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Nyzara / Essendae 8 / y’996 – Dusktide193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaVpopucwdP
A flash of blue light burst to life over the cracked cobblestone of the Cyrus Village town square, casting jagged shadows across the drenched buildings. Then Ivan's body slammed into the cold wet stone beside the old decorative fountain, his limbs crumpling awkwardly. He stared up at the black, cloud-choked sky, rain battering his face like the world was trying to drown him. Blood seeped from the seams of his scorched armor, only to be washed away by the ever-strengthening downpour.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxh5qSoj5hM
Pain bloomed in him like wildfire—white-hot, furious, everywhere. He groaned as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, every breath a knife to the ribs. Lightning flickered somewhere behind the clouds, but he barely noticed.
He didn’t know how long it had been since the flames took Karthsworth—since they murdered his wife, his daughter, and stole his dragon.
They weren’t in the first town he’d teleported to. Or the second. Or the third.
He had hoped, desperately, to cut them off before they reached the capital. Town after town, scroll after scroll—nothing. The scent of ash never lingered. The soil hadn’t been scorched. Every place was untouched. Imperial banners flapped from rooftops like silent judges. But none of them had burned.
So why his?
How did they know about the dragon?
Why punish everyone? What did the Empire gain by razing a loyal town to cinders—for one creature?
The questions clawed at him as time slipped sideways. Minutes bled into hours. Hours into something worse. He didn’t even know how many times he’d collapsed after teleporting. He remembered seeing the sun once. Maybe twice. Or was that just a dream?
A sudden pulse of pain flared from his chest and roared through his limbs, silencing every thought. His dragon’s scream echoed in his mind—raw, broken, terrified.
Then the clip-clop of hooves.
A carriage, drawn by two horses, rounded the corner where the blue light had flashed moments earlier. Rain pattered off its lacquered roof. The driver reined in the horses just in time, stopping inches from Ivan’s broken form.
The door creaked open. A man in finely tailored clothes stepped out and called, “You there! Are you in need of assistance?”
Ivan barely held in a scream. His voice cracked. “Imperial soldiers... destroyed Karthsworth... they killed everyone…”
The man frowned, eyes drifting to the blood mixing with the rain at Ivan’s knees. “Karthsworth has been destroyed?” he asked, alarm creeping into his voice. “What happened?” He stepped around the carriage and opened the opposite door. “Sir, if you’re injured, I can take you to the local infirmary.”
Ivan staggered upright, trembling. “No… Those bastards… they have to be headed this way.” He spat blood. “They’re going to pay.”
The man hesitated, the rain plastering strands of silver-streaked hair to his forehead. “I won’t force you,” he said slowly, “but I wouldn’t recommend facing Imperial soldiers alone.”
Suddenly a wave of fire tore through Ivan’s chest. He shouted in agony, collapsing again to his hands and knees. His voice cracked with grief and rage. “They killed my wife and daughter!”
The storm was silent for a breath.
The man knelt beside him, his tone oddly calm. “My name is Glacius, stranger. And if I may offer unsolicited advice… you’re cursed.”
Ivan panted, trembling, rain streaking his face like tears.
“I can see it hanging off you like chains,” Glacius went on. He withdrew a small vial from his coat—glass stoppered, filled with shimmering silver liquid. “You may not survive another teleport without losing pieces of yourself. Literal pieces.”
Far down the road, torchlight glowed faintly through the rain. A slow caravan of wagons rolled into view, flickering shapes dancing along the wet stone.
Ivan saw the torches, forced himself to stand, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. “There’s not much… time,” he growled, breath ragged. “Must act… quickly.”
Glacius tore the wrapper off the vial, and a faint metallic aroma wafted into the rain-soaked air. “I own and operate Glacius Concoctions, right here in town,” he said, his voice calm but assertive. “What I have here is a serum — a temporary suppressant. It might stall whatever curse is gnawing at your insides until you get a proper diagnosis. Normally, I’d charge a hundred gold for this sort of thing.”
He stepped forward through the rain, the hem of his tailored coat brushing the cobblestone.
“But given your... condition,” Glacius continued, “I’ll give it to you under one condition.”
Ivan, still crouched on one knee, blood soaking through the seams of his armor, looked up through half-lidded eyes.
“I’m not exactly an admirer of the empire,” Glacius said, his tone darkening. “Most of my employees — and clients — are demi-humans. The kind of people your lovely empire treats like beasts. I won’t stand in the way of your vengeance, stranger... but if you do survive this night, promise me one thing.”
He stopped a step away and offered the vial. “Go to the infirmary. If there’s a window to get looked at, take it. And if you live through whatever’s hunting you... come find me. That’s all I ask.”
Ivan reached up with his remaining hand, and Glacius’s gaze sharpened as he noticed the other — severed at the wrist, the wound hastily cauterized with blackened, blistered skin. Ivan gritted his teeth as he accepted the vial. “Thank you,” he rasped.
As Glacius turned back to the carriage, he threw a final glance over his shoulder. “Make sure you drink every drop, or it won’t work — you hear?”
Ivan’s fingers trembled around the vial, barely able to keep hold. He popped the cork and threw back the serum in one gulp. A beat of silence passed — then his body seized.
A jolt of raw, electric agony arced through him, and he was thrown back onto the stones, convulsing violently as he cried out, the sound more beast than man.
“Oh my! That’s quite a reaction,” Glacius muttered, raising a brow. Without waiting further, he shut the carriage door and called to his driver, “Turn us around — let’s not linger.”
The carriage creaked and shifted as the horses obeyed, steering away from Ivan’s writhing form and rolling in the opposite direction of the oncoming caravan.
Down the street, the torchlight of another wagon began to cut through the haze — no ordinary wagon, but a massive, double-decker two-car beast, pulled by four dragon raptors whose muscular bodies steamed in the rain. Atop the driver’s perch sat a tall figure cloaked in the drizzle, her posture straight despite the storm.
Glacius narrowed his eyes as they approached. Before the wagons passed, he called out, “Miss! Not quite the season for summer wear, is it? Especially during a thunderstorm!”
The towering wagon ground to a halt. The driver gracefully leapt down — a woman, no ordinary human, but a demi-human of the Leporidae bloodline.
“Excuse me,” she called, her voice both musical and commanding. “Do you know where the nearest inn or infirmary is? Darkwell was attacked last night — a necromancer and his horde. We’ve run low on potions and supplies. One of our own needs a proper bed, or the healing magic won’t take hold. This was the closest town.”
Her presence was striking. Pale skin shimmered beneath the storm, framed by patches of fur — soft black with hints of pink. Her long rabbit-like ears extended through tailored slits in a short, armored helmet that barely dipped past her brow. Twin braids of vibrant pink hair fell down her chest, tied off in sharp ends. Her face was almost entirely human — save for the faintest whisker marks etched across her cheeks, subtle but primal.
She wore a dark cloak with its hood down, the fabric slick with rain, but what it failed to cover was what drew Glacius’s curious gaze. She wore little more than a battle thong and leather strap-bra, each connected by interwoven belts that crossed her athletic frame. Holsters hugged her hips and thighs, packed with bolts, arrows, twin flintlock pistols, hand crossbows, vials, and bombs. Despite the deluge, she wore no additional armor, though Glacius noted she had modular straps where plates could be added.
Slender and alluring, yes — but beneath that was the unmistakable presence of a killer. One who wore danger like perfume.
Glacius’ wagon rolled to a stop with a creak of old wood and a low hiss from the alchemical engines beneath. His carriage door burst open, and the old alchemist stepped down with urgency in his gait, robes trailing the dust as he exclaimed, “Goodness gracious. Two villages razed within a couple nights? How unfortunate indeed. Ever since the fall of Enos, the lands south of the mountains have been crawling with rogue necromancers and worse.”
He gestured down the dim, cobbled street, its flickering lanterns struggling to push back the dusk. “Follow that road past the town square, make a right, and you’ll see the inn. The infirmary’s just beside it. Tell them Glacius sent you — should earn you a discount on a room and whatever treatment you might need.”
He turned his sharp eyes back toward the towering wagon she’d arrived in — a wooden and iron-plated behemoth bristling with bolts, and pulled by dragon-raptors whose breath steamed in the chill night air. “I’ve seen many strange devices in my day, but I’ve truly never laid eyes on something quite like the contraption you're commanding. It’s surely one of a kind.”
The demi-human girl beamed and replied with a flick of her tail, “Oh! Thank you! You can call me Aurora. My friend built this. And actually — this is just one-third of it. There are two more of these bad boys with the rest of our caravan. It's pretty much a traveling fortress. Home away from home, y’know?”
With a hop that landed like a dancer’s step, she leapt back into the coach’s quarters, taking hold of the reins and signaling her scaled beasts forward. “Thanks again for the directions!” she called out cheerfully as the wagon growled into motion.
Glacius gave a warm chuckle. “Think nothing of it. And should you find yourself in need of potions, powders, or poultices, Glacius’ Concoctions is just across from the inn. Best alchemy this side of the Spine!”
Aurora flashed a bright grin over her shoulder. “Will do!”
The two wagons began to roll away from one another — but before Aurora had even turned the next corner, her ears perked, catching a commotion up the street. Her eyes narrowed. Up ahead stood Ivan, frozen like a statue in the middle of the road — and advancing from the opposite end came a caravan of imperial soldiers, their dark iron armor glinting with torchlight, their banners fluttering like the wings of crows.
The lead driver barked, “Get the fuck outta the street, you imbecile!”
Ivan didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. Something trembled inside him — a sensation like a thousand knives dragging beneath his skin, racing up and down his spine in flickering pulses. It was familiar. And it was waking up.
The driver stood now, fury rising. “Are you deaf or drunk?! Move before I run you into the mud, you damned fool!”
Then the soldier beside him squinted, his face pale beneath his helmet. “Wait… wait a sec, Cho. Ain’t that the bloke? The one whose dragon we’ve got in the back?”
Cho — the driver — narrowed his eyes, stepping closer, studying Ivan’s face. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “It is him. He’s wearing different gear, but that’s him, no doubt.”
Another soldier leaned forward, his voice filled with dread. “How in the hells is he alive? He was barely alive when we left him for the dead to chew on. And how’d he beat us here?”
Cho grunted. “Teleport scroll? I dunno. But if he’s here... he ain’t here for a chat.” He dropped from the wagon, the ground crunching beneath his boots. “Squad One! Formation!”
At his command, a half-dozen soldiers spilled out of the back of the lead wagon, weapons unsheathed in gleaming arcs — halberds, swords, crackling staves, all arrayed in a practiced line behind their captain.
“Orders, sir?” one called out.
Cho cracked his knuckles. “Seems this bastard’s come to take back his dragon. Guess he’s begging for another beating. This time, no holding back.”
From down the road, Aurora pulled her reins hard, bringing the caravan to a jarring stop. She leaned over the balcony rail of the main quarters and squinted toward the rising tension. She could see the imperial soldiers encircling Ivan — hear their talk of dragons and revenge.
Her brow furrowed.
Something was wrong.
She turned and called into the cabin behind her, voice sharp, urgent. “Guys... something’s going on. You might wanna get out here. Now.”
Soldiers surrounded Ivan in the street, a half-moon of steel and intent. He closed his eyes. The din of the city—the murmurs of townsfolk hiding behind shuttered windows, the clinking of armor, the horses snorting uneasily—faded into silence. A warmth pulsed outward from the center of his chest, as if his blood had been set alight.
He dropped the empty vial clenched in his fist. It shattered against the cobblestones, glass shards scattering like stardust.
Ivan didn’t open his eyes.
With calm precision, he drew the very knife they’d once plunged into him. Its blade gleamed with a sheen of crimson light, as if remembering.
A soldier stepped forward, sword raised, and with a guttural cry, brought it down in a brutal vertical arc.
Ivan sidestepped with effortless grace, a single pivot, and slipped beneath the blow. In the same motion, he surged forward, driving the blade upward between the gap where helmet met breastplate. The knife found its mark, guided by the grooves of the armor, and dragged across the man’s throat with surgical cruelty.
A wet gurgle escaped the soldier’s lips. He dropped to his knees, sword slipping from his grasp, as blood pumped through the narrow split in his neck, soaking the front of his armor and splattering the cobblestones in arterial bloom.
Ivan yanked the knife free.
Two more soldiers came at him from opposite sides, each wielding a massive, two-handed battle axe. They roared as they closed in.
But Ivan was already moving.
He sheathed his knife and drew a scroll from his coat with a fluid flick of the wrist.
“Dissolutionem Fluctus!”
The scroll ignited in his hands, disintegrating into a burst of searing red flame. A thunderous shockwave exploded from his body, distorting the air itself.
The axe-wielding soldiers didn’t even make it to striking range.
They were reduced to ash mid-step, their weapons clanging uselessly to the ground.
From the lead wagon, the driver’s face twisted in rage.
“Open fire! Kill this sorry bastard!”
More soldiers poured from the wagons, crossbows and rifles raised in unison. The street swarmed with weapons, all trained on the solitary figure of Ivan.
But he was already a step ahead.
With his one hand, he unfurled two more scrolls.
“Praesidium! Rupta Celeritas!”
The scrolls vanished in twin flashes of blue flame. At once, a shimmering blue orb snapped into existence around him, and a vivid green aura enveloped his form.
The first volley struck.
Bolts and bullets hit the orb and ricocheted off in random directions with a series of metallic tinks. Not a single shot penetrated. Ivan moved—a blur of velocity, vanishing from their sights and reappearing in front of the gunners.
Inhumanly fast.
He drew the longsword sheathed at his belt and impaled the chest of a soldier aiming an antique wood-stock rifle. The man’s body stiffened, eyes wide.
Before the soldier beside him could even turn to fire his crossbow, Ivan twisted his wrist, pulled the blade free, and in one clean motion, rammed it upward into the man’s throat—severing spine from skull. A sickening crunch echoed, followed by a thud as both bodies collapsed.
From their wounds, pale ghostlight shimmered—white, wispy streams rising like vapor. The light surged along the blade and disappeared into the gem embedded in the sword’s hilt. The crystal glowed faintly, then began to pulse with an ominous purple light.
The surrounding soldiers froze, horror dawning in their eyes.
The weapon Ivan wielded wasn’t just enchanted.
It was hungry.
And it was feeding.
Ivan’s eyes glinted. He dashed again—faster than any mortal should move. A rifleman raised his weapon in panic and fired.
Ivan raised his sword—not to block, but to swat the bullet mid-air. The round ricocheted into a nearby wall. In the same motion, Ivan drove the blade through the soldier’s breastplate, punching it into his heart.
The man screamed. Another thread of ghostly white light erupted from his wound, streaming into the hilt. The crystal now pulsed with a steady, malevolent glow—purple and otherworldly, the color of twilight shadows.
Then the sky shifted.
From the rear of the caravan, one of the covered wagons burst with sudden, blinding light. Purple and pink beams shot into the heavens like spears of starlight.
A moment later, they arced downward—harsh and unnatural—and struck the corpses of the fallen soldiers where they lay.
And then… the dead began to stir.
As the corpses of the undead soldiers began to rise once more from the blood-muddied street, Ivan ripped a scroll from the satchel at his waist and roared, “Sanctus lux!”
A blinding flash erupted from the parchment, a radiant burst of holy light that struck the reanimating bodies with divine fury. The undead howled as their flesh sublimated into a crimson mist, bones cracking and dissolving mid-rise. Within seconds, there was nothing left but vapor and a thick copper stench hanging in the rain.
But before Ivan could catch his breath, a sharp pressure punctured his lower back — no scream, no warning, just steel sliding in like ice through flesh.
The pain didn’t come.
Ivan’s body seized for a moment, registering the foreign presence embedded in his spine. Behind him stood the necromancer — the very one who had twisted his town into a graveyard of ghouls — gripping a long, wavy-bladed dagger now buried to its hilt in Ivan’s back.
The necromancer’s voice was bitter, mocking.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk00rLNsMmQ
“You fool. All this... for a pathetic black dragon?”
Ivan didn't answer. Instead, with eerie calm and unnatural speed, he jerked his arm — the one ending in a severed wrist — behind him. A mechanism hidden beneath his shield harness clicked, and a slender blade flicked outward like a switchblade, ramming into the necromancer’s side.
The necromancer lurched back with a grunt, clutching the wound.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWWVUNyhjAx
“What a dirty little trick,” he hissed.
A faint, sickly green glow pulsed from his palm as he pressed it against his side. The torn flesh sealed itself in seconds, the blood retracting as if frightened of the necromancer’s magic.
The verdant shimmer around Ivan’s body began to fade. Gritting his teeth, he withdrew another scroll and spoke through a shallow breath,193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ78XW3Fyezc
“Sanatio caloris.”
The scroll incinerated in his grip with a burst of emerald light. Heat rippled across his skin, knitting muscle and sinew, sealing the wound left by the necromancer’s blade. The pain still hadn’t come — not yet — but he knew it would.
The necromancer cast off his soaked, shadow-black cloak and hood, revealing a mirrored mask that gleamed even under the storm’s gloom. His body was wrapped tight in form-fitting, pitch-dark garments, stitched with arcane embroidery only faintly visible when the lightning flashed overhead. On his belt hung a second sheathed dagger, now unsheathed with a whispering hiss.
“Your little tricks will run dry eventually,” he sneered, raising both blades. “And when they do, the curse from that undead bite will finish what I started. You’ll die, Ivan. Then you’ll rise... and I’ll be your master.”
His eyes flicked to Ivan’s maimed arm, noting the missing hand and the blood-worn harness bolted to the stump. A knowing smirk curled beneath the mask.
“Must’ve been one hell of a bite if you had to take the whole hand.”
Ivan’s voice came low, rasping with a fury that trembled like a distant avalanche.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4U9URcajpL
“I’m going to sever your arms, your legs... and feed the corpses of every one of your thralls to my dragon while you watch.”
A dark, delighted laugh bubbled up from the necromancer. It was raw, unhinged, filled with a twisted glee.
“Oh? I’d like that. I’d really like to see you try.”
Then he lunged.
Daggers flashed like lightning. Ivan met the charge head-on, deflecting blow after blow with his sword and the retractable blade still mounted to his arm harness. The clang of steel rang out in rhythm with the rain, each strike echoing like distant war drums.
All around them, the remaining soldiers — both imperial and reanimated — formed a loose, cautious circle, watching the duel unfold with wary eyes.
Down the rain-slick street, nestled in the shadows of the caravan’s front wagon, four pairs of eyes observed the chaos from the coachman’s quarters.
Vlad was the first to break the silence.
“So... should we do something? Or are we just going to sit here and watch?”
Morrak, the dwarf, let out a low grunt.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqDwHSHDyDn
“You want the Empire breathing down our necks for aiding that man? Look at this mess. No matter what really happened, he’ll be branded a criminal. Help him, and we’re accomplices.”
Torgan let out a guttural laugh, his broad shoulders shaking beneath his ragged cloak.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAmX9jGGYwU
“The man said he was going to feed those imperial bastards to his dragon. I don’t know about you, but I’m real curious to see if he meant it. I say we hold our position... and enjoy the show.”
Aurora’s face twisted in distaste, her voice icy beneath her breath.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOYyrhckhh4
“That’s something I wish not to see. As much as I detest the Empire, there are lines that should not be crossed. Feeding men to beasts—” she shook her head, rain beading along her brow. “That’s not justice. It’s horror.”
No one answered her. The only reply was the sound of steel clashing with steel, echoing down the ruined street like the tolling of a funeral bell.
While the battle raged on under the shrouded skies, Vlad narrowed his eyes and muttered, “He said he had a dragon.” He glanced around, peering into the misted night. The town slept on, eerily unaware. Rain fell in steady sheets, pooling in the street, while lightning clawed at the heavens above in irregular flashes. There was no sign of wings, no roar in the distance. Just steel against steel and blood on the cobblestones. “I don’t see a dragon anywhere.”
Torgan sniffed the air and said, a note of surprise in his voice, “You don’t smell it? There’s one. Hidden in that wagon.” He nodded toward the rear of the caravan, where a massive, reinforced cart loomed in the downpour. “They’ve got it stashed away in there.”
Vlad scoffed, eyes half-lidded. “Oh sure, now that you mention it, the scent of ancient wyrm flesh just hit me.” He shook his head and turned to Morrak. “So, what do we do? Keep standing here in the rain, or should we head to the inn and let this madness sort itself out?”
Before Morrak could answer, a sudden blur zipped out from the narrow cabin hallway behind them — wings buzzing like a storm of angry wasps. Zhade skidded to a hover, rain beading off his delicate frame. “That man... he’s cursed,” the fae said, her voice winded. “He bears the mark of the undead.”
Vlad arched a brow. “Well, well, the tiny fae decided to grace us with her company.”
Zhade’s gaze snapped to the ongoing duel. “Is that the necromancer we faced at Darkwell?”
Torgan sniffed again and answered flatly, “No. Different stink.”
Morrak chuckled. “All these years traveling together and I never knew you had such a refined sense of smell.”
Torgan shrugged. “Didn’t know you lot didn’t.”
Zhade’s eyes flared. “I should intervene. Or at least try to suppress the curse festering in that man’s veins.”
Aurora crossed her arms, voice laced with sarcasm. “What, you’re going to flutter in mid-fight and sprinkle some pixie dust? Heal him between sword swings?”
Zhade’s wings flared briefly in frustration. “If they kill him, there’s a chance he’ll rise again — and stronger. But if he kills them, the curse could evolve. He might carry it to others through corrupted essence alone. No bites required. And if that happens... miasma.”
Morrak blinked. “You’re saying the miasma could form just from the presence of a cursed man? I’ve never heard that before.”
Zhade looked genuinely surprised. “It’s one of many causes. Is that... not common knowledge among your kind?”
Morrak’s expression dimmed. “No. When the great libraries of Enos fell, we lost more than buildings and books — we lost entire lifetimes of knowledge. So no... that isn’t common anymore. What about the fae? Don’t your people know these things?”
Zhade crossed her arms with a pout. “So, what? You lose a few libraries a decade ago and suddenly forget everything?”
Vlad’s voice turned grim. “Not all of us were lucky enough to afford an education under the Empire’s boot. Even the wisest sages barely understand the nature of miasma. The libraries that survived are fragments — shadows of what they were.”
Zhade shot back, “I never had formal schooling. Zhara and I learned in the field — bled for every truth. You don’t need a textbook when the monsters come clawing at your door. We learned that miasma corrupts the land — it spawns monsters, and those monsters, in turn, spawn more miasma. It spreads like a plague, devouring both essence and reason.”
Aurora tilted her head. “So if miasma spawns from corrupted magic and gives rise to monsters who further spawn it… which came first? Can miasma appear where no corruption has occurred? Or does something need to manifest it first — a living abomination to open the gate?”
Zhade groaned. “Look, I didn’t say I knew everything. I only know what I’ve fought. The less corruption in an area, the less likely miasma is to take root. That’s just what we’ve observed — not scribed fact.”
Morrak nodded, now understanding. “That explains Zhara. No wonder she handled that beast so fiercely. Battling creatures born of miasma isn’t something just anyone survives.”
Zhade’s tone softened slightly. “Zhara doesn’t speak much. Nothing wrong with her voice... she just doesn’t like talking. I speak. I heal. She fights.”
Aurora asked gently, “How long have you two been together?”
Zhade answered without hesitation. “Since she was born. She’s part elf. Part Áspro devil.”
Vlad’s eyes widened. He nearly shouted. “Zhara is an Áspro devil elf? She looks... human!”
Zhade nodded. “She has horns, but I file them to the scalp. Clip her elven ears. Cut off her tail every time it grows back. Keeps the Imperial racists from questioning us when we’re collecting bounties or staying in inns.”
Torgan blinked. “Wait. You cut off her tail... and it grows back?”
“Yes,” Zhade replied. “Her ears and horns usually grow back within a month. She was born in a village of monks, from a woman who died giving birth to her. Our home was destroyed long ago… and since she was a young girl, we’ve survived by hunting monsters.”
Vlad tilted his head, his voice colored by curiosity. “What makes you so comfortable spilling your life story to us?”
Zhade’s expression darkened, her voice sharp as a blade. “Zhara has walked this world for nearly seventy years. I’ve been alive for… at least a thousand. I think. So no, brat, I haven’t told you our life story. Besides, we almost died together—burning town, undead swarm, a grotesque abomination tearing through everything. You helped take that thing down. Why wouldn’t I tell you?”
“That thing,” Vlad said coldly, “was our friend, Avry. And I didn’t realize slaying monsters automatically made us comrades.”
Zhade scoffed, a hint of venom in her tone. “Do you know how many people helped us slay something, then tried to slay us for the full bounty? The fact you didn’t turn on us says something. At least to me.”
A short silence followed. Then she added, quieter this time, “Besides… I’ve spent enough time with you all. I can see the color of your essence.”
Vlad blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”
Zhade’s irritation bubbled over. “It means what it sounds like. Spend enough time near someone, and I can see the color of their essence. What more do you want?”
Aurora, arms crossed and skeptical, asked, “If that’s true, then why couldn’t you see the intent of the people who betrayed you?”
Zhade’s wings buzzed sharply in the air as her temper flared. “I said I can see the color of someone’s essence. Not their every whim or last-minute betrayal. Monster hunters aren’t saints. But sometimes you’re forced to team up to bring down something worse. I can’t tell if someone’s going to suddenly backstab me, but I can tell when someone’s rotten to the core. Alright? No more questions.”
Vlad arched a brow, voice laced with sarcasm. “All I’m hearing is a little fairy spinning fairy tales. Talking about miasma like it’s special knowledge. Seeing colors of essence? Come on. Where did you come from? How old are you really?”
Zhade narrowed her eyes, voice dipped in frost and contempt. “What I want to know,” she snapped, “is why the color of your essence matches the monsters I’ve slain—not the lust-starved perverts who haunt brothels and alleyways.”
She darted forward without another word, flying past them like a gust of burning wind, leaving only stunned silence in her wake as she soared toward the commotion on the street below. There, Ivan was locked in battle with the necromancer.
Zhade hovered high, voice sharp and urgent. “Hey! You two! The man with one hand is cursed. He needs to be exorcised now or he’s going to spawn a miasmic cloud that’ll give birth to things you don’t want to see—and corrupt everything around him!”
Ivan and the necromancer paused mid-combat, blinking up at her in confusion.
“Bullshit,” the necromancer said casually. “I was waiting for him to die so I could raise him for my own purposes. Are you saying he’ll create a miasmic cloud if I don’t?”
Zhade clenched her fists and screamed, “What the hell is wrong with all of you?! Do none of you know anything about miasmic corruption?! Or are you just fucking stupid?!”
The necromancer chuckled, amused by her rage. “That’s a rather unpleasant thing for such a dainty little lady to say. And none of my previous minions ever sprouted any such cloud.”
Zhade ignored the jab. “Necromancy makes me sick. If I had the power, I’d erase every last one of you from this world.”
“Oh, that’s adorable,” the necromancer said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But little girls shouldn’t lie about things they don’t understand.”
Zhade let out a tired breath and dropped, landing delicately on Ivan’s blood-crusted head. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t resist. As she knelt, hands glowing, she began to cast the exorcism.
The necromancer snarled, “Somebody shoot that fucking thing. Leave the criminal to me.”
A soldier raised his rifle and fired. The shot cracked through the air.
Without looking up, Zhade raised one hand mid-spell. A shimmering orb of protection shimmered into place just before the bullet struck it. The round ricocheted with a sharp ping, arcing through the air… and struck another soldier cleanly through the skull. His helmet buckled. He dropped without a sound.
Zhade’s lips curled into a manic grin. “Oops. Did I do that?” A quick, eerie laugh escaped her lips as she continued the spell.
“You bitch!” the necromancer roared. “You’ll pay for that!”
“You bitch, isn’t my name. It’s Zhade,” she said flatly, not even looking up. “And I’m not too worried. Judging by how this fight’s going, you won’t be standing long once I finish with him.”
The necromancer strode forward, rage boiling over. “I’m done talking. I won’t let you finish that spell.”
He leapt toward them—but before he could reach her, something thundered into the ground in front of him with earth-splitting force.
A massive great sword, wide as the necromancer’s waist and longer than a coffin, slammed into the dirt and cobblestone. Its wielder dropped down behind it—Zhara.
Her pale skin was streaked with dried blood. She wore nothing but boots, her hook-shot gauntlets, and the loose pajama-like clothes she’d thrown on mid-recovery. Her presence was silent, deadly, and full of promise.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t need to.
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>>>Down the street, Vlad—shocked with amazement—said, “Oh man! I didn’t even see Zhara leave the caravan.”
Morrak added nervously, “This is going to raise quite a stir for us if we keep associating with them after this.”
Zhara stood firm, her expression unreadable. She pulled her sword from the deep incision it had made in the earth and said sharply, “Stop.”
The necromancer lunged without hesitation, swinging one of his daggers at her head.
Zhara met the attack mid-swing, deflecting the strike with her massive greatsword. The blade of the necromancer’s dagger shattered on impact, fragments scattering like glass. Zhara’s momentum didn’t stop. Her sword continued its arc toward the necromancer’s skull. He barely twisted out of the way in time, the blade brushing past as he stumbled into a backward somersault, regaining his footing with practiced grace.
His eyes narrowed, bewildered. How is such a small girl swinging a sword that big like it’s nothing?
“Enough!” he bellowed. “You’ve doomed this town and everyone in it!” His voice turned cold and sharp. “I no longer have time to play games with arrogant children and their fairies.”
He sheathed the one remaining dagger, and a portal pulsing with black, digital-like miasma appeared beside him. He reached into the swirling void and withdrew a staff—a polished wooden shaft topped with a large, glimmering red crystal.
As he began chanting, the sky split. A rift tore open high above, releasing a monstrous black dragon cloaked in fog and shadow. With a roar that shook the earth, it came crashing through the portal, spewing fire down onto the nearby buildings, which erupted into flame.
Morrak jumped to his feet. “Alright, that’s it! We can’t just stand here and watch! We’re not letting this village fall like Darkwell!”
Aurora hesitated. “I thought we weren’t fighting imperial soldiers?”
Morrak turned to her with a grin, eyes blazing. “Fuck ‘em! They’re the ones responsible for this.”
He darted up a narrow stairwell next to the corridor that led into the wagon car’s cabin. Reaching the top, he grabbed a lever and yanked it down. The dragonhide canopy above the second story’s ceiling snapped back, revealing a deck packed with secured crates and barrels. Morrak dashed between them and climbed into a seat attached to a massive ballista mounted on a swiveling platform. Two thick levers jutted up from the floor beside him. He gripped them and began working the controls, swinging the turret into motion as he tracked the dragon's chaotic flight.
“Load the silver-mithril bolts!” he shouted. “Make it count!”
Torgan bolted down the corridor into the upper level of the cabin. He reached a rear closet where an apparatus fed ballista magazines through slits in the ceiling. Grabbing a heavy magazine of five thick bolts, he shoved it into the slot until it locked with a loud clunk. Then he shouted up through a bell-and-pipe comm tube, “You’re good to go!”
Meanwhile, Vlad fastened a nearly invisible cloak over his shoulders. As the ethereal fabric flowed down his frame and the hood went up, his form vanished into thin air.
“I’m going to check if one of those wagons is hiding a dragon,” he said, voice already fading. He leapt from the coach’s quarters and hit the ground in a soft thud before dashing off toward the stationary wagons, his footsteps silent.
Back on the battlefield, Zhara and the necromancer exchanged rapid, vicious blows. Nearby, soldiers had begun to close in on Ivan.
Zhade raised a hand toward them, calm and confident. “You guys are making this way too easy,” she muttered. Then, under her breath: “Somnum.”
A haze swept over the soldiers, and within seconds they dropped like stones, unconscious before they even hit the ground.
As if waking from a deep dream, Ivan’s eyes snapped open. He gasped, chest heaving.
“There he is!” Zhade beamed. “Welcome back to the land of the sane. Or insane. Depends how you look at it.”
As his vision sharpened, Ivan suddenly stumbled, as if he had missed a step. He caught himself before falling and asked weakly, “What’s happening?”
Zhade floated near his head, shrugging. “I don’t know, mister. You tell me.”
Ivan strained to remember. “Those men… they killed my wife and daughter. They burned down Karthsworth, murdered hundreds, and turned the dead into undead monsters.” His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his sword.
Zhade nodded. “Sounds like a good reason for revenge.”
“I guess I’ve been seeing red ever since,” Ivan muttered.
Zhade, finishing her spell, floated away and fluttered toward cover. “Well, I healed you the best I could and lifted the curse, so go ahead and get your revenge. Sorry about your hand, though. Looks like you lost it recently. And even if you still had it, I’ve never reattached a severed limb, so I doubt I’d get it right.”
As she flew off to avoid the dragon overhead, Ivan noticed Zhara still locked in combat with the necromancer. He vaguely remembered severing his own hand and forging his armor—but couldn’t recall how he had ended up here.
Meanwhile, Vlad was sneaking around the back of an imperial wagon. He opened the rear door and climbed into a large cabin—one clearly designed to transport something massive. In the center of the room, muzzled and shackled to the floor of a stainless-steel cage, was a small black dragon.
Removing his cloak and revealing himself, Vlad stepped into view. The dragon tried to lift its head but was too tightly bound to move much.
“Okay, little fella,” Vlad whispered, crouching down. “Don’t bite me, alright? Remember, I’m the one setting you free.”
The dragon let out a high-pitched squeal, almost as if it understood him. Vlad began undoing the restraints, working quickly and carefully. When the last shackle came loose, he unlatched the muzzle around the dragon’s head. It clattered to the floor.
The dragon immediately sprang up, roaring with renewed energy. It turned and breathed fire onto the cage’s lock. In seconds, the metal melted, bars collapsing into slag. With a sweep of one wing, the creature slammed the cage door open and stepped out. It stood just taller than Vlad, lowering its head to rest against his shoulder in a quiet gesture of thanks.
The cabin door suddenly slammed open behind them.
“What the fuck are you doing?” a soldier shouted, storming in.
Vlad scratched the back of his head nervously. “Well… it’s not polite to tie a dragon down without its consent. And judging by the situation, I don’t think it gave you consent.”
The soldier’s eyes widened. “Are you fucking ill, mate? That’s a goddamn dragon! It’s going to bite your stupid head off—”
Before he could finish, the dragon screeched and launched across the room. With shocking speed, it landed on the soldier, bit off his head, and swallowed it in one swift motion.
Vlad stumbled back, wide-eyed. “Holy shit!”
The dragon roared again, flames bursting from its mouth and searing a massive hole through the cabin wall. Rain poured in through the smoldering edges as it took flight, vanishing into the storm.
Back on the caravan’s rooftop, Morrak was still tracking the shadow dragon in the sky. “Torgan! Have you loaded the second magazine yet?”
A deep grunt rang out from below, followed by a sharp clank. Torgan’s voice echoed from a pipe connected to the ballista platform. “Second magazine is loaded!”
“Perfect,” Morrak muttered. He reached down and flipped a smaller lever beneath his seat. The mechanisms groaned—gears turning and springs compressing—as fresh bolts rose from the magazine and chambered into the ballista, ready to fire.
Morrak muttered under his breath, “Now we see if you’re a summon… or the real thing.”
He clenched the worn iron trigger mounted atop one of the levers steering the siege weapon. The ballista jolted violently as a massive bolt screamed into the sky, its shaft gleaming dully in the twilight.
The shadow dragon twisted in midair, narrowly avoiding the first bolt—but it never saw the second.
With a deep, sickening thud, the second projectile punched through its chest.
It faltered. Wings spasmed. The beast began to plummet… but before it could crash, the gaping wound closed like a mouth sealing shut, and the dragon veered upward in a violent arc, shrieking against gravity as if defying death itself.
Aurora stood at the coach driver’s perch, her silhouette outlined against the burning clouds above. She shouted back toward Morrak, her voice sharp over the wind:193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSLY7n2fLIu
“I couldn’t see if there was blood or not! You’ll have to shoot again!”
With a roar like a storm made flesh, the dragon turned, eyes burning, and began barreling straight toward the source of the attack.
Aurora leapt from the coach, landing with precision beside the caravan’s rear harnesses, where two dragon raptors frothed and thrashed in panic. From a pouch on her belt, she retrieved a small jar filled with a violet liquid that shimmered unnaturally, as if the color itself was alive. Popping the cork, she dipped a finger into it and drew a sigil—a tight, circular glyph—on each raptor’s flank in rapid succession.
Then she reached inside her cloak, pulled out a tightly rolled scroll, and unfurled it with practiced speed. She painted the same sigil at the base of the parchment in a single fluid stroke.
Overhead, the air turned sulfurous.
The dragon screamed, unleashing a hellish geyser of black fire. The flames thundered down toward Aurora and the raptors, consuming everything in their path.
“Evanescere!” she cried, her voice slicing through the roar.
In an instant, she and the raptors vanished—blinked from existence—mere heartbeats before the fire washed over the front of the wagon, charring it black and bursting the wood with concussive heat.
At the center of the town square, beside a shattered fountain choked with ash and blood, Zhara and the necromancer clashed. Their blades rang and sparked like screams made metal, their bodies moving in a blur of steel and fury, parrying and striking, parrying and striking again.
Not far off, Ivan caught the glint of something sleek and dark—a dragon. It shot out from behind one of the imperial wagons and soared down the eastern road, its wings tearing through the rain like knives.
Without a word, without a thought, Ivan ran.
He sprinted through the chaos, sword gripped tightly in his good hand, the world narrowing into a single point: that fleeing beast.
Behind him, the duel between Zhara and the necromancer intensified. Sparks erupted as Zhara’s sword hammered down against the necromancer’s last dagger, forcing him back inch by inch.
Meanwhile, behind the cover of a half-shattered imperial wagon, a lone soldier peered through the scope of his rifle, trying to line up a shot on Zhara. But something caught his eye—movement. Ivan.
He swung the rifle right, locked onto Ivan’s form—and then everything went black.
A hand clamped over his eyes. Cold steel whispered across his throat.
Then silence.
The rifle clattered to the cobblestones. The soldier’s body crumpled beside the wagon, blood pouring in thick ribbons onto the street, pooling around a pair of dark boots.
The boots barely shimmered beneath the hem of a ragged invisibility cloak that rippled in the rain like a wraith’s shroud.
Vlad stood over the corpse, wiping his dagger clean against his pant leg, the red streak disappearing into the soaked fabric like it had always belonged there.
The necromancer shrieked into the night as the blade of his remaining dagger cracked from tip to hilt, shattering all the way to the guard. The ruined weapon clattered against the uneven cobblestone, its bladeless handle sticking briefly in the loose dirt before toppling over. A gust swirled the dust at his feet.
Zhara stood motionless, the massive edge of her two-handed great sword pointed straight at him, her voice low and calm, almost eerily devoid of emotion.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMskLtCXPhQ
“Give up.”
The necromancer wheezed, his breath ragged, voice trembling between gulps of air. “You... haven’t bested me.” In one fluid motion, he stepped back and yanked a small object from the pouch at his waist. His voice cracked into a desperate shout. “I’ll raise every corpse in this town!”
He hurled the object to the ground.
A sudden explosion of light ignited from the impact, blindingly white and searing in its intensity. Black smog followed—thick, oily, and churning as it billowed out, engulfing the street like a waking nightmare.
Zhara didn’t flinch. She twisted her grip, pivoting the blade, and with a single broad swing, she cleaved the air before her. The sheer force of the motion sent a gale roaring through the street, dispersing the smog in a wave that revealed nothing but empty space where the necromancer had once stood.
Then—chanting. A voice, familiar and venomous, echoed from the rooftops above. Zhara’s eyes snapped upward. A magic emblem, etched in light and floating midair, flared to life like a scar across the sky.
Each word the necromancer chanted boomed like thunder. From the emblem, streaks of eerie light spiraled down, bathing the buildings in a sickly glow. At the center of it all, he stood silhouetted, arms raised, a crooked staff in his hands. A gem embedded at the top pulsed with unholy brilliance.
Then came the pain.
It happened so fast he couldn’t scream at first. A stinging, electric agony tore through both wrists. His chant broke. The emblem shattered with a crack like breaking glass, and the staff tumbled from limp hands, striking his shoulder and rolling across the shingles at his feet.
The necromancer stared in mute horror.
His hands were gone—severed at the wrists, lying in a twitching heap on the rooftop. A pair of geysers erupted from the open stumps, and now, finally, he screamed—raw and ragged, swallowed by the night and the storm. Rain hammered his face, blurring the scene. That’s when he saw it: a soft green light drifting toward him, hovering in the air.
As it floated close, the light took shape—revealing Zhade.
Tiny, barely eight inches tall, wings beating slow and steady, her silhouette was serene against the chaos. She looked him over with quiet judgment.
“I might be small,” she said, her voice clear over the rain, “but I wasn’t about to let you kill everyone in this town and turn them into undead monsters.”
The necromancer’s voice cracked. “You—! You cut off my fucking hands!”
Zhade didn’t flinch. Her tone remained cold.193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRYbnkDg5PB
“Since you betrayed your oath to the Empire by attacking this town… and since you refused to surrender to Zhara and stand trial—”
“I shouldn’t be on trial!” he spat. “You’re the goddamn criminals!”
She ignored him. “—I’ll go ahead and carry out the execution your king would’ve ordered.”
The necromancer opened his mouth to protest, but it was too late.
With a flick of her wrist, a blade of compressed air—glimmering faintly with magic—launched from her palm. It moved faster than sound. In the span of a breath, it sliced cleanly through the necromancer’s head, just above the jaw.
For a moment, he stood frozen. Then, blood spilled from his mouth in thick torrents as his skull slipped free—top half peeling backward, sliding from the exposed jawbone like a discarded mask.
His body crumpled. The rest of him tumbled from the rooftop and into the rain-soaked streets below.
Zhade hovered for a beat, watching the blood drip from the shingles.
Then she giggled. “Shit,” she muttered, “I guess my aim was off.”
Down the street from where the necromancer’s mutilated corpse had plummeted into the dirt, the first of Morrak’s massive caravan wagons burned violently. Towering black flames roared as they consumed the wagon’s wooden frame, casting monstrous shadows across the cobbled road.
With a guttural impact, the shadow dragon slammed into the side of the ballista-turret car, its immense body crashing against the reinforced plating. Morrak lurched in his seat atop the turret, nearly thrown over the side as the entire structure rocked under the force. From the rooftop, he saw the beast’s massive, clawed arms hook over the edges of the caravan as it began pulling itself upward, scaling the vehicle with frightening speed.
Below him, hidden panels shifted as Morrak gripped the mechanisms bolted to his seat, adjusting the angles and levers with urgent precision. The dragon’s head rose into view, shrouded in smoke, its gaping maw glowing from within. It inhaled deeply — a terrible wheeze like the rattle of a forge bellows. In its throat, magma churned like molten hate, emitting crimson light mixed with the curling veil of black flame.
But before it could unleash death, a sudden, bone-shattering crack rang out. A hidden catapult arm — disguised as part of the wagon’s roofing — erupted upward with brutal precision. It smashed into the dragon’s skull mid-roar, sending its head whipping backward. The mechanism didn’t stop there. The catapult arm continued its arc, launching the dragon sideways off the roof and slamming it into the dirt with earth-splitting force. A barrel tucked into the catapult’s cup burst open on impact, spewing a torrent of shimmering silver liquid that drenched the dragon’s body, extinguishing the smoke pouring from its flesh.
The creature screamed, writhing, clawing at the ground as it thrashed to free itself. But the catapult arm had pinned it with merciless strength.
From within the first car — its door wreathed in flame — Torgan burst forth. He carried an arbalest so large no ordinary human could hope to lift it. Without hesitation, he sprinted through the burning wreckage and knelt beside the pinned dragon. He took aim at the heart — or where he hoped it would be — and pulled the trigger.
The bolt fired with a deafening crack, a jagged lance of silver mithril steel punching through obsidian scales and burying itself deep into the creature’s chest. The dragon spasmed violently. Overhead, lightning clawed across the sky like the gods themselves had flinched, and a peal of thunder boomed like a war drum. The dragon gave one last hideous roar before its body went still, its eyes dimming into lifeless voids.
Torgan stood there for a moment, breathless, next to the steaming corpse.
Above, Morrak flipped a switch on his control panel. Silverish liquid began to flow from hidden vents along the top of the burning wagon, cascading down and dousing the flames. The black fire hissed and died as the strange liquid seeped into the scorched wood and canvas.
The catapult arm, still holding the dragon in place, hissed as it extended a siphon-like tube into the beast’s side. With a low hum, blood began to drain into a reinforced vial — thick, dark, and reeking of ancient magic.
From atop the wagon, Morrak called down, “Is it dead?”
Torgan didn’t look away from the corpse. “Yeah. And it wasn’t a summon either — that was a real dragon.”
Morrak swore under his breath. His eyes swept across the damage, smoke still trailing from his war-wagon. “Damn thing mangled half my ride!”
Torgan let out a rare laugh. “Better the wagon than the town.”
Just then, a flash of brilliant white light exploded next to the caravan. Aurora and her dragon-raptors appeared in its wake, the ground beneath their feet still smoldering. She stepped forward, boots crunching over the scorched grass, her eyes scanning the wreckage. The reins and harnesses once linking the beasts to the caravan were nothing but charred strands, melted away by the dragon’s fire.
Zhade’s voice carried through the cooling air, cheerful despite the carnage. Zhara followed beside her, silent as a shadow, her massive blade still wet with blood. Zhade’s glowing green form bobbed beside her as she said, “Nice move teleporting away with the raptors.”
Aurora nodded. “I didn’t expect it to charge so fast. If anything happened to those animals, Theo would’ve had our heads. It was the only thing I could do to keep them alive.”
She glanced around. Her brow furrowed. “Where’s the cursed one?”
Zhade giggled. “As soon as I cured him, he bolted off after a smaller black dragon that escaped one of the imperial wagons.”
Aurora blinked. “And the necromancer? The other imperial soldiers?”
Zhara’s reply was quiet, final. “Terminated.”
Then — a sound none of them expected.
Down the street, near the blood-drenched fountain at the heart of the town square, came the sound of clapping.
Then cheering.
Torgan, Morrak, Aurora, and the others turned. A crowd had begun to gather, emerging from homes and hiding places. The townsfolk slowly approached the square, where corpses of imperial soldiers lay broken and bloodied across the cobblestones. The air still reeked of smoke and death.
Some people applauded. Others wept as they embraced loved ones. Elderly villagers leaned on canes, tears streaking their soot-covered cheeks. A few bold souls crept up to the fallen invaders, looting their weapons and armor, prying rings from stiff fingers, or dragging away anything of value.
Despite the horror, relief rippled through the square like a second dawn — ragged, uncertain, but real.
Aurora stood still in the soft patter of rain, her soaked cloak clinging to her shoulders as the fog of battle slowly began to lift. Through the haze and the gentle downpour, a figure approached with slow, deliberate steps. He clapped as he walked, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of distant voices and crackling fires.
“What a spectacular performance you all put on!” he called, his tone dripping with theatrical admiration.
Aurora narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the man’s face through the veil of rain. “Glacius?” she asked uncertainly.
The man continued clapping, unbothered by the weather, a wide grin splitting his pale face. As she drew closer, recognition flickered in Aurora’s eyes. “You’re the man from before,” she murmured.
“Yes, it is I. Glacius,” he replied with exaggerated cheer. “And not only have you slain the beast and saved this humble town, but you’ve also rid us of those wretched imperial dogs who dared threaten the very livelihoods of everyone here.”
Aurora hesitated, her fingers curling at her sides. “They were going to destroy this village... just because we stopped them from murdering a man. We didn’t really have much of a choice.”
Glacius raised a hand in dismissal, the rain dripping from his fingertips. “You don’t need to justify a thing, young lass. I heard the threats myself — spewing from that necromancer’s vile, rotted mouth.”
Still uneasy, Aurora pressed, “But... doesn’t this town have imperial guards stationed here? Why didn’t anyone come to help when the dragon started attacking?”
At that, Glacius burst into laughter — not mocking, but loud and mirthful, like a man accustomed to grim irony. “Oh, alluring warrior... no imperials serve here. Haven’t you noticed?”
He pointed past her, toward the town square. Aurora followed his gesture, blinking through the curtain of rain. The firelight cast long shadows across the soaked cobblestones. Slowly, the silhouettes resolved: many townsfolk bore animal-like ears, tails swaying behind them, claws or fangs barely hidden beneath their cloaks and tunics.
Glacius’s voice dropped to something softer. “This town is made up of demi-humans, beastkin, and others the Empire sees as impure. Their religion sees us as unclean. Their laws grant us no protection. The empire would rather see this place burned than spared. That’s why that necromancer was so eager to unleash his fury — not for justice, but because his bloodlust demanded it, and we made an easy target.”
Just then, another voice cut in from behind Glacius — familiar, sharp, and tired. “So you’re not going to rat us out for wiping out those bastards?”
Vlad emerged from the shadows, pulling back the hood of his cloak to reveal his face, the rain streaking down his cheeks.
Glacius turned, grinning like a host welcoming a guest to a long-planned feast. “Tattle?” he echoed with a chuckle. “Quite the opposite, my friend. I intend to offer you all a warm meal and shelter — and speak of how we might help with your damaged wagons. Consider it gratitude.”
At the mention of food, Torgan came trudging over, massive and soaked, still splattered in dark blood. “I’m all for a warm meal,” he said with a hungry smile.
Glacius raised an eyebrow at the sight of him. The demi-hum orc was absolutely coated in the shadow dragon’s thick, tar-like blood. Glacius waved a hand before his nose, his grin tightening. “Ah — but before you eat, my friend, a hot bath is in order. You’re covered head to toe in that beast’s foul-smelling ichor. No one could enjoy stew while sitting next to that.”
Torgan only grinned, lifting a large bloody sack tied to his belt. The vials within clinked softly, each one filled with viscous, redish-black dragon blood. “This,” he said with a hint of pride, “is about two months’ pay.”
Glacius peered at the sack with mild revulsion. “Well... those will be getting a bath too.”
His eyes shifted down the road, where the rain fell heavier and the trail of Ivan’s departure had long since vanished into the wet horizon. Glacius sighed, wistful. “It’s a shame the other fellow ran off. I would have liked to speak with him again.”
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