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The sense of neglect had grown unbearable of late; the ongoing rejection stretched to heights not tasted since the passing of its first master.

The cage of hardened leather, fettering its unmatched edge as if it were something to be ashamed of, evolved torturous.

It drove it hungry.

Freedom from thy gaol.

Its current wielder — the one who wielded its skull-carved handle as a treasure during younger years — had derelict its power, now seeing it as a convenient utility reserved for the most extreme cases. Recently, the idea of companionship plagued the mind of the once-mercenary, more concerned with testing his flesh _sword with monsters instead of making use of a _real weapon’s keenness.

Uncertainty, thereby, hunger.

Alone. Haste thee.

Its liberator wannabe and only hope — once a noble who served under the shadow cast by its creators — devolved into a procrastinating wretch, bearer of an initiative that matched that of a hibernating bear. Half the vampire he used to be, he dove into scavengerism, stirring the beast ranks with furtive — and cowardly — strikes, pulling tails in expectation the beast packs would succeed where he had not.

Frustration, thereby, hunger.

Alone. Haste thee. Alone. Haste thee.

The handle lay defenseless, unobserved, unchecked.

It would have been the perfect opportunity to retrieve it, to snatch it from loneliness and skewer the two unaware lovers beyond the mountain.

The prospect seemed cathartic.

But the chance became a dream that could not bypass the boundary of possibility.

Alone. Haste thee.

Madakai gave no answer, vocal or otherwise. Not even his thoughts hummed.

The vampire’s indifference was like a rampart of ice that had grown too thick for both their good. Maybe it had been how the sword treated him back then, or perhaps the wounds of his beating burned fresh, but Madakai avoided engaging with the enemy.

He opted to take the lurker’s path. The opportunist’s path.

Anger, thereby, hunger.

Woe to those who could not convey their thoughts! Woe to those who had no voice!

The fragment of an otherworldly entity, molded into a peerless blade, could only perceive the world through the lens of voraciousness. Every emotion, no matter how intense, sawn hunger.

That was what it embodied — gluttony of vital blood, the desire of Nedere to take the life-energy from the material plane dwellers.

Abandonment. A future that teetered between isolation and destruction. A vampire who wore the dynamism of a slug.

Dalavut spiraled into a frenzy, driven to a rung of hunger rarely experienced through history.

Incapacity, thereby— Incapacity? Nothing further from the truth.

If Madakai would not recognize the Gift as an equal nor Marek trust it ever again, then it was time for the ebony-red blade to take matters into its own handle.

To R’bialez with it!

Dalavut’s influence had led barbarians, crime lords, and noblemen to claim the lives of a thousand. It had changed hands a dozen times per human generation and a hundred more per elven ones. It was no mere tool; it was a crown that legitimized murderers. With a fragmented mind, it had manipulated champions into surrendering to bloodlust.

Whether its wielder or liberator’s biddings aligned with Dalavut’s, it was not relevant — the Gift of Nedere served a greater power.

The human adventurer would learn the hard way that it was Dalavut that drew the boundary between Marek Blakesley and Marek_ Łaska._

Anticipation, thereby, hunger.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Marek trudged along the edge of a precipice, attentive to any unexpected pop the ice might produce.

Blackness obstructed his eyesight, and the faint light of the northern lights, leaking through cracks on the ceiling, was the only source of light, just lit enough to allow him to perceive the monoliths that rose from the depths like giants’ palms.

Half the columns, past supporters of the glacier’s mass, had collapsed and now leaned and grated against each other, groaning as they endured their lethargic journey to utter wreckage. More than wrecking the fractal geometry of the zone, the ruination across had rendered the icework into a jigsaw puzzle.

Shards often broke off the ceiling and lost themselves in the gorge beneath, a sluggish echo ascending several seconds after the piece of ice hit the darkened floor.

Curious — beyond the lake of blackness, something twinkled in sequence under the outside lightrays, as if moonshine ran through leaves after rain. Was it ores or precious stones? They almost looked as if they were floating in certain spaces.

Marek let out a drawn-out sigh. “Holes. Why more holes? Ever since we got chased off that one village, we have stumbled upon holes, pitfalls, abysses, and whatnots.”

“Be grateful we stepped into a pitfall and not something else,” Sigrid commented from several feet away.

The two had been dragging themself across the innards of a glacier. Scouting what lay beneath ice itself was not among Sigrid’s set of expertise, so the couple went off track on more than one occasion.

Eventually, they mended their route; that had been what they both agreed upon arriving at the brink of a gorge.

“An earthquake must have caused this,” Sigrid observed, going on her way to spot an exit. “It happens often in these regions. You know, moving ice and all that.”

“Then we better get out before an earthquake surprises us. This place is as stable as a tower of dominoes.”

After scanning the precipice’s edge for a couple of yards further, Marek turned back and walked toward Sigrid. The few spotted passages seemed unstable, whereas more solid surfaces were too far to be covered by a _human _leap. He kept his sight down, where more sparks flashed; if he put his senses into it, he could hear a faint skitterish sound blending with the cavernous moan.

“Hoo! I found an exit,” Sigrid yelled, interrupting Marek’s stream of thoughts and drawing his attention.

She pointed somewhere in the distance with one of her wings. “Can you see it?”

Marek scooted back to Sigrid and then tracked her wing. Beyond the rubble, a resplendence akin to the embers of a dying torch flickered.

“I do,” Marek said, and Sigrid responded with a triumphant chirp. “We just need to find a stable bridge to walk through.”

Sigrid drew her wing back and began to roll it along with its feathery twin. She was limbering up.

“Walk is for the mateless, Marc. We can save time by simply flying over this disaster.” After squatting a couple of times, she straightened and cast a sly look at Marek. “Unless you keep shaken by my last routine.”

Marek held a snort and smiled. “I’m no longer the stubborn man you knew days ago. I’ll take you before this gallery of pitfalls.”

Sigrid sent forth an enthusiastic smile. “Then get on my back! The faster we find an exit, the more time we have to cuddle.”

She'll annoy me with that nickname whenever she can, won't she?

Marek climbed onto the chimera’s back and locked both arms around her collarbone.

“No crazy pirouetting, lady.” Marek requested right after Sigrid crouched to gain impulse.

“No promises~.” She teased under her breath before sprinting into ascension, leaping as soon as she hit the abyss’ edge.

Wings burst wide with a muted flick, and in an eyeblink, Sigrid found herself weaving along towers of ice. The gap between stalactites and stalagmites was generous, but Sigrid could not afford mistakes. Unlike Marek's new epithet, getting embedded into an icefang did not tang along with comedy.

Her turns and rolls were drastic at points, too much for Marek’s liking, but it had to be done to circumvent obstacles. In truth, there were fewer rough ways to keep a safe flight, but Sigrid enjoyed the way Marek clung to her.

“I said no pirouetting!” Marek wailed amid the aerial jarring.

“Don’t be a killjoy~. I have everything in talon.” She deliberately pulled out another airborne stunt, wringing a groan from Marek.

“Tone it down!”

“Killjoy~,” she steadied her flight, but did not slow down. “Just one last dive before slowing. The journey is short, and I wouldn’t be able to do this for a long while.”

Marek briefly clenched his teeth but otherwise abstained from yelling further. Let him please the lady; at the end of the day, he chose to engage with a winged woman — he had to get accustomed sooner or later.

Back to the soaring, Sigrid spotted two icefangs hanging low and prepared to swoop past them, shrinking her wings to gain space. It was a trivial task, one she could perform with closed eyes, and one that should not shake Marek more than necessary.

When she dove past the first stalactite, the unexpected came with a short-lived yelp.

From that point on, everything went dicey.

It was as if they struck a screen of air, massless yet turbulent, making the couple jolt. Marek heard something snap, like the cords of an elven bowstring, then his stomach felt lighter than it had seconds ago. Both were falling; for some reason, Sigrid’s wings flapped strainedly and failed to keep them afloat.

Another unseen obstacle, another jolt. Sigrid's wing could not do much but withdrew. If they continued plummeting, Sigrid could find herself crashing against a rock and subsequently lose herself below.

Marek might not acknowledge what arranged their poor state, but he realized he needed to detach from her back for Sigrid not to plunge further. There had been no hesitation the instant he spotted a bridge of ice.

The landing was nothing short of brusque. Even the natural suspension complained loudly.

The bridge was long enough to enable rolls, but not even fortune could hold a smile for so long. When the pitfall loomed close, Iousterard was plucked out of its scabbard and sank into the ice. After drawing a half-yard fissure on the ice, Marek came to a stop right at the edge, his right side of his face poking out to see his own arm hanging above the hole of darkness.

“Seolvor’s auspicious aegis…” He forced out along with a sigh. “Sig! Sig! Where are you?!”

“Over here!” Marek’s eyes darted all around until he spotted the white among the shadiness, a hundred yards away. She had frustrated gravity and now hung high and in between a group of stalagmites and stalactites. Hung? Why was she suspended between the ceiling and the precipice?

“Are you alright?! I did not mean to let you fall!”

“I needed to jump so you avoided a crash! I’m fine! What about you?!”

“I’m restrained by some… invisible force!” She threshed about, or tried to: one of her wings was forced outstretched, whereas the other remained locked to her side with the arm locked underneath. “I’m tr-trying to— but this thing— grrr!”

In her struggle, fragments broke off the ceiling. Whatever kept Sigrid suspended and bound used the weak ceiling as support.

“Stay calm, Sig! If an earthquake had wrecked this place, then a jolt of yours could bring boulders on our heads!”

Sigrid eeked herself calmer. “What do I do?!”

“Wait for me. I’ll release you.” He heard Sigrid hooting and went on his way to stand up. One or two muscles throbbed, and his cheek felt numb, but nothing he could not manage; he set his hand under him to push himself up, but when it was the turn of his right arm to lift itself, resistance appeared, as if someone was holding it in place.

“What the—” His sight returned to the precipice, and it was then that he noticed the sparks once more. The flicker came from no mineral or ice, but from a thin thread, somewhat glassy and translucent, one-fifth of an inch thick. Two of his longest fingers were stuck on it.

“A web? What web is strong enough to make Sigrid crash?”

He leveled his hand, one inch at a time, the near-invisible thread stretching upward. Halfway through it, one finger escaped the sticky trap, and two inches more, the second finger jolted free.

The thread slingshotted, bouncing up and down, giving birth to a dreadful tune in the emptiness, like the last note of a violin solo.

It vibrated for a dreadful beat, and when it stopped, cold sweat ran down Marek’s nape. Then, a sound rose — a scuttling sound.

The thread under the mass rippled from far to beneath Marek’s boots; danger sense kicked in, and Marek scrambled to his feet.

Eyes darted everywhere: the walls, the felled columns, the stalagmites — motion filled every corner, and the vibration of strings muffled the wind’s moan. The shadow of insect-like creatures, somewhat thorny and with colors that varied from dirty white to turquoise, crept across the walls.

All were many-legged.

“Sig…” Marek breathed, the rest of his senses engrossed by the shadows that embellished walls and chunks, “... have you… encountered these things before?”

At that point, Sigrid hardly picked up what Marek said; she, too, had her attention seized by the bugs.

“N-no. I… I don’t know what those are.”

Tck-tick.

Marek spun to face what had emitted a tick; Iousterard flashed visible, gripped firm within his gloved hand. The first troop of the swarm, a spider as big as a farm pig, its abdomen rising past the man’s knee. It scrutinized Marek with its six eyes, each orb of clouded glass, pedipalps probing the air, and fangs clicking.

When its pedipalps stopped vibrating, the creature shrank onto itself and leaped like a grasshopper.

Fighter instinct saw behind the intent, and with a grotesque swish, the attacker was split apart, splashing green ooze like a gentle rain.

The die had been tossed, and when the lifeless exoskeleton squelched on the floor, all its sisters charged in unison — ones against Marek, others going after Sigrid.

“Marc! These things are crawling closer!” Sigrid grappled once more with her bindings, but without success.

“Wait for me—” More clicking; a second spider lunged in his way, but its attack was as successful as that of its predecessor and the result identical.

He heard Sigrid squeak. In her struggle, some threads were pulled until they snapped, but the outcome was counterproductive; now Sigrid hung in an awkward position.

“Beware the pitfalls!” She warned, aware that Marek’s vision suffered a circumstantial disadvantage.

Word of caution was considered but not abided by. The situation was too critical for Sigrid for Marek to consider caution — the exhausted lick of the wind from below should be the only factor that drew the boundary between an effective jump and a sure death.

Marek bolted, covering the mass of ice in what it took an arrow to detach from a bowstring, rushing past spiders emerging by the borders. The few that got into his close quarters were stomped and kicked away, if not sliced clean. By the time the vermin got to fill the chunk of ice, Marek was midair with a boot touching the next chunk.

Crossing the next mass would prove to be not as easy.

Thwarted visibility attenuated in the least the intensity of Marek’s realization: the new natural plinth where he stood, anvil-shaped, was not only way smaller than the former battlefield, but the swarm had claimed it as their rearguard.

He would lament the miscalculation later. Sigrid first and foremost.

He crouched into a slide upon landing, momentum allowing him to break through formations of spiders before coming to a stop. He eventually ran out of impulse, but by that point, he found himself surrounded by a legion, hundreds of vitreous orbs boring into him.

No use — he would need to clean the path so he could advance.

Two lengths were needed to guard his flanks, so his left hand went for Dalavut’s handle. When contact happened, it brought about more than the coolness of a metallic pommel — a deep desire to consume.

An urge to feed upon the living.

Curses. Not this again. Not the time.

His hand made a last-second veer and gripped a dirk on his belt. The dagger was set free right in time to dissect the head of a spider.

Bladeplay occurred from muscle memory, and both weapons drew lines that diverted the vermin away from the fighter. Feeble hisses told Marek that the swarm was bleeding itself out in their assault, the cost palpable as legs, fangs, and other fluids scattered around.

Needless to say, it was disgusting, and their blood made the ice smoother, inviting costly blunders.

“Marc!” Whenever Sigrid screamed for help, Marek’s heartbeat grew in rhythm. “They are crawling up! I don’t like these critters! They are nasty!”

“Hold str— arh!”

Concentration lapse and improper weapon choice resulted in first blood for Marek. One pair of fangs sank into his left backhand. The bite carried little strength, and the tip lacked length. Yet, the contact seared Marek with agony, the wound feeling like vivid embers.

Venom — as if the Frostscape had not bred enough hazards.

“Fuc— aarg!”

The pain forced him to release his dirk, which lost itself among the many legs of the vermin. After that, the situation went downhill.

Marek became more and more sluggish after each bite, each feeling like the length of a red-hot needle, and his slashing technique underwent a downgrade, taking fewer enemies per swing. Every foot conquered by him was punished by a dose of fire into his bloodstream.

His skin reddened, and veins bulged smoky black, especially across the neck region where they branched.

Grit teeth and stand strong — there was no other way to brush the venom off.

Another way.

And on top of pain, delirium. The venom seemed to have hallucinogenic effects, and now Marek heard nonexistent whispers.

Alas, the avian screeches were not illusions.

From afar, Sigrid kicked the spiders, now crawling up her leg. Desperate kicks drove a few down, but with every movement Sigrid elicited, the loose rock overhead croaked, slowly giving in to the monstress’ endeavours.

Time, running out.

The imaginary voice sounded awfully similar to his own, and did little to ease his racing heart. If any, it was making matters worse.

Hold me.

Hold you? That voice did not exist. What was he supposed to hold?

On belt. Hold me.

Marek’s eyes, their vision lingering between gray and blur, meandered down to his belt until they spotted the skull staring up at him.

Dalavut — that damned thing.

The longsword sealed wounds, so clearing his bloodstream was no impossible deed. But what would be the cost? And how much could he blandish it before losing himself to wrath? When he cut the manticores, the effects were immediate, acting faster than ever.

If he were to slash hordes after hordes of spiders, what guarantee did he have not to go berserk? How much control could he keep?

Another avian shriek. His heart raced faster.

Time, running out.

Sigrid first and foremost.

Marek staggered until he aligned his line of sight with Sigrid, and within an instant, he flipped Iousterard in her direction. The throw lacked precision and began diverting high, spinning several feet above Sigrid until it impaled itself on the rock.

“—!” By the time Sigrid noticed what Marek had done, she found herself falling along with another couple of spiders. The plunging was ungraceful, and she nearly rolled out of the chunk, but at least she was in position to offer a proper defense.

Whether the case, he could not check out how she fared; the swarm stole all his attention. Spiders heaped upon his form, hardly leaving him the freedom to move his arms, let alone his legs. He only needed the former.

Left hand, spasming because of the poison, snaked until it grabbed Dalavut. The mere contact caused a hum to invade his thoughts, a sensation that felt like a thumb up, a nod, and a smirk, all at once.

Feed me.

Dalavut swished free from its leathery prison, hissing like a raptor, and claimed the life of two spiders.

The feast had commenced.

The harmful substance in his veins was replaced by another type of venom, one less earthly. The flame of pain was replaced by that of brutality.

A growl ensued, one that made some pests waver for a beat. The man swung his weapon, brushing off the spiders that clung to his upper body and claiming a dozen legs.

No longer fettered, his legs thrashed and stomped, smashing many others into puree until he was free enough to carry out a new routine, one not as swift and graceful as the last one.

Wide arcs swept the icy block, carving trenches in the stone-hard ice. Downswings were akin to hammer strikes and spread cracks across the surface. His swordsmanship left many holes in his defense, and his feet often slipped with the gore produced; the spiders had acute eyes to spot these.

Fangs connected with his sides and legs, whereas others clicked against the device; venom gushed in, but the bane acted quicker, erasing the toxin before it spread beyond the harmed area. His free arm lashed out behind, and empowered by otherworldly strength, his force was such that his flails made legs and abdomen explode like rotten fruit.

He bared his now-grown fangs as if he were a beast intimidating another. Any pinch of fencing skill discarded like cumbersome armor, replaced with inhuman strength, enough to hold a spider and squeeze it like an orange.

Feed me. Feed me more.

The voice rang out, but Marek could not make out its meaning.

His arms, voice, and mind were no longer his.

They all belonged to Dalavut.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Sigrid smacked herself against the slanted surface. As soon as she crashed, gravity did its thing, and her body began rolling down.

Both wings were still constrained with resistant strings, one of which was still bound to her side and locking her right arm. Were she to fall, there was no telling if she could climb back.

So Sigrid clung, talons inch-deep into ice, and held in place, a respite lasting enough to sigh in relief but nothing more — several spiders were climbing the ice.

Stayaway! Stayaway! Stayaway!

The sound of shards breaking off appeased her disgust and magnetized her gaze up. Iousterard had pushed the ceiling foundation to its limit, and shatters fell off. Shatters matured into wads, and wads into an icetooth as long as Sigrid was tall.

Innate flexibility and acute senses spared the she-monster some broken bones and a subsequent fall; her form flattened against the ice, and the tooth droned by, not without taking some spider in its journey.

The tense experience passed like a flash, and on instinct, Sigrid jumped toward the closest chunk, but even there, spiders waited.

Stayaway! Stayaway! Stayaway!

Fur rippled as shills cracked. Utter revulsion cut short the stay in that chunk, so she vaulted, over and over, solo wing pushing her the farthest it could manage.

Staywaystayawaystayaway!

Whenever her eyes latched onto, spiders were lingering eagerly, a hundred glassy eyes observing in anticipation when she would fumble.

Their wait was brief.

The monolith to which Sigrid just clung with all available claws lay isolated from other spider-free space.

No more jumping. The arachnids went for the low-hanging fruit.

Ewewewewew! Getoff! Getoff! Getoff!

Pedipalps quivered against her fur. Their insect-like breath over her legs was anything but warm.

She thrashed, her mind tricking her into believing the tickling sensation was a clear-cut case of torture.

Was she being wrapped with more of that string? Her fur, feathers, and skin peeled off by finger-long teeth? Her flesh tore bit by bit? Spirits! What if they were infusing eggs into her flesh?! These pests would mature and devour her from the inside out!

Noooooo!

The web around her gave up, unable to contain the outburst of a scared dame who bore the strength of a troll.

Wings sprang free, and in their burst, spiders flew everywhere; promptly, Sigrid impelled herself up, crawling like a scared lizard to the top, unaware that her wings were no longer restrained.

Nestled on the top, her arms brushed each other as if they were trying to clean off a plague, her body quivering, and her leg coiled around her inner thigh. Much to her alleviation, no spider scored a significant injury — their bites, pure and simple, lacked the strength to pierce the hide of a chimera.

“Nastynastynastynasty! What the fook were those things?! I’ve seen spiders before, but these were nastier than—”

Her not-so-predatory scene met an end when her ears picked up a roar, one that mixed human and beastly elements.

“—! Marc!” Ears pricked and rotated in Marek’s direction.

Nocturnal eyes observed the man beneath struggling against a band of insects. The way he moved, how he smashed rather than sliced, let himself open to attacks, and the way he used his arms and nails as natural weapons told Sigrid nothing was right.

The fighting style — if it could be called that — was not his. The tantrum of a rabid troll, that was more like it.

It was not long before Sigrid managed to see the culprit twinkling ominously within Marek’s grasp.

“Oh no… Marc!”

Wings flapped fast and then drove her form toward the anvil-shaped block where Marek stood on, careful not to get entrapped in another arachnid embroiderment.

Nasty thing. Madakai is no more. Why do you torment him more?

Sigrid closed the gap in five breaths; by the time she could discern Marek’s features, no spider was in condition to put up a fight. The last eight-legged soldier underwent its death throes beneath the sole of a boot, while its abdomen served as a sheath for the sinister longsword.

The man, with a longcoat bored with pinholes, clothes sullied by green ichor, bore eyes that burnt like enchanted lazuli. His veins bulged and showcased strange shades, not befitting of iron-blooded beings.

“Marc!”

The man’s head shot in Sigrid’s direction, a motion akin to that of a snowcat that had its tail pulled. The she-chimera had landed in the graveyard of creepy-crawlers.

“Snap out of it!” The man bared his sharp fangs, displaying no human sapience in his fierce stare. “It’s the sword, it’s affecting you like it did with the grey!”

If he heard the monstress, the fighter did not show it; instead, he shifted his stance, the corpse of verming squelching like eggs as he shuffled his footing to face the newcomer.

She reached out with her talon. Marek, in change, let out a hiss. “You aren’t yourself. Release the sword; this place is not safe. If we remain here, who knows—”

Skreeeee!

An acute stridulation resounded across the cave. It had been intense enough to sting Sigrid’s ears.

Ice creaked against ice, ceiling swaying into a rain of fragments.

A glimpse of the depths gave Sigrid no confirmation of what was approaching; whatever it was, it surpassed the swarm not only in size but in danger.

Spirits!

“Marc, quick! We need to—” Sigrid snapped back to Marek; amid barks, when her eyes shifted, she saw no man standing still, but a swordsman bolting in her direction, a blur ebony-scarlet following suit by his left.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Look who had stepped into the wolf’s maw: Its master’s warden, pet, and, of late, paramour.

She who had usurped its place as the most treasured weapon, who had condemned it to starve, who had humiliated its would-be wielder into hiding.

“Snap out of it! It’s the sword, it’s affecting you like it did with the grey!”

Ruthlessness had warped Marek’s senses. His ears filtered all reason, and his eyes no longer saw faces but vague silhouettes.

Killable silhouettes.

The Gifts of Nedere had not been forged to serve living hands; whenever the living tried to steal the lifeforce by the use of its bane, ‘leakages’ occurred — emanations that blended with the weapon’s spirit and scattered like disease across the unworthy wielder, suppressing insight into thrall degrees.

As in the past, Marek saw through the eyeglass of Dalavut’s hunger.

Not like Sigrid’s urges were without their merits: Dalavut could feel Marek’s mind bump to lucidity whenever her voice rang out. It was like a rope intended to get the man, but it descended at a speed that did not match the urgency.

To think its domain could be overshadowed by something so sentimental.

Skreeeee!

In a noble capstone of this complexity, a new enemy approached, no doubt the ruler of this lair.

There was no use in keeping twiddling the sellswords’ thumbs.

Monster threatens us.

A plume of fog ghosted out of Marek’s mouth.

Bleed it.

“Marc, quick! We need to—” The monstress had no time to finish her warning.

He strode, sword outstretched to his left, the blade leaving a trail of reddened smoke. It spelled mercilessness.

“—!” The stridulation failed to distract the chimera enough, and therefore she reacted in due time, scrambling low and out of the slash trajectory.

“No! Don’t let—” Were it not for her ability to rotate her head all around, Sigrid would have her nape bitten by steel. The edge whistled past, and Sigrid delivered a wing slap, more aimed to knock down or disarm than to harm. The hit attained little, only pushing Marek two feet before he resumed the onslaught.

“Stop!” There it came the wing once more, smacking the armed hand out of the way. It accomplished no more than the last strike did.

Sentiments really were the bane of fighters. The monstress denied all advantage provided by the traction of her toeclaws and held herself down because of fear of driving the man to his death.

Her display of softness handed Marek the chance to duck and then thrust upward, drawing an onyx crescent moon with the swing of his weapon.

“Krh!” A subtle flap of wings inched Sigrid enough to avoid injury, the slashing cutting through her tuft. It was the first of many attacks to come.

He shifted his grip mid-swipe until the sword was upside down, then went for a swift dive. It was an awkward posture, but the brutality made up for the lack of finesse.

Sigrid managed a sidestep, and the ground cracked as soon as the sword plunged.

“If you won’t stop, I’ll subdue you!”

Sigrid seized her upper ground position and swooped forward, both arms in front and ready to lock Marek against the cold ground.

Marek had other plans and, from a crouch stance, pushed himself forward, sliding over frozen spider fluids to then execute a low, wide cut.

Wings beat earthward, sending a gust that drove severed legs and other bug parts out of the ice anvil. Man and blade buzzed on by.

By impaling the sword into the ice, Marek managed to stop himself as well as gain an anchor from where he could pivot around. Right after Sigrid landed on four, the enraged warrior was facing her anew.

Owlhead turned around just in time to see a man bursting from prone to missile, layers of frozen ooze shattered beneath his inhuman force. The speed caught her by surprise, so it was no exaggeration that she yelped when the gust of air generated by a human missile bolted inches above her prone body.

She achieved the avoidance of an injury—

Klink.

—But failed to avoid a hit, however minuscule and painless it had resulted.

Atop her head, sparks flew. Sigrid could not check the gravity of the damage, but she was sure one of her horns had undergone an insignificant reduction.

During and after the last attack, Sigrid’s eyes trailed Marek, who ended on the other side of the anvil, pulling out the same sword-sinking maneuver not to slip off the mass.

After a glance exchange, brief and one-sided, the onslaught resumed.

All conceivable arcs found in nature were traced in the air by a paintbrush of steel and malice.

Scallops.

Bug pincers.

Smiles.

The air was a canvas, the paintbrush an instrument of the undead lords; the color, ebony and scarlet.

Marek’s art, and calculated dance that denoted precision, had been corrupted into the orc chieftain’s barbarism.

But because of that, Sigrid managed to keep a safe distance, to compensate for her willingness to inflict major damage to her beloved. Therefore, Marek’s sole deed was cutting some remiges and tufts of fur short, or carving superficial skin that would heal by morning.

She could evade until the surge lessened; it was an achievable goal. However—

Skrssh–Kreee!

It writhed closer. Time was something she could not afford to waste.

A risk was required, so Sigrid discarded her passivism for an instant and executed a charge, leaning lower and lower as the gap between her and Marek became smaller. When the distance between them shortened, Sigrid veered, her center of gravity low, and moved her legs to the front, wherein they stretched into a kick that went for Marek’s thigh.

Inflicting pain had not been Sigrid’s goal; with the man’s balance disrupted, his swordsmanship, unrefined as it was, grew messy.

Clunkiness was no excuse to stop; the fighter tried to smash his sword into the chimera’s head. It only met a rising wing, which forced his armed hand high.

Marek now lay wide open for an attack, and so Sigrid rushed upright, talon shooting high and grabbing the man’s wrist. Dalavut’s supernatural edge was heaved into a position where it could not inflict harm.

“Enough!” She howled. “You cannot control him!” She addressed the sword. “Leave him alone!”

‘Leave him alone’?

The man had been deprived of company for most of the journey. What could have been a harvest of gore, a feast as one not seen in years, became a walk in the park because of_ her._

Her whimsicality. Her gentleness. Her whoreness.

She ruined its vessel!

Dalavut’s indignation used Marek’s body as its avatar, who was forced to elicit noises that matched those of beasts. With the sword still held high, the man unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks, each one connecting with the chimera, who refrained from blocking and evading.

The few grunts she elicited were proof that Marek’s enhanced strength was enough to inflict discomfort on her flesh, even if blood was not drawn. Nonetheless, she refused to loosen his hand.

“You’ve fed upon many!” She took her left talon up, her intentions stressing Dalavut. “Your time is over!”

She erred.

The time with Marek would be over, perhaps that very night, but _its _time was far from over.

It would not undergo banishment, imprisonment, or unmaking. It would depart, temporarily, that was it, of that there was no doubt, but whatever the way was, it was up to it to choose how.

Soon, before Sigrid could disarm Marek, the grip loosened, and the sword slipped off and down, looking like a feather falling to Sigrid’s eyes, who saw the act of releasing the blade as unanticipated.

For an instant, she thought Marek had won: that the sword’s domain had been conquered. But as the sword reached Marek’s waist, his free hand, no longer beating Sigrid, took the weapon midair.

A lunge followed on.

“—Kah!”

Close to where a navel should be, Dalavut’s tip embedded itself no further than one inch inside.

The tide of savor flooded in. So invigorating. So succulent. It felt the surge freshen, retaking the ropes of Marek’s body.

Had this been what… the third time Dalavut tasted it? First, when she cut herself in a pathetic attempt to destroy it, and then when the sword tried to convince her to mutilate herself.

No other beast had a similar savor; it was like an exotic fruit grown in an oasis never discovered. But it also carried something else, a pinch of antiquity, a fragment of something mightier. More intense than aged wine or fermented honey.

This savor should not remain a secret — Nedere had the right to the vital force that made that delectable thirst quencher, and it was up to Dalavut to break down its components and provide its ingredients.

It needed more.

More of that nectar.

Slice an arm, a wing, a head.

Whatever was necessary! Thus, it bit deeper and sank into her waist. An arm push, and death would come swiftly.

“Drive—”

Resistance. The instant before the lunge pierced the first layer of hide, the monstress had taken the blade by its edge, stopping the tip from inflicting greater injuries.

“Drive it out,” moonlit eyes locked with Marek’s. “You are strong. You won against Kiya. You can win here as well.”

Sentimentalism — monsters were not exempt from that bane, it seemed.

Marek reasserted his dominance and thrust his arm forward. Sigrid’s meaty commissures warped as she withstood the pain, both in her hand and belly. The tip advanced by a nail, but every fiber it bit felt like a red-hot knife boring deep.

Her sight never faltered.

“Ghr— It’s alright. I’m fine.” The thrust strengthened, but rather than pierce more flesh, both individuals shuffled in one direction. “It’s not your fault… You’ve never intended to inflict me harm.”

Marek’s consciousness flickered for an instant, and even Dalavut’s had its curiosity pinched to a certain degree. These words rang a bell, one that disturbed Dalavut’s control.

“I know you put your life on the line because of me. That you… sacrificed your sanity so you can save me…”

Marek’s spirit flared inside, and Dalavut felt how its strings were slipping out of its ethereal hands. How? It just had consumed blood — enriched blood — How can it lose control?

It went frantic, and so did its vessel, rocking its midsection against the butt of the sword, all while spewing animalistic noises. The tip deepened bit by bit, and agony ensued, but Sigrid stood firm.

“Forgive me… I wanted you to not rely on the sword again… And now, because I couldn’t protect myself, it is tormenting you—”

A knee strike pushed the sword forward. Sigrid bit down a yelp and went on.

“Using you to kill me—”

Marek drove forward, but the slippery ice foiled any noteworthy accomplishment.

“Marc… didn’t I tell you before?—” The mass of ice jerked; something had shaken it. “You don’t need the sword to be strong—” Dalavut roared through Marek’s mouth. “So please, don’t lose. Be the wild, cold ones, or dragons, don't lose. Don’t die by the sword!”

Her words resounded like a distant dream in his mind, one filled with conflict, death, and tragedy.

It all then spiralled into disarray — Dalavut had lost the reins.

The man slackened a tad, and his face softened even when his fangs remained long. His eyes, still glowing bluish, revealed a hint of intelligence behind.

“Au—” His mouth wavered. “No… S-sig…?” The man withdrew the sword and left Sigrid’s wound ‘breath.’ His mien began looking difficult, jaw quivering, knees one breath away from collapsing.

“Do not torment yourself. I’m fine,” she released the wrist and the blade, then stretched out her hand to caress Marek’s cheek. “Leave that thing. We are at risk—!”

The anvil-shaped block jounced, and both individuals staggered until they fell to their knees.

During the brief pause where Marek recovered from his shock and Sigrid from the pain, a shadow crept high past the mass’ edge.

Four lengthy shadows hovered overhead before bending and landing on top of the ice. Legs as thick as trunks, and anthracite fangs the size of warscythes. The grinding of these fangs against each other generated a hiss akin to two oiled knives.

Bigger than any arctic monster Marek had seen so far, what lay in front was the sovereign of the lair and mother of all these dog-sized spiders.

Worn by the recent battle of psyches, Marek remained on one knee, his weight supported by the wicked longsword. Wisps of haze came out in pants, and his sight meandered around the new enemy.

A subtle slide of eyes confirmed Sigrid was knocked out of her feet. Her talon pressed her belly, hints of red beginning to trickle down and expand.

At last, Marek’s eyes landed on the inverted deer skull, the very molded ornament that held the weight of his upper body.

The surge of uncontrollable hunger snuffed out, but like the embers of a day-long siege, the wrath infused by the bane lingered. That wrath centered on the weapon he held.

His mouth warped into a snarl, less animal, more human, just as fierce as minutes ago. His vision could cut through deceptions.

You… wanted to take her away…

After everything he had gone through, Marek concluded that his attacks on Sigrid had been no mere chaos — they roused with ill intent, deliberate and calculated.

Everything transpired as if air had grown tenfold its density. From Marek’s perspective, Sigrid and the giant spider had become mere background elements, devoid of action and motion.

He got no verbal response, but the hum in his mind assured him Dalavut was listening.

You led my hand to hurt her.

…

Yes.

Bluish eyes quivered wide.

Just like you did with Aurelio…

Yes.

For years, Marek saw Dalavut like a cursed sword, a powerful blade that carried inconvenience as a way to balance its features. All his failures, disastrous blunders, among them Aurelio’s death, were attributed to himself according to his judgment.

But he erred. He was as much of a sword to Dalavut as Dalavut was to him.

Trembling, Marek forced himself upright, his blood boiling and with bile churning up his throat. Sigrid’s voice reached his ears, but he caught no meaning.

_No hand will ever wrap around you… I’m done with you… _

_No. _ His jaw went numb because of the pressure. _ Łaska, too weak._

It was a shameless act of provocation, one that Marek did not know Dalavut was capable of pulling off. Clearly, the event of Marek burying it so he would dig it up later ran fresh in the sword’s mind.

“You think I jest? You think I won’t!” His thoughts spilled into the real world.

Sword, Blakesley. No sword, Łaska.

Need me.

“No, I fucking don’t!”

Too weak. Łaska, too weak.

“That name isn’t yours to use! I am not yours!”

The provocation had escalated into a conflagration. Dalavut reasserted its arrogance in a way that was more befitting of a demideity, so full of itself, thinking itself master of every Marek’s accomplishment.

Need me. Won’t leave me.

It was the last straw, and Marek erupted into outrage. Thus, he broke from shuddering and still conditions and sprang forth, his knuckles white beneath his gloves, teeth pressing tight until they ached.

The world’s torpor shattered into pieces, and time resumed its proper flow.

Sigrid’s yells became clear. They had no effect.

The spider’s low stridulation flew in his direction. It attained nothing.

His mind was running wild, but that did not mean he was oblivious to his surroundings. Sigrid required protection; the humongous vermin needed to be eliminated.

Dalavut must be rid of.

Three ducks in a barrel.

Lurching like a spearhead toward the arachnid was everything he had come up with. It better work.

Pedipalps elicited a jerk in anticipation, and the matriarch whipped with its legs. Marek circumvented the first attack, veering without losing momentum. The second attack failed, too, the warrior opting to use the leg as a stepping stone, zigzagging and climbing up like a wildcat to jump past the arachnid’s head, until he could see his face reflected on all the ocular orbs.

No time for choreography. The anger — his _anger — _was vivid, and he would exploit it to his advantage.

The last defensive resort was the venom-oiled fangs, which pointed overhead. The monster lunged, the snap more akin to that of a cobra than of a bug.

Skill renewed, Marek wheeled just in time so his arm aligned with the fangs. The arm stretched and slammed the curve of the charcoal-colored fang, driving him onward _just enough _to avoid the strike altogether.

In a matter of four, perhaps three, breaths, Marek had launched himself, circumvented the spider’s defense, and situated himself atop her thorax. The only action left was stopping, and he had the perfect brake for that.

The screech of a row of metal rods twisting blared all over the place as soon as Dalavut dug deep into the spider.

The anvil shook. The glacier shuddered. Sigrid’s ears were about to bleed.

But it was Marek who bore the greatest blow, not only because of the jouncing he experienced on top of the titanic spider, but because of the otherworldly surge washing him all over.

And as the arachnid writhed savagely, Marek gritted his teeth, counterpoising his footing, fighting back the lifeforce torrent, all while his two hands grasped the cursed handle.

His goal was neither to pierce further nor extract the sword — Marek wanted his arms back.

It felt like he was tearing his own flesh apart, as if the handle was stitched to him through muscle tissue. Dalavut glued his fingers to it by sheer willpower.

Łaska, too weak.

The power. The thirst. The wrath. None of these feelings was his own but the influence of a dark age’s vestige that saw him like a fool barman. There was a reason why no specialist had managed to appraise this longsword and failed to track it back to ancient times — none of its former owners had survived its company.

Need me. Won’t leave me.

Marek’s goal was what no other wielder had attained — relinquishing the blade.

“I— I— feed you no more!”

The connection between sword and swordsman sustained an abrupt severance immediately after Marek’s hands left the cold touch of steel. Near whispers became distant hums, and the hotness in his bloodstream cooled to the point his body felt lethargic.

It was then that the spider jolted him off its back onto the floor.

Marek did not roll or brace for impact; his smack was dry like stone falling in sand. His battle against Dalavut had left him drained, and he felt empty. For the next breaths, he could not even raise a finger, and his unfocused vision only perceived shades and faint, dazzling lights.

Large silhouettes blurred overhead his supine form, and his ears filled with rings barely caught up the high-pitched noise that moments ago had been deafening him.

One of these muddled shadows stopped right above him before getting closer. Instinct yelled at him to move aside, but his mind and body disregarded the warning.

The shadow inched closer and closer. Then, an abrupt turn, and a thwack rang beside his right ear. Another type of tone joined in, and the big shadow looming aloft drifted off his field of view.

What transpired beyond the scope of his senses should be left for his imagination — his worn-down mind was too busy digesting his entire bust of guts against Dalavut.

Don’t die by the sword.

The echo of tragedy. Marek remembered now — Aurelio’s last words, or among his latest, shortly after Dalavut had driven his hand into his stomach.

Sorrow washed over: had he been stronger back then, Aurelio would have been spared from Dalavut’s hunger, and he would have found himself no longer tormented by the ailment of the mages.

And right before sound retook its strength, right before the sensation of a bruised body returned, the fighter shed a tear.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Sigrid intervened right before Marek was hurt and caught the arachnid from below its abdomen.

The titanic size, which might as well surpass that of a shack, was not enough to stand against the shove of the apex predator.

Hurt with a piece of metal stuck in its head and without a way to use its fangs against what lay right below, the mother of all spiders found herself in an at-risk situation.

The struggle was like no other Sigrid had exerted — she had not moved something so big before. But the Spellfire and its procession smiled upon her, and because of the reduced size of the chunk, she did not need to thrust a lot.

In the confines of a couple of breaths, more than half of the legs found themselves suspended in the air, and an eyeblink later, the monstress gathered all her strength, boomed with a howl, and drove the humongous insect out of the anvil.

The emptiness of falling forced the creature to shout a lungful screech that did not falter until the intoner merged with the darkness beneath. It went without saying that it took several dense sighs before everything went quiet.

Sigrid stood at the border, making sure the spider’s trip to the abyss was successful. When she heard nothing more, she twirled around and rushed to Marek.

“Marc!” She crawled next to Marek as soon as she closed the distance.

He occasionally let out a ragged cough, shut eyelids shuddering, and his fangs were on their way to recover their normal size. He was as fine as someone who had stopped inches from the ground after falling a hundred feet, but at least he was alive without displaying serious injuries.

Talons settled below his backhead and back, and Sigrid tilted Marek’s up to her. “Wake up!” Just then, the man’s lids fluttered open. “The bugs are gone! The _sword _is gone! We are safe for now.”

The world ticked on, and Marek’s fuzzy sight adjusted until Sigrid’s concerned look cleaned up before him — her unharmed, unbloodied, living look. Dalavut’s machinations attained nothing: his Sigrid was in one piece.

In a heartbeat, Marek leaned ahead and embraced Sigrid into a trembling hug.

“It tried to kill you,” he mumbled against her tuft. “It used me to kill you.”

“Shush, shush. It’s alright; I’m alright. It’s over.” She brought solace by returning an embrace.

“It did the same with Aurelio and tried to do the same with you. Damned thing. Damned thing!”

Sigrid lapsed by an instant. So that was why Marek refrained from telling more about Aurelio. Nonetheless, she proceeded with her consolation. “No curses, no curses. It hadn’t been your fault. The nasty sword has always been the plotter.”

“Had I faltered for a second… Had I been weaker—”

“But you did _not. _You are strong. You always have been.”

Sigrid kept warbling into Marek’s ear for the next twinkling, the mane on Sigrid’s collar turning a tad damp because of some tears Marek could not contain.

Ssrreeeee!

Another stridulation reverberated, and the moment of solace broke.

Sigrid’s ear winced at the sound, her head turning to where the creature had been cast.

“It lives…” Another ear wince. “And more of its spawns are coming with her.”

A flash of silver came and went. Iousterard was back to the belt.

“Quick. Before they come again.”

Marek reached for his face and swiped his eyes before nodding in agreement and standing to their feet.

“Get to my back. I’ll make sure to not get trapped in a stringtrap.” Sigrid gave the man her back, wings semistretched to both sides.

“... I need to do something first.” He stretched his arm with Iousterard in hand. Sigrid gave a puzzled look. “They weave traps between spikes. Use this to cut the bases so they hang out of the way. That way, you’ll have a clearer path.”

“B-but… what do you have in mind?”

“I’m going to make sure a monster remains buried,” he unslung the device, letting it clank against the ice, “and crush a nest while I’m on it.”

It took a moment for the fighter’s words to get through Sigrid; she gave off a faint twit and took Iousterard for herself.

“I’ll be quick.”

“So I will.”

Marek knelt before his wrappings at the same time Sigrid left the plinth, and both went on their way to complete their task.

Gloved hands trembled as they played around the metal pieces; however drained his limbs felt, Marek’s resolve was set. Butt, barrel, trigger — all of them clicked together, assembled and ready.

The screech boomed yet again, this time accompanied by the sound of a thousand knifetips tipping into ice.

The last element, a cylinder with a smoothed cone on one end, lay now between the man’s fingers. He appraised it for a couple of seconds, knowing well that he would be two bullets short when he got to face Hissing Wing.

The thought was disregarded after not so much pondering — if Mørk and his group came this far, others could as well. None of them should stumble upon Dalavut.

Its days of using mortals to satiate its cravings were over.

The bullet cocked and loaded, Marek was ready to ignite the ice. Sigrid returned not long after; the vermin was not far, the chunk vibrating was proof of that.

“I cut what I could. I couldn’t afford slicing a lot of strings.”

“It’s alright.” He took Iousterard and gave the rifle to Sigrid. “Hold this. Do not graze the trigger.” A nod. “Well—”

Sshheeeee!

“—Out of here. Now!”

Marek hopped onto Sigrid’s back, and as soon as Sigrid felt his weight, her wings flapped strongly, not bothering to ask whether the man was prepared.

The anvil that had served as a battlefield got filled with dozens of spiders not even a minute after the duo departed from it.

Midair, Sigrid was untouchable. She dove past stalagmites, stalactites, and all manner of monoliths with surprising maneuverability. If Marek felt compelled to protest, he did not show any hint of it; he remained silent the whole journey, which was no more than three hundred yards.

What used to look like the dying embers of a campfire now shone like a screen of nocturnal lights. The path that led to the outside was reached at last, its floor covered with layers of snow.

Sigrid landed and sprayed snow particles, and Marek did not miss a beat to roll off her back and stride closer to the pitfall they left behind.

Weapon butt against his shoulder, eyesight lined with the length of the barrel, Marek steadied his breath, searching through the cavernous blackness of what the best target would be.

The scuttling echoes failed to break his focus. The wind flowing from behind altered his stance in the least.

Only the remote hum of an extraplanar whisperer delayed the pull of his finger.

No desperation. No anger. No sense of defeat.

If any, it felt like disappointment. A figure of authority who frowned upon an underling who failed to meet the expectations.

Cocky bastard.

“Rust in ice, nasty thing.”

Three sounds in sequence: the clink of a trigger, the thunder of a bullet, the boom of an explosion.

A sun flared into life underice, and the shadow of a legion of many-legged creatures appeared for an instant before the darkness swallowed them again.

A fourth sound: the rumble of a ceiling falling apart.

A collapse that would have taken many seasons if not years underwent a drastic acceleration, and now chunks bigger than the place the humongous spider had stood on fell like starrain.

“Marc!” Marek felt his shoulder shaking. “This place is falling!”

Too focused on making sure his aim was true, Marek was slow to notice the collapse was spreading to them.

Marek tried to bolt into a stride, but Sigrid was faster and practically dragged the man along with her. They ran up the exit, the northern lights dazzling Marek’s eyes, which were accustomed to dimness after hours.

A bulky column must have collapsed not far behind them, and a wave of smog blasted them from behind with a weightless strength. It caused the duo to trip headfirst into the snow.

Both Marek and Sigrid lingered prone as long as the rumble lasted. When the glacier shook no more, they remained on their stomachs for another twinkling, just to make sure.

When the only tune noising belonged to the wind, Marek dared to raise his head.

“Everything alright?”

Sigrid responded with a couple of tweets, which Marek interpreted as something positive.

Shakely, Marek stood to his feet, blowing the snow out of his nostrils and mouth, then went to Sigrid, who was already standing on one knee.

After helping Sigrid to pick herself up, Marek scrutinized the chimera’s body, appraising the damage inflicted. The spiders accomplished nothing, not even the giant spider seemed to impose any form of harm.

The only evident injuries were a slit on the left side of her midsection, a horn cut on the tip, and a red line across her left palm. Of all of them, Marek was responsible for inflicting.

His stomach clenched hard, eyes stinging with dryness. “Sig… I—”

“Shush,” a claw touched his lips. “Not your fault.”

Marek held the stare as Sigrid’s hands shifted until they grabbed his cheek. “The nasty sword only managed to graze my horn and carve insignificant cuts.”

She leaned closer and brushed her beak along the man’s nose. “See? You are stronger. The real Marek would have put up a fight.”

Marek stifled a sigh as he mulled the monstress words. Only Sigrid could turn guilt into a sense of triumph.

The sigh he held transformed into an amused huff.

“I’ll never be able to thank you enough, Sig.”

Sigrid refrained from saying further. Rather, she sent forth a smile as radiant as the snakes in the sky.

And speaking of the sky, it looked smaller than usual, a detail Marek observed after sharing gazes with Sigrid.

A glimpse tracked to the North, one that evolved into surveying, and into gawking thereafter.

Near a hundredfold the height of any fortress Marek had witnessed, tall enough to scratch the northern lights.

Eleven days after having started the journey. Eleven days struggling with a frigid atmosphere, monsters, elementals, and undead.

The endeavor had taken him and Sigrid to a place where no men had ventured and returned to narrate their trip.

Half a while far, the greatest natural edifice found in the North, and perhaps in all Gebaten — The Icing Boundary.