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“Has the event been confirmed?” Aurelio asked his mage fellow. The two spellcasters gathered inside one of the guild’s bureaus, the room filled with shelves containing tomes of every kind, with tactical material lying on the desk and hanging on the walls.

The informant nodded. “I’m afraid that’s how the events of the Bellerose Street unfurled two hours ago,” the informant made a minor and somber pause, and then spoke: “The New Republic militants are employing supernatural manpower.”

The Headmage lifted his hand to his jaw and stroked his spiky beard. “Tell me about the casualties. How much did we lose?”

The other wizard licked his lips and continued with his report. “The enemy was not numerous, and none of our ranks perished during the skirmish. Regardless, the number of injured surpassed our expectations, and because of the arson, we lost items that could have served our cause.”

Aurelio groaned and rubbed his face with his palm. The operation on Bellerose Street should not have caused so much fuss. The Intelligence scanned the zone, and accurate numbers of enemies were carefully estimated. Rumors were saying the enemy was hiring wizards and other individuals with supernatural abilities, and that’s why he had sent Marek.

However, if what Hugo, the informant, reported to him was true, then perhaps Blakesley was not the most fitting expert fighter in the scene.

This bloody brat.

A loud slam broke the calmness inside the bureau. A coal-haired man stormed into the room, seemingly unconcerned about what transpired behind the door. Gashes and burns covered his pants and vest, the end of his cloak was bitten by flames, and his face was covered by soot.

The young man was a mess, yet a smile was drawn on his face.

“Elementals, Aurelio! Fire elementals!” The warrior howled with quite the excitement, completely disregarding the serious atmosphere. “They had a lava-like pattern across their skin, with smoke emanating between their cracks. You should have seen them. No. You should have seen me mince them!”

While Marek babbled like a child who got to see how the candies were made, the two wizards just remained staring at the cheery young one — Hugo, who had the mouth and eyes slightly wide, cast a subtle look at his superior. A stony face carved on the elderly mage’s face told the informant he was not in tune with the youth’s enthusiasm.

“Leave us, Hugo. I’ve matters to attend,” Aurelio said, not taking his eyes off the elated fighter.

The other wizard was about to say something, but his words dissipated in his throat when he noticed the severe aura the Headmage elicited — the mage realized he did not want to be in that office.

Hugo did not acknowledge Marek when he crossed through the door, the young warrior casting a sideglance in his way, but shrugged as soon as the door shut and then addressed Aurelio. “I take it you have already been informed of my deeds,” Marek mentioned with a smirk, full of pride.

“Just superficially. I was hoping you could give me a rundown of your battle against the militants.”

Marek flashed his teeth and scooted toward the closest seat, willing to speak up about his encounter. “Very well, hear me out: there was that old warehouse our intelligence told us about. Surprise, surprise, the smartasses were right, and a group of bigots were storing weaponry and enchanted merchandise. Nothing new; we stormed in and started to chop their idiotic guts out.” As Marek told his story, Aurelio limited himself to hum. “But there was something new: some guy wearing the same unstylish garbs you are wrapping in, Aurelio: cloak, hood, and all. I spotted him and thought: ‘Nah, that guy is loaded with wizardry,’ so I rushed to separate his head from the rest of his body. But the guy drew sigils on the ground and chanted some gibberish, and it happened: the guy—”

“Summoned monsters,” the Headmage completed Marek’s sentence. “You encountered a summoner.”

The excited young man snapped his fingers and pointed at his mentor. “Yes! A summoner. And he did summon! From nowhere, and in front of me, two fire-red creatures appeared. They said something, but I did not get it, cannot understand flame language or whatever.”

“I trust you followed our combat guidelines regarding summoners,” Aurelio commented, causing the young man to drop his grin just slightly. However, Marek shrugged off any concern and scoffed back.

“Of course. The moment the monsters appeared, I made sure to face them off and give them their just desserts,” Marek pulled his cloak aside, flashing the sheathed Dalavut on his belt. “With these babies you gave me, any wound is temporary, and slicing the blazing freaks made me break no sweat. Figuratively speaking since they were indeed pretty hot. Curious, one was girlish, it had quite the c—”

“So you killed the summoner as soon as possible?” With that last question, Marek comprehended that the old man knew more than just the surface of the event — and that his mentor was displeased at all by the outcome of his last battle.

Marek’s grin would not grow further from that point onward.

“No— I mean, not immediately. I needed to take care of the monsters while the others were taking care of the militants—”

“‘Taking care,’ you say?” Aurelio rose from his chair. “In what childish dream of yours is jovially sparring with the enemy considered ‘taking care’?”

The protegee mutely gulped. “Now, now, old man. There must have been a misunderstanding. Those creatures were cooking me alive. Surely you couldn’t have expected me—”

“Yes, I was expecting something from you,” the Headmage interrupted and began to round his desk, fingertips sliding across the polished wood, no longer gazing at his protegee. “I got the report, you stupid boy,” he snapped at Marek, making the young one’s shoulder skip. “So entertained with the blazing creatures, so good laughs you got from fighting them, that you neglected the most important element: the bloody summoner!”

Marek jerked back at the bellow, so he lifted himself from the seat and opened his mouth to retort and vindicate himself, but the only thing that came out of his lips was a blast of air as his abdomen took the impact of a magical missile. It was a mere cantrip, but it felt like a donkey kicked his guts, and the spell cast him, chair included, to a wall, the hurt body of Marek plunging into the timbered floor after the collision.

“Foolheaded brat,” the Headmage approached the prone, coughing man. “Were you pressing your ear on your arse during my instructions?! Your only task was to kill the summoner, and the elementals would have no reason to engage in a fight.” Aurelio lifted his arms and campily opened his hands in the air. “ Poof! The chains are gone. The creatures are no longer obliged to fight and often vanish to another plane.”

Aurelio knelt, his protegee panting under his breath with eyes glued to the floor. “But because you chose to dance and not get the damn job done, you and the rest of the team not only had to deal with two capable elementals, but the summoner got more time to bring more entities to our world.” Aurelio raised his hand, four fingers extended. “Four. You let the conjurer bring four additional heated monstrosities. More twigs were thrown into the fire, and that night Bellerose Street turned into the hottest show of the damn kingdom!”

“No one died,” Marek uttered, then harshly turned to his mentor. “The enemy was eliminated!”

“Men I could deploy in other strategic regions are now recovering on our facility beds because of you. We lost assets that Il Compasso could take advantage of. Not to mention you drew a blank in our back by opening the utmost bonfire of the region.”

“Oh, come on! Those were mere worthless toys!”

“Compared with Iousterard and…” Aurelio paused, unfamiliar with the other blade’s name.

“Dalavut,” the warrior on the floor acidly mumbled.

“Yes. Compared to those weapons, the smuggled goods may be considered worthless toys. But not all our comrades have the same benefits as you, my dear and stupid student.”

Marek clicked his tongue but did not come with another protest or whine lest another blast would shake the food contained in his belly.

Aurelio stood once again and walked to his chair. “You are a reckless individual, Blakesley. Honestly, I’m hurt. I expected more from you; I even gave you those magical gifts. But being in possession of such compelling items has made your pride grow more in detriment of your efficiency.” The Headmage reached his seat and serenely sat down. “Perhaps some weeks meditating with gulls would help you deflate that self-destructive ego of yours.”

Marek gasped. “What?! No! Don’t dare to throw me into the docks! Nothing interesting happens in there, smells fishy, the brothels have ugly women, the beer tastes like—”

A slam resounded through the room as the Headmage hit the desk with both palms, desk folderols skipping upward and a few map pins dropping undone, his eyes burning with anger, ready to overflow with hostility. Marek had no choice but to swallow his discontent and shut up.

The young man rose quite hastily and swiveled to the exit, muttering unintelligible curses, banging the door after leaving the bureau, the strength of the strike shaking what lay on the desk and walls.

After his student left the room, Aurelio sighed and groaned, worn by the recent ruckus.

“You really like to play with fire, don’t you, Marek Blakesley?” the Headmage muttered in solitude.

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

Let’s pray the next time you screw up, the flames don’t spread.

Marek jerked awake, issuing one sharp gasp and hardening his grip on his sword. He got no sleep last night, not after facing a troop of zombies.

Not after letting a vampire loose on the Frostscape.

He and Sigrid had escaped from that dark forest not long ago, when the first beams of the morning bathed the pale landscape. After another ten minutes of walking, they had found a creek, and for the first time since they battled Madakai and his servants, Sigrid decided to speak, nicely asking for a moment to clean herself.

Now, the black-haired warrior remained seated on a dead trunk, Dalavut impaled in front of him, with both hands resting on the skull-engraved grip and supporting the weight of his raddled head.

Why not just surrender to sleep? Sigrid was at his side; she would not let vile befall his back. No. That was not the problem. The deluded girl would defend him, even putting her life on the line. She had not fathomed the severity of his blunder, otherwise, she would have left the man’s side hours ago.

How can she just blindly accompany me now after I fucked up? How I almost caused her demise. A low hiss escaped through the man's teeth. I only draw danger wherever I go. She needs to know what my goal is. If she leaves me afterward, then it’s fine. Actually, that would be the best. I was supposed to be alone from the very beg—

“You look tired, Marc,” Sigrid concernedly articulated, startling the somnolent human. Was he that tired that he could not notice the tall chimera leaving the water body and approaching? “You should sleep. I can take guard.”

Heavy eyes surrounded by black scanned the she-monster in front. After her bathing and preening session, the white once again coated most of her body, but Sigrid could do little to hide some burned remiges, and red lacerations covered the corners of her sleek body.

The observation was not missed by the chimera, who, with little effort, connected the dots. “I am fine. This is nothing compared to what the wargs did to me back on the mountain.” But Marek was unconvinced, the wound above her left breast reminding him of how close she was at death’s doors — the spot where the bloodsucker sunk his fangs.

The remindful scar was then obstructed by a pale brownish arm, forcing the sharp, sleepless stare of the man to divert to his partner’s beaky face. “You stare too much, Marc.” The fighter merely responded with a faint, throaty groan. “Easy, easy. Sigrid remains strong,” she showed her vigor by spreading her wings to the air, “that nasty cold one will not get close on my watch.”

“Cold one…” Marek murmured to himself. He did not buy Sigrid’s optimism — he saw how she almost lost her life — but her last sentence brought up the most troubling matter: the existence of a vampire — a vestige of a dark age now lurking free in the Frostscape.

“Yes. The ghools are as cold as snow. The strong one called himself Madak or something,” the chimera mentioned, already folding her wings to her back. “He said he knowed— knew you, Marc; he said he was a vampear, and mentioned ‘Denere’ and a spade,” she raised a hand and scratched her beak. “Cold one speaks weirdly, so I failed to understand half of his babbling.”

Marek took an instant to mull over the abstruse words of the vampire Striigori, briefly evoking the events of that turbulent night. During his meditation, the human seemed off and unfocused, which raised some empathy inside his nonhuman partner. But before Sigrid could tell Marek to disregard the issue, he spoke.

“Vampire. He is a vampire,” Marek mouthed. “A high hierarchy undead, renowned on legends by sucking the blood out of their victims.” Sigrid gently touched the scar on her chest, the pain of past searing ghostily. “He also mentioned Nedere, but that name sounds strange to me. I’m no bookworm; my knowledge about what happened four centuries ago is shallow.”

Curiosity about what had happened so long ago sprouted inside Sigrid’s head, but given the restless state in which Marek was, she shut the desire to chirp a question regarding that dark age of human history.

“As for the spade,” Marek lowered his gaze to the blade squeezed by his grip, “he referred to my longsword. Dalavut.” Those last words carried an acidic feeling. Yes, the sword — his sword — apparently had awaken a vampire long asleep; what was more, the same weapon also exposed Marek’s life to this ancient enemy of humankind, even if a fragment.

And to add another layer of unsettlement, the sword also failed to turn on the blood surge when it succeeded in slicing the ghouls, denying him the needed leverage in battle. Of course, after the combat finished and his head cooled, he inferred the reason why the bane did not activate was because the sword needed to consume vitality through blood. Needless to say, the undead lack vitality or life force of any kind — their rotten souls belong to another plane of existence.

Nevertheless, the fact that his sword gave away his personal information and woke up a dry corpse was undeniable. What were the odds? He was too seasoned to commit such an unauspicious mistake. How in the world could that happen? Certainly, the memory of his blunder, printed across Sigrid’s fur, was what irked him the most.

“And going by the looks of it,” Marek continued, “it appears my weapon was responsible for awakening this old lieutenant.”

A growl made the man shift his eyes back to his monstrous company, noticing that disgust contorted Sigrid’s face. “That vampear… that Madak… What a disgusting thing. All of them.” Sigrid hissed as she placed her clawed hands on each bicep, squeezing them tightly. “I could not control myself. Something inside forced me to attack. To tear the cold one apart.” She then snapped at Marek. “The nasty sword woke the ghouls up and aided the cold one Madak! You need to get rid of it!”

Marek frowned at Sigrid’s keen display, who definitely was not fond of those who rose from the grave — understandable, given she was nearly dissected by a pile of rotten meat. However, the human stood against her indignant barks.

“I cannot,” Marek’s rejection made Sigrid recoil her head, but her companion continued before she had the time to protest. “This Madakai is looking for the sword. Dalavut enlightened him about my past days, and that happened when we weren’t even close to his location.” Marek stared at the sword with disdain. “Because of that, I believe the blade can also give up its own location. If we relinquish the sword to nature, our withered friend will eventually find it.”

“No way…” the she-monster muttered, a talon reaching and scratching the elbow. “Then… then we hunt him down. I nearly killed— overkilled , Madak. He no longer has ghools to aid him. I’m sure we both can tear him apart—”

“I’m going to cut you off right there, Sig,” Marek interrupted as he raised a palm. “This land is vast; Madakai could hide anywhere, and I have no time to chase a rotten monster. Like I said before, I’m in a hurry.”

The owl-wolfess issued a dissonant yelp. Something inside told Sigrid that her human partner had no interest in pursuing the creature that nearly killed them both. “What if I drop it into a dangerous place?” Marek pressed his lips, considering the proposition for a brief instant, but skepticism was still printed on his face. “Mountain’s peak. The depths of a frozen lake. If he dares to step into one of those, he would not survive. Madak will perish before—”

“‘Survive’?” Marek scoffed in both disbelief and faked hilarity. “Sig, the leech is an undead .” Marek rose from the eroded bark. “Listen, over four hundred years ago, these abominations plagued the continent,” Marek began to explain, with Sigrid hearing with uncertainty, her head slightly tilted to her side. “They drained our life force. They desecrated our dead. They took over our capitals. The undead, Sigrid, don’t have share the weaknesses we have: they care not about thirst, hunger, natural phenomena, or even breathing . Blizzards, mountain peak altitudes, and freezing waters are no hindrance for them.”

As Marek pointed out the reasons why entities like Madakai are deemed dangerous, Sigrid’s imperceptibly cowered, and the grip of her hand on her shoulder hardened, even shaking a little bit. “They neither care about time. As far I know, this grandiloquent freak has thousands of years to seek this damned sword. Why does he need it? Not to give it to charity, that’s for sure! You heard him: to ascend, to bring Nedere, and to twist life. Whatever that means, it’s nothing short of malice.” Sigrid’s face went frozen, her facial disk displaying an array of different emotions, none of them hopeful. “So no, Sig. I’m afraid to tell you that getting rid of the sword is an eventual screwup. The blade, nasty as you say it is, is safer attached to my belt.”

The owl lady did not listen to those last sentences; her agitated mind still lingered on the menace the undead represented to humans — to Võshla and Imbi. “No,” she murmured, her beak somewhat agape, “No. No. No!” The avian entity’s undertone grew into barks of negation, the sudden volume increase causing Marek to grimace. “That’s horrible! Cold ones are horrible ! How could such a thing exist!”

“Hey. Easy, Sig. Stay cal—” Marek said, lifting one hand in an attempt to appease his partner.

“No easy, No!” His pursuit to calm the she-monster, however, fell short. Sigrid twirled and began to pace in circles with hands flexed as if ready to tear flesh, wings fidgeting high, and tail violently whipping the air. “Cold one is wandering around, his spider-thin fingers ready to hurt people! To hurt Imbi!” She hastily twisted her neck at Marek, the man failing to keep his brows from twitching. “We need to do something, Marc! Madak will drain, desecrate, and take over hoomans!”

“This creature is alone, and considering his appearance of dried leather, he is not at his peak. The Undead Overlords were essentially demigods with legions at their disposal. This guy is only one wasted lackey of them,” Marek raised Dalavut at the level of his head. “As long as he doesn’t have this item, he is a threat to no city.”

Marek’s words did little to soothe Sigrid, and she continued to unnervingly stomp across the snow with arms hugging each other. A couple of seconds passed, and Sigrid stopped abruptly, her ears jerking erect and her steely eyes widening. “Can not hide the blade,” she practically whispered, her lowered tone causing Marek to arch a brow in confusion. She shifted her gaze at Marek — no, not at Marek, but at Dalavut. “If we can not hide the nasty sword… then we destroy it.”

The human fighter’s body tensed, and his eyes blinked — there were several reasons why destroying the sword was not the way to go. “Destroying an enchanted item like Dalavut is no easy task, Sig.”

“For hoomans, maybe, but not for an apex predator.” By the time Marek realized the intent behind that sentence, a pale blur swished in his direction and snatched the cursed blade from his hands.

“—!” A current of cold air blew away any word rising through the man’s throat — Sigrid flapped her wings and disappeared from his side with Dalavut in her taloned hands, leaving only a thin cloud of hoarfrost on her wake.

Oak-like eyes darted in search of a feathery entity and a black-red metal. Three seconds, too much for Marek’s strict standards of quick seeking, and he found a bipedal bird sitting in a pine branch, scrutinizing the stolen weapon.

“What in the World— Sigrid! Drop your furry tail here in this instant!”

Canine ears twirled in the direction of the cries, but the avian eyes never trailed off from the ebony-red sword. “Worry not, Marc. I will get rid of the ugly sword in no time.”

“You chirping b— No one steals from me, Sigrid! Give me the sword back, or else I swear…” Said Marek with clenched teeth, leaving the threat hanging in the air, but only because any promise of reprisal coming out of his mouth would be empty. Or else what? No more cooked rabbit?

In any case, Sigrid did not pay attention to that last howl and began pecking and biting the length, causing the steel to clank against her hard beak. Sigrid hissed when she noticed her crunching bites failed to crack the sword and thus initiated to apply force with both arms on both ends of the blade, trying to bend it. Seeing she had little support, she pressed the weapon against the trunk and resumed exerting her strength.

The bark crackled, and the sword slowly sank into the wood, but the blade did not give up and refused to flex even by a hair. Something snapped on the tree, and the sword and the scaly arms jerked, causing Sigrid to slip her hand across the edge and shed her blood. “ Kye! ”

“Damn it.” Witnessing how red liquid spurted from his partner’s hand, Marek clicked his tongue. “You’ll end up slicing one of your fingers off, Sig! Cease with this futile charade!”

“No!” Came Sigrid’s response as she clutched her wounded palm, fighting the pain while emitting a baffled fizz. “I am not done!” As she finished spitting up those determined words, she impaled the longsword two feet inside the tree, the rigid bark opposing no resistance. With the grim handle protruding from the pilaster, she levered the exposed metal.

After a few seconds of pushing the fraction of metallic length, something snapped, but to Sigrid’s surprise — and subsequent disappointment — that had been only the wood that fragmented into chips. The sudden crack of the wood made Sigrid lose her balance, pushing herself out of the branch where she used to crouch, and her white form plummeted to the soil. She had little time to spread her wings and soften her fall.

Marek could only issue a tired groan, his anger relenting to irritation. “It’s enough, Sig.”

“Not finished,” mumbled the she-chimera as she stood and recovered, her head gyrating in search of the damnable sword. Once she detected the blade, she scurried toward the weapon and took it by the grip. She was running out of options, and one of the most fearsome monsters across the Frostscape had to admit that even with her preternatural strength, no dent could ruin the edge of the accursed item.

No. There must be something else.

The she-monster surveyed the surroundings, now looking for some aiding tool; she spotted a group of rocks near the creek and dashed ahead. Marek, sour yet curious, patiently trailed behind, arms folded in front of his chest. After seeing Sigrid fail in her quest to shatter the weapon, he concluded his feathery and furry companion lacked the prowess to break Dalavut.

Now standing beside a boulder, Sigrid smacked the length against the rock, generating a loud clunk with every hit. The stone shattered superficially, but Dalavut was whole and sound. “B-but how?! ” Bewildered at the fact that an inanimate object so far had bested her, the owl-wolfess took a rock and bashed the sword over and over again. The air was filled with clanks for the following dozen seconds until the rock crushed under her violent onslaught.

Her efforts only dusted the enchanted blade with snow, dirt, and pulverized stone. No imperfection was drawn on the honed sharpness of Dalavut, not even a graze, and the dull and eerie gleam of the weapon remained unaffected.

For her, that shine proclaimed the sword was silently triumphing — and silently mocking.

Sigrid responded to the longsword’s derogation with a guttural growl. “Stoopid, nasty thing. I hate it…”

The snow crunched, telling Sigrid the human fighter had come to the scene; he knelt to retrieve the length and then addressed Sigrid. “Normally, I would be enraged at the funny one who stole something from me. But I must admit that your fruitless embark on destroying Dalavut was, to some degree, entertaining to me.” Sigrid growled with contempt, the man taking a slice of that unfriendly sentiment. “Spare me the act. I did tell you that destroying an enchanted item is no easy task. They are dense in magic, and you’ll need to drop a stone-filled carriage from tens of yards in the air over one just to crack it, or,” he pointed with his thumb at the device hanging on his back, “use excessive firepower. And that is for conventional enchanted items. And Dalavut isn’t a conventional item, so don’t bother suggesting using the rifle, the ammunition is limited in any case.”

Sigrid held her wounded hand, which was no longer bleeding, still perplexed that her strength had failed her — that an inert thing no bigger than a fox defeated her. She stared at Marek while he opened his cloak and sheathed the arterial red sword, letting escape a delicate flash that sparked one idea in Sigrid’s head.

“—! Hey. Hey!” Sigrid threw her bested visage aside and erected her ears. “What about the ax? The ax is very sharp and magical. Perhaps it can cut through the nasty sword.”

Marek knotted his eyebrows, and he stopped from sheathing Dalavut and gazed upon Iousterard, which hung inside a holder tied to his belt. Indeed, a magical object could destroy another if both were charged with similar levels of magic, and Iousterard’s edge remained unmatched — not even Dalavut surpassed Iousterard in that regard.

However, destroying an enchanted artifact carries its own consequences. If the container broke apart, the formerly condensed magic would burst, causing devastating repercussions — repercussions Marek was very familiar with. That was the first issue, as for the second…

“Give it a rest, Sig. There’s nothing that can be done about Dalavut.”

Sigrid puffed her mane. “You just do not try hard enough! I’m stronger, so let me—” An avian arm tried to reach Marek’s belt, but on this occasion, the man anticipated the she-chimera’s roguery and sidestepped out of her reach.

“Don’t take my stuff, Sigrid,” he reproached her, a snarl spawning in the corner of his mouth.

“Please, Marc. Vampear is seeking the ugly blade to desecrate Võshla, whatever that means!” She pushed the matter, snapping her claws at Marek’s belt. But she only caught the warrior’s shadow as he continued to elude her snatching attempts. “Besides, the weapon also makes you nasty!”

“The vampear— damn it! The vampire won’t get the sword because he won’t stand against me !” Marek barked back while he avoided Sigrid’s claws, the latter more insistent by the second. “And what if I turn ‘nasty’? The effect is temporary, and I need its effect to mend any injury. I cannot afford injuries in this frozen hell, Sig!”

Tired of using only her arms, Sigrid leaped at Marek, taking a yelp from the man as he quickly rolled on his back. “But you do not need the sword to be strong! Did you forget what I said yesterday? You have me! ”

“Don’t take it amiss, Sig, but I doubt your abilities to heal cuts and bruises and to fight hordes of enemies are as attuned as my sword’s.”

“Grr!” The owl-wolfess growled when another of her tries to reach Iousterard went unfruitful. In reality, she was holding herself down, wary of not harming her human traveling partner. “Why so attached to that stoopid thing! The sword is clearly evil!”

“I give a crap about the weapon being evil! I need it to survive!” He screamed, trying to scurry behind Sigrid, only to be brushed by one of her wings, pushing his back against one rock and making him expel a weak groan.

Forgot how swift this lady can be.

The chimera approached the man, both wings circling his sides and blocking potential exits. “How could you not care about something being evil that may hurt your kind? It makes you violent. It makes you ugly. And now attracts a cold one who wants to kill the people from Võshla and even more!”

“Alright, that’s enough !” Snarling, Marek extended his arm, sword in hand, and pointed it toward Sigrid. For the first time since they met in that wintry mountain, Marek threatened Sigrid with a weapon. The she-monster responded quickly by shrinking her wings and lowering her ears, stumbling back a couple of steps.

“M-marc— you are pointing—”

“Yes, the weapon stinks with evil. The weapon turns me into a killing machine. So what? Who gives a crap?!” The man snapped. “You, with your supernatural healing factor, could not know, but wounds are not easily treated in the wild,” the hand grasping the sword shook slightly. “I’ve seen war, Sig. Several of my ‘brothers-in-arms’ suffered wounds that at first appeared as mere annoyances but then suppurated and rotted, and they had their limbs severed off… and I’m talking about the lucky ones!”

Sigrid gulped, somehow disturbed by Marek’s words. Were humans really that vulnerable?

“But— hoomans know about medicine! They can cure your wounds!”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot there are certified doctors out in the frozen arse of the World!” The infuriated man loudly scoffed with sarcasm. “And I’m no doctor. It takes knowledge, special tools, and time to mend injuries. You have no idea how much trouble this accursed blade had spared me.”

“But the sword awakened the cold ones.”

“... I’m aware of that.”

“And the sword will make you behave like beast—”

“ I know! ” He bellowed, the booming cry momentarily silencing the sound of the water and wind. During the brief period of utter silence, Marek stared down at the hilt in his hand and how the sharp end of the weapon was ominously pointed at Sigrid. Teeth clenched, and Marek groaned as he let the weapon drop from his grasp. “Do you think I don’t despise this sword? Do you think it has only brought blessings to my life? That I didn’t try to get rid of it before?” Marek’s breathing hiked. “Because of it…! Because of it, Aurelio and— Aurelio and t-the—”

Marek did not get to finish that sentence as he began to choke. With his free hand, he clutched his chest, and his breathing mutated into coughs. Soon, he had no strength to stand and collapsed to one knee, shakily using one arm to support his weight.

“Marc!” Sigrid tried to reach Marek, but the coal-haired man denied her desires with a broken utterance.

“D-don’t— stay t-there! I c-can deal with this. Just-t, do nothing—” Sigrid hesitated — seeing her friend, the one who had slain a pack of wargs, in such a wasted condition brought worry to her being.

“B-but you suffer!”

“And-d I’ll keep s-suffering until I fi-finish this nonsensical que-st!” Words mixed with whoops, and Marek had to call forth from his reserves of strength to spit comprehensible words.

“That’s why you look for adventurers? Do they have a cure for your sickness? Why not stay in Võshla? Imbi can find a healer for you!”

The sick man shook his head laggardly. “She cannot take this malady from me.”

“I’m tired of your no- es , Bleikslie!” Sigrid bawled, beak agape, and hands pressed into fists. “No this. Cannot do that. Why not! Please, just tell me!”

As you wish. “B-because to heal my c-condition I need an elemental component-t,” the man licked his lips. “I need the wyrm’s blood .”

The she-monster’s moonlit orbs widened like saucers, padding backward as if she had been slapped until she crouched low, ears leaning behind her head and wings pressing tight against her back. “W-what did you say?”

No immediate answer came from Marek as he kept bearing the assault of his fit, emitting soft breaths. The clock ticked by, and he recovered enough, the human gaining the needed vigor to raise his head to look at his bewildered partner, traces of gleaming lights lingering on his view, most of them taking the same color as Sigrid’s eyes.

“Marc… what did—”

“You heard me, Sig,” the wasted man wheezed. “This journey... My journey… is to find the dragon, to slay it and take its blood.”

“B-but… but w-why?” Sigrid’s words crackled. “Why would you try such a thing?”

Marek coughed a little more before continuing, “Because I’m dying . Did I not say that?”

“That has no sense,” the owl-wolfess whispered, unwilling to swallow the human’s words. “How is killing Hissing Wing going to prevent death? And what about Marc’s friends? Imbi telled me you seeked other adventurers! I even catched the scent of hoomans!”

Marek groaned and shook his head, his ragged breathing already reverting to normal levels. “I don’t know those people, Sig. Looking for them was never my intent…”

“You— you lied to me? You lied to Imbi?”

“I—” What to say? Point the finger at Imbi because she came up with the idea, or take all the blame because he played along? He might ruin his relationship with the she-monster, so why harm the relationship with her only loved one? In the end, he opted not to bring Imbi’s ruse. “I’m sorry, Sig. I didn’t want to take you to the dragon. She suggested bringing you along with me, and having witnessed your strength… it was so convenient for me.”

There was a pregnant pause during which Sigrid said nothing and only indistinctly stared at the frozen soil. After the suspension, her talons clutched at the snow, her tuft began to bristle, her nostrils frantically flared, and her body shivered erratically. “No… No! That’s stoopid! Marc is stoopid!” Thunderous shrieks came out from the she-chimera, unable to conceal the tones of a wild bird of prey; her outcry carried betrayal, fury, and — for the first time in front of Marek — fear.

Notwithstanding, Marek endured the verbal punishment, his face displaying no emotion. “You cannot kill Hissing Wing! No one can! Marc is just an ignorant hooman!” Marek’s eyes shifted to the ground, then he raised his arm and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. “All hoomans know facing Hissing Wing is like facing death! You will not survive! You are a death seeker!”

Already recovered from his fit, Marek stood in the middle of Sigrid’s outburst and retrieved his sword. “I’m not taking this trip because I want, Sig. I simply have no choice. Dragon blood is the only thing that could heal my sickness.”

“Marc does not try hard enough!” A clawed hand stomped and crunched the snow. “There are hooman witches that can heal with magic. Are you telling me no hooman can use wizardly to cure—”

“I’m not going to explain to you the nature of my ailment, Sig,” Marek interrupted, his voice firm and stripped of any aftereffect caused by his recent stroke. Sigrid growled back, furious that her latest friend could not bother to elaborate on his reckless goal to slaughter one of the Seeds of the World.

Marek closed his eyes and inhaled through his nostrils; he held the air for two seconds and then exhaled through his mouth, a foggy mass spawning in front of his face that quickly dissipated. “Perhaps… I underestimated the threat our cold friend really represents.” The canine growl diminished, but Sigrid’s avian face remained twisted with rejection. “Vampires are known to be a stealthy kind, or so the bookworms say. He may only be one, but the defenseless are vulnerable.” The avian creature’s eyes wandered off for a second, considering the fighter’s words for an instant. “Madakai cannot stand against you. You should go; hunt him down and protect those who cannot defend themselves.” He gave the she-chimera his back and began marching to the North. “I’m in a race against time… and against death.”

Sigrid advanced a couple of steps in Marek’s direction, her beak slightly parted as if to cry out, but ultimately opted to stop and say nothing. The steps halted, and Marek spoke: “Forgive me, Sig. For not listening to you. For getting you into my mess and hurting you. For not helping you now. But I need to keep going.”

The man reset his walk, leaving the creek behind in a few seconds. He heard his ex-companion mutter a thing, but between the distance and the tickling of the water, he failed to discern those grumpy words. With tens of yards crossed, Marek heard a faint flap and decided to turn his head and look over his shoulder — he saw the absence of a chimera.

The pair of brown-colored eyes stayed stuck on where Sigrid used to crouch. He wronged her several times, but keeping her to his side and bringing her to witness his potential demise would have damaged her the most. In his reserved judgment, it was better not to befriend somebody than to create a short-lived bond shattered by tragedy.

Nevertheless, he was glad he witnessed a wonder like the one Sigrid was.

“So long, Sigrid. You were too good to fraternize with this roode and stoopid man.”

Finally, the once-again lone adventurer trotted toward the Icing Boundary, where he would find the end of all his problems — either by claiming the blood of the wyrm or by having his blood spilled by the wyrm.