the Capital, did you know? But we had to flee from those lands. A host of humans were bearing down on the city, and we butchered our way through them all. My people fought out of the Capital and carved a path to the Outlands. We were looking for a place to settle, for a home, and we found it. And now that we finally found it, it would seem that we must leave our home to go back to that filthy human Capital once more. Truly, fate is a capricious thing.¡±

    It pointed a single claw at Norus. ¡°Then we will march east to aid your people, and at the end of whatever war we settle on their behalf, they will kneel. And if they would not, they their pathetic throne will be covered with their blood.¡±

 Book 2: Chapter 36

    She had no eyes with which to gaze down on the horrific monstrosity that lay in the earth before her, yet she could not tear her gaze away from that rippling mass of flesh and torment. There was no light to be shed over those folds of pallid, speckled skin, no light to reveal the thin coating of slime and bile from the weeping, throbbing sores covering the body, yet she could see them easily enough. This was that Mother they spoke of, she realized, all of a sudden grateful that she had neither body nor reflex to vomit. The image, the shape, the very aura around it was unimaginably repulsive¡ªdecay manifest in some horrendous form. This was the creation of that dark god, of the dark god that she was now serving.

    Yet worst of all was that she could feel shattered remnants of a soul still in that abomination, still heartbreakingly lucid through all the pain. This was no mere monster, it used to be human. She could tell through the wormlike pressure on her mind, could feel the shards of broken humanity through its mindless hunger and pain. She still felt ruined dreams, futile hopes, fleeting memories of sunlight amongst those thoughts. And as their minds touched, as they blended every briefly with each other, the Mother suddenly fell silent as ceased its twitchings for a frozen moment. The shadows froze in their spectral moments, the Mother¡¯s eyeless gaze staring blindly straight at her own. For that single moment where they saw each other, she could feel a sudden desperate hope blossoming inside of her¡ªescape, freedom.

    Yet it was over as quickly as it had came, the black stitches in the Mother¡¯s flesh suddenly squirming and writhing like a worm. She recoiled as the monster let out a horrid wail, the shadows all breaking out into a psychotic roil. As if she was defenseless in the world once more, she had to struggle to pull herself together, to collect her thoughts. That was not me, she realized as the Mother threw that misshapen head back, the fleshy bulge in the back visibly swelling with an aberrant heartbeat. That was her thoughts, her hopes. She blanched, realizing that whatever woman had been turned into this monster, it still hoped for freedom. And she blanched, knowing that such a freedom would only come from the release of death.

    The Mother is to birth you children, ought you not to be excited? Faith¡¯s voice in her head was both unbidden and unwelcome. As if accentuating those words, the twitching stitches in the Mother¡¯s flesh increased their movements, wriggling faster and faster despite the wails. It will be your child, nameless arbiter. With your essence and your wishes.

    She had no way to know what he meant by that, yet the stitches pulled faster and faster until there was a sudden snapping sound. It was as if reality itself had shattered, as if the space before her had suddenly cracked like glass. The stitches pulled apart, and before gaped open a horrendous mouth. It was a cavernous maw, bottomless and toothless. Inside squirmed countless minute tongues, like so many serpents blindly sampling the air. Rows and rows, rings upon rings of those writhing limbs drew closer towards her, the Mother¡¯s scream now striking her soul horrendously. There were no stitches to stifle that scream of eternal torture, nor the abject agony it promised. And as that gaping mouth closed around her, she found herself powerless to resist.

    She needs a piece of you, you understand. Faith was like the whispering of a hundred devils in her ear as the world around her collapsed, her sanity¡ªso tenuous¡ªbegan to break. A piece of you...a piece... Those tongues tore away bits and scraps of her thoughts, of her being. They sampled her soul like one might wine, breaking her apart until she was nothing. A piece...¡ªa piece of¡ªa piece¡ª

    ¡ªI can see it now, can taste her. So sweet, so pretty. Once, I was pretty as well. Once, I danced and spun under the shining moon. Once, I played the harp with beautiful fingers, with a voice gentle enough to send war-men to their knees. Once, but no more.¡ª

    ¡ªShe could feel the Mother¡¯s bite, tearing more and more of her away. She could feel those stabbing thoughts, not her own. Not my own¡ª

    ¡ªMy god commands me, you must understand. My god commands me, and for him, I¡ªyou must know, this was not¡ªI must, you understand. I must.¡ª

    ¡ªMore and more of that piercing pain shot through her mind until she felt like some butchered corpse, impaled by spears and left to stand under the sweltering sun. Even as she felt the great maw slowly pull away, she remained shattered and torn, ruined beyond belief. Were it not for that dark god¡¯s presence around her, holding her together, most likely she would have lost since dispersed, without any strength of will to remain whole. A piece of you¡ª

    Her vision was fragmented as the Mother withdrew from around her, its monstrous head suddenly arching upwards. As if swallowing, its bulbous throat visibly contracted in so many serpentine motions, the ribbed flesh moving underneath that leathery skin. Its swollen head pulsed, horribly distended as if echoed that inhuman heartbeat. Soon enough, the rest of that grotesque body began to bulge and swell, the various holes in its flesh contracting in a pushing motion.

    Wisps of black shadow began to creep out of those slime-coated pores, billowing and collecting in the air around that screaming maw. The growth behind its skull throbbed even more vigorously, sending more and more clouds of black out of its bloated body. It was not until her vision began to solidify, that her thoughts began to gather, that she realized what that keening sound was in the back of her mind. It was the creature screaming, wailing horrendously as more and more shadow poured out of its body.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    The swirling mass of darkness condensed, growing thicker and thicker until it was an impermeable fog, a depthless surface that seemed to suck away any trace of being underneath its surface. As the Mother¡¯s head pulsed twice more, as its body throbbed and contracted in peristalsis a final time, its head finally hung slack in desperate relief. Its birthing complete, once more those black stitches wormed their way out of the tattered remains of lips, sewing that gaping maw shut. The Mother, its duty done, once more throbbed gently in the center of the cavern, its innumerable children brooding protectively around the monstrosity. She had felt its pain, had felt its agonized pleas that she was powerless to aid. She could only watch as that horrid, repugnant thing once more returned to its work, its body little more than a prison for a long-ruined soul.

    Yet that swirling cloud that had been birthed from its body pulsed with a heartbeat of its own¡ªwith a heartbeat of her own. She could feel it, indescribable as it was; she could feel shards and pieces of herself in this thing, taken during its birth. A piece of you, Faith had said, and it had not been a lie. She could see her own face, swirling in and out of existence on that featureless plane¡ªthe face that she had once held, now gone. She could feel a quiet throbbing in the back of her mind, unmistakably foreign despite its familiarity. There was something unnerving about it that she did not realize for a moment¡ªshe could not feel a heart¡¯s pulse in this fleshless form of hers. This heartbeat, therefore, was not hers.

    What would you name this child of skal, of the Mother? Faith¡¯s voice was like so many hungering snakes, waiting hungrily for her answer. What would you desire it to be?

    What did she wish of it? She wished for it to be her blade to fell the demons. She wished for it to be her shield to save her family. She wished for it to be her strength where she had none. Strength, then, Faith whispered in that rasping tone. Strength to bear the burdens of these sins.

    Slowly, the gathered cloud of shadows swirled around her, drawing in closer and closer to her fleshless form. As it did so, a quiet whispering filled her thoughts, like a voice incomparably ancient. Its every syllable was filled with rippling power, its very breath enough to cripple her mind. Skal¡¯mo, it murmured in her thoughts, the strands of her sanity flying apart and fraying from the very ripples of its echoing whisper. Skal¡¯mo, she trembled as that shadow grew denser and denser before her, taking on a shape that was unmistakably human in its vagueness.

    This skal¡¯mo was what she had paid this price for. This was what would make her sacrifice worth the pains. And as her eyeless gaze settled on that billowing shape before her, she could not help but quiver in a thousand mingled emotions. Yet there was no brimming strength from its being, radiating through her like that voice that had first whispered its name to her¡ªAtal¡¯s voice. Child of the Mother it was, yet it could not be described as impressive. Will this truly be enough to kill the demons, those beasts? Will this truly be enough to save mother and father, to save Revan and the others? Standing as she did irreparably over the threshold, doubt was the only emotion that still lingered in her unbeating heart. There was nothing but doubt in what she had done, nothing but doubt that the price had been too high.

    Regret, nameless arbiter? Regret has no place in you, now that you cannot step back. Stiffen your spine with the knowledge that only the future is worth your worries. At Faith¡¯s words, she could feel her thoughts slowly pulling together, her strength of will returning to sew the threads of her sanity back together in spite of the ragged gashes. Aye, there was no turning back any more. There was only her next steps, her next move from here. She held now what she had came for¡ªthe skal¡¯mo. Now there was only the matter of using it.

    I would hurry, if I still wished to save those useless husks of yours, Faith whispered laconically, a quiet venom lacing its words. The sudden shock and panic spread through her mind almost instantly, her confusion at what it was meaning. If you desire to save them, I would best hurry. Or not, they are most likely dead in any case.

    A surging rage filled her then, at the lies Faith spoke to her. Yet which were the lies, that she would be given the strength to save her family? Or that they were already dead? No, she had to try to save them, she had to hurry. Now, she needed to leave now.

    Where are they? Her thoughts roared like a tide in her mind, crashing implacably upon the stone shore. She would have no more of these foolish games, that yielded only blood and tears on her behalf. She would have no more of these hissing whispers. Where are the demons? Where is Revan? Answer, you crow-cursed bastard!

    Yet the voice that answered did not serve to calm her, only further infuriating her with that crackling, hissing laughter. Do you not feel them bleeding in your Heartlands? Do you not feel their blood dripping into your earth? These are your lands, not mine. How ought I to know your secrets and your soil?

    The Heartlands. It was a massive land, no better an answer than above you, but it would have to be enough. Back the way she had came, then. Back through the stones and through the earth, flying at an impossible speed through the bowels of the world. Yet she was down an unimaginable depth, the surface remotely far. She strained furiously, struggling to hold her very self together as she shot towards her family, towards those that she had died for.

    Wait for me, please, she pleaded desperately, in spite of the cackling laughter from Faith that echoed in her mind. Just a little while longer, wait for me.

 Book 2: Chapter 37

    As she flew, she reached out to the skal¡¯mo that she could feel pulsing in lurking darkness. Its movement was by no means instantaneous as it flew from shadow to shadow above her, but it served as a guide. She could feel its presence spreading out throughout the land, searching for the people that she so desperately needed to find. Revan, she thought furiously, struggling not to be torn apart as she shot through the earth. Mother, father, where are you?

    She was nothing more than shreds of thoughts, bound together by force of will and Atal¡¯s strength. Without any flesh restricting her, she was free to fly through the stone and dirt. Yet she could not escape the ravages of the earth as she traveled, the abrasive shards stripping and tearing gashes into her being. Faster and faster she pushed herself, knowing well that every moment delayed could be crucial. More and more pieces of her were flayed off, like hide being skinned from some dead animal, flying away into the wind. They were parts of her being¡ªmemories of the past, shards and pieces of a young girl running under the moonlight; they did not matter to her now. Faster, faster, she strove as she struggled not to fly apart and disperse into dust. Hurry, HURRY.

    As the skal¡¯mo spread throughout the earth around her, she could feel the metallic taste of blood soaking these soils nearby. North, the shadows told her, and she had no time to question them further. Faster and faster she pushed herself, knowing that nothing else mattered. She had already doomed herself to die in some burning hell; so long as her loved ones were safe, it would have been worth it. Her greatest fear was that she would rise out of the ground to see nothing but plains filled with corpses, like that long-held dream of hers. It would all have been for naught, that sinister voice of hers whispered bitterly. Your humanity, sacrificed for nothing.

    No, she reminded herself even as more memories were torn away from her. Her essence lessened with every passing moment, her mind and soul growing ever smaller. No, I mustn''t stop now. Not now, faster¡ªeven faster. The soil north was still soaked with blood, still trembling from the stomping of boots and clamors of fighting.

    Stop! Faith¡¯s voice was sudden and unbidden in her mind, a rasping series of whispers in that single word. You¡¯ll kill yourself at this pace! There was concern in that tone¡ªa genuine concern that startled her and almost gave her pause in surprise. Yet it was not enough to halt this endeavor; brushing the words aside, she pressed onwards through the stone. Before that eyeless gaze, she saw her past being stripped away, as if burned into a fire.

    ¡ªA young girl was running through the gardens, a man¡¯s deep voice ringing out behind her even as she laughed. She twirled through the bushes, not caring as the brambles and thorns tore and snagged at her dress. Her heart was thumping, her breath heavy as she twisted and spun, hiding in between the hedges with nervous excitement. Her eyes stared down the path, wide and expectant as she wondered if she had truly escape¡ª

    ¡ª¡±Gotcha!¡± rang out the voice from behind her even as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, carrying her out of the bushes as she kicked and struggled with tears of laughter¡ª

    The memory was torn away from her, but there were no tears as still she pressed on. A necessary price, she told herself as her childhood was taken away. They are of no use any longer, so long as the present it preserved. If this fails, those memories will be but a curse of would once was. Aye, her choice was made¡ªwas long since made. If she was to wander these lands, no longer knowing who she was, so be it as long as her family lived. The price she had already paid, any price she was still yet to pay, it would all be done to see Revan¡¯s smile when she disappeared into dust.

    The storming of footsteps was above her, the soil around her damp with coppery blood, and she rose up with a nervous conviction. So long surrounded by darkness in this fleshless form, the glaring sun upon her was like a flame being held to her skin the moment that she came out of the ground. Threads of thought and will bound her together, her image nothing more than glimmering strands of white that shimmered under the sunlight. Like spiderwebs lined with dew in the early morning, her form was a spectral beauty. A ghost, some part of her noted. Was that all that she was now, some ghost to haunt the living with a memory? No, she thought suddenly. There is more, she told herself as she felt the heartbeat of the skal¡¯mo in the back of her mind.

    Before her, she saw the chaos of a battlefield strewn with blood and corpses. A river cut straight through the land, its length clogged with armor and bodies, its clear water stained dark with the lifesblood of countless men. The Yearning, she realized dimly, the sole river that fed these parts of the Heartlands. Its banks flooded the fields of the farmers, its waters fed the peasants and noblemen alike. And now its banks had surged once more, the surging rapids flowing up past the confines of the surrounding earth.

    She could make out the Florell legions as well, with their armor of gold bordered on black iron. Their number were strewn haphazardly on the banks, any semblance of order and command long since discarded. They were half sinking in the mud, borne down by the weight of the armor and equipment. Many had thrown their shields away, struggling to stride through the muck with great difficulty. Their number occupied both sides of the Yearning, what could only be the shattered remains of a bridge evident even at this distance.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Pieces of broken wood floated in the rapids, accompanied by struggling soldiers whose bobbing heads slowly ceased to surface. It became clear, then, that the bridge had collapsed even as the legion had been forced to retreat, and now half their number was unable to cross. Spears littered the ground, many having missed any marks, too many succeeding. Bodies lay in all manner of positions, unmoving with bent shafts protruding from limbs and chest alike. Of the legionaries remaining, they were without Swords or Shields to give command, all semblance of discipline long since shattered. Many were injured, some with bent spearheads buried in stomachs and limbs, sure to bleed to death from such wounds. It was a rout, without the slightest of doubt. And as yet another volley of spears rained down from the sky above, more of those panicked men fell to the ground, the dirt around them growing dark with crimson.

    To the east marched another legion, of heavy red bordered on stark white. House Savos, some dim part of the her past reminded her, even as she watched that legion slowly march forth in cadence like some encroaching wall. She could see their hardened eyes between the gaps of their shields, could see their boots striking the ground in unison. She knew with certainty that Florell¡¯s rabble, then ,had no hope of living.

    Too late? Was she truly too late, in spite of all that she had paid? No, she refused to accept it, even as the back ranks readied yet another volley of spears. She felt the skal¡¯mo lurking in the shadows of the battlefield, its heartbeat calm in spite of the carnage. It was waiting, she realized, waiting patiently. Waiting for her command.

    Five and three curses, damned arbiter, halt! Faith once more spoke in her mind, the rasping urgent. Halt, before your haste dooms us all! Confusion filled her then, even as she saw more men succumb to their wounds and collapse in the mud. Doom them all?

    Faith hurried to explain, that ever-calm and collected voice now almost desperate to her ears. Our god¡¯s blessing is not without cost, just as all strength must know bounds. The power given to you, was his, and it is his to lose as well. Should you fall, should you find yourself slain as your counterpart in these lands was as well, that strength will be stolen from him as well.

    The whisperings continued, ever fervent even as more men died before her. A god is not immortal, not even our god. Should you die here, his strength will have been greatly weakened, perhaps even beyond recovery. Already, he has paid the price to make you an arbiter, so soon after losing one. He cannot afford to lose you.

    Faith¡¯s words stunned her, making her pause even as she saw the legions stop, the Swords calling out for the back ranks to ready their spears. If she was to die, she might drag this dark god down to mortality as well? Yet her heart grew callous at the thought, her determination only ever firmer as she scoffed at Faith. And why should I give a damn about your god?

    My goals have not changed, despite your incessant ramblings. I died for my own ends, not to serve your god. It matters not to me if he has his corpse strewn across the lands, so long as my family is saved first. It matters not to me if he is slain so long as the demons are first. She tensed with concentration, feeling the skal¡¯mo surge at her command. The shadows of the corpses and the soldiers squirmed and flickered, smoking ever softly under the sunlight.

    As if in one final, desperate attempt to sway her, Faith spoke out once more. Should our god die, we shall as well! Immortality! Eternity! Snuffed out for a imprudent, rash decision! Everlasting life, denied for the sake of an old man and a brash lover, is that not regretful? Think of what you are losing!

    At this, she smirked dimly. I know exactly what I am losing. It pales in comparison to what I have already lost. It trembles in comparison to what I will lose. And you, and your god, can rot in twelve heathen hells if that is what it will be. And if I must join you, then I do so gladly.

    With a sudden crackling rush of energy, the shadows throughout the battlefield suddenly surged upwards into the air. Billowing black, writhing darkness, they melded together into a single, terrifyingly human form. Like some massive specter, like some looming shade, it towered over the earth with utter silence.

    The eyes of Florell and Savos alike widened in shock and terror, the Spears suddenly shouting, ¡°Fire!¡± in a blind panic. The volley of spears that flew through the air met nothing but formless shadow before them, vanishing into that bottomless surface. She saw their faces grow white with fear at the nameless, formless thing that stood before them, like billowing smoke given flesh. Shields fell to the dirt, arms becoming slack. Knees grew weak, their strength of unity disappearing like water under a hot sun. In that brief moment before blind panic set in, she reveled in the strength she wielded, that stunned an army.

    And as that faceless head gazed down at the Savos legion, she felt a prideful confidence surge through her.

    Go, my servant, she commanded the skal¡¯mo, its smoking arm drawing back in an all-too-human gesture. Smite them, that I might see this god¡¯s power. And as its arm struck the earth, the screams of the legionaries could not be heard, the splatter of their blood could not be seen. And as that ghastly hand withdrew, their corpses did not litter the ground. The furrows that had been cleaved into the earth did not bear any remnants of those that had stood there not a heartbeat ago. Their shattered armor did not fall to the dirt. Their broken swords did not clatter to the ground. In that briefest of instants, they were gone¡ªclaimed by the skal¡¯mo. They simply were.

    And now they were not.

 Book 2: Chapter 38

    The masses of demons were like some great serpent on the horizon, their number imposing as they stood facing the Pikes. Willem watched as magic crackled in the air, arcing around the stone with a wild ferocity, smoke pluming off the heated earth. The king and Kha worked quickly, the magic soon enough forming a rift in the air that was too familiar in shape and purpose.

    Nostalgia grasped him suddenly with sharp claws, his vision swimming with abrupt tears. He could not help but reflect on all that had happened in the past. He had been an orphan, a beggar in the streets, posing as a leper to hide the Maes on his face. That had been his life for ten years, struggling to scrounge together enough coin each day to fill his stomach with crumbs. Then he had fled from Mea Vatal, with Captain Is¡¯shil and crew in the hopes of carving out a new life with them, or at least wherever they were going. I just wanted to live, he thought despondently. Yet, where had it all gone wrong?

    They had gone to Malifor in the hopes of trading with the natives, only to find the land barren and haunted by consuming shadows. There the Vysians had all perished, eaten away until they were nothing more than bones. He too, had thought that he would die on those parched plains, surrounded by nothing but dust and burning sun. Yet desperation had sent magic coursing out of him, giving him a way out. The rift that he had opened led him to the Gates, where he had met those two doomed soldiers. He had joined them in their attempts to return to the Heartlands, to warn the legions of the dangers to the south.

    The king¡¯s roaring in the distance was like a warhorn, resounding off the walls of the mountains until even the stone itself seemed to tremble. It shook him out of his thoughts and he blinked quickly, gazing around like a startled deer. Crackling magic formed an arch underneath the green sky, framed by runic stones hauled out of the mountains. This was no waygate, for there was no matching gate at the other end. It was instead a waypath¡ªa one-way rift that would shatter after use. Inherently unstable, crude yet effective, it would have to be enough for the circumstances. Those runes were a pain to read, his efforts too often futile in spite of what he knew. He could barely make out the carvings for blood, flickering too quickly across the gate.

    Willem, for his part, stood at the tail of the crowd, casting out a final gaze at this strange valley that he had been in for less than two weeks, yet in which so much had changed. Norus stood behind him, an unreadable expression on the man¡¯s face. Seeing Willem looking back, he merely gave a short nod before striding forward, his spine stiff and straight as a rod. Willem could help but be impressed by the soldier, who faced as these changes with an unflinching hardness.

    How? Willem wanted to ask the man just how he could remain so calm, how he could be so collected in the face of such madness. Yet before anything could escape his mouth, the waypath before them began to warp and twist. The magic at the edges was starting to fray, the runes in the stones glowing dangerously bright. The air itself began to smell of char and flame, an acrid stench that clung to the skin like burning hair.

    ¡°GO!¡± the king howled, and the demons obeyed with an almost mindless fanaticism. With feet, hooves, and wings, they charged into that smoking rift, their forms swiftly engulfed by the depthless white. Magic crackled around them, leaving behind not even a shadow as they were stolen out of the surrounding space.

    Willem could see the king and Kha both struggling to maintain the waypath. He had wanted to help, to loan them his magic, but they had rejected his aid when he had offered it. Such a delicate task, Kha had spoken, is not for clumsy pups...I am the eyes...the king is the arm...he is more than enough muscle¡­ Yet if those words were truth, why was the waypath about to collapse now?

    ¡°Come on,¡± Norus growled beside him suddenly, the soldier striding forward with confidence and determination. ¡°No time to be standing around.¡± The waypath was more and more unstable, warping the very space that it occupied. With each blink it seemed to draw closer, to swallow more and more of the sky like some gaping maw. Norus greeted it calmly, walking into the smoke and swiftly being devoured.

    Damnit, no time for thinking. Willem could only shake his head tersely, a ragged howl escaping his throat as he too ran into the smoke, feeling it pull him into its senseless embrace. His vision was stolen away as he plunged once more into that limbo, the pluming smoke quickly wrapping around the rest of him and dragging him in farther. The crackling of the magic in his ears became muffled, growing quieter and quieter until finally there was nothing.

    Once more, he felt himself being consumed by the magic, being torn apart. HIs flesh was eaten away piece by piece, fiber by fiber, until there was nothing left of his body. And being thrust into that familiar limbo, he could see nothing but depthless darkness before him, could hear nothing but an eternity of emptiness sprawled before him.

    Yet despite his senses being denied to him, he could still feel. He could feel the thoughts of others around him, of the other demons that had entered the waypath. Like so many white threads, he could feel them spinning around him. Vibrant thoughts, memories, they were all displayed before him. Even this one, that danced in front of him so enticingly, he could reach out and grasp¡ªEnjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    ¡ªThe wind was cold against his scales, the night air a chill despite his movements. Yet the moonlight casting down upon him was a gentle warmth; the pulsing of his heart was a gentle warmth. Every stroke of his wings was like fanning a flame, the billowing wind carrying him higher and higher with effortless flight. For he loved to fly¡ªit was his true home, to gaze down upon the world. If he could, he would love to do no more than circle about in the sky, gliding between the updrafts lazily.

    Yet this was not the time for such sloth. This was a hunt, and the prey were below.

    He could see them bolting across the grasslands, their lithe forms hard to make out in the moonlight. Yet his eyes could spot them, darting in and out of the grass as they fled. His brothers were chasing them, plowing through the earth with their brutish forms, tiring them out. He knew how to hunt those dog-like beasts; they tired after anything longer than a sprint.

    There. One of them had nearly stumbled. It would collapse soon enough; it was not the one that had attracted his interest. He was watching the one in front, the leader of the ragged pack. Its black head bobbed between the grasses¡ªthat was his target. And as he watched, his vision fixated utterly on that furred throat, his wings folded by his side and he plunged.

    Faster. The wind raced against his head. His eyes were closed to slits, a thin film shutting to protect his eyes. The air slammed against his ears, his muscles straining from the effort of staying true to his course. Faster. He dared to breathe, flaps in his nostrils closing to keep the frigid air out of his lungs. His heart was pumping out a drum beat, fierce as the tide in his head. Faster still, he barreled out of the night sky.

    His wings flew out at the last moment, muscles straining as they suddenly caught the brunt of the wind. His plunge slowed abruptly, wings stretched to the brink of tearing. Yet his claws were outstretched, digging in tight as he felt resistance. He snapped them shut beneath him, beating his wings furiously as he felt the weight below. The struggling motions ceased as he snapped his jaws around its throat, its hot blood gushing into his throat. The dog-beast died quickly, its twitchings slowly ending until it was nothing more than a steaming corpse in the grasses. The rest of the pack had scattered, panicked with their leader felled. He cared not; his brothers would chase them down easily enough. As he tore off a strip of flesh, feeling its warmth fill his stomach, he chose instead to revel in this kill.

    The night was not nearly so cold¡ª

    ¡ªWillem opened his eyes with a gasp, feeling the earth hit him abruptly. No, that sentiment surely was not apt, for the earth did not move, yet he could think of no better way to describe the sensation. He had been torn out of the memory unceremoniously, the space around him rippling like the surface of a rippling pond. There had been the sensation of being torn apart, the sensation of being pieced back together. There had been the pain of his body forming once more, and the pain of his senses returning. And then, where there had been nothing only moments before, there suddenly was.

    Stone greeted unexpecting claws, dirt striking surprised faces as the demons fell out of the air. Space distorted, crackling with magic as that smoke-like rift opened once more. With their bodies returned once more, the demons felt that repulsive rejection from inside the waypath pushing them out. And so their army fell out of the sky, hitting the mud with short growls of shock and confusion.

    They languished briefly, many tossing about in the dirt for a moment out of bewilderment. The air was thick and cloying with the scent of blood, unmistakable to their noses, and many of the demons flinched. The mud clung to fur and scales as they struggled to stand, proving an even greater nuisance as they fought to orient themselves.

    Willem scraped at his face, flicking clods of dirt from his eyes and mouth as he slowly stood. He knew not where they had ended up, knew not where they had intended to go. Blood, the carvings on the waypath had said, and he suddenly understood.

    The king knew not where the humans were, nor where the demons ought to go. He had told the waypath to find blood¡ªhuman blood¡ªfor where there was the greatest number of humans, there would be a city. A crude method for securing directions, but it ought to have worked.

    Yet, gazing around blearily, this was certainly no city. There was nothing here but upturned earth and corpses. A raging river was churning red with blood, armor and bodies visible where they became stuck on the rocks. They had prompted the water to flood the banks, soaking the mud nearby into a slog, trapping many men up to their knees in the muck.

    And there were men aplenty here, even if most were dead. The waypath had served its purpose in seeking out human blood¡ªit was only that most of the blood was spilled over the soil. Soldiers were struggling to walk through the mud, many discarding their heavy armor in the hopes of fleeing. Too many were wounded, bearing gashes from blades or even trailing bent spearheads behind them.

    Yet all of them were turned to face the other bank of the river, and as Willem soon found why. Blackening the sky was a shadow, a single, massive shadow towering above mere men. It blotted out the clouds and the sun, casting an ominous haze over the earth below. Shaped like a skeletal man, its limbs were too long and its waits to thin where it billowed off of the ground. Yet the longer he stared at the thing, the more and more distorted his vision became. It was utterly depthless, its very being empty as the void.

    Almost like an afterthought, Willem could make out the faintest of figures atop the shadow. It shimmered in the light, faint and indistinct at the distance.

 Book 2: Chapter 39

    The air around him was filled with panicked hisses and hurried shouts as the demons scrambled madly, many still disoriented from traveling through the waypath. Crackling magic still hummed in the air, its frenetic energy heating fur and skin. The waypath had not been kind to their flesh and their runes, the air stinging with the scent of burnt tissue. Whatever magic reformed their bodies was not nearly as meticulous with runemetal¡ªit had fused the iron to their claws and scales with the heat of a molten brand. The sharp pain mixed with the heavy scent of blood in the air, serving only to send many of the demons into further panic. Confused and disoriented, the scent prompted instinct and bloodlust to surge over reason. In the face of the madness of the battlefield, many tossed about helplessly, baring fangs and claws to any sudden movement as they struggled to calm themselves.

    They had been deposited randomly in the mud, the waypath not nearly stable enough to hold together at the end. It was fortunate enough that most of them made it through alive¡ªalthough Willem had yet to see either the king or Kha through the crowd. They had been the last to pass through the waypath, for they were still needed to hold it open until the end; they would be the last to come out of it as well, should they come out at all.

    It was fortunate enough, perhaps, that they were all dropped on the same side of the river¡ªand opposite from that monstrosity of shadow and darkness. Should they have been completely scattered, any hopes of unity would certainly of been dashed. They would have been no different from those soldiers, strewn across the banks like flies with broken wings, struggling to even walk. Many of them were hopelessly desperate at this point, seeing the demons fall out of the waypath. Surely they would have taken it for madness, for hysteria, seeing creatures of myth and fable materializing before them. Many had stopped their struggles, falling slack on their backs and laughing madly at the heavens.

    His thoughts turning to soldiers, he suddenly was reminded of Norus. The legionary had entered the waypath only seconds before Willem, surely he could not be far? Yet as he scoured those around him, he could not find a hint of the men amidst the demons. Gritting his teeth, his gaze flickered once more to the shadow looming in the distance.

    Willem struggled over to the nearest soldier, his powerful legs nevertheless fighting the thick mud that clung to his scales and claws. The wet mud seemed to almost drag him down the more that he moved, the silt and scum underneath the water slipping away as he shifted his weight. Still, he managed to make his way over to the wounded man, whose face was surprisingly young in spite of the mayhem surrounding him. He¡¯s not old enough for this, Willem thought suddenly, the notion unbidden yet undeniable. Those rosy cheeks had not seen harsh winters. That slight frame was not built for war. This was a summertime soldier, told of festivities and denied the truth of harsh winter. He was nearly ten years younger than he ought to be, to wear that armor on his shoulders.

    Yet those ruddy cheeks were flushed pink, blood and mud staining their surface. His helmet had long since been discarded, cast away as he struggled to cross the surging rapids of the river. His body was drenched thoroughly, his hair a messy mop strewn wildly on his head. The armor as well sat awkwardly on his body, half of the straps loosened in some tired attempt to cast it off. It hung lopsided on his chest, the front plate dented and punctured in the characteristic mark of a stab from a short sword. The mud and muck did well to partially hide a wound below the armpits, in a spot where the armor did not cover. Dark crimson dripped down his side, crusting and drying or otherwise joining the dirt in a puddle below him. More wounds crisscrossed his arms, none fatal, yet the worst was hidden in his back.

    Almost indiscernible amidst the warped iron of his armor, a small spearhead was buried below the shoulder blade. It was stuck in fiercely, hooks in the tip ensuring that it could not come out cleanly. While the wooden shaft had long since snapped off, the soft metal proved far more tenacious, firmly embedding itself without intent to let go. Such a wound had clearly passed the window for treatment; this man surely would die.

    Yet it felt strange calling the soldier a man as Willem gazed down at that youthful face, perhaps only five years older than his own. Those blue eyes were lucid and clear despite the pain, a thin film of tears the only obscurance in them. Those lips seemed more apt for pouting, for chaste kisses at night in uninvited gardens. There was nothing but the promise of life in his face, yet here that promise lay unbroken before him. This man was all I wanted, Willem realized. Good looks, a strong body, he was all I ever envied. So curious that it was he who lay dying now, and the cripple, the ever-jealous, ever-lacking cripple that stood over him watching.

    Scarlet bubbled from those lips as the soldier coughed out a gurgling laugh. His eyes blinked leisurely, every movement slow and unconcerned with the torpor of death. ¡°So...Nan¡¯s monsters have come...at last?¡± Blood trickled down his chin, tracing a thin rivulet across his collarbone before disappearing into his armor. Slowly, he staggered and fell onto his back, his legs going limp as the last bits of strength fled from him.

    ¡°What happened here?¡± Willem asked hurriedly, cursing his throat and tongue that the words could not come out quicker. The soldier was dying fast, and he did not have the time to run to another for answers. His heart was hammering out a frantic rhythm, still seeing that monstrous shadow out of the corner of his eye. While it seemed busy with those on the other side of the river, when it was finished playing its attention would surely turn to the demons here. ¡°What happened to your legion?¡±Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    The soldier¡¯s lips curled into a thin smile, his face beginning to lose all vestiges of color as more blood fled from his body. ¡°Fire¡­¡± he managed to croak out feebly, his hand trembling as if out of fear for the mere memory. ¡°Brimstone...from the sky¡­¡± Yet those words petered out even as they left his mouth, strength deserting the dying man.

    ¡°Wait!¡± Willem growled out, claws tightening around the soldier¡¯s throat in a desperate attempt to keep them man awake. ¡°More! Tell me more! What else happened? The shadow?¡± When did the skal¡¯va come¡ªif that even was skal¡¯va across the river. Yet the soldier resisted any of Willem¡¯s attempts to rouse him, those eyelids still drifting closed.

    ¡°Damn Mors¡­¡± he whispered out was a rattling gasp, hand gripping Willem¡¯s arm desperately. ¡°Making the fish march¡­¡± His last words made his grip tighten as well, the feeling like an iron vise as it clamped around Willem¡¯s wrist. All strength seemed to have gone to those fingers, a force strong enough to snap bone and break stone.

    Willem struggled to pry the corpse off of him, those dead limbs harboring a deceptive strength as he gazed around hurriedly. Many of the demons had shaken off their initial confusion, although their current state still left much to be desired. Most had seen the shadow in the distance, dancing back with a mixture of fear and anxious excitement. They had turned on each other for their weakness, many devolving into scuffles in the mud over cowardice. Sparks flew from their runeclaws and runearmor, the air buzzing with the promise of magic. Some had already triggered the spells in the runes, gouts of flame shooting out of their claws as they swiped madly.

    The scent of burning flesh was quick to send the demons into a further panic. A few had even turned to the corpses littering the riverbank, gorging themselves on the still-warm flesh in gluttony. There was no semblance of order in this strange army, no hint of command. They were a viper without a head, a blinded bull. Willem could not help but grit his teeth in frustration¡ªall that muscle and all those fangs would be useless without the king to direct them. It would become the snake that bit its own tongue, dying to its own poison.

    Where is the king? The thought raced through his mind as he scanned the crowd, looking desperately for the sole figure that might lead this rabble. Yet as if hearing his thoughts, the air suddenly crackled with magic. Purple sparks shimmered and showered to the ground as a rent was torn above the ground, ripping ever farther with a sudden keening noise. It echoed across the riverbank, distinct above the madness that embroiled the rest of the demons and piquing their attention through the bloodlust. White smoke billowed out of the tear as quickly as it opened, depthless as it curled towards the sky. Without warning, two figures staggered out of the rift. Worn and weary yet still standing stiff, Kha and the king landed with a wet crunch on the ground, claws sinking into the mud.

    Gaze swiftly sweeping across the throng of demons, the king tilted its lupine head back before letting out an echoing howl. The sound seemed to claw its way out of the demon¡¯s throat, rugged and raw as it shook the very earth. Yet as they heard the howl, more and more of the demons quickly joined in, adding their own raucous voices to the cacophony. Fighting pairs suddenly paused in their struggles to bay, flesh falling out of the mouths of the feasting almost comically as they lifted to roar. Almost instantly, the madness of the riverbank was halted.

    As the cry died down, hundreds of eyes gazed intently at that slouched figure, waiting intently for its next command. Even across the river, the shadowed thing slowly turned, its attention having been drawn away from the scrambling remnants of whatever army it was still toying with. On its head was perched some vague ghost, some spectating god, shimmering and indistinct in the distance.

    Its black surface was featureless and depthless, a chilling emptiness that belied no weakness. Spears and sword alike had sunk futilely into that smoking skin, to no avail. Willem could not help but shudder at the very idea of fighting that thing, that mountain that seemed to swallow the heavens. The demons had to feel the same, regardless of their animal strength. Even predators felt fear facing gods¡ªand that was what this monstrosity was, an utter force of nature. They might have better luck trying to fight a mountain, trying to fight a flood. What could king hope to say that might rally the demons against that terror?

    The king gazed impassively at the smoking figure that towered in the distance, those mismatched eyes glittered unreadably. By his side, Kha slowly hunched over, eyes closing and tongue flickering in a guttural chant. Likewise, the king slowly raised a clawed hand, a black palm directed straight at that wraith-like giant and whatever ghost stood atop its head.

    The air suddenly hissed with the stench of brimstone, crackling and then popping with a clap of pealing thunder. Brilliant light arced towards the shadow, faster than thought as it shot from Kha¡¯s claws. Trailing half a heartbeat behind it was a column of flame, scorching all moisture out of the air as it shot through the sky. Both struck the fiend square in the chest, burning a hole in its body clear enough to see the clouds on the other side. Lightning punched the wound, flame greedily latching onto the opportunity to wreath the surrounding parts of the shadow with tongues of fire. While the billowing darkness knitted itself quickly, stamping out the fire and closing the wound, the message could not be clearer.

    Without having spoken a single word, the king rallied his men towards the thing of shadow and nightmares. A terrifying roar echoed off the stones as myriad monsters suddenly ignited their runes, crackling magic feeding brilliant white flames that shrouded their bodies. Willem could not help but add his own voice to the howl, his heart now racing not from fear but excitement. His bloodlust now aroused, his every sense seemed to tingle with excitement, with anticipation.

    Across the river, impassively, the shadow-fiend made a single, looming step towards them.

 Book 2: Chapter 40

    Like ants, they were crushed before her. Like ants, they were smeared out of existence with but a single thought. Like ants, they could do little but scatter in her looming presence. Like ants, those soldiers were reduced to nothing but feeble insects scurrying in the mud. Her skal¡¯mo was utterly silent, utterly emotionless as it swiped down with a massive hand, billowing a trail of black smoke in the air behind the giant limb. Where those fingers touched fleeing soldiers, it dissolved armor and flesh faster than any acid. Black smoke crept in through the cracks, chilling the skin to ice before it shattered from the gentle force. The body swiftly crumbled to ash, to a frozen powder, as if from that gentle wind of the shadowy smoke.

    The ranks of the Savos legion had collapsed almost immediately, any hope of unity and cohesion broken from the first blow of the skal¡¯mo. Like salt in the rain, they were dissolved with that first swipe, scattering into the gentle wind. Some of them vanished into the river, their remains lost in the torrent. This was her power, and a part of her reveled madly in it. The strength that she commanded at her fingertips, the strength to make men panic and flee like nothing more than hunted deer, it nearly drove all reason from her. Some part of her mind reminded her what she needed the skal¡¯mo for, of what she had paid this price to save. Yet she could not remember why.

    Her memories eluded her¡ªor perhaps they had been torn away completely. In her hurry, in her haste, had she truly forgotten what all the sacrifices had been for? She wracked her mind in a blind panic, struggling to recall why. As if teasing her, the briefest of memories flickered through her mind¡ªa bloodied throat, a soldier among the corpses, someone worth saving even through hell. Yet if it was a name that she sought, she would not find it. Even that fleeting image, that ephemeral memory, was quick to slip out of her grasp almost as quickly as it had came.

    Her gaze was drawn to the battlefield then, to the tilled soil that was seeded with the bodies of the dead. A soldier, it had been? A bloodied body amongst the corpses? That was no scarcity here, where the very dirt was dark with crimson. The one that she sought was most likely dead already, no different from his brothers that lay beside him. What she saw before her spoke the truth to her heart, a chilling wind snuffing out that spark of hope that was still nestled in her heart. He is most likely already dead. Those words were like a poison to her spirit, a gentle venom that seeped into her flesh with every heartstroke. Already dead. She had been too late. Truly then, she had failed. Truly then, this had all been for naught.

    I did warn you, the voice echoed in her mind, mocking her, taunting her. She felt a sudden fury burst aflame inside of her, the skal¡¯mo below responding to her hate. Dead. They were all dead. There were no tears to blur her eyes at the thought; there was no trembling to overtake her knees. She felt only emptiness at the notion, felt only an unfathomable cold that seemed to spread inside of her like a creeping winter. Dead. All dead.

    These fools had killed them. These ants had slaughtered them, by sword and spear. All those she had ever loved, those now-nameless, now-faceless memories that she had condemned herself to hell for¡ªthese crow-cursed soldiers had butchered them. Her swirling thoughts seemed to condense into a needle, white ribbons wrapping ever tighter, ever closer around that single thought. Beneath her, the skal¡¯mo struck out with a fist large enough to scrape the horizon, dispersing into black fog as it punched the ground. Kill them all then. She would see them all dead before the fiery chains dragged her down.

    That roiling black fog billowed across the ground, sucking all heat and hope out of the air that it touched. At its slightest gesture, men found their strength fleeing from them, their every movement growing tenfold more laborious. At its gentle touch, their muscles failed and their arms fell slack, a terrible cold creeping over their skin until it became ice, until it became snow. At its sweet embrace, they slowly dispersed, their body cracking and falling apart into minute ash, the last thing to go the expression of terror that was frozen on their face. Frost-glazed armor fell to the ground with its bearer gone, the steel shattering like glass as it struck the frigid earth. That billowing mist swept away any final remains, the battlefield becoming the furnace of a frozen cremation.

    She watched on impassively, soundlessly urging on every silent death. There were no screams that escaped those outstretched lips, no dying words to be spoken. There was only the peaceful quiet of death, as she watched as that fateful reaper collected amongst the ants. Her heart felt no joy as another man fell; her grief did not lessen with each black-ashed corpse. Yet her gaze was drawn to those plumed officers in the back, standing proud atop panicked mounts. They sought to flee, sought the warm embrace of life and safety. Her hate was like a knife at that thought, like an arrow as she wanted nothing more than their bodies burnt by cold. Yet even as she directed the fog of the skal¡¯mo towards those distant figures, a sudden animalistic roar tore through the air, less a warcry and more the sound of a predator beginning the hunt.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    Behind you, that voice laughed, those thousand overlapping voices mocked. She whirled about abruptly, panic a shadow falling over her heart. Even as her gaze fell across the river, she could not believe what she saw: a menagerie of abominations lay scattered across the mudbank. They bore bodies of beast and men, fused in grotesque amalgamation, complete with wings and claws and bone-faced visages. Metal fell over their bodies, sunlight glinting off the plates even at this distance. And at the head of the demon horde stood an all-too familiar figure¡ªtheir king, one of the few bereft of armor.

    It was then that a heated anger filled her, for she remembered what else she had sought when she had damned herself: that the world would be cleansed of these monsters. That memory had not fled from her; it stood out like a brand against her heart. That they had come to her, of their own accord, could only be attributed to fickle, capricious fate. Had she a smile to give, had she a laugh to throw, she would have, that these creatures had spared her the trouble of seeking them out.

    A silence crept over the field, as if they too understood her overbearing strength. For a tense moment, time itself seemed to come to a stop, not a single thing moving in the lands. Yet that was shattered by the king, by the white-scaled demon that slinked besides it. The air buzzed with fervent magic, surged with channeled energy, and she watched in careful curiosity. She watched as the air itself seemed to split with thunder, light flashing out faster than an instant towards the skal¡¯mo. She watched as a torrent of flame shot towards her, a column of hellfire that seemed almost liquid with heat. She watched as the magic bored a hole in the mist, as the heartbeat of the skal¡¯mo itself suddenly flickered in the back of her mind. Like the bite of an ant, it drew blood. Like the bite of an ant, it was but a fleeting wound. Black shadow swiftly knitted the hole closed, snuffing out that blaze with icy cold.

    As if in defiance of her, that piercing chorus of demons suddenly raised their voices into a fevered pitch, their bodies suddenly matching the temperature of their fervent hearts. Flame burst out, first with one or two, then swiftly spreading throughout their ranks until they seemed to have brought the molten rills of hell up to surround them.Their armor glowed a brilliant white, purple magic dancing madly in the air. The air became filled with the scent of char and smoke, smothering even at this distance.

    Such passion, she scorned hatefully. Such ambition, she knew, for these creatures would seek to spread across the lands if they could, feeding on man and beast alike. Her anger burned ever hotter with the knowledge of her righteousness, that this fight she took was for the sake of her people. She could not allow these demons to spread like pestilence across this country. If she was doomed to die, if she was cursed in hell for it, then she would do so. This sole hope now, this single aim was all that she had left to seek. If this was to be her last fight, then may both coasts gaze in wonder, that the flame of a martyr¡¯s vigilance scorch the very heavens.

    At her command, the skal¡¯mo strode forward with but a single rolling step. Its massive figure had no legs, instead dispersing into a rolling mist that billowed across the ground. Where it passed, the earth crackled and broke, a thin layer of hoarfrost growing on the edges. Even that surging river, still steadfast with its currents despite the corpses blocking the rapids, could not halt its march. Water froze in its presence, becoming a clear rime so quickly that it still held the shapes of the waves. More of the water surged over the frozen river, climbing higher only to ice over as well. Higher and higher that river crept, until at last the entire stretch was a glass serpent, winding through the lands. It was a clear demarcation¡ªon one side was nothing but winter, frozen earth and barren wastes. On the other was hell itself, the ground seared from the heat of the demon¡¯s flames. That former mud was now an arid clay, a parched desert spiderwebbed with cracks as every last hint of moisture was sucked out by fire.

    Fire, hissed that voice in her mind, hissed those thousand tongues. They spoke with a fear, an abrupt warning that would have her flee. Yet she would not flee. She could not flee. She would have her final stand be here, before she lost whatever was left of her fleeting humanity and became monster as well. She would fight, and with that very thought she saw the arm of the skal¡¯mo sweep out like a gale, like a torrent of wind to snuff out the flame.

    Black mist surged as it struck the ground across the river, seeking to reduce the demons to nothing but ash and frozen dust. Those magicked flames shuddered at its presence, the wind alone reducing them to candleflames, hardly more than embers. She felt nothing but scorn as she watched, certain in her victory.

    Yet the devil was not so swift to see its servants gone, for the fiends fought back with an almost suicidal madness. Consumed by bestial madness, they charged forward into the mist with fangs and claws bared. They came by foot, claws striking up plumes of dust behind them. They came by air, fliers spreading leathery wings as they swooped directly into the center of the cloud of shadow. Their armor glowed brilliantly, magic thick as honey in the air as flame once more shrouded their bodies.

    Like a swarm, like a plague, like a flood, they descended on the skal¡¯mo. Voracious fire latched greedily onto the shadow of the skal¡¯mo, spreading swiftly into an inferno. They were like embers in a fog of black, yet those miniscule embers were suddenly threatening to burst into a conflagration. In the back of her mind, she could hear the skal¡¯mo screaming in pain, that frigid mist helpless against the rolling waves of heat. The demons ravaged her child, tore into the mist with fangs and claws of fire. Panic sank into her heart, a sudden fear that froze her in place.

    Fool! The voices in her mind screamed, a storm in her mind amidst the firestorm below. They echoed with the timeless sound of eternity, an eternity that seemed about to end.

    Flee, now, lest you too fall! Flee!

 Book 2: Chapter 41

    She could not run; she could not flee. No matter what the voices spoke, that road had been burned behind her. She could only stand now. She could only and fight, even as the demons were burning her shadows to smoke and ash. She could only fight, even as she forgot what she was fighting for. She could only fight, even as the world ravaged her spirit and she began to unravel. The dark god¡¯s trappings around her were no longer strong enough to bind her together, not after the abuse that she had been put through. Atal¡¯s strength around her was waning even as her concentration began to slip, the very ropes that clung to for existence now slowly slipping out of her grasp.

    So then this will be my final stand, so be it. As long as those damned demons burn alongside me. Her thoughts were flickering and intermittent, struggling to be cohesive when her consciousness itself began to grow fuzzy. She was drowning in a river, struggling to hold onto the rocks that rose out of the rapids. Over and over she repeated those words to herself, knowing that she would forget them otherwise. Over and over she repeated that sole thought to herself, that if she was to forget all else, at least she would remember that final thought. Kill the demons. At any cost.

    Do not be a fool, the voices echoed over and over, panicked in her mind. Your death is not worth so little! You can still flee; you can still live! They spoke with a thousand tongues, as if she were standing alone in some cavernous cave, hearing her own voice a hundred times over. Yet their pestering grew fainter and fainter, not from less force on their part, but from her own spirit beginning to disperse. Ever distant, their pleading became little more than plaintive cries, inaudible through her concentration, a fleeting footnote.

    She could feel the heartbeat of the skal¡¯mo in the back of her mind, panicked and laborious even as her child was burnt by demonfire. Even now, she began to stutter, began to slow. Death, she knew, was coming quick to claim her child, and she could feel its pain as her own. Black shadow was burnt to ash and smoke, spiraling into the sky and filling the air with the acrid scent of char. Those hellish flames only burned ever brighter as time wore on, despite the skal¡¯mo writhing about in a panicked effort.

    Hurriedly, she had the shadow retreat, that cloud of black pulling back and condensing into a dense body once more. Yet even now, what damage had been done was evident¡ªwhere before the skal¡¯mo reached above the clouds, it was now perhaps only half that height. Flame and embers clung to that black mist, still visible through the pluming shadow.

    Yet as she commanded the skal¡¯mo to sink into the earth, those tongues of red and white were quick to gutter out. Her child retreated back into the shadows, voluminous black mist rolling back into a depthless surface. In the span of three heartbeats, that monstrous figure had retreated into nothing, only coiling wisps of smoke from those former fires, trickling off the occasional shadow on the ground.

    Those demons threw their gazes around in confusion, their foe disappearing from underneath their fangs. With flames scorching their lungs and bloodlust in their heads, they clawed at the ground in panic and anger, letting out wailing roars and mocking shouts in some hope of drawing the skal¡¯mo back out. Those with wings prompting beat clouds of dust off the ground as they rose into the air, circling about in the sky in the hopes of finding their prey once more. Such a search could only end in failure, their prying eyes finding nothing but empty mud and cracked earth beneath them.

    Even their king seemed unable to find the skal¡¯mo its gaze instead turning to where she flew. Those mismatched eyes fixated on her, on her formless body that floated above in the air. A chill of fear ran through her, felt even through the pounding pain of the world. She could only remind herself that there was nothing the demon could do to her, that she was safe in the sky, with the dark god¡¯s blessing around her. And so she returned the demon¡¯s gaze, sending her will surging down to her child, who lay in wait.

    That brief peace, the fragile silence, the tense uncertainty that had claimed the battle was suddenly shattered with a soundless roar. In an instant, their own shadows beneath the demons suddenly burst open with roiling black smoke. The skal¡¯mo surged out of the ground, shapeless as it surrounded ten of the demons in the middle of its gaping maw. Those shadowed jaws snapped shut, too fast for any reaction from the others, swiftly claiming the hapless few that were caught inside. Their flames were useless inside of its shadowy body, without the air it needed to burn. And as their fire slowly petered, the shadow claimed them, turning their flesh and metal into shattered ice and dust. Like some predator diving out of the water, like some lurking stalker, the skal¡¯mo swiftly sank back into the ground that it had came out of.

    The entire attack had spanned perhaps ten heartbeats at most, and the demons had been too disoriented to respond, had been too surprised to do anything. And so ten of their brothers had died for nothing, plucked like ripe berries from some overhanging branch. And so her child lay in wait, its presence hidden in every shadow under their feet. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    The demons were thrown into a panic then, their flames slowly dying away as they fought to breathe. They turned to their king for leadership, turned towards those few without armor, yet no answers came. Enraged, a few turned on each other, butting skulls and swiping like maddened beasts. So swiftly did their ranks fall into disorder, so swiftly did their discipline flee¡ªthese were no soldiers. They were animals; they would never hold their own against a stronger foe the way the legions could, the way that men could.

    Yet a sudden spike of pain surged through her mind, as if a nail had been hammered through her temples to tear through her thoughts. She could feel her strength failing her, Atal¡¯s blessing no longer shielding her as she needed. The wind was like a razor to her thoughts, cutting away at them wildly. Those white ribbons were being shredded, her spirit struggling to even hold together. Where at the ends she was fraying, the decay only continued to spread. Her life, she could tell, was to be measured in minutes now, if not seconds. Such panic drove her to the brink of madness, pain and confusion driving all focus out of her mind. Yet as she fought the decay in her mind, she clutched onto that one thought, that she would see the demons dead before her.

    Again! She called out to her child, its quiet strength waiting for her command, and again it ripped out of the ground. Catching five of the fliers in its gaping maw, they were torn apart and turned to ash by chilling shadow. The other demons whipped around in an instant, flames jumping to their claws as they swiped at the mist around them. The king conjured fire once more, a torrent of white flame shooting from its claws towards her child, but the skal¡¯mo fell back into the earth too quickly. Only the lightning from the pale-skinned demon was able to strike the center of her child, burning a hole through black shadow.

    Yet their attack were not enough to stop the skal¡¯mo, its monstrous form sinking back into the ground. The licks of flame that still clung to oily shadow guttered out as her child once more went into hiding. And so once more she had claimed more of the demons at little cost to her own, and yet her frustration only grew. Continuing like this, surely the battle would be won, and yet she could not continue this way. In minutes, she would be dead. In minutes, she would be torn apart by the wind, scattered throughout the world to break apart into dust.

    She did not have minutes to lurk like a coward, picking off the demons in tens and twos. She did not have minutes to drag this fight on, did not have minutes to spare. Her frustration swelled like a wave inside of her, building momentum even as it grew. That frustration morphed into desperation, a tide that crashed over her, drowning her with its weight. That desperation drove her to throw in all in a final lunge, even as the demons danced nervously on their toes like startled deer.

    The king¡ªtheir king¡ªit was the only thing keeping their number together. Kill it, tear it apart, and they would butcher themselves for her. Aye, these creatures were no legion, standing under Swords and Shields. They were animals, and this was merely a pack. Kill their alpha, and their would all kill each other trying to take that place. And so her fuzzy gaze turned once more to the king, straining to make it out even as her gaze blackened and flickered.

    She was waiting, stretching out this nervous tension. The demons were anticipating the skal¡¯mo as well, even if they could do little but die in its grasp. That nervous tension frayed their concentration, and she was waiting for their ropes to be pressured to the edge of breaking. She was waiting, waiting for the winds to sway to her favor. And then she could wait no longer.

    NOW! Her will, her desperation, all of it was poured into that single thought. She could not recall her name any longer. She could not recall why she was fighting, for the decay had already claimed her mind. She could only see that final goal through, and so she poured all that she was into that thought. Her child responded in kind, a surging wave of black shadow that leaped out of the ground. A hundred maws opened in that formless beast, a thousand teeth borne on a wave of chilling mist, and all of it was flying directly at that lone figure on the cracked earth. Hope and desperation culminated into a lone spark in her heart, that she might see the demon rendered into dust.

    And yet that spark was quickly snuffed out, for the demon king channeled raw fire from its claws to meet the skal¡¯mo. That torrent of flame split the shadow down the middle, burning through the mist and even catching some of the other demons on the fringes. Her child continued regardless, either side of the shadow still trying to kill the king. Just a single touch, she thought desperately. It was all that she needed, just for a single fang of the skal¡¯mo to touch.

    So close, and yet still it eluded her. She could only watch as two of the demons near that king swiftly crumpled to the ground, purple ribbons flying out of their mouths and eyes to wrap around the king¡¯s arms. That magic only further augmented its fire, which was no longer a single stream but now flared out into a cone, into a fan of fire that shot out almost like a wall. Her skal¡¯mo had no hope of passing, bearing the full brunt of that raging inferno. Ash and smoke filled the air, even as the ground was filled with twitching shadow.

    She could only watch as her child died, melting away under that hellfire. She could only watch as her hope died with it, that single spark being stamped out. The wind tore at her, and she no longer had the strength to resist. She fell towards the ground, the dark god¡¯s presence around her being torn away like wings being plucked from her back. She could not hear the screaming of the voices in her head, distant and faint. She could hear her own thought, repeated over and over in mockery.

    She had failed.

 Book 2: Chapter 42

    The thing was a monstrous beast in its hideous un-life, and it was monstrous still in its twitching death. Its body was like a bubbling liquid, churning like some repulsive thing of oily grime, its depthless surface popping and crackling nevertheless as it became warped by scorching heat. Coiling tendrils of burning shadow crawled towards the sky, trailing behind them ash and smoke in voluminous clouds that shrouded the very sky. Their acrid stench was cloying, burning the lungs as it clung to the air. As the shadow burned by demonfire, it writhed incessantly, countless fingers and too-many limbs all crawling desperately, searching for some independent escape. That shapeless, amorphous thing cried out silently with a hundred gaping maws, their black fangs turning to char under that greedy flame. The entire scene was silent save for the crackling of the fire, the sound a popping staccato as more and more of the shadowfiend was rendered ash and burnt remains.

    The air was thick with smoke, a smog that obscured the vision until hardly ten paces could be seen in front. Yet Willem could see those that were closest to him still, could see the king panting hard as it fell to the ground kneeling. Such a massive flame had been taxing on the demon, even with the other two of its kin that had been sacrificed for fuel. Willem could feel the tingling of sensation returning to his extremities, the nerves haven rendered numb from that black mist. The pricking of needles filled the length of his arm, some semblance of heat and strength slowly returning to the frozen limb. He had been rendered utterly immobile merely be being close to that black mist, that seemed to sap all heat and life out of the air around it. Even though the shadow had not sought after him in any effect, he had been swept away in its tide like some hapless fool, drowning in the storm sent towards his neighbor.

    Such a terrifying aura had left him still and motionless, even though the shadow had not even passed closer than five paces to him. The king, by comparison, had been close enough to touch the shadow¡¯s surface with a claw¡ªhe could only imagine the bone-chilling cold that the demon must have felt. He could only imagine the primal fear that froze muscle and bone, fear that the king had blasted aside with a conflagration of molten flame. Even still, he could feel that heat on his face, so hot that it blistered his skin, so bright that it blinded him for over ten heartbeats. Such was the strength of magic, and not for the first time he found himself yearning to be able to control the gift that coursed through his blood.

    Slowly, Willem could feel motion returning to his limbs, the muscles straining, the joints creaked as they fought to move. Yet his body was swift to scream in protest, steam and smoke coiling off the surface of his skin. His grey hide was far thicker than human skin; it was the only thing saving him from hideous blisters filled with steam from boiling blood. Such proximity to the conjured fire had not left him unscarred however, blood oozed from his eyes and nostrils, the membranes wet and nearly seared shut by the flame. Even blinking was an awful pain, the muscles twitching awkwardly and protesting with sharp needles of pain.

    As he dragged in a shuddering breath, his lungs found themselves filled with soot and ash, the still-dying shadow proving poisonous even in its corpse. That cloud of black char blinded the eyes and burned the skin, and he coughed madly to clear the mess from his throat. Blood and ash were metallic and bitter in his mouth, the taste abhorrent and distasteful. Even if he could not see them, he could hear the grunts and coughs of the other demons as well as they fought to breathe, their bodies no better than his in the midst of all this debris.

    Wiping away at his burning eyes, he suddenly found his gaze being drawn to something above the twitching, burning tendrils of black shadow. Even higher than the pluming columns of smoke, his eyes saw a shimmering silhouette falling¡ªplummeting¡ªtowards the earth. Its motion attracted his attention, as did its fleeting, almost transient appearance. Swiftly, he recalled that strange figure atop the gargantuan shadow, indistinct in the distance. Its features were unclear as it fell, its speed and the obscuring fog proving too great a deterrent. Yet he could not suppress the nervousness feeling in his heart, that it seemed all-too familiar to him.

    Faster and faster the thing fell, flickering in and out of view through the hazy fog, before finally landing on the earth¡ªin the earth. There was no force as it struck the ground, no resistance from stone and ice. That fleshless shape seemed to plummet through the very ground with an impossible speed, burying itself a hand above the waist before it finally seemed to catch itself with a desperate grip. It had landed in the middle of that frozen river, the swirling columns of ice now beginning to thaw from the raw heat of the fire. Rivulets of water flowed slowly, lending to the surface of the river a bewildering glimmer underneath the sun. Half buried in the ice, that spectral figure slowly raised its head.

    Willem felt his breath catch in his throat, the hot air burning the flesh, but he did not care. Realization dawned upon him slowly, stealing away all strength from his limbs as surprise and shock stole away his breath. ¡°Kat¡­¡± he whispered, not daring to trust what he saw before him with his own eyes. A host of questions suddenly swarmed him, an inundation that swept away prior thought. It could not be, he knew, and yet what he saw was there in spite of it all. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    She was a ghost, was perhaps the most apt form of description. Her body was without flesh nor material, utterly incorporeal as it sank below the ice. Her outline was made of glimmering white, seeming to ravel and unravel with every erratic heartbeat almost in some strange pulse. The edges of her form were fuzzy and indistinct, frequently flickering or even disappearing altogether. On occasion there would be a brief spark, black as night, that danced across her body maliciously before suddenly winking out.

    She wore a legionary tunic, or perhaps, the memory of one. There was no adornments on that plain fabric; she looked much as she had the first time that they had met, at the Gates. Her feet wore thick boots, even if their features were indistinct. Her hands ended with coarse leather gloves, the fingertips hazy like a dream. Her hair was still cropped short, her attire as if she were still serving in the legions, still pretending to be a man.

    The only thing that was different about her was her face. There had never been anything particularly outstanding about her before; she could neither be described as ugly nor beautiful. Her expression was neither prone to pleasure nor anger. She could only have been described in the past as plain. Yet there was a sunken despondency to her features now, as if she had been drained of essence and life from the inside. Her cheekbones were pronounced and protruding, her skin pallid as snow with her spectral form. Her eyes were dark-rimmed, shadow falling across them and hiding their former brilliance.

    Yet, as if every other heartbeat, her face would suddenly flicker and shift in form. There would be a massive scar running along her cheek, swallowing the left side of her face in what seemed to resemble a massive bite mark. The flesh would turn rotten and pulpy, weeping clear fluid as if in the midst of decay, and she would clutch at her throat with warped hands. Perhaps strangest of all would be her mouth, suddenly covered with black stitches that sewed her lips shut. It was an utterly macabre spectacle, a grisly and unsettling appearance that would come into clarity for three heartbeats at a time before disappearing in its transience.

    Willem found himself unable to speak, utterly enraptured by the horrific appearance of what he had once called his friend, his throat hoarse and his mouth unwilling to respond. He could only watch as that specter slowly pulled up on the ice, hauling herself up until she was standing on the frozen river. Kat was staggering, as if wounded or merely fatigued. Black sparks continued to dance across her skin, her appearance growing more and more unstable as her outline began to unravel even further. The process was fast enough to be noticed by the eyes, her form falling away in chunks and pieces. Her arm was beginning to disappear, crackling black lightning running along the ice as her decay furthered. In a sudden motion, she threw her head back, baring that smooth throat¡ªthe skin suddenly flickering to reveal an iron chain around her neck that swiftly disappeared.

    None of the other demons seemed to have noticed her thus far, for there was no noise from her actions. The thick smoke obscured her actions further, and the king seemed to weary to have possibly noticed. Willem felt a sudden panic surge up inside of him, his gaze flying around until he realized that only Kha seemed to have noticed her. The white demon stared blankly ahead with those slitted pupils, its expression unreadable. He wanted to scream at them all, to warn them of something, anything, but his body failed him. Any noise merely escaped his mouth as a rattling hiss, lost amidst the popping and crackling of the burning shadow on the riverbank.

    The air around them suddenly seemed to fall in temperature, the previous warmth of the fire all of a sudden dissipating from their skin. A sudden sensation of death swelled up inside of him, his instincts screaming at him to run. Yet his body was unresponsive, the sudden chill sapping what pathetic strength remained from his limbs. He wanted to shout, to scream for the others¡¯ attention, yet his throat failed him¡ªhis weary chest hardly had the strength to drag in a breath.

    He could only as that ghost-like Kat slowly lowered her head, her grisly visage focused madly on empty sky. One of her hands began to rise, no longer covered with a glove but instead ending with a set of withered claws. The limb itself was thin and wasting away, seemingly only skin stretched taut over a length of bone. Those tapered claws were almost stick-like, opening large enough to cover his face. Along her wrist, black shadow suddenly coiled. It danced with the black sparks, writhing faster and faster before suddenly running up her arm.

    She opened her mouth painfully, the stitches snapping inaudibly with strips of skin and flesh. As Kat pulled in a breath, that black smoke entered her mouth, the air suddenly dropping colder still, as if her breath had swallowed all warmth as well. The rest of the demons abruptly let out confused barks, utterly oblivious to their peril. For a brief moment, there was nothing but tense anticipation as he watched, as he waited. He was utterly incapable of moving, despite the danger that he could feel looming over him.

    He was unable to anything as that specter let out a keening wail, a noise so profoundly abhorrent that it seemed to shatter the world around him. His vision seemed to warp, seemed to crack as he felt that scream wrap around him. Black mist surged out with it, suffusing through the air in a tidal wave that gradually dissipated as it spread across the riverbank. Cold fire swallowed his body, his muscles frozen and his skin swiftly covered with a layer of hoarfrost. Steam hissed and crackled off his frostbitten body, his arm crackling with black sparks.

    All across that riverbank, the entirety of the demons had been turned into little more than sculptures of ice, utterly incapable of movement beyond a simple, pained awareness.

 Book 2: Chapter 43

    The wave of ice rippled out through the land, a surging tide of frost and rime that covered all it touched with a frigid cold. Their path was swiftly followed by a trail of black sparks, crackling across the riverbank with a shadowy cold, a bone-chilling cold that lingered on all that it touched. Her wail was a keening, shattering noise, one that seemed less sound and more magic as it distorted and cracked the very air that it traveled through.

    The frost that had settled on his body was like a poison, a viper that had buried its numbing fangs into his flesh. All strength had left his body, sapped and stolen away by that never-ending winter that surrounded him. Black sparks crackled across his skin as well, dancing along the limbs and the edges of his vision. His body was hard as stone, his nerves numb and unfeeling, dead as a corpse. Even when he thought to move his arms, the thought did not reach his arms. The message had died on its way, the muscles as unresponsive as sheer granite.

    Smoke plumed from his flesh, a slow hissing that snuck out of the warmth of his heartbeat. Under that bubbling pressure, his very skin began to split and crack, the grey lips peeling apart to reveal white-red tissue underneath. The bubbling blood was swift to freeze as well, a snowy ice settling over those tender wounds. Black sparks danced out of the blood, frantic and capricious.

    His mind was numb, his thoughts beleaguered and lost. He felt like a sole man lost in a storm, like a sole rock resisting the tide. Even as he struggled to assemble his will and once more try to move, he could feel his very heartbeat begin to slow, bewitched by those black frost magic and that banshee¡¯s wail. Like sailors enchanted to stone in the myths, like a statue carved for palace halls, he could only stand unmoving. He could barely fight to keep his eyes open, only by grace were his eyelids frozen apart when that wail had struck him.

    And so he was forced to watch, was forced to stare without response at the scene before him. That shadow-thing was burning still, death slow in claiming it. Its blackened tendrils and smoking limbs were swallowed by fire, the vast majority of its body long since rendered ash and soot. Even the banshee¡¯s scream could not fully stifle that roaring inferno, beating down the flames momentarily only for the fire to surge up once more, undeterred by the cold. Black sparks fought occasionally, surfacing through the sea of crimson and orange, yet they could not snuff out the blaze that consumed the shadow.

    Indeed, as the fire slowly died, it was not from the overbearing cold but rather from the death of its prey. The shadowfiend was but the size of a man now, brought down from mountain into ash and corpse. Its twitching, darting limbs were barely able to move any longer, curling desperately in tired motions, hopeless death throes of a pitiable creature. Yet the simple-minded flame held no mercy as those limbs began to crumble, as the shapeless black took on form as dust and scattered into the wind. More and more pieces of the shadow slough off, crackling grey and black that flicker in the midst of the inferno, breaking and scattering until the shards of consumed one by one. Gradually, finally, there was nothing more than soot and broken remains, unmoving and devoid of whatever perverse life originally clung to that cursed flesh. There was nothing but embers, glowing coals that simmered and smoked gently in the bed of former shadows, quietly reminding all of the evil it had slain. Children of that hellfire, they promised to once more rise up in a conflagration without warning, a formidable strength hidden in those red-hot pebbles.

    His gaze, no longer hindered by the burning shadows, could now properly see the other demons around him. Their forms, too, were covered by a glistening sheen of ice and steam, unmoving as stone as they gazed fixedly forward. Yet he had not been the ones to bear the brunt of that chilling wail, had not been the ones closest to the ghost. That unfortunate title was claimed by the demons closer to the river, closest to that shimmering serpent of ice and glass.

    He watched as black sparks swallowed those hapless demons, increasing in number over their bodies until it seemed almost a second skin, a sudden plague that surrounded them. That crackling storm consumed their flesh, and he watched as skin and muscle began to crumble. Gradually at first, limbs began to shudder and break, falling away in great chunks like rock chipped from a cliff face. Hands, forearms, entire lengths of bone and body fell to the ground where they shattered into a thousand pieces, seemingly as fragile as fired clay.

    Their limbs broke off, revealing pink wounds that did not bleed, frozen as they were by that wintry magic. Then their legs gave out, fissures sprouting along the knees and thigh as the muscle their failed as well. Their bodies began to fall, toppling at impossible angles when their weight was no longer supported. Like grotesque sculptures, like some mockery of a work of art, they toppled to the ground, still frozen in their poses of surprise and shock. Those expressions would be their last as they struck the frozen ground, their bodies instantly shattering and scattering across the hoarfrost. Among those wind-stirred piles of former-flesh-now-dust, black sparks still danced maddeningly, running from nameless corpse to nameless corpse as if in childish excitement.

    One by one, more and more of the frozen demons began to shatter, their bodies helplessly fragile under the assault of that magic. Willem could only watch, his thoughts bleary yet terrified as he awaited a similar fate. Already, he could see more and more splitting flesh, more and more black lightning that skirted to and fro like some manic pixie. While his senseless nerves did not fire, his heart quivered with the expectation of pain, with the anticipation of that agony.

    He fought to conjure up some semblance of resistance, fought to stir up some will within him. Kha would not break free, he knew. The king could not save him¡ªthey were both worn out from the strain of their magic. Neither did any of these simple demons have a hope of shaking off this spell. It was only him, he realized with a quiver of terror. Only he could throw off these shackles, with the magic that coursed through his blood. He had to, lest they would all scatter into the wind with hardly a trace on this earth.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Magic, came the single thought, desperate and simple in its urgency. It was a handhold on this cliff, a rock in this surging river, and he fought to cling to it. He needed to stir the magic in him, as he had before when he had burnt the skal¡¯va. Burnt the skal¡¯va. With fire. Fire.

    Black sparks crackled across his eyes, blinding him with a numbness that he knew ought to be mind-ruining agony. His vision went utterly white, the scream that he wished to give unable to escape stiffened lungs. Instead, he tried to once more feel that pulling in the pit of his stomach, tried to once more feel the ribbons crawling up through his limbs and out of his fingertips. Desperately, hopelessly, he tried to remember that feeling, that trancelike feeling. Please, he shuddered, the sensation growing more and more fleeting with every ever-slowing heartbeat.

    Without a breath, his mind began to blacken, his thoughts slipping through weakening fingers. No! His pleas fell on unhearing ears, that creeping numbness now spreading to his heart. His vision flickered dimly, the black sparks passing as he slowly died. His tired gaze hazily focused on that ghost standing atop the frigid river, so familiar and yet worlds impossibly apart.

    Kat was trembling madly, what seemed to be black blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her outline was fuzzy, the white ribbons of her image frayed and tattered like weathered rags. No longer did she stand straight; no longer did fury and strength flicker in her eyes. Instead she bent and slouched in staggered weariness, her eyes lifeless and devoid of emotion. Her pale, colorless lips were pulled up into a mockery of a smile, held in place by those wormlike stitches that seemed to wriggle in her flesh. The blood that fell from her chin struck the ground with a soundless hiss, leaving behind no trace.

    Is her face to be the last thing I see before I die? The thought did not nearly strike him with as much fear as if ought to have, for he could not erase the fondness that he held in his heart for her. Truly then, I am a fool, he knew. Truly, then, I have been useless, he knew. The thought filled him with resigned peace, a motionless smile creeping across his frozen lips, if they could move. His gaze began to fade to black, much as Kat began to flicker and fade as ghosts did.

    Sudden sparks.

    Showering sparks and flames. They rained blurrily from the sky, indistinct as they struck the river. Yet they must have struck Kat as well, for they clung to her like a lover, desperately. They were swift as well, in their hunger, for she soon wore them like a cloak on her back¡ªa coat of flames that swallowed her whole.

    His vision flickered still, yet as the flames grew in strength, so too did a sudden heat in his own chest. My heart, some dim part of his mind understood, even while the rest of him could only thoughtlessly watch as Kat burned. And as his heartbeat strength, so too did his gaze, sharpening and coming into focus with a sudden clarity.

    He could see the arrows buried in the ice, could see the tongues of fire that clung to the wooden shafts, and he understood that they had struck her in their flight. He could see the ribbons of white unraveling altogether, turning to ash underneath that hungry flame. Her mouth was agape, horrifyingly stretched open in a mixture of agony and relief. The black stitches were shattered and torn, flickering in and out of existence with an impossible transience, even as the rest of her began to disappear. The black sparks that clung to her, that darkness that had protected her, it was all gone now. Her legs were gone, her arms were gone. Her chest was burnt away to nothing, her hair a glowing halo that too was swiftly consumed. And finally, all of her was burnt away, the very last to go that desperate, agonized smile that seemed to cling to reality half a heartbeat longer than the rest of her memory. That smile had been confused and lost, helpless and afraid, just like a child¡¯s.

    And then, like a painting burnt by flame, her image was no more. Her ghost was gone, without even a trace on the earth. Her memory was but ash in the wind, strewn about by an uncaring nature. For all the creeping eternity of the past heartbeats, her death had been a flickering instant, terrifyingly short. Almost in a single heartbeat, the flame had swallowed her. In two heartbeats, she had died. There had been no time to celebrate; there had been no time to grieve. Three heartbeats, and the last remnants of her were gone.

    With her death, so too did that frozen chill on his body begin to thaw. Needles pierced his muscles, flaming tongues stabbing into flesh, a comforting heat flowing out of his chest. The ice that covered his skin began to melt, their numbing tension dissipating as life once more began to flow through him. Black sparks were snuffed out, disappearing with the same easy grace as their appearance. As the final vestiges of stone leave his stiffened body, a sudden weakness claimed him and he fell to the ground.

    His knees struck the earth with a thud, the sound echoed by the others of his kind that still lived. His vision blurred for a brief moment, lightheadedness making his limbs and body float underneath him before he once more tightened his grip on reality. Wearily, he lifted his head and dragged in a cold breath.

    The arrows, some part of him reminded. They had come from upriver, from the north. Slowly, he turned his tired neck towards a small bluff, a gentle hill that sloped out of the earth. Atop the earth, he could see small figures in the distance, wearing legion armor and bearing massive bows nearly matching their height.

    And as his vision sharpened, he could clearly make out a familiar face amongst the men, a legionary with an old scar running along the base of his neck.

 Book 2: Chapter 44

    Falling. She was falling.

    The ground was rushing up to greet her, growing larger and larger as if it were to swallow her. Like some great, gaping maw, she saw the ground surging forward, closer and closer to her tired figure. Her vision blurred, her thoughts ragged and fleeting even as the wind seemed to strip away the dark god¡¯s protection, leaving her bare and defenseless. Below her, the frozen river glittered beautifully, ice and light shimmering in some grand sculpture carved by inhuman hands. Closer and closer, that work of art approached her, until finally she struck it with blistering speed.

    Ice and frost scraped and shredded at her, a sudden sharp pain in her very being. Atal¡¯s presence around her was struggling to shield her spirit, yet it was simply too weak. She could feel that ice burying into her thoughts, scraping away layers of memories with a doctor¡¯s blade. Like a wedge driven through her heart, it sent a spear through her mind, a jagged cut through her psyche that made her tremble and flicker. Never before had she ever felt so weak; never before had she ever felt so helpless. She fought, not to remain conscious, but simply to remain¡ªto keep herself together amidst this storm that threatened to pull her very fabric apart.

    Black sparks darted across her field of vision, the dark god struggling to keep its much-needed servant alive. She could hear the voices in the back of her mind as well, incessant in their pleading. Fight, they told her. Stand, they pleaded. Yet she could feel herself becoming lost in that sea of voices, swallowed up by that surging tide. Stand up, they bid her, and she glanced down blearily at the ice that swallowed her.

    Stand up, they commanded, and she tiredly rose with legs that she did not possess, wearily stood on frigid ice that could not hold her. She fought feel the heartbeat of her child, fluttering and ephemeral. Her child was dying, and she was helpless to prevent it. Those flames that danced in front of her eyes were beautiful. Why were they so beautiful, as they burned away her hopes? Why were they so beautiful, as they burned away dreams that she had long ago forgotten? So beautiful, she whispered to herself as she staggered to her feet, black sparks dancing around her.

    She hated that fire, as it burned her child. She could see that shadowy form amidst the crackling orange, could see it writhe and scream with a sound only she could hear. She hated that fire, that pillar of brilliant flame that had surged through her sole desire, in spite of all that she had sacrificed. She hated that fire; she hated herself. She had failed, she knew, and she hated all of it.

    Anger and anguish swelled inside of her, a building tide of emotion that threw aside all other thoughts, growing until it seemed to swallow her heart and essence. It fed upon itself, a growing wave that surged through her heart and threatened to spill out of her. The spasming heartbeat of her child, the ever-distant voices of a thousand tongues, they were gone now. All she felt was that raw despondency, that utter hatred that boiled and spewed forth in a single, desperate scream. Black sparks crackled in the air, the dark god¡¯s strength surging out of her, augmenting her wail with unholy power as it rippled across the frozen land.

    She watched as ice claimed the demons, settled on their frames and turned them into stone. She watched as ice was beaten back by the blaze, as her skal¡¯mo was turned to ash underneath those devouring flames. She watched as Atal lingered in the air, slowly consuming the frost-covered fools and making them break upon the ground. She watched with a bitter emptiness, with a hollowness to her heart. She could not care, even as it all shattered like glass before her eyes.

    What was this all for? The thought came to her suddenly, yet she could not brush it aside. She could not remember any longer, why she fought. She could not remember any longer, who this pain in her heart was for. She could not remember anything¡ªno faces lingered in her memory, no people in her heart. She could not even recall her own name. What was it, then, that kept her alive? Or was she already dead, without any ties to life that she could claim?

    ¡ªA young girl, climbing a row of hedges that bordered some garden. Long had she been told not to cross, long had she dreamed of what lay on the other side. Long had her curiosity eaten away at her, and at long last, she had given into temptation. The needled leaves bit at her like insects, like barbs that tried to deter her. Yet these were nothing; mother¡¯s words drew more blood than leaves. Higher and higher still, she clutched to the metal fence, peering through the leaves that surrounded her to gaze blearily at the garden. Her arms were burning as she reached the top, as she sat astride that long-forbidden fence, and she gazed down at that beautiful garden underneath her. Those pink roses, the trickling water, its beauty was not lost on a mere child. And yet, as she reached out with a hand guided by temptation, her balance was stolen away by fate. So did the child fall, plummeting towards paved stones and hard earth. So did the bushes ease her descent, rough as they scraped her skin. So did she roll across the ground, coughing and screaming all the while before finding herself at the feet of a young boy¡ªThis narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    A sudden laughter claimed her, a strange smile stretching across her face as she threw her head back. A martyr, she had promised to be, yet she could not remember her own cause. A hero, was she? A strange hero she must have been, without anyone dear in her heart. Nay, she was nothing¡ªthat was the bitter truth of it. What kind of hero would die with such emptiness in his heart? What kind of hero would not be weighed down by shackles of sins and chains of crimes, by burdens and grief, by loss and regret? Such were inescapable weights¡ªweights that came with life. And yet she felt none of them in her own heart.

    ¡ªThey lay underneath the stars, alone despite inevitable prying eyes. Yet she could not care less for the thoughts of others, not when her own thoughts were so filled with joy. Her hand tapped out a hopeful rhythm, her arm intertwined with his own as she heard nothing but the whistling of the wind, heard nothing but the softness of his breath. She could still hear his question in his mind, his soft words firm yet filled with a gentle hope. She could still hear her own response, panicked and nervous and filled with excitement. She could still feel the weight of that promise on her heart as they lay there, measuring their future amongst the stars¡ª

    Strange, that her own choices had led her here, at the end of a road that had faded behind her. Strange, that she could feel neither regret nor pride at the end of her life, for she could not recall it at all. All of her anguish, all of her hate, it had left her not moments ago, and yet already she had forgotten what it was for. The demons that were shattering into dust in front of her, she could not remember if she ought to be cheering or mourning.

    The dark god had left her, and his protection was gone; she was being pulled apart by the wind. Surely, now, she was doomed. Surely, now, this foolish life of hers could be dragged on no longer. Yet, what was there left for her to lose? What was there left to be saved? Madness was sweet in its honeyed poison, and she felt no remorse as the last vestiges of her sanity departed. All she felt was a biting curiosity at what came next, a nervousness that ate away at her like a viper. Was it some hell that greeted her, a prison underneath shale and stone? Was she to end up like the Mother, like that poor beast, shackled beneath the earth? How would that feel, to her? Would it even feel any different?

    How would it feel, to have those writhing stitches driven through her lips? How would it feel, to be shackled in that darkness, with only her children for company? Was that not a good mother¡¯s dream? Was she not to be filled with love, with anticipation, at that very notion? Rippling laughter claimed her, tearing through those stitches with blood and mirth.

    ¡ªA girl, despite her looks, stood as one of many in a long line, her features hardened yet her eyes betraying nervous excitement. Close-cropped hair and faint scars did little to hide womanly features; surely this could not work. Nervousness led to fidgeting fingers, hesitant legs that trembled as the line closed. At last she stood before the soldier, that tired Second Shield that gave her a cursory glance before nodding, half-stifling a yawn. Nervousness was swiftly swallowed by elation as the girl strode forward, all too eager to join another waiting soldier¡ª

    There was a twinkling, a flickering light in the sky that seemed to dance across her vision. That single spark was swiftly joined by others of its kind, a small rain of stars that streaked across the distant heavens. And then, like her, they began to fall. Like her, those stars fell down to greet the ground, fell down to frozen earth.

    Was she any different from those stars, from those fleeting flames that burned without cause but simple intent? Was she any different from those falling stars? Or was she merely another one of them? Were they more of her children, were they her brothers and sisters? Were they the dead, that she had long forgotten? Were they the lost, for whom she could not grieve?

    ¡ªA swift kiss, and a promise to return. Words, nothing more than fleeting words, yet were they truly so easily discarded? Were mere words so easily forgotten? Was hope so easily squandered, and promises so easily shattered?¡ª

    Those stars greeted her with open arms, drew her into their embrace lovingly. Their warmth seemed to suffuse her, spreading through her chest, through a heart that had long since forgotten to beat. They claimed her as their own, claimed her as kin with a love that burned away at her lingering madness. And at last, as the flames claimed her, the thought finally arrived that she was dying.

    A foolish notion, truly, that it came to her just now. Yet she had always been dying, ever since she had sacrificed herself for a cause she could no longer remember. She had always been dying, ever since her skal¡¯mo had first risen out of the earth as if to challenge the heavens. Yet it was only now, in her final moments, that clarity and lucidity had been granted to her. She felt no pain as the flames crackled around her. She felt no disappointment as she burned, a lone figure in the center of a roaring blaze. She felt no loss as she crumbled, as the ever-frayed, ever-tattered ribbons of her mind and soul were turned to ash. She felt nothing, truly, as she was burnt away.

    And yet she could hear the voices, in her last moments. Not the voices of loved ones that she had forgotten, that much she knew. Not the voices of heaven, come to claim another departed. They were the voices of the dead man, of the servant to the dark god, that whispered through her charred and scorched thoughts. A thousand tongues, a thousand ages, a thousand lost souls whispered to her then.

    Damn you! You have doomed us! Damn you, fool! They raged, they ranted, they fumed with the passion of those that still clung to life. So curious, that it was the dead that fought for life. So curious, that she¡ªthet dying¡ªfelt no weight at all. The incredulity filled her with mirth, filled her with laughter as she considered the ridiculous notion. Perhaps, she thought, I truly am a fool.

    Only a fool could laugh as he died.

 Book 2: Chapter 45

    The air was thick with the scent of char and smoke, the aftermath of fire cloying and sickening. Willem felt his vision blurring from nausea, his body weak as he staggered forward for a moment, rising from his knees. The smog stuck in his lungs, clinging tight even as he coughed and fought to breathe. His body was trembling, his muscles screaming as they resisted his commands. Even his cracked skin was aching with dulled pain, the numbing frost thawing and sending pins and needles through his flesh.

    All around him, a similar scene played out through the rest of the demons. The air was filled with the sounds of groans and howls, the demons struggling to shake off the disorientation that left them bewildered and stunned with confused fear. Many of their faces were twisted with pain, their flesh ruined and split with open wounds, weeping white pus and threatening to slough off at the gentlest touch. Even if they had survived the cold, such biting frost had sunk its fangs in deep. Their flesh, even durable as it was, could not escape the grasp of the skal and of the banshee¡¯s howl.

    Willem found his gaze being drawn towards the north, where those distant figures were slowly making their way closer to the horde. They were startling few in number, hardly a drop in the ocean compared to the size of the legions. Yet they were all that remained, the battlefield nothing but a massive cemetery for their brothers. Despite the carnage that clung to the air, those men were stoic, their expressions unreadable and half-obscured by their helmets. Those scarred faces bore the strength of many campaigns, bore the weight of men baptized by blood. Their bows hung heavy at their sides, massive lengths of twisted wood tipped with metal. Three soldiers in total stood in front, their very bodies shielding two men in the back. Norus led them all, his armor surprisingly clean in comparison to the bloodstained counterparts of his fellow legionaries.

    The king snarled as they approached, the gesture less one of warning and more of acknowledgement. Nevertheless, two of the guards flinched at the noise, hands falling to the quiver that hung along their leg in a motion more instinct than thought. Their bows were not halfway raised before Norus lifted his arm, motioning for them to halt with an expression of fleeting concern. The emotion was a rare sight on the veteran¡¯s scarred face, so long  carved from shale and stone. Yet those eyes glittered with something resembling nervousness now, a mild hesitation that lingered in his stride. It seemed even he could not shake off the blood that hung in the air, could not shake off the primal violence that suffused the demons.

    As the group neared, one of the men in the back spoke out with a gravelly voice, hoarse from shouting in battle yet still firm with the steel of command. ¡°I was told you beasts understand me.¡± he called out with a voice that would have been impressive, were it not for the slightest quaver that betrayed him. It seemed that even he had to acknowledge his instinct to flee when facing these monstrous creatures, having seen them in battle against formless shadows. ¡°I was told there were negotiations to be had.¡± The commander spoke with a sense of incredulity that clung to his voice, as if he could not believe the words that he himself was saying.

    ¡°Aye,¡± the king growled gruffly, striding forward on lupine feet and throwing its clawed arms out wide in a broad gesture. ¡°We hear you. Your twisted tongue¡ªwe speak it.¡± By the king¡¯s side, Kha was swift as a shadow, lurking with a serpentine grace that belied the venom hidden behind that alien expression. The pair of them slowly parted the sea of demons, making their way across charred and frozen earth to meet the legionaries.

    The commander that had spoken previously wore and expression of not-quite-hidden surprise and shock, swallowing noticeably as if reconsidering what he was facing. By his side, the shorter officer was also pale of skin, his jaw clenched as his brows furrowed. ¡°My name is Third Sword Mors.¡± he called out, somewhat softer this time. The tremor in his voice was unmistakable now, fear coloring his tone. ¡°I am leader of the legions of House Florell, sole survivor of the triumvirate. Beside me is Third Shield Nils. We...greet you, demon.¡± There was a noticeable tic to his speech, the veins in his neck bulging as he writhed in discomfort.

    It was at this time that Nils spoke up, his voice reedy but still carrying well on the wind. ¡°Demon King and his vizier, I stand before you with the commanders of the Florell Legion, sole human survivors of the Battle of the Yearning. We represent the people of the Heartlands and the will of Lord Florell himself, rightful claimant to the Capital and the throne. In acknowledgement of your role, we have come to offer terms of negotiation.¡±

    Willem flinched at these words, his gaze going out across the land. There was nothing but torched corpses and scattered dust¡ªall that remained of the once mighty legion of red on white that had first crumbled under the skal.  Yet the legion of gold on black¡ªthe legions of House Florell¡ªcould not possibly proclaim to be in better shape. Their dead were even greater in number, the only of their number a groaning few that had somehow managed to escape death thus far, rendered little more than twitching limbs buried in the mud. Sole human survivors of the Battle of the Yearning, he had said. Willem could scoff at the notion; the only human survivors here were the six that stood before them. Just what army did this man lead?

    Kha seemed to have similar sentiments, leaning in slowly to whisper something to in the king¡¯s ear. The wolf-like demon snarled suddenly, shoving Kha to the side before striding forward imposingly. The three guards in the front drew their bows without hesitation, Norus sinking into a crouch with a hand on the hilt of his blade, his expression nervous and taut with anticipation. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°You would offer to negotiate?¡± the king growled lowly, pointing out a clawed hand at the thawing river. ¡°You have seen the skal, have you not? The living shadows? There are more, to the south in Malifor. They will come for us all. They will swallow our lands.¡± The king¡¯s words were stark and blunt, the legionaries¡¯ expressions grower whiter and more pale with each passing second.

    ¡°You will bring your men. You will bring your women. You will bring your children. You will bring your magic, and your weapons, and every last spark of flame you have in your cities. And you will march south with my people.¡± The king wore the title ably, not a ounce of hesitation or wavering present in his presence. The legionaries were utterly silent, not daring even to blink from the intensity of the demon¡¯s speech.

    ¡°Those are my terms. Those are the only terms.¡± There was nothing but eerie silence following those words, the other demons still as they watched their king with rapt attention.

    Finally, it was Mors that broke the impasse. ¡°We are to believe that there are more of...that thing? In Malifor?¡± Beside him, his companion nodded enthusiastically. ¡°How are we to trust the word of a demon, of an animal?¡± he derided, his words mocking with a confidence that only came from the foolhardy.

    The king sneered, lips peeling back in a grotesque imitation of a smile. ¡°I do not need your faith. I do not need your trust. I just need your people to die for me.¡± Those words made Nils close his mouth with an audible clop, sweat sheening on his face. ¡°Do not mistake my words¡ªyour people will die; if you do not agree here, my horde will butcher you. My offer is for you to die in a more useful manner.¡±

    Nils spluttered in response, his face growing flushed with a purple rage. ¡°Im¡ªimpudent! How dare you even suggest¡ª¡± Yet before he could finish, Norus swiftly drew his blade with a flash of steel, the sword darting in a blur of light before he struck his commanding officer in the temple with the hilt. The short man gave a stuttering gasp before crumbling to the ground, the other legionaries too stunned to respond in time.

    ¡°No time for politics, sir.¡± Norus grunted out, his voice hoarse and thin. The other guards had already drawn short daggers, merely waiting for a command from Mors. Yet Norus was calm, almost belligerently so as he returned the Third Sword¡¯s gaze. ¡°I would be careful as well. You only brought three men with you.¡± he reminded, running the tip of his blade down his arm only for purple ribbons of magic to deftly knit the flesh back together.

    Mors took a deep breath before waving a hand for the others to stand down, his expression defeated but still firm. ¡°Damn you all, and damn me thrice over.¡± he muttered softly before raising his chin, eyes glittering. ¡°Demon King!¡± he called out, and the king tilted its head to the side in curiosity. ¡°I cannot answer for my lord, but if the threat you speak of is real, House Florell is willing to consider an alliance. However, the other houses of the Heartlands demand attention as well, else they will surely stir up rebellion in our absence.¡±

    The king merely snorted in response. ¡°Your people are all sheep.¡± it growled, throwing its arms out wide. ¡°They blindly follow whoever stands in front, too busy grazing to even look up. Butcher the rams and place a wolf in front, and they will follow just as well.¡±

    ¡°Do not worry over your lords. Do not worry over your people. I do not need either of them, Sword. I need your strength and your men.¡± the king hissed lowly. ¡°Answer me this, Sword. Will you serve? Will you fight? Will you die?¡±

    Mors swallowed hard, his face furrowed with thought. His hands gripped the hilt of his sword tensely, gauntlets hiding otherwise white knuckles. ¡°The shadows¡­¡± he spoke finally, barely more than a whisper. ¡°The ones that came out of the ground...you say that there are more of them? Of this, you are certain?¡±

    The king nodded swiftly, throwing his head left towards the south. ¡°In distant lands, aye, but they fester and grow. This was just a warning; the flood comes soon. You need my demons, and we fight for the same cause¡ªwe both wish to live.¡±

    Mors shook his head slowly, his expression growing despondent. ¡°How can we hope to fight those things? How can I ask my men to charge into freezing shadows? How can I ask them to die in the dark, fighting what swords cannot cut? No, this cause is lost, demon.¡±

    Yet the king let out a barking laugh, upturning a hand towards the sky. ¡°So easily scared, truly you are sheep. You can burn the dark, fool.¡± With but a thought, tongues of flame swiftly ignited in its palm, a brilliant white with hints of orange. ¡°Your people have flame, surely? Then even if they must burn themselves alive, they can fight. Your men will die, Sword. You cannot save them. Will they die with meaning?¡±

    The Third Sword swallowed hard, his expression one of concentration. There were only foolhardy answers now, only mistakes, only regrets to be had. Finally, his features twisted with the tiredness of defeat, he relented. ¡°Aye then, demon. House Florell will fight the shadows. Lead us to our foe, and we will fight them.¡±

    The king let out a derisive snort in response. ¡°So many words for nothing but more words. Sheep, indeed.¡± Swiftly, it turned around to face the horde that lay scattered on the riverbank, throwing its head back towards the heavens.

    ¡°DEMONS! WE MARCH!¡± came the earsplitting howl that echoed across the banks. ¡°WILL YOU DIE FOR ME?¡±

    The thunderous roar in response was deafening.

 Book 2: Epilogue

    Joy knelt slowly, the dirt soft and damp with thawed ice as it crumbled against his claws. The sun was cool against his back, far removed from the hot Outlands heat that he had grown used to, that he had grown up in. The scent of char and death clung to his nostrils even now, the gentle wind that blew down from the hills doing little to scatter the smell of blood. That metallic scent stung with every breath, a mild irritant as he dug through the dirt. Black claws thumbed carefully through the dried mud, flicking the clumps of clay and silt from his clawtips. His gaze searched carefully, blinking slowly as he thumbed through more of the earth before finally coming to a halt.

    There was a quiet clink, as if tapping glass, and he slowly raised his palm up closer towards the light. Brushing off more and more of the debris, he finally isolated what seemed almost to be a small gemstone that was a milky white in color. Its surface was utterly smooth, devoid of any features whatsoever as it sat in the center of his hand, the size of a large pebble. It seemed to gather the very sunlight around itself, with a shimmering halo of light collecting around it that prevented him from staring too closely. There was a gentle heat as it rested in his palm, a growing intensity upon being unearthed that seemed only to grow with every passing heartbeat.

    With a low hiss, Joy stood up and turned around to throw his gaze across the riverbank. His demons were gathered, sating themselves on whatever corpses had not been burnt by fire or frost. Those humans had fled already, retreating beyond the hills to whatever walls that hid behind. Their words had promised him alliance, but he cared not if they clung to it. They would fight in the end¡ªbe it by choice or force, it mattered not. His gaze sifted through the crowd until it finally settled on a slender figure, with black markings lining a pale-white face. ¡°Kha.¡± he called out, and those slitted eyes blinked open before the demon slinked over.

    ¡°My king...have you¡­¡± Kha asked softly, and Joy opened his hand to display the gem that lay within. Kha could barely contain his excitement, his long tail whipping back and forth along the ground. ¡°Indeed, my king...you truly are the god¡¯s chosen¡­¡±

    Joy snorted at these words, feeling nothing but contempt for the weak, who clung so dearly to faith. ¡°Your god? What makes him different from the dark god in the south?¡± he growled out as he dropped the gemstone into Kha¡¯s waiting hands, the sunlight gleaming brilliantly.

    ¡°There must always be a balance¡­¡± Kha whispered softly, those horizontal eyes staring unblinkingly at the center of that blinding light. ¡°Light and shadow...creation and destruction¡­¡± Slowly, his slender fingers began to wrap around the gemstone, his hands rotating ever carefully. ¡°The dark god¡¯s brother...has slept for too long...yet now he wakes...now he whispers to me...now he tells me of you¡­¡±

    Faster and faster those slender hands continued to spin, rays of brilliant light flashing out of the gaps between his fingers. ¡°My god was weak...and for a time, Atal was strong¡­¡± Kha¡¯s words were nearly inaudible now, the demon¡¯s mouth hardly seeming to even move as he became enraptured by the light before him. ¡°Now the dark god weakens...and Ajah¡¯s power grows¡­¡±

    ¡°Enough of this,¡± Joy barked out impatiently, the claws of his feet digging into the dirt. ¡°You promised me a gift of your god. Tell me now why we hurried to this land that reeks of man. Tell me what so many of my people have died for.¡± Yet as Kha declined to answer, he felt his frustration slowly begin to grow.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°Atal¡¯s arbiter has been stolen¡­¡± Kha spoke finally, that strobing light continuing to grow brighter and brighter until it nearly seemed a star having fallen to earth. It had attracted the attentions of the other demons as well, interrupting their squabbling and drawing their gazes over. ¡°Stolen power has returned to Ajah...and my god is pleased¡­¡±

    Leaning close towards his hands, the demon gently whispered, ¡°A boon¡­¡± His hands suddenly opened, that bright light floating in the midst of the air. The gemstone could no longer be seen in its heart, the center of the star too bright to even gaze at. Yet Joy was shocked as that star abruptly split, abruptly shattered into a hundred shards that hung in the air. Like so many stars in the night sky, like so many flamebugs darting about, those sparks glittered for a brief moment when everything was still.

    Yet swiftly, they began to soar through the air, each one seeking out a demon that knelt in the dirt. Joy himself found one of them drawing closer and closer, found himself unable to tear his gaze away from that enrapturing light. Its warmth and gentle heat was scorching even at this distance, its unspoken promise making his every heartbeat grow heavy. It neared his chest, slowly sinking into his flesh with a searing flash of pain that made his vision flash and made his thoughts flee from his head. Yet he had suffered worse, gritting his teeth as he fought to stand. The heat spread throughout his limbs, swiftly suffusing through him until even his feet could feel the flame.

    Gently, that star began to spread through him, its intensity waning as it dispersed. Yet there was a single knot in the center that did not break apart, a small core that remained nestled near his heart. It was intangible in flesh, unreachable in spirit, yet somehow he could feel it inside of him¡ªa foreign presence that nevertheless felt equal parts welcome and expected. When he finally opened his eyes, it was with a sudden vigor, with a shuddering gasp that made him realize he had somehow sank to his knees.

    All around him, the air was suddenly filled with the sounds of retching. He himself felt a faint urge as well, although he swiftly suppressed it as he gazed around in shock. All of the demons around him were bent over, their expressions one of pain as they gasped and struggled to breathe. Spittle and bile dribbled out of their mouths, splattering on the dirt as they heaved in empty motions. Their faces growing redder, some seemed nearly about to faint as they strained with effort. Their throats bulged, their necks distending as something fought to work its way back up. Then, with a final howl of pain, their jaws popped and widened, opening to allow a single stone to fall out onto the ground.

    The stones were large affairs, perhaps the size of a fist, with leathery surfaces and uniform appearance. They were covered with a thin film of bile, falling to the ground with a thud only to slowly rock from some internal movement. With a start, Joy suddenly realized that it was, indeed, no stone¡ªbut rather an egg. There was nearly a hundred of them scattered throughout the riverbank, nearly every demon driven to birth almost immediately. Joy found his thoughts turning once more to those discrete lights that hung in the sky, sinking into their flesh. Just what were they? His musings did not go unnoticed, for he turned to see Kha looking quite pleased with himself, those slitted eyes blinking slowly.

    ¡°A seed, my king...a seed of life, from my god Ajah¡­¡±

    End of Book 2

 Book 3: Prologue

    Hot sun and blistering winds were all that swept through these barren lands, casting their gazes over nothing but sand and cracked earth. Yet the landscape still bore the vestiges of civilization, the few marks that man had made upon stone and dirt. In the distance were raised walls and crumbled roofs, torn tents and scattered stones that were a reminder of those that used to stand here. A flattened path wounds its way through the skeletal remains of the village, little more than packed sand bordered by stones. Of the buildings, they had long since been abandoned; even the bones that were left behind inside had now been ground away into dust. The oasis that was the lifeblood of this desolate land had dried up eons ago, leaving behind only a faint depression. Like a scar on the earth, like a memory, it was nothing more than a fateful reminder of what used to be.

    And yet it all stood in the shadow of something greater, of something grander. Towering up towards the sky stood a massive construction of stone and clay, reinforced with bone and crackling shadow. Perhaps it was some temple, some monument of the past with a purpose long forgotten. Like a spire or a giant¡¯s rib, it shot out of the ground with a skeletal image. There were no distinguishable markings on its surface, on its glossy exterior of black that seemed to shimmer the longer one held their gaze upon it. The very shadow it cast upon the ground seemed to rise up around it, sheathing it with a shroud of fog and darkness. Its very tip could not be seen, for it seemed to pierce through the sky and disappear into scorned heavens. The only feature that could be made out was a single opening¡ªan ancient door that stood slightly ajar. Fashioned from stone and covered in etchings that had long since been weathered away, it seemed utterly innocuous as it resisted the desert wind.

    But that wind belied a curious truth, for it stirred the sands below. The grains blew about on zephyrous tides, strewn without care¡ªbut they did not pass through that opened door. The wind itself blew around the stone, as if ignorance could influence truth. Nothing seemed to wander through that opened door¡ªthrough a crack no wider than a finger. No light seemed to shine through that space, in defiance of the blazing sun. There seemed to be nothing inside.

    Yet there was a hallway, unlit and untouched. Its black-wreathed stones bore strange carvings and runes, all unblemished by the wear of time. They conveyed unknown thoughts in an unknown tongue, winding down a long passageway that seemed to stretch on for the latter half of an eternity. They ran along the walls, underneath ornate pictures chiseled into the stone by gifted hands. Perhaps they were describing the images, describing the scenes that were displayed. The truth could not be known; it had vanished into the sands alongside its creator. But the pictures still stood, stark as shadow under the sun.

    Two brothers stood interlocked, their figures bound in a struggle that had no end. In one¡¯s hand bore the day, the sun, a gift of heat and hope. In the other¡¯s was the night, the shadow, that might snuff out the flame. In one¡¯s hand bore the seed, a single grain of infinite life. In the other¡¯s was the cold, that might sap away all strength. Two brothers, interlocked, yet there were no expressions on their faces. There were no features on their faces.

    The first was named Ajah, and he fought for life. The skies and the sun were all his doing. The earth was his dried blood, the rivers his tears. He was the Creator, the elder brother, and all from grass to cattle were the fruits of his labor.

    The second was named Atal, and his touch was that of death. The night and the cold were his to command. His breath brought the winter that blighted the lands, and from his blood flowed the poison that tainted the fields. He was the Destroyer, the younger brother, and he sought to unravel all that his sibling had woven.

    For a hundred days and a hundred nights, the brothers wrestled. From their footprints came the mountains, from their sweat formed the oceans. Yet neither could prove himself stronger, and in the end the collapsed, exhausted. There they withered away, claimed by the very world that they sought to control. Their bodies were blown away into dust, leaving behind only soul and mind. The first was torn apart by wind and rain, scattering into the land as magic. The second remained, imprinting on the earth and those that walked upon it. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Eons passed before the brothers woke. Ajah was the first to do so, and his gaze fell upon the untainted lands that stretched before him. While his brother slept, he fashioned man in his image. With the wind as his voice, he taught them fire, that they needed not to fear the cold. Ajah watched with pride as his creations grew in number, settling the earth. When Atal woke, he gazed at man with horror.

    Jealous that he could never fashion anything to rival his elder brother¡¯s creation, he plotted and schemed. Swearing to undo all that his brother had made, Atal slowly tainted the men that lived upon his corpse. Their minds were broken, their blood poisoned. In the end, as they slid daggers across their throats, shadows sprouted out of their corpses. Pleased, Atal named the shadow-mothers skal, named the corrupted men that served only to birth shadows from their bodies. Silently, slowly, he watched and waited as the shadows grew in number, hiding in the dark.

    Yet Ajah knew of his brother¡¯s planning. He gave to his creations the gift of magic, the remnants of his own soul. Many were unable to accept the burden, their flesh falling apart as they convulsed, but a few still stood at the end of the ordeal. At their fingertips, mahji spun. And when the shadows finally came, the channelers summoned a blaze to stop them.

    Atal could only watch as his brother¡¯s creations burned away his shadows, children of the skal. He could only watch as the channelers hunted down his skal, burned away his shadow-mothers until not even ashes remained. At the end of his rope, he hid his final skal in the earth, beneath his own corpse. The channelers thought themselves victorious, settling above his own body. Even Ajah himself had thought his brother was finally defeated.

    Yet Atal waited quietly, watching as man spread and grew. His skal birthed more shadow, and his whispers touched the minds of more men. One by one, they knelt before him in ecstatic submission. Forgotten, he schemed. Unknown, he planned. He waited for a time when he might triumph over his brother, when he might see the sun swallowed by shadow.

    Such was what the carvings showed¡ªan ancient truth long forgotten. And at the end of the tale, the passageway itself opened up to a massive hall. There were no windows for light, no torches to illuminate the sloping walls and stepped floor. There was no way to see the coffin that displayed itself in the center, surrounded by dancing shadows that hissed expectantly. There was no way to see the corpse inside, withered with age and sapped of blood or life.There was no way to see its shriveled arm suddenly move, paper-thin skin suddenly gripping the side of the coffin with unnatural strength.

    Slowly, the corpse rose and clambered out of its coffin with weary movements. The shadows around it rose up greedily, slowly surrounding it with a gentle touch. As if greeting a lover, they swallowed it in a billowing embrace. Pluming darkness wrapped around the dead as the corpse opened its eyes, revealing pupils of bottomless black.

    ¡°My god wakes.¡± Faith whispered, its lonely rasp the first sound to have graced these stones in millenia. The very walls seemed to shudder, the shadows dancing to the cadence of the echoes. Abruptly, the corpse suddenly arched its back with a hoarse gasp, shadows flying into its throat with a tumultuous eagerness. In the span of three heartbeats, Faith collapsed to the ground with a shiver, twitching haplessly before once more slowly struggling to his feet.

    Well done, my servant. The voice that rippled out of the corpse¡¯s throat was timeless, was befitting that of a god¡¯s.

 Book 3: Chapter 1

    The wind was cold as it whipped through the grasses and plains, but Joy could feel none of it. Even the gaze that swept through the lands was not his own eyes; it was detached, severed. He was staring with his Mind¡¯s Eye, wisps of white smoke curling out of the corners of his eyes. His other senses were numb or muffled, and it was a strain to feel what used to be second nature to him. It was frustrating, knowing what he had lost¡ªhe had lost running through the grasses, feeling the blades whip against his snout and brush against his claws. He had lost drinking from the river, the chilly water carving a path down his throat and through his chest. He had lost howling in the night, had lost tracking his prey by scent during a hunt. Joy was a demon, was a creature of the wilds, and yet it was the wilds that had been stolen from him.

    Yet his body was not the only price he had paid¡ªhe had lost his Sister that fateful day so many nights ago. He could still see her smiling face as it burnt to ash, could still see her green eyes as she threw away the darkness as the sun throws away the night. She had killed herself that he might slay Sin, and indeed it was his claws that had seen the shadowfiend fall. The creature had hunted them across the lands, had stolen flesh and blood and threatened their lives. Its death had taken Sister¡¯s life. Its death had taken his mind.

    And yet its death had given him a people. They were sprawled along the bluff in all manner of forms, bearing all manner of claws and fangs. They were demons, shaped out of dirt and stone much as he was. Between them ran the pups, their short, stout forms unable to constrain the vigorous curiosity that they held towards everything from flowers to stones. They ran through the grass, unconcerned and unabashed as they tackled each other in playful combat. With stubby limbs, they pressed each other into the dirt. With short fangs and sharp claws, they tugged and swiped and bit at each other with the roughhousing characteristic of whelps learning to hunt. And as the occasional pup grew frustrated, there would spout a short gout of flame from its throat, blossoming like a strange flower into the air before disappearing with the scent of char.

    The demons were joined by men in leather and metal, clothed in strange garb that was their hide and their scales. It would not protect them much against a true demon¡¯s claws, but it served them well enough against those false fangs that they bore as weapons, forged from bending steel and melting iron. Painted over their armor and their too-large shields were crests¡ªsymbols of their packs, and sources of pride for all of them. Yet their  packs were too-small now, from what he knew of them. They ought to be men in the thousands for each pack, and yet for these men, they were barely five hundred. They were his spoils of war, his prizes that he had won from conquering the Heartlands. Houses, they called their packs, for they lived in stone dens that did little but crumble before his demons. So many Houses ruled these lands, and yet one by one they had all knelt before him in service. One by one, they had all pledged themselves to fight for him, to die for him. And he was certain that they would die.¡ªhumans were simply too frail to do anything else otherwise.

    The Houses had been small, mostly¡ªlesser packs pledging themselves to the greater, paying tribute in return for protection. Of the hundreds in the Heartlands, he had found the greatest four. Then, he had come upon them like a forest blaze through the wilderness, his horde of demons a storm upon the plains. They had summoned their warriors and their soldiers to defend, and their men had rallied behind walls of iron, wielding short swords that hoped to prick the demons to death. Yet they found demon hide not to bleed so easily, and they found their trusted steel to be weaker than expected. Muscle had torn through leather and claw had sheared through iron, their flimsy defenses standing up no stronger than mud walls on a surging riverbank. They had panicked. They had broken. They had ran.

    He could still see their panicked expressions as his demons sank their teeth into thigh and chest, tearing out chunks of scarlet flesh with monstrous ease. He could still see their twitching agony and their convulsing terror. They had ran. They had bled. They had died. And watching as his pack fell, watching as his warriors were no stronger than a pup before an alpha, their pack leaders had come out to bend the knee.

    Yet there were larger Houses still that would have proven difficult to break. Even ants in enough numbers could fell a lion, and Joy knew that his demons had their limits in battle. Against two legions, they could not possibly hold. So instead, he summoned Kha. The lizard-demon was a channeler, much as he was. They could shape the magic through their veins, could guide it and mold it as they pleased. Together, they had channeled the crackling mahji through their limbs, and together they had spat out fire and lightning upon the waiting legions. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    The men had burned that day, a raging torrent of greedy flame that had swallowed the m whole inside of its gaping gullet. Their armor had glowed a brilliant pink, their leathers catching fire. Their skin was not spared from the same fate, even as they struggled to beat out the flames that clung so tenaciously. Man after man had crumpled to the ground under that blaze, unable to even breathe as the fire stole the very air out of their lungs. Their skin had slowly charred black, the muscle sloughing and cracking under the fire¡¯s bites. Slowly, their screams had died out. Slowly, they had died.

    And so their warriors had fled from death. And so their lords had bent the knee.

    They had traveled far throughout the lands to gather together the human packs, and it had proven as irritating as he had expected when the notion was first proposed. Humans were as prevalent as mice and as persistent as roaches; often even coercion by force proved ineffective. Indeed, he held no doubts that these men under his rule were thinking only of their next opportunity to escape, and indeed he held no qualms of their intentions show he show any weakness. That much, at the very least, he could understand.

    His gaze swept once more over these men, that seemed like ants sprawled out as they were among the grasses. He spied the red hawk on yellow, the sigil of House Tyne¡ªthe largest House that he had made bend the knee. They had taken the most of his demons, bleeding out two of his largest that had grown to drunk with bloodlust. They had proven themselves a worthy foe, and he felt more respect for those men than he did for any other; he could only hope that their teeth would not grow dull with fear. He saw the golden star on black of House Florell, of the broken House that he had saved from the shadows at the Yearning. They were an empty pack now, no more than five soldiers under a grizzled alpha. The man they called Mors was strong enough; his eyes were clear and his stance was strong, all of which were signs of a true alpha. Yet without a pack to lead he was nothing, no more than the last dying gasp of a once-great lion.

    There were smaller houses as well, whose names and strength was so fleeting that he struggled to remember both. There was the yellow fox on green of House Aless, which they had traveled so painfully far north to conquer. They had pitifully few warriors as well, though they would claim that they fought harder for it. He saw no proof when they had broken like panicked pups on the field, nor when their men pissed in their boots at the mere sight of a demon. The last was the red cat on black of House Muran, which had been an easy enough acquisition as they had marched south for House Tyne. The fools had been in the way, and it would have taken longer to go around them than it would have to take them.

    A thousand and a half men were camped on the bluff overlooking the Capital, like mice in the shadow of a giant. Under any other occasion, perhaps, those leviathan walls might have been intimidating, with its scales of stone that seemed to be the hide of some enormous serpent. Indeed, his first time at this city, he had been astounded. His first time at this city, he had lost his Sister. His first time at this city, he had found his pack. This was not his first time any longer. He had returned to see it be his.

    Many a warlord had shared similar sentiments, evidently, for the city¡¯s walls showed evidence of frequent campaigns of conquest. The stones were broken and the gates worn, the damage too extensive and too expensive to be repaired. It was instead ignored, the men hiding deeper in their burrow to compensate for the walls that might fall on their heads at any time. Joy did not know how many times the throne had exchanged owners¡ªhe still remembered the first such fools that had approached while his pack had tried to flee. Their bones now littered the soil beneath the ground.

    Yet high above the walls now flew a single flag, its features too distant for even him to make out with his Sight. He knew what it said, however, for Mors had told him when they had first arrived at the Capital. It was the sigil of House Mace, of the last, strongest pack that still held the Heartlands. With them serving underneath him, he would finally have an army large enough to accomplish what he wanted. When them crushed before him, he could finally turn his attentions south. For south, he knew, was where the true enemy lay¡ªthe enemy that hunted in the night and stole away the flame of life.

    The shadow that stalked, the skal¡¯va hunted in the southern lands. They were coming to swallow the earth and sky in darkness. His demons and these foolish men were the only tools that could stop them.

 Book 3: Chapter 2

    The Capital was a broken shell of stone and steel, but it was impressive nevertheless. Even in this ruined, devastated state, the thick walls proved challenging to overcome. Demons were not apt at killing rock, nor were arrows or swords particularly well suited for the task. While Joy had bested the other armies on the field, the coward hiding in his den had no need to meet them in blood and battle; he needed only to hide ever longer in his walls. And, as Joy hissed frustratedly with realization, there was little that the demons or his army could do to force Lord Mace out of the Capital.

    Yet he could not afford to starve out the Lord, not with the amount of food that Mors estimated they had. Skal¡¯va and shadows would not wait as he amassed his forces, and he did not have time to spare with this impertinent fool. Kha had suggested that they storm the city, despite the losses that they might suffer. Joy did not know what traps lay behind those blasted gates, from the scalding oil that Mors had mentioned to the charcoal that he could smell on the wind, but he could not imagine that it would go smoothly for his men. He could not afford to lose them in large numbers; not before they had even bled and died for him against the skal¡¯va. Yet the option to give the order to charge remained a tempting one, and with every day that passed while the demons grew more restless, he felt the urge to give the command growing as well.

    It was, surprisingly, the old alpha in steel and leather that had advised him a different path. Mors had spoken about some grand machinations that the soldiers could construct and use, some powerful arm that could throw stone and fire ten times the length of an ordinary man. While Joy doubted the man¡¯s confidence as an eager desire to save the lives of his fellow pack members, the notion was intriguing nevertheless. His curiosity was further piqued when the Third Sword promised that these things could be fashioned from only wood and rope, and impressive claim if true.

    And so Joy had given the order to construct these things, which Mors asserted could be done in days and not weeks. The demon would hold him to that word; should the fool men take too long, they would find themselves being thrown at those walls in the place of mere stones. On these expansive grasslands outside the Capital, there would scarcely be many trees for the amount of timber that would be needed for this project of theirs. While rope was in steady supply, being rather useful for these weak, flimsy soldiers, they did not have wood on hand in the amount necessary. Instead, Mors had asked permission for the men to ride out and¡ªas he had delicately put it, liberate¡ªsome of the lumber from the nearby villages that were scattered throughout the Heartlands. Certainly, it would mean less work for them in the way of felling trees, and sending the men away would likely help alleviate some of the irritation held amongst demon ranks. Joy, for his part, was glad to give his consent so long as the men organized themselves; he wanted no further hand in their bothersome affairs as was necessary.

    Mors agreed then to take around five hundred men, broken up into several smaller groups that would each ride out to different villages in search of materials. With their metal fangs and scales, Joy doubted beyond incredible incompetence that they would fail to convince simple villagers, and so he paid no more heed to their affairs. His thoughts instead turned elsewhere in the camp, to the two channelers at his disposal that were the source of so much of his strength.

    Magic was a curious thing, a pervasive energy closely intertwined with life and death. For most people, it was something unseen and unfelt, like sunlight to the blind. Yet there were some that were able to shape it and control it, marked at maturity by a series of black tattooes called Maes that were branded onto the face. Joy, Kha, Willem¡ªthey were all channelers, all able to draw upon the mahji in their bodies and around them. Joy himself was particularly powerful, connected at birth to the channeler Andahiel from ages past. The spirit of the Shai¡¯mon had lent him wisdom and strength against the skal¡¯ai and against Sin, even saving him from certain death. Its presence had also gifted him with an immense amount of mahji that well suited his blunt and aggressive personality, allowing him to power through massive spells through sheer quantity over precise control. Perhaps it was from this attitude that he found himself so well attuned with fire, with the rampant flame that throbbed with its own heartbeat and grew with its own hunger.

    Yet compared to him, Kha was precisely the opposite. Joy could not quite remember when the lizard-like demon had first emerged amongst their ranks, although he had seemed to have also been there. With a mind of cunning and an eye for precision, he seemed to possess and peculiar preference for lightning, able to conjure stunning bolts of electric power that seared through the air in an instant. While not nearly as adept at fire for sweeping the earth flat with ash, it was unparalleled at scorching holes through stone and steel alike, burning charred wounds through men.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    As for Willem, the demon was still more of a pup in terms of his strength. He had first came to Joy as a human, as a cripple with broken legs and a wounded heart. Joy had given him a new body, one that was stronger, sturdier, fashioned from the rock and earth beneath the ground. Yet while Willem found running and jumping to be far easier in this new vessel of his, magic continued to prove to be a challenge. The pup swore that he had cast magic before, that he had channeled mahji into fire at the Gates to burn away the shadows that had hidden in the brick. Yet beyond threat of death, he still could not channel freely, of his own volition. Regular practice seemed only to further dishearten him, with every following failure an apparent confirmation in his eyes of his own futility. Yet Joy had patience still with the pup; there would be time enough for practice as they readied themselves for war. Even if, in the end, he was unable to properly control his mahji, there would be enough threat of death on the field of battle to encourage his spells.

    Apart from them, Joy had nearly a hundred demons under his command. They were a myriad of bestial creatures, all fiercely loyal to their alpha. Runeclaws and runescales sat in their flesh, pieces of magic forged from steel that could conjure forth flame from stored mahji. The demons were quick to learn to use them, and they were so bruised and battered from frequent fighting that they seemed to have grown into the flesh. Black lips of calloused flesh swelled up around the edges of the metal, which sat on thick hide with bulging veins. Yet where the demons were skilled with their tools to conjure fire, their pups were even better.

    Born some months ago from eggs, the pups looked for all purposes as smaller likenesses of their parents. Yet there was one crucial difference¡ªthe magic in their parents¡¯ runes seemed to have seeped into their flesh, covering it with strange tattoos not unlike the Maes of channelers. These black, inky patterns glowed when the demons were agitated, heating until they finally expelled a scorching flame from mouth and limb. It had been a cruel surprise at first, many an adult finding their claws and tongues charred from eager flames. The pups were still learning to control their grotesque power, and the occasional gout of fire could still be seen as they tussled with one another in mock play in the grass.

    Yet the greatest worry to Joy was not his channelers nor his demons; rather, it was the thousand humans that waited under his command. Even now, they spilled out over the landscape like a flood of ants that surrounded the Capital. With the city bordered by cliffs and empty plains to the south and east, his forces occupied the Kingsroad to the west and north. Not only did it cut off trade, but the expansive bluffs and vegetation gave them some measure of comfort from the sun and wind. However, such a large amount of men would only prove to be harder to handle as it grew, and Joy knew that his own strength would not be enough to lead a pack of this size. There was no doubt resentment from his method of...procurement, and he did not doubt that they would surely flee in battle rather than die for him. With their only use in battle being their sheer numbers, he needed them to fight to the death and hold the line¡ªboth of which would only come, he knew, with loyalty. He had no quick way of winning over their hearts, however, and he had no confidence that words would do any good coming from a demon in any case.

    The problem had not been a new one; he had first considered it as he was capturing the men of House Tyne. The soldiers would nod their heads and listen to orders so long as their alpha agreed, but in the true heat of battle, when blood fell like rain and heads rolled like hail, they would break faster than a wooden wall before a conflagration. The fear that they felt towards the demons would only further make them more likely to flee, and the problem present no easy way of being resolved.

    It was Kha that had suggested mahji as a solution, albeit a gentler one compared to what Joy had been considered. He had imagined threat of fire as a form on convincing the legions¡¯ obedience, promising deserters a slow, excruciating death as flames crackled over blackening skin. Kha, however, offered his skills as Oa¡¯kul, as a channeler able to influence the mind. He had suggested shackling the wills of the alphas in the pack, bending them to obey Joy. With their leaders obedient, any thoughts of resistance would be met with firm opposition from members of their own kind. The only flaw to this notion was the cost of mahji that Kha would need; shackling minds, even for those as weak-willed as humans, was still nevertheless an expensive endeavor. In addition, it would prove cumbersome to walk amongst their ranks one by one, seeking to speak with a leader.

    Joy mused to himself softly with a slight smile. Perhaps it would be time to call them all together; there were things they needed to discuss.

 Book 3: Chapter 3

    ¡°Slowly¡­breathe slowly¡­¡± Kha whispered into Willem¡¯s ear, the sound like steam as it hissed gently. The words danced around in his skull, echoing incessantly like the buzzing of a gnat even as he struggled to focus. Yet nevertheless he found his breathing slowing, found his mind settling into a once more familiar trance, and that nervous trepidation in his heart slowly began to dissolve. His throat worked gently, soft muttering escaping his lips in a senseless chant as his pulse slowed evermore. His emotions, his thoughts, they all fluttered away out of his grasp; now there was only emptiness in his chest.

    He reached out into that gap, reached deep inside of himself for a familiar tether. Shapeless claws searched for the cords of purple mahji that dwelt within the pit of his stomach, searched for that gentle, pulsing warmth that was almost like a second heartbeat. He was grasping now, like a dying hand rising out of the surging sea, and he struggled momentarily. Finally, he felt the briefest flicker of a touch against him, and his hand closed in an instinctive twitch. It was fast as a thought, yet it was still too slow; that solitary ribbon of mahji slipped through his fingers like water, like silk. A spike of frustration surged up inside of him, and it threatened to shake him out of the delicate trance that he had struggled so long to enter.

    He dispelled the bitter feeling with difficulty, his chants stumbling for a moment before he tried once more. Again, he reached inside of himself with a scraping claw, and again he felt the fleeting touch of the mahji, Again, he felt that momentary spike of tentative pride, and again it bled through his hands like water. Again, he hissed with desperation, diving after that fleeing magic. Yet his hands came up empty, his heart black with vexation.

    ¡°Not like this¡­with a blank mind¡­¡± Kha reprimanded, the demon sounding for all the world like an exasperated teacher talking to a petulant child. Willem felt all the more angry for it, opening his eyes with a surge of fury. The fool made it sound so easy! As if it was merely a matter of thought, he raged to himself, his mouth opening in reflex only for him to stop himself in the end. His fangs were bared, sharp teeth glinting under the sunlight. Yet the movement of aggression did not go unnoticed, and Kha surged forwards with a speed that belied his thin appearance.

    ¡°Calm, pup¡­ ¡° the saurian hissed, his teeth closed tightly around Willem¡¯s throat. The motion had been all too fast for him to even register, his reflexes dulled by emotion, and he could do naught but blink and acquiesce. Slowly, his tensed muscles fell slack, the nervous frustration flowing out of him like water rushing out of a broken dam.

    ¡°You say that every time.¡± Willem growled tiredly as Kha retreated, and he rubbed his neck with a scaled palm. ¡°Yet it never changes.¡±

    The demon snorted derisively, spitting out onto the dirt in a darting motion. ¡°That is because¡­ you do not change, pup¡­ ¡° Those slitted eyes glinted, his expression as unreadable as ever. ¡°Must be calm¡­ nothing else¡­ nothing you want¡­ nothing you need¡ª¡±

    ¡°You always say that!¡± Willem interrupted in frustration. ¡°But there will not be time to calm myself when skal¡¯va are ripping us all to shreds!¡±

    There was a pause before the demon responded. ¡°You have done it before¡­ when death was tracing your throat¡­ with fire and flame¡­¡± It was not so much a question as a statement, those horizontal pupils staring off into the distance. ¡°Fire is simple¡­ it grows, it feeds¡­ the embers are its seeds¡­ the wind is its pulse¡­ ¡° Kha murmured, his voice slowly growing more and more urgent as he spoke. ¡°It is greedy¡­ it must be fed¡­¡± he hissed, turning to face Willem.

    Yet Willem could not remember that feeling, did not wish to recall it. He could see in his mind the shadows and the buzzing dark, like a swarming cloud that fell upon his limbs. He could hear the crackling of his skin, of his weak, human flesh that crumbled so easily under that touch of ice. He could hear the screams of the others, of Kat and Norus, echoing off in the distance. He could feel that desperation in his chest, spreading out through the pit of his stomach. He could feel that magic coursing through his veins and his limbs, could feel it trickling out through his fingertips. He could see it rippling out through the air, a gentle purple ribbon that seemed delicate enough to be broken by the wind; he could see it slowly wrapping around those buzzing shadows. He could see it suddenly burst into a flame, without warning or hesitation. It was by his will, by his unbidden urge that sparked a conflagration.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    He could see it all in his mind, the crackling orange flames that swallowed sky and mind, throwing everything else against a flood of torrential heat. He could feel that scorching air against his skin, that cooked him alive through cloth and flesh alike. He could feel that rushing pull of wind, that hurried to feed that insatiable blaze. That was fire, he knew. That monstrous thing of desire and destruction. Fire was the thing that had turned shadow and skin to ash and powder. Fire was the thing that had scarred his heart, that had burnt through his psyche, and his fingers trembled out of that fear. He could not call upon mahji with that fear, could not even touch it with that apprehension.

    When Willem opened his eyes, he was alone on that hill. The wind and the sun blew gently against his skin, shone warmly against his back, and he felt his heavy breathing begin to slow. His thumping heart echoed dully in his chest, and he felt a sudden tiredness fall on his mind. Practice had been his sole purpose ever since they had first began to travel through the Heartlands, even when they had fought the legions in the field. Yet he could not use his power¡ªnot until he had tamed, and that process had proven more elusive than a myth.

    With a soft huff, he felt his eyes close seemingly of their own volition. His sessions always left him feeling weary and empty, utterly drained not just physically but mentally. Even the mere attempts at entering that trancelike state began laborious after many repetitions; it was a feeling like trudging through mud, just to clear all the thoughts from his mind. He wanted nothing better than to lie here and rest, to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Yet some part of his mind told him to get up, that there was work still to be done. Some part of his mind reminded him of the blood splattering over the mudbanks, reminded him of the screams of agony as men watched their innards splatter into the river. Some part of his mind reminded him of the swarming shadows, that could descend like a cloud of locusts with men as the crops, their wings buzzing out dying voices.

    Yet for this moment, at the very least, he wanted no part of that any longer. For this moment, for just a single blessed moment, he wanted nothing more than to rest. There was an aching numbness in his heart, a sensation that he was utterly lost among others; it was a gnawing sensation that had never left him. To his beleaguered mind, it felt like a strange hole in his chest, like pit that he could not peer into. As he leaned over the edge, his own feeble body felt frail with weakness, and he could only tremble.

    The winds comforted him, gentle as a mother¡¯s touch¡ªas the mother that he never had. He could feel them against his rough hide, could hear them as they rustled the grasses and the trees. With his eyes closed, they painted a picture of faeries dancing through the meadows, of deer prancing under the moonlight. They cooled the flames in his heated blood, swept together his scattered thoughts. The winds were gentle, ever-present. He wondered just what they might whisper in his ear, these winds that had traveled through the clouds from so far away. Might they speak of the trees in Ossia, or of the deserts in Abaratt?

    And yet the winds could be relentless as well, could be as peerless as a storm. They could be peerless, overbearing and dauntless with the pressure of a thousand mountains. They could blow an army to its knees, could uproot a forest. There was no wall that stand in their way, no mountain that could not be ground away by time. The winds knew what they were, when they whispered through the leaves and the grasses; the winds were freedom. The winds belonged to all, for all of the land was their home.

    Gently, Willem felt himself lying there in the wind''s¡¯ embrace. Gently, he could hear the whispers of lost parents in his ears, their words indistinct and unmistakable. Painfully, his heart throbbed and bled for more, a painful heat spreading out from his chest. That desperate yearning filled his limbs, and he felt himself suddenly surrounded by that soft touch.

    Tired and yet content, he wanted nothing more than to stay in that state forever, with nothing to want and nothing to need. When he finally opened his eyes, his gaze settled on a stunning sight: the air around him crackled with purple mahji, swirling faster than a storm.

    Yet its touch was soft and gentle as it supported him, as it held him an arm¡¯s length above the ground.

 Book 3: Chapter 4

    Perhaps it was from a newfound confidence, or perhaps the magic had reinvigorated his tired body, but Willem nevertheless found himself striding through the sprawling encampment quite happily. The wind-tousled grass was far emptier now that many of the humans had gone. Joy had ordered them off to the nearby villages, from what he had heard, in search of lumber and other supplies that would be needed. Just one look at the ravenous army of demons scattered through the hills, and Willem knew that they would need supplies abound. Just food alone could prove to be a problem; an army marching on an empty stomach was problem indeed, particularly when half of them were more beast than man.

    Many of the demons were wrestling in the dirt, their movements quickly churning it into a mixture of mud and torn grasses. Blood dripped from the occasional wound, blending into a sticky consistency that clung to the hide. The air itself was thick with sweat and heat, the exerted sounds of grunts and snorts punctuating their movements. Every so often there would be a break in the impasse¡ªa sudden lunge, teeth darting out and snapping at the throat¡ªand one side would fall back. A scuffle of limbs and claws swiftly ensued as the parties writhed and struggled in the dirt, each one sliding and clambering in a fight for dominance. In the end, one would stand above the other with teeth at his throat, claws digging into his hide deep enough to draw blood. The pause that followed would be broken by a hiss of subordinance, both demons relaxing in acquiescence. They would bear their scars proudly; the wounds would always heal swiftly with their stout constitution.

    As Willem neared, several of the new pups perked their ears at his arrival. With the inept curiosity of the youthful, they ran towards him in a bounding jumble of hide and stubby limbs. Their teeth were short and sharp, more like needles than daggers, and their claws were not nearly long enough to be curved knives. Yet there was a danger in their careless enthusiasm; Willem had seen those newborns split trees in their playful frenzy.

    Their hides were covered in runic markings, their wide bodies covered in still-growing muscle. Yet before he could firmly make out any other of their features, they were already upon him with high-pitched yaps. Not quite old enough to talk properly, three of them tackled his legs a surprising weight for their size. One even jumped with stumpy legs, clinging onto Willem¡¯s arm with a squeal of excitement. Willem struggled to shake them off of him, yet the sudden assault left him winded and off-balance. With a sudden weightless sensation, he felt the world around him spin on a strange axis before he struck the ground with a thud.

    The pups were only further excited by this, yelping incessantly as they hurriedly clambered over him as if to weigh him down. One of them launched itself at his throat, its short teeth not enough to break through Willem¡¯s hide yet just long enough to cling on like a leech. Willem pushed down his irritation, knowing that he would not be able to stifle their enthusiasm. Instead, he wrapped his claws around the throat of the closest one, nipping at its ears and skin with sharp teeth. It was not enough to draw blood; it was merely a playful gesture that elicited yet another round of high-pitched squeals.

    Ignoring the two that clung to his legs, Willem flipped over onto his chest in a deft movement. Pinning the pup to the ground, he peeled off its clawed grip, settling his jaws around its jumping throat. Almost instantly, its body went tense and still, even its breathing halted as it became a thing of stone. With one pup down, Willem then turned his attention towards the other two, catching them one by one as they ran about in hysterical madness. When they were all pinned and accounted for, he was panting hard with exertion. Even with this new body of his, physical intensity had never been his strong suit. Even these pups had more endurance than him; even after their brief bout, they were up and bounding with an unchecked energy, as if nothing had even happened. With little else to worry over except play, they took to that task with a religious devotion, proceeding to tussle in the mud and slather all manner of muck over their hide.

    In that manner, Willem mused as he stood up and brushed the grasses and dirt off of his skin, they were no different from the human children that he knew. In spite of their saurian appearance, with rough, mottled hide and studded scutes, their scaly hearts beat just the same as any fleshy counterpart. So different in body, and yet so similar in mind and soul. Just like you, some distant voice in the corner of his mind whispered, and he felt an unbidden shiver run down his spine. Aye, he was human on the inside, no matter what strange company he chose to keep. Is that what you tell yourself? The voice spoke again, but he pushed it down as he walked. He had no time for pointless musings and distractions; there was war on the horizon, and there was work to be done.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    He finally found Kha talking to a group of soldiers. The legionaries seemed rather hesitant, to say the least, from the pale looks of nervous terror that they wore on their faces. Yet the thing that stuck out the most to Willem was how young they all were; perhaps no older than him in spite of the steel they wore on their shoulders. War makes men out of us all, he remembered what some of the Swords had been saying in camp, and it seemed no truer than now.

    Kha was treating a wound, from what it seemed. Water swirled around the demon¡¯s claws, gently washing clean a rather large gash too ragged to have been from a blade, and yet too large to have been a mere graze. Had the man fallen on a tree? Willem could only snort and toss his head in disbelief, refusing to accept that these fools were expected to take a life.

    As Kha finished bandaging the wound, Willem walked up beside. Seeing him approach, the other legionaries all gave tentative mutterings before hurriedly leaving, the one man clutching his arm with a strange mixture of horror and admiration. It was strange how often the two emotions accompanied one another¡ªopposites of a spectrum, yet so often arriving in tandem.

    ¡°Why were you healing them?¡± Willem asked Kha casually, not expecting much of a reply. He was surprised when he got one.

    ¡°These men will fight¡­ for us¡­ ought to learn their names¡­ their stories¡­ ¡° the demon hissed, blinking those slitted eyes in a disturbingly slow motion before rising out of his crouched stance. That reptilian gaze rose to meet his, and Willem once more felt the strange nervousness that swallowed him whenever he spoke with the demon. ¡°Why do you come?¡± Kha asked.

    In response, Willem did not speak. Upturning a scaled palm, he pulled down into the pit of his stomach for the strands of mahji that dwelt within. Yet rather than trying to catch them, he merely tugged and guided them, feeling them flow of their own accord through his tired limbs like water from a redirected river. The purple ribbons hissed and crackled through his flesh under his skin before slowly unraveling out of his claws. Once they touched the air, they seemed to split and multiply, scattering into minute strands that in turn disappeared into dust. Yet rather than blowing in the wind, this dust seemed to bring wind of its own.

    The air around Willem¡¯s hand began to most ever faster, swiftly condensing around his palm in a small sphere of rotating wind that blew the dust at almost dangerous speeds. ¡°I did it.¡± Willem whispered, his eyes gleaming with a barely repressed excitement as he felt the frenetic mahji coursing through his veins. It was a frantic power, a crackling energy that demanded to be used. This mere demonstration was not enough, he needed more. Now that the door was finally open to him, just how large could his magic grow?

    ¡°So you have¡­ ¡° Kha murmured, a thin smile snaking across those lips, and Willem suppressed a shiver. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly tugged the mahji back inside of himself in a difficult gesture; the ribbons resisted losing their brief freedom, and a part of him was loathe to take it away from them. That exhilarating rush of strength and power was addicting, and pushing it away only seemed to leave him empty and feeble in comparison. He hurried to change the subject, to turn his mind away from the desire to channel magic once more.

    ¡°The pups, what brought them about?¡± he asked. The question had been nagging at him ever since the demons had all brooded eggs on the banks of the Yearning. Yet whenever he had asked one of the demons, they did not even seem to know what had brought it about. Willem had suspected that Kha might now¡ªthe strange demon seemed to have closer ties to godly beings that he ought to, from the snippets of conversations with the Demon King that Willem had overheard. Life, they had been discussing, and was it not life that had spawned on those muddy riverbanks?

    Kha gave a pause before responding, tilting his head upwards towards the sky. ¡°Ajah¡­ lord of light and life¡­ he gave a gift to those deemed¡­ worthy¡­ ¡° he finally spoke, no louder than a whisper. Kneeling down in the dirt, he carefully picked up a small clod of dirt no larger than a pebble, rolling it in his palm to become smaller still. ¡°A seed of life¡­ ¡° he murmured, raising the small ball of dirt between his claws. Perhaps it was a mere trick of the light, or perhaps his eyes were failing him, but Willem could have sworn that he saw that brown surface shimmer white for a brief instant before Kha tossed it through the air with a casual flick.

    ¡°A gift¡­ ¡° Willem murmured, and his thoughts flickered to himself.

 Book 3: Chapter 5

    The winds blew cold against his dark skin as Ma¡¯sal made his way onto the auction block. He was bare, utterly nude save for the shackles that bound his ankles and wrists. The chains of wrought metal clattered noisily as he moved, the old things prone to getting stuck and half a night from rusting. His eyes downcast, he felt too numb to think much as he made his way up the steps. Yet a sudden twinge of pain in his calf made him stumble, made him nearly fall, and fear sank its fangs into him in an instant. He couldn¡¯t fall, couldn¡¯t look weak! They would whip him if he was weak, if he didn¡¯t sell. He needed to sell, needed¡ª

    Ma¡¯sal drew in a cold breath, the brisk air making him shiver as he walked the rest of the way, turning to face the gathered crowd. There was always a crowd for a slave auction; strange, how it always drew men to see one of their own branded and bought like cattle. These men were no different than him, in a way, although he struggled to see how. They all wore long coats fashioned out of expensive hide, as if they fought to see who could skin the best pig, who could wear the best beastflesh on their shoulders. It sickened him to see their black veils, to see their gloved hands. It was as if they dared not expose themselves to more of this than they needed to.

    It was as if he dirtied the very air around him.

    ¡°A young Ossian, strong and docile.¡± he heard the man to his right begin to speak, the low murmur that rippled through the crowd dying away. Ma¡¯sal knew what they were speaking about, knew what those whispers were: it was the tattoos on his arm. They wound their way around his left limb like a serpent, their wrappings gentle and intricate from his wrist to his shoulder. It covered nearly the entire skin with dark ink¡ªand most importantly, it was not Ossian.

    That design, that seemed to resemble fire come to life, it was nothing a simple islander could manage. It was nothing a simple slaver¡¯s stocks could possibly work. And so it drew those eyes towards him, those hungry, leering eyes. Should he squint, should the sun suddenly sink beneath the earth, he half expected that they might glow with a brilliant blood-red.

    ¡°He is firm of health, no worms upon him. He¡¯ll work sunup to night without pause, without complaint.¡± He would? He would. He needed to sell; they¡¯d whip him if he didn¡¯t! Ma¡¯sal nodded his head feverishly at these words, although none of the audience seemed to notice him. He was a stuffed head on the wall, some object barely worth the passing glance. He was a tool to them¡ªand a grossly overpriced one, to many of them.

    ¡°Starting bid is 100 golds, anyone?¡± Almost immediately, there came a shout from the back. Ma¡¯sal felt a flood of relief fill him, that at least he had escaped the whips today.

    ¡°A hundred-and-twenty!¡± came the cry from the front row, a fat man whose fured robes could not hide a corpulent body. His livery stank of wine and stew, odorous even at this distance, and a thin stick of a woman clung to his arm.

    ¡°A hundred-and-fifty!¡± retorted the first man, and the fat man¡¯s expression screwed up into one of anger. Hushed whispers ran through the crowd once more, the atmosphere growing more tense. Ma¡¯sal did not care; he was merely proud of himself for attracting a bid. Yet a stir of danger rose up inside of him as the two men continuied to fight; they thought too highly of him, of this tattoo. He would disappoint them, surely. He would disappoint them, just as he had all the others, and then he would be whipped for it. Or he would die.

    Just like Pa. Just like Ma, and the others.

    ¡°Three hundred.¡± A cold voice suddenly rasped through the crowd, like one that had not been used often, like stone roused from slumber. It was hardly a rattling whisper, almost inaudible, and yet Ma¡¯sal could hear it as if it came from just beside him. He shivered. How could he do that?

    But he could not think long, for the bidding fell to a halt at that single man¡¯s bid. Blood and bones, three hundred! Men bought palaces with that money¡ªor so he assumed, he had never actually known how much it cost to buy a palace. Yet three hundred golds was an unfathomable amount to him, something owned by princes and kings, not by common men. And he was not even a common man; Ma¡¯sal was a slave.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°Sold, to Gentleman Twenty-and-seven for three hundred golds!¡± the auctioneer finally spoke after waiting for a reply that never came. It was to be expected. Novelty from a tattoo was only worth so much, and Ma¡¯sal was sickly in spite of what the auctioneer claimed. Too little on too spindly limbs, it would be a miracle if he had fetched a price beyond two hundred-and-fifty. Yet some fool had actually paid three hundred for him.

    The other slaves all gave him envious glares, the ones that bothered. The ones that were not broken from the journey, that still lived enough to care about something so fleeting as a future. A wealthy master willing to pay so much for him, surely he would be treated well. Ma¡¯sal supposed that was what they thought, yet he did not share the same sentiment.

    He was weak. He ran short of breath before halfday when he was working, and his mind grew fuzzy if it was too hot. He was stupid. What Yes¡¯san could learn in days, it took him weeks. The first time that father had tried to teach him to fish, he fallen into the sea leaning too far over the boat. He could do anything, had not done anything when the slavers came.

    The slavers had killed them. Oh five and three curses, he shivered to himself as a calloused hand gripped him, steering him towards his new master. They were dead. Ma, Yes¡¯san. Tears welled up in his eyes, although they did not fall. There were not enough of them to do that, and he was too dry for any more tears.

    He finally arrived in front of the man that had paid for him, although Ma¡¯sal could not make out much of his owner¡¯s features. They were hidden in shadow, hidden behind a long robe that stretched from head to foot in a single piece. A hand stretched from inside¡ªungloved, some part of him realized in shock¡ªand it gently grasped his wrist. The skin was wrinkled and old, evidence of age that no man could hide with paint and perfume. A single gnarled finger slowly traced Ma¡¯sal¡¯s tattoo, surprisingly warm against his skin.

    Ma¡¯sal hesitated to speak, uncertain of what to do. Yet the decision was stolen from him soon in any case, for the man abruptly pulled away as if disappointed. Shaking his head, he gestured from one of his followers. The similarly hooded acolyte took Ma¡¯sal¡¯s chains, leading up into a covered wagon. Ma¡¯sal felt that small sliver of hope in his chest¡ªso small that he himself had denied that it was there¡ªsnuff out nevertheless. Not even a minute, and already his master was disappointed.

    What more could he expect? What more had he told himself?

    The inside of the wagon was dark as well, the air stuffy and stinking of sweat. It took Ma¡¯sal a moment to adjust, his eyes still blinded from sunlight, yet a second was apparently too long. His handler shoved him crudely, making him stumble and fall onto the wooden bottom with a thud. His jaw cracked, catching the edge of a loose nail, and he felt skin tear and bleed as he tried to catch his breath. Behind him, the sheets fell closed, shutting out the light and leaving the inside of the wagon dark.

    Ma¡¯sal lifted himself up slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. Now what? He felt around numbly, blindly with weak arms. Abruptly, his fingers touched flesh. Warm flesh. He jerked them back on instinct, fear and panic making his heart plummet into his stomach, his breath catching in his throat. Yet no response followed, even as he waited for his vision to return.

    There was a clacking noise from outside, a churning of wheels on gravel, and he felt the wagon begin to move. It mattered not to him; he could not see outside save for the gaps between the covers and the bottom of the wagon, and there was nothing to see from there but dirt and stone.

    Instead, his gaze was drawn towards his companions. There were four of them, a sad lump of life and limb as they lay sleeping in the wagon. He assumed that they were sleeping, for no merchant would ever be foolish enough as to let his slaves die before they had even left the auction.

    The light was too dim to make out their features, and they did not rouse as he nudged them. Overcome by defeat and a sudden tiredness, Ma¡¯sal could only give a sigh and acquiesce to his weary body. He set his head against that rattling wood that jumped with every hole in the road even as he struggled to sleep.

    Yet sleep he did, and he wished for a moment that he had not. Sleep brought back memories of Ma and Pa, of Yes¡¯san and baby Es¡¯shira. They had been together back then, all together. And they had been happy¡ªor had he merely wanted to remember it that way? No, they had been happy, yes. Pa had been smiling, back in those days. He still wore it as naturally as the waves wore ships.

    Back in those days, Ma¡¯sal thought, and his chest heaved with pain. Yet those days had not lasted, and neither had Pa¡¯s smiles. And in the end, when everything had been taken away from, there had been nothing left.

    Nothing left but fire at the docks.

 Book 3: Chapter 6

    Joy felt a slight rustling in the distance, something like movement on the borders of the grass, and he let instinct stir him awake from his slumber. A lazy confidence let him stretch his limbs with a tired yawn before shaking himself, shedding himself of the vestiges of sleep. The sun was a gentle warmth with its light, a lulling heat that made him wish to do nothing more than rest. He snorted, trying to shake himself awake. He remembered when he woke without difficulty, when he could shed slumber like water from the skin. He had grown complacent. He had grown weak.

    Footsteps. He could hear them, stirring the grass. Many, far too many to be mere raiders, and so there could only be one answer: the soldiers had returned from their supply run. Eager anticipation filled him, a bubbling excitement that he might see these machines that Mors but such faith by. Mere things of rope and wood, how strong could they truly be?

    Pushing himself onto his feet, Joy hurried through the grass just in time to see the first of the soldiers making their way out of the undergrowth. With their short swords out, they seemed to have cut a path through vine and brush, clearing a trail for their horses. Those beasts were nervous things, but Joy could not deny their ability when it came to hauling goods.

    And these horses indeed hauled much. Tied by rope in teams of four, they pulled carts of lumber and other supplies through the vegetation. Other soldiers ran by their side, their eyes shadowed from want of sleep but enthusiastic at the sight of the clearing. Twine. Timber. Is this not enough for you to start? Joy practically wanted them to start right now, wanted nothing more than to scream at them to start building these weapons that might shatter stone with ease. Yet he held himself back, restrained his tongue. An alpha, some part of him knew by instinct, knows when to speak and when wait.

    Instead, Joy returned to the camp. The recent times of leisure as they encircled the Capital had left him complacent; the sun was already crawling towards halfday, and yet he had just woken. Making his way through to the pitched tents where the Swords and lords tended to gather, he found Mors sharpening his blade. It was a curious thing, the nervous gloom that settled over the soldiers when they had nothing to do. Often Joy had seen Mors wandering the campgrounds, apparently for want of someone to scream at or something to stick a sword through. He would have thought that men of war would treasure these moments of peace, but it seemed to unsettle them more thoroughly than the fighting ever could. Should I ever have to fight the man, Joy smirked to himself, ought I take a nap then, and unsettle him into throwing away his blade?

    ¡°Sword.¡± Joy growled out, his throat still rough from sleep. The man raised his tired eyes upwards, and the demon saw the webbed, bloodshot veins. It was clear that the man had not rested well¡ªperhaps guilt over his dead men?

    ¡°Aye, m¡¯lord.¡± Mors replied, with a tone that walked the sliver between insolence and formality. ¡°What would you have with a poor man as myself?¡±

    Joy tossed his head, throwing a brief glance over his shoulder to where the returning soldiers were unhitching their horses. ¡°Your men are back. When shall they make these weapons of yours?¡±

    The words seemed to strike a nerve for the Sword. ¡°Not my men.¡± he replied tersely, flicking the whetstone rather callously down the blade and nearly nicking his fingers before setting his hands on his knees with a huff. ¡°I know not how to fashion the catapults, but some of the Second Swords from House Tyne ought to be familiar with the engineering. It is not nearly as complex at it might appear, although it has a tendency to throw a fit during assembly.¡±

    Joy snorted, feeling the words fly over his head. ¡°Get these men, then. The sooner they finish, the better. I would see these stone-throwers of yours, that you are so proud of.¡±

    ¡°Not merely stone, m¡¯lord.¡± spoke of the other men nearby, some Sword from House Tyne. ¡°They had throw all manner of things. Pitch, corpses, even¡ª¡±

    ¡°Corpses?¡± Joy asked in surprise.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°Aye, corpses.¡± the man affirmed. ¡°They ruin the humors, have men coughing out lung and soul before an arrow ever falls o¡¯er the ramparts.¡±

    Mors snorted at that. ¡°I know nothing of humors; I¡¯m no apothecary. But I¡¯ve seen what happens to men that live near the dead, and I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen a man with fever so hot. I thought he might burst into flame.¡±

    The Sword suddenly rose up, sheathing his sword into its scabbard with a practiced, deadly motion. It was a grace that even Joy had to respect¡ªthose were the movements of a man who was one with his blade. ¡°Flame¡­ aye. It was flames when we marched, like the fools we were.¡± His eyes were distant, and Joy held his breath when he intended to speak.

    ¡°We were too many fish, too few legionaries. And the new fish, they hardly knew the right way to hold their shields. They would have been useless in a fight; why did I ever agree to Festus and Saaron? Those men¡¯s blood is as much on my hands now.¡±

    Mors shook his head tiredly, his gaze once more returning to the sky. ¡°I know not what Savos used on us that day, but it rained fire from the skies. Ash and flame, from the heavens.¡±

    ¡°A new blastpowder, m¡¯lord.¡± the other man replied, nodding furiously. ¡°Ruination, that they found it before our own alchemists did. Those men, always stealing away too much gold for too little effect, I say. I¡¯ve always known it, useless fools. Unlucky, I say; if we¡¯d been the first to find the blastpowder¡ª¡±

    ¡°Aye, then we¡¯d have burned their men in their armor. Is that any better, Maaras? Is it any better to slaughter them with flame from a thousand paces, even farther than any bowman could hope to attain?¡± Mors whirled on him, his face wearing a tired expression of loss and confusion.

    ¡°Of course it is, do not be foolish.¡± Joy snarled, his claws tightening into a fist. ¡°Do not grow weak, Sword. I have need of your fangs. Should they dull, then I¡¯ll slit your throat and find another who¡¯s suits me.¡±

    That seemed to get through to the man, at the very least. His hand fell to the hilt of his blade, his expression twitching to a scowl. For the briefest of moments, Joy could see the murderous flame that flickered through his eyes, a slightest dance of madness¡ªnot unlike from Sister. Yet it winked out in an instant, his eyes once more returning to a dark shade of brown as he nodded.

    ¡°Of course, m¡¯lord. Blades and slaughter.¡± He turned once more, facing the soldiers that were scattered about the bluff. ¡°We¡¯ll start construction as soon as we can, but it will most likely take at least a month before they¡¯re ready. Too many of these men have no crow¡¯s claw what they¡¯re doing.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps sooner, Third Sword.¡± the other man responded, smiling. ¡°You are still thinking of the large trebuchets, perhaps? Those beasts could take an army to man, indeed, but we have no need for such behemoths. It would be easier¡ªmore economical as well, aye¡ªif we were to take of inspiration from some of the eastern designs, ought we not?¡± His words slipped out of his mouth like serpents from a den, and Joy could feel his own thoughts tripping over themselves as he struggled to follow.

    ¡°Mangonels, I do believe they called them? Smaller engines, although they still do possess quite the kick, if they are to be believed. Aye, I¡¯ve never known a Issai to brag; if anything, their new toys as twice as strong as they claim. With wheels, more mobile, and more versatile on the battlefield. I do imagine that they could be built faster, indeed¡ªif, perhaps m¡¯lord, I was to oversee the soldiers?¡±

    Joy just barely managed to catch onto the trailing tail of that sentence, of that blustering gale that blew apart his thoughts. Ah, so that was where his prattling led. ¡°Your name?¡±

    ¡°Jhossa, m¡¯lord. They call me Jhossa, although it is a name that cannot admit to ever have been fond of¡ª¡±

    ¡°Can these tools of yours go through a waygate?¡± Joy interrupted, before the man¡¯s tongue found its way down the demon¡¯s throat. His question was not a new one; he had first asked Kha, but he had proven unable to answer. Waygates were curious things, transporting all manner of living things, but proving fickle with stone and dirt. Was wood any different?

    ¡°I¡ªI cannot say, m¡¯lord, but I see no reason it should not. I have heard, aye heard of the old King Alerick calling for trade to the Capital from far lands through his waygate. They brought fruit and silks, all manner of delicacies and finery through the royal waygate. I cannot imagine that wood and twine would prove any more difficult than Ossian ruby peaches.¡±

    Joy felt a smile split through his maw. ¡°Then start, Jhossa. I would see your tools soon, and see if you cannot find what strange flame Savos used. It could prove useful against the skal.¡±

    He saw fire, raining from the heavens as he watched nearly a thousand paces away. He saw massive beasts of wood and rope, flinging stones at speeds enough to crush a man into paste. He saw the writhing mass of shadow suddenly turn into a sea of flame, its amorphous body turning into ash and smoke. Aye, these new toys could prove most useful indeed.

 Book 3: Chapter 7

    Joy stood on the bluff overlooking the mass of soldiers as they began their labors. Timber from the horses was unloaded and readied, the lengths of ropes unspooled. Some with axes, some with swords, they began to shorten the logs to appropriate lengths and arrange out the skeletons of these catapults of theirs. Jhossa oversaw it all, his voice, while incessant, carrying itself easily over the wind. He seemed to fit naturally in command, and the men listened to him almost instinctively. Joy surveyed the situation for only a brief moment before nodding.

    As he turned to leave, he found himself suddenly tackled at the legs by a blur of motion. He tumbled to the ground from the force of the blow, curling himself into a roll from instinct. A surge of adrenaline swiftly pouring into his blood, he landed on his back and swiftly swiped downwards at whatever it was that still clung to him. Yet his claws found nothing but air, his foes smaller than he had imagined, and he lunged forwards with teeth bared. His eyes snapped open just in time to make out familiar blurred figures, his mind cutting through the haze of instinct and battlelust just in time to dull his strike.

    Stone fangs latched lightly around a scaly throat, the energetic pup suddenly going limp by reflex. Joy took the opportunity to pry the demonling¡¯s claws off of him, a task that proved difficult as the pup¡¯s companions were still firmly latched and squirming on his legs.  They were small, stout creatures, although these were of the winged variety. Leathery, batlike wings sprouted from their backs, although they were as of yet still too flimsy to lend them flight. As of the moment, they merely gave them a slight glide whenever they tackled something too large to eat. Kha had promised that in perhaps a week longer, these bumbling nuisances would soon be frolicking about the sky belching fire¡ªa thought that made Joy feel no end of frustration. Singed hairs would be the least of his worries when the pups tackled him from the sky.

    Getting them off of him took longer than he would have liked to admit, as they wriggled and squirmed in every inconvenient manner. In the end, when he was free of them and they were seated plumply on the grass, they did not even have the grace to look apologetic. Instead, they promptly began to fight with one another, taking off into the distance chasing one another. Whenever one grew particularly incensed, their runes would glow dully and flame would shoot out of their mouth.

    ¡°An amusing diversion, m¡¯lord.¡± drawled a lazy voice from behind him, before Joy ever had the chance to stand up. He started in surprise, something that he hated, yet nevertheless seemed to come to him more frequently these days.

    He stood up to find Mors a ways off behind him, leaning casually with a rather pointed smile on his weathered face. The man had snuck there, evidently some time ago while Joy had been distracted, and the demon had never noticed. Joy growled softly at himself; this had never happened in the Outlands. He was growing weak. ¡°Have you a reason for coming?¡± he asked directly, not bothering to smooth the irritation out of his voice.

    ¡°Of course,¡± the veteran replied swiftly, his voice laced with a borderline amount of insolence. Joy knew what that look in those eyes said¡ªI¡¯m serving, but I don¡¯t  like it. The look of a predator forced into fetters, dreaming of escape. Only these fetters were shaped by necessity, and that irritation would prove most difficult for the man to reconcile with. ¡°I¡¯ve stationed some of the returning men to watch the Kingsroad. There shouldn¡¯t be too much trade going through the Heartlands this close to the Capital now that people know we¡¯re here, but we¡¯ll catch them if there are.¡± he continued, pointing with a nod of the head towards that winding road.

    ¡°But the bigger reason I came here, m¡¯lord, is the men. Most of them don¡¯t know what we¡¯re fighting¡ªafter we finish up here with House Mace. They aren¡¯t fighting for you, or for some grand purpose of saving the world. They¡¯re fighting just ¡®cause their lord knelt to you, and they came along as part of the deal. They¡¯re a mess of young fools, driven more by emotion than logic. They¡¯ve heard what you¡¯ve said about these shadows, but they don¡¯t truly believe it. Not in their hearts.¡± The legionary drew his short sword, its leather grip worn from use and familiarity. Yet its blade did not match its hilt, for the steel there was new. Runes were carved into its side¡ªWillem¡¯s work. The boy proved most apt at runes, even if his magic was still unstable.

    ¡°You¡¯ve given them new toys, but they¡¯ll choke up in the first fight with these fire-swords. I promise you, half of them will forget how to even burn the damn things the first time they see moving shadows on the horizon. If they don¡¯t face what their fighting now, in their hearts, they when they face them on the field, they¡¯ll melt rank like fat in Malifori sun.¡± the man proclaimed passionately, his face resolute.

    Joy felt the corner of his mouth twitch ever slightly in a smile. ¡°And what is your point? They are your men. They are your responsibility. It doesn¡¯t matter to me if they die, as long as they take down some skal¡¯va with them.¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°But they could kill more skal if they were prepared.¡± Mors insisted, his voice growing louder as his emotions flared. ¡°They need to see you as their leader, at the end of the day. They need to see why they are fighting, who they are fighting for. Even if it¡¯s all fake, even if it¡¯s all just an act on your part, you need to give them that knowledge. It their hearts, m¡¯lord. Men fight with spirit; they aren¡¯t just the tools you think them to be.¡±

    ¡°And what,¡± Joy snarled, ¡°would you have me do?¡±

    ¡°Talk with them.¡± Mors replied. ¡°Not one by one, but together, so that the mob spirit will fill their blood. Tell them why they are fighting, what the demons are fighting for. Challenge them, question them. Stir their hearts and their dreams. Don¡¯t make them fight for you, m¡¯lord. Make them want to fight for you. Win their hearts. Win their blades.¡±

    Joy snorted in reflex. Words were words. They could not possibly hope to change minds or hearts, not without action. ¡°And this will stop your men from running in fear when they first see the skal?¡±

    Mors stumbled at that, his expression flickering momentarily before he caught himself. ¡°N-no¡­ but show them first, and they will know. They know not what to expect, right now. Show them what they face. Show them that the shadows can be killed, can be burnt, and they¡¯ll stand and fight the next time.¡±

    ¡°And how do you propose that I show them skal¡¯va?¡± Joy retorted incredulously. ¡°How am I to find our foe into the midst of our army, like showpieces for them to gawk at?¡±

    ¡°Perhaps¡­ let them stand down during the first fight? Let them see your demons besting the shadows, and they¡¯ll¡ª¡± Mors started, but Joy cut him off with a scowl and a snort.

    ¡°Enough. Your men are here for a reason, and do not forget their purpose. They are fodder. They are shields. If the shield fells a foe before it breaks, then all the better. You ask me to sacrifice my demons so that your men will gather the nerve to fight!¡± he seethed, incredulity melting into anger at the thought. ¡°That is enough. You have spoken your piece. I will think of it. Now go, Sword. There is work for you yet. See if your words can move the hearts of your men. Then we may not need mine.¡±

    The man was not done, Joy knew, and he wanted to ignore the dismissal, to speak his mind. It was in his stance, his posture, like a pup staring down an alpha. But Mors snuffed it out, slamming a fist over his breast in that strange legion salute before he left to go yell at his men. That left Joy alone¡ªblissfully alone, for the moment¡ªon the bluff overlooking the Capital. Those towering stone walls had sentries at the very tops, although their number had been growing fewer and fewer as of late. He could only guess at the reasons, but he hoped that it was dissent and disorder amongst their ranks. The sooner that this little squabble was over with, the sooner they could turn their attentions to the south.

    To Malifor.

    His gaze wandered with his thoughts, following the hot sun as it traced its path through the sky. Yet the sun would not fall in Malifor, in land swallowed by shadow. They would need to burn their way through the darkness, these men holding the torches. Break their way through to Faith, and burn him alive alongside his god. That was what Kha had told him, and the lizard-demon had not failed him as of yet.

    Joy felt his heart throb with an almost painful excitement at the thought, flexing his claws in anticipation. To fight a god, he mused. To slay a god. How would the blood taste as it trickled down his arms, he wondered. How would a god scream as he died?

    And yet it was a final thought that tore him away from the glory and gore. He made his way over to the edge of the forest, his keen eyes picking out something nearly transparent in the evening light. It was a thin flower, almost ankle height as it sprouted out of the grass. Its stem and petals were all clear, its scent painfully familiar. He knelt down gently, plucking from where it grew and lifting it up against the sunlight. Glass lilies, he mused forlornly, recalling a tomb nearby that he still had yet to visit, recalling family too soon gone.

    These things killed you, Sister. Their god killed you, and now I¡¯ll see him burnt to ash. Resolution filled his heart at this thought, the glass lily falling to the ground. Vengeance, he promised, like a journey coming to a close.

    He would see Sister avenged.

 Book 3: Chapter 8

    Ma¡¯sal awoke to the rattling of the floor underneath him, his head jostled against harsh wood. Sleep clung to his heavy lids, his tired limbs screaming as he tried to move them. Abuse and neglect during his trip as a slave had left him weakened, in spite of what the auctioneer had bragged about his strength. His weary body wanted nothing more than for him to lie there, and he was tempted to agree¡ªseeing as there was nowhere for him to go in this cart. None of the other slaves seemed to be awake, or indeed, to be moving at all.

    He was on a boat, he knew, although he could no longer remember how many days had passed. Nor did he have any way of discovering, for he was trapped belowdeck along with the other slaves. Iron chains sat heavy around his limbs, binding him to unseen walls in the unlit shadows. Two of the slaves on the journey to the harbor, coughing up blood and bits of lung until their captors had been forced to slit their throats. Ma¡¯sal could not find himself praying for them; he could only hope that he had not caught whatever sickness had killed them.

    The boat shook at it was struck by a wave, the sudden motion filling him with a bout of nausea. He had conquered seasickness before, as a child¡ªor so he had thought. Yet facing it while starving and weak was a new challenge, even for an Ossian who had grown up a fisherman. The meager rations that they gave him needed to stay in his stomach for him to survive, yet his own body mutinied against him. Sweat dripped from his brow as he groaned, fighting the urge to vomit onto the wooden floor. Spit and bile trickled out of the corner of his mouth, but he managed to suppress the nausea.

    Another man was not so lucky, giving a wet cough before Ma¡¯sal heard the sound of bile hitting the floor. His hacking fits quickly devolved into a bloody cough, a tired wheeze that would persist even through the night. That one will die soon, he knew. Yet he could not find himself pitying the man. His only thought was that he wanted the man¡¯s rations. Some part of him inside loathed that selfishness, wanted him to be kinder. Yet kindness took too much work, and it paid him with nothing but an empty stomach.

    The pain in his belly was like a distant ache, but it was ever-present in the company of nothing but darkness and one¡¯s own thoughts. He was hungry, so crow-cursed hungry¡ªno, he needed to turn his mind away. He needed to think of something¡ªof anything¡ªother than the starving pains. His captors, some part of his mind gasped out as the ship rolled once more and his stomach twitched and heaved. What did they look like? Who were they?

    He had seen only a brief glimpse, when they had been leading the slaves onto the boat. Underneath those robes was flesh scarred with hideous tattoos, ornate lines of black that seemed to have been carved into the skin. They were crude affairs stained with charcoal and ink, with the flesh torn and ragged against the skin. Underneath one man¡¯s hood was a mutilated face, the lips ripped off to leave the teeth bare. His nose had been sliced as well, almost ritualistically with gashes running down the sides. The skin was mottled and dry, cracked almost like scales. And it had been purple, a dark purple like dye or decaying muscle.

    Had that been a dream? Ma¡¯sal could not help but wonder, for it seemed so ludicrous, so fantastical. Surely, he had been mistaken? Surely, his memories had become twisted by the strain of the journey? And yet some part of him still clung to that hideous face in his recollections, and some part of him knew it to be truth.

    Yet before he could think any further, the ship was struck by a particularly strong wave. The entire cabin rolled with an abrupt lurch, and Ma¡¯sal struck his head against the wooden wall with a dizzying crack. Before the ship settled, he found himself lying against the floor with a horrible ringing in his ears. His stomach heaved instinctively, even though his lungs cried out for breath, and the contents of his last meal spilled out to leave behind only a bitter burn in his mouth. Dazed and weary, he could not find the strength in him to move. Get up, he told himself with a flickering thought, for he knew he could not sleep.

    If he slept here, he would not wake. Get up, he commanded himself, pushing against the floor with straining muscles. Grunting with exertion, he struggled to lift himself up an arm¡¯s length only for the ship to roll once more.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    This time he cracked his head against the wooden floor, bits of bile and half-digested gruel from his stomach splattering across his face. The blow was abrupt, the pain even sharper, and sleep pounced on him like a beast from the shadows.

    He was dreaming then, the scenes shifting before him into vision from his childhood. He saw his Pa flying into a rage, that weathered face flushing a dark red from anger. He could hear the drunken shouts that mingled with his Ma¡¯s screams. They were an anguished chorus that night, a cacophony that Ma¡¯sal wished he could forget. He did not want to remember as his mother bled from lips and nose, her face twisted into an expression of terror and humiliation. He did not want to remember his father, that tall, tanned man whose face seemed to always wear a scowl. He did not want to remember what came next.

    And yet he could not forget.

    He saw his brother Yes¡¯san running over to stop them, the young fool. Ma¡¯sal had been frozen with fear, his limbs like lead, but his brother had always been braver. Yes¡¯san tugged on Pa¡¯s arms, trying to hold them back even as Ma awkwardly backpedaled on the ground. Yet Pa struck Yes¡¯san in turn, the blow far too great for the boy.  Yes¡¯san flew, his head striking a sharp corner of the wall, and limply he fell. Ma¡¯sal could not forget that horrendous crack as the boy collapsed, that sound of bone snapping. He had merely watched, had felt his stomach fall as he realized what happened. No, some part of him had pleaded. No, please.

    Pa seemed to have understood as well, the drunk¡¯s face suddenly going slack. ¡°Get up, boy.¡± he slurred, staggering back. ¡°Get up!¡± Spittle flew from his mouth, his eyes bulging too-wide in their sockets. He knelt down, flipping Yes¡¯san over only to reveal a faint trickle of blood puddling on the ground. Yes¡¯san¡¯s neck was bulged and broken, bones standing out at grotesque angles underneath the skin.

    Breathing heavily, Pa had set the boy-corpse down with a shudder. Ma was silent, tears streaming down her face. Even baby Es¡¯shira was wailing, crying noisily from her cart. It was only Ma¡¯sal who stood there numb, his mind trudging through too-thick mud. No, came the thought, the only thought in his head. No, no, no.

    Pa left that night, in spite of the rain. The last that Ma¡¯sal thought he would have seen of his father was that broad back, once strong, now stooped with regret and shame. They had given Yes¡¯san a proper Ossian burial, even though Ma was Valanese. They burned him in a boat at sea, the ash and smoke settling over the clear water. Ma could not stop crying, and Es¡¯shira did as well, although she was still too young to understand why. No tears came from Ma¡¯sal, even though his heart wept. Pa¡¯s gone now, you need to be strong. For Ves¡¯san. For Ma.

    Yet the next night, he heard shouting from the docks as he was walking home. He followed the screams through the wooden shacks, finally seeing a gathered crowd. Gathered around a single man, standing on the roof. Pa, a part of him realized, and a scream ripped its way of his throat.

    Pa seemed to see him in that crowd, the man¡¯s eyes flickering for a moment before falling dull once more. That briefest gleam of recognition was enough to make his heart fall, and a part of him screamed at what would come next. Pa stood on the roof, a clay vessel next to him. Pausing only for a brief moment, he poured the liquid all over his shirtless body. It clung to him like honey, his skin gleaming, and Ma¡¯sal suddenly realized that it was oil.

    The shouting of the crowd grew louder, as if they wanted to drown out his screams. He howled for Pa to get down, that they needed him. There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to tell him about Ves¡¯san¡¯s burning at sea. He wanted to yell at him for what he had done. He wanted to scream for him to come back. If he comes back, then I don¡¯t need to be strong. I can cry.

    Pa lifted something, a stick with cloth around the end. Flame clung to the end of the torch, flickering with a strange dance. Shadows danced in the night, the crowd¡¯s screamings finally breaking through to his mind. ¡°Get down!¡± they shouted. ¡°Stop!¡± they pleaded. They fell on deaf ears as Pa lifted the torch, tears streaming down his oil-covered face as he pressed the fire against his skin.

    Greedy fire leapt over him, swallowing his form in an instant. The night became filled with his wails, with a dying man¡¯s screams as the crowd hurried to fetch water. Ma¡¯sal merely stood there, frozen once more as Pa crumpled and collapsed. His skin bubbled and cracked, charring black as flame ate away ate him. From his body, the fire spread to the roof of the hut, quickly swallowing the docks in flame.

    Men threw water on the fire, trying desperately to put out the blaze before it could spread any further. Yet it continued to burn resolutely, turning half of the docks to ash that night. Ma¡¯sal could not remember any further, could only remember the tears that fell from his eyes. He had not wept for Ma. He had not wept for Yes¡¯san. But he wept for Pa, for the drunk, for the fool.

    He had wept as he watched his father burn.

 Book 3: Chapter 9

    Willem closed his eyes, trying to shut out the noises around him as he reached for the mahji inside of himself. It was like trying to grasp silk, like trying to close a grip around water. Yet he tried to remember that feeling when he had been channeling the mahji, that empty peace inside of him. He tried to remember that slow heartbeat, that gentle pulse of the world around him. With a slow breath in, he tried once more to grasp the mahji inside of him, and this time he caught it.

    A sudden surge of nervousness rode on the wave of accomplishment that filled him, yet he forced himself to remain calm. The unsettling emotion threatened to knock off balance the desperate sense of stability that he had worked so hard to achieve. Fighting it back, he pulled the ribbons of mahji up through his limbs. It was a delicate, careful process, but he managed to feel their pulsing warmth gathered in his fingertips. Now for the hard part, he thought to himself.

    With a careful nudge, he pushed the mahji out of his fingers and into the air around him. Willem shaped the ribbons, feeling them curl around each other in an instinctive motion. Then he pushed them out towards the ground, stirring the air around him. The wind picked up pace, stirring from a gentle breeze into something more resembling a gale. Faster and faster, he pushed the mahji, and its strength in turn further incited the air.

    The air above his open, outstretched palm continued to spin ever faster, and he could feel the weight of the pebble that he held there grow lighter. From a rock to a feather to nothing at all, it became more and more weightless as the winds spun even faster, until finally he dared to open his eyes. He saw the rock floating on a cushion of air, the winds crackling with purple magic. His muscles were tight, not even daring to breathe as he tried to hold it there with willpower. Yet the wave of exhaustion and pride that built up inside of him could not be dampened, and finally he felt the thin stream of mahji inside of him become interrupted.

    The ribbon became cut, the magic inside of him abruptly slipping out of his grasp once more like sand. The air immediately stopped its motion, the pebble plummeting into his palm in an instant. Willem fell back onto the ground, breathing hard and his heart racing with exertion. His throat bobbed as he gasped for air, his mouth dry and his skin slick with sweat. Even though he had been calm during the channeling, he always ended up exhausted at the end.

    Yet even through his desperate gasps for breath, he could still hear the sounds of feet walking towards him, rustling the grass. He turned his head, surprised to see one of the human soldiers nervously approaching. The man seemed rather young, his face still boyish and his arms too thin. Yet that thought was immediately met with another¡ªI¡¯m even younger than him, Willem realized abruptly. He could not fight the sudden smile that snuck onto his face, and it seemed to startle the legionary.

    ¡°Yes?¡± Willem grunted out as he sat up, his body groaning in protest. He ignored his whining muscles, throwing the crow-cursed pebble off into the distance with mild frustration.

    ¡®A-are you the channeler?¡± the boy stammered out, only to blush furiously as he realized what he had just asked. He had seen Willem practicing with the pebble, had seen the purple mahji trickling from his claws. What was he if not a channeler?

    The soldier extended his right arm, which he had been cradling gently all this time. Willem noticed with shock that the limb was broken, bent at an odd angle and swollen in the middle of his forearm. The soldier¡¯s forehead was slick with sweat from the pain, and his cheeks were flush with blood.

    ¡°We were working on the c-catapults, an¡¯ one of the ropes snapped.¡° he explained nervously. ¡°Sent a block of wood flying at my head, and I caught it with my arm instead.¡± He gave a hoarse little laugh at that, before swallowing hard. ¡°I had¡ªI¡¯d heard that channelers can heal people, with magic. I was hoping¡­ ¡°Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    Willem paused for a moment before shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯m not Me¡¯jai.¡± he explained to the crestfallen soldier. ¡°None of us here are Me¡¯jai. But I can still help.¡± He got up with a grunt of effort, making his way over to the soldier and holding the broken limb gently with his claws. The break seemed clean enough, a smooth fracture, and it would be relatively simple to set. Growing up on the streets in Mea Vatal, dealing with broken limbs was one of the first things he learned. Too many nights running in the dark alleyways, only to slip and catch a bar to the shin.

    Pushing the nostalgic memory aside, he closed his eyes once more and tried to reach into the pit of his stomach. He could feel the mahji churning inside of him, still unsettled from his previous exercise, and he reached for one of the strands. At the same time as he tried to grasp the mahji, he felt outwards with his mind. He reached out towards the other consciousnesses near him, feeling the soldier¡¯s mind right next to him. He felt the swirl of emotions, like so many colored threads that clung together, intertwined. He saw the fear, saw the anger, saw the sadness, saw the curiosity. And he saw the pain¡ªthat pulsing, throbbing vein that punched through the soldier¡¯s thoughts like a spear.

    Willem reached out towards the pain, his own consciousness gently nudging aside the other threads to isolate that one sensation. With his mahji in his limbs, he sent it out of his fingers and into the legionary, those purple ribbons sinking into the man¡¯s flesh like so many worms. Willem guided them, steered them through muscle and bone as they made their way through the soldier¡¯s body. Up through the chest, around the heart, the magic burrowed. Up past the neck, through the throat, and Willem struggled not to lose control of the mahji in the other man¡¯s body. The soldier was nervous, confused, and his own fidgeting threatened to tear the magic out of Willem¡¯s grasp as well.

    Willem fought it all, concentrated and pushed with his will through all the distractions. Higher still, and the mahji finally found its way into the soldier¡¯s mind. Willem allowed himself to relax ever slightly as he bound those ribbons around that feeling of pain. The magic sunk into the emotion, sunk into the thought, and slowly is pulsing abated. The thread of pain shrank, loosened, fell away from the center as if became subdued by mahji, and Willem heard the legionary¡¯s audible sigh of relief.

    Opening his eyes, Willem felt for the break in the limb. The soldier was numbed to the pain by magic, unable to feel even as Willem pressed on the arm and reset the bones. Then, tearing a length of cloth from the man¡¯s shirt, he tightly bound the limb in the hopes of keeping it from moving. Only then did he allow the magic to slip out of his grasp, falling back with a gasp as the exhaustion fell over him once again.

    The soldier looked at him in amazement, gently prodding his own arm as if the limb were some alien creature. The dulling of sensation would last for hours until the mahji was used up, but it was a mere anaesthetic¡ªit did not prevent further damage, it merely numbed the man to it.

    ¡°Don¡¯t touch that limb, or break it any further.¡± Willem gasped out as the soldier started in surprise. ¡°Let it heal naturally. It¡¯ll hurt like hell in a day, but it¡¯ll be fine if you don¡¯t move it.¡±

    ¡°T-thank you.¡± the man stammered out, offering a quick salute with the wrong hand. His eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and gratitude, the emotions conflicting as he turned to leave. Strange, Willem thought as he saw the man¡¯s disappearing figure. He reminds me of someone. It took the demon a moment before he finally remembered who.

    It¡¯s me, he realized with a smile. He¡¯s me when I first found my magic, confused and scared and amazed. How far had he truly come from that nervous child, from that scared street rat begging on the corner? How long ago had he worn that leper¡¯s mask, too hungry to be afraid of the future? But now he was no longer hungry, and now he was afraid. Eyeing his own shadow with a hint of suspicion, he fell down onto the grass with exhaustion.

    Am I really any different? The thought came unbidden. I¡¯m still just fighting to live. I¡¯m still just a weak child. Yet the answer came as well. I¡¯m not just fighting for myself. And I¡¯m no longer as weak as I used to be.

    Picking up a pebble, frustration and tiredness gave way to determination. Now to make this stupid thing float.

 Book 3: Chapter 10

    Shouts of his name roused Willem from his sleep. Exhaustion from the previous day¡¯s efforts had long since left him weary, and he longed to ignore them in favor of slumber. Yet amidst their voices he made out the low-pitched growls of demons, and he knew that he could rest no longer.

    With a tired grunt and an irritated snarl, Willem sat up from the dirt and grass that he had been sleeping on. Around him were piles of pebbles, the rocks discarded as he grew frustrated in his attempts at magic. He was getting better at controlling the mahji, it was true, but it was a slow and laborious process that left him strained both mentally and physically. His practices had gone on well into the night, and he groaned inwardly as he realized how early it was: the sun had just barely managed to creep up past the horizon.

    Standing up with a huff, he patted the grass off his hide before looking around, seeing Kha gesturing for him to follow. The lizard-demon seemed irritated¡ªat least, as far as Willem could tell. It was always hard to read Kha¡¯s mood. Willem followed him off to the crest of the bluff where several leather tents had been erected to overlook the Capital. That castle still stood stubbornly, although Joy seemed to make no move to capture it in any urgency. Willem, for his own part, still did not truly see the point of capturing the humans; they could not possibly fight with swords and arrows against the skal.

    Nevertheless, the two demons joined the group that had gathered atop the bluff, apparently the last to arrive. Looking around, Willem made out the faces of several other Swords¡ªthe generals and leaders in the various legions that were assembled here. Joy nodded as they arrived.

    ¡°I have told you all why we fight, even if you do not believe it.¡± Joy spoke first, his gravelly voice full of authority as he snarled. ¡°Your men will need new fangs for fighting skal, if they are to do more than die beside my demons. Fire kills the shadows, this much we know.¡±

    He suddenly gestured for them to see something by his side. Lifting it up into the light, he revealed what appeared to be a sheathed legion short sword. The scabbard was a simple affair of leather, the hilt and blade no longer than a man¡¯s forearm. It was a weapon used for stabbing through the rigid shield formations in legion combat. Yet when Joy unsheathed the blade, something else entirely caught Willem¡¯s attention.

    Running down the length of that shining steel blade were a series of runes, carved into the spine of the blade and glowing a deep purple. From what Kha had told him, Willem could partially understand them to be invocations of fire. Indeed, as Joy gently lifted the blade and gave a hiss of intent, the entire blade was suddenly wreathed in a brilliant orange flame. The runes glimmered and shifting, magic crackling as they merged into a spell of fire.

    It was as if the steel had been covered in oil, such did that fire cling. Nor did it appear to be affected by wind, always burning with the same intensity as Joy slashed it through the air. As he buried the short sword into the dirt. The fire spread to the grasses with the same hunger as any ordinary flame, and several of the Swords hurriedly backed away with a mixture of fear and awe. His demonstration complete, Joy merely left the blade in the dirt. The runes, now devoid of intent, stopped glowing and settled once more along the side of the blade.

    ¡°This is your new claw.¡± Joy growled out in the silence as the others watched. They seemed stunned, stiff and unmoving as their faces glistened with sweat. ¡°You have seen the demons, yes? With their runeclaws and runescales? These are much the same.¡±

    ¡°Your men are but flesh and bone, weak and feeble. We will surround them with armor and magic so that they may fight.¡± he declared, looking over at Kha. The demon nodded and disappeared into one of the tents, coming out a moment later with a legion shield. The massive bulwark of wood and plated metal was similarly covered with runes, the carvings running down the front sides right next to the metal studs. With a shake and a grunt of intent, the shield suddenly lit aflame, tongues of yellow dancing off the wood. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    ¡°H-how many of these do you have?¡± Mors suddenly asked, being the first to shake himself free of the shock. ¡°Can we modify existing armaments, or will we need to forge new ones entirely?¡±

    Kha spoke with a hiss, turning off the shield as he did so. ¡°Your blades can be changed¡­ we need only magic and time¡­ ¡° He turned to face Willem, those horizontal pupils focusing on him. ¡°This is your task, pup¡­ ¡°

    Willem started for a moment, his mind racing as he recalled just how many soldiers there were. Thousands of men, each with blade and shield¡ªthe carving itself would take time, let alone imbuement with magic. How could he alone possibly do it?

    As if reading his mind, Kha merely smiled. ¡°You still need training¡­ have faith¡­¡± The demon traced the runes slowly. ¡°Remember these signs¡­ you have learned them¡­ shak, res, san¡­ you know them¡­ ¡°

    Slowly, Willem gritted his teeth. Aye, he had learned the signs. They were not even the most difficult of runes, only three strokes. Yet it was not the difficulty of a single carving that worried him¡ªit was the sheer number. It had taken the both of them weeks to finish all the runecarvings for the demons when they had been in the Outlands. How long would it take him to finish these for thousands of soldiers?

    Yet before he could protest, he looked around and saw the expressions of wonder in those men¡¯s eyes. It was a new thing to him, a sensation he had never known on the streets of Mea Vatal. Willem had grown up a beggar, a leper, an outcast and a street rat. Wonder was something shown to the rich, not to him. Hope was something for stories and fables, and yet he saw hope in Mors¡¯ eyes when he had seen the flaming sword. His mouth suddenly went dry as he found himself unable to complain, not wanting to see those expressions suddenly turn sour with all-too-familiar disappointment.

    ¡°Aye, I¡¯ll do it.¡± he decided. Willem could only sigh and nod, knowing that he would not be able to convince them otherwise in any case. It seemed that his days would be growing more busy with practice.

    ¡°Another problem.¡± Mors spoke up, piquing the interest of Joy and Kha. ¡°We will need supplies if you want to march all the way to Malifor. It¡¯s at least a month on the Kingsroad, and we won¡¯t be able to press much from the people living near the road.¡±

    Joy and Kha looked at each other for a moment before shaking their heads. ¡°We won¡¯t be going by Kingsroad.¡± Joy growled out, although he did not elaborate further when Mors asked.

    ¡°Surely we will still need food then, in Malifor? A thousand men eats through the stores like mice in winter.¡± he pressed on. ¡°We can send out the demons. They do nothing but mill about on the hills, wrestling and growing lazy. There are only plains nearby, but to the south there are forests with more game. Send out your demons to gather supplies there.¡± he suggested.

    Joy paused to consider the notion, turning to face Kha. ¡°You will do this.¡± he commanded, and the demon paused for only a moment before nodding in assent.

    ¡°It is a day to travel there,¡± Mors continued, ¡°and we¡¯ll need more than just meat. Berries, fruits, whatever plants you can find to supplement a war diet. The southern Heartlands should have plenty. Talk to Agus for sacks and salt to bring with you; we should have some left over.¡±

    The two nodded and there was a brief pause. ¡°If that is it,¡± Joy spoke, ¡°then have your men prepare to turn over their swords and shields for runecarving. That is all.¡± Those simple words seemed entirely unreasonable to Willem¡ªafter all, who could ever convince their men to turn over their weapons in the company of demons? Yet, to his surprise, the other Swords merely nodded in agreement and prepared to leave. Just how had he won them over so quickly?

    As the others left, Willem could not help but stare at Joy¡¯s back, that lupine figure standing straighter now than it ever had when he had been hunting or fighting. Curious, how quickly he¡¯s taken to leading. The demon had grown up alone¡ªthese very armies were more people than he had met in his life, and yet he ruled them like a born king. Just how much of an influence had Mors and Kha had on him, that the warmonger felt so comfortable in command?

 Book 3: Chapter 11

    ¡°Step!¡± came the command, and Torell pushed off with his left foot, keeping his upper body completely level as he stepped forward. It was a small movement, yet a laborious one. Beside him, there came a rattle and a dull thump as ten other men mimicked him in a machine-like unison.

    ¡°Odds, thrust!¡± the Sword shouted, and Torell waited as both men on either side of him leaned forwards, stabbing out with their short swords in the small gap between their massive shields. During this, Torell needed to keep his own shield steady, ready to block any return strikes as his neighbors struck out¡ªexposing themselves in the process of attacking.

    ¡°Torell! Open up!¡± the overseer shouted at him, startling him out of his thoughts. Blood and bones, that¡¯s right, he remembered as he stepped back just a hair, pulling his shield back with him to give the attackers more space. They were not doing routine drills right now; they were practicing new steps for some new swords or something. He had allowed himself to drift off, defaulting to muscle memory and familiar steps instead.

    ¡°Front rank, close!¡± came the next command, and Torell once more pushed forward to close shields with those next to him. They turned slightly so that they overlapped, each shield passing over the one to the right in a manner that resembled fish scales, preventing arrows or counterattacks.

    ¡°All ranks, push!¡± Behind him, Torell could feel the weight of the men from the back ranks as they leaned on him, lending him their strength as they pressed forward. They fought drill partners from another Second Sword¡¯s command, the men unarmed but dressed in full armor. They pushed back, mimicking resistance from an enemy as the legion advanced. Torell gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the ground as he pressed forward with the rest of his line.

    ¡°Halt! Second rank, shields up!¡± came the hasty command. Hurriedly, Torell dropped his shield onto the ground along with the rest of the front rank, hearing the thud as they impacted dirt. Behind him was the scramble of steel and leather, the men of the second rank lifting their shields over their heads to rest on the tops of the front rank¡¯s. The motion was just in time for a volley of missiles to thud off the shields, the blunted javelins and dulled arrows falling harmlessly off the protective cover. Yet to his right, Torell heard an abrupt scream as one of the men was too slow, the man in front of him taking the painful hit of a javelin to his shoulder.

    ¡°Shields down!¡± came the final command of the sequence, and Torell felt a breath of relief and exasperation escape his puffed cheeks. His arms were sore, his shoulder burning as he gently set the shield down on the ground. He joined the others resting on the dirt, gently massaging his limbs as he took off his sweat-dampened helmet and wiped his eyes.

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to try harder than that, Mills.¡± came the cold voice of the Second Shield as he made his rounds through the legion, pointing out their errors. Torell winced, bracing himself for his turn. ¡°Maybe next time you¡¯ll be in front and it¡¯ll be Jessin¡¯s shield that¡¯s supposed to be over your head¡ªthen you¡¯ll be motivated to lift faster, eh?¡±

    ¡°And Torell!¡± Ah, five and three curses. ¡°Congratulations, I didn¡¯t think you had it in you to forget what we drilled five minutes ago. I knew you were always full of shit, but I didn¡¯t realize you had it for brains too. If we were drilling with runeswords, you just lost your left arm to fire.¡±

    Torell knew better than to respond, merely nodding resolutely and letting the Second Shield pass on over to the rest of the legionaries. ¡°Damn it, Myron.¡± he hissed to the man next to him as he stretched his stiff legs. ¡°They¡¯ve got us working like slaves here, first with the catapults and now with all this drilling. I¡¯ve barely got any time off¡ªnot that there¡¯s even any whores here to spend it on.¡±

    ¡°You think I haven¡¯t noticed?¡± Myron snorted, loosening the loops of his armor to take some of the weight off his shoulders. ¡°Even Northrun had whores, and I think one of them was my grandmother. Damn lords took all the women with them when they ran, left us flaming demons and angry Third Swords.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Say, what do you make of the demons, anyways?¡± Torell asked Myron abruptly, his voice softening to a near-whisper. It was something that was always muttered in the camps, but with all the work that they had been given recently, Torell had not had the opportunity to ask Myron. ¡°They say something about marching to Malifor, right? Something about shadows and the dark god?¡± He waggled his fingers ominously, his face covered with mocking fear, but he did not get the laugh that he was expecting out of Myron.

    ¡°Say what you will, I thought it was a lie first. But I served first under House Aless, and we joined up farther west than you did. We marched past the Yearning with the demons, and I saw the riverbanks there.¡± Myron replied. His face grew dark, his expression solemn as he recalled what he had seen.

    ¡°The ground there, on the east side of the river, it was covered with armor and swords, all from House Savos. I had never seen anything like it¡ªthey were in these small little piles, like they had just fallen onto the ground. And they were in formation too, the front rank shields falling like playing cards and the back ranks with javelins.¡± His voice suddenly grew even more hushed, staring hard at Torell. ¡°And there were no bones. Nothing under all that armor. No skulls, no ribs, not even a finger. All that armor, but no men wearing them? It was impossible, unless something had killed them.¡±

    ¡°Something had to have killed them so fast that they were still in formation, with all the armor falling to the ground right where they were standing. And whatever killed them ate the bones too. Even the demons don¡¯t do that, Torell. They crack bones open and eat the marrow, but they still leave behind remains. These men, there wasn¡¯t even anything left to bury.¡± Myron¡¯s face looked haunted, his expression dark as he leaned back. ¡°They¡¯re saying something about darkness and shadows, but what if some of it¡¯s true? What if that¡¯s what the new swords are for, to fight whatever killed House Savos? Why else would you need to give legionaries flaming swords?¡±

    Torell frowned for a moment before shrugging. ¡°You say that, but I¡¯ve got my own theory.¡± He cleared his throat before beginning, a wide grin on his face.

    ¡°You¡¯re a northerner, right? News probably doesn¡¯t reach you as fast then, so you don¡¯t know either. But when King Alerick first died, before all the Houses started fighting for the throne, there were a bunch of reports about what had happened. A lot of the ones from the east said that demons were fighting in the Capital, but the ones from the west¡ªalong the Kingsroad¡ªthey were different.¡± he continued.

    Torell leaned in conspiratorially. ¡°They said that there were Malifori on the Kingsroad, and that they were what had killed the king.¡± He paused here, waiting for a response from Myron.

    ¡°So?¡± the soldier responded, confused. Torell raised his eyebrows in surprise, then sighing in defeat.

    ¡°So, what if the Malifori were the ones that killed King Alerick? We¡¯re marching to Malifor, you halfwit. We¡¯d be avenging the king¡ªthink about it! No Altarosan has ever tried to push into Malifor in a hundred years, and we¡¯ve got demons and magic on our side now!. Malifor¡¯s nearly twice the size of Altaros; when this is over, you can get a lordship and land to your name!¡± Torell smiled, thinking of all the opportunity. ¡°Think about it¡ªyou with some nice Malifori women, a couple of slaves working the fireweed fields. You¡¯d never have to lift a sword again, and you¡¯d have enough coin to make a necklace out of it.¡±

    ¡°And the new swords?¡± Myron asked skeptically.

    ¡°Malifori fight on horseback.¡± he shrugged. ¡°Maybe the best way to fight is to spook the horses with flaming swords. I know it would spook me.¡± He hummed happily, losing himself to the fantasy of an exotic harem of women only for the abrasive shouts of a certain officer to wake him out of the dream.

    ¡°Form up! Second drill, form up you louts!¡± the Second Sword shouted, and the air was suddenly filled with groans as the short break was over. Ranks of men started to tighten their armor, grabbing discarded shields and swords as the Second Shield yelled at them.

    ¡°You can dream about your fancy Malifori women all you want Torell,¡± Myron muttered next to him with a smile. ¡°But right now the only thing you¡¯re getting is a sword up your arse if you breathe the wrong way around Second Shield Gins.¡±

    Torell smirked at that, tightening the helmet around his head. ¡°I hope its not one of the new flaming kinds then; I¡¯m rather tender down there.¡±

 Book 3: Chapter 12

    There was a sudden rattling that shook Ma¡¯sal awake, a round of shouts that came from abovedeck. He could hear the feet running across the wood, could hear the rasping of rope against the planks. Even without any light, with his stomach empty and his limbs weak, he struggled to sit up. The heavy shackles on his wrists kept him from lifting his arms, and he was unable to do much more than roll over before running short of breath. Exhausted by such a simple effort, he collapsed against the wall just in time for the ship to suddenly jostle to a halt.

    Cracking his head against the wood from the impact, he struggled to blink the stars out of his field of vision. The other slaves seemed to have woken by this time, judging from the bleary grunts and gasps for breath that filled the small hold. It was not until several minutes had passed before the ceiling above them finally cracked open, the hatch opening and too-bright light entering the room. Ma¡¯sal blinked, the light stabbing through his skull and forcing him to tear away in a sudden motion. His muscles in his neck cramped, unused to the effort as his eyes watered. As he recovered, two hooded men strode down the stairs, saying nothing as they walked over and began to undo the restraints on the nearest man.

    One by one, they opened the manacles and set the slaves free. This is your chance, some part of him screamed, telling him to run as soon as they let him go. Yet that voice was quickly snuffed out by reason as he reminded himself that there was nowhere to go in any case, that he was weak enough to snap should a too-strong gust of wind blow his way. As he saw the brief spark of life die out in the others¡¯ dulled eyes, he saw that they shared his sentiment. Instead, he merely lay there unresponsive as the hooded men unfastened his shackles as well.

    One by one, they were forced up onto their feet, either hauled up on hoisted in a manner more befitting children or cattle. As the reached the far corner, it seemed from their discussions that two of the men had died. Ma¡¯sal was too tired to even react, was too tired even to be surprised or to mourn for the dead. Their corpses were carried abovedeck, the grunts and splash that followed suggested that they had merely been tossed into the waiting sea.

    One by one, they were marched up onto the deck, out into the searing sun and the blinding light. Even with all the time he had to adjust, Ma¡¯sal still found himself blinded by the abrupt sunlight, raising an arm to cover his eyes. He was shocked by how thin the limb was, atrophied by neglect and starvation until it was little more than bone and skin.

    One by one, they made their way off the ship, walking with weak legs and stumbling across the old dock towards a sheer cliff face ahead of them. They were in some small harbor, an inlet that was surrounded on three sides by towering stone. Steps that had been carved into the rock led towards the top, playing with the shadows that were thrown across by sunlight. As he neared, they seemed to flicker and dance in front of vision, only to stop once he blinked and peered more carefully. Too long without water, he told himself, raising a finger to touch his cracked lips and wincing at the stinging pain.

    One by one, the hooded men forced them up those towering steps. The distance had not made them any less imposing, and his weakness had not made the climb any less arduous. He staggered his way up, collapsing and heaving for breath after no more than twenty. He leaned against the wall desperately, not trusting his own body to hold himself up. The hooded men merely continued, as if oblivious to the slaves¡¯ struggling. Come on, a little more. Gritting his teeth, Ma¡¯sal tried to stand up, managing to stagger with screaming legs as he leaned to the side.

    A few more steps before falling down, a few more seconds respite before continuing¡ªthat set of steps seemed infinite as his legs could no longer support him. He had to claw his way up with his hands to continue, finger digging into the stone. His nails felt like they might tear off his fingertips, his skin slick with sweat from the sun.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    Another set of steps passed before there came a sudden scream from above him, two or three steps ahead. He leaned his head up just in time to watch as one of the other slaves fell off the side, too weak to continue and losing his balance. His expression was twisted with surprise, his hands still desperately clawing at the steps as he plummeted down the rock face. There was no sound as he struck the ground, the distance too far and the height nauseating as Ma¡¯sal forced himself to look away. He was not quick enough, however, to miss the shattered body and mangled mess that now lay on the stones below.

    Do not fall, he hissed to himself as kept climbing, his shoulders burning and his fingers torn bloody by the rock. His knees were ripped, what little rags he was wearing now insufficient in the face of the elements. He forced himself to continue, forced himself not to look down at how far he had to fall. Tears filled his eyes as he kept going, blinding him as he reached out for the last step only for his hand to close on empty air. Shock and surprise made him lose his balance, a final cruel stab of fate as he nearly fell on the final step.

    A firm grip caught him then, one of the hooded men hauling him up to the top of the steps. The man¡¯s skin was dark and covered in strange tattoos, his veins black and pulsing as they bulged out of his hand. That hand disappeared back under its robes before Ma¡¯sal had the chance to look any closer.

    Still gasping for breath, Ma¡¯sal looked up in shock to find an entire town on the top of this strange plateau. What seemed to be slaves were busy working the fields, plucking prickled fruits from low growing bushes. Overseers in their robes were watching impassively, others laboring by what seemed to be some kind of temple. It seemed to be entirely carved from a single piece of obsidian, the fireglass that Ma¡¯sal had seen before in knives from his mother¡¯s native Valan. As he stared harder at that strange building, its appearance seemed to shift under the glaring sun, its spires and pillars shifting into smoke and reforming. Have I gone mad? He could not help but wonder as he turned to face the two hooded men that had led them here, the rest of their number still rigging the ship in the harbor below.

    ¡°Welcome to Hashatsa.¡± one of the men spoke, his voice rasping and chillingly cold. There was an echo there as well, as if there were two men speaking through the same throat. One seemed impossibly ancient, speaking in the manner if sand was given voice. ¡°Welcome to Malifor, home of our lord, first land of Reclamation.¡±

    ¡°Here you will stay.¡± the second man spoke, his voice similar to his partner¡¯s. ¡°You are freed of your bonds, freed of whatever brands were given to you by barbarians. You are free to leave, should you wish it, and should be manage to survive the savannah. You are similarly free to kill yourselves¡ªyou need only throw yourselves off the cliff.¡± They spoke of it in a calm manner, utterly cruel and inhuman.

    ¡°Should you choose to stay in Hashatsa, know that you will earn your keep. Bloodthorn bushes serve for much of the food here, and our god gives us the rest.¡± they proclaimed. ¡°We are all servants before Atal; even the lowliest laborer should know his love.¡±

    ¡°If you ever tire of the work, if you ever seek to know more of our god¡¯s love, you need only to step into the altar, offer gift of your blood.¡± the first man rasped. With that, they merely bowed at the six slaves that had survived the voyage, only to make it to this strange town with these maddened cultists.

    Choose, they seemed to say as they left, making their way to one of the tents in the distance. Tiredly, he glanced down over the lip of the hellish cliff. That fall seemed so simple, such an easy end to his tired pain, to his endless suffering. And yet, before he even had the time to choose, one of the nearby slaves suddenly leapt off the edge. His body shrank to a speck as he fell, three breaths passing before he finally struck the jagged stones below as an unmoving stain on the rock.

    Ma¡¯sal looked away, unable to make that choice any longer. He could Not find it in him to join that man, and so his gaze turned towards the bloodthorn bushes and those stonegazed laborers. How can I choose, he thought bitterly, when all the choices have been taken away but one?

    The gods did not answer as he stumbled forward, joining the other slaves as they made their way over to the tents.

 Book 3: Chapter 13

    Joy snorted gently, shaking some of the grass out of his muzzle as kept himself low to the ground, It had been too long since his last hunt¡ªtoo damned long, and he had missed the feeling dearly. The blood pumping loudly through his veins, the burning tension in his limbs, he had missed it all desperately. Words and speeches, they were all foreign to him even now. This was where he belonged, with his dirt beneath his claws and the scent in his mind.

    The wind stirred his fur, suddenly falling still. His claws tensed, his muscles bunching. And then he struck.

    In a blur of motion and outstretched claws, he sank his fangs into his prey, snapping its neck with the force of the blow. The rabbit barely had enough time to leap, its powerful legs nevertheless useless in the face of such overwhelming speed. Its gray-green fur was now stained with a deep crimson, its feet twitching with memories of life as it still struggled to escape.

    Joy savored the sensation of warm blood bubbling down his throat, his body still coursing with the thrill of the hunt. It was a feeling that had been denied to him for too long¡ªthis was where he truly belonged. He tore into the small body voraciously, fangs ripping apart muscle and crunching through thin bone before swallowing the chunks of meat with a jerk of the head. The rabbit was small enough that there was little left over, no remains left to throw away.

    He walked slowly back towards the camp, feeling the frenetic high of the stalk slowly dissipate. Even though it had just been a small rabbit, there was little enough game around here that it had taken him a while to track it down. Once he found it, he had played it, darting in the underbrush and making noise to startle the beast into something resembling a chase. It was rather pathetic compared to his hunts in the Outlands, but it was enough to remind him of those days past. The nostalgia and feeling of familiarity left a toothy smile on his face as he returned to the bluff, just in time for a hurried Mors to interrupt him.

    ¡°Have you seen the Capital yet?¡± the man blurted out, only to crinkle his nose as his gaze settled on Joy¡¯s mouth. ¡°Your¡ªah¡ªmouth¡­¡± he managed, gesturing for Joy to wipe away the blood that stained his furred jaw.

    ¡°No. Why?¡± the demon grunted out in reply, roughly scraping away the crusted bloodstains.

    ¡°There was fighting earlier this morning.¡± Mors responded. ¡°I had wanted to get you earlier, but you were out hunting. It sounded like there was conflict inside the Capital, maybe a rebellion of some sort. We could use this.¡±

    ¡°Are they still fighting?¡± Joy asked, hurriedly striding over to the overlooking bluff where he could see the Capital in closer detail.

    ¡°No, they stopped perhaps thirty minutes after we first heard the noises.¡± Mors replied, panting to keep up. Along the way, the passed a curious wagon, one of the few that remained untouched in the camp. Its outside was wrapped in thick metal chains, as if it trapped some terrible beast inside. Seeing where Joy¡¯s gaze was, Mors slowly murmured. ¡°Sir¡­ did you want to use?¡±

    But Joy hurriedly shook his head, keeping a relatively large berth around that wagon that none of the legionaries dared to come too close to. ¡°Later, perhaps.¡± he whispered, yet the noise was enough for that wagon to suddenly rattle, rocking back and forth on wooden wheels that suddenly felt a shade too flimsy.

    Joy paused as he closed in on the edge of the bluff, taking in the strange chaos that was the Capital. Curling columns of smoke spiraled towards the sky from within those imposing walls, evidence of fire that still had yet to fully die out. Yet more imposing were the skulls impaled on the battlements, severed heads that had been coated in tar and laid bare for the carrion birds to eat away.

    ¡°Lords and noblemen.¡± Mors spoke in a hushed voice, referring to the dead men. ¡°Perhaps the soldiers rebelled from inside for some reason? It seems the most likely cause. How¡­¡± he paused slowly, ¡°how do you want to respond?¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ¡°Respond?¡± Joy snarled out softly, only shake his head. ¡°I do not care for their squabbles. The Capital is a beast, and these are its death throes. So long as their fighting men are fit enough to bleed for me, that is all I wish.¡± He turned to face the rest of the camp, seeing the legionaries drilling under the tireless sun. Over a thousand men were sprawled out over the plains, nearly innumerable as a horde¡ªand yet he knew that they would still not be enough. There would never be enough to drown out the skal.

    They were a ragged mess when they had first joined, with men coming from all different legions. They had been missing chains of command, their leaders now buried in mud. It had been an ordeal to see them organized¡ªone that had been met with great resistance at first. It had taken Kha and his skills with magic to, ah, convince them otherwise.

    ¡°How are your catapults?¡± he spoke suddenly, catching Mors off guard. ¡°I would hate to see their effort wasted if the Capital is to fall so early.¡±

    ¡°I had not been anticipated such a hurried development.¡± he admitted. ¡°Siege normally takes a¡­ longer period of time. Perhaps they felt pressured without stores of food, or without any connections to help them break the siege. In any case, some of the first catapults have recently been finished. Jhossa did well with teaching them; I think the man must have been an engineer in the past. The men are currently drilling with loading and firing. Did you wish to watch?¡±

    Joy felt a slow smile crawl across his face. ¡°Indeed.¡± he replied. Just how effective would these new weapons be, that Jhossa had touted would be so revolutionary? He felt a familiar tingling in his blood, the kind that he had felt when he had first seen bows firing a volley that drowned out the sky. Would this be something similar, perhaps? Something that could give him the edge needed to break the skal?

    They were certainly unimpressive things, he decided as he approached the legionaries. Little more than strange constructions of flimsy wood and corded rope, he failed to see how they could do little more than snap under the weight of the stones that the soldiers were launching. Padded leather reinforced a central beam, thick lengths of rope running parallel to another wooden arm. ¡°This is it?¡± he grunted out in surprise. The entire contraption was perhaps four men¡¯s size, certainly not the massive monstrosity of destruction that he had first imagined.

    Mors merely snorted in response, nodding for the men to continue. One man carefully loaded a stone into the end of that arm, the others working to carefully wind back the rope. It was a tedious affair, and yet when it was done they all stepped back with a hurried action that could only have come from too many close calls. One man threw the lever, the catapult suddenly cracking with a motion almost too fast for Joy to even register.

    The entire construction rocked up in response to the blow, the arm striking the padded beam as the stone continued to sail for hundreds of paces. In the end, the projectile disappeared into the distance, leaving only a stunned Joy to slowly try and recollect his thoughts. Mors barely managed to hold in his laughter as he saw the rarely surprised demon with eyes wide in shock.

    ¡°Can¡­¡± Joy finally managed to gasp out. ¡°Can it throw more than just pebbles?¡±

    Mors furrowed his brows in confusion, not understanding what Joy meant. ¡°Certainly, whatever fits into the bucket on the end. Jhossa was even saying something about hurling dead cows with a leather strap or something. I don¡¯t understand half of what goes through that man¡¯s head sometimes.¡±

    Joy ignored the man¡¯s musings, instead feeling his own thoughts running away from him as a sudden excitement grasped him. ¡°Oil, pitch!¡± he practically shouted, making the watching soldiers nearly jump in surprise.

    ¡°W-what do you mean?¡± Mors stammered out, still not getting it. Joy huffed in exasperation.

    ¡°Fire burns the skal, and we have plenty of things that burn. These things can throw at least three times the length of any man¡¯s arm. Have them cover the skal in pitch, then burn them with arrows.¡± His eyes were bright, practically gleaming with excitement. He could feel his heart thumping out an energetic rhythm, a sensation of hope and thrill filling him.

    Joy could see it now, the advancing wave of skal¡¯va suddenly wreathed in a brilliant flame. The shadows would crackle and burn, falling away into ash under that terrible assault. This can kill the skal, he realized.

    This is enough to burn Atal into cinders.

 Book 3: Chapter 14

    It was the sound of boots that first roused Joy from his slumber, early in the morning. He could hear their echoing cadence, a rolling thunder that stamped across the ground. The rest of the camp had been stirred awake as well, from the alarm that suddenly pierced through the haze of dawn. Soldiers scrambled for arms and armor, the tents springing to life with motion. It was not with the haste of instinct, but rather the mindless motions of routine. These soldiers had the response drilled into through ceaseless practice, until their bodies acted even before their minds did. A curious way to engineer instinct, Joy noted through his musings as he struggled to shake off sleep.

    Joy bolted to his feet in a sudden lunge, springing out of his resting slouch. He had smelled the army before he saw them, before his eyes had even opened. The metallic stench of rust, the fatty oil, the cloying sweat, he caught it all on the wind even before he had fully awakened. Yet he caught on the wind the stench of disease¡ªand the stench of death that so frequently accompanied it.

    He hurried outside, joined by his officers and the fastest-dressing handful of soldiers. Along the way, he caught the flag of white that fluttered so high on the battlements of the Capital, so innocently over the still-rotting heads of the nobility. He could see the opposing legion now as they filed out of the Capital, could see their wave of glimmering swords and spears. They carried their shields on their backs in marching style, the massive lengths of wood and leather nearly two heads higher than where their helmets ended.

    And there were fewer of them than he had first imagined¡ªor at least, that he had hoped for. More soldiers meant more fodder for the skal¡¯va when they eventually served him, but could this even qualify as a true legion? Half of them looked far too thin, their armor nearly falling off of their bodies, their faces sunken and gaunt. Near the end of the legion trailed what seemed to be civilians. They too were malnourished to the point of nearly starvation, their eyes dulled with desperation and fear, yet still glinting with that faint spark of hope that always came with change.

    More mouths to feed, he thought to himself dimly, even as his own legions were forming up to meet them. Perhaps he would turn those fools loose to the plains, let them starve and fight as they wished. Or perhaps they could be fed to the demons. Those fools never did find an end to their appetite.

    The two armies met at the foot of the bluffs, perhaps a hundred paces in front of the Capital. Mors and the other Third Swords of the various legions were already in the front, waiting for Joy as he stalked his way through the soldiers. The men¡ªhis men¡ªeyed him with a mixture of awe and fear. Most had only seen him as a distant figure, yet for those that were now close enough to smell his breath, his overpowering aura and warmonger¡¯s lust nearly had them trembling with terror. There were a few demons scattered amongst the ranks as well, mostly pups that were impatient and curious. The soldiers seem to view the pups with the delicate care one might to a krull suckling: a beast no taller than the knee and yet born with a strong enough kick to send a grown man flying four paces.

    As he made his way to the front, the crowd parted, leaving him face to face with a rather clean-shaven legionary¡ªa Third Sword, from the various adornments on his armor. Curious, Joy could not help but note, that this man is so well fed while half of his army starves.

    ¡°And you are?¡± the demon snarled out, his voice intentionally low pitched and intimidating. The tactic worked; a glimmer of fear sparked in the man¡¯s blue eyes. He took an involuntary step back, as did many of the others near him. Yet he caught himself, apparently angry with this weakness, and attempted to cover it up with bluster and fire.

    ¡°Fucking beast.¡± the man spat out, as if apparently oblivious to precarious danger that his own men were in. ¡°I am King Hyron Kell, crowned first of my name at the Capital, last surviving Third Sword to the legions of House Mace.¡± He said this with an imperious pride, looking for all the world as if the legions of House Mace were not merely a quarter of Joy¡¯s forces gathered here outside the Capital.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    ¡°Kell?¡± Mors asked in surprise. ¡°So it was truly Lord Mace¡¯s head that hung above the crenelations last morning?¡±

    Hyron Kell answered this, as he did everything, with yet another sneer. ¡°Lord Mace,¡± he declared sarcastically, ¡°was a fool who gorged himself on half our stores while the legions starved. He and his foolish men got all that came to them.¡±

    Ah, so they were fighting amongst themselves. ¡°They why is it that you come now?¡± Joy growled, getting back to the task at hand. ¡°Your surrender?¡± He never was much good at politics, at all this incessant word-spinning that humans prided themselves upon. It gave him half a headache just listening to this pitiful man¡¯s words; he had half a man just to rip out his throat.

    ¡°Surrender? No.¡± Hyron replied tersely, and the air suddenly electrified with an abrupt tension. Soldiers in both armies suddenly shuffled where they stood, readjusting their armor and reaching for the comfort of their blades. ¡°We merely ask for passage to the north. I know not what quarrel you had with Lord Mace, but it is none of our concern. We want nothing more than to be done with you all.¡±

    Joy nearly laughed in reply, his lips peeling back to reveal pointed canines. ¡°And what makes you think I seek no quarrel with you?¡±

    Hyron walked closer, thrusting out his chest as if it would scare the demon that loomed over him. ¡°Now see here, Mace men fight with ten times the strength of any ordinary soldier!¡± The men behind him gave a ragged cheer at that, in a motion that seemed more drilled muscle memory than true spirit. It would have almost been an impressive feat, had not some of them been so weak that they were staggering in their armor.

    ¡°You won¡¯t kill us without a fight, you filthy swine.¡± Hyron continued, oblivious to the lackluster state of his men. Is the man truly a fool? Joy found himself astounded by this apparent bluster¡ªhow did this man come by the wits to lead an army, or were his wits merely borrowed and then returned? Or is it that he knows bravado is his only way out? Nevertheless, Joy greeted both of these options in the same way. With a laugh.

    It was a harsh, guttural thing that started as a fire from the stomach. And yet he found his officers joining him, the wave of laughter spreading through his army. Hyron¡¯s face flushed a deep red from the humiliation, his own legion growing restless in uncertain response. Joy waited for the laughter to die down before continuing.

    ¡°Truly you have lost your mind if you think that you can do more than weep under my forces.¡± There was an anger that glittered in Hyron¡¯s eyes at that, and then Joy had his answer. No, this man is not pretending¡ªat least, not wholly. Crowning him king was a mistake; the power has turned him mad.

    ¡°You crow-cursed animals just don¡¯t know proper respect.¡± he seethed, veins bulging with rage. ¡°You are speaking to a king! Fucking kneel, beast! KNEEL!¡± the man yelled, his expression livid. Behind him, his men all rattled into fighting formation, drawing swords and reaching for shields. There was a resigned determination to their faces, as if this was what they had expected all along. Joy met the madman¡¯s ravings with the only to respond to words: action.

    Stepping forward in a swift motion, his legs suddenly exploded with power. These men had never seen a demon before, had never expected the raw power in a body fashioned from the earth. Hyron was caught completely off guard by the motion, and barely had time to blink in surprise before Joy was close enough to nip his throat.

    The demon reached out with clawed hands, each finger tipped with a curved talon large enough to be mistaken for a knife. They latched onto the foolish man¡¯s shoulder, punching through the metal with a mere show of force and digging into the soft muscle underneath. He tore through the tendons and fibers, even feeling his claws grating against the bone in that swift moment, before the man could even blink out tears in pain.

    And then, without warning, Joy tore the arm out of its socket.

    It came with a popping resistance, tender ligaments struggling to resist futilely. He twisted as he pulled, feeling the muscle tear under pressure and tension until it finally gave out. And he watched as that ragged stump pumped out an unending flow of scarlet blood, puddling swiftly on the ground underneath the still-stunned king.

    Joy threw the twitching arm at the man¡¯s feet, watching as the king suddenly shrieked with pain. He clutched at the bloody stump, tears streaming down his blood-speckled face as he fell to his knees. Then, forcing words through ragged breaths, he shouted to his troops.

    ¡°KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!¡±

 Book 3: Chapter 15

    ¡°KILL THEM ALL!¡± the madman raved as he knelt in the dirt, clutching the bloody stump of his shoulder. Willem struggled to shake the confusion and shock out of his mind, struggled to move his stiffened limbs.

    It was all happening too quickly, all of the madness around him leaving like a lone raindrop in a storm. The Mace army hastened to ready themselves for combat, taking to their shields and swords to a drilled practice dulled only by weariness and apathy. In contrast, their legions slammed together with a brutal discipline, shields rattling over one another in the front ranks, javelins beating the dirt in the back.

    These men came from all manner of House and history, Willem knew. He counted House Tyne to be the greatest of their number, but there were legionaries from Houses Aless and Muran. They had won these men like chattel, exchanged them as if they were mere mercenaries. Yet they were not soldiers of fortune¡ªnot at heart. They were farmer¡¯s sons and young husbands, drafted to fight for some local lord in a mad scramble over the throne. They were confused, uncertain, lost. This battle¡ªthe first battle¡ªwould be the most important. It would show them that past ties no longer mattered, that they were one legion now.

    Yet this first battle also came with great risk, should they gain notions of rebellion. Conscripted hands all too soon turned their ire on their leaders, Willem knew. The only reason half of them had yet to desert was because of orders, discipline, and fear. There would be no riper chance for their painstakingly obtained army to suddenly flee, or perhaps to even turn those blades on them.

    And so Willem felt the tension that crackled in the air. Soldiers flickered their eyes, not only focusing their attentions on the Mace legion, but also at their fellow legionaries. They eyed their Third Swords; they scanned the demons. Their eyes darted briefly over the plains to the west, wondering if they could but flee in an instant. All it would take was that first man to seize the opportunity, and their morale would shatter like a broken dam.

    ¡°Fear¡­ ¡± Kha whispered softly into his ear. ¡°Give them fear¡­ before they grow too confident¡­¡±

    Willem heard the air around the demon suddenly begin to crackle and writhe, filling with a wild energy that made him shiver in expectation. Coiling ribbons of purple mahji danced in the air, their movements changing suddenly from flowing to erratic. Their motion grew wilder, the heat in the air building until finally there was an ear-splitting crack that echoed through the plains. Willem started in sheer reflex, his heart leaping in his chest as a pillar of light crashed down from the clear, cloudless sky, striking Kha with coursing power before surging into the ground.

    Lightning, some primal part of his mind noted, cowering in instinctual fear. The air still burned of sulfur, tinged with that latent energy that still danced. Yet another though jolted him out of his inaction¡ªgive them fear.

    Almost without giving it conscious thought, he reached inside himself for the threads of mahji nestled within. His shock seemed to make the task easier, giving him a mindlessness not unlike a trance. Those burning strands within him gently flowed through his veins, streaming up through his arms and out of his fingertips until they whipped like ribbons in the wind.

    Yet as his mahji glowed and burned away in the air, the wind too began to grow in speed. Faster and faster, the gale continued to grow until it became something torrential that whipped through the air like a thousand blades. Soldiers in all legions slammed down their shields, desperately trying to hold onto something as the grass and dirt started to get torn up by the wind.

    And at the center of that storm stood Willem and Kha, their demonic bodies surrounded by crackling purple bolts of mahji, their very presences radiating power. Fear. Terror. That would drive thoughts of mutiny aside. Power was always the swiftest way to win over men''s hearts.

    Not enough, Willem thought desperately as he felt the burning fatigue begin to gnaw away at him. This was no concentrated wind, trying to hold up a pebble. This was a massive storm, wild and primal in its own right, and it threatened to run away from him if he did not hold it in check. More. I need more.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    Even more of the mahji flowed out of him now, a grand display of arcane power that tinged the air with the stench of sulfur as it began to burn. Swirling air began to shimmer, at first only the few inches above the ground, but then more and more. Steam curled off the grass, the air now unbearably hot even in spite of the speeding winds.

    Willem watched as their armor began to glow faintly from the heat, the men turning pink as they were nearly cooked alive in their plate. They began to claw furiously at their straps, desperately trying to shed their armor before their flesh was seared by the steel. Their faces were slick with sweat, their expressions nearly hidden underneath their helmets. Yet there was an unmistakable emotion in their eyes, glinting through that shimmering, heated air.

    Fear.

    Willem turned, gasping for breathe as he let the mahji go. It trickled out of him like a cut cord, loosely crackling and burning away. The winds died away with it, the unnatural heat melting as well. Yet even as his magic faded away, those looks of fear did not fade. Be it Mace¡¯s army or even their own legions, it was the same. Those soldiers all stared at him with eyes of terror, shivering like rabbits in the gaze of a wolf.

    Was this¡ªwas this how I had looked, begging on those streets so long ago? Did I also wear those eyes? That terror made him tremble¡ªtremble at how far he had come, and tremble at this new power that he held in his hands. He clenched his fists slowly, hearing the last of the mahji fizzle and crackle out of existence. The air bubbled and shimmered with latent heat, the skies storming and reeking of sulfur. No, it is not me that they are afraid of. It¡¯s the magic. I¡¯m still just a small boy, behind all this armor. Beneath this body, beneath this magic. I¡¯m still weak.

    If only he was not so weak, then he would not have found it so difficult to meet those terrified gazes. If only he was not so weak, then he would not have trembled under the weight of that fear, that fear that felt like a mountain upon his shoulders.

    ¡°Kneel.¡± someone growled out. Willem blinked, his mouth agape as he struggled to drag in a breath. Joy loomed still over that now-indisposed king, his hands spread wide, purple mahji crackling from his claws as well. The enemy legion could not had made decision any quicker upon the sight of magic. One channeler for a battle, two for a castle, and three for a war¡ªthat was the long held rule of thumb. Little do they know, but the three of us are here for a war.

    The ground rumbled and shook as a thousand men suddenly kneeled, their shields slamming into the ground, their blades buried in the dirt. Clenched fists beat against their chests, over and over in a percussive thunder that echoed off the rocks and bluffs. ¡°Hail!¡± they shouted, a thousand voices rasping as one. ¡°Hail!¡± they chanted, almost enough to drown out a single voice of dissonance.

    Almost.

    ¡°YOU BASTARDS!¡± the poor, kneeling king shouted, his face now purple and his veins bulging. Spittle flew as he spoke, slashing his hand through the air at his own legion. ¡°Is this how you treat your king? Die then! DIE!¡± His eyes were wild with pain and fury, his posture that of a desperate, cornered animal. His gaze flickered quickly to the demons before settling on Joy. Something flickered through those eyes, something buried deep that even Willem could not make out. Perhaps it was contempt. Perhaps it was humiliation. Perhaps it was merely rage. Yet it drove the man to madness, and King Mace, first of his name, lunged at the demon with a guttural scream. His mouth was open, his teeth bared. His eyes were wild, bestial, and in that moment the king no longer looked like a man. He looked like an animal.

    And he was met as an animal should be.

    There was a sickening crunch as black claws punched through his stomach, the blow enough to stop the lunge yet not enough to stop the beast. ¡°DIE!¡± the creature shouted, clawing desperately at Joy as if those clawless fingers could break through hide. ¡°DIE!¡± the poor thing shrieked, before another hand buried its talons into his throat. Blood spurted out of that gaping hole, and yet still the beast struggled. It bit down onto the arm that held it, teeth clinging madly to the fur and scales. It still clung even as that hand struck once more, punching through the temple and finally snuffing out the light in that wild animal¡¯s eyes.

    Still those dying muscles clung, and Joy struggled to pry of the king¡¯s head. Blood and tears covered its face, flecked with specks of brain. The demon gave a grunt as it twisted and tore, finally ripping off the man¡¯s head to bear it aloft as a trophy. Once more did the armies chant. Once more did they crown a king.

    And once more did Willem see their eyes swallowed by fear.

 Book 3: Chapter 16

    Derelict. That was the best word to describe this ruined citadel. Willem could only sigh as the legions rode into the Capital, that so-touted city of grandeur and magnificence. It was now barely more than rubble, its proud walls standing with little more than hope. Refugees filled the streets, looking too thin to be people and too desperate to be animals. What buildings remained standing had long since fallen into disrepair, or were boarded up with wood and iron to bar entry. Furtive eyes glanced at him as he strode past, only to quickly look away with closed curtains the instant he tried to make out anything more.

    He felt strangely empty as they strode into the city. This was what all those Houses were fighting over? What so many men had died for? It was pathetic. He hated it, this pointless, senseless fighting. How many lives was a crown worth, when it left the country bleeding and dying?

    Who are you to think these men fools? You hardly know who you are yourself any more. There was a mocking voice the back of his mind, a part of him that had resisted when he had first given up his crippled body. It watched his movements with a quiet contempt, speaking only to throw doubt in his greatest moments of hesitation. Ignore it, he told himself, as he always had. Ignore it and keep walking.

    But he had been walking for so long, his feet caked with mud and his legs tired. His heart was weary¡ªweary of always walking forward, afraid to look behind him. A sudden wave of nausea and disgust overcame him, and Willem stumbled over to a corner in a hurry. Bile bubbled up his throat, splattering over the muck-covered stones and cobbles. Gasping heavily, he wiped the corner of his mouth before finding an old rain barrel.

    Making his way over, he staggered the final few steps before catching himself, propping himself on the sides as he gasped for breath. A reptilian face greeted him in the water, and a flash of fear and shock speared his heart before he realized that it was him, that it was merely his reflection. Slowly, Willem raised a clawed hand, peering at the rough scales that covered his hide, examining the curved talons of bone that seemed sharp enough to cut the air.

    Is this me? For a moment, his reflection shimmered and he once more saw that crippled little boy with the Maes-covered face. His legs were lame, his fingers stunted, and his eyes were once more tinted with fear. This strength, the power that he held in this body, it was not him. The real him was weak. The real him was afraid. This strength was merely a facade.

    ¡°Thinking¡­ yes?¡± a reptilian voice whispered from behind him, and Willem nearly leapt out of his own skin as he hurriedly spun around. Kha was returning his gaze, that serpentine mouth stretched into what Willem had come to assume was a smile. ¡°Dangerous times for thinking¡­ but thinking still comes¡­¡± Kha stepped closer, making Willem tense with nervousness as the demon approached him. That hesitation relaxed only slightly as Kha walked past him to peer into his own reflection in the water. ¡°What are you¡­ thinking of, pup?¡±

    ¡°I am thinking¡­that I have been looking for power for so long, that I¡¯ve always been wanting¡ªwishing¡ªto be stronger, and now that I finally have it, I think I¡¯ve lost myself along the way.¡± he murmured in reply, half speaking to himself. Absentmindedly, he clenched his fist, feeling the talons dig into his palm and draw blood.

    ¡°Mmm¡­ thoughts of the self¡­ are always hard to answer¡­¡± Kha replied, and for once Willem felt some of the tension leave him. ¡°Ajah only creates life¡­ where his brother would take it¡­¡± he continued after a pause. ¡°Life is a gift¡­ is his gift¡­ but my god does not decide¡­ what it is used for¡­¡± Kha blinked at Willem, those horizontal slits suddenly gleaming with a pride and depth that he had not seen before. ¡°Why are you lost, pup? You are still yourself¡­ as you always were¡­¡±

    ¡°But¡­¡± Willem stammered out in reply, trying to shape into the words the strange emotions that he felt roiling inside of himself.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°This¡­ this is you¡­¡± Kha spoke, jabbing a claw at Willem¡¯s chest. ¡°And the you before¡­ that was also you¡­¡± Willem felt his brows furrow, not understanding. ¡°You will change¡­ you will molt¡­ but you will always be yourself¡­ How can you be lost¡­ when you can never leave the road?¡±

    ¡°But this¡ªthis body, it isn¡¯t me!¡± he protested. ¡°I¡¯m no demon. I¡¯m no beast!¡±

    Kha cocked his head curiously. ¡°This is you¡­ you were first man¡­ and you are now demon¡­ What you once were¡­ does not change what you now are¡­¡± The saurian demon gave another toothy smile before making off to leave, joining the rest of the legions as they walked through the streets. Willem was still clutching the sides of the rain barrel woodenly as he watched Kha leave, his thoughts swirling inside of himself.

    What I once was¡­ what I now am¡­ Once more, he peered at his reflection on the surface of the water. As he watched, a tear fell from the corner of his eye, sending ripples across the smooth image. His muddled reflection seemed to change as he watched, his demonic appearance shifting underneath him. He could still see the eyes of that scared boy, but they were harder now¡ªlike soft steel that had been hammered and tempered. There was an edge to him, a determination that had come from walking too close to death.

    Demon, or man¡­ or something other? He lowered a claw to dip the water, sending more ripples before the first could settle. The image beneath him was neither beast nor man, but something in between. What he had once been, he was no longer. But I am still myself, nevertheless. The thought came to him unbidden, but he found a quiet strength in it. Like the reeds that bent before the storm, only to stand proudly at the end, he too felt a gentle pride in that knowledge. It lent him the strength to tear his gaze away from the water. The water held too many secrets¡ªwhat he was, what he might be, they were all hidden away in those ripples. He did not need to know them.

    He already knew what was was, and that was the him of now.

    This body of his had changed. This mind of his had changed. But Willem closed his eyes slowly, searching inside of himself for the one thing that he knew had not changed, the one thing that had not left his side in this life. When he was young, he had thought it a curse. It had left him begging on the streets, unwanted and uncared for. It had mocked him as he struggled to walk, watched with unmoving eyes as he starved at night. Now, perhaps it was more of a blessing. It lent him his strength when he no longer had any to walk. And so he reached inside of himself for his magic.

    He found it waiting for him with the patient familiarity of an old friend. As he drew that warmth out of his stomach and into his chest, he felt memories flash through his mind. He saw the sky darken, saw the shadows plume into a massive pillar that stretched towards the heavens. He saw Joy and Kha fighting, saw flames dancing across his field of vision. And he remembered. He remembered how helpless he had felt, with this strength that he could not use. He remembered how useless he had felt, only able to watch.

    A memory was not reality, but the feelings inside of him were. They brought the mahji out of his limbs, unbidden and unheeded. The air around him began to crackle with purple static as he remembered, as he promised. Faster and faster, the winds gathered as if to bear witness to his promise. Never again. Never again shall I be that helpless. It was pride, it was arrogance, it was desperation. But then again, all promises were.

    He closed his fist, feeling the air around him grow faster still. It settled around him like a second skin, like a sheet of armor that spun above his skin. And yet, as he closed his fist, he felt it begin to grow smaller. Its speed did not leave, compressing along with its form. More and more magic began to crackle from his pores, his body leaking mahji with his efforts.

    As he watched, the air gathered in his outstretched palm. What had been around him was now in a space no greater than a fruit, spinning impossibly fast. Its center was like a storm, crackling madly with wild purple mahji, its exterior a shell of impenetrable wind.

    He turned to see the rain barrel behind him now overflowing, the water puddling on the cobblestones. He could see his reflection in there once more, tinted with purple. Power crackled from his figure, and yet something ate away at him, forcing him to turn away.

    Why could he not meet his own eyes?

 Book 3: Chapter 17

    Twist. Pluck. Peel. The sun was relentless Ma¡¯sal worked in the fields, joining other freedmen in gathering bloodthorn fruit. He was uncertain what the pulpy, soft fruit was used for, with its runny juice that seemed to flow far too easily. They came in small, studded pods that pricked the fingers, and harvesting them left the hands bruised and ragged at the end of the day.

    Twist. Pluck. Peel. He placed another harvested bloodthorn into the basket next to him before bending down, reaching further into the bramble and nettles to grab another swollen pod. He still remembered his first day in the fields, when he had nearly passed out under this oppressive sun. None of the other laborers had come over to help him that day; they had left him to die in those thorny bushes.

    Twist. Pluck. Pe¡ª The memory had distracted him for a moment, and he had grown careless. His fingers slipped as they peeled back the pod, cutting themselves. A thin bead of blood trickled down his hand, running down his arm as if it wanted to trace the Valanese tattoo carved into the flesh. Irritated, he spat on the wound, licking the line of blood off his skin before harvesting the rest of that pod.

    Twist. Pluck. Peel. How long had it been? Two weeks? Longer? He had lost track of the time. Even if these cultists claimed that he was no slave, he still burned away his days in mindless toil like one. Absentmindedly, he picked up his now-full basket and walked towards the tent, dropping it off and receiving a small bronze token from the hooded overseer in exchange. He touched the coin only to wince sharply at how cold it was, the icy metal stinging his wounded finger to the point of numbness. Hurriedly, he slipped it into his small string pouch before the overseer noticed his reaction, grabbing another basket and returning to the fields.

    Only three tokens today, a part of him winced as he saw the sun hanging low in the sky, knowing that he would not be able to fill another basket before night came. Damn. That would barely be enough for bread. It seemed that he would be sleeping hungry today¡ªbut then again, that gnawing emptiness in his stomach had long since become a familiar friend.

    As the sun set, he heard the piercing whistle of the overseer draw the laborers back to the tent. They all walked with a certain lifeless shuffle; even if they were not slaves, they were not free. There was nowhere for them to run in these burning fields, surrounded by plains and deserts. Every morning, they lost one of their number, finding a broken, lifeless body at the bottom of the cliffs from the night before. Every week, another handful joined their number, hauled from distant shores. Like cogs in a machine, so too did they tiredly turn, waiting for the day when they would finally break and be replaced.

    Ma¡¯sal emptied the contents of his small pouch, taking out the three bronze tokens that he had managed to scavenge before placing them in that scarred, twisted outstretched hand. He tried not to stare too overtly at that gnarled skin, covered in bulging black veins that seemed to crawl over the surface like vines. In payment, he got a small piece of torn bread, already hard and cold. Yet he clutched to it desperately, not trusting his own body not to drop it as he hurriedly shuffled out of the tent.

    Quickly, before it got cold as the deserts did, he made his way to personal tents that the laborers used, lined up in the shadow of that massive spire. As he walked, he managed to catch a glimpse of some more hooded figures kneeled in prayer, as they tended to do at the beginning of the night. Their low-pitched voices floating over the wind as they swayed, linking arms before convulsing and flinging themselves upon the ground. One of their number pulled out what seemed to be a dagger, its point glinting in the low torchlight. Making his way behind the first of the prostrate worshippers, he held the blade against the man¡¯s throat and¡ª

    The man whipped his head around, as if staring straight at Ma¡¯sal.

    Ma¡¯sal turned away instantly, his face burning red and his heart jumping into his throat. He nearly dashed into the tent, refusing to look above his feet as he clutched his small roll of bread. What were they¡ªno, he could not think about it. These men were cultists, worshippers of some strange god of Nights and Shadows. Nothing good could come from them.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    So then why do you stay? The thought came suddenly, unwelcome.He stayed because there was nowhere else to go, not if he wanted to live.

    So then why do you live? Ma¡¯sal swallowed hard, remembering those broken figures at the bottom of the cliff. He was not nearly so foolish as to lie to himself¡ªhe lived because he was afraid, because he was too cowardly to see what lay behind that curtain. He was too scared to meet his father, the man¡¯s body covered in flames as he burned.

    He forced his thoughts away from death, hiding in the safety of his tent as he tore into the bread. It was not nearly enough, gone in mere moments. The food had only been enough to wake his starving stomach from its slumber, and now it howled at him for more with a voice that would not be silenced.

    Shut up, he reprimanded himself, rubbing his stomach and lying down on the hard earth. Sleep always came roughly in these lands, and he would wake in the mornings with sore limbs and back, but there was nothing to be done for it. Yet as he closed his eyes, trying to rest for the tiresome day that would come tomorrow, he found himself unable to sleep.

    Ma¡¯sal tossed and turned on the ground, rolling on his side and curling tight as his cursed stomach throbbed. It was utterly empty¡ªblood and bones, it hurt! He grit his teeth, feeling the too-cold air rush into his lungs, and he was rewarded with a fresh stab of pain from his stomach.

    Breathing hard to try and calm himself down, he knelt down in the tent for a few heartbeats before nearly yelling in frustration. Damnit. Damnit! He could not sleep, not like this. There was no punishment for thievery, was there? If there was, then it would only be death at most. He smirked. That much, I can live with.

    Cautiously, he stuck his head out of the tent. Night fell quickly¡ªtoo quickly in these strange lands. It was never this dark in Ossia; only these heathen southern lands were this strange. His eyes squinted, the meager torchlight from the distribution tent guttering out in the wind. There were no shadows that moved in there, the rest of the laborers having already gotten their meals long ago. Perhaps¡­

    No, not yet. The overseer was still moving inside, from the flickering shadow that was there on the side of the tent. Patient, he told himself, nearly biting his tongue in frustration. Be a little patient¡­

    Finally, the man left. As he walked out of the tent, the torch guttered out almost instantly, plunging the lands into darkness. There was little moon in these lands, its light always shrouded by clouds. Ma¡¯sal had not seen the stars in weeks. Damn these cursed southern lands.

    The hooded man retreated into the temple, and then still Ma¡¯sal forced himself to wait. His stomach screamed for him to run, to dash over before anyone was any the wiser. Yet he suppressed the instinct, forced it aside as he waited still. He counted in his head, feeling his heart thump loudly in his chest. And finally, when his count had passed one-thousand, he dared to take the first step out of his tent.

    He felt naked as he made that short distance to the distribution tent. It was such a short distance, and yet he nearly felt as if someone might shoot him through with a bolt at any moment. He nearly hide behind the tent when he finally reached it, pulling back the entrance only to realize that it was too dark for him to see inside.

    Blood and bones! He could not fumble around like a blind man, knocking over everything inside for the hooded men to find in the morning! Gritting his teeth, his eyes flickered down to his left arm, to the Valanese tattoo that his mother had given him. To guide you when the seas are stormy. To light your path through the dark. That was what she had said.

    Well, the second certainly seemed most apt for the current situation. Biting down hard, he held out his arm so that the tattoo was facing up, its curves and swirls visible in the thin traces of moonlight that made it through the clouds. With his right hand, he dug his nails into his flesh, forcing them in deeper until he drew blood.

    Clawing away at the skin, he carved along the lines of the tattoo, blood welling up underneath. Light, he nearly swore, tears filling his eyes in pain. Give me light! And with the last gash, he felt his body respond to the prayer. His blood bubbled, the liquid on his arm suddenly bursting into a bright flame. It was a small fire, dim like a candle, but it was enough as he made his way into the tent.

    And as he took his first step inside, he saw a sole hooded figure inside, as if waiting for him.

 Book 3: Chapter 18

    Ma¡¯sal felt his heart leap into his throat, felt his limbs suddenly grow weak from an abrupt fear. Without the concentration needed to maintain whatever Valanese magic his mother had blessed him with, the tattoo abruptly guttered out, plunging the interior of the tent into an eerie darkness. His eyes, blinded by the sudden loss of light, were useless to him. Ma¡¯sal could not see anything, could only feel the dull trickle of blood down his arm as he waited for his vision to adjust. His thoughts had abandoned him in the moment, leaving him rooted in place even as the hooded person turned to face him.

    Run! Some primal part of his mind screamed basic instinct at him, and yet his legs felt heavier to lift than lead, felt as though they had fused into the earth. He could do nought but stare and smile as that person slowly raised a hand to lower their hood. And yet, something was off about them. That arm seemed too slender, that hand too immaculate. Unlike the other hooded men, his skin was free of black veins, was free of that corruption from whatever dark god they worshipped.

    And as that hood fell away, Ma¡¯sal once again found his thoughts stolen away from him.

    He found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even in the little shrouded moonlight, her caramel skin glinted with teasing hints where they slipped out of the covers of her robe. Curls of deep black hair feel over her shoulders, tussling casually in the night wind in a way that only accentuated her exotic beauty. Her eyes were pools of brown, full of hidden meaning as he found himself utterly captivated, unable to look away.

    It was not until he felt a burning sensation in his chest that he realized in his rapture, he had forgotten to breathe. The cold air was a shuddering call to reality, as he suppressed the part of his mind that was kneeling in worship of her. Woman or not, she was still one of the cultists¡ªand he was still caught in the distribution tent in the middle of the night.

    Could he outrun her? But then where could he even run to? No, this route had ended completely, utterly, in a dead end. Inwardly, Ma¡¯sal swore at himself for being such a fool, even as the woman slowly turned away from him and reached into one of the nearby baskets.

    Wordlessly, he watched as she pulled out a small loaf of bread, stuffed with fish and pickled vegetables in the style of the east. She did not say anything as she gave it to him, placed the still-warm food in his stunned hands. Then, before he could even react, she pulled up her hood and strode past him, leaving the tent and walking out into the dark night.

    ¡°Wait!¡± Ma¡¯sal hurriedly spoke, only to wince at the sudden noise in the middle of the night. ¡°W-who are you?¡± he whispered, watching with bated breath as she turned only to give him a whimsical smile on those full lips. Then, she slipped out of the tent, leaving the stunned Skaavosi to his own thoughts.

    The loaf of bread seemed almost an illusion, too wonderful to be true, and he was half of a mind to devour it then and there, in the middle of the tent. And yet greater than his greed was his fear, and Ma¡¯sal cautiously stuck his head out to gaze off into the night. The hooded woman was nowhere to be found, seemingly having vanished into thin air as the cultists were wont to do. Clutching his ill-gotten prize close to his chest, he braved the cold night air as he made his way back to his tent, peering blearily for any searching eyes before huddling inside those cloth and leather walls.

    Once safe, he let out a held breath of relief. His fingers had pressed deep into the bread, causing the nearly-burnt surface to flake and crumble onto the sandy ground. Hesitantly, yet unable to resist the shouts of his stomach any longer, he bit into the loaf. It was dry and salty, the fish little more than jerky, the pickled roots difficult to chew to the point of pain. Yet to him, it was a blissful heaven as he took bite after bite, feeling his too-starved stomach suddenly swell with the long-deprived nourishment. The loaf, nearly the size of his forearm, was gone in a matter of seconds.

    His stomach cried out for more, but he forced feeling¡ªweaker now¡ªdown as he opened the flap of his tent, checking once more if any hooded men had caught him. Seeing none, he curled up on the floor of his tent, feeling that warmth in his belly slowly lull him to sleep.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    His dreams were muddled, filled with images of that beautiful woman that he had seen. Was was it about her that was so alluring? He tossed and turned, unable to shake her from his mind until she was burned indelibly into his thoughts. Finally, as the uncaring sun once more burned in through the fabric of his tent, he heard the tolling bells summon him back to work once more.

    His muscles were stiff from the poor sleep, his mind befuddled as he stumbled out of his tent into the sunlight. His body was operating on little more than instinct, on dull repetition drilled into him by slaving away for weeks in these lands. He joined the other laborers in line, preparing to gather a basket before making their way into the bloodthorn bushes. A slight nervousness filled his body as he neared the hooded overseer, the scarred man¡¯s expression and thoughts hidden behind that cloth. Had they noticed anything from last night? Had he been caught somehow? Ma¡¯sal fought to keep his movements regular, to shuffle forward dully with his eyes fixed to the ground.

    Fortunately, it seemed as though he had indeed escaped detection and that the hooded woman had not ratted him out. Why she would do such a thing, he certainly no idea. He merely grabbed his basket, hurriedly shuffling out into the field.

    His thoughts were still filled with that hooded woman as he knelt down, his fingers plucking a palm sized fruit from the vines and peeling away the thorns. Could he see her again? What if he were to hide in the tent again tonight, would she be there waiting? The day passed in dull monotony, his thoughts preoccupied and his movements dulled by thought. At the end of the day, his hands were covered with knicks, his fingers bleeding crimson rivulets.

    Three tokens, he dully noted, hardly even processing as he mechanically deposited them in the hands of the hooded man, receiving a small loaf of bread for his troubles. It was not the stuffed kind he had been given last night¡ªthose were for the hooded men. His was burnt scraps, charred loaves that hurt his teeth to chew. Yet he took it nevertheless, returning to his tent as was expected for him as the sun once more hid.

    Kneeling down, he picked at a worn corner of his tent where the fabric had been weathered away. Slowly, he worked the cloth, tearing the hole larger until it was large enough for him to peer through. He could see the other laborers returning to their tents, could see the hooded men taking food of their own before leaving. He watched as the walked towards their temple, passing his own tent along the way. He held his breath, his heart skyrocketing even as he tried to keep calm. You haven¡¯t done anything, he told himself, trying to dispel the guilt that nevertheless clung to him. They have no reason to stop here. And indeed their strides took them past his tent, but still he waited until they had wholly disappeared before breathing again.

    He stared intently, watching the distribution tent for any signs of movement in the night. In the end, he was so preoccupied that he did not even notice the shuffling of feet from the side facing the tent and was utterly caught off guard as the flap to his own tent was drawn open softly.

    Again, he found himself rooted to the spot as she peered in, her lips drawn up into an entrancing smile before she pressed a single finger to them, gesturing for him to remain silent.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± Ma¡¯sal stammered out desperately, awkwardly standing.

    ¡°I¡¯m Tsaya.¡± she whispered back, and her voice was like honey as it coursed through his blood. ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to talk with you, but I think you have questions.¡± Blood and bones, what was her accent? He felt himself growing lightheaded just listening, as if he was drunk on her voice; it had a slight lilt to it, like she was from one of the islands south of the Skaavosi Isles.

    She gave a furtive glance outside the tent before speaking again. ¡°I think that there¡¯s more to you than drying out in the sun like a prune. Join the temple, tell them that you¡¯ve spoken with the night. They¡¯ll know.¡± She pulled back, as if making to leave, and Ma¡¯sal reached out with an arm to stop her.

    ¡°You¡¯ll get the answers that you want, and if nothing else, there¡¯ll be more of the stuffed bread.¡± A light smirk danced across her lips, once again making Ma¡¯sal feel lightheaded and stifling his words before they could escape his throat. Before he could find his voice again, she gave a small wave before disappearing from the tent. Ma¡¯sal was once again left alone, facing only his own thoughts as he struggled to regain his wits.

    Join the temple? He peered down at his bloody fingers, at his bruised body.

 Book 3: Chapter 19

    ¡°My king,¡± the young pup called out as he stuck his head out of the doorway to invite him in, ¡°they have arrived.¡±

    Joy looked up, nodding briskly before standing up. In his claws was a small flower, a remnant of old memories and older family. It was entirely translucent, its stem and petals seemingly fashioned out of glass as they reflected the incoming light with a glint. Yet, as he gently traced the edge of a single petal,he watched as it its surface rippled and folded like that of any other flower. Glass lilies, he knew, snapping the stem in half and watching the purple sparks of mahji crackle out of the sap inside.

    Their fragrance was a delicate thing, filling him with nostalgia as a smiling face with flaming red hair danced through his memories. So long ago, it seemed like they had came to this accursed castle together, and then only one of them had left. And now he had returned, still without her. Sister, he thought tiredly, letting the glass lily fall to the dirt. I will finish what you started.

    With that single thought filling him with determination, he let a low rumble claw out of his chest as he made his way into the room. The abrupt dimness left him blind momentarily, his mind lancing with pain as he struggled to reorient himself. It was still difficult to use his senses, even after so many months of familiarity. There were still times when he was caught off guard, when he felt his mind being denied to him, and he thought he might end up floating in that unfeeling darkness that he had visited after Sin shattered his mind. For a tentative moment, his heart plummeted and panic coursed through his veins¡ªat least, until his vision began to adjust and he could see clearly once more.

    Inside the small building, the Swords of the legions had gathered. Most were familiar faces, having bound themselves to him earlier with Kha¡¯s help. Yet there were three that were new, their faces still young and fresh, if scarred and gaunt from their suffering inside the Capitol. Their expressions were lined with a quiet concern, a nervousness that bled into skepticism even as they kept their eyes flickering throughout the room. They were thoroughly outnumbered by the other Swords, but that did not stop the young men from fingering their hilts anxiously. Joy could not help but let out a smirk at this; as if a blade of steel would be enough to stop a Shai¡¯mon.

    ¡°Finally,¡± the one of the right spoke, his skin scarred and tanned to a shade barely lighter than that of the old Malifori. His hair was a sandy gold as well, falling shaggy over his eyes like a legion cut that grown out too long. ¡°We¡¯ve been waiting for you to arrive. Now will someone explain for five and three curses what is going on?¡± His eyes simmered with heat, a certain iron that was admirable¡ªif foolish.

    ¡°Your name?¡± Joy growled back, refusing to answer the pup¡¯s question. This was a game of posture and pretense; it was familiar territory for him. Stand down, and this pup would gain arrogance. He had to be bent first, made to kneel so that he would take to the mold. And so Joy stood up straight, his usually hunched frame now fully swallowing the doorframe as he glowered down, the legionary now completely encompassed by shadow.

    ¡°Mathas.¡± the young man replied almost instantly, some of his legion training making the response instinctual, but he bit back the ¡°sir¡± that typically followed and squared his chin instead. ¡°I was Second Sword, but our Third died and I was nominated to take his place. Those are my men you¡¯re commanding. I need to know what hellhole you intend to have them die in.¡± The boy¡¯s voice had a hint of a tremor in it, but it was barely noticeable. Impressive, Joy could not help but acknowledge, feeling all the more respect that the pup could stand his ground like this. Joy had tried to posture first, but the push had been driven back. He had come out the lesser in this first change of blows.

    Out of the corner of his eyes, Joy could see the rest of the Swords¡ªhis Swords¡ªstirring nervously, their expressions mingled as if internally wrestling something. Not good, this pup¡¯s insolence was sparking fires of resistance in the spine of his own army. Even Mors merely watched with a raised eyebrow, growing arrogant in the tense atmosphere. Joy drew in a deep breath, thinking on how he could take back the momentum.

    ¡°Do you know of the Outlands, boy?¡± he snarled, opening his claws. The pup¡¯s eyes went wide, his mouth falling slack as old rumors and nightmares suddenly clawed out of their graves. ¡°I was born there. I hunted there. And I was hunted.¡±

    ¡°Things aren¡¯t the same in the Outlands; they aren¡¯t as nice as life in the Capital, in your warm little Heartlands. There the night comes alive, and the shadows come alive when night falls. You know of these things, yes?¡±

    ¡°Stupid lies!¡± one of the other boys spoke up, trying to hide of sweat and shiverings with volume. ¡°They¡¯re nothing more than stupid fables mothers tell to keep their children in bed. Everyone knows shadows don¡¯t come alive.¡±If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°Nay, but they do.¡± Mors spoke up suddenly, his voice low and rasping, his expression haunted and sallow as he remembered that fight. ¡°I was there at the Yearning, when House Savos marched on House Florell. I was a Third in the Florell legions. I was also one of a handful of Florell to march off the field that day. There were no Savos left to stand.¡±

    ¡°It was Savos archers that took our lives. It living shadows that took theirs. I was there that day when the skies fell black in the middle of the day. I was there that day when black mist swallowed men whole. I saw boys your age and younger turning into ice under their armor. I saw their skin break and their frozen bodies shatter. I saw them blow away into dust just from a single touch of that shadow. Don¡¯t tell me they¡¯re lies, boy. They¡¯re too terrible to be lies.¡± Mors finished gruffly, his eyes glinting as if they were made of glass. There was an emptiness behind those eyes, not from absent mindedness but rather from choice. It was a blankness that came from pushing memories away, memories that were better spent forgotten.

    ¡°Enough of this.¡± Joy finally snarled out, seeing the pups quivering so badly it seemed they might fall over in the breeze. ¡°The shadows are coming for us. They have left the Outlands and they are coming for us. Malifor to the south has fallen. The Capital itself nearly fell. I do not fight for your sake; I fight for my own. Your choice, as of now, is twofold: stand beside me, or die before me.¡±

    He glowered menacingly at the young pups, watching as the building pressure in the room made their blood fade from their faces. Yet that yellow-haired one continued to show backbone, refusing to be squashed underneath.

    ¡°Must we serve? Must we kneel? You say stand beside you, but I know of no demons in the old tales that fought nobly alongside men.¡± Veins stood out on his forehead as he spoke, his skin beet red as he fought not to tremble. It was not until the tent flap suddenly flew open that the atmosphere in the room managed to be breathable again, the soldier suddenly sinking back with a gasp as everyone turned to look at the newcomer.

    ¡°My apologies¡­ my king¡­¡± Kha hissed lowly, his slitted eyes flickering ominously over the three Swords. ¡°Is it enough¡­ to begin now?¡±

    ¡°Begin what?¡± the loud one named Mathas screamed out shrilly, clearly thrown off by the lizard-like demon. ¡°What are you doing demon?¡±

    Joy growled, feeling reminded of flies that buzzed around the ears, stupid enough to be unaware of the danger that they were in. ¡°You ask whether you will stand beside me or serve beneath me. I will give you that choice now, and you will answer it.¡± Behind him, Kha began to chant under his breath, the words sounding almost like mutterings on the wind. Slowly, the dim room began to grow brighter as purple coils of mahji danced from the fingertips of the Oa¡¯kul.

    ¡°W-what are you doing?¡± the soldier cried out, starting to run forward for the door only to be stopped by two of Joy¡¯s Swords to either side of him. The men¡¯s eyes were low-lidded, the skin underneath their sockets glowing a dim purple. There was mahji that crackled in their veins, barely visible in the low light.

    ¡°What is the meaning of this, demon?¡± the impetuous blonde one hissed out even as he struggled with his own captors that were holding him still. Almost all of the Swords in the room now were glowing with mahji, the compulsion turning their bodies stiff. The only ones still unaffected were the three young Swords, the demons, and Mors in the corner. The old Third Sword merely watched impassively, a plethora of emotions playing out behind his eyes but none coming to the surface.

    ¡°You will choose.¡± Joy growled out, and Kha¡¯s chanting picked up speed. The coils of magic spun themselves into a noose that fell onto the soldier¡¯s head. Each one of the men could only watch helplessly as the mahji sank into their skulls, its glowing suddenly stifled like a lantern under a blanket. ¡°You will choose.¡±

    Brighter now, the mahji glowed as their skin began to flush pink. Their veins suddenly bulged with exertion, their jaws locking tight as they gave little twitches of resistance. Then, abruptly, the first one gave in. It was the loud one¡ªMathas¡ªand he crumpled like his spine had been snapped. All the life flew out of him as he collapsed, held upright only by the two Swords on either side of him. Then, after a moment¡¯s pause, he slowly looked up.

    ¡°I choose to serve.¡± the boy intoned dully, his eyes glinting with hints of purple.

    Next came the second, his body falling limp as well, his voice echoing through the confines of that room as Kha worked his magic. The Oa¡¯kul ruled the domain of the mind, and these shackles were but child¡¯s play to the channeler. A mere matter of suppression and amplification, as Joy understood it. Repress suspicion. Enhance loyalty. Repress confusion. Enhance obedience. ¡°I choose to serve.¡±

    It was the blonde one who lasted the longest. His face was nearly the same hue as the mahji by the end, his eyes bloodshot and struggling to remain open. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth, trickling down his chin to slowly drip onto the floor. Joy was impressed¡ªthe only one who had lasted this long was Mors. The old soldier had managed to resist Kha¡¯s mindshackles to the end, standing weary but still whole even as the demon could only apologize.

    This boy was not Mors.

    There was no crack in the air, but his body crumpled as if struck by a whip. His stillness remained for nearly a minute before his shoulders heaved, his lungs dragging in a new breath. Coughing, he blinked blearily before looking up to meet Joy¡¯s gaze.

    ¡°I choose to serve.¡±

 Book 3: Chapter 20

    As Kha finished his magic, the wild energy that filled the air slowly faded away. The men in the room blinked slowly, their wits no longer clouded by the influence of suggestion. Many of them seemed confused at first, their gazes unfocused as they slowly twitched and regained full control of their faculties. Mors watched impassively, his stoic face masking whatever multitude of emotions he felt behind his eyes.

    Joy was worried about the man¡ªit was only reasonable to be. No human ought to be that strong of will, nor that steeled of mind. What does he seek? Why does he play along so willingly? The doubts clung at the back of the demon¡¯s mind like so many insects, like so many skal dancing in the corner of his eyes.

    ¡°Well then,¡± he growled out, recapturing the Swords¡¯ attentions as they recollected their wits. ¡°If we are all in agreement, there is much still to be done.¡±

    ¡°My king¡­ the men in the legions still need to be¡­ commanded¡­¡± Kha hissed softly in Joy¡¯s ear as a reminder. Joy felt his ears twitch in irritation, a short hiss of annoyance escaping his opened maws.

    ¡°You Swords will sort out your own mess.¡± he growled finally, after pacing about for some heartbeats. The more he tried to comprehend the intricacies of army bureaucracy and logistics, the more he wished to claw open his own skull. Each Third Sword would come with their own needs, their own reasons why their men needed more steel and more rations. Each man would plot and scheme in an effort to curry favor with his superior. To Joy, it felt as if he was watching so many ants fighting over a single drop of honey, the bugs attempting all manner of subterfuge and trickery over something utterly inconsequential.

    Let them squabble over whatever mess they have created, he finally decided, throwing up his arms in exasperation and hoping that his attentions by needed in this matter no longer. ¡°So long as I only need to go to one man to command the legions, I care not how you carve up the pig and fight over the meat.¡±

    Almost immediately, he could see the hungry glances in their eyes as the Swords glanced at their competition. Even facing the end of the world, they still could not help but fight like pups mewling over scraps. Of course, they still do not think this threat real, no matter how loudly I tell them. That would prove a problem as well; the legionaries themselves largely were unmotivated in this fight. They would draw their swords only because their superiors told them to, and that line would not hold against the skal. The first time that they meet the shadows on the field, half of their number would be frozen in fear and the other half running in an instant.

    He needed to warn them, but more than that, he needed to show them. Show them why they were up against. Show them why they needed to fight. Show them why they had to fight. If he could convince them that this was something worth dying for, only then would that line hold against the skal¡¯va.

    Or so Kha had promised him. Joy himself proved no more a master of human hearts than a tree was.

    Indeed, this sentiment was proved to him not a minute after to left that strangled, confined room. Mors had hurried to catch up to Joy, the man¡¯s expression one of mingled pain and fury. There were old hurts behind those eyes, but he controlled himself so that none of it bled out when he spoke.

    ¡°What was that?¡± Mors seethed slowly, his veins popping out of his skin as he whispered. Purple mahji still clung to the edges of his eyes, crackling a little as it mingled into the air. His voice was trembling at the edges, as if he was barely able to suppress himself.

    Joy paused and stopped, turning to gaze back at the man square in the eye without giving a response. Mors dragged in a ragged breath before elaborating.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°The men back there¡ªwhat did you do to them? Y-you¡¯ve tried to do that before, haven¡¯t you?¡± he accused.

    ¡°Not tried.¡± Joy replied simply, tossing his head. ¡°Did. With the others. You were the only that resisted.¡±

    Mors¡¯s expression grew dark at the admission, his fingers trembling gently and his eyes growing unfocused. ¡°Aye, I remember. I didn¡¯t¡ªdidn¡¯t want to remember until you reminded me with that damned show back there.¡± The mahji popped in his eye, singing the skin near the eyelid and causing a small rivulet of blood to trickle down the side of his cheek, but he was too deep in thought to notice.

    ¡°Why? Why did you magick their minds away?¡± he asked, his expression stormy and glassy, seeming to drag the sunlight away in spite of the halfday sun.

    Again, Joy shook his head. ¡°The mindshackles are more of a compulsion than a seal. As Kha describes it, certain emotions are magnified. Others are repressed. Do it to enough of an extreme, and any word I speak will carry the weight of a god behind it.¡± he explained, his tone gruff.

    ¡°But why?¡± Mors demanded, insistent. Joy could only snarl in irritation. Men were such petty, such simple creatures. They valued their independence to the point of idiocy, fighting because agreeing would be too easy. Even this man, this supposed commander, could not see how an army that did not question him, how an army that listened to his orders flawlessly, was a boon. Truly, his crow-cursed morals had left him blind.

    This was no time for morals. This was no time to be righteous. This was a time to rule, to seize. There was no room for error against the skal, and that meant there could be no room to be questioned.

    ¡°The legions are like a man, yes? The legionaries are the limbs, the blood, the body. But it is the mind that controls them, the Swords that command the men. It is the First Swords that command the shield walls, and it is the Second Swords that command the Firsts.¡± Joy explained with a delicate patience, as if speaking to an impetuous child.

    ¡°And above them all, are the Third Swords. A normal legion should have three, but this blasted creature has over ten. So if I want to control my legion, I need to control its head. And I cannot have ten-and-two men squabbling like pups, only half-heartedly carrying out my commands while they try to fight for power.¡± Joy clenched his fist tightly, irritation causing him to draw blood from his palm.

    ¡°I need absolute obedience. That is the only way to get this mess of ants to listen. Control the Swords; control the men.¡±

    Mors paused at this, his mind wrestling with his instincts to reject the notion. ¡°And me? How am I supposed to know that I don¡¯t have these mindshackles on me?¡± he asked.

    Joy merely shrugged. ¡°You are questioning me right now, are you not? If you had them, why would you question my words?¡±

    Mors narrowed his eyes in suspicion, the man¡¯s mind starting to chase itself in circles. ¡°Unless that it what you wanted me to think.¡± he started, and Joy sighed in exasperation.

    ¡°If you with to swallow your own tail, then so be it. Then I suppose you will have to trust me on that account.¡± Joy snarled out, having enough of this conversation.

    ¡°Now then, Third Sword. Will to return to your legion? Your men need to receive their runeblades, and that means they need to turn over their swords. I am told that will be a mess to manage, and I am glad that I have someone ready for it.¡± he growled out pointedly, gesturing with a tilt of the head towards the camp for Mors to get to work. The Capital had proved too much of a mess to house the legion, and the complex of tents and small wooden buildings had merely expanded with the inclusion of the former Mace legion.

    Mors drew his mouth tight in a thin line, but he gave a slight nod of the head before starting towards the tents. ¡°And do check on Jhossa. The man seems a little too intrigued by the runeblades for my taste. They are difficult things to manufacture, and I would much rather that he did not pilfer one for his own studies.¡± Joy called out after him.

    Joy turned as Mors left, his gaze stretching out over the mess of men that covered the hills like ants. Slipping into his thoughts, he was startled slightly as a voice called out for him in the distance.

    ¡°You might be able to force the men to listen. You might force them to fight. But you cannot force their hearts to kneel before you. Not unless you can magick the minds of every legionary here.¡± Mors yelled back as he walked.

    ¡°You need to win their hearts if you want them to die for you.¡±

 Book 3: Chapter 21

    Metal was an irritating thing to magick. It was not like the soft, pliable flesh of men. It was not like the capricious flowing of the stirring air or of the trickling water. Metal did not bend. Metal did not yield. It, unlike the earth, did not break. It, unlike fire, did not change. Truly, Willem could not help but notice, metal was strange.

    To channel magic into metal, one had to find the lattice and sent power through it. It was a curious thing¡ªthe lattice was like a fine web, or like the grain in wood. Pressing magic against the lattice was like trying to cut against the grain, with barrier after barrier dispersing the energy. The first time that he had tried enchanting a runeblade, Willem had fallen into that fallacy; forty minutes of effort had left him with no progress and completely drained of mahji.

    Yet unlike the grain in wood or muscle, the metal lattice was unorganized in its structure. Folding and hammering left the strips uneven to find, and often when he wanted to send the mahji to a point, the path ended before reaching the destination. Carve the runes, he told himself irritatedly, and then fill them with power. That blasted demon had made it sound so simple, but trying to get the mahji to reach the runes was like solving a maze each time.

    Once more, he reached inside himself for the mahji, rubbed his fingers against the hollow runes that had been carved into the steel in the spine of the blade. Carefully he felt the ribbons of magic pour through his arms and out of his fingers, into the metal. The material ate it greedily, swallowing more and more of his mahji as he tried to direct it. It was like a flood being poured into a hundred rivers, and he was trying to find which river reached the lake. And yet, as he pressed more and more mahji, it felt as though none of the paths were successful. The rivers all tried up, the flood receding, and he opened his eyes to see the purple sparks of mahji crackling helplessly on the surface of the steel. Useless, he thought as he gasped for breath, trying to resist the frustrated urge to throw the blade on the ground.

    A slight rattle off to the side distracted him from his word, and he looked up to see a familiar face drop off a few more swords in a crate. It was a moment before Willem recalled who it was¡ªthe wounded legionary that had came to him for aid. The arm seemed to have healed as well as it could have without a Me¡¯jai in the camp, although he still kept it bandaged and treated well with salve.

    ¡°They have you doing manual labor then?¡± Willem asked, startling the man somewhat until a distracted blush crept across his face.

    ¡°Aye. I can¡¯t fight much with a wounded arm, so they won¡¯t have me doing drills either. In any case, there¡¯s too many men in camp and not enough people drawing short straws for logistics, so¡ª¡± He shrugged, smiling lightly. ¡°Besides, we can always use more latrines.¡±

    Willem nodded, something that he hoped passed for a smile stretching across his face as well, in spite of his mood. It was good to see someone else in higher spirits, and it felt good to see that he had helped. Crows, how long has it been since I felt like I was truly helping? And not this damned smith work either¡ªhelping lives. He shook his head gently, for he knew the answer to that question as well: too long. Too long practicing, not enough time spent doing.

    Willem looked up to see the man making his way back to the camp, awkwardly rubbing his sore arm. He could see the other soldiers drilling in the field, could hear the shouts of the Swords and Shields and could hear the grunts of the legionaries. He could even see the demons wrestling in the mud, the pups squabbling amongst themselves as children were prone to do. The air was punctuated with the shrill staccato of their calls, occasionally sizzling and popping as gouts of flame spat out of their mouths. Yet there was a strange peace that hung in the air from the whole scene, something that was rare to find in these days and would only grow rarer.

    He should have known the peace would not last.

    Shouts filled the air to the west, towards the plains by the Kingsroad, where the horses had been set out to graze. Willem looked over to see some of the horses behaving strangely, buckling over and collapsing to the ground with strange twitches. Hurriedly, he set the blade down onto the ground, hardly caring as the steel rattled harshly against the stone. His attention was instead fixed on the strange animals, as their legs buckled and suddenly twisted in a hideous motion. It was something abhorrent, something warped, as if he was watching their reflection in a shattered mirror.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    One after one, the animals collapsed with loud brays, attracting a handful of legionaries to rush over. No! Willem thought hurriedly, yet his body was two steps behind his mind. His claws were outstretched, the air rushing through his lungs, but his throat had yet to give birth to voice when the ground under the horses suddenly shimmered. No! No, no, no¡­ Willem could only think in belated terror as a familiar black smoke billowed off the ground.

    Those three soldiers tried to stop, but their momentum carried them forwards in spite of their wishes. Their boots dug into the ground, dust and dirt mingling with that black mist as the shadows under the horses writhed and twisted. The men¡¯s faces were covered with fear, with a mingled terror as the skal lunged towards them.

    In an instant, there was the sickening squelch of flesh and bone, the violent spray of crimson that fountained into the air. That curtain of blood froze as it touched the black mist, like some grotesque work of art as the men turned rigid, impaled on those spears of shadow. Then, their flesh turning gray and black, they began to crumble into dust in the wind.

    ¡°Stay back!¡± Willem shouted out at some of the legionaries that seemed to want to help their friends. He bolted towards the horses, desperation and anger filling him as he ran. I was helpless last time. I was useless last time.

    But this time, I¡¯m ready.

    Reaching for the pit of his stomach, he found the mahji there coiled, as if waiting for him. It looped easily in his grasp, pulled up through his limbs as if nothing more than string. And as he felt that wild power crackling through him, purple mahji rippled out of his claws to trail behind him in a storm. Exhilaration filled him as he ran, an exuberance that came with success.

    He was fond of wind, but wind would not kill the skal. Only one thing could harm the shadows: only fire could make them crumble back into ash. Burn! He thought excitedly, feeling the mahji accede to his demands in a way that it never had before. Smolder and burn!

    That black mist stirred in the wind, but Willem clapped his claws out in front of him so that the ribbons of mahji coiled in the air before him. Those cords of arcane power blasted the mist apart with a crackling hiss, like that of ice sublimating to steam. BURN! He urged the mahji, pleaded with it as the ribbons danced near the twisting shadows. And finally, like a blessed light, he saw that first spark catch in front of his claws.

    It spread into an inferno in an instant, the entire length of mahji bursting into brilliant white-orange. The air rippled with an explosion of heat, his vision going white from the sudden change. Even his lungs seemed to be seared by the flame, as if the air inside of him had abruptly gained a thousand degrees. Pain shot through his mind as he nearly crumpled over in surprise, but he fought to remain standing. Yes! He tried to maintain focus. This was it.

    His vision was blinded for the moment, but he could still hear. He could hear the crackling of the flame, that telltale popping noise of mahji as it burned. And he could hear the hissing screams of the skal, that beautiful chorus of noise as the black shadows were swallowed by flame. As his sight began to recover, he could spy those dark bodies dancing in the middle of the white, struggling in some way to put out the fire in futility. He watched as their bodies grew smaller and smaller, more and more of them being burnt into unmoving, glorious ash.

    It could not happen fast enough.

    Riding his high of adrenaline and exuberance, Willem let out an involuntary howl of success as the fire poured out of his claws. More! MORE! The skal twitched and screamed and died in front of him, surrounded by the blaze. And then, they were utterly extinguished.

    Finally, Willem severed the flow of mahji to the flame, feeling a sensation of emptiness and lethargy suddenly well up inside of him as if it had merely been suppressed before. It struck him like a wall and he collapsed, coughing madly as his lungs were seared by heat and smoke. Blood splattered on the grass in front of him, a throbbing pain twitching in the pit of his stomach as he suffered the backlash of his spell. Blood and bones, he cursed inwardly as he felt the edges of his vision dotting black. Too much magic, I drew too much.

    Then there was no more time for thoughts, as sleep snuck up on him and stole them away.

 Book 3: Chapter 22

    When he stirred, Willem felt a dull throbbing in his head. The light that filtered in through his eyes was disorienting and painful, the world around him spinning on its axis. Dried blood had crusted in the back of his throat, and it flaked into his lungs as he dragged in a deep breath.

    Coughing hard, he struggled to rise. He was inside of some tent¡ªlegion, perhaps? He was uncertain, and his current condition was not conducive to deductive work. ¡°Blood and bones.¡± he swore, the words ironically apt for the situation. He struggled to remain conscious; every fiber of his body wanted nothing more than to collapse and return to a state of blissful ignorance. But this was important. Joy needed to know what had happened.

    What had happened?

    He groaned as he tried to remember, his thoughts and memories jumbled up like a bookshelf that had been knocked over. There¡­ there had been skal around the horses¡­ He struggled to try and remember. The horses¡­ And he remembered the men that had ran over, their bodies speared on the skal. And he remembered¡­ he remembered fire. Glorious, brilliant fire. And yet as he pressed further, his head throbbed with pain.

    Willem tossed his head gently, feeling the blood boom off the sides of his skull like waves crashing onto rocks. Later¡­ think about it later. He stood up, swaying on the spot as balance eluded him. His ears were filled with the poundings of his own heart, yet faintly he could also make out the sounds of something outside the legion tent.

    Bracing himself, he slowly trudged over and pulled back the flap, feeling the glaring sunlight strike him like a spear. He blinked hard, his eyes watering in reflex and his ears caught off guard by the sounds of talking.

    As his vision cleared, Willem made out the legions all sprawled out of the field, over two thousand men dotting the grasses. They were busy talking, their faces clearly marked with concern and lingering fear. There was an air of uneasiness about the entire congregation, their eyes flickering every so often as if they were afraid that the skal would come again. It was a curious thing, the minds of men¡ªthey worried so deeply about something they had no capacity to change. Should there really have been skal in the shadows, they could neither fight it nor run from it in this crowd.

    He stumbled over next to one of the legionaries that was gathered, moving noisily so that the man would not be startled. A look of mingled surprise and mild fear crossed  the man¡¯s face, but he did not try to run away.

    ¡°W-what¡¯s going on?¡± Willem gasped out, his vision still swimming as if he had been struck across the temples. ¡°Why is everyone here?¡±

    The man seemed shocked that the demon could talk, but he got over the surprise relatively quickly. This was a place for strangeness, after all. Speech was hardly the oddest thing to have happened as of recently.

    ¡°They told us to gather here after what happened yesterday.¡± he shrugged.

    ¡°And just what happened yesterday?¡± Willem asked.

    The soldier raised his eyebrows, about to answer only for one of his friends to tap his shoulder. They whispered something to each other before the other man backed off. ¡°There was something that killed the horses and ten men as well. Some of the men that were watching said something about shadows moving, but no one could really make out much.¡± he explained. ¡°By the time any of the Swords could get there, a fire had broken out somehow. Some idiot managed to set half the plains on fire; lost two more men putting it out.¡± He shrugged and Willem felt a small pang of guilt.

    ¡°And now? Why are we here?¡± Willem snarled out, trying to push the other thoughts aside. What was done could no longer be changed.

    Again the man shrugged, as if words were some rare commodity. ¡°Probably logistics or something. With the horses dead, someone else¡¯s going to have to haul supplies. Those catapults we broke ourselves over making aren¡¯t going to move themselves, after all.¡± He smirked at that thought, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. ¡°I¡¯d hate to be the one that draws that short straw.¡±

    Willem opened his mouth to ask another question, but the air was suddenly punctuated by a loud staccato of roars and shrieks from the demons that had gathered. Squat throats rumbled out and sharp beaks cawed as the wind itself seemed to be half torn apart by the noise. The legionaries stopped their chatter, clutching at their ears with gloved hands as they looked around for the cause of the commotion.

    At the head of the crowd, standing atop the crest of a hill, some figures slowly emerged. Even from this distance, Willem¡¯s eyes could make out Joy standing tall, along with Mors in the back. What are they doing? He wondered, only for Joy to interrupt him.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    ¡°Legions!¡± the demon called out, his voice amplified by ribbons of mahji that seemed to dance in the wind. ¡°I would speak, and you would listen. You have all heard, no doubt, of the tragedy that occured only yesterday. You should know that it was no myth, no folktale, that killed those men. The living shadows are truth, and they are called skal.¡±

    At this, a low current of murmurs rippled through the crowd, but Joy ignored them and continued to speak. ¡°They come from the heart of Malifor. They are what killed the late king. They are what will cover this land, if we let them.¡± That was enough to quiet the crowd, although it was fear that seemed to have settled over them instead.

    ¡°The skal can be killed!¡± Joy shouted, as if to shake the terror out of their bones. ¡°Fire can burn them to ash. It is this fire that is in your new blades and shields. But know that fire itself will not be enough, not without the heart to wield it.¡±

    His voice got softer, although still easily audible over the silence of the crowd. ¡°This war will not be easy. I say to you now that none of us may live. And this is a war¡ªa war for your lands and your people. If we fail, night will cover the ground. If we fail, your bones will be scattered like dust. We must not fail.¡±

    What are you doing? Willem could not help but think desperately. This is not how you inspire people! How is this meant to stir their hearts?

    ¡°I ask you now, legions, will you fight? Will you fight, knowing that your blades carry the future of this land behind them? Will you fight, knowing that you will die on this field. Will you fight regardless? Or will you cower and wait for the skal to spear you in your sleep?¡± His words hung heavy over the air, no one daring to reply.

    The first noise was a low rumbling as some of the demons beat their fists against their chest. Others began to stomp on the ground in a slow cadence, and before long the entirety of the demons were beating out a rhythm. But the human legions stood there, still as silence.

    Until finally, a single legionary beat his fist against his armor.

    It was a sharp sound, the scrape of a gauntlet against steel, and it carried easily over the tremors of the demons. Willem glanced over at the man, and he realized with a moment of shock that it was the wounded soldier that had first came to him for aid. The men next to him joined in, the motion spreading through the legions like a plague, until finally the air was filled with the noise of a thousand steel heartbeats pulsing with resolve. There was no mahji in the wind, but it still tingled with electric energy.

    Willem felt the urge to join in as the men began to cheer, but his gaze was suddenly distracted by a familiar figure off in the distance. He saw Kha talking with another human¡ªwas his name Jhossa? Nevertheless, they seemed intently focused, completely ignoring the cacophony next to them as they hid in the shadow of¡ªof¡­

    Willem blinked in surprise, his vision blurry and his thoughts growing muddled. It was as if something wanted to push him away, wanted to steer him away from thinking of that thing they were hiding next to. He pressed onwards, the sensation like trudging through mud, and he finally made out what seemed to be an old wagon, its exterior covered with an expanse of chains.

    Why could I not make that out? He wondered, feeling an inkling of fear at the thought. Had he not been actively thinking of it, his thoughts would have flickered over that wagon as if it was not even there.

    Willem made his way through the crowd even as the soldiers were banging their swords against their shields and making all manner of unholy noise. What are they doing? Why are they hiding? Slowly, he crept closer until he could finally hear them talking¡ªcould hear Kha¡¯s raspy timbre carry over the wind.

    ¡°¡ªand take this¡­ wound the dark god¡­ burn his plots and restore this world to the light.¡± he whispered, handing something to the soldier. The man took it swiftly, hiding it away in some pocket before nodding. Then Kha closed his eyes and began to chant, the words low and rumbling as Willem felt a strange tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was as if his own mahji was fighting to burst out of him, and he struggled to resist the urge. Yet he was further surprised as he saw cords of purple coiling out of the wagon.

    And the air was suddenly pierced by an agonizing scream from inside that chained wagon. It stabbed at his ears, hauntingly¡ªhauntingly¡­ familiar?

    The mahji coiled around Jhossa, wrapping the man in a sheath of purple before glowing with a brilliant light. The very air seemed to ripple before folding inwards, and all of a sudden the man was gone. All that was left were the screams.

    None of the other soldiers seemed to have noticed what had happened, only Willem. He was breathing hard in shock and mingled terror as Kha opened those slitted eyes to focus on him. Those reptilian lips muttered something swift, and then Willem felt an immense pressure bearing down on his mind.

    It was as if there was a mountain on his thoughts, crushing them slowly out of his mind. He fought to fight back, to press away, but the effort was futile. He could feel the memories slowly being pulled out of his mind as he merely stood there, helpless to control his own thoughts.

    And the only thing he felt was a vague sense of familiarity, as if this had happened to him before.

 Book 3: Chapter 23

    ¡°And of this, you are certain?¡± Joy growled out as he walked, hurrying up his pace. The wind blowed cold and brisk against his fur as he strode, his heart pumping with energy. The excitement of the speech¡ªthe wildness that hung in the air afterwards¡ªit was all electrifying.

    ¡°Of course¡­ my god Ajah would not speak false¡­¡± Kha whispered as he followed. Joy did not wish to admit it, but the demon still unnerved him somewhat. There was an alienness to his behavior¡ªwas it his posture? His speech? He was uncertain. Yet nevertheless, Joy found himself on edge whenever around him, some primal instinct that he had grown to learn not to ignore.

    ¡°Meshira¡­ The dark god¡¯s arbiter hides¡­ in the city of sand¡­¡± he continued, his voice taking on a fevered, passionate tone as he continued. There was a fanaticism that gripped Kha whenever Joy brought up this point. ¡°We must march to Meshira¡­ we must steal Faith away from the throne¡­ before he can bring Atal¡¯s wrath upon us all¡­¡±

    Joy snorted at this, a part of him still not believing in gods and their wrath. Perhaps he simply did not wish it to be true¡ªwhat was a mortal to do, after all, in the face of a god? Strength was the first virtue that he had learned, starting from his very birth in the Outlands. Power was how he justified life. Yet his power was miniscule, was nothing compared to that of a god.

    Aye, he decided after feeling the hairs on the nape of his neck. This is fear. It was a curious sensation that flooded his body at the thought, as he imagined the sky growing dark and the sun being snuffed out. He imagined the raw power of a god, as if all the euphoria of channeling mahji had been increased by an order of magnitudes. Joy imagined himself drowning in sensation and pain, every nerve in his body firing madly, every muscle and tendon burning aflame.

    He could not imagine what a god would look like. He doubted he would even have the will to open his eyes and look, should he be in a god¡¯s presence.

    ¡°A crow-cursed god,¡± he swore as he rubbed his temples, trying to scrape the sensation of weakness out of his thoughts. It was an awful feeling, and yet it clung to him like oil. ¡°And you want us to open a waypath directly on his temple.¡±

    Kha shook his head. ¡°No, we cannot merely waypath directly to Meshira¡­ it is too far, and the mahji necessary¡­ is proportional to the distance traveled¡­¡± he hissed, before letting out a small hiccuping chirp that Joy realized was a laugh. ¡°Should you attempt to bring¡­ the entire legion¡­ you would be no more than a¡­ husk¡­¡±

    ¡°You remember the waypath¡­ from the Outlands to the Yearning¡­ and that was only a hundred people¡­ at half the distance¡­¡± Kha hissed. It was true¡ªand both Joy and Kha had been channeling the mahji needed for that. Even still, Joy had felt drained to the point of collapse after they had arrived on the riverbank.

    Joy growled, admitting the notion. He was born from the imprint of Andahiel, one of the oldest and strongest Shai¡¯mon of the ages past. As a result, he had always been gifted with an inordinately large pool of mahji; it was rare for him to ever run out. And yet, casting a spell on thousands of people would require more than even he had.

    And a waypath is cheaper than a waygate, some part of him whispered, and he chuckled inwardly at the bitter taste of irony. The only sacrifice is that we will not have a way back. Yet that was not truly a sacrifice at all¡ªnone of them would be able to leave Malifor, after all. Joy had no illusions about trying to challenge a god; he was not nearly so naive or prideful to think that he would survive the ordeal. He merely hoped that he could tear out the bastard¡¯s heart before he died.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°We know this; you discussed it earlier.¡± Joy snarled, feeling a nipping irritation suddenly bite at him. Guilt? He hated these new feelings that came with leading his pack, with commanding these legions. ¡°Is the¡ªthe fuel ready, then?¡±

    Kha blinked those slitted eyes slowly, pausing for a moment before nodding. ¡°Aye, but there was¡­ a problem¡­¡± he admitted. ¡°The Oa¡¯kul pup¡­ Willem¡­ he noticed the wagon¡­¡±

    Joy started in surprise, more of that biting guilt nipping at his heart. ¡°What? You said that you had compelled him before not to¡ª¡±

    Kha snapped in irritation, his thin jaws biting the air. ¡°Aye, but I underestimated¡­ his fellow strength in the mind¡­ he perceived it again¡­¡± The demon paused again before nodding his head slowly. ¡°It was my mistake¡­ my apologies¡­¡±

    ¡°Then what did you do?¡± Joy asked.

    Kha opened his mouth as if to say something, only to stop and amend his thoughts. ¡°I dominated his mind¡­ not enough to mindshackle¡­ just to sleep and forget¡­¡± he spoke.

    ¡°And you¡¯re certain that he will not remember what is in the wagon?¡± Joy demanded.

    ¡°Yes¡­ my lord¡­¡±

    Joy sighed, shaking his head tiredly. That biting guilt would not go away, no matter how fast he strode, and he suddenly looked up to realize that he was wandering aimlessly. They were by the fields, however, and he made his way over to the demons that were gathered there.

    Since the horses had died, there had been no way to transport the supplies that they needed¡ªfood, waster, armor¡ªand all the things that humans were too weak to carry, yet still demanded. Instead, they had reworked some of the old horse harnesses to make them fit some of the demons, in most cases adding additional leather to make them larger. Joy watched as three soldiers gingerly approached a particularly broad-shouldered demon, cautiously buckling in the straps while avoiding the irritated jaws.

    There were more of these demons as well¡ªa whole line of them lined down beside the supply wagons. It had been a effort to convince them, the first time that many of them had tried to resist his orders. Few of them had wanted to play the servile beast to weak humans, but it had been a necessary. While his demons might be able to, Joy doubted that the legions would be able to march after a week without food, let alone fight.

    ¡°And the soldiers are ready?¡± he asked Kha, turning to face the legions that were drilling under the bluff. The soldiers had taken to their new swords rather well¡ªat least, those that had them. They did not have the time to give each man a runeblade, so only the legionaries in the frontline were given one. The rest drilled with practice sets.

    After all, they can simply take them from the dead after the first battle, Joy reminded himself. The men were practicing formations, standing gingerly apart to avoid burning neighbors as their swords spouting gouts of fire with each slash.

    ¡°Aye¡­ as much as they will be¡­¡± Kha replied, the tone of his voice clearly wishing they had more time. ¡°Ajah tells me that we must go now¡­ before his brother is fully able to stir¡­¡±

    The soldiers are ready. The demons are impatient. We have enough supplies¡ªassuming that we¡¯ll be losing most of our men. Joy went down the list, lost in thought as the air was punctuated with the screech of steel and the crackle of fire.

    ¡°Ah yes,¡± he suddenly remembered. ¡°And the madman, did you able to convince him otherwise?¡± he asked. What was his name been? Jhossa. The fool had seen too much¡ªinstability in the runes, prone to unexpected detonation. So what if a few soldiers overheated their blades? They would merely take a few more skal with them before they died.

    ¡°Yes, I was able to¡­ advise him¡­ I sent him after the Mother¡­ perhaps we will find ourselves a pleasant surprise¡­ when he dies¡­¡± Kha murmured.

    ¡°Good.¡± Joy replied, gesturing for the other demon to get back to work. There was always a few more things to check, a few loose ends to tie shut before they dived into the dark god¡¯s maw.

    We¡¯re at the brink now, Sister. Joy turned his gaze upwards, closed his Mind¡¯s Eye and feeling the pulsing earth around him. I do not wish to do this without you, but I must.

    I¡¯ll see you soon.

 Book 3: Chapter 24

    Ma¡¯sal raised a hand to wipe away the bead of sweat that had dripped into his eyes, the relentless sun searing his skin as he worked. His arm was crusted over with blood, the skin freshly scarring over the scorched Valanese tattoo. Twist. Pluck. Peel. It was a familiar rhythm, and he was grateful now that he did not need to think about his actions as he worked¡ªhis thoughts were too busy otherwise.

    He could not stop thinking about that hooded woman: Tsaya. Who was she? What did she want? There was a part of him, undeniably, that was attracted to her. She carried an allure with her, a natural, exotic beauty that Ma¡¯sal had never seen before. Even now, at the mere thought of her, he could feel his pulse speed and his blood burn.

    And yet, there was a fear that filled him as he thought of that garb that she wore, that featureless robe that hid so much of her. Was she like the others, twisted and malformed underneath that robe? Was her flawless skin a mere illusion; were her rosy lips secretly burnt and cracked? He could not help but wonder this, for a part of him feared that she was perfect¡ªtoo perfect to be true.

    A sudden prick of pain stabbed through his fingers, and Ma¡¯sal realized that he had been growing careless with his ruminations. Damnit. He sucked at his pricked thumb, feeling the stinging pain that seemed to wake him up ever slightly out of this hazy dream that he had lulled himself into.

    Standing up slightly, he looked around with a bleary gaze to see the other men that were working in the fields. How many of these men do I know, despite working with them for nearly a month? He knew the answer to that easily¡ªnone. A harder question then. How many of their faces do I remember? A part of him stumbled over that, for he had felt confident that he remembered at least some of them.

    The man with the red beard¡ªno, he died days ago. The young one, with the dull blue eyes¡ªbut they found his body on the rocks two days ago. He went through that short list of faces he had in his mind, realizing slowly that he knew none of these men that stood only a few paces from him. He didn¡¯t know their names, didn¡¯t know their faces. If they died and someone else took their place, he would not have known. He would not have cared.

    A tremor ran down his spine at that thought. Do they think the same of me then? That thought in turn led to another, more harrowing, thought.

    Do they think?

    He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say that these were men. But he watched their mechanical motions as they plucked the bloodthorn fruits. He watched their dead eyes, watched as they moved like little more than husks of men, dried out by this insufferable sun. Do they think?

    Did I think? That question in turn made him blink in surprise as he realized the answer was no. He had not thought when he was sold as a slave. He had not thought as he starved on the ship that carried here, to this crow-cursed wasteland. He had not thought as he bled blood and mind toiling in these fields. He had been numb. He had been a husk, just like these laborers.

    Tsaya had woken him up.

    Tsaya. He clung to that name desperately, like a drowning man desperately grasping for an anchor. She had filled his mind, filled his thoughts ever since meeting her. She had given him life, had breathed it back into his dead husk. More than anything else, he found himself burning to see her once more, even if it was in the dark of the night. His heart pumped faster at the mere thought, his hands dancing with a frenetic energy.

    Energy. How long had it been since he had last felt excitement? How long had it been since he had last felt alive? Too long. Ma¡¯sal raised a dark hand up to meet his eyes, the fingers coming away wet with unbidden tears. He was alive.

    He had been dead, like the rest of the men damned to toil in these fields under the heat. He had been dead, but Tsaya had given him life.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    And so, as his thoughts once more turned to Tsaya, he once more thought of her offer. Twist. Pluck. Peel. What was it that she was offering¡ªthe chance to join her? No but it was not just her, it was the rest of the hooded men as well. Twist. Pluck. Peel. Just who were these hooded men, then? Acolytes in service to some god? He remembered the coven that had been chanting in circle that night, proffering themselves in worship. Would he have to join them?

    Twist. Pluck. Peel. He was afraid of that¡ªhe admitted it readily. He was afraid of those hooden men, with mangled flesh and ruined voices. He was afraid of that towering spire, that twisted temple of shadow that seemed to swallow the sunlight. He was afraid of them.

    Why? Why be afraid?

    It was a soft thing, almost like a whisper. Ma¡¯sal nearly mistook it for his own thoughts, yet this was something different¡ªsomething alien. It hissed with a faint echo, like flowing sand, like a thousand voices, and it seemed unmistakably ancient.

    Ma¡¯sal was not sure why, but he trusted that voice. It spoke reason. Why was he afraid? That they might kill him? He was already dying, doomed to die in these fields. What could the hooded men take from him that he had not lost already?

    The more that he thought about it, the more appealing the notion seemed. The hooded men had the finest meals, had the shadowed robes that hid them from the sun. They did not have to work, and prayer was nothing new to Ma¡¯sal. He remembered watching Ma and Yes¡¯san pray in the old Valanese temples in Ossia. That god had never answered his prayers¡ªperhaps this new god even might.

    As the sun began to set, Ma¡¯sal made up his mind. The whistle trilled again¡ªstop, come. He dropped the last fruit into the basket, trudging his way back towards the hooded man. Yet, as he was making his way over, there was a sudden tug on his arm.

    ¡°Please,¡± someone whispered behind him, and Ma¡¯sal whirled around in surprise. He found one of the laborers begging behind him. The young man was nearly bone-thin, his skin deathly pallid and his eyes ravenous. It was a moment before Ma¡¯sal understood what he wanted¡ªthe man¡¯s basket was not nearly enough for even two tokens.

    He would be going hungry tonight.

    ¡°Anything, please? Just a couple of your fruits, p-please?¡± he begged. Ma¡¯sal hated the sound of his voice¡ªit was hoarse and desperate. It sounded too much like Yes¡¯san begging for Pa to stop, stop. Ma¡¯sal tore himself away from the begging man, ignored the wail that came out from the man.

    ¡°Please!¡± the man cried out, and Ma¡¯sal covered his ears with his hands in panic, feeling his heart pumping out a deadly rhythm in his skull. Thud. Thud. It was a moment before he realized that the man was no longer begging him, but rather anyone.

    ¡°Please? Please!¡± He trudged towards the other laborers as well, begging for something, anything. Yet one by one, they all turned him away. Stop it, Ma¡¯sal whispered inwardly. Stop that.

    Finally, realizing that none of the others were willing to help him, the young man let out a chilling laugh. Ma¡¯sal hated that laugh¡ªit sounded just like Pa that night. He ran over to the side of the cliff, that skeletal figure seemingly already dead as he flung himself off the edge onto the rocks below. Ma¡¯sal closed his eyes¡ªhe couldn¡¯t look. Yet his mind filled in what happened, and Ma¡¯sal saw Pa¡¯s face staring back at him.

    No. No more of this, he thought desperately, mindlessly picking up the bloodfruit that he had dropped before making his way back to the tent. No more. No more.

    No more.

    ¡°You¡­ I¡¯m sorry?¡± asked the rasping voice from behind that hood. It was a peculiar sensation, talking to something that was faceless.

    ¡°I¡ªI¡¯ve spoken with the night. I wish to join the temple.¡± Ma¡¯sal repeated, feeling his palms grow sweaty and his fingers trembling. Where the words right? He thought that he had remembered them correctly from what Tsaya had said, but now that the moment had come doubt bit into him like a viper.

    ¡°You have¡­ spoken with the night? Curious.¡± The hooded man paused for a moment, as if considering something. Ma¡¯sal found himself unable to look up, unable to peer into the depths of that shadowed cowl. Without a face, without expressions to read, it was as if he was talking to a mirror. ¡°And what did it say?¡±

    Ma¡¯sal paused in shock, caught off guard, and his thoughts fled him in that instant. His throat worked, but no sound came out. What was he supposed to say? But then, of its own accord, he heard himself talk.

    ¡°Why be afraid?¡±

    He was not sure why, but he thought he saw a smile behind that hood of shadows.

 Book 3: Chapter 25

    The looming spire seemed to scrape the sky, seemed to swallow the sun completely. Ma¡¯sal swallowed, feeling a hard lump in his throat as he followed the hooded man closer to the shadowed temple. The air near it seemed to fall colder, the wind growing deathly still¡ªsomething that was unheard of in these plains. Moreover, the scorching sun became blotted out by its towering peak, as if the ball of fire had been speared and smothered by the steeple.

    What am I doing? The thought came to him suddenly, but it was too late for hesitation now. Too late to go back and be one of those mindless slaves, wasting away in the field. Too late to go back and forget what she had told him. Too late to forget about Tsaya.

    As they neared the temple, a curious thing seemed to happen to his vision. The surface of the building seemed to shimmer and shift the longer that he held it in his gaze. A brief glance would tell him that there was an edge, a wall, yet the more he stared at the corner, the more it seemed to slip out of his grasp. Underneath that amorphous surface, he saw stone and bone, gray and white that stood out stark against the shadowed black. But he also saw blots of dark red, coursing rivulets of blood that seemed to pulse with detached heartbeat, like hideous veins running through the walls. The only thing that was constant, that did not shift as he stared, was the towering peak of the temple that rose up towards the sky. He could not spy the top, its edge growing thinner and taller as it grazed the heavens.

    His head hung farther and farther back as he tried to trace the tip, only for a sudden bout of vertigo to seize him. For a moment, the sky seemed to swivel and fly underneath him, the world around him spinning around a different axis. An abrupt pain shot through his mind, his eyes slamming closed as he clutched at his temples. Yet the wave passed as quickly as it had came.

    As he opened his eyes, he was shocked to find the world in front of him utterly changed. No longer was he surrounded by dust and dirt, lost in the middle of the plains. Instead, the world around him seemed to be a bubble¡ªa cage¡ªformed from shifting shadow. Around him on all sides, rising out of the ground, were amorphous walls on that shapeless material. Tentatively, he reached out to touch it only to find distance disobeying him. The closer he reached, the farther it seemed to grow, as if he was trapped in a dream. There was only a pluming black mist that seemed to curl around his fingers, numbing and cool against his skin.

    Looking around, he found that he was standing on a floor of black glass¡ªobsidian, they had called it in Ossia. It, too, felt cold against his feet, and he took a few hesitant steps before finally looking forward.

    He saw Tsaya waiting for him.

    There was something behind her, but his gaze was instead drawn to her beautiful eyes. They seemed to change the more that he watched, much like everything else in this strange space. Blue, brown, a deep red¡ªthey flickered and shimmered as he strode closer to her. Her dark hair hung in soft curls, gently draped over her shoulders. Her full lips were stretched in a smile, a warm, disarming smile that stole away sense and doubt. A simple robe hung over her body, normally out of place and yet entirely natural on her.

    ¡°H-how¡ª¡± Ma¡¯sal stammered out, trying to get closer to her. Fortunately, she, unlike the walls of this place, did not move farther away from him. She seemed to understand his confusion, gently grasping his hand within her own warm palms. Her skin was soft, blissfully smooth to the touch, and he felt his pulse stomp out a fervent beat in response.

    ¡°What is this place?¡± he asked finally, after a moment of searching through his thoughts.

    Tsaya responded warmly, her voice lilting and sweet. ¡°This is our god. This is Atal. He is nothing, but he is also everything.¡± She threw her arms wide, as if he encompass all of the sweeping darkness that covered the world, and she spun giddily in place. Her hair flew out in the air, her robes flying loose, and for a moment Ma¡¯sal caught a glimpse of the tanned skin underneath them.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Smooth skin. No charred corruption, no twisted flesh. A little more of the doubt eased of his mind, a small sigh escaping his lips.

    ¡°Do you know the old stories? They¡¯re hard to find these days. But before there was the world, we were all one. There was no war. There was no death. We were all together in the dark, all one with Atal. It was perfect. But the creator stole that all away from us.¡±

    ¡°His brother was jealous of the peace, jealous that he had been left out. Ajah tore us from the darkness, ripped us out from his embrace.¡± At this, she shuddered, and Ma¡¯sal felt a wave of empathy run through him. It hurt him to see her in distress, to see her eyes flicker in pain. ¡°We were cast down here, in the dirt. We were made into animals, unable to feel the thoughts of each other.¡±

    ¡°War¡ªwar and fighting and blood and death, all of that came after. It came after we lost Atal. Everything¡ª¡± She shuddered, tears streaming down her face now as she clutched at her shoulders. ¡°Everything we lost, it brought us to where we are now.¡±

    She took in a deep breath, struggling to compose herself before continuing. ¡°I¡ªI lost my family to war in Kauria. You would not know where it is; it¡¯s a small island to the east. When Altarosan fleets colonized it, I lost my mother and father. Later, when we were running, I lost my older sister.¡± The tears were flowing freely now, shimmering and glistening in memory. ¡°I was alone at the end of it all.¡±

    ¡°And then Atal spoke to me. He spoke to me with his touch, just like you are feeling right now. He showed me that we can be more, that we can have all that we ever lost, and more. In this crow-cursed world, Atal was the only one that ever cared.¡±

    Ma¡¯sal opened his mouth to speak, but he found no words come to mind. I¡¯m sorry? That meant nothing. How terrible? Useless. Would words staunch the tears that dripped from her chin? Would words ease the pain of her memories?

    They did not for him. How could they for her?

    ¡°My family was torn apart by war. That¡¯s why you intrigued me, because they told me that you had lost your family too. We¡¯re alike, in that way. ¡° she laughed bitterly, the sound like rose petals falling from a dying flower. There was nostalgia and spite in there, but also a faint hint of hope.

    ¡°You¡­ ¡± Ma¡¯sal finally spoke out. ¡°You were¡­ watching me?¡±

    Tsaya nodded hesitantly, her curled hair bouncing from the motion. ¡°They wanted me to, at first. But when I first saw you¡ªI saw some of, of myself in there, I suppose.¡± She laughed nervously, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.

    ¡°You weren¡¯t like the others. There was life in your eyes. You hadn¡¯t given up, and I wanted to help you somehow, but¡­¡± she spoke a little breathlessly.

    You gave me that life, he wanted to reply, his heart beating madly in his chest. There was a fire to his fingertips, an electric tension that filled his limbs.

    Suddenly, she strode forward in a flowing motion. Before he could even respond, her face was next to his, her lips pressing against his own. Soft. Sweet. They stole away his breath, his thoughts, and he felt his hammering heart seem to melt under her touch.

    After too long and yet still too short a time, she pulled back regretfully. Her cheeks were aflame, her eyes unable to meet his. ¡°Sorry, I¡ªI don¡¯t know why¡­¡± she stammered out, seeming for all the world even more beautiful even as she looked ashamed.

    Ma¡¯sal hurriedly reached out for her hands, once more being surprised at how smooth they were. Not calloused and ugly, worn and battered. Smooth. Perfect. ¡°Don¡¯t be.¡± he whispered back, his voice low and trembling with emotion. When her gaze turned up to meet his, he felt a bolt of electricity shoot down his spine.

    ¡°Will you join me, then? Will you come with me?¡± There was an eternity of promise in that voice, hidden behind a shroud of doubt and disappointment. Ma¡¯sal realized suddenly that for her, he was willing to do anything. To live for her sake, to be by her side, to see her smiling face, there was no hesitation in his body.

    Is this love? It was a glorifying, intoxicating feeling that smothered his other thoughts and sent his heart into a maddening chant. ¡°Of course.¡± he replied, his voice hoarse and his hands shaking.

    For her, anything.

 Book 3: Interlude

    Jhossa felt the flame eating at him, that beautiful, hungry flame that swallowed his body whole .He could feel its tongues lapping at his skin, could feel its embers burning hot in his lungs. It was a beautiful thing¡ªfire. He had always wondered how such a thing filled with life, with birth and growth and death, could only ever destroy and never create.

    The flame destroyed him as he stepped into it willingly. It ate him whole and broke him into pieces. It shattered his limbs and charred him into ash. And yet this flame was more, more than anything he had ever known. This flame held the power of magic, the power of the gods.

    This flame made him whole again.

    He felt the tingling in the faintest regions of limbs he no longer possessed. His thoughts churned in a mind that had no substance, in a skull with no bone, in a head with no flesh. Piece by piece, he felt the ash slowly pile on top of itself, felt the heat grow hotter and hotter until that dust began to smolder and melt. He felt the pain then, that sharp stinging pain like a thousand degrees of hot iron being stabbed into him. If he had a mouth, he would have screamed loud enough to shake the world. If he had a mind, he would have felt pain impress itself so indelibly onto it that all his other thoughts would be molded to match. But he had nothing. He was nothing.

    He did not know how long passed in that limbo, in that hell of agony and torture. He only knew that at last, his body was reshaped before him and whole again. He fled into that vessel desperately, felt the shattered remnants of his mind hastily scooping themselves together again. And the fire, once so bright but now at the end of its life, spat him forth into reality with utter revulsion.

    The world churned around Jhossa as he stumbled onto air and ground. He fell almost instantly, his mind still disoriented and his body fatigued. His arms went out to catch his fall, his eyes opening like a newborn entering the world, and he was greeting with the crack of stone across his face.

    He lay there for some time, dazed and still feeling the tingling of his recent demise. Is this hell? His mind was barely lucid, his thoughts frenzied and scattered that those of a madman. He could not focus, not in the face of what he had just been through. He had been torn apart, shredded like parchment, and then pieced together with glue.

    It was sometime before he finally realized that he was not blind, for there was no change in his sight when he blinked. No he was not blind¡ªthere was merely no light. He knew this, for all of a sudden, there was a glowing light that burst aflame beneath him, a fire that crackled to life. He glanced down to see a curious fang of steel and leather¡ªa sword¡ªits hilt bound nicely and its blade covered in fire. It hurt to look at, so beautiful, so bright, and it blinded him as he reached for it.

    Yet the flame guttered out suddenly as he held it in his grasp, the air that was crackling with mahji all of a sudden falling silent with a hiss. His light-scarred eyes had barely a moment to see the carpet of black mist that curled over the flame before it was smothered, snuffed out. And then he was blind once more, surrounded by darkness.

    But he could feel them.

    He felt their absent heartbeat, their bitter cold that stole all heat. He felt them around him, curling and slithering like shapeless serpents. He felt a vague curiosity take hold of him then, a small voice in the back of his mind speaking up. Do not forget what you must do. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    What he must do? Madness. Madness and mania. It gripped him like a viper, his thoughts scattering like flies before a broom, and he suddenly broke out in a sprint. His laughter filled whatever stonebound corridor he was in, echoing off the walls until he thought he numbered hundreds. I am more than I seem. I am more than I know.

    He ran, feeling the walls around him grow smaller. He ran feeling the shadows slowly fall away from him. Yet he was not outpacing them; they were merely letting him approach¡­ whatever waited for him at the end. And so faster he ran, his fingers biting hard on the blade that was in his grasp. Finally, he found himself out of breath and sanity, with the corridor that he could not see opening up into a massive room that he could not know was there.

    Yet he felt it. He felt that vast emptiness that was surrounded by earth, felt the heavy miasma and rot that clung to the air. He felt the unnatural weight that seemed to bear down on his shoulders, and he felt the perverse mockery of new life that clung to the walls.

    And in the center of that room, he felt an abomination. Her very presence seemed to stifle him, seemed to choke him. She was monstrous, massive, and utterly abhorrent. Khossa wanted nothing more than to run, to bash his skull open on these stones rather than live in this hellish place.

    Do not forget what you must do?

    What he must do? But he hated it. Hated, hated, hated it to the point that he had shoved it away to the corner of his mind. He had locked it, buried the key, burned away his memories of it. Why must I do this? Why?

    He felt the runeblade in his hand, rubbed his fingers lovingly against the intricate carvings in its hilt and steel. Such a beautiful thing, and it will kill the owner as well. So many unwitting fools, about to die. So many beautiful moths feeding the fire. He could see them now, the battlefield a swathe of glorious flame eating both sides. That lovely flame, so mysterious, so wonderful¡­

    Jhossa laughed madly, his cackle catching Her attention. She seemed to lumber towards him, her presence bearing down heavier and heavier on him. Choose, it told him. Act, it bade him.

    ¡°No, no! I will not! I don¡¯t want to!¡± he shrieked madly, clutching at his temples with skeletal fingers. He felt the crackling of mahji, felt the compulsion eat away at his will. ¡°NO!¡± he cried out, even as She was already in front of him.

    The very air seemed to tremble as She leaned down, as she grasped him in an unseen hand. He felt her rotting flesh touch his, felt her tainted presence spread to his own, and the last vestiges of control in his mind finally snapped.

    ¡°I WILL NOT!¡± Jhossa cried out as he grasped the runeblade. His will surged into the hilt, its steel crackling to life with a brilliant flame, unbidden and unheeded. The shadows around him hissed in concern and panic, suddenly darting forward to protect Her.

    ¡°I REFUSE!¡± he demanded as he plunged that blade into her arm, sank it deep into the flesh. It spread immediately, catching on her oily body with implacable glee. Her hideous shriek of pain and agony threatened to shatter his psyche, an utterly inhumane sound. The light revealed her true form, an image of insanity. He cried out in terror and determination, tears streaming down his face.

    ¡°I will not do this¡­ I WILL NOT!¡± The words echoed dully in his ears as he pulled the blade out of her, only to plunge it in again. Fire swallowed them both now, although he could not feel it. ¡°I AM NOT YOUR SLAVE!¡± Jhossa proclaimed to the demons, his voice nearly consumed by the crackling fire.

    I am not your slave, he thought madly as his body acted of compulsion, his will no longer his own. I am my own man. My own¡­

    And then all he thought of was the glorious flame. That beautiful, hungry flame that took them both to Hell.

 Book 3: Chapter 26

    It was a cold day, a rare coming in the Heartlands, but the brisk chill was proof enough in the wind. Willem roused himself from sleep with a drowsy confusion, the world around him spinning and flashing with light before he fully gathered his senses. His mind felt out of sorts, his thoughts all scrambled even as he struggled to stand.

    What¡­ what had happened? His memories were dancing just barely out of his grasp, There was a fog that lingered in his mind, that obscured what he felt the vague impression of behind it. Yet the harder that he tried to reach out, the more he felt that resistance guiding his fingers away, missing with outstretched fingers each time.

    The shambling sounds of clanking steel and scraping leather were enough to shake him out of his thoughts, his eyes focusing on the gathered crowd around him. Perhaps it was the noise that had roused him, or perhaps it was the stench of steel and leather, but he could not place the source nevertheless.

    Willem made out the massive crowd that gathered under the bluff, a shining mass of steel and flesh that stretched on like a river under the halfday sun. With a start, he suddenly realized that thi was the day¡ªthe day of invasion, the one that they had all been planning for. It had felt muddled, mired amidst all of the muck in his mind, and yet now that he was reminded of it, a sudden nervousness gripped him. His claws began to tremble with a frantic energy, his heart beating ever faster.

    Death. Death was what waited once the entered Malifor, once they arrived at the Gates. Death scared him, the notion of absolution and annihilation. He felt his courage slowly slip away even as his gaze spread out over the army that was gathered before him. It was a massive river of steel, a legion of thousands of men that would shake the earth when they marched.

    It was not enough.

    Willem had seen the skal, had seen the pluming shadows that had blotted out the sky. This meager mass was not enough. We¡¯ll all die. We¡¯ll be dust and ash, like all those other fools. His thoughts grew panicked, his legs trembling, and he had to force himself to breathe deeply in an effort to merely remain calm.

    ¡°MEN!¡± There came a sudden shout, a low growl that echoed down from atop the bluff. Willem saw Joy perched atop the cliff, saw the demon throw his clawed arms wide. ¡°Today we throw ourselves upon hell!¡±

    He was answered with a resounding cheer, a hammering of hilts on armor as the men stood tall, propped up on foolish naivety and confidence. Willem felt the blind enthusiasm ripple through the air, felt it sicken into nausea and madness in the pit of his stomach. His mind began to swoon, his body gripped abruptly by vertigo, and he knelt down in an effort to keep the contents of his stomach inside of him.

    There was a sudden muffled scream from atop the bluff, a hoarse voice that¡ªthat sounded familiar. It was followed almost immediately by the crackle of mahji, by a deluge of that wild energy that danced through the air like rampant electricity. Curious and surprised, Willem looked up at the top of the cliff to see¡­ nothing.

    His vision blurred, his thoughts churning, and he felt the sensation of a hand pushing his mind away. Don¡¯t look. Don¡¯t see. He wanted to look; he could not look. There is nothing. Nothing. Yet he knew there was something there. Willem fought the nausea, pressed back against that hand until he felt the pressure halt and slowly, ever slowly, ease away. More and more he pressed back, and more and more his vision began to sharpen into focus.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    He saw an emaciated figure atop the cliff, his skin nearly translucent to reveal a writhing mess of coiling mahji underneath. Glowing shackles wrapped around his wrists and ankles, the fetters crackling in response to the magic. Kha stood next to the man, holding the chains that bound the man. Almost as an afterthought, in the background, Willem made out what seemed to be a covered wagon, its exterior covered in metal links that now lay broken.

    It was Norus.

    Willem finally remembered the name, remembered that dancing sense of familiarity and recognition that had darted just out of grasp for long. Finally catching it, he held onto it with the desperation of a drowning man to the rocks. Norus. How had I forgotten? That connection, now made, seemed to make the rest of the locks around his mind fall away. He saw images flashing before him, memories flooding back now that the gates had been opened, and he let out a hoarse scream even as he fell to the ground.

    Joy and Kha were chanting, their voices mingling with screams as they drew the mahji out of Norus. The purple coils of energy poured into the stone in the side of the cliff, causing the runes that had been chiseled into its surface to glow with a faint light. Those symbols began to shake and tremble, spinning faster and faster as they blurred into one another. And all the while, Willem did not notice, could not see.

    ¡ªHe saw them gathered around in a circle, a group of demons that held the man hostage. That held him prisoner.

    They gripped his arms were talons that bled his wrists, only it was purple light that poured out in the place of blood. They broke his legs and crushed in his chest, cuffing him in an effort to beat him into submission.

    ¡°Why?¡± Willem had shouted, felt the words slipping out of his lips even as they held him back. ¡°Stop it!¡± he had gasped out, watching as they bound Norus in chains. Yet even as he resisted, he could not break free of his fellow demon¡¯s grip.

    ¡°YOU ALL ARE MONSTERS!¡± the soldier shouted, wresting free of the manacles for just a moment and bucking his captors off of him. ¡°I SAW WHAT YOU DID TO HER!¡± Tears were streaming down his face, his voice muddled with the gurgle of blood that pooled in the back of his throat.

    ¡°She was a girl.¡± he seethed madly, his chest heaving as they bound him more tightly, pushing him to the ground. ¡°Just an innocent girl.¡±

    ¡°There are no innocents in this war.¡± came the low reply, a lupine form stalking over and kneeling down in front of the man. ¡°They are only victims, and victors.¡±

    Joy pulled out a short sword, legion standard issue. He took a small glance at it before throwing it at Norus¡¯ feet. ¡°I don¡¯t fault you with murder.¡± he whispered lowly to the soldier, the blade buried neatly in the grass just in front of his head. ¡°I fault you with failure.¡± he said as they hauled Norus inside the wagon, the struggling man making the wooden beams shake with his struggles after they trapped him inside.

    Willem wanted to shout, wanted to scream. He wanted to beat at the other demons, wanted to tear at their throats. But there was a mud over his thoughts, a sludge that stopped him from trudging forward. He saw Kha kneeling in front of him, those alien eyes blinking slowly.

    ¡°When it is harder to understand¡­ it is easiest to forget¡­¡± the demon whispered, and Willem felt an immense hand pressing down on his thoughts, pushing them away¡ª

    ¡°No¡­¡± he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks from shock and pain. ¡°No, please.¡±

    He did not want to face it, did not want to think about it. He wished that he did not remember, that he did not have to remember. Willem dug his claws into the dirt, trying to beat away the waves of madness that crashed into the sides of his skull with every heartbeat. His eyes were screwed shut, his forehead shoved into the dirt.

    He could not see the gleaming portal of crackling mahji that shimmered into existence in the side of the cliff, fed with the dying man¡¯s life. He could not see the glistening fog that poured out of the runic circle, that crawled forward to envelop the legion. He could not see as Norus died, the drained husk of a corpse slowly shuddering and convulsing, twitching in the dirt with a last memory of life.

    He merely felt the tingle as the fog spread over his sobbing form, claiming his body and eating away at his flesh before taking him whole. And then, blissfully, he was gone.

 Book 3: Chapter 27

    Bitterness and betrayal stung sharp through his mind as Willem felt the waypath work its magic. The wave of memories struck him like a horde of skal, like a terrible cloud that swallowed out all other thoughts. He saw Norus, the brave, resolute soldier that had followed them from Gates to the Outlands. The man had a spine of steel, had been the pillar standing tall when Willem had been lost. And now he was dead. Poetic, really, in its irony. To have gone so far from the Gates, only for his last act to send me back.

    It was a cruel thing that the demons had done, but then again it was in their nature. When had they never been cruel? When had they never been vicious? He had seen them passing time in the fields, churning the dirt into mud as they wrestled and fought with a terrible viciousness. He had seen their savagery first hand¡ªwhen had he forgotten that those fangs could be pointed at him as well?

    When had he forgotten what kind of a monster he had become?

    The stabbing pains of reforming flesh were almost welcome, drawing his thoughts away from the mire of mourning that he had nearly drowned in. He felt the fog around him peel away with a wetness, like a membranous slime falling away from the skin. His muscles newly reforming, Willem fell to the ground underneath his feet with a gasp, his heart giving a sudden pump as it jolted back to life.

    All around him, the legion had collapsed to the ground, disoriented from the waypath. They struggled to regain their senses, struggled to stir their thoughts out of the muck, and it was a moment before Willem realized why. It was the air; it was thick with poisonous miasma. There was a cloying weight that clung to the lungs, that stole away the life and vitality with every breath. It was as if he was carrying a massive weight on his shoulders whenever he tried to draw breath, the motions coming short and shallow.

    And the source of that poison, he realized, was none other than the skal.

    It was a moment before he saw it, although once he had, it was startled at how he could have ever missed such a sight. The Gates rose out of the ground, a towering wall of stone and magic that seemed to rise up to touch the heavens. Yet it was different from when he had last seen the leviathan walls, now long unmanned¡ªits sides were now covered in black shadows.

    Coiling clouds of insectoid skal¡¯va writhed all along the stone, darting in and out of the gaps like so many serpents. From their bodies drifted that shadowy mist, that heavy miasma that so sickened the air with its presence. Ordinarily chilling and numbing, it seemed that in such heavy amounts the mist sapped life itself instead of merely heat. The skal ate away at the very foundations of the wall that they clung to, the runes and formations of the Gates, now lacking maintenance, crackling madly as they bled freely into the air.

    The arrival of the legion did not go unnoticed by the skal¡¯va, and the air was suddenly punctuated by a hideous staccato of screeching, keening shrieks. The legionaries, still struggling to rise to their feet, were now caught utterly off guard by this attack. This, Willem knew, was what Joy was afraid of: unproven, unblooded soldiers frozen in fear at the first sight of the skal.

    He watched as fear descended on the faces of those men, as their arms went slack at the sight of pure death. He saw swords fall from helpless grips, saw shields tumble into the dirt. Why fight, those faces asked. How can we fight against this? It was an easy thing to make promises, Willem realized. But in the end, promises were still just words.

    Rally them, some part of him commanded¡ªthe primal part that still wished to live. Rally the men. His heart thumping wildly, Willem reached deep inside the pit of his stomach, feeling the crackling mahji that eagerly leapt into his grasp. Revulsion washed over him at how this thing had been pulled out of Norus¡¯ body, at how it had greedily fed the air while that  corpse had fallen to the ground, but he shoved it aside. Time enough for platitudes later; now is the time for prayers.  And pray he did, as the mahji surged through his limbs and erupted out of his fingertips. There was no control in his panic, no carefully thought out intentions¡ªhe merely wanted that cloud of skal¡¯va driven away. The mahji heard him in the simplest of terms, the wind rushing forward with the unshackled urge to blow across the plains.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    A conjured gale of mahji-fed wind crackled forward in a virtual wall of pure energy, one that struck the cloud of buzzing skal¡¯va head-on. The insects were thrown wildly in the wind, blown apart and scattered into the air as they struggled to converge into a cloud once more. Crackling sparks of purple darted across their bodies, charring a few into dust that drifted to the ground. It was not enough, nowhere near enough to kill them, but it gave them time. Time enough for the men to gather their wits. Time enough for the demons to unleash hell.

    The demons bucked madly, throwing off the chains and harnesses that bound them to the catapults as they roared loud enough to rattle the stones. The machines went careening into the dirt, some losing wood and limbs as they fell on their sides. Their demonic mounts went charging forward, howling with a wild bloodlust as the battle fever seized them. While the legionaries stood unmoving, a wave of demons surged forward, some on the ground, some on wings as they crashed against the stream of skal¡¯va.

    Gouts of flame abruptly erupted as they two sides met, the demons unleashing the runes that had been painstakingly carved into their bodies. The pups were the most enthusiastic, small bat-like forms that flitted through the air to smother groups of skal¡¯va in tongues of fire. Willem felt a wild hope burst to life in his chest as he watched the demons shrug off wounds that would kill mortal men. He watched as the wave pushed into the skal¡¯va¡ªand drove them back.

    ¡°Legion, form rank!¡± a loud voice carried across the field, and the men suddenly snapped into motion with the mindless thought formed through hours of drilled repetition. Their eyes were still glassy from shock and fear, but their muscles knew the actions nevertheless as lines of men crashed into formation with shields at the ready.

    ¡°Second Spear Alass, get your men on those catapults! I want those bastards raining pitch.¡± Mors shouted to an eastward wing of soldiers, the men saluting after a brief hesitation. The rest of the legion gave out a low shout as the commands to march rang out, their boots ringing out like thunder as they struck the ground in cadence.

    It is a bluff, Willem realized. Every man here wishes to run, but it is his neighbors that keeps him here. He saw the fear in their eyes, heard the hollowness of their shouts, felt the trembling in their steps. They cannot hold. It is impossible. Yet still the legion pressed forward, if on nothing more than bluster. Yet still they drew their runeblades, half of them forgetting how to use the swords in their panicked haste. Yet still they met the cloud of skal¡¯va, joining the demons on the front ranks, and somehow that line held.

    Willem felt the nervousness fill his chest¡ªif the line breaks, if one man runs, then they will all shatter. And so he pressed forward where the line was weakest, where a poor fool had let his runeshield fall to the ground. Flames leapt from his hands, propelled by a raucous wind that blasted the skal¡¯va away. The man was long dead, his body swiftly devoured by a descending cloud of shadows, but the pause was enough time for the next man to step forward, shield ready, eyes wild with fear and determination. There was no time for thanks, no time for words as Willem raced off to another spot in the line that threatened to cave.

    Bodies began to fall from the skies, demons succumbing to their multitudinous wounds as the skal¡¯va began to win the air. The corpses that fell were frozen into ice, shattering into dust as they struck the ground, but on occasion they also fell on the legion. Men gave hoarse shouts as they crumbled to the ground, some necks snapping from thirty stone of ice and muscle landing on their heads. Even as he watched, Willem saw the demons being driven back, unable to hold any longer against the neverending wave of shadows. Their limbs were greying from the touch of that black mist, their movements dulled by fatigue as they struggled.

    Hold! They have to hold! Yet Willem could do nothing but watch as one by one, they fell. And as they did so, more of the skal¡¯va pressed forward into the legion, and more of the line began to collapse. Time seemed to slow as he ran, as he watched, his heart beating wild with desperation. Yet it was not enough¡ªthey would break.

    But there was a sudden whistle, a sudden crack of wood and leather, a sudden thud and shattering noise. His head snapped back in an instant, watching as the legion had finally righted some of the catapults. It was a pitiful affair, only half of the number in any form of working order, and even then many of them listing to the side or propped up by stones. Yet it was enough as the Swords gave the command and another volley of pitch flung out into the air. initially, Willem was confused at what they were doing¡ªwhat use was pitch against buzzing skal¡¯va? Yet it struck the walls of the Gates instead, the black oil invisible against the black shadow.

    And then a stray gout of flame from a dying demon managed to reach the walls, managed to lick against that pitch. It caught in an instant, devouring the fuel in half a heartbeat, and suddenly the entire wall of the gates was lit up by fire.

 Book 3: Chapter 28

    The sky was colored bright orange now as Joy watched, the clouds streaked with fire and smoke as the Gates began to burn. Blinding light illuminated the skal¡¯va as they swarmed, and the sudden wave of heat that blasted outward was enough for nearly the entire legion to stagger back in response. Joy himself felt the air rush forward as it tried to feed the flame, felt his fur flatten on the back of his neck as he dug his claws deeper into the dirt.

    It was a bloody scene that was displayed before him: the legions were struggling to stay alive, with their front shieldwall propped up with frozen corpses. Men staggered forward to hold the ranks, but the skal¡¯va had managed to break through their flaming slashes into close quarters where their blades were ineffectual. Farther down the field, closer to the walls of the Gates, the demons were drowning in a flood of skal. The wreath of shadows that circled tight around each demon was occasionally punctuated by a brilliant gout of flame, but those moments were coming fewer and less often with each passing second.

    Yet as the catapults launched their pitch and the demons managed to ignite the tar, the air was suddenly filled with a hideous screech as the skal¡¯va abruptly coiled and writhed up into the air, a tornado of black that spiraled up into the clouds like a siphon. It was a brief respite, but a much-welcome one as man and demon alike staggered up in an effort to catch their breath.

    Taking in a deep breath, Joy let out a fierce howl that carried to the isolated demons down the field. Back, it shouted to them, hopefully loud enough to pierce through their bloodlust. Back, to safety. It echoed off the walls, carrying over the crackling of the flames and the screeches of the shadows. Then, fortunately, the demons heard the message and began to lope back towards the mass of the army, their bodies cracked and bleeding from wounds that had been half seared shut from flame.

    Yet even as they fled, there was a sudden whoosh of rushing air as the swarming shadows dove down towards them. A sudden gale of wind blasted through the air as black mist coalesced around the demons, pluming ice crackling against their skin. They ones that were the farthest out became surrounded by those stabbing insects, their roars wrathful and pitiful as that stumbled to the ground and collapsed. Slowly they let out soft mewling whines before their bodies froze entirely over, all semblance of heat and life sapped out of their flesh. The swarming cloud of skal¡¯va circled even tighter around their corpses, their writhing form giving a heart-like pulse before pulling back. When the swarm finally dispersed, there was only a faint cloud of dust that lingered where the body once was.

    Joy felt stabbing pains in the pit of his stomach as he saw the small handful of demons that managed to retreat, barely a third of the original number. As they fell back, there was a sudden whiff of brimstone that carried across the wind, and Joy turned to glance suddenly at Kha. The channeler was chanting quickly under his breath, his claws tipped with coiling purple before there was an abrupt clap of thunder that echoed through the field. Two violent arcs of lightning shot through the sky, blasting gaping holes through the clouds of skal¡¯va when they tried to chase after the retreating demons. While the holes were swiftly filled in by the skal¡¯va, it was clear that their cloud was now far smaller than before.

    With the demons now having joined the ranks of the legion, the skal¡¯va were now pinned. To their front lay the army, and behind them was the still-burning walls of the Gates. Their cloud writhed in the air uncertaintly, and Mors seized the opportunity to give a command.

    ¡°Back two ranks, open out! Archers, file in ranks¡± he shouted, the command piercing through battle fever and fear through rote practice. Joy watched, impressed, as the last two ranks of the legion took hasty steps backwards and to the side in cadence, freeing up spaces in the formation for two lines of unarmored archers to fill in, their longbows already nocked with arrows. They were the men that had previously been manning the catapults, now unneeded there.

    ¡°Nock.¡± Mors shouted, his voice steady and even in an effort to keep the men calm. In the distance, the cloud of skal¡¯va seemed to have realized the urgency of the situation¡ªthe gates were beginning to crumble, with feral marai crackling madly into the sky. They dove downwards towards the legion, a swarm of screeching death.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    ¡°Draw.¡± Mors commanded, and there was a rasping sound as the arrows were pulled back. The front ranks of the legion raised their shields, their swords trembling as they nearly threatened to break from fear. Joy reached inside himself for the pool of mahji that waited, drawing it up and out in his waiting claw tips.

    Those arrows would do nothing, he knew. Not unless he aided them. Around his hands, the air began to shimmer and boil with immense heat, ribbons of purple dancing tighter and tighter. Their tips were metal, he knew, and he had seen steel when it was hot, when it was dripping embers and spewing smoke. He threw his arm forward, shooting ribbons of mahji into the air in a curtain of raw heat. Mors threw him a look of confusion, but Joy merely nodded for the man to continue, his brow knotted in concentration.

    ¡°Fire!¡± came the order, and the volley of arrows flew through the air with a rattle. Yet as the arrows struck that curtain of mahji, the very air around them seemed distorted from heat. Their shafts burst instantly into flame, their arrowheads abruptly glowing orange as the projectiles flew forward from mere momentum. Yet it was enough to carry them into the center of the mass of incoming skal¡¯va, who had not enough time to react to the sudden volley.

    The air was pierced abruptly with their wails as the flame caught on a few of the insects, their diminutive forms catching alight. Then, with a vicious tenacity, the plowed straight into the front ranks of the legion. The men let out a ragged shout as they slashed out with their runeswords, orange flame lashing out from the gaps in their shields. Behind them, the second rank struggled to defend their fellows, raising their shields to cover their heads as if defending from a mere volley of arrows. There were shouts of pain and fear as the men staggered back, trying to fight off a cloud of sheer terror, yet it was not enough.

    And then he heard a violent wrenching sound from the distance, like crumbling stone and tearing steel. He watched as the Gates finally fell, its magic and mortar finally consumed by wildfire. As the topmost stones began to crumble, so too did a massive fissure suddenly sprout down the center of its mass. Ribbons of green and purple sprouted outward from that wound, glowing brilliantly in the fire before blasting into the air. Then the entire wall seemed to fall as one massive unit, slow enough that Joy could anticipate the moment that it finally struck the ground.

    The impact was deafening, like a wild roar of thunder but lasting a hundred times longer. At the same time, that wild marai sunk into the ground, opening up a series of fissures that spread and sped towards the army. Sickly green light emanated upwards from those cracks, igniting when it touched the air into a putrid flame. The air itself contorted and twisted under the weight of the corrupted magic, growing thick with smoke and taint. And then the final few runes that were still struggling to maintain integrity shattered, and Joy could see the blast of a shockwave that raced towards them, throwing up a cloud of dust and dirt.

    When it finally struck, he felt his vision grow white and his mind go numb, losing all sense of sensation as he fell to the ground. For a moment, he was stuck in grotesque limbo once more, unable to access his senses and utterly helpless in the dirt. Then, as vision slowly faded back into his eyes, he saw the hellish scene that was thrown before him.

    The ground was utterly shattered, pillars and shards of rock and stone sprouting out of the broken earth. Their sides were scorched black by fire and marai, crumbling and smoldering with heat. The cloud of skal¡¯va had been blasted apart by the shattering runes, yet they were slowly coalescing once more in the heavy air. The legion lay broken and battered on the stones below, their bodies stuck under stone and armor, their formation shattered.

    Joy felt panic in himself then, reached once more for the mahji that filled him. It came quickly, eagerly, and he felt the raw power bubble forth in a sudden rush. He had it. He had flame. The ribbons licked outwards from his fingers, dancing around his ruined army and surrounding this torn earth. It threatened to ignite at any moment, threatened to illuminate this hellish landscape. Take them, he mocked the skal¡¯va. Try and take them from me, and I¡¯ll burn you all.

    It was a terrible bet. It was a bet that these men would not die anyways. It was a bet that Atal valued his troops, valued his skal as more than just replaceable. It was a bet that Kha had succeeded with his man, and that the Mother was wounded. Only then would the tide of skal have a limit, and only then would they consider retreat.

    And Joy watched as that hesitant cloud buzzed lowly in the air, before giving a loud shriek and sinking into the shadows cast from flame, disappearing into the darkness.

 Book 3: Chapter 29

    That low crackling of flame hissed like the whispering of the dark god, like some sickly death knell sounding for far too many of them. Joy had half an urge to claw at his ears, so that he need not hear the pitiful screams of the dying men as they lay amidst the rubble, unable to move as green fire from marai ate away at them. The flames spread out from the places closest to the ruins of the Gates, threatening to encroach on the shattered ground that the mass of the army stood upon.

    It was strange, the guilt that clawed from inside his chest. He ought not to feel it¡ªif they died, then they were merely weak. It was nothing to do with him. But yet even as he spoke them, he know those thoughts to be lies¡ªhe was just as responsible for their deaths as they were themselves. And perhaps if it had merely been a few, as they were before, then he would not have had such a reaction.

    But it was hundreds of them, not a handful. Hundreds of charred corpses that had been screaming not moments of ago, hundreds of burnt bodies that were blown away into dust in the wind. The air was rank with the stench of piss and smoke, the ground covered with the gristle of smoking flesh and scattered bile. Here and there, he could see twitching limbs sticking out of the upturned rubble, the skin alight with dancing marai that sparked and shimmered before catching aflame, and a new chorus of screams suddenly rang out.

    And that damned crackling, that crackling of fire clawed at his ears like a hundred voices whispering to him. Your fault. Your fault. These are your corpses.

    He saw the demons as well, their bodies twisted in grotesque angles¡ªthose that had not been turned to dust by the skal¡¯va. They were missing arms and legs, the limbs eaten away until the bone was showing, many of them still alive as their chests heaved to drag in another breath. Perhaps, had he been a Me¡¯jai, he might have healed them. Perhaps, if he was smarter, they might still be alive. For the first time in a long age, Joy cursed himself for being foolhardy. Nearly half of his army lay dead before him, and he had not yet stepped across the border into Malifor.

    ¡°They will not wait¡­¡± Kha hissed next to him, slapping him out of him moment of self-pity, and he blinked before nodding swiftly.

    ¡°Have them pull back from the flames. Those that are stuck farther in cannot be saved, and they would not be worth the effort even if they could.¡± Cold. Calculating. That was what he knew, not these weak sensations of pity and guilt. Self-loathing would not be enough to drive them into the heart of Atal. He needed to be sharper, stronger.

    Then, unwilling to watch the flames that danced before him, he turned to find others in the rubble, hoping to swallow the ball of pain that refused to go away in his throat.

    ¡°Enough¡­¡± Kha whispered softly next to him. ¡°You are king¡­ ruler¡­ you must not kneel¡­¡±

    Joy started at this, pulling back with a bubbling anger. How was he to ignore this, to ignore this rampant death? Even now, he saw as wounded soldiers struggled to pull each other out of the rubble, men screaming as their limbs were strained.

    ¡°A king must remain distant¡­ lest the ants see him as fellow¡­ not ruler¡­¡± Kha insisted, pulling Joy¡¯s arm for him to come back. ¡°Let them do as they will¡­ there''s still work to be done¡­¡±

    ¡°And leave these men to die?¡± he growled out, that bitter ball of guilt once more lodging itself in his chest. He wanted to dig them out, wanted to break the rubble with his strength, wanted to do something, anything. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°If they die here¡­ then they would have died after you saved them¡­¡± Kha whispered, trying to calm him. ¡°Do not show emotion¡­ do not show guilt¡­ let them see you as a monster¡­ that will be easier for them to trust¡­ to believe¡­¡±

    His shoulders heaving, Joy dragged in a slow breath filled with soot from the clouds of ash. His thoughts racing, he struggled to slow his stomping heart before turning around, his back to the scene of disaster. ¡°As you will.¡± he growled out, his voice rasping and threatening to break even as he steeled himself.

    And so he forced himself to watch as one by one the legionaries extricated themselves from the rubble. Many more of those struggling forms stopped as the flames crept up on them, as the smoke and soot settled in their lungs and each breath brought in more dirt than air. I could have helped, that voice whispered each time an arm stopped moving, each time a body went still. Yet he forced himself to be calm, to be impassive as his men coughed and wept and bled.

    The survivors hastily discarded their armor, the bits of metal now unbearably hot to the touch to the point that they blistered the skin. Those that were more able-bodied hurried to bring bandages over and treat the wounded, and Joy watched as Willem stood nearby, channeling water to fill numerous pails for the burned. Joy clenched his fists harder at the sight, his claws drawing blood from his own palms.

    ¡°It is good that you care¡­¡± Kha whispered next to him, noticing his struggle. ¡°But a king must remain detached¡­¡±

    ¡°I do not wish to care.¡± Joy snarled out, although the next words caught in his throat. But when I look at their dying bodies, all I can see is Sister. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, lips calling him Brother even as she fed herself to magic. Pangs of loneliness and loss rippled through his chest, and he saw bits of her image in every corpse on the field.

    He could not look any longer, and so a wave of gratitude filled him as he heard Mors call out to him. ¡°How many?¡± Joy growled out gruffly, catching the soldier off guard as he swiveled to glare at the man.

    ¡°How many did we lose?¡±

    Mors paused for a moment, turning to look out over the men. ¡°Half the legion, at least. I¡¯m not sure how many of¡ªof the demons; they¡¯re too scattered in the ruins to make out. But, from what I could see of the fighting, I¡¯d imagine no more than twenty of the adults.¡±

    One more, bubbling rage swelled up inside of him as Joy turned to face Kha. ¡°How many more of these losses can we take? How many more of these dead can we stomach, if we must trek through desert and death just to face the dark god? We have yet to step foot on Malifori soil. We are invaders, and we have died in our homeland.¡±

    ¡°We will fight as much as we must.¡± Kha hissed sharply, his voice gaining a sudden edge. ¡°We will die as much as we must. The dark god will not wait. Our lives are like armor, like arrows¡ªmerely another resource.¡± His thin arms gestured to the continent in the distance, his slitted eyes now glaring sharply. ¡°With a hundred thousand men or a hundred, we still must face Atal. Weep if you must. But in the morning, we will still march.¡±

    With that, the demon turned and walked off into the distance, going off to help the men. It seemed that while a king must remain aloof, there were no such restraints on his advisors.

    ¡°I have never seen him that way.¡± Mors muttered quietly, and Joy nodded in silent agreement. ¡°In any case, we need to gather the rest of the Swords if we¡¯re to manage logistics. From the Gates to Meshira is nearly twenty days¡¯ march if we¡¯re to go along the Sand Trails. I can¡¯t imagine there¡¯ll be much of us left if the skal¡¯va fight us like that each day.¡±

    Joy shook his head slowly. ¡°No, their troops are finite, fortunately, else they would not have pulled back today. Most likely, they''ll bite at our ankles and bleed us slowly before trying to crush us at Meshira.¡±

    ¡°Still,¡± Mors insisted, ¡°twenty days¡¯ march is long time for our men and our supplies. I don¡¯t know if either will last.¡±

    ¡°Then it is a good thing we will be losing more men, so that the rest won¡¯t starve.¡± Joy smiled bitterly, before letting out a sigh. He watched as men lay on the ground, bandages over arms and heads, gingerly pouring cold water over their burns. The air was rife with moans and screams. And this bunch must slay a god.

    ¡°Well, if we¡¯re to go charging to our deaths, we¡¯d best get started soon.¡± he snarled out.

 Book 3: Chapter 30

    Their feet beat out a scattered rhythm as the legionaries marched down the Sand Trail, kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt behind them. Torell felt his legs burn already from the weight of his armor, the muscles screaming out for rest even though they sun had yet to even reach halfday. They had not been given proper rest after the Gates, at least, not what many of them needed. Indeed, nearly half of those that survived were wounded in some way, from limbs to body. Torell himself was missing three of the fingers on his left hand.

    He still remembered being in the shield wall, that hellish place where his heart pounded out an ocean wave in his skull with each frenzied beat. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the buzzing cloud of skal¡¯va bearing down on him, their indistinct, insectoid dots shrouded by cold, black mist. He remembered trying to raise his shield to block them, so that the men behind him could burn them off. He remembered them clinging to his hand, gnawing at the fingers that had gone numb. He remembered igniting his sword, feeling the blessed heat sear his skin as he lopped the fingers off.

    It had been a good trade. He had seen the frozen corpses of the men that had hesitated. I was fortunate.

    Fortune was not what came to mind as he struggled to keep the cadence of the march, his bruised body screaming out for rest. Perhaps it was a gift from greedy gods that had overheard his thoughts, or perhaps too many of them were lagging behind, but he heard the sweet call to rest from one of the Swords. Torell had to resist the urge to simply collapse on the spot, slowly marching instead to the side of the road to give others space to pass. Then, carefully, he set down his shield and sword, loosening the straps of his armor and rolling his stiff shoulder gingerly in the socket before taking a seat in the sparse grass.

    The others joined him, although none of them were keen on talking. There were too many scarred faces, too many wounded minds for anyone to dare to break the silence. Instead, the whole of the legions sat there in eerie quiet, with naught but the whistling wind to tease their ears.

    Almost instinctively, Torell felt himself searching the crowds to try and spy Myron. He was hoping that he had merely overlooked his friend, that his vision was merely failing him. He did not wish to consider the other option¡ªthat Myron had been left in the rubble of the Gates.

    How had he died? Torell felt his thoughts begin to wander. Perhaps he had been swarmed by the skal¡¯va, overwhelmed as the bled in through a crack in the shieldwall, his partner too slow to stem the tide. Perhaps he had been marching back, trying to keep back the swarm only to stumble and fall, his shield¡ªthe only thing keeping death at bay¡ªtumbling to the ground. Perhaps he had been caught when the Gates fell, like so many others, as the ground itself tore open and his body was blasted with flame. So many ways, Torell could not help but muse, feeling his heart sicken and turn in his chest. So many ways for a life to be snuffed out.

    Yet the sounds of a waterboy making rounds through the ranks were enough to shake him out of his reverie. No time for wishing or delusions, he reprimanded as he absentmindedly felt the ground around him before closing in on the hilt of his sword. It was a comforting thing; he resisted the urge to trace the strange runes that covered the handle. As the waterboy came closer, Torell reached out for a cup.

    The warm water was sweet and stale, but it was a welcome relief in these dry parts. Even as it coursed down his throat, he felt his stomach greedily swell to swallow more, more¡ªbut the cup was empty already. Hesitantly, Torell looked up for more, only for the waterboy to swiftly take the cup from his grasp and move over to another waiting legionary. Torell¡¯s vision swooned, the sunlight suddenly making him feel nauseated as the water sloshed in his belly, and he fought to keep it down.

    More, his body demanded of him. I need more. He had seen the demon conjuring water¡ªthe more friendly one that seemed the least likely to bite his head off. Perhaps he could ask him, could try and get some more water. His throat burned like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper, his body now screaming after it had been given just a taste of water like some abusive torture.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    But as he got up to try and slake his thirst, his legs nearly buckled out from under him, and he wound up crashing back down into the dirt with a groan. His vision swooned, his ears ringing, and when he first heard the scream, he nearly did not register it.

    Yet it was impossible to miss the second howl of horror to his left, that dragged on like that of a dying beast before being abruptly cut off.

    Torell¡¯s head whipped immediately to the source of the sound, spying a terrible shadow lurking in the middle of the day. It was not like the insectoid skal¡¯va, with each piece small and making up a swarm; this shadow was like a massive worm, like a thick serpent that was wrapped around a soldier¡¯s entire body. The unfortunate man was unable to move, the skal binding his arms to his side before slowly slithering to cover him like a blanket. The man¡¯s screams, high-pitched and terrified, were suddenly stifled as a flap of smothering shadow covered his mouth.

    Torell could see the cracks snaking up the man¡¯s neck, like porcelain or ice slowly crumbling as the skal emitted that black mist, sapping away the man¡¯s heat and life. The other soldiers nearby were similarly frozen, not by mist but instead by shock and terror. They were all like Torell, in a way¡ªthey had all seen the skal¡¯va at the Gates. They had all seen their friends die. They were all afraid of death.

    And so none of them wanted to creep closer to that morbid shadow, even as its sinuous form grew fatter, grew to fully encompass the person it was eating. Instead, the inadvertently backed away slowly, their arms trembling and their breathing short as the blood drained out of their faces.

    Torell felt his own heart racing, felt his own arms trembling with a sudden rush of nervous energy. Was this how Myron had felt, before he died? Afraid? Brave? Stupid? It was a stupid thing that he did next, at least, for he reached to his side and felt his shaking fingers grasp the hilt of his runeblade. His thumb brushed over those carvings, traced them subconsciously as he slowly stood on aching legs.

    His muscles were screaming at him to stop, but his body was moving on its own all the same. His thoughts were screaming for him to run, but his mind was empty as he stared forward, stared at that engorged shadow. Its umbral shape was indistinct under the sunlight, half-hidden by the roiling waves of mist that billowed off its body, but it was clear enough for him to see its center.

    A slow breath in. A fast breath out.

    Heat blossomed along the length of his arm as his runesword burst into flame, as the bottom of his vision suddenly became blinding. It was disorienting momentarily, but he stepped forward all the same. He could see the skal in front of him, even if his eyes were blinded. He could hear its crackling hiss as it recoiled from the fire. And then he slashed down in a brutal strike, feeling the faintest hints of resistance as his blade coursed through the air.

    It was enough. He heard the whoosh of wind as the flame caught, as the air rushed in to feed the fire. He felt the blossoming heat as the flame spread to swallow the skal, warming his skin as he panted, muscles taut. As his vision adjusted, he saw the skal writhing pitifully, helplessly slithering and twitching in the dirt like a dying beast as its shadowed form turned to ash.

    Then, letting out a pent-up breath, Torell felt his sword tumble out of his grasp, its fire guttering out. He fell to his knees, his entire body shivering with a mixture of fear and adrenaline, his underclothes soaked through with sweat.

    The men around him were muttering lowly, their faces barely regaining some color as the skal died. They had done nothing as the creature feasted. They had done nothing to stop it.

    Torell glanced up as a shadow fell over his kneeling figure, his eyes streaked with tears and sweat as he saw the demon offering him a clawed hand to pull him up.

    He took it.

    ¡°Well done.¡± Joy snarled, lupine lips pulled back in a grotesque smile.

 Book 3: Chapter 31

    The shadows flickered as Ma¡¯sal bent his head¡ªbut then, when did they not? They were always dancing as he watched, for they were watching him in return with their smoky eyes of roiling mist. These shadows were no different, serpents that licked across his neck and arms as he slowly kneeled in submission. A brief flicker of fear seized him then, but it was quickly snuffed out by but a single thought. For Tsaya, he remembered, and he gathered his nerve once more.

    The chamber was barely lit, a massive room shrouded almost entirely by those ever-watching shadows. The sole source of light was but a single flickering fire near the center, around which three hooded men were gathered. The floors, the walls, they were all carved of whatever black material of glass and bone fashioned the exterior of the temple. Tiles of the glossy, surfaceless stone laid out a path towards what seemed to resemble an altar.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid.¡± Tsaya whispered next to him, sensing his fear. ¡°We are with you.¡± Her voice was enough to dispel his concerns; her touch was enough to send strength back into his limbs. Ma¡¯sal turned, flashing her a small smile before stepping forward. Her face was gentle, her expression soft and full of concern even as she let him go, and he longed to pull back into her embrace instead.

    The air was cold, utterly without heat even as he approached the center of the strange altar. The stone was slightly raised, going up three steps to reveal a small brazier fashioned out of a dark metal. A flickering flame sat in a pit carved underneath the dais, dancing eerily in the silence. As he approached, two of the hooded men stepped to the side while the third strode towards him.

    ¡°Remove your robes.¡± hissed out a low voice, rasping with a sensation like sandpaper on silk.

    Ma¡¯sal felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, resisting the urge to look back at Tsaya as he slowly took off the worn cloth that clung to his skin. The skin underneath was damp with clammy sweat in spite of the cold, puckered with gooseflesh and covered with too-many days of filth. The Valanese tattoo was harder to make out as his already dark skin grew even more tanned from days of labor, the black ink and scarred pattern fading against his skin.

    Leaving his discarded clothing behind him, Ma¡¯sal stepped closer to the brazier. Yet despite being nearly close enough to dip his toes in the fire, he still felt no sensation of its warmth. Instead, his downward gaze was attracted to a gleaming object that sat innocuously in the center of the plate: a small knife.

    It lay unassumingly in the brazier, although it seemed to move under the firelight. It was not until a few seconds had passed that Ma¡¯sal realized it was not the knife that danced¡ªinstead, there was a pool of something else that was underneath it in the brazier. It was a black puddle, hidden by shadow and obscurity, and it gave him pause as he reached down to grasp the knife. Yet as his hand neared, the liquid seemed to pull away so as not to touch his fingers, the surface rippling oddly.

    ¡°Bear your blade before the god.¡± the hooded priest behind him rasped out, and Ma¡¯sal slowly took the knife into his grasp. It felt like holding ice, chillingly cold and unbelievably smooth. He tried to keep his grip tight, afraid that it might slip out of his hand and tumble to the floor. Bear your blade¡ªit was a moment before he remembered the next step of the ritual.

    Offer your vein to Atal. Draw your blood with the blade, so that it falls into his waiting maw, Tsaya had told him. It had seemed simple enough, when his mind had been clouded by her presence and her alluring voice. Now that he was naked and shivering, the blade waiting in his hands, he felt his heart pumping faster and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Now his thoughts were clear. Now he was shackled by fear.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    Do it, he told himself, gritting his teeth. Thrusting his left arm out so that the vein was facing upwards, he saw his dark skin now covered with a glistening sheen was sweat. The knife was even harder to grasp as he brought ti to bear, as he lightly held it over the pulsing vein  that throbbed below.

    Do it.

    Nervously, Ma¡¯sal glanced over his shoulder to see Tsaya behind him, watching. Perhaps it was the trepidation that showed on his face, or perhaps it was merely her kind heart, but she gave him a soft smile and a swift nod. That was all that it took to harden his heart, all that it took to melt away his will.

    The knife broke the surface of his skin. Crimson blood spurted out in a sudden spray, coating his chest and dripping down to the tiles below. Pain shot up the limb like a fire, and he felt the knife clatter to the floor as he clutched helplessly at the limb. White light danced across his field of vision as he knelt, watched the scarlet liquid pulse out of him.

    He had not noticed as a few drops fell on the brazier when they sprayed out of him, causing the black pool inside to ripple ever slightly. They were innocuous enough, if not for the fact that these ripples grew larger instead of smaller as they traveled outward. Larger and stronger, the black liquid began to churn and froth before finally splashing out of the brazier altogether.

    As the strange black fluid struck the tiles on the ground, they abruptly shot upward in a streak of motion, in a column far larger than their size warranted. That blur of black struck his arm, wrapping around the wound with an icy cold touch that made Ma¡¯sal hiss inwards in reflex. Before he could react, it slipped into the wound seemingly of its own volition, pouring into his bloodstream with a frozen sensation.

    Ma¡¯sal was too in pain to speak, and so he could do naught be clutch at his arm and kneel on the floor in abhorrence. His veins were slowly turning black as more and more of that liquid flowed into his arm, traveling up through the limb. While it was fortunate that the wound was no longer bleeding, he would have gladly traded that familiar sensation of death for this obscene invasion of his own body. It felt wrong, feeling this alien touch that pulsed with its own heartbeat as it traveled under his skin, inside his own flesh.

    Finally, as the last of the shadow slipped into his body, he saw the lips of the wound draw together and close. Inside of him, he could feel the shadow squirming and slithering, seemingly growing used to its new host. It grew more daring with each heartbeat, traveling up his arm and creeping into his chest.

    Each breath grew even colder, grew tighter, and he felt his head growing light. His arms, now feeling incredibly weak, struggled to support him as he fell to the ground, panting hard. The floor around him seemed to spin, growing in intensity as he felt the shadow swirling around his lungs, poking and prodding his flesh with an infantile curiousity.

    Then, it seemed to strike something crucial, some nerve or some muscle that sent an abrupt flare of agony shooting through his skull. Gasping out in shock and anguish, he could not even register the sensation as he fell prone on the ground, his limb going out from under him. Everything around him seemed to flicker in and out of existence, in between flashes of black and white, and his breathing grew ragged and short.

    Desperately, he tried to turn around in his weak position, tried to face Tsaya behind him. His limbs scrabbled uselessly on the smooth tile, the other hooded men watching impassively at his labors. Through a tremendous effort, he managed just barely to turn himself around, his own body screaming at him in a thousand tongues.

    Perhaps it was merely his eyes playing tricks on him, or perhaps it was the desperation of his mind, but he saw Tsaya watching him for just a moment, smiling her sweet, soft smile. And then she disappeared where she stood, as if she had been torn out of his vision, leaving nothing but the black wall behind her.

    Ma¡¯sal opened his mouth to speak, but unexpectedly his throat was filled with blood. His tongue was unresponsive, his eyes lolling backwards into his head, and he felt the cold touch of the shadow inside him as it wrapped around his heart.

    Then there was a flare of pain, and then unconsciousness took him in.

 Book 3: Chapter 32

    Ma¡¯sal was dreaming¡ªat least, he felt his head hazy with delirium. His thoughts were jumbled and mixed together, feverish and indiscernible. He saw himself standing once more in that dark room with the brazier before him, saw himself holding that knife once more in his hands. Yet this time, as he struggled to steel his nerves, he turned around to see Ma and little Yes¡¯san watching him. Their expressions were mingled with despair and disappointment, their faces wearing forlorn countenances. Then, as he reached out a desperate hand to try and touch them, he watched as they turned and walked away, leaving him cold and alone in the dark.

    Don¡¯t go, he wanted to scream out. Don¡¯t leave me, he wanted to beg them, but then he watched as they walked closer to meet Pa, as he embraced the burning man. He watched as the greedy fire claimed them too, swallowed them whole as their bodies slowly charred to black. The last things to burn were their faces, all the while staring at him with expressions of disgust and horror. Ma¡¯sal hated to see Ma with that face, with that expression that was utterly alien on her.

    Then the fire consumed the rest of them, and they were reduced to ash. The blaze burned ever brighter as its fuel disappeared, spreading out with fiery wings to swallow the only thing left: to swallow him.

    He felt the fire catching on his legs even as he ran, felt the heat creep up his chest. He felt the squirming pain in his chest, felt sheer, primal terror seize his thoughts before he fell to the ground with his legs unresponsive. That thing in his body squealed in agony, and he collapsed to the ground flailing, flames surrounding him.

    His eyes flew open as he drew in a shuddering gasp. The world around him spun on its axis as he struggled to separate dreams from reality.

    Tsaya, he thought tiredly as he sat up, his chest heaving with each breath. Where¡¯s Tsaya. He wanted to see her, wanted to hold her close to him. His body was cold, so terribly cold, and he needed to touch her and feel her warmth against him.

    Sweat trickled down his chin and neck as he tried to catch his breath, tried to calm his racing heartbeat. His fingers were trembling, his muscles all shivering, and he glanced down at himself with a hesitant flicker of the eyes, afraid of what he might see.

    His skin was covered with grotesque black veins, a latticework of snakes that covered his body and bulged outwards. From the edges of the veins, more of the black shadow crept out like a web, forming strange patterns and tattoos over his skin. The veins themselves pulsed as he watched, throbbing in a slow heartbeat that was not his own.

    He could feel it inside of him as well, the foreign shadow that lingered in his body after the offering. The cut on his arm was scarred, the skin seemingly charred even though it had been exposed to the antithesis of fire. Even as he carefully prodded his arm with a finger, the skin seemed to crackle and flake, looking more like sandstone than flesh. Ma¡¯sal resisted the urge to heave as he looked away, forcing himself to think of something else.

    The room. What is this place? He glanced around tiredly, finding himself lying in a small, worn cot in a similarly cramped room. A single lantern burned faintly in the corner, its oil low as it guttered. Nearly was a small basin of what appeared to be water, although he could not stare close enough to observe fully¡ªthe liquid reminded him too much of the basin, of the brazier, and he felt nauseated whenever his thoughts turned to that.

    Something else¡ªthink of something else. Tsaya. Where¡¯s Tsaya. Once more, his thoughts returned to the only thing that mattered, the only thing that had kept meaning in his filthy life. He needed to see her; it was a hungering that filled his entire body. With protesting muscles, he slid off the cot and felt his feet strike the cold, stone floor. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Ma¡¯sal managed to stand with much effort, leaning on the wall with an outstretched arm just to manage such a simple act. The movement made his heart pump far harder than it ought to have, and he saw the black veins on his arms suddenly throb in a faster rhythm as well. Yet as he stumbled to the door, a sudden thought seized him¡ªWould she even want to see him?

    Fear of his own appearance and revulsion of his own body made him stop at the door, the cold air now beginning to plume with his heated breath. As he stood there frozen with uncertainty, he was unable to take that final step and grasp the door handle. Instead, he was surprised when the door itself swung open apparently of its own accord.

    Ma¡¯sal felt his heart stutter in his chest when he saw her, stumbling backwards in a mixture of surprise and overwhelmed emotion.

    ¡°Tsaya¡­¡± he whispered out lightly as his first instinct was to reach out his hand and touch her. Yet once more guilt and shame stopped him, and he held back with a conflicted expression. Treacherous whispers raved in the back of his mind¡ªthoughts that she would leave him, that she hated him. He almost dared not to look at her, for fear that her beautiful expression would just as easily turn into one of revulsion.

    ¡°Why are you crying?¡± she murmured back, her honeyed voice enough to suddenly ease away the pain of all his wounds, and Ma¡¯sal looked up in shock. Swiftly, she stepped forward wearing an expression of concern, a soft finger swiftly brushing away an unfelt tear on his cheek.

    ¡°Love, what¡¯s wrong?¡± she asked, drawing him in for a warm embrace. Ma¡¯sal could not hold back a shuddering sob, nearly falling to the ground, and he was surprised at her strength as she kept him standing.

    ¡°I¡ªI was afraid.¡± he confessed as he hugged her back, tears now streaming freely down his face. ¡°I was afraid that you would hate me, that you would hate this body of mine. I¡ªI was worried that you wouldn¡¯t want to see me again.¡± His voice was trembling now, shaking as emotion poured into his words.

    Tsaya pulled back, placing her hands on his cheeks as she held him up to meet her gaze. Her eyes had tears of their own, even though they were crinkled in a loving smile. ¡°You are a fool, you know that?¡± she whispered back to him, and he nearly swooned at the sound of her voice. ¡°You are a sweet, pitiable, wonderful fool.¡±

    With that, she drew him in for a deep kiss, her lips soft and tasting faintly of salt from tears. Ma¡¯sal was tense, his entire body shaking even as he pulled her in closer, afraid to let her go. He ran his hands through the curled locks of her hair, feeling her soft skin against his own before she finally pulled away.

    ¡°How could I ever hate you? Nothing inside of you has ever changed.¡± Gently, she traced a finger along his face, the tip running down his black veins. ¡°Atal loves your heart,¡± she whispered gently, her eyes shining bright, ¡°not the guise you wear. Should you be a priest or a leper, he loves your heart all the same.¡± Then, leaning in to plant another kiss on his cheek, she smiled, ¡°And so do I.¡±

    Ma¡¯sal wanted nothing more than to hold her then, than to to keep her with him for the rest of eternity. But her face suddenly fell serious, her expression growing dark, and he felt his own heart grow heavy as well. ¡°What is it?¡± he asked, his voice hoarse and rasping.

    ¡°Atal loves us, but we do not treat him with the same grace.¡± she replied, her expression one of betrayal, and Ma¡¯sal could feel a knife burying itself in his chest. ¡°There are coming those that would seek to kill our god. They are demons, monsters, and they leave a path of destruction behind them.¡±

    ¡°Already, I have lost many Brothers to these fiends, and still they come.¡± she wept, and Ma¡¯sal felt an urge of protection swell up inside of him. ¡°There will be more Brothers and Sisters that will stand against them, to protect the god that loves us all.¡± Tsaya drew in a shuddering breath before looking upwards at him with tear-filled eyes.

    ¡°Will you stand with them?¡±

    Ma¡¯sal felt his voice fall quiet, his body unwilling to give a response as he pulled the woman he loved close to his chest. He did not answer, for there was nothing to answer. There was no question, because for him, there was only one choice.

    For you? ¡°Of course.¡±

    For you, anything.

 Book 3: Chapter 33

    The sun was merciless, hanging over their heads like a death sentence. Willem felt his own throat crack with thirst as they marched; he could only imagine the pain that the still-wounded soldiers felt. Absentmindedly, he idly wondered what it was that drove these men to fight when every day was a fiery hell. Was it their dedication to the cause? He doubted it¡ªhe doubted the strength of men to bleed over something intangible, over a mere concept. Was it their bonds to each other? Now perhaps that was more likely, if unfortunate¡ªmen who fought for each other¡¯s sake would lose that meaning as more of them fell.

    And if the past few days were any indication, there would be many left behind in the dust and dirt.

    The skal and their god had not taken kindly to the legions¡¯ intrusion, and they had suffered five more attacks at seemingly random intervals. Some came in the night, just before dawn when the campfires were burning the lowest and the watchmen were the most tired. Others came in the middle of halfday, when the soldiers had thought themselves safe.

    The first time a serpentine skal had erupted and burst out of a shadow, the men had been thoroughly shaken. They had expected to die on the battlefield, he supposed, but not while on the march. Yet with each successive attack, the men grew more and more disheartened. Now, their faces were sallow and thin, their expressions grim as they marched under that relentless sun. Few of them wanted to sleep for fear of death, although their exhaustion left them little choice in the matter.

    Morale was most certainly low, not only from the loss of men but also from lack of supplies. The catapults had been crushed and burnt in the madness of the Gates, but so had many of the carts that they had been using to haul food and other necessities. They had been forced to leave much behind, and many of the men faced a disturbing incentive for more of their brothers to die so that the rest could afford to eat.

    Yet in spite of this looming sensation of dread, the march to Meshira continued without halt. The men were pushed without sympathy, without remorse, and overlooking them all with a look of detached disinterest stood Joy¡ª

    Willem did not wish to think of Joy. His thoughts always turned scattered when they turned to the demon.

    Why is that? A rasping voice hissed in his ears as he tried to turn his thoughts away. It was not the first time that Willem had heard the voice¡ªhe had felt the whisperings clawing at his thoughts ever since the Gates. Yet he had dismissed them as fantasy, as a simple madness and nothing more.

    No, not just simple ravings, the voice laughed lowly at his feeble attempts to dismiss it. Truths. The truths that you are too weak to face.

    That word again¡ªweak. How many times had Willem told himself that he would no longer be weak? How many times had he failed that promise? Too many to count, far too many, the voice mocked. And yet you are still weak. Hiding in the demon¡¯s shadow, loyal like a dog even after it has killed your friend¡ªwhat is that if not weak?

    Willem, clutched at his eyes, feeling stinging tears bite away at him. His friend, aye¡ªNorus had been his friend. And they had stolen him away, locked him in a cage and sacrificed him to open the waypath. Not just that, they magicked away your memories. You call these things your friends? You call them allies?

    Do allies poison your mind? Do friends kill each other? The whispers grew more poisonous, wearing away at his psyche.

    Why do you fight with them? And there it was again¡ªthe final question, the one that the voice always asked last. The voice would see him run away, would see him flee in terror and leave this land to be consumed by shadow.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    It is futile to resist any further, futile to even think of defeating¡ª

    ¡°Halt!¡± a harsh voice suddenly called out, and Willem snapped his head up, pushing aside all thoughts of treachery at the sight of what lay on the horizon. Barely visible against the skyline were a few sets of apparent buildings spread out along the plains, leaning near an apparent coastline. In front of a few crudely pitched tents lay fields and fields of crops, although there were no people managing them. Willem, seeing the looks of confusion on Joy and the others¡¯ faces, hurriedly made his way over to join them.

    ¡°What is this?¡± Joy hissed out at Mors, and the man shook his head with furrowed brows.

    ¡°I have no idea either. It wasn¡¯t on the map, I can tell you that much.¡± Mors peered in the distance at the tents, although the effort seemed futile. ¡°I can¡¯t make out much from here.¡±

    Joy snorted softly, squinting his own eyes. ¡°I can see a few people hiding in the fields.¡± he replied, and Willem started in surprise, not having been able to make out any people himself. Hurriedly, he looked once more, this time reaching deeper within himself and feeling the heat of mahji bubble forth. He pulled it up his neck, letting the stabbing ribbons wreathe around his eyes, and he felt his vision distort and sharpen. Abruptly, with some effort, he could make out dark, blurred forms hidden amongst the thorny crop fields

    ¡°W-what do we do then?¡± he stammered out, cutting off the flow of mahji and feeling his body stumble at the sudden change. It was as if a sudden spark of heat had abruptly been doused out with cold water, leaving him empty and weak.

    ¡°We have demons capable of flight, do we not?¡± Mors asked, gesturing towards a handful of the surviving pups. ¡°Why not have them investigate further?¡±

    Willem saw Joy¡¯s face instinctually twist into a rejection, a defense of his fellow demons. See how he loves his own kind, like a beast? The voice hissed treacherously in Willem¡¯s ear, conveniently ignoring that the boy was now a beast as well.

    ¡°It is a¡­fine idea¡­¡± Kha murmured abruptly, the saurian demon appearing suddenly as it was wont to do. With such a simple few words, Joy seemed to grit his teeth before finally acceding.

    ¡°Send them then.¡± he growled out, waving an angry hand, and Kha slunk away to inform them. Strange. Alien. Obscene. The voice had nothing but criticisms, and Willem swiftly found himself growing tired of its influence.

    ¡°You are Atal, are you not?¡± he whispered lowly under his breath, turning away so that the others would not hear him. ¡°I know not how you have touched me, and I know not what you wish of me, but know that I will not bend.¡± The more that he spoke, the more rage began to build up inside of him. He was no mere pup, to be fed lies and twisted. He was no fool, to be spun around a god¡¯s finger.

    ¡°You will leave.¡± he hissed, before feeling a sudden pressure stab at his temples.

    You cannot command a god, the voice responded, and Willem felt a sudden wave of immense strength overwhelm him.

    You do not even know what it is to be God. His mind suddenly seemed to swell, the voice feeling him an immeasurable amount of thoughts. His vision sharpened a thousand times, his every senses firing madly. He saw everything, felt everything, and it was all too much. More than that, he felt a faint connection to everything, from the dirt under his feet to the water crashing on shores a thousand miles away. It was only for a brief moment before fading, but that temporary omniscience and omnipotence left him trembling and gasping for breath.

    As his senses returned to normal, Willem panted hard before watching as three of the winged demons suddenly took flight with a blast of wind. Their forms were thin and light as they made their way towards the gathering of tents, swiftly shrinking in size as they flew higher. They kept that same distance as they neared, circling briefly in an effort to elicit some response. Willem himself once more drew the mahji into his eyes with a shaky effort, watching the figures in the grass and fields for some movement.

    He was so focused on those men that he nearly missed the massive cloud of skal¡¯va that suddenly swarmed out of nowhere. Suddenly, the air behind the tents seemed to shimmer and distort before twisting into existence. Where there was one empty sky, there now stood a shadowy spire, its presence marked by pluming mist. Out of its tip, a cloud of insectoid skal¡¯va suddenly lunged at the demons in the sky, who let out a few pathetic jets of flame before being torn to pieces.

    Their bones, as they fell to the ground, were swiftly frozen and broken into dust that scattered in the wind.

 Book 3: Chapter 34

    Willem slept fitfully, knowing that the enemy was close to them. Every flicker in the night seemed to be a dancing skal, every noise a dying man¡¯s muffled screams. His own muscles were tired from being clenched in nervousness, his heart pained from strain. He could do little but toss and turn on the ground, the hard dirt uncomfortable for sleep and eerily cold.

    We will camp for the night, Mors had commanded them, and the men had swiftly fought their fear against their exhaustion. For many, exhaustion won out, and most were too tired to even eat before collapsing against the ground. Few tents were pitched that night, many soldiers sleeping in their armor and drawing blankets tight around themselves.

    Outside, Willem could hear the crunching in the dirt as a few of the demons paced about, keeping watch as they needed less sleep. He tossed and turned, chasing after sleep but never managing to catch it in his grasp. Instead, he could do little but let his thoughts wander, struggling to shut out the whisperings of Atal that lingered in the back of his mind.

    Run, the god told him. Flee, before death closes in. Willem wanted to claw his own skull open and dig out the wild musings, but he could do little more than clench his jaw and force his thoughts elsewhere. He had to think of something else¡ªKat, Norus, something. He almost welcomed the scream in the night when it finally came.

    Immediately, the camp broke out into an apparent hailstorm as arrows slammed into the dirt around him. Most missed any targets, splintering and shattering off rocks and armor before skidding across the dirt, but others found their way into bellies and throats of sleeping men. In the dark of the night, Willem could not see how many men were killed, but the rest hurriedly reached for shields and weapons under the sudden attack. Yet confusion was heavy in the air, and the air was swiftly filled with a tumult of screams and commands to rally.

    Looking up, Willem could briefly make out flickers of movement against the faint clouds, black specks that danced dangerously over their heads. It was a moment before he realized it was a second volley, and then fear and panic sank their fangs into his flesh. Hurriedly reaching for the mahji in the pit of his stomach, he threw the looping coils of magic out into the air with hardly a thought for control. He could not help but wince in pain, realizing how little of the mahji remained for him.

    ¡°Away!¡± Willem shouted in panic, watching as the ribbons spun and frayed into a thousand strands that stirred the air into a gale. As the second volley fell, they were swiftly blown astray by the churning mass of air, scattering wildly to the sides and missing most of the legion.

    At the same time, he heard a sudden roar take up from the demons, the monsters belching forth streams of fire into the air to illuminate the land around them. Under the light, Willem could briefly make out a charging mass¡ªenemies, he presumed. The other demons seemed to agree, and swiftly charged to meet them head-on.

    ¡°Legions, form rank!¡± came a piercing shout that cut through the din of the battle, and Willem turned to find that the legionaries were standing in formation¡ªeven if it was smaller than he was used to. Their expressions could not be seen underneath their helmets, but their shields were straight and their files crisp, if nothing else.

    Two hundred feet out, the field suddenly erupted in a cacophony of flame and brilliant light as the demons made contact with the enemy. Willem could barely make out what was happening in the madness, obscured by distance and firelight. He was so focused on them that he was caught entirely by surprise when the sky suddenly crackled with lightning. Willem swiftly turned his head just in time to watch as Kha let out a crackling blast of lightning¡ªbut not where the demons were fighting.

    Instead, that white flash of surging power struck the group of archers lurking amongst scattered stones to the right, completely hidden in the dark of the night. Their third volley was ruined by the sudden attack, their arrows flying wild even as sulfurous flame crept up their bodies to illuminate inhuman forms. Willem saw their robes being discarded to reveal blackened, charred bodies covered in bulbous veins, their features twisted and their bodies warped.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    ¡°Your friends?¡± he growled out, and for once Atal was silent in the back of his mind.

    ¡°Advance, double time!¡± the command came, and the ground suddenly shook from the cadence of boots striking the dirt, soldiers shouting hoarsely to keep tempo. Willem paused for a moment, uncertain of what to do before seeing the demons struggling to hold the line. With his heart thumping out a madened rhythm in his chest, he took off in a sprint.

    The closer that he came to the enemy, the more detail he could make out of them. He could see the nebulous black that pulsed in their veins, could see the flaking cracks that webbed across their skin. Their bodies were half charred by flame where they fought the demons, but their eyes were twisted with a madness. Willem watched as one of the demons, a large bear-like beast, suddenly let out a hideous roar before falling to the side, one of the cultists pulling out a malformed hand that had buried itself in the demon¡¯s chest. The fingers were tipped with shadowed claws, his body growing more and more inhuman the more wounds that he took.

    An anger filled him, feral and hysterical, and he surrendered himself to it. Willem let out a roar of his own as he arrived, taking a wild leap and letting his instinct take over. He landed on another cultist just in time to save another wounded demon, the man¡¯s skin painfully cold to the touch. Willem felt the last of his mahji pulse out of his claw tips, swiftly burrowing into the man¡¯s shoulders before igniting into flame. The cultist squirmed and thrashed, screaming as his insides were burnt to ash. Willem swiftly tore off the man¡¯s arm throwing it to strike another cultist off balance. The resulting stumble was enough of an opening for a pup to greedily bound forwards, sinking needle-like teeth into the cultist¡¯s throat.

    Willem threw his head to the side feverishly, his heart pounding madly as the high of bloodlust took him. Spying a wounded man trying to flee, he hurriedly lunged as raked his claws along the man¡¯s back, watching as a spray of black blood gushed out and the man collapsed. Not bothering to take the time to relish his kill, he looked once more for another target and found a fellow demon being overwhelmed by four of the cultists.

    On and on the fevered rhythm repeated, like a wild dance. His body moved on its own, his mind descending into a haze as rote repetition and instinct took over. Every drop of blood that landed on his skin sent his own blood churning. Every gargling scream was enough for him to let out a bestial howl. This is strength, a part of him realized¡ªthe wild, feral part that reveled in this combat.

    Suddenly, he felt a chilling cold scrape down the length of his arm. Whipping around, he saw one of the cultists take a bite out of his forearm, black mist pouring out that froze his limb. The man was missing both arms and Willem had previously mistaken him to be dead, leading him to this current predicament. His arm was bitterly frozen, and he instinctively reached for mahji to burn away the cold. Yet there was none left, and so instead he reached for another part of himself¡ªthe weak reason, the pathetic fear, and fed that to the flame instead.

    Instantly, a white fire blazed up to the sky, a hundred times hotter than anything else he had ever conjured. That searing light immediately illuminated the battlefield, throwing the night away and sending the cultists hissing to the ground, their skin smoking. The man clinging to his arm abruptly let out a howl, his mouth bursting into flame that proceeded to swallow his skull.

    At the sight of the soulfire, the last of the cultists seemed to have lost their nerve, and the twisted men hurriedly began to flee back to their tents and that spire in the distance. At the same time, Willem turned his head to see the legion standing tall amidst the stones, the rocks now littered with broken bodies of cultists and soldiers alike. Joy stood atop the rocks, his fur matted with alien blood and crackling mahji spilling from his fingers.

    Seeing their figures depart, Willem felt a wild roar once more tear its way out of his throat, carrying the last of his adrenaline and feral abandon with it. He stood a bloody figure, his hide speckled with black and cracked wounds covering his body. Many of the demons had died, many other whimpering as the twitched on the ground. The few that remained joined in his call, adding their bestial voices to his as they heralded the enemy¡¯s retreat.

    As if it heard, the sky suddenly lit up yellow as the first cracks of dawn slipped through. They had lived through the night.

 Book 3: Chapter 35

    The skal pulsed inside of him¡ªeager, hungry. Ma¡¯sal trembled at the foreign presence, the shadow that twisted and squirmed under his skin. Absentmindedly, he rubbed a calloused hand over his new robes, over the roughspun fabric that scraped coarsely against his skin. They had given it to him only moments before, saying that he was now a true brother. He did not care for their words; he was not doing this for them. Tsaya¡ªshe was the only reason he stood here now. She was the only thing that mattered.

    They gathered in a group in the middle of the night, Ma¡¯sal along with the other hooded brothers and sisters. There were far more of them than he had originally thought, nearly a hundred that came out from within the spire. Ma¡¯sal spotted a few that were formerly laborers, now tainted black like him, although their features were obscured by their robes. Almost idly, he could not help but wonder what faces were hidden under those hoods and how many of those brothers he might recognize.

    ¡°Are you worried?¡± a soft voice asked from behind him, and Ma¡¯sal swiftly turned around to see Tsaya waiting. She would not be joining them¡ªshe could not fight. He knew this, and yet a greedy part of him wanted her to come with him, wanted to keep her close.

    ¡°Only for your sake.¡± he whispered back, reaching out for her hands. His own fingers were worn and gnarled, the skin cracked and covered with pulsing veins. They looked misshapen, grotesque, especially when compared to her own smooth skin.

    Tsaya smiled at his reply, drawing in close and giving him a quick kiss on the lips. ¡°You¡¯re a fool, you know that? You¡¯re the one going off to fight, and you¡¯re afraid for me?¡± Her cheeks were wet, seemingly from tears, and Ma¡¯sal felt a sudden urge to draw her close and run off with her and damn all the consequences.

    Yet the air was quickly filled with the calls to rally, for it seemed that he was the only one with the need for any goodbyes. Ma¡¯sal found his own throat choked for words at this moment, his eyes growing blurry with tears of his own as he searched for what to say. Finally, unable to come up with any, he instead drew Tsaya in once more for another deep kiss, breathing in her scent as he wound her hair around his fingers. His own traitorous heart kept count of the seconds as they passed, and eventually he pulled himself away from that blissful eternity.

    ¡°Come back to me.¡± she called out faintly as he slipped off into the night with his brothers. Yet when Ma¡¯sal turned back one more time to try and see her, she was already gone into the night.

    The night was utterly dark, the moon hidden behind the cover of clouds, and he could hardly see a hand¡¯s length before his eyes. Yet he found himself completely at home in the night, hardly even having to think even as he sprinted in the dark. He knew where it all was¡ªthe sharp rocks two paces to his left, the snarl of brush ahead of him. Every shadow was familiar, not to him but rather to the creature that dwelt within him.

    Protect the archers, was the only command that he had been given before they left. He knew where they were, hidden in the stone outcroppings some hundred paces to the west. The rest of the brothers, including him, were scattered throughout the grass, using the night cover to their advantage. He could see the demon¡¯s camp in the distance, little more than a wild mess of sleeping bodies and haphazardly discarded equipment. Many slept in their armor, their bedrolls only inches from their swords.

    In the distance he felt as the archers nocked their bows, felt the faint rattle as the strings were pulled back. He felt the slithering rasp as the arrows flew, felt the tension flow out of his own arms in sympathy. Ma¡¯sal felt as the volley arched in the moonless sky, felt as their whistling forms began to fall.

    Then he heard the first scream, a shrill piercing shriek that resounded through the night and sent the camp awake. It was followed by a cacophony of noise as the first volley struck, the arrows finding their way into dirt, steel, and flesh all the same.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    The camp immediately fell into chaos as the men roused themselves, blind in the night. The few low-guttering flames were immediately brought to bear, only adding to the madness as they danced in the air. Over the distant din, the archers readied a second volley. Ma¡¯sal felt his own body tense in anticipation of a counterattack, although he did not know why. It was not his own instinct, but rather the instinct of his brothers, shared to him through the shadow in his flesh.

    The second volley flew through the wind, and Ma¡¯sal traced its path in the air. The camp was filled with distant motion, the soldiers struggling to don armor and form rank amidst the bedlam. Some of them were clutching at arrow wounds, others blindly searching for swords. A fateful few had never woken, sleeping with arrows in their throats.

    Yet suddenly, the night sky was illuminated with a flickering of purple light, and Ma¡¯sal strange snakes dance in the air. The threads unraveled, swirling faster and faster, and they scattered the second volley even as it fell. Channeler, he realized. Ashura, they called them in Ossia. The magic crackled away in the air as the spell faded, and shock froze the archers from their third volley, the arrows clattering numbly against their bows.

    This is bad, he realized suddenly, seeing the enemy soldiers hurriedly rallying into formation. They had already lost the benefit of surprise, and they had somehow seen the second volley, which meant that someone knew where the arrows were coming fr¡ª

    ¡ªThe night sky abruptly crackled with a hideous stench of sulfur, the air rippling with a boom, and Ma''sal felt the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end. A primal part of his mind screamed danger, and his body instinctively flattened against the ground as a bolt of lightning danced through the air directly at the stones where the archers hid.

    He felt his brothers¡¯ pain as they died, as the magic coursed through their bodies and seared through the flesh. Smoke and scorch scarred the stone as their bodies fell, and Ma¡¯sal once more felt the sense of impending danger.

    They were revealed, some part of him knew, and as he searched out into the night, he felt fear seize him. A wild roar echoed through the night, utterly primal, and it was only the strength of his fellow brothers that kept Ma¡¯sal from breaking rank, from fleeing. The skal inside of him surged eagerly, the black veins pulsing with a frantic heartbeat, and he felt the shadows seep out of his skin to coalesce in claws around his hands.

    And then the demons came, like beasts borne straight out of hell.

    They crashed into the brothers like a tide, their mouths belching fire, their claws slashing wide. The first brother swiped up with shadows of his own, scraping deep gashes along the demon¡¯s hide only to have his neck be snapping by the return blow. The skal oozed out of his broken body, solidifying into a serpentine shape to swallow the demon, only to suddenly burst aflame. Suddenly, Ma¡¯sal felt fear once more¡ªbut this time from the skal inside of him.

    This thing was afraid of the fire, he realized. It was afraid of dying.

    Oh gods, oh gods, he panicked crouching deeper into the grass out of fear, hoping that they might not notice him. He hid as his brothers rose up to fight them, as they stood against the tide and were promptly struck to the ground.

    More of the demons came, smaller ones that darted out of the skies to burn streaks of fire into the fields. Skal burst out of the shadows in a desperate attempt to ward them off, brothers taking up arms to swarm the demons with sheer numbers. Ma¡¯sal watched as three hooded brothers managed to down one of the beasts, its body crackling to dust even as it gave out a dying roar. Even still, one of the brothers crumbled to the ground, his skal-twisted arm turned to char by flame.

    Ma¡¯sal stood up out of the grass, his thoughts turning to Tsaya. He saw her smiling face once more before him, saw her curled hair and her deep, brown eyes. He yearned to see her again, even as he let out a scream of fear and rage, distracting a demon from finishing off one of the felled brothers. Its face was a hideous maw of fangs, its yellowed eyes glaring at him with bestial rage. The skal in his body spurred him onwards, even against its own fear, and he charged forward with his arm outstretched. The night air was cold without her¡ªso terribly cold, even in spite of the fire that illuminated the world.

    The horned demon let out a billowing blast of fire to greet him.

 Book 3: Chapter 36

    Joy paced angrily, the warmth of the sunlight doing little to dispel the shivers that ran through his body. They had lost much¡ªtoo much last night, and still that spire stood in the distance, surrounded by skal and black mist. It mocked him, swore to stop him from marching any farther south. And yet, as he spread his gaze out over the wounded remnants of his army, he knew that there was no way for them to assault it.

    The cultists had fled from the battle the previous night; even if some had been killed, the rest were certainly in large enough numbers to hold them off. If only they still had the catapults, then perhaps they would have some way to lay siege to the spire. As it was, the legion could hardly make is less than a hundred paces without being torn to pieces by skal.

    Not, he thought inwardly, that the legion was in any shape to be marching anywhere. The previous night had been bloody, and in the end, they had barely two hundred men left in fighting condition, with another two hundred wounded. They suffered all manner of injury, from arrow wounds to limbs that had been lost to the skal. Many had taken to fever and fatigue, their bodies slick with sweat and their breath sour with decay. Indeed, illness had taken to many of the whole soldiers as well¡ªhe doubted that many of them would last longer than a week.

    All the more reason to end this as quickly as possible, he thought to himself.

    But those men had been terrifying¡ªthe ones that Kha called cultists of Atal. Their bodies were touched by the skal, not unlike the possessed Malifori that he had seen so many lifetimes ago. That bond had given them incredible power and inhuman tenacity. He remembered storming the archer lines with the legion, ripping one man through the throat only for the mangled thing to whirl around, spearing a legionary through the stomach before dying with a gurgling laugh. He had even seen one with shadowclaws the size of bear¡¯s arm, had watched at it tore through a soldier¡¯s shield like it was parchment¡ªand tore through the man hiding behind it just as easily.

    Even worse, Joy had seen as their corpses frothed and trembled, night-black skal oozing out to swallow legionaries foolish enough to wander near. They had needed fire¡ªblessed, glorious fire¡ªbut even then it had barely been enough. In the madness of the fight, Joy could not remember how many of his own men he had burnt, how many youthful faces had twisted with horror and dread as they were illuminated by radiant flame. He barely remembered himself, howling madly with the feverish high of magic, purple mahji trailing behind him like whips of flame that he brought to bear, lashing out at any cultist that dared step to close.

    He remembered the stench of battle, the sweat and bile, the blood and char, the smell of death that hung heavy and cloying over the fallen. He remembered the screams of the men¡ªhis men, as they were devoured by shadow and flame, the crackling of the flame and the hissing of the burning skal.

    ¡°My lord¡­what shall we do?¡± Kha hissed from beside him, and Joy swiftly pushed aside the memories of the past. There would be time enough for that in death; for now, the living demanded his attention. ¡°The wounded¡­require our attention¡­¡±

    ¡°We do not have the time to deal with them, nor the means to do so.¡± he snarled back, feeling bitter guilt bubble up in his chest even as he tried to push it away. ¡°It would be best to kill them now, and give them that much as mercy.¡±

    Kha paused a moment before responding, those slitted eyes flickering over the campsite. The air was filled with the incessant moaning of the dying, the miasma heavy in the air. ¡°They fought well¡­ at the very least¡­ a warrior¡¯s death to them¡­¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    ¡°Aye.¡± Joy managed to growl out. That much, at the very least, was true. The legions had surprised him with how quickly they had adapted, with how swiftly they had overcame their dead at the Gates. Their eyes were haunted, their bodies weak and worn, but they still had the steel of soldiers nevertheless.

    And now, he wanted to strain that steel once more.

    ¡°Have them gather the dead and dying. They know who those are.¡± he told Kha, his voice strangely distant in his ears. For some reason, he could not stop seeing Sister¡¯s smile as she died, as her body was consumed by soulfire.

    ¡°And have them say their goodbyes as well.¡±

    Two hundred dying men were slowly gathered in the middle of the campsite, lying on the dirt with bodies slicked with blood and sweat. Their armor and other supplies had been removed, knowing that they would need it no longer. Many were struggling to remain conscious, managing so only the sheer force of will as they gingerly clutched with wounds. Their friends remained close to them, faces solemn and movements tense. As the last few arrived, the grounds quickly fell silent, four hundred legionaries looking up at Joy.

    ¡°I will be quick.¡± Joy snarled out, struggling to find the words that he wanted. ¡°You have fought well. Now you will die.¡±

    A low ripple ran through the crowd, although none disagreed with him. Most merely nodded tersely, their expressions grave.

    ¡°I ask of you wounded now, to lend me your strength one last time. To save your friends. To spare them from meeting your fate. Will you die for them?¡± he asked simply. Subtlety, charm, those were not skills that he possessed. But these were soldiers, and they had no need for flowered words. They only needed the truth.

    The camp was silent for a long time.

    The first few whispers trickled in slowly, many of the dying struggling to remain coherent through their pain. Yet one by one, as their brothers prayed over them, their assent became clear. And as their brothers knelt, tears trickling down their faces, Joy began to cast his spell.

    He saw their spirits, a brilliant white with shimmering color. He felt their thoughts pressing against him, like a collage of memories that formed a swirling river. He reached out to all of them and drew them closer to him. There was a tension in each one, a faint resistance that he pressed to overcome. One by one, he felt their tethers. One by one, they broke.

    Each man gave a small gasp as he died, something involuntary that signified their final moment. Then, a flickering mote of light began to shimmer out of the mouth, slowly floating towards Joy¡¯s palm. It started out as a trickle, one by one, but soon it began to swell. More and more of their souls followed, forming a glimmering stream of light that swirled around his palm.

    It had been a long time since he had last used his title, but Joy remembered it nevertheless: Shai¡¯mon, master of the spirit. He used that command now.

    Raw power flickered around him, dancing in the form of two hundred balls of light. He drew them in close, feeling them pulse against his own flesh. Little by little, he influenced their pulsing, slowly changing two hundred heartbeats into a single one¡ªa single pulse of the earth. It was a slow beat, a steady one that echoed over the eons.

    Then, he shaped their souls with a single thought: fire. The hungry flame that roared with brilliant life; the raging flame that scorched the lands black with ash. The souls responded easily.

    Their vahma burned with a sudden spark, the air around him suddenly blasted with a raging firestorm, a pillar that stretched up to the sky. Wild, rampant fire¡ªprecisely what he needed. He channeled it, drew it out, and sent it surging towards the spire in the distance.

    White fire burnt a scar across the sky as it crashed down on the spire, too blazingly fast for the skal within to even respond. Even at their distance, he felt the shockwave as the air itself pulsed outwards, distorting with heat as the flame impacted the building. White soulfire clung like oil to the shadows, those writhing black forms scarcely visible within the inferno. At this distance, it felt like a second sun that raged on the plains, turning that blackened spire into a pillar of white that stretched up to the heavens.

    In only a manner of minutes, the soulfire had devoured it all. Skal, cultist, even the potent influence of a god, the flame had rendered it all soot and ash. As the last embers faded away, the air itself seemed purified, a heavy weight lifting from his shoulders, and Joy turned to face his army, their expressions mingled with grief and wonder.

    And as the dead among them breathed no more, the living began to cheer.

 Book 3: Chapter 37

    As their spire crumbled to ash, the cultists lurking nearby began to scatter. The flame filled them with fear, and their confusion was evident in their panic. Some fled, running further south towards the direction of Meshira.

    Yet there was a sudden change in the enemy¡¯s ranks, a sudden command of clarity that made them all stop and gather back together. The crowd rallied together behind the burning embers of their spire, their distant forms preparing to charge. From the ruins of the building, a small cloud of skal¡¯va that had managed to survive slowly buzzed into the air, swirling around the group of cultists. They glanced at their burning temple with rage, letting out a hoarse cry before charging towards the exhausted legion.

    ¡°To arms! Form ranks!¡± Mors called out hurriedly, the tired soldiers hastily reaching out for their familiar equipment. Their brothers were still newly dead, their corpses not yet cold, yet still came another battle. Many of the legionaries struggled to even raise their shields, and even Joy felt the fatigue of the previous night course through his veins.

    ¡°Archers, nock!¡± came the command, and Joy heard the faint clatter behind him of arrows on wood. He let out a low rumble of a roar, one that was echoed by the handful of demons still living, digging his hind claws into the dirt.

    ¡°Draw!¡± The skal¡¯va were buzzing loud now, their swarm letting out an eerie screech as they prepared to dive. The cultists beneath them were raging, having surrendered entirely to the shadow inside of them. Their bodies were warped and nearly tearing open, entire limbs now sheathed in black. Contorted veins stretched over flapping remnants of skin, the pulsing cords half as thick as a forearm.

    ¡°Fire!¡± The air was filled with a dull whistle as a hundred arrows leapt from their bows, and Joy let out a hoarse howl, launching himself forward with the same momentum. Behind him, the other demons swiftly followed, tongues of flame darting out of their maws as they huffed in anticipation.

    The volley fell harmlessly through the cloud of skal¡¯va utterly incapable of harming their minute bodies. Joy only had a few seconds to watch as the arrows struck the cultists, most missing into the dirt, but a few burying themselves into masses of writhing shadow. Then, before he knew it, the tide broke and surged upwards upon him, and he leapt forwards to meet it.

    He crashed into a massive cultist, the man¡¯s body nearly doubled in size by skal. The black mist numbed Joy¡¯s chest where the cultist had scraped him, and a twisted arm was drawn back for another blow. Joy hurriedly rolled to the side, drawing on some tired remains of mahji to flow out of his claws. With a low hiss, he slashed upwards along the man¡¯s arm, watching with satisfaction as the limb caught aflame with the stench of char and smoke. Then, he whirled around to find a new opponent, leaving the man to writhe in agony.

    The other demons were bearing the brunt of the cultists, the forces evenly matched in spite of their low number. The larger problem was the cloud of skal¡¯va now bearing down on the legion, battering through the shieldwall and wearing away the nearly broken soldiers. Joy watched as a stray bolt of lightning blasted down from the sky, crashing down through the swarm only to fizzle out harmlessly on the ground. Kha teetered dangerously after casting the spell, coughing up a mouthful of blood before collapsing to the ground, having overdrawn himself.

    Damnation, Joy swore before suddenly turning on instinct just it time to catch a savage swipe across the chest. He staggered back, the wound weeping black mist and the skin around it sloughing off in chunks. The cultist smiled at him with bloodshot eyes, his tattered robes twisted and torn between bulging muscles. Inwardly, Joy cursed himself for being distracted in a fight before reaching down once more for mahji.

    It was with a sinking feeling that he found nothing there, the pool empty.

    Joy rolled to the side to avoid another blow, his hind legs finding purchase in the dirt enough to launch him forwards into the cultist¡¯s legs. He sank his teeth into the cold muscle, tasting iron and ice before tearing out the flesh and recoiling backwards. Black blood spilled out of the wound, shadowy worms working hurriedly to reknit the flesh as the man struggled to stand. Joy immediately looked around, finding a nearby demon belching fire as it wrestled with two cultists of its own.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Not even hearing the growl that escaped his own mouth, Joy barreled into one of them, his horns finding gratifying contact with muscle and meat. He narrowly felt the scorching heat of flame over his own neck, heard the dying screams of the other man, and tore his victim off his horns with savage swipes. Joy stepped back from the convulsing fool just in time for the demon to spew forth flame and fury, rendering the man and skal within to ash.

    ¡°My thanks.¡± the broad-shouldered demon replied, scraping a bit of torn flesh off of its oversized forearms. Wisps of smoke curled upwards from the edges of its mouth, its yellow eyes dilated as it breathed hard from bloodlust. Joy opened his mouth to say something, only to be caught off guard as the demon shoved him to the side.

    Joy felt the heat of another torrent of flame over his shoulder, turning to watch as the demon roasted another cultist. Yet the dying man let out a scream, swiping upwards with blackened claws and tearing a gash through the demon¡¯s throat before collapsing in a ball of orange.

    Joy gave another roar of grief, reaching down through the flame and tearing off the man¡¯s twitching arm. Spying another cultist greedily tearing into a demon¡¯s corpse, he bounded forward in a sprint. The man barely had time to look up in surprise before Joy was upon him, prying open the man¡¯s mouth with jaw and claws. There was a brutal snap as the tendons tore, a wet ripping of muscle, and Joy shoved the still-burning limb into the wound. The cultist gave a gurgling scream before the flame caught, spreading rapidly over his body.

    Joy stepped back, his heart pounding before whirling around¡ªonly to find the battlefield eerily silent. With a start, he spied only three other demons still standing, one of them missing an arm as he burnt the wound shut. None of the cultists remained, two figures fleeing into the distance only for a bat-like demon to scorch them with flame. The third demon was a familiar figure, his body covered with plates of bone, his arms tipped with wicked blades.

    They were all the remained of his people. They had won.

    Tiredly, he turned back to glance at the legion, uncertain of what he wished to see. Perhaps, he hoped feverishly, they had vanquished the skal¡¯va. It was a wild dream, one that he clung desperately to.

    He turned to find the shieldwall utterly broken.

    The ranks were a chaotic mess, holes showing like arrow wounds in an arm. The ground was littered with the armor of the dead, eaten hollow by the skal¡¯va. The remaining few legionaries struggled to stand, their blades slashing forward gouts of flame that met mostly air. The skal¡¯va danced back, attacking in paced swarms that wore the men down little by little. Joy watched as the cloud descended on the right-most arm of the wall, the small group of men still standing there desperately raising their shields before slashing out.

    Yet the strength of the legion lay in their numbers, in their cohesion. Those ten men broke as easily as one, the skal¡¯va descending on them like locusts. In four heartbeats, their breastplates clattered to the ground, their runeblades spinning to bury themselves in the dirt.

    Once more, the cloud of skal¡¯va pulled back, seeing the legion utterly broken. Some thirty men raised tired shields, and Joy saw motion in the back ranks as roughly ten of the surviving archers dropped their bows. He saw Mors wave his arm, saw Kha standing nearby. Joy saw the man¡¯s mouth move, saw the demon meet his gaze. And then the men drew their swords, half-shattered things scavenged from the ground. The hilts glowed with green marai, crackling madly and trailing fire.

    Kha told him, Joy realized. The runes on the swords were potent, but unstable. If overdrawn or shattered, they would detonate into flame. They had not told the men, afraid that they would not fight with bombs in their hands. Perhaps in the heat of combat, amidst the fire and frenzy, the men might not have noticed. But now, as the skal¡¯va descended one last time, it would be the only thing that might stop them.

    The swarm struck them, storming through columns of fire only to find glowing runes waiting for them. There was a fateful heartbeat as nothing happened, as the first rune finally shattered outwards with a keening wail, and then the man holding the blade disappeared in a flash of white-green light.

    With that first detonation, the others ignited as well. The ground itself rumbled as the chain reaction of blossoming flame rippled through the ranks. Joy had to look away, his vision briefly blinded as the runes ruptured.

    When the dust finally cleared, he saw the resulting carnage. The entire ranks had been devastated, the men and skal alike consumed in the blaze. Shields were twisted and melted by the intensity of the blast, dirt and corpses strewn madly through the lands.

    Not even a hundred paces away, the handful of surviving soldiers looked on with horror.

 Book 3: Chapter 38

    Hold. No matter what, I must hold. Torell repeated that one thought over and over to himself, clung to it like a drowning man to a branch. He raised his shield, peering out through the gap to watch as the cloud of skal¡¯va buzzed close. Letting out a low grunt, he pulled the shield back, stepping forwards in the same motion to slash outwards with his runesword. The hilt glowed with a familiar heat, a gout of flame shooting out of the tip to blaze through the air. Without bothering to even watch where the flames landed, he hurriedly stepped back, bringing to shield to bear once more and returning to the shieldwall.

    His arms were sore and strained, the shield half-resting on the ground as he struggled to catch his breath. He had to fight the urge to stagger over, the men behind him helping to prop him up. His arms were laced with wounds, the skin cracked and bleeding from where the skal had managed to touch him. That black mist had proved deadly, numb enough to be ignored as it ate away at the flesh.

    His motions were growing slower now, his muscles worn away by biting cold and fatigue. As he saw the skal¡¯va nearing, he once more stepped forward only to stumble, his boot catching on the ground, and he hurriedly slammed the shield down to prevent himself from falling over. The wave of skal rattled against his shield, some flying upwards only to be roasted by the blast of flame from the ranks behind him.

    Again. Get back in rank. He heard the voice of the First Sword drilled into the back of his mind, and his body obeyed. His legs were burning, his arms strained as he once more raised the shield. Again, his sword burned with heat. Again, he sent out another stream of flame that sent a small handful of skal¡¯va tumbling to the ground, crackling.

    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men to his right let out a hoarse scream before falling. The skal¡¯va were swift to take advantage of the break in the shieldwall, surging forward in a swarm as they descended on the man. In moments, his throat was silenced, and his face was left little more than scraps of flesh on bone. Torell felt a spike of panic, knowing that his flank was now unprotected. Yet that fear was swiftly pushed away as a legionary from the second rank let out a torrent of flame, stepping forward to take the fallen man¡¯s place, shield raised high.

    ¡°Burn them!¡± he cried out in his panic, fevered and high-pitched. The flame was quick to answer his desires, scorching away the skal¡¯va, who fluttered away like so many fireflies, slowly burning away into ash. If only that flame would take all of the damned things; if only the sky would like up like stars in the night.

    Yet as that man¡¯s shield scraped against his own, he regained control of himself. This was a deadly dance, but it was one that he knew. It was one that he had lived through, even if his friends had not. His thoughts began to start down that path, started to turn to Myron and his fate, but he pushed himself away quickly. Time enough to think later.  For now, every motion demanded his focus. Every fiber of his being was tense, his every sense firing madly.

    Hold. He told himself, repeating that one mantra over and over. Hold, and they will break. Hold, no matter what. As the shadows struck his shield once more, he staggered back, feeling the strength leave his body and his vision spin for a brief moment. The man behind him leaned forward, lending his support, and Torell managed to push through the bout of delirium.

    The mistake was enough to nearly cost not just him, but the men beside him as well. Yet there was no time to reflect on it, no time for guilt. Again and again, he raised his shield. Step out, strike. Draw back, hold. And repeat.

    Like sanding a rod. Like rowing a boat. But he was dancing with death, and lives were written on the dance cards. Time wore on like it had been flattened by a rolling pin, every second passing by in excruciating detail as he fought his own body¡¯s urge to collapse. Time enough for that later. His own thoughts seemed to take on a life of their own, speaking to himself in his incoherence.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    His heart pounding and his ears ringing, he dragged another tired breath down his ragged throat. The shield goes high! He heard the First Sword call out once more, and he lifted that hunk of wood and metal almost unconsciously. The feet are your roots! He dug his heels into the dirt, bracing himself against the surge of shadow. The sword darts fast! He struck out with his blade, a swift tongue of fire that shot out like an extension of his own arm.

    And he stumbled. And he fell.

    He closed his eyes as he struck the ground, going entirely blind in the moment. His head impacted the ground, his helmet striking his skull, and his entire world seemed to ring like a bell that had just been struck. His vision flashed white with momentary pain, his sword flying out of his hand. His shield went flat underneath him, his arm twisting at a horrendous angle, and he felt a brief moment of resistance in the joint before his elbow gave, twisting underneath him with a snapping of tendons. That flare of pain was swiftly suppressed by a numb pain as he opened his eyes to see the skal¡¯va devouring him like so many scavengers

    ¡°Burn them¡­ all¡­¡± he rasped out weakly, coughing up a mouthful of blood. His hands scrabbled in the dirt, trying to reach for his sword. Where was the next man? They had to keep the ranks. They had to hold. He looked up with bleary eyes, trying to look through his blood-tinged vision only to see another corpse behind him.

    There was no one to take his place in the ranks. The wall was broken.

    Torell felt a low laugh ripple through him, wracking his chest with coughs as he struggled to breathe. With a feeble hand, he tried to brush off the skal¡¯va, only to realize that they had gnawed through the muscle in the limb. The entire lower half of his body was gone underneath his armor, the skal¡¯va practically a wreath around his soon-to-be corpse.

    There was a shout in the distance, faint and desperate. Perhaps it was the last of the shieldwall; he did not know. Why were they taking so long to kill him? Or was the moment of his death merely slower, now that it had finally came? Odd, how badly he had fought to keep from dying, and yet now that the moment of dying had finally came, it could not come quickly enough. His thoughts turned to his family, turned to his Ma and Pa in the Heartlands that he had promised to come back to. Turned to his little brother, who would now have to inherit the farm. Turned to his baby sister, who he had never met¡ªand would now never have the chance to.

    He opened his eyes tiredly to see another soldier over him, without shield. The man¡¯s sword was little more that a hilt, the blade broken at the tip. What a fool, Torell thought to himself blearily. The man¡¯s rushing in to die. The sword¡¯s runes were glowing, the blade consumed with green-white fire.

    Strange, so part of him realized. Yet he was too far gone now, too tired to think on it further. It was even an effort to keep his eyelids open, and indeed he even saw a blot of black in his left eye as the skal¡¯va began to tear into it. No pain, at the very least.

    He would hate for there to have been pain when he tied. Fortunate, he laughed to himself. I¡¯m so fortunate to have died this way. Indeed, when there was nothing else left but for him to lay there and die, he had all the time in the world to laugh.

    The last thing that he saw was the soldier¡¯s blade glow brilliantly white, bursting into a sudden inferno as it swallowed the man whole and kept expanding. The wave of heat seemed to blow the skal¡¯va off of Torell as it reached him, seemed to scorch the ice from his skin and sear his blood into vapor.

    And he watched as the skal¡¯va burned, beautifully. Like so many fireflies, their little forms caught flame.

    Like so many stars in the night.

 Book 3: Chapter 39

    Ma¡¯sal dreamed of fire.

    Glorious flame was eating away at him as he lay in the pyre, his senses blinded by searing light and scorching heat. The sky around him was dark as night, the stars all snuffed out by a cloud of sooty smoke. He twitched painfully, turning his head to find a plank of wood shoved out of his chest.

    A gaping wound formed around the shard, the blood congealed and crusted over, and Ma¡¯sal watched as small rivulets of black began to creep out of his chest. Like droplets of water, they hissed into smoke as they touched tongues of flame, leaving behind small piles of ash that began to build up on his chest.

    The fire did not hurt as it ate away at him slowly, and its heat was more of a dull comfort than any pain. Even still, he raised an arm to try and pat out the blaze. Yet as the limb passed before his eyes, he found it to be a twisted, repulsive thing of broken flesh and burnt skin. It had swollen to nearly twice its previous size, the flesh underneath gorged with twitching shadow. The veins that crossed its surface were bulging, throbbing with an alien heartbeat, and he flicked the limb away in an instinctual fear.

    Those shadow-tipped claws twitched helplessly on his chest, dancing with a will of their own as they began to claw at the shard of wood. They dug into his bowels, snipping like shears through his guts. A deep scarlet began to pool around him, slowly trickling down until it finally reached the low-burning flames. His arm dug ever deeper, clawing at the buried wood before finally grasping it, tugging it out with a wild desperation.

    And then the puddle of blood around him touched the flame, abruptly igniting like oil. Ma¡¯sal let out a hoarse cry of pain as his entire body suddenly lit up with fire, his every nerve firing, every muscle tensed as he convulsed upwards in reflex. His chest was aflame, his skin charring black as the heat and smoke stole the very breath out of his lungs. He could hardly think, his mind going numb from iron-hot pain, and slowly the world around him flashed to white.

    When he opened his eyes next, he found the dream around him falling away. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like peeling back still-clinging layers of reality.

    Fire. Always, it is fire. Even now, it followed him. He lay trapped, pinned between fallen stone and shattered beams. The debris was smoldering with embers, his own body badly burned, and he strained desperately to break free, only to no effect.

    Glancing around weakly, he saw other hooded brothers fleeing in a panic. Their skal were weak and crying out for aid¡ªfor their Mother¡ªand Ma¡¯sal called out hoarsely for their aid. Few of them noticed, only seeking to run as far as possible, but one hooded man seemed to see him. The brother rushed over quickly, reaching out a black-gnarled arm, and Ma¡¯sal reached out with a wave of relief. The cool sensation washed over him, making the world around him spin, and he suddenly fell back into unconsciousness.

    There were no dreams with this sleep, only pervasive nausea and paranoia. He felt the clawing fear in his gut, felt the ever-present terror that threatened to overwhelm him. The panic was partly his own, yet it also belonged to the foreign skal inside of him. The creature was terrified, wounded by the flame and scarred beyond healing. The damage was like a scar over his lung, and he felt it burning heatedly even as he tossed in his sleep.

    He woke on occasion, feeling his body sore and unresponsive. A few times, he was able to open his eyes blearily, only to find the world around him utterly devoid of light. There were always brothers near him¡ªhe could feel their skal.

    Yet the brothers were all dead, their skal tiredly consuming their bodies for much-needed nourishment. Ma¡¯sal felt that his own skal very much might do the same, if only it were not so wounded and he no so strong willed. Yet his thoughts could never stay long on the subject, his body swift to return to slumber before long in each instance.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The last time, in his deepest sleep, his thoughts took form as a strange dream. He was at the docks once more, in Ossia so many years ago. The air was warm and humid on his skin, not like the dry winds of these strange lands. The dirt under his toes, the water that crashed against the planks¡ªthis was home.

    And once more, there was fire. He saw his father raving like a madman, sobbing through his laughter as he danced on the rooftop. Flames licked up to encompass the man, giving him a throne to sit upon, a coffin to die upon. Yet as the flames ate his father, a sudden surge of wind struck them. With a shower of sparks, they fell down on him, wreathing him in scorching hot fire.

    Panicked, desperate, he rolled about on the docks to extinguish the fire. Yet every motion seemed to only feed the blaze further, the orange burning ever brighter as he struggled. Pitifully, he yelled out at the onlookers to help, to fetch water. But as he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but disdainful faces scowling down at him, mocking him as he died. And as his vision faded to black, one by one the crowd turned away.

    And so the dream faded.

    When he finally woke for permanence, it was with a callous blow to the head. Another brother had cuffed him rudely across the temple, and yet Ma¡¯sal felt shock from the other man as he woke. Clearly, he thought inwardly to himself, my life was most unexpected.

    ¡°This one wakes.¡± hissed out a low voice from the dark abyss next to Ma¡¯sal. ¡°Do we offer it still?¡±

    ¡°Aye.¡± replied another, deeper of voice that rasped with the sound of a wound. ¡°She is wounded. She will need it.¡±

    Ma¡¯sal opened his own mouth to protest, only to find his body strangely unresponsive. No wind whistled through his throat, no sound buzzing out of his mouth, and even his own tongue did not twitch. He felt frozen, locked inside the prison of his own body.

    He could not protest as a man grabbed him roughly off of whatever pile he had been placed on, callously dragging him over stone and shadow through what seemed to be a tunnel of some sorts. All around him, skal floated hungrily, their umbral forms unnoticeable against the abyssal background of their environment.

    Down here, Ma¡¯sal wondered deliriously to himself, even gods could go blind. There was not a single speck of light; had there been a wall a hair from his nose, he could not had seen it.

    There was nothing to help him see Her, and yet he still felt as they neared Her.

    He felt Her massive presence, stifling and swollen. It was utterly unnatural, an overwhelming weight on his mind that seemed to press away at his will. His own body went limp as they neared Her, his mind stumbling into incoherence as he struggled to hold onto a single line of thought. The skal inside of him writhed in eager excitement, with a familiarity that sickened him.

    Mother, it called out in a soundless tongue. Mother.

    The brother shoved Ma¡¯sal forward, letting him collapse against the stones. ¡°I¡¯ve no idea,¡± he called out after him, ¡°if this will be any worse if you¡¯re awake. But I imagine it can¡¯t possibly be any better.¡±

    In the darkness ahead, She stirred and began to move with a pulsating slowness, creeping forward with an inexorable pressure. There was a faint rattling of the stones as her insect-like legs scuttled across, and the ground underneath her cracked and trembled as her immeasurably large frame slithered across. She had no eyes to see with, and her mouth was stitched shut by some dark magic, yet Ma¡¯sal could still feel her gaze on him. It pierced through to his soul, stripping aside safety and security until he was once more naked before the gods.

    Yet there was something strange about her presence, something incongruous with the massive wall of darkness that she presented herself as. That wall was cracked, a thin vein that ran along its face. Her body bore a scar, still-healing, painfully torn, and Ma¡¯sal could feel the heat that it radiated on her otherwise chilling form.

    Inwardly, he let out a small laugh. Even now, in this frozen hell, I cannot escape fire.

 Book 3: Chapter 40

    The Mother neared Ma¡¯sal, her presence utterly domineering as she bore down upon him like a mountain. The air around him whistled with countless skal as they slithered out of her porous body, wriggling like worms out of the holes in her skin. They lashed out like so many tongues, tasting the air around him for the lingering odor of death.

    His heart began to beat out a frantic rhythm, like a panicked banging on his door. His own body was feverishly trying to rouse him from sleep, trying to shake him awake. Wake up, it pleaded with him. Wake up!

    Yet those whispers seemed so distant, his dreams like so many layers that weighed him down. He heard other words as well, gently breathing in his ear. He heard the skal inside of him tell him to be calm, tell him not to worry. He felt that cold ice creep through his veins, turning his muscles numb as they passed. Sleep, the skal whispered to him. Sleep, and be quiet.

    And yet a part of him fought still, fought that indomitable will. Ma¡¯sal felt the weary cold seep into him, but he trembled and tossed about on the ground. Spittle flew in flecks from his mouth as he warred for control of his own body, his eyes bloodshot and strained. Tendons in his neck stood out like cords, bulging as he tensed.

    As he fought, his vision began to flicker white from strain and shock. The whispers in the back of his mind grew louder, changing shape and sound. No longer was it the quiet, constant voices of the skal. Instead, it flowed into something mellifluous, honeyed and soft. Ma¡¯sal could hear Tsaya speaking in his ear, as if she was leaning right beside him.

    ¡°Atal loves you.¡± she murmured, her voice demure and low. ¡°He loves all of us. To return to his bosom is the greatest honor.¡±

    Ma¡¯sal strained, his breathing growing ragged. He wanted to believe her, wanted so badly. To believe was to stop struggling¡ªwas to finally rest. No more walking, no more working, no more fighting, no more of this damned pain. But he could not believe her, no matter how sweet her voice was or how wanted her words were.

    Why was she here? Reason bit back hard against her smooth words, that sought to dull his mind and hamper his thought. Why was she still alive?

    ¡°Hush,¡± she whispered back, as if to stifle his disquiet. ¡°Don¡¯t struggle.¡±

    Why was she here? Why were her hands stroking his skin? Why was her heart beating so much like his own? He reached out with an arm to touch her, only to find nothing there. His doubts began to grow, his panic began to feed upon itself, and he heard her own words rise in volume as if to push him down.

    ¡°You have fought hard.¡± she persisted, and he could feel the pressure of her hands against his chest as she leaned against him. ¡°You have struggled for long enough. Isn¡¯t it your turn to rest? Isn¡¯t it your turn to find peace?¡±

    Peace? It was a fleeting feeling, one that danced out of his grasp even as he tried to remember what it had felt like. When had he last known peace? Was it in Ossia, back when he was playing with Pa on the waves? Was it in the old home, when he was running about on the floor, his mother gently rocking Yes¡¯san? Inwardly, a stray thought of reason, of intelligence, shouted back at him¡ªshe lies!

    Inwardly, he reprimanded himself. Peace is not for me. It is not part of who I am. Tears streamed down his cheeks at the declaration, at the realization. A god who promises me peace promises to unmake me. And that is all this god as ever done¡ªunmake truth and heart and soul.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    Ma¡¯sal did not speak his thoughts aloud, but Tsaya seemed to hear them nevertheless. ¡°Do not say that!¡± she pleaded, her sweet voice hitching. ¡°Atal loves you!¡±

    He loves me? Ma¡¯sal laughed inwardly as the Mother loomed over him, her stitched mouth twitching in strange speech. Frigid skal looped around his arms, slowly dragging him up towards the Mother. This god loves me, who would feed me to such a creature? This god loves me, who would sully my flesh? This god loves me, who would unmake my heart?

    And you, who pleads so dutifully for him¡ªhave you not fed me these lies all the same? Tears were pouring now from his cheeks, ragged sobs coming out of his throat even as he could not speak.

    Were you part of his lies too, Tsaya? Was any part of you real? He held his breath, waiting for her response. A part of him hoped that she would silence him and numb this pain, that she would tell him her love was true and his fight could at last end.

    She did not answer him as he loomed over the Mother¡¯s maw, those black stitchings suddenly splitting apart to reveal rows upon rows of jagged teeth waiting below. Instead, he took her silence as an answer of its own, feeling poisonous despair course out through his veins. Then even this small comfort of love is denied to me, is revealed to be a lie.

    And the skal around his limbs let him go, let him plummet towards the Mother¡¯s waiting mouth. The wind whipped against to frozen skin as he fell, his muscles weary and torn, his heartbeat tired. He hardly registered as those teeth closed around him, as they stabbed through his flesh and buried themselves into his bone.

    But then his arm began to burn with a terrible pain, a smoldering agony that ripped through his misery and hopelessness. It was a moment before he could beat back the waves of torment that crashed on his psyche, realizing amidst the heat that it was the tattoo that burned as if with a will of its own.

    To guide you when the seas are stormy. To light your path through the dark. The Valanese tattoo hummed and smoldered, sparks of cinder spraying up from his arm.

    The pain gave way to anger, gave way to a scorching rage that suddenly burned through him with passion. He was to die here¡ªin the dark, without light, without life? The flames surged hotter, brighter as his emotions added fuel like oil, and suddenly the Mother began to let out a low-pitched whine. It was a bestial sound, like a wounded dog, and it served only to further incite his rage.

    All other thoughts of misery became consumed by one desire¡ªto see the Mother burned to the ground. He envisioned her terrible body wreathed in flame, pictured in his mind as her rotten flesh sloughed away and crumbled into ash. The Valanese tattoo burned taller, grew hotter, and the Mother¡¯s squeals grew higher in pitch as she began to toss her head.

    Burn! Ma¡¯sal channeled his will into the flame, into the hungry blaze that he had come to know so closely. I have spent more time with the fire than I have with family, with my love, with my dreams. It was a curious thought, half fueled by delusion. But the flame seemed to respond to the intimacy, swelling to fill the cavern of the Mother¡¯s mouth, illuminating the blackened gums and jagged teeth.

    The Mother let out a scream of terror as smoke poured out of her mouth, the incoming rush of air beating back the flames for a moment, only to then send them pluming even higher than before. The skal poured in desperately, in a suicidal attempt to save their Mother, but the fire pressed on.

    Ma¡¯sal let out a scream of his own, ragged and breathless with a lung impaled by a tooth. His legs were gone, rendered to ash, and his vision had gone completely white. He could not see the Mother as she writhed and suffered, but he felt her agony. He felt her terror, felt her fear. He felt her scar tear open from previous burns, felt as she convulsed and toppled to the ground with fire now surrounding her body. And as her breathing slowed, as her struggled ceased, and her horrific body pulsed with pitiful contractions, death came for the tormented creature like a merciful god.

    And as he died, Ma¡¯sal sent out one last prayer of thanks to the flame, loving it like a brother. He saw his mother with a smoking metal rod pulled fresh from the coals, burning the tattoo into his young arm. He saw his father, dancing on the rooftop as the inferno swallowed him.

    The flame, Ma¡¯sal thought half madly, is the only family that stayed with me to the end.

 Book 3: Chapter 41

    Willem struggled to calm his speeding heart, feeling the high of adrenaline course hotly through his veins. The battle had ended with hundreds dead, their dust scattering in the wind to pile up in sandy dunes. Absentmindedly, he reached down and grabbed a handful of the ash, watching as it trickled out from between his fingers with the wind. So many dead. He shuddered at the thought, realizing just how quickly so many men had died.

    The plains were now oddly empty of movement¡ªat least, compared to the madness only moments before. Some forty legionaries gathered in a small crowd, their shields falling to the ground, their helmets at their sides as they gasped for air. Half of them were bowmen, archers that had kept to the rear lines in battle. Of the four hundred that entered this battle, cut down itself from the two thousand that had started this road to hell, now only a pitiful number remained.

    And yet the demons looked even more pathetic by comparison. Only three had survived, bringing the total to six when including Joy, Kha, and himself. The remaining few gazed mournfully att spots of empty air, as if imagining where their brothers had previously stood. Yet none of them so much as let out a whimper in sadness, stoically standing as they waited for a further command.

    There was, indeed, no time to be spared for mourning. After a brief time spent resting and organizing supplies from the fallen, the army found itself preparing for the march once more. Meshira would not wait for them to mourn, nor would it wait for the dead to rest. Yet with so little men and their horses dead, there was no way for them to easily carry supplies. In the end, the men were forced to draw lots in groups of ten to haul a single wagon with food and other necessities. They scavenged what they could from the dead, trading out armor and swords from those that no longer needed them. In the end, those surviving soldiers were left marching with piecemeal attire, their armor patchwork and borrowing plates.

    In a shocking display of desperation, Willem watched as Mors commanded the men to scavenge more than just steel from the dead. Soldiers took out their knives, cutting away strips of flesh and fat from the corpses. It was necessary, he supposed. They were low on provisions, and the fat could be used in place of pitch. Still, it was a gruesome sight to behold, the pain not lessened in the slightest by the tears streaming down the men''s faces as they butchered their friends. A few of them dropped with blades more than once, struggling to raise their trembling arms as their bodies were wracked with sobs.

    The meat was hanged into strips, swiftly dried under the sweltering sun into jerky that the soldiers could eat on the march. The fat was stored as well, the oils kept separately. It had a multitude of uses, from lubrication to nourishment, no matter how disgusting it seemed. Some of the soldiers refused to look at the stuff, as if it would be easier to use if they ignored where it had came from.

    See now what this has wrought upon you? Atal was incessant in his panderings, seeking still to try and dissuade Willem from continuing down this path. Yet if nothing else, this sight of suffering only filled him with greater fire to see the task through to the end. If they were to stop now, then these men would have died for nothing.

    This is futile, the god continued. You will die, like your friends have demonstrated to you. Why struggle when the end is the same? Why suffer when you could live out your last days in peace?

    ¡°This is what you have wrought.¡± he hissed back at the voice in his head, and the god fell silent. ¡°I struggle to see your face twisted in horror. I fight to see you feel what suffering you have inflicted upon others. I bleed in the hopes that I will have the chance to behold your face as you die.¡± This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    His words were sharp enough, but they were also laced with a grief at the price of it all. The weariness that Atal sought was already there, although Willem fought to push it back. He had no doubt that the other soldiers felt it as well¡ªthe urge to simply lay down and let the end come. That first rest seemed so tempting, the urge to stop struggling, but he refused to let it happen. One more step, he reminded himself. One at a time, no matter how long.

    In the distance, the demons suddenly let out a howl towards the sky. Willem felt an itching in his chest to join them, to let out the wild grief that stained his heart. So many dead. So many turned to dust. Yet he pushed it back, resolved to rest instead and save his strength. He would need it.

    Their single wagon was a sorry affair, one of the few still in working condition after the chaos. The skal had left little untouched in the attack during the night; even if they preferred flesh, their fangs still found their way into the wood. The wheels were stolen from another cart, the sides boarded up with scraps strewn across the ground. The ropes were made from multiple shorter lengths tied together, in the hopes that they would hold. The thing creaked like an old woman as it moved, and that was without anything in it.

    Once they loaded the wagon with cloths and foodstuffs, piling it high with supplies, Willem watched nervously as the entire thing seemed to sage in the middle. The poor wheels were strained beyond belief, although they somehow managed to awkwardly turn enough to move. The planks in the middle seemed ready to split at any moment, bowing down in the center with cracks already beginning to form. Yet it would have to be enough¡ªthey had neither time nor temperament to try harder.

    The men were packing up their tents now, stowing away their bedrolls and readying for the march. From a distance, perhaps, it seemed like merely another day¡ªtheir motions were smooth and practiced enough that it became routine. Yet there was a despondency to their expressions, an emptiness that they all wore, that could not be mistaken. These were wounded men, not merely in body, but in spirit. These were men at their limit.

    Their fingers trembled as they took care of their swords, reaching for the rags and oils. They dropped their whetstones every other stroke, unable to hold them firmly in their shaking grasp. Their faces were slick with sweat only moments after washing in the basin, their feet stiff and sore no matter how long they rested. Their eyes woke from sleep bloodshot and heavy with bags, their faces pallid and without color even after finishing a meal.

    These men were at the precipice of collapse. And still they chose to march on to hell.

    These are the men you would ask me to leave behind, Willem thought inwardly to the god, even though there was no response. These men would fight death, staring it straight in the eye. Who would I be if I could not at least do the same?

    And so the broken band went on the march once more, their strangled steps kicking up a plume of dust behind them. The air was filled with the sound of their cadence, painfully softer than before, but still firm with resolution. Their faces were solemn, their teeth gritted, their arms straight as they pressed on.

    This is the legion, some part of Willem realized as he felt them suffer and press on, as he felt himself awed by their strength that he had dismissed so easily before. He had thought each man weak, had thought their flesh softer than his own. But he came to realize the strength of their bonds, and the strength of their will. That will was like a wall in the face of adversity, immovable, indomitable. It was something no beast possessed, something that made even gods wonder. And as Willem marched along with them, feeling a strange sense of pride and determination course through his veins with each heartbeat, he realized suddenly:

    I am legion.

 Book 3: Chapter 42

    Were they merely lucky? It was a curious thought that danced through Willem¡¯s mind. They were nearly halfway to Meshira, and yet the skal had never ambushed them as they were wont to. Rather than being reassuring, however, it only served to further send him on edge. A hundred theories danced through his mind as they made their way through the dust and sand. With harsh sun and abrasive winds, there was little else to do but think, and so he wondered.

    His mind concocted half a thousand fantasies. Perhaps, he hoped, they were wounded and had retreated, trying to heal. Perhaps their numbers were little more than a bluff, and whatever black magic had created them was now out of fuel. Idle dreams, but still, one could hope. Yet the more that he wondered, the more his mind turned to dark thoughts.

    Perhaps the skal were biding their time, waiting to lull their prey into a false sense of security before bursting out in a swarm. Perhaps they were teasing them as a cat does to a mouse, playing with the wounded, tired men. Or perhaps they were no longer seen as a threat, not even worth killing¡ªthe desert would do that task for them.

    Breathing hard, Willem shook his head and tried to force himself away from those thoughts. They would not help his morale, nor would they aid the final fight. Instead, he turned to his companions¡ªthe painfully small number that remained. They were not strongest of the number that had started, not the smartest nor the most charismatic. But there was a grit in their spine that they all shared, a steel resolve that made them plod on with the next step. There was a ferocious glint in their eyes, and the flames of their passion were slow-burning and persistent. Others were flashes of heat and bursts of surging fire, but these men were the embers in the cold morning just before dawn. They were the heat when it counted the most.

    They were all that remained.

    How? That thought danced through Willem¡¯s mind. How were they so strong? How could they keep pushing forward when the path is paved with thorns? And perhaps the hardest one, the one that persisted in his thoughts¡ªHow could they keep fighting when everyone else is gone?

    He received a myriad of answers, their voices low and grating. The fight had worn on more than just their bodies, and they glanced back at him with tired eyes, their expressions lined with exhaustion. They spoke quietly over the campfires, lost in thought as they stared off into space. Willem could only wait patiently after asking, hearing their answers and their stories.

    Some spoke of family back home that they needed to protect. Their eyes grew moist as they thought of fathers slaving away on farms, of mothers tending to crackling hearths. They spoke fondly of younger brothers running in the fields, of sisters learning to sew and dance.

    Nessa¡¯s soon to be married; she¡¯ll be gotten herself a man by now¡ªhe laughed over the fire, taking another swig out of his flask as his eyes grew misty. Keron is all that Ma and Pa have left, and he doesn¡¯t even know how to till a field. What kind of older brother would I be if I left him to do all the heavy lifting, eh¡ªthey smiled, trying hard to keep their composure.

    Others spoke not of the living, but of the dead. They talked of brothers that had died on the fields, men that they had loved¡ªand watched fall right next to them. They spoke of promises they needed to keep, ashes that needed to be returned, letters they needed to write. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    I promised Mikel that I¡¯d see this letter sent back home, and I intend to see that through¡ªthe young man spoke solemnly, the expression too serious for a face as youthful as his own. We came together into the legion¡ªall six of us¡ªand now I¡¯m the only one left. We promised each other that we¡¯d all be standing at the end of it, and now I¡¯ve got to do my best t-to, to see that through¡ªthe man¡¯s lower lip started to tremble even as he finished the thought. Tears leaked down the side of his face, dripping off his chin as he turned away in embarrassment and grief.

    Yet for some of the others, there was no choice. Take a look around, demon. You see what goes on here for miles and miles? It¡¯s fucking desert. Nothing more than sand and grass as far as the eye can see. What¡¯ll I do, run back home? I¡¯d starve and die in my own shit. No, I¡¯d much rather sit here with a warm fire by my feet, drinking till I¡¯m shit-faced, and die killing a few more of those bastards. The man¡¯s tone was as callous as his face, his skin grizzled with scars and his expression resembling that of a beast backed into a corner. He had nowhere to flee, no choices to mull over. This was the only path still open to him.

    ¡°These are the people you would have me leave behind.¡± Willem whispered that night to the voice in the back of his mind. Yet now of all times, the god gave no answer. He had been silent recently, missing just as his servants were, and when Willem pressed for the presence in his mind, he felt only a faint pain and a flash of heat. It was a pain like stretching a scar, and for a moment, Willem even fancied the notion that the god might be wounded.

    A myriad of answers given to him, all different and yet strikingly similar. Willem tossed about nervously at night, their words bouncing around in his mind. Sleep refused to come for him as he mulled over their thoughts, struggling to answer the very same question that he had asked them. Why was he fighting? Atal would have him believe that he should not fight, even if the god had fallen strangely silent as of late. So then, why should he?

    To save the world? Perhaps, but he doubted it was truly for such a noble purpose. The world was unsatisfying when your brothers were bleeding out in front of you. Saving some old farmer¡¯s arse by the Cold Sea did not warm you when the night was cold¡ªprinciples and lofty thoughts no just that, words.

    Was it for their sakes, then? He fought because they fought, because of some guilt or pressure or damned conscience that demanded it? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, and a part of him screamed out that no, he was not doing this for someone else.

    Then perhaps Willem was closer to that grizzled old soldier than any of the young, heartbroken romantics. He certainly had no family, no loved ones, no one close to his heart that was waiting for him to come back home. He had no close friends either, be it legion or demon. So then he was fighting because there was no other choice, because it was all he knew how to do.

    He was fighting because his back was against the wall, because all other bridges had been burned to ash, and now he stood in the middle of this path with only one way to go: forward. Aye, that was an answer that he could live with. The notion settled firmly in his chest, burying itself there as it hardened around his heart, and every breath seemed to come a bit easier with that resolve.

    And as for the others¡ªthe ones with family, with fallen brothers, with dreams of their own still¡ªWillem found himself uttering a soft prayer for them under his breath. It was a simple thing, something from the recesses of his memory that he could not have remembered had he not been on the edge of sleep. He recalled his Ma whispered the words to him at night, when he had been scared that Pa would not be coming back.

    Bless this soul, to save its light. Bless this soul, to heal its sight. And know that e¡¯en in frozen night, He will aid with all His might.

    As the prayer left his lips, a strange sense of amusement settled over him. He certainly had never felt such attachment to anyone ever before¡ªnot to the demons, at the very least. And yet here he ways, giving bedtime prayers for a group of broken men.

    Perhaps, in spite of his form, there was more human than beast in him after all.

 Book 3: Chapter 43

    Meshira rose out of the land like a fortress, a twisted castle of blackened shadow that dominated the skyline. The plains to its sides were drained and dessicated, covered with the brown wisps of dead grass, the soil cracked and devoid of water as if salted. Dark fissures were blasted across the ground, trailing wisps of shadowed mist towards the sky. The city itself was shored up behind glossy walls, fashioned of some strange stone that seemed to twist the eye as the light struck it. Bone-white ribs were visible occasionally through the wreath of black, and the entire city was covered in that familiar black mist.

    Even at this distance, Joy could make out the signs of movement. He squinted, magically augmenting his vision, and he felt his eyesight suddenly lengthen and distort as the distance seemed to be pulled towards him. Suddenly, he could make out the cultists that walked the ramparts, their forms like small ants in the distance. A few of them were outside the walls, gathered around what seemed to be the corpse of some massive beast.

    Its hide was cracked and broken, its flesh a bright pink under the sun. The cultists were gathered around it in a loose circle, their hands outstretched. As they swayed, a small black cloud seemed to rise out of their throats, hovering in the air briefly before suddenly swarming around the corpse hungrily. In only moments, the carcass was reduced to cracked bones and dust, scattering in the wind as it dispersed.

    Joy felt a sudden rage swell up inside of him then, a desperation that came with knowing that they were close¡ªso painfully close to the end. He wanted to howl, to scream and charge forward. He wanted to feel the bloodlust swell inside of him and surrender himself to it. He wanted to face down this thrice-damned god, and tear the fool apart with his claws.

    But he stopped.

    Joy turned slowly, looking at the men behind him. These were the men that had followed him through this month of hell, watching as their brothers died. And these men looked like death themselves¡ªtheir faces sallow, their arms thin, their bodies hunched and exhausted. They would more likely keel over from a gust of wind than fight.

    And so he held back his wild bloodlust, stepping back behind the hill and giving out the command that they would rest that night. In the morning, with the sun at their backs, they would attack the city. Fifty-some men nodded soberly at his words, hurrying to make camp and rest before the day passed the horizon.

    That night, they feasted on what little supplies they had left. They emptied their stores of meats, heating themselves by the campfires as they braced themselves against the cold night wind. None were foolish enough to feast into a stupor, not in such close proximity to the enemy, but few could manage to resist the lull of sleep that night. Fortunate, Joy thought abruptly, that none of the skal¡¯va came for him.

    Yet in the middle of the night, a sudden sensation of fear swept over his body. His hairs suddenly stood up on end, his hackles raising as every instinct in his body screamed at him to run. Ice seemed to crawl through his veins, his thoughts fleeing from his mind in panic, and his muscles clenched without release as he found himself unable to move. Indeed, looking around, he saw the others in a similar position of terror. It seems that Atal has not merely been doing nothing while we prepared.

    The air itself tingled with crackling power, bitter and acrid as it lingered on the tongue. Joy could feel a looming presence that seemed to press over him, that seemed to crush every aspect of his being with pressure. The presence of a god, some part of him knew, and Kha blinked slowly in assent at the thought.

    That pressure never faded through the night, even though no attack came for them. Instead, it lingered at the back of the mind, a constant force, a constant wearing away at the senses. He felt it even as the sun rose, even as the legion was called to form ranks. He felt that weight even as the men rallied, their shields clattering into files.

    And the frustration in his mind grew along with it, swelling forward until it crested and crashed like a wave. Joy took in a deep breath, letting raw mahji course through his body until it surged through his veins and crackled into his voice. A raw howl crawled out of his throat, echoing off the air as he screamed.

    ¡°FAITH!¡± he howled into the wind, his voice carrying over the ruined plains to the shadow-covered city, ¡°SHOW YOURSELF SO I MAY BURN YOUR FALSE GOD!¡±  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    Then, not waiting for a reply, he drew that crackling mahji out of his voice, quickly spinning it around his claws before shooting it forward in a gout of flame at the cultists gathered outside the city walls. The surging fireball sped towards them in an instant, distorting the air around it with raw heat as it traveled, and Joy watched knowing that the fools had no time to dodge.

    He certainly did not expect to see the cultists split apart as if torn at the seams, their torsos abruptly tearing into two halves as a cloud of skal¡¯va flew out of the bodies. The swarms hurriedly dived out of the path of the fire, avoiding the blaze as it swallowed the corpses whole with a splash of flame. That cloud was somewhat smaller that those they had faced previously, although not by much. It lingered briefly in the air, pulsing and shifting like a strange heart before letting out a keening shriek. They then dived forward at the legion, their wings screaming death.

    Joy heard the rasping of archers behind him as they nocked their bows, heard the slight crackles as they lit their flames. He pushed it away, steeling his mind and concentrating on the strands of mahji that lingered in the air. He drew them back, coiled them until they were whips in the air. Then, igniting the ones closest to him, he watched as serpents of flame danced in the sky, searing a path through the cloud of skal¡¯va.

    The insects wove and spun in an effort to avoid getting caught by the whips of flame, and Joy struggled to keep up with their unpredictable movements. Quicklym he found himself growing fatigued and weary, unable to maintain the level of focus needed to ccontrol the spell, and the whips quickly began to fizzle away. The legionaries behind him shuffled nervously, planting their shields in the ground as they braced themselves.

    It was then that the archers fired the first volley, the arrows coursing through the sky with a resonant hiss. The skal¡¯va dispersed in an instant, expecting the attack, and the arrows passed through without harm. It was a fortunate thing, then, that they were not aiming for the swarm of skal¡¯va.

    Instead, the arrows impacted the city itself, striking the wreath of shadows and buriyng themselves in that cold muck. Then, from the small tongues that danced at the arrowhead bases, they began to burn. Without pitch, these flames were fed by something else¡ªthe human fat that they had collected from the dead. They surged up, briefly showering Meshira with light. But then the black mist around the city seemed to swell and surge, drawing back in on itself to snuff out the fires.

    Hurriedly, Joy reached for every last strand of mahji inside of him. His pool had already been greatly depleted, and for the first time in a long while he felt the aching pain that came from being empty. Those pulsing ribbons flowed out of his claws in a scattered skein, and he fought to control them, to shape them. He condensed them, packing them tighter and tighter until they were almost like a spear.

    Then he ignited it, throwing it forward with the last vestiges of his concentration. The firebolt seared a path through the sky, traveling fast enough to blast a hole through the cloud of skal before continuing on to strike the city. Upon impacting that cloud of mist, it seemed to hiss and falter, a cloud of steam and smoke abruptly billowing around the flame.

    Blood and bones, burn damn you! Joy pleaded desperately as he willed the flame with all his strength, feeling it struggle and fight against the sapping cold. It touched the embers of the fire arrows, drew on their numerous heat. And slowly, bit by bit, he stopped the crushing force of the mist, and they were even¡ªthen the fire began to push back.

    Bit by bit, inch by inch, the flame swallowed the mist with greedy tenacity until finally the cold seemed to falter, seemed to break, and the blaze let out a sudden pop. Then, in an instant, it swallowed the entire city in a massive conflagration, shadows dancing in pain amidst the showers of orange and red.

    The skal¡¯va let out a hurried hiss, flying back to the city in a panic. The cultists trapped in the flame suddenly screamed out as well, barely audible over the crackling fire as they collapsed and tore open with shadows leaping out of their bodies. The skal all seemed to converge together, merging once more into an utterly shapeless, depthless form that blurred towards the ground¡ªtowards the entrance of the city.

    There, at the gates to Meshira, a sallow and withered form seemed to walk forward. Faith, Joy recognized, and his heart began to pound with excitement, with anticipation.

    As the skal struck the withered corpse, the creature¡¯s flesh seemed to gain vitality. Skin surged and rippled, color flooded into its body, and then a sudden gravitas seemed to swell through his very being. Joy could hear its heartbeat¡ªcould feel its heartbeat as it shook the very air around it. When those eyes opened, they were utterly black and pupil-less. When he spoke, it was with the hissing sands of eternity, of a timeless god.

    ¡°I am here, brother. Will you come out as well?¡±

 Book 3: Chapter 44

    Willem watched as the withered, mummified form of Faith stepped out of the city walls, the shadows swirling and coalescing around him. There was a sudden pulse, like the echo of a heartbeat, and the skal poured into the man like a tide, surging into his flesh and rippling under his skin. They seemed to transfer vitality and life into the walking corpse; Willem watched as skin smoothed and hair grew lustrous, muscle swelling and veins bulging on the surface.

    There was a terrible pressure that surged out of Faith¡¯s body, a sheer presence that seemed to ripple through the very air and press down on Willem¡¯s flesh like a mountain. It was a weight that made every motion an effort, that made him strain to even breathe. It pulsed like a heartbeat, thudding against his ears, and Willem strained with bloodshot eyes to see the air behind Faith shimmer and ripple. Like the image of a giant cast onto the clouds, an expanse of air the size of Meshira itself seemed to twist and distort. There was a faint image carved into that space that towered over them all, seeming vaguely like a man but devoid of features and terrifyingly empty.

    ¡°Atal¡­¡± Kha whispered, the demon¡¯s voice trembling with a mixture of horror and disgusted reverence. This pressure, this presence, this mind-numbing strength¡ªthis was no longer Faith. This was a god.

    Atal hardly seemed to react to the others that were watching, his black, pupil-less eyes instead focused entirely on Joy. With a lazy wave of his hand, skal suddenly flew out of his fingertips like so many strands of silk, spiraling out into the air like so many ribbons. They coiled and danced in a strange parody of mahji, tasting the air like serpent tongues before diving at the legion with a blur of motion.

    Willem opened his mouth to shout, only for the god¡¯s presence to slam into him like a wall. The air was suddenly crushed out of his lungs, his vision flashing white as he abruptly fell to his knees. He could barely notice out of the corner of his eyes as much the same happened to the legion, shields and swords clattering to the ground in a cascade of steel as they collapsed in seizing fits. Willem felt his heart skip a beat in terror, his mind going blank as he was helpless to stop what came next.

    The skal took advantage of the situation immediately, diving at the men¡ªyet not at their flesh, but rather sinking into their shadows. Willem watched, horrified, as the legionaries¡¯ shadows sprang up seemingly of their own accord, a grotesque mirror of the flesh. The shadow-soldiers lunged at their counterparts, wrapping around the screaming men with a hiss of steam and crackling ice where they touched. Then, tendrils of black shadow wormed their way under the skin, burying themselves into the veins and blood.

    Willem could only watch as that black crept through the legion¡¯s flesh, turning their veins into night, swallowing their eyes with black. Their screams slowly withered away, giving out until they were little more than rattling gasps. One by one, the men collapsed motionless to the ground. Then, slowly, the rose up with an awful uncertainty, their movement jerky and clumsy as the skal grew accustomed to controlling their new puppets.

    An army of men¡ªgone, in an instant.

    That¡¯s not fair, Willem wanted to cry out, tears streaming unbeknownst down his face as he struggled not to laugh incredulously. They had families. They had friends. And they were so¡ªso damned close. ¡°It¡¯s not fair¡­¡± he managed to gasp out raggedly, before struggling to his feet, feeling like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back.

    ¡°Brother,¡± Atal spoke once more, his voice like the rasping winds blowing over desert sands¡ªemotionless, timeless, eternal. ¡°Will you come down? Will you face me?¡± At those words, Willem felt a force like a tugging in his chest, as if some great unseen hand was tugging at his soul, trying to rip it out of his chest. He coughed up a mouthful of blood and bile, struggling to stand. But the battlefield was silent as no response came.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Atal waited only for a moment before letting out a snarl. His face contorted into a horrifying visage, those blackened eyes flickering with infinite cruelty as he raised his hand to the sky before pulling it down in a yanking motion.

    A sudden pillar of brilliant light slammed out of the ground, crashing straight on top of Joy with an explosion of dust and force. The air around the demon rippled, the wind surging outward with wall of force. Joy let out a ragged howl before dropping to all fours, and Willem felt another immense presence weigh down on his mind. His psyche struggled to remain conscious, his vision growing blurry just from being in the presence of two gods as Ajah was called down from the heavens.

    Yet the possessed men did not seem to suffer any of the effects, letting out a keening, animalistic howl before charging at Willem and the few other demons. They did not touch their swords and shields, their hands instead covered with swirling shadow that lengthened into sharp claws as they ran. Their eyes were without humanity, their expressions feral as they bore down on him.

    Kha was not moving as the skal-puppets approached, and Willem could barely muster up the strength to move. The other demons were no luckier, able to get out much more than a strained scream before the possessed legionaries pounced on them with a swarm. Willem watched as the three other demons fell, small flickers of flame licking out of their jaws before the pile of men tore into their flesh.

    And then the remainder of the swarm was coming for him.

    Panicked and struggling to fight through the shackles that fell around his mind, he instinctively reached out for the last strands of mahji that lay in the pit of his stomach. There was little¡ªtoo little for any spell¡ªbut he reached out for it nevertheless. In the back of his mind, he remembered that wild feeling when he had fought in the night a week before, when he had burned magic and soul to fuel flame for his claws. Once more, he reached out for his spirit, only in this instant, it was not fire that he sought after.

    Instead, in this moment of panic and instinct, Willem searched for the form that came to him first¡ªwind.

    With a roar of desperation, he felt the vahma inside of him tear away like ripping parchment in half, a massive chunk vaporizing into the smoke and ash that streamed out of his eyes and mouth. But out of his claws came a billowing gale, a tempest that slammed into the swarming legion with unstoppable fury.

    Away, he cried out with a nonfunctional tongue, to hell with all of you! The soulwind was happy to comply with his wishes, tearing through armor and limbs alike with invisible teeth before scattering the remains across the plains. Willem collapsed to the ground almost immediately, feeling the raw buzz of power that coursed through his veins like a drug. His mind was euphoric, his thoughts fleeting as he struggled to maintain a grasp on reality.

    Yet he could clearly feel that divine pressure only grow, feel blood trickle out of his nose and his ears pop with cracks of pain. He looked up with strained eyes, managing to watch as the pillar of light above Joy shifted and rippled until it too took the form of a man. Similar in size to Atal, the humanoid figure featureless and expressionless as it slowly rose up from a kneel.

    As it did so, a glorious radiance seemed to spill out, soothing and gentle as it flushed over the land. Where it touched, the earth crackled and hissed before slowly bleeding into white, into a pure surface that was utterly devoid of shadow. Pace by pace, that aura of light spread out from Joy until it encompassed half of the battlefield, of the arena.

    Yet Atal did not even seem to notice as a few wriggling tendrils of skal were caught by the light, their shapeless forms letting out screeching hisses before disappearing into trailing smoke. Instead, the god merely gazed impassively at his fellow counterpart before something in his visage wriggled. Like a worm, like a tear, it snuck across his expansive, featureless image. It was a moment before Willem realized, disconcertingly, horrifyingly, that it was a smile.

    ¡°Once more, we meet, Brother.¡±

 Book 3: Chapter 45

    Just standing in between the two gods made Willem feel as though the very fabric of his flesh was being torn apart. It was like an irresistible pressure, a constant pull on his body that made his heart thump frantically. More than that, though, it was a tearing at his mind as will, a violent grasping at his soul that tried to rip it out of his chest.

    He looked up with blurry eyes at the two images of the gods, one black as night, the other blindingly white. They shimmered and rippled in the air, growing hazy and flitting in and out of existence with every passing moment. Yet their very presence was enough to drive Willem to his knees, and it was with a sinking feeling in his chest that he realized they did not even notice him. To the gods, he was an ant¡ªa speck. Their gaze was enough to stun him, their breath enough to blow him into dust.

    Primal powers of creation and destruction, and I¡¯m watching like a fool between them. Willem half-heartedly laughed to himself. Then Atal took his first step.

    The very ground itself seemed to tremble and sink down from an immense weight, the earth cracking and flattening into a crater as the shadowed giant took a single step. A plume of dust hid the mortal body as the fleshless image took another step, as it turned into a charge. Thud. Thud. Thud. And then there was a terrible crash as Atal struck his brother.

    Where black met white, there was an abrupt explosion of light and heat that radiated outwards like a shockwave. Space itself seemed to ripple and distort as the two gods struggled, the air warping and folding in on itself from the ripples of each punch. Willem felt his own flesh tear open, his skin cracking and blood trickling out of fresh wounds. Their mere presence sent dust and debris flying at blinding speeds, leaving behind scattered gashes where they cut him.

    Willem found to stay on his feet, watching as the air around the gods began to crackle madly with magic. Purple mahji danced out in ribbons, popping and hissing where they touched the gods¡¯ skin. Green marai was mixed into the mess as well, lingering behind in the air like frenzied snakes, latching onto anything they could find only to sear it black with raw energy. It was utter chaos, madness, and Willem could hardly pick out the pieces in his blurred vision.

    The two gods fought with a casual power that seemed to tempt the world to break. Every punch was an explosion, every kick shifted the earth. As they grappled with one another and fell to the ground, Willem watched as the stone underneath the desert was forced up by the movement, a jagged series of mountainous peaks cleaving their way out of the sand. Their footprints left behind monstrous craters, water and mud welling up behind where they stood. Sand heated up and melted from the energy of their motion, turning the surface of the desert into a molten sheet that made the air around it shimmer.

    Every exchange of blows left him rattled and shaken, and he nearly ignored a strange whisper in the back of his mind. Blearily, he glanced behind him to see Kha surprisingly chanting hurriedly. The demon¡¯s features were contorted in concentration, the slitted eyes tightly kept shut. Blood dripped out of the saurian¡¯s mouth with every word, and Willem saw as another tussle from the gods sent Kha to his knees.

    Willem hurried over to help, his own mouth nonfunctional from the sheer pressure and mental weight. Yet he was shocked to find Kha still chanting, the clawed hands crackling with a glowing light. Coils of mahji¡ªfar more than he ought to have¡ªhissed in the air wildly. Flickering snake tongues of purple darted out every instant, tasting the air before flashing out of existence. H-how does he have so much¡ª?

    The thought was cut off by a sudden rumble, a hiss of rasping sand and abrasive ice. ¡°Why?¡± Atal snapped at his brother as they fought, cuffing the god across the chin. He was swift to follow up on the opening, using the elbow of the same limb to jab at his brother¡¯s throat. ¡°What makes these insects so special?¡± Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Atal was practically screaming now, his voice a sandstorm, a tempest in Willem¡¯s ears that send him crashing to the ground in spastic pain. His limbs twitched on their own accord, his chest seizing with cramps as he fought to even breathe. He blinked as the sand around him seemed to grow darker in shade, and it was a moment before he recognized that it was his own blood, brown and deep crimson against the earth as it dripped out of his ears.

    ¡°What is so great about them? What makes worth so much? So precious?¡± Every word was accentuated by a blow to Ajah¡¯s body, every strike a piercing crack that seemed to shatter the space around them.

    ¡°Why would you leave me for these¡ªthese ants?¡± Atal finally gasped out, pausing his blows to gaze down at his brother who lay motionless between him. The air was buzzing with frenetic magic, but the two gods were silent. Willem watched desperately, barely even registering the steady chanting behind him, knowing that he could no more change this battle than hold back the tide.

    ¡°There is more to them¡­ than you know¡­¡± Ajah spoke finally. His voice was a balm, a soothing light that spread over Willem¡¯s body and eased his pain. It was slow, melodious, flowing and powerful. There was a quiet weight behind every word, as if it held behind it not the explosive power of fire but the unstoppable persistence of a mountain. ¡°There is more to life¡­ than you could ever expect¡­¡± the god whispered.

    It was not the answer that Atal wanted.

    ¡°What is there in a beetle that I could not comprehend?¡± he screamed, and Willem convulsed to the ground in pain. ¡°Bone and meat? Blood and shit? Is that what you desire? What you crave?¡± The god was practically livid, his blackened, featureless form now frayed at the edges as it disappeared into a whipping storm of smoke. Yet Willem watched as his fists seemed to do little against Ajah, the shadow bleeding away into dust before it could strike the light.

    ¡°There is beauty¡­¡± Ajah replied softly. ¡°The one thing you could never understand¡­¡± His tone was soft yet reprimanding, as if he was speaking to a petulant child. Yet this child had enough power to sunder the earth.

    ¡°Beauty!¡± Atal cried out in contempt before striking a fist into the earth. The shadows whipped out and surged into the earth, burrowing deep beneath the stone. Then, bit by bit, the sand began to flow, began to drain away like water sucked into a whirlpool. It was a trickle at first, but it quickly grew in power. The air and wind could not escape his hideous strength, the very mountains vaporizing into swirling dust.

    ¡°What beauty is worth eternity? What beauty is worth oblivion?¡± Atal howled, his rasping voice mixing in with the storm around him. ¡°You left me for beauty! You damned me for this!¡±

    Willem felt the air suddenly surge with a ripple of power, which he first mistook to be coming from the gods. Yet it only took him a moment to realize that it came from behind him, and he whipped around to see Kha standing straight as a sword, his claws outstretched. Two crackling suns of mahji were floating from those hands, ribbons of purple that were laced with potent white. Then, still chanting incessantly, the demon opened his slitted eyes for the last time, extending his hands forwards.

    Lightning leapt from his claws like divine judgement, a surge of raw power that traveled faster than thought. Purple and white light tore through the air, burning too hot for even flame as it struck Atal in the head.

    The god let out a soul-splitting roar of pain, but it was not enough to stop Kha. Still the lightning coursed, augmented by the other hand. Twin channels of energy bound the demon to the god, the skal burning away as it bored through the god¡¯s skull.

    Willem watched in horror as Kha began to vomit up blood, his chanting growing ragged as he poured more and more power into his spell¡ªhis final spell. Wisps of smoke curled off his skin, his claws even catching flame as Kha fell to one knee. One arm went limp, the limb sloughing away and falling off onto the ground. As it struck the ground, the flesh seemed to crumble into sand and ash, smoking with glowing embers inside.

    Bit by bit, Kha died. Hands, legs, chest, his body fell apart as he burned every last piece of himself as fuel for the spell. Then, with a sensation of tearing, of breaking, the spell severed itself. The last crackling arc of lightning burned its way into Atal, who was now howling on the ground in violent pain.

    As for Kha, now a pile of soot and embers were all that remained of the demon.

 Book 3: Chapter 46

    Power coursed through Joy¡¯s body, fervid and feverish. It was a heated iron that branded his flesh, a thunderous roar that augmented every heartbeat. Every fiber of his being buzzed with that exhilarating energy, with that burning euphoria that drove away all other thoughts from his mind. The raw strength was intoxicating, blinding as it coursed through his veins.

    Yet it was not his strength.

    He could not fail to notice that fact, even as the power of a god threatened to overwhelm his mind with complete power. His form had grown, swelled to scrape the sky in an avatar of sheer light¡ªbut it was not his body. His arms moved on their own, his muscles crackling with pure magic. It was Ajah that controlled this body, and Joy could do naught but watch and struggle not to drown in the tides of sheer ecstasy that crashed over him.

    He was little more than a spectator in his own body, a mere onlooker that watched this sport between gods. And indeed, it seemed to be sport, from the lack of seriousness that Atal held towards the entire conflict. This was a spat, a scuffle between brothers¡ªand the world being destroyed was but a minor detail. After all, there was nothing here that could not be remade.

    That callous attitude angered Joy, for it rendered all their sacrifices, all their struggles, as little more than dust. But even worse than that, Joy could feel Atal¡¯s longing pain for his brother, feel the grief and love that was held for Atal. It was with a start that he realized¡ªAjah did not intend to kill Atal.

    That final realization filled him with a burning rage, with a sudden flare of hate and anger. So many of them had died just to get this far, just to get this chance. Was it all for nothing, then? All of their deaths, all of their spilled blood, just for this fool to make it all melt away in the wind?

    And so Joy fought against the god¡¯s overpowering will, struggled to stay afloat amidst that surging sea. And he waited, gathering his strength and biding his time. It felt like he was a boat in a tempest, a bird caught in a storm, but he fought to keep the pieces of himself from drifting away. And then he saw his chance.

    The air crackled with wild power, flashing with blinding light. Joy watched as a bolt of lightning seemed to arc from the ground where Kha stood, searing a molten path through Atal¡¯s skull. Curling smoke and sinuous sulfur drifted off the god¡¯s burnt visage as the god fell to his knees with a wild scream. My foolish servant, Ajah began to whisper, and Joy noticed the mild tremble to those words. The magic was enough to send a rivulet of fear through Ajah¡¯s heart as well, and that instant of weakness was enough.

    A chance. Joy seized the moment of insecurity, when the god was briefly caught off guard. Letting out a roar, the demon ignited every last vestige of power and magic in his body, his spirit bursting aflame. Instantly, everything around him seemed to sharpen, the madness of the god¡¯s aura beginning to lift off his shoulders. He rode that momentum, used that strength to crash against Ajah¡¯s will. The god struggled, but his surprise was enough for Joy to wrest his own body back¡ªand with it, the strength of a god.

    Euphoria and ecstasy crashed into his mind with a sudden wave, disorienting and blinding. Yet he pushed it away reflexively, struggling to press the god away. Opening his eyes, Joy found the astral image to have changed. No longer was the form of a blindingly white man, but it shifted into something demonic. With horns and claws, Joy let out a earth-shattering roar, the mountains shaking from the force.

    Atal was shocked, confused, and Joy used the opportunity to slash out at the shadowy figure with white claws. They burned a trail of white-hot flames through the god¡¯s blackened skin, sparks flying out in a spraying shower as if he was grinding against steel. Atal let out an inhuman squeal of pain, a high-pitched noise of raw pain and agony that grated against the soul.

    Joy was deaf to the noise, his own heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears as he lashed out with another hand. Yet he let out an instinctual howl of defiance as he struck out again. His claws tore through Atal¡¯s neck, gouging through the shapeless throat and burning it with fire. At the same time, Joy lunged forward with an animalistic roar. The lightning-scarred god could hardly react, thrown off by the pain, and could do little more than scream as Joy¡¯s fangs buried themselves in his collar.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Joy clung desperately to the god as he thrashed, shadowy ichor filling his maw as Atal bled from formless wounds. Yet the more fiercely he fought, the brighter Joy burned his vahma. He felt that fire eating away at the weave of his soul, as the threads began to unfurl and fray. One by one, they crumbled into ash in the fire, and Atal was not dying fast enough.

    And then Ajah struck his psyche with the full rage of a god.

    It was a blow that bypassed the flesh, a strike that ravaged his mind directly. His thoughts, his will, it all began to crumble like a wall that had been battered by a ram. Joy felt his concentration falter, felt it crack like a broken dam. But he could not fall. He could not lose his grip, not this close. So many people dead, so many lives forsaken to reach this line in the sand. And he just needed to hold on.

    Just a little more, he told himself, clinging at the vestiges of his sanity. He could hear Ajah howling at him, could feel the god battering at him like a storm¡ªimplacable, irresistible.

    Just a little more.

    Joy swung his arms out wide, catching Atal in his tight embrace with a guttural howl. His mouth was slick with black blood, his eyes bloodshot and wild. His monstrous visage was fuzzy now, hazy and flickering as he wrestled with Ajah for dominance. His own strength was running out, the illegitimate strength from burning vahma now slowing to a trickle. Running out.

    Running out of time, running out of life. But he just needed a little more.

    ¡°W-what are you?¡± Atal gasped out as he was pinned to the ground, the god weakened and bleeding from unseen wounds. ¡°What thing¡ªare you?¡±

    Joy ignored him as he hugged Atal, reaching out to the bottomless strength of a god that lingered just out of his grasp. It was Ajah¡¯s strength, not his own, but Joy drew it into him nevertheless. He felt it lingering, curious to his touch like a nest of starving serpents, and he opened himself up to their hunger. Like a thousand threads, like a million rivers, that power flowed into him in an unfettered flood. It crashed against his banks, wore away at his flesh, but still he drew in more.

    WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

    The god¡¯s voice boomed in his mind like thunder, rippled through his psyche and cast his thoughts aside. Yet Joy ignored it still, drawing in more and more of that burdening strength. He was screaming now, his throat ragged and raw as smoke curled out of his gaping mouth. His flesh was cracked and transparent, the skin broken and thin as glass. Inside of him, there was a light like a star that shone with incomparable brilliance, a radiance that seared everything else with white.

    STOP! YOU WILL KILL US ALL!

    Ajah fought him, realizing now what he intended to do. The god tried to wrest back his strength, tried to stem the flow. Yet it was like holding back the tide; now that it had started, more and more of the god¡¯s power coursed into Joy¡¯s body. It was bottomless, limitless, and it burned inside of him.

    YOU FOOL¡ª

    He was trembling now, shaking with feverish madness. Every fiber of his being was stretched to its limit, struggling to contain that wild power. His skin was crumbling to ash, his blood turning to steam, and finally he could hold it no longer. It was like a fire inside of him, a storm howling to be released. And as his body fell to pieces, the power boomed out unrestrained.

    Joy did not see as his own body tore itself apart, borne on the edge of a blossoming flame. He did not see as that glorious fire mixed with umbrous shadows¡ªwhite on black¡ªswallowing the dark. He did not see as that expansive light swallowed whole both gods and demon alike, ripping through reality itself with sheer power.

    Instead, his last thoughts were of Sister, of how she had died. She had smiled at him, had she not? She had smiled as the fire ate her. Then he would do the same¡ªdie as she had died. That lingering thought was enough to twist his mangled body, to guide ruined muscle. As the fire consumed him, his own lips peeled back in a smile of resignation, of peace.

    Of Joy.

 Book 3: Epilogue

    Ash.

    It was the only thing that Willem could taste, burning acrid in his mouth. No, he decided nearly after a moment, there was more than just ash. There was the metallic tang of blood, of fresh blood that oozed slowly, of dry blood that congealed in chunks and scabs. His entire being seemed to be swallowed by fire, seemed to be ripping apart under some malicious force. He was broken, burning, blinded, and he struggled to rise.

    When at last he tore himself out of that dazed state, it was with a desperate breath of cold air that scalded his throat. Everything around him was a ruin, little more than broken earth and charred rubble strewn about after the Devastation. The scarred stones were humming with wild energy, the air buzzing with the presence of unchanneled mahji. Deep fissures ran through the ground like gouged wounds, illuminated from below by deep earthfire.

    Wild, ruined¡ªeverything was broken now. The world itself was shattered now. Willem could still feel the lingering power that coursed through his flesh, that tore through his veins and ripped away at his body. Some part of him wanted to rejoice for living, for surviving. After all, he had seen the death of two gods, had witnessed the sundering of the world. He opened his mouth to laugh, his dry throat twitching with little more than a gasp before choking on dust and sand.

    Yet there was another part of him that knew¡ªthat knew from his screaming muscles and torn sinew and shattered bone. He was dying, would die here in the gods-forsaken desert. There would be no carrion birds to caw in mourning, no buzzards to peck out his eyes, no worms to feast. The sands would blow over his corpse, would bury him unspoken for an eternity.

    Lucky. The thought was sudden, amusing. He was, after all, lucky in a way. How many people could say that they had helped to kill a god? How many people could say that they lived to watch the world shatter? Willem laughed coarsely, bubbling blood and spittle dripping out of the corner of his mouth.

    Not bad for an orphan, eh? His head lolled back in laughter, his chest now filled with a heated burning sensation. It was like his lungs were aflame, and every breath only fanned the fire deeper into his body. Not bad for a beggar. Not bad for a cripple.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    His gaze fell over the sands, over the ruined earth that was crackling with heat and flame. There were bones scattered throughout them, strewn amongst twisted, half-molten metal where men had died. Discarded swords and shields, bent and mangled, were all that remained of where they had once stood. Their bodies had been ripped apart by the wild mahji in the air¡ªthe same thing happening to Willem now. He watched as those flickering serpents of purple and green ripped into the flesh with voracious hunger, sinking into the skin like so many burrowing worms. Bit by bit, even the bones were broken apart, cracks and fissures splintering down their side before finally shattering completely into wind-blown piles of dust.

    Willem wanted to stand up and gaze out further over this wasteland, yet as he tried to move, his muscles screamed with a searing pain. He looked down only to find his skin mottled and cracked, a purple-white light glowing from underneath the skin. Bit by bit, smoke began to drift off the sloughing flesh, the skin blackening and crumbling away. He reached out tentatively to touch his legs, but the skin flaked off with even the gentlest of touches from his claws.

    ¡°So I¡¯m to die here then¡­ like this.¡± he coughed out, the movement enough to have his entire torso suddenly howl in pain. Tiredly, Willem collapsed against the ground, his scales and skin scraping against the stone. His mind felt hazy, delirious. Every part of him was in some stage of decay, slowly falling to pieces in an agonizing death. He would be torn apart into dust, into sand, and no one would ever know of the demon that had died here.

    Demon, or man? His thoughts turned to that question once more as he felt consciousness beginning to slip away from him. Demon in flesh, and man in heart? But it was more than that; it was hardly that simple. Willem let out a soft sigh as the last bits of sensation left his legs. He tried to raise his arm desperately, only for the limb to break at the elbow under its own weight.

    Neither, then? Aye, perhaps I¡¯m neither. Just¡­ something else. Just another broken, sorry thing in this world. He felt a certain peace settle over him with that thought, and he tiredly opened his eyes one last time to see the sky over him. His chest tried to drag in another breath, only this time his lungs were unresponsive.

    Just another broken thing, and now I say goodbye.

    And so he died, his eyes open and empty, his body crumbling away to join the desert.

    End of Book 3