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It hurts…

Tens of yards beneath the spectacle evolving up the valley, Sigrid hung from a protruding rock, the four talons of her right arm supporting the entirety of her white form.

Madakai had outdone her senses and taken her by surprise. His stretched nails, harder than any other mundane metal the chimera had tested, pierced through her hardened hide and connected with her shoulder, drawing a line across her collarbone and neck, driving her down the cliff and nearly goring one vital artery.

But even in agony, the owl-wolfess was a bearer of impressive reactions and, amidst the whirling winds of the Arctic and ensnared by gravity, managed to hold onto the rough wall.

A fleeting breather, that was it.

The rock that bore her weight began to crunch, telling Sigrid that its convenient aid was coming to an end. She raised her remaining arm, the hasty movement making her fresh wound burn; she hissed quite mutely as pain rippled, and just then, Sigrid realized that emitting sounds with her beak stung her inner throat.

The jab that almost killed her had grazed her windpipe.

The anguish, however, did little to hinder her movement, and right before the stony support collapsed, her left claw clung to another handhold. Her right hand slipped as soon as the pebblestone plunged into the abyss, and she had to dig the talons into the rock not to follow the path of that debris.

Upon clinging to another natural handclasp, Sigrid took the next eyeblinks to wait for the pain to lessen, all while blood gushed down her snow-white fur, painting red lines across her back and chest.

The burning discomfort barely abated, but Sigrid could not afford to lose any more time — her dear friend, Marek, stood alone to face what was left of the horde along with their newly incorporated leader.

No. No. No. Why did my ears fail me?! Out of careless urgency, Sigrid nearly spread her wings to soar high into the frigid winds, but the pair only got to twitch when common sense put a halt to her own action. The weather was far from tranquil, and if she were to try to ride the currents, the winds most certainly would drive her out from her target just like a storm would fly away a kite.

She had no other choice but to stand the pain and climb as she had earlier.

And speaking of climbing, Sigrid was not the lone practitioner — pebbles bounced off from the heights and ticked nearby. Her strigine head twirled to both sides, confirming that the undead animals, composed of raptors and leopards, were scaling several feet above where she stood.

Sigrid yelped in alarm, forgetting that issuing sounds did little beyond stinging her throat, and jumped toward the closest ghoulish animal: a snow raptor.

Once she was close enough, a grotesque sight greeted her: the hide of the beast hung from its body as if peeled off, and the toes and claws were twisted unnaturally, with the bone exposed and cracked. Furthermore, like a rotten egg cracked open, the creature emanated the smell of putrid flesh, a scent that stung the chimera’s nostrils with nausea.

So insistent was the urge of the animals-turned-ghouls to follow the vampire lieutenant that, in their rash climbing, they destroyed their own bodies as they fell and rose, the jagged rocks biting the flesh and exposing the foul tissue underneath.

Sigrid’s stomach stirred, and she nearly gagged, but as soon as the initial impact of the monster’s presence went by, her strigine mask warped into a snarl.

Issuing a hoarse hiss, she leaped mere inches away from the undead dinosaur, and before the raptor got to glance at her form, a wing lashed like a blur and struck down the creature; the twisted animal shrilled as it approached its second end.

Without even bothering to check for the fake wyvern, Sigrid continued her journey to help her human friend.

The echo of clank and clunk, unequivocally belonging to metal striking hard matter, began to ride the winds — Marek was clearly standing his ground, which appeased Sigrid’s worries; however, every time a manly grunt, an unusual occurrence in Marek’s battle style, resounded with the blizzard or a waving garment flashed above the slab, dread flashed in her mind.

Sigrid turned her gaze from the goal to the path and observed the row of tails advancing toward the split ledge. Given the collapse of the slab, several ghouls ended up crushed or fell off the wall with no chance of coming back, but more groups gathered on both sides of the trail of destruction, their vertical walking unyielding.

She could only hope to take care of her respective column and pick herself up just in time to aid Marek in his fight.

Hang in there, Marc. I’ll be there soon. Just stand a little more.

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

Five ghouls, among them one orc, one teenager, and three adult humans, of whom two were former adventurers clad in hardened leather.

Five ghouls and a vampire master.

A hunter and his hounds.

Madakai had not commanded his underlings to halt their attack so he could have a gap to chatter — he wanted to make sure every single one of his servants jumped at the human simultaneously. There was no space for mistakes, and the lieutenant knew that.

The settler-turned-ghoul stepped into the human’s reach first. It would have been easy for Marek to cleave its neck from side to side, but he saw through the vampire’s plan to clog the space with flesh to hinder Marek’s movements, eventually pushing him more to the edge of the cliff.

So, instead of slashing him on the spot, Marek leaned to one side, rotated on the ball of his foot, and used the monster as a stepping stone to obtain a more favorable ground, kicking him on the back and impelling forward as the monster kept moving toward the precipice.

But Marek did not check whether or not the ghoul fell into the cliff and instead hopped directly against his next enemy, whom he considered the greatest threat after Madakai: the grey.

The brute roared and lifted his arms to attack; not only did he fail to connect a hit, but he was also stripped of one arm as a silver blade swung in his direction; bone and flesh opposed might as well be bamboo and bread, and putrid blood sprayed around.

Curious, Marek thought. These monsters could not have perished no more than two nights ago, yet decay was abundant across their bodies as if their corpses had been unburied and left outdoors for months.

Such disgusting freaks.

Marek began to twirl on one leg, ready to lash out with Dalavut in hand and get rid of another menace. However, the swift attack of his longsword was intercepted by something steely. “Ar—!” The collision made Marek’s arm recoil and sent vibrations across his wrist, almost numbing it.

“Forget not who thine true enemy is, sellsword,” Madakai voiced, to which Marek responded by baring his teeth. The vampire had protected his underling and parried the human’s attack.

As Marek rebounded from the indirect strike that sent him staggering, an additional undead welcomed him from his rear, one who wore a cloak and had a strip of cloth around his left eye. Nonetheless, he reacted in time and tilted his body just in time to avoid the claws of the zombie, who only got to scratch Marek’s protective garment.

After regaining his footing, Marek used the blunt end of Iousterard to smack the head of the eyepatched ghoul, sending him reeling back a couple of steps. He could have used the keen edge of the ax to dispatch one of his enemies, but he required that side for the approaching hulking, one-armed attacker.

The grey thrashed with his only arm as if it were a flail, but for how much strength that strike might carry, even a novice could evade such an attack; however, as Marek stooped low and prepared his sword to catch the limb, a chill rippled down his back, and the hairs of his nape straightened, a mixed sensation produced by his instincts and something more otherworldly.

Alarmed, he shifted the stance of his sword, which in the act jangled as another blow made contact with the sharp edge. It was Madakai again.

“ Tsk-tsk-tsk. What did I say earlier?” Madakai’s suave voice chimed in, his tongue clicking, evidently trying to throw off Marek.

“Gr!” Once again, the human maneuvered to absorb the force of the impact, this time rolling low on his back. Just as he finished spinning, the smaller of the horde, a blonde teenager, received him with a pounce, his mouth wide open and ready to tear off the skin of his face.

Marek clenched his jaw and executed an upward swing, his timing con point, cleaving the youth from crotch to thorax. His action might have looked skillful, but in reality, it was unprepared and clunky by Marek’s standards.

And for his shocklessness, Iousterard got stuck on the boy’s flesh just enough to delay his next defense. Hence, a set of nails belonging to the first undead who attacked him and who failed to fall off the ledge grazed his left cheek.

Marek bit back a grunt, refusing to please the bloodsucker with the sound of his pain, a task that would turn more arduous as the battle extended; in haste, the human fighter stood to his feet just in time to face the other ghoul wearing adventurer attire: the one with a mustache. The red-black blade swayed from left to right, carving a deep rift in the creature’s chest — a usually lethal injury for everyone, but hardly a nuisance for someone who had risen from the grave.

Nonetheless, the dead man stopped his assault, and in the act, Marek realized why — it was that queer shudder again . He swirled on his foot and swung his ax at his back, ending up slicing the vampire. Or at least, his image. He dodged almost too late, and Marek only got to dissect that ghostly afterimage of his.

“Skuty one,” muttered Madakai, his tone emotionless despite finding himself one hair away from decapitation. Marek could not prevent his nerves from writhing at the vampire’s display of confidence.

Maggot-filled head. Just wait until—

“Gah!” A sharp pain arose from his side, and Marek immediately spun to face the moustached undead. His ax cleaved the upper arm of the zombie, leaving the limb hanging by a thread of skin and tissue. He noticed something shiny was in his grasp, an item he rapidly identified as a weapon.

Since when do these monsters use weapons? But that was a question for another time, assuming that time would come to be.

The armed thrall stepped back, and in his leave, the other cloaked ghoul stood in. Promptly, Marek found himself surrounded for a second time.

For the next moments, Marek lunged, slashed, blocked, and sidestepped the claws and fangs, arcs and spirals of scarlet, ebony, silver, and gold blending with the few northern lights that seeped through the blizzard and bathed the battlefield. Fingers were launched into the air, and putrid, curdled blood splashed all around. Nevertheless, the damage to the horde turned out not as effective as Marek would have desired.

Whenever Marek had the chance to reduce the number of foes, Madakai cut off his maneuvers. The vampire appeared like a shadow of a bird of prey every time he burst into motion, leaving illusory rows with his image, tracing golden lines all around.

One time, he aided one of his underlings, deflecting Marek’s attacks at the same time he sent the man staggering back, and on another, he slipped away only to pull out a fakeout instants later. His speed, in addition to his unearthly movements, caused the illusion that three more ghouls harassed the human fighter.

Eventually, Marek began to accumulate injuries; insignificant at first, but they marked the prelude of defeat by slowing his maneuvers.

Worse, after battling for who knew how long, another ill feeling started to swell inside Marek: trepidation and heightened concern, not because of the injuries that were gradually increasing all over his body, but because of his missing friend.

No signs of Sigrid had appeared since she vanished under the slab — no shrill, twit, or even the sound of her wings flapping — and thus, Marek was beginning to think she was gone, never to return.

She cannot be gone. His shoulder suffered from a smack. Sigrid is strong; even if she plunged, she has wings to break the fall. A pair of nails drew a line on his hand. Striigori couldn't have possibly defeated her that easily! Not after what she did the nights before! Another thrust of a blade punctured his back. Sig… This is my fault. I released this monster. A heavy strike collided with his blade, and Marek stuttered one step back. And now… you are… you are—

Finally, a breach in Marek’s guard manifested, and Madakai seized the chance to slam the human fighter. The impact turned out to be effective, pushing Marek teetering backward to the edge of the platform.

Notwithstanding, the aggression was the least of it — when Marek was driven away from the center of the slab, a metallic clatter resounded, and for the human’s grim realization, his left hand felt lighter.

Dalavut just dropped off from his grip.

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

The time transpired, and Sigrid continued to ascend through the valley, leaping from ledge to ledge as she bore the pain around her neck and shoulder.

In due course, she found a second raptor in her path. She jumped and landed two arms’ length from the dinosaur, the zombie completely unaware of the chimera’s presence. Sigrid stretched her arm up and clasped the feathery tail; unlike the last time, that dinosaur reacted and bent its neck down at the attacker but nothing more — immediately after, Sigrid yanked the raptor from the wall with the same difficulty someone would tear a tick from the skin, delivering to the depths of the mountain no even a second afterward.

Notwithstanding, Sigrid had used her right and unwounded side, and with the pain of her recent wound fresh, her strength failed for an instant, and she slipped down three feet, the rock screeching as her claws drew deep stripes on the stone.

The sudden descent caused a wail to escape her beak, which in turn tingled her aching throat. Her free arm reacted fast, and her passing decline halted; yet, Sigrid’s heart was far from calming down. She stood still for the following seconds, whistling feebly and with eyes closed tight.

For the instant she dropped, horror arose within. Sigrid did not fear the wounds she might suffer, and surviving a fall from that height did not appear far-fetched to her. Any injury, as devastating as it might be, paled before the dreadful feeling of not seeing Marek again.

Sigrid knew that if she were to drop down to the foot of the valley, the possibility of climbing up and joining the human fighter in battle was null. The reasons behind that impossibility generated shudders in the she-chimera.

Don’t think about it! Marc is the strongest hooman that I’ve heard about. Sigrid sharpened her gaze and temporarily expelled her worries through a puff, resuming her scaling thereafter. He’s my hero. The vampears are no threat to him!

The dull sound of metal intensified, and so did the hiss of the ghouls as well as Marek’s grunts; occasional vocalization from Madakai also reached her ears. No more than fifty yards separated her from the slab that held her partner.

Unfortunately, at least three ghoulish beasts loomed above her head; one of them, a snow leopard, even began to crawl on the platform. And that’s only on her side of the mountain — another four beasts lined up to kill Marek across the mountainous wall.

She could not reach Marek before the monsters did.

“Marc-c…” She raspily murmured, desperation building inside. What could she possibly do? Could she risk unfurling her wings and flying up? No, not everything was lost to her to try that chancy move. Marek had survived this long on his own, all pained groans considered, but his weapons had not stopped vibrating.

Not halting in their harsh advance to the top, Sigrid’s mind sparked with an idea to buy time. Madakai had sent the cold ones after me once he knew how dangerous I was. Even if he ki— even if he recovers the nasty sword, he still needs to deal with me. Perhaps if he knows I’m approaching, he will send his cold ones off after me.

Sigrid made up his mind and shouted a shrill, or tried to, as the pain lingered within her gullet, and whatever bellow she tried to emit broke into caws.

Needless to say, the undead animals did not react at all.

Although frustrated at first, Sigrid was far from surrendering, so she proceeded to suck in a gulp of air and prepared to expel the most strident bawl ever as the power of a dozen warhorns built within.

The shriek that followed drowned out the loud weather for several heartbeats, riding the winds like a cavalry, so intense that even the pebbles around her jolted.

Sigrid kept her eyes shut during the entire loud display, bearing the scratchy pain in her neck as if the rib of a troll had just stuck inside her throat. When the birdlike roar vanished and the buzz returned, Sigrid opened her eyes and witnessed how the monsters above were frozen in place, showcasing no clue of advancing further in Marek’s way.

Her plan worked! Or did it? The enemy stood in place, refraining from moving an inch, but neither did they drop to her level. She gyrated her head to check out the other group of undead across the ridge, confirming that their state mimicked the other: all were frozen still.

It seemed odd to Sigrid, but her performance was nothing short of miraculous, so she would not spend further time to examine the enigmatic nature of the cold ones — She had a race against time for the life of her loved one.

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

Fatigue shook Marek’s legs, his breath coming in short bursts, constantly generating a cloud of haze in front of his face. His body stung as if hundreds of cold needles punctured his skin, and he had to gather his focus for his vision not to muddle.

His flesh groaned, but surprisingly, his body was capable of giving combat. However, one thing was his body, and another was his spirit; his physique might be available for battle, but his will suffered a serious fracture.

Meanwhile, the horde paused as their master approached the discarded treasure. “Thine will to fight appears to be ill, sellsword,” Madakai commented, an inexistent smile printed on his lipless face. “Thou mayst not know, but during our joute, thy Gift whispered to me about thine heart pain,” he began to crouch, one hand extending toward the hilt of the cursed blade. “Thou feelings towards thy firk… insurged as a surprise to me,” he tilted his head. “Honestly, I thought the creature was thine wanton, but given thine reaction to ‘her’ demise… it appears ‘she’ was more than that.”

“Fucking devil. Don’t speak as if you know me…” Marek snarled; the grip on his ax strengthened, and a cold and moisturized sensation began to prickle his cheek. “Mention her again and—”

“The upper ground is not within thine grasp for thee to threaten me, Blakesley,” Madakai interrupted just at the time his fingers wrapped around the handle. Instantly, Madakai gasped and hissed gleefully; at once, the phantom pulsations, disregarded by Marek during the entire battle, disappeared from his head. Without the illusory throbs, the buzz of the storm, along with the alarming noise of his own rasped breath and racing heart, became evident.

Marek wanted to get rid of these damned heartbeats, but not at the expense of relinquishing the weapon to his enemy.

There were growls, and Marek’s eyes shifted to both sides of the slab. The beasts that made him race through the forest and the valley were peeking their heads above the ledge, animalistic hungers flashing through their bared fangs.

So that’s why you stopped, you bloody leech…

“Three beasts… one spade less in thine arsenal. Indeed, thine story met its closure here, sellsword,” Marek clenched his teeth, and his eyes reddened. When it seemed that Madakai was about to discard his taunts, he hummed briefly and clicked his teeth. “What is this? Marek Blakesley is shedding tears? ”

Without taking his eyes off the vampire, Marek raised his free hand to touch his cheek; he confirmed the undead’s derisive observation — a tear was indeed running down his cheek.

The vampire mockingly tsked, and if there were no hulky orc in the middle of them, Marek would have rushed like a ballista missile, ready to sever and silence that cursed tongue, head included, once and for all. “Caud-pie. Such a mortal fondness.” Madakai made a gracious brandish with his new weapon as if to test its weight and then latched his golden eyes on Marek, sword pointing directly at his infuriated and pained visage. “So long, Marek Blakes—”

An earsplitting shriek boomed across the ridge, swallowing the words of the vampire and even overwhelming the blizzard itself. The shrill, not far from the stone where Marek stood, surprised the vampire, whose ring-like eyes adjusted to the edge of the rock.

“Awkert firk,” Madakai uttered, genuine annoyance mixing with his polished tone. “It liveth. ”

Meanwhile, Marek paid no mind to the vampire’s vexed words. His face softened, and his mouth gaped as if to release a silent gasp. She lives… thank Seolvor, she lives.

And just like that, and despite the wounds that marked his body, Marek’s will to fight was renewed.

Thy spade is within my grasp. Whatever happeneth to thy sellsword and thy firk is no longer my concern. Madakai mused and, in the act, transmitted a silent command to his thralls to tackle the tired warrior off the platform. Then, and with no more ado, he turned to take his leave.

Marek noticed the vampire’s disinterested motion as well as the roaring brute, aided by the ghoul settler, charging in his way. No, Striigori. You will not leave. With his free hand, Marek unsheathed one of his daggers from his belt. Our ‘joute’ is not over.

With a rumble, both ghouls charged forward, an action that Marek greeted with a stride of his own. Clock smooth, the human fighter shot his dirk, arrow fast, directly at the northern zombie’s knee. The length of metal clogged the motion of the leg as if it were a gear mechanism, and the ghoul stumbled forward; he did not collapse completely — Marek did not want him to stop: he wanted him to lower a bit, which is exactly what the zombie did. Marek took advantage of his momentum to jump on the demi-crouched creature, used him as a springboard, and propelled himself toward the grey.

The brute almost took Marek by his cloak, but the human’s speed outdid the grey’s clunky attempts to grab him. Immediately after he peeked above the towering creature’s upper half, Marek heaved his right arm and, lightning fast, hurled Iousterard directly at Madakai, his accuracy nearing flawlessness despite counting with a fraction of a second to aim.

Amid his escape, the vampire lieutenant noticed the projectile, but to his shock, the ax spun with a velocity that surpassed a ballista bolt, and not even he could move out of the path of the blade. He could only hope to lean back, hike up his sword in defense, and expect to prevent major damage from materializing on his body.

Unbeknownst to him, Iousterard was not only charged with magic this time but also with Marek’s revitalized willpower at the knowledge that his dear partner lived. Madakai’s mind screamed in alarm when he understood an effective defense was not possible.

Therefore, Iousterard ended up reclaiming his armed hand, and once again, the sharp edge of the accursed longsword rang out when it touched the frigid, hard rock.

The loss of his right hand did not elicit an anguished scream from the vampire — the weapon could give his limb back. Quickly and with a hint of disquietness beginning to grow inside, Madakai moved to retrieve the longsword.

But the outsider warrior’s fightback was far from over.

The sword had not even touched the floor of the platform when Marek struggled his way up to the top of the orc, crouching to gain momentum for his next leap as soon as he climbed. The orc, unable to control his momentum and slipping because of the frozen blood puddling around, could not stop his charge directly at the precipice.

Marek jumped off the brute’s back, the force thrusting him forward at the same time it pushed the orc toward his second demise. The grey skidded and battled against the slippery surface and his unwilling drive, but the only thing that he managed was to hold onto his battered partner, who did next to nothing to prevent the fall of the orc. In the end, gravity and the abyss claimed both of them.

As two undead retired from battle, Marek rushed toward the vampire master, who was bending low to recover the dropped sword.

He did not have the time to grasp the skull-carved hilt as the human deigned a kick directly to his face, shoving him a couple of feet back.

Madakai hissed this time, his rage more evident than ever. “Uppish cattle!” He picked himself up. “Thou darn to affront a vampyre without a mettle—” A punch cut him short, the force even nipping one of his clean fangs.

“Did you say Dalavut told you about me?” Marek punted Dalavut and flung it out of the immediate reach of the vampire, not far from where his rifle loomed. “Or were you lazily skimming during the entire story?” Madakai unnaturally expanded his jaws and initiated a series of swipes with his arms. Marek, however, under the influence of a willpower rise, dodged every single one of them.

“Had you paid more attention during the damned blade storytelling,” Marek elbowed Madakai in his decrepit nose, “you would have realized I defeated individuals twice my weight,” Madakai thrust ahead, a movement anticipated by the fighter, who responded by wrapping his arm with his cloak, which allowed him to block and absorb the assault with minimal damage, “with my bare hands! ”

Marek raised his leg and kicked Madakai’s left knee, the limb emitting a snapping sound as the hit landed. Madakai might be beyond anguish, but a broken leg stood as a nuisance to his movement faculties.

However, Marek could not seize that advantage of the broken leg as another ghoul snapped from the sidelines, lunging directly at him with a blade in hand. The human was two inches from having his nose poked by a runed blade, and Madakai took the chance to scurry away toward Dalavut.

Given the circumstances, killing the cloaked mercenary was no longer a priority for him.

*Bringan freedom. * The sword chanted inside the vampire’s mind.

A mere dilatory. Thou art mine. He thought as he motioned at the sword.

Observing that Madakai was done fighting and that his only plan had been reduced to that of a pickpocket who stole a treasure from a noble, Marek accelerated his pace, blood surging within almost as if the sword's bane was taking place. No, you won't! Lightning fast, he caught the stretched arm of the moustached ghoul amid his thrust, bent the arm with an appalling crack, and stripped away the runed shortsword from his twisted claws.

Marek’s left hand embraced the cold steel of a weapon once again, and not a moment too soon, another ghoul emerged from his left. The creature, the other cloaked zombie, with the strip of cloth no longer covering his swollen and rank eye, growled but had no opportunity to do further. His snarls mutated into gurgles as Marek, hardly batting an eye in his direction, swung his newfound weapon at his throat, cutting deep into the vertebrae.

After disposing of another thrall, Marek shifted his focus to the mustached zombie — or, more accurately, the vampire that hid behind him and who was quickly approaching the longsword. The ghoul, now stripped of functional arms, snapped his serrated teeth at Marek, but the latter swung him by the arm, practically flinging him toward the closest edge.

Had the ghoul possessed the rogue-like reflexes he had in life, he could have pivoted and recovered during his pitch. But as a mindless undead short of hands, such a feat was beyond feasible, and the end befell him.

And thus, only one undead remained alongside Marek on that high slab.

The vampire filled the human’s vision, his leathery hand with spider-like fingers reaching out for the handle of the red-black sword.

*Break thy gaol. * The ancient item whispered to Madakai.

Amese thee. In no time— Something hard and sharp gashed his face from bone cheek to forehead, momentarily delaying his get-together with the weapon — the attacker was a runed sword. “ Sellsw *ord! * ” Madakai snapped his head back at the attacker and howled, not in pain, but in frustration, and his pitch, usually smooth, transmuted into something otherworldly.

“Forget not who thine true enemy is, Striigori,” Marek declared, every single one of his syllables seeping irony, his bloodied and bruised face showcasing a mix of a scowl and the shadow of a grin.

Despite the interruption, Madakai recovered the sword and lashed out in the direction of the human. Marek was not deranged enough to face a vampire armed with only a magical item — he would lie to himself if he denied that his last hand-to-hand display was favored by fortune. No, in this instance, the target was the leather that rested on the floor.

After evading the swing, Marek stooped down and seized the strap of the wrappings; immediately after, he swirled the device around as if it were a morning star. The vampire parried the improvised weapon, but the weight of the device, added to his busted knee, made Madakai stagger a couple of steps backward.

Marek used his enemy’s misstep to retrieve the runed sword and hang the device on his back. Madakai, bewildered by the human’s sudden rebound, surveyed the hurt enemy in front. The effects of his miraculous thrill were draining away: his breathing was harsh, with lungs expanding irregularly, his eyes were minutes away from getting caged by a layer of ice, and his battered body burned and even groaned with every movement he performed.

Yet, because of the will to fight, revived because of the blaring song of a bird, the human stood undying, his life even harder to reap in comparison to the undead themselves. He not only desired to live through this godforsaken trip — he yearned to prevail with Sigrid to his side.

Impossible. However, Madakai did not perceive all the anguish overtaking the human warrior or, at least, was not satisfied by the fruits of his own performance. Putting it simply, no human should be that resilient. My servants. Where art they? It was already weird that four ghouls were defeated before one would get to give a bow, but what with the ghoulish cats and beasts? They had been inches from getting onto the ledge the last time he saw them. Why, then, had they not attacked the human?

His golden rings of irises flicked around to spot the three cats taking their sweet time to aid him in combat. All of them were practically hanging at the edge of the boulder, jerking sporadically, hissing and growling, their ink-colored eyes shrinking briefly only to dilate seconds afterward.

My servants, come to me. I maund thee! His thoughts practically leaked into the real world. He did not even need to think that: his domain over his underlings was absolute and immediate. And yet, the animals showed no signs of listening to him.

Nowite beasts! I said— Dalavut vibrated with intensity, making the vampire recoil further.

“Thine will to fight appears to be ill, lieutenant,” Marek continued with his sardonic echoing, extracting a hiss from his foe.

Madakai’s hand balled onto the handle of the sword with such might that if the weapon had been made of conventional metal, it would have creaked and twisted.

Break thy gaol. Bringan freedom.

Give me time. Madakai responded mentally to the sword’s insistent demands.

But in truth, time did not favor the immortals at that particular moment. Madakai had the sword, but his highest priority was to escape whole with the gift in hand. One thing was to defeat the human, and another was to beat him before the chimera returned.

The entity that had boasted about standing above the passage of ages was running out of time.

*Break thy gaol. * “ Bar *-up! * ” Madakai howled, his ethereal and sudden outcry startling Marek. In less time than it took a human to blink, Madakai lunged forward.

Aided by the creature’s impaired knee, Marek evaded, but just barely, and the supernaturally fast, keen point of the sword thrust passed an insignificant inch away from its mark.

Marek returned the strike with an upward slice from the runed blade. Madakai backstepped, and the blade cut the ends of the vampire’s fluttering locks, but nothing more.

Without delay, Dalavut moved horizontally at waist level, leaving a trail of dark shine in its wake. Rather than maneuver his sword back to parry, the human fighter recycled the momentum of his failed attack and pivoted on his feet, putting his back against the speeding edge.

Rather than hearing the clean sound of sliced flesh, the vampire only picked up a metallic echo as the length of Dalavut hit the wrappings with the rifle stored inside, the harrowing blade cutting no more than an inch into the metal pipe.

The indirect strike almost shoved Marek, but he managed to keep his footing and finish his twirl, sword swinging directly for Madakai’s head; the vampire rocked his head back and saw how the blade phased through the floating remnants of his will-o’-wisp eyes.

Impatience fidgeted Madakai’s supposedly nonfunctional nerves, and his eyes sparked with indignation. Likewise, the constant demands of his new weapon did not make his situation breezier.

Nottle. Both blades whistled as the air ran through their edge. How is a human cattle ficking with me on equal grounds? Dalavut speared forward, but the human used his rifle as a way of a shield and deflected the attack. I wrangled their ranks as thy cattle they were ages ago. Marek riposted immediately after and lashed out with his shortsword. Thousands of them under my domain. Submisse all of them. Awful without exception. The lunge got intercepted by the dark vampiric blade. And thou art no exception, Marek Blakesley. Dalavut bit part of the edge of the inferior enchanted weapon, and the darkened edge sank one-third through the shortsword’s length.

Marek’s shocked expression was remarkable, and Madakai could practically taste his dread.

Yes. That is thy face. That art them oozing their sweet smatch of cold blood. One skillful wrist movement, and Madakai threw the human’s armed hand out of the way, leaving its wielder wide open for an attack. Cattle let be cattle. The vampire brought his arm toward him, preparing to execute one last lunge. Even in my current state, my kind passeth them all. I walk on sempiternity. I am thy sole kemp of the Netherian Princes chosen to reign over this plane. No human — no firk — could ever dream to—

There was a brilliance, one that carried no warmth, albeit it bore magic. A familiar shine, one he saw mere jiffs ago. As if in slow motion, the vampire noticed how the man’s features, bathed with fright an instant ago, sharpened into a resolved look.

The human lifted his arm — the one that was supposed to be unarmed — and swung it directly at Madakai’s head. The strike drew closer with inhuman speed; it would reach its mark unless the undead leaned back and dodged, cutting off his own charge.

Cut off along with another thing.

The elvish ax followed its trajectory unchanged. It was too slow to separate the head from the neck, but too fast for Madakai to dodge.

A piece of flesh flung through the air, and Madakai would have screamed out of exasperation. Nonetheless, the only noise that came out of him was a discordance of gurgles.

“I’ll make the ‘pross’ from now on, Striigori,” Madakai heard the human comment, the heaviness of his breathing screaming tomes of how much energy it cost him to pull up that last attack.

Madakai tried to hiss again, but instead, only a wet fizz came out from his mouth.

Agony was foreign to the undead, but that did not mean that higher entities like Madakai Striigori could not perceive the punishment that befell their immortal bodies, nor did it mean they disregarded mutilation.

Indeed, it did not take much time before Madakai realized his lower jaw was ripped off from his being, leaving the stump of a tongue hanging in its place.

The curious ancient dialect of centuries before, which prevailed in the lieutenant’s tongue the whole time, might as well be given up for lost.

Break. Thy. Gaol.

The clamant chant of the sword chimed in, adding silver to Madakai’s latest wound. His body trembled, his circlet-like pupils intensified their colors, and the grip of his sword hardened to the point his own nails sank into his palm.

*Bringan. Fr— * The last request was not heeded as Madakai burst into outrage, issuing a sort of high-pitched trill. The sound scratched Marek’s ears and even induced shivers in his being.

The vampire lieutenant screamed and rushed directly at the human, left arm above his head, ebony-red sword gleaming dully in the dim night, any trace of that flowery gentleman of old stripped from him, and adopting an onslaught much more according to his ghoulish kind.

Dalavut plunged at its target like a guillotine, and Marek opposed resistance by swinging Iousterard directly at the longsword, expecting to overpower the weapon and disarm the vampire.

The result could not be more different.

The two magical items collided like two cannonballs, but instead of creating a loud clunk as metal crashed with metal, a booming and harmonic ring reverberated across the ledge and beyond. From the point of impact, or to be more exact, from Dalavut’s edge, a dim, velvet light expanded, swallowing both fighters.

The ethereal shockwave created a vacuum throughout that part of the ridge, clearing the atmosphere windless and soundless, banishing even snowflakes and unblurring the view. During the seconds to come, the blizzard was stripped of its authority over that particular place.

The very rock that covered the valley shook with the wave, and the debris of the rocky rain and bodies of the undead that puddled the platform were cast out of the slab. Only two individuals managed to stay on the boulder, but not without being thrown across the slab.

Marek flung to the edge of the rock, barely managing to hold onto the platform by impaling the runed blade into the rock; Iousterard, which took the blast at point-blank, flew out of the hands of his owner and landed around two yards away from where the human hung. As for Madakai, his fate had not differed from the human’s, and his withered and busted frame got hurled to the other side of the ledge.

Disoriented and with an insistent jingle resounding in his mind, Marek barely had the mental balance to resist the claws of gravity. His sight was blurred, and his ears filtered out any noise that was not that resonant ring.

Body flaccidly hanging down from the rock, hands grasping the handle of the shortsword with an iron grip, his eyes battled to regain focus and discern what loomed ahead. His ax ended up impaled on the hard stone, out of his reach. Dalavut shone grimly further ahead, resting in the same spot where the impact occurred, and beyond, from where the longsword rested, a hazy silhouette lay, prone at first, but then began to pick itself up slowly.

I— I need to make haste. Madakai shall not retake Dalavut—

“Marc!” Then it echoed: that birdlike voice filled with worry. A voice that he could have sworn he had not heard in a week.

Marek peered down at the abyss, and there he saw her, bloodied, her mask warped with distress, but above all, alive.

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

The monstress kept up with her ascending progression; in no time, she caught up with the next zombie, who, just like the one that preceded it, got tossed into the air by the tail, not giving the least of struggles. Right before keeping up the headway, something — someone — plummeted by her side; it was big, she observed, and thus clearly not Marek. She disregarded that fleeting event with a headshake and proceeded with her climbing.

Next, she hopped up to the next protruding ledge and saw the other ghoul a couple of yards to her left. That one was not still, but neither seemed to have any desire to keep going up. The raptor’s mouth twitched as if growling at an imaginary rival, and the blackness of its eyes contracted into slits back and forth.

Something extremely bizarre transpired, and Sigrid began to consider that whatever happened to these beasts was the work of a Spirit or what Marek called Gods and not the consequences of her shriek.

Nevertheless, any doubt was thrown into the back of her mind as she moved to the ledge to help out Marek, leaving the raptor behind without glancing down. She heard erratic hisses and honks, but they quickly shrank and vanished as the rock below clicked.

Upon moving for more twinklings, the slab where violence was unfurling stood two leaps away, and Sigrid’s eyes sparked with ease at hearing the icy voice of Marek. His breath came in short bursts, weariness clearly present, but he lived, his whistling blades proving he was far from giving up.

I knew you could stand against the vampear. You’re truly my hero.

Sigrid’s mirror-like orbs shone with determination, and her eyes latched onto her last obstacle: an undead snowcat. It jerked irregularly at the edge of the boulder, similar to what the raptor started to do before she moved on.

Sigrid was about to pounce up at the next ledge toward the last ladder between her and her hero. However, before she got the chance to prepare for the leap, a revolting hiss echoed along with the blizzard, and an instant later, a thunderous ring traveled across the ridge, a ring accompanied by some form of blast.

The snowstorm went mute for a quick moment, and even the whirling snowflakes were dispersed beyond her sight. Moreover, the shockwave made Sigrid drop a couple of feet, and she had to invoke all her strength not to detach from the wall.

The resonant sound numbed her senses, but there was no pain. Was it caused by Marek’s device? Unlikely, there was no fire nor widespread destruction. So, what could have caused it?

But there was no time to attend to those unanswered questions. Right above her head, two forms were flung out of the boulder and turned visible from her point of view. One was the snowcat, which was expelled from the ledge and dove at Sigrid’s back, the latter quickly flattening against the rock to avoid its falling body.

The other had a waving cloak and, like the beast that preceded him, hung on the ledge of the rock.

It was Marek.

“Marc!” Sigrid screamed, and just then, right after the ever-present blizzard asserted its dominance over the ridge, the human stared down at the she-chimera.

The sight of his monstrous and tender friend, thought lost forever mere minutes ago, caused his eyebrows to arch high and his eyes to widen. His mouth went agape, and his lower lip, crisp because of the temperature and his unrelenting fighting, quivered a bit.

The very image of the birdlike monstress occupying his view was enough to make him forget about his hanging situation.

But just as his mouth began to move to vocalize, a violent shake brought him back to reality. “S—!” An unexpected jerk turned his word into a wail of surprise. The slab, the battlefield that stood a rain of rocks and a magical shockwave, was at its final moments and was giving in to gravity.

“No!” Sigrid cried, ignoring the pain searing in her throat. “Marc! Come to me! I’ll catch you—”

“No!” He refused her aid, his denial causing Sigrid to grimace in bewilderment, but before she could protest and call him out for his stupidity, Marek continued. “The sword! On the ledge! Madakai is there too!” Sigrid’s outcry died in her aching throat, the growing uneasiness turning more evident on her owl mask. “You need to jump! Now! Lest he’ll escape with it!”

“But the wind! But you! ”

“He’s getting closer! You’re the apex predator, remember?! You can do it!”

A pair of silvery-blue eyes shifted from the human to the slab, dubiety and fear whirling in her mind. She then closed her eyes in an attempt to gather courage and strength to perform the next feat, which consisted of jumping ten yards in one go with flailing winds swaying around.

Her wings began to unflatten from her back, expanding at portcullis pace; she felt how the force of the wings increased as her limbs filled with rows of quills obstructed the cold currents.

But her back shuddered, uncertainty winning over determination, the crack of the stone sounding like the ticks of a clock, reminding her of the little time available. She could not do it — if she failed, not only would the creature flee with the nasty sword, but her beloved human would also perish. The consequences of her potential failure were too much for her to bear, and she was about to freeze in place, just like the animals did twinklings ago.

“You’re the strongest, Sig!” Marek screamed, causing her lupine ears to perk up. “You’re my hope! You give me strength while alone!” Her shudders dwindled as she listened to her human. “I know you can. The blizzard is for you to conquer! ”

Marc… Marek’s words soothed her and banished her involuntary shivers. The blizzard is for me to conquer. Her wings, half-outstretched at the moment, idled along the currents; she was testing the direction of the gusts, trying to detect the opportune gust that would give her the necessary impulse to reach the rock.

I know you can. Marek’s thoughts echoed in her mind, giving her the last boost she needed to leap high.

Her eyes snapped open, pupils shining like moons. Like the arms of a trebuchet, her wings snapped and spread to their fullest. In one deliberate movement, her talons and claws let the stone free.

Sigrid shrieked, not like she did moments before the magic boom, but like she always did when hunting her prey — she bellowed as she rode the arctic winds, her white and beautiful form soaring up above Marek, who could only stare in awe.

The rock practically generated no sound as she landed on it, her weight by no means accelerating the collapse of the platform. There, she saw him, his appearance somehow more revolting now than at the beginning of the night.

Sigrid snarled as if she spotted yet another ghoul and, quick as a shooting star, charged toward the true monster that plagued the Frostscape.

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

Madakai could not recall the last time he had lost control of his own senses.

His body — the very container of his undead soul — granted no protection against the burst of magic caused by the collision of both blades, and now his head rang with confusion.

Dalavut was not the only item brimming with ancestral power. The mercenary’s ax, going by the name Iousterard, also possessed a blessing of its own.

Nonetheless, one failed to shatter the other, and the result was that harmonious boom that put most wizard fire spells into shame.

With his head fluttering with turmoil, Madakai staggered to his feet, trying to detect the gift he had risked so much to obtain. It did not take more than an eyeblink to localize the reddish glow of the blade.

A Welch. ** It whispered the otherworldly speaker. **Thy Gaol remains a-whole.

Madakai would have frowned had his face preserved its ability to warp according to feelings. He then began to walk toward the source of the mantra.

A Welch.

Failure? What failure? What had failed? Who failed?

Wait. Was the blade reproaching him?

Thy Gaol remains a-whole.

That could not be. Madakai had been an efficient herald— no, a champion without equal. Despite his scars of old, which were present in his very soul, the lieutenant had done everything barring challenging nature itself to release the sword from the prison that the human’s hands were.

His left leg bent and cracked, and the vampire misstepped but caught himself at the last second and merely dropped to one knee. He glanced at his busted knee, moved his sole hand to grasp the strained joint, and, with a swift twist of his wrist, put the bone back in its place.

His eyes shifted back to the sword, whose call resonated insistently in his head. He prepared to stride ahead now that the aftereffects of the magic boom began to lessen, but the ground itself bounced and made him stagger, leaning his handless arm against the mountain wall to regain balance and keep his stroll.

He heard the rock groan as well as human screams, the latter accompanied by an air of urgency. Those loud mortal words, however, carried no relevance to him, whose ears were too busy listening to Dalavut’s subtle admonishment.

Break thy Gaol.

Why could not this item be silent? Why did it have to remind him of his task every passing instant? Madakai was no youngling still attached to his mother’s breast, and his mind suffered from no memory handicap.

The ceaseless demand, so similar to a mastiff’s wail, was an insult to his intellect and rank.

A Welch. Thy Gaol remains a-whole. ** Break thy Gaol. Brigan freedom.**

The vampire wanted to protest. The human was in no position to keep fighting; the chimera was nowhere to be seen. He won. A couple of steps separated him from total victory. Therefore, why complain?

Dalavut loomed closer and closer, and in no time, Madakai stood little more than an arm’s length from its handle. In short order, his clawed hand drew nearer toward the wicked item.

His legion. His hand. His voice. Temporary sacrifices. They would be mended before the blazing sphere bathed the land with its warmth. And at last, he could bid farewell to sleeping with a sheet of dirt and the constant harassment of underground pests.

His bony nails scratched the black metal of the handle. It was such a trivial act, but it ignited Madakai’s hopes to the degree that he could nearly see himself as the beautiful vampire he used to be, as the lieutenant who collected mortal cattle for feasts.

As the only heir to the Netherian Princess.

But the fantasy broke as a screech reached his ears. Then, the beating wings drew his eyes from the sword to the edge where the human draped down. He saw it— saw her: the entity that defied his might as if he were another mundane monster.

The chimera, charging like an avalanche, shrieked in his direction, relentless and merciless.

A mortal feeling, one pretty human for the vampire’s fancy, flicked inside. It was by no means as intense as when he faced the Argentum Army, but it skittered throughout his being, like a cockroach thought dead during sleeping times. For the first time since he rose from his grave, Madakai stood against the danger without an ace up his sleeve.

It was only natural that fear and uncertainty spawned from his core.

His only thought was to put up a defense, play around the feathery monster, and recover the sword.

One catapult-missile slam destroyed that checklist in its totality.

There was no resistance — the vampire’s wrecked frame was blasted across what remained of the battlefield. Madakai rolled and bounced, twisting his body in ways that would cause severe damage to any conventional human in order to dig his sharp claws into the granite and stop his involuntary impetus.

He barely succeeded, and like the human on the other side of the ledge, he was now hanging from one arm.

There, at the border of the abyss, Madakai saw how the chimera stood next to his treasure. She did not even bother to finish the job — her predatory eyes were not even set upon him — and instead crouched low to retrieve the sword, turned back, and rushed toward the human.

His mind screamed. Defeat could not find him after everything he did. Reanimating the animals. Leading the ghouls to the mountain’s ridge. Pouring rocks over the mercenary and his pet. Casting the chimera out of his way. How could he fall by the hand of one God and then eat dirt from the hand of mortals?

That was unacceptable. He was the onliest warrior fighting for Nedere. He had to crawl back into the rock and use his nails, fangs, and even exposed bones to tear the enemy apart. Human and manticore alike. Time was at his side, he just—

There was a pop, a crack, and, lastly, a thunder. His body felt lighter, almost floating, and he saw how the ground leaned downward. The mortals exchanged a couple of cries, and the avian creature raised the fighter from the edge and put him on his back, the man clutching tightly onto her without hesitation.

Madakai tried to detach from the plunging boulder, but with only one hand left, he failed to reach for a handclasp on the ridge in time. Shortly, he picked up speed, losing the least of control he had over his fall.

It was inevitable — his plan, designed for the last two nights, was crashing just like him and the boulder. The sword’s chant started to dwindle as the distance between him and the twosome enlarged.

After a couple of seconds, the gloomy shine of the sword, along with the glow of the chimera’s eyes, the latter trailing after his helpless descent, were obscured by the whirling weather and faded into white.

A Welch.

That was the last thing that rang in his head before losing sight of his precious blade.

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

Sigrid surveyed how the slab bounced off a trickle of times before the moving, white curtain of currents blocked her sight.

Madakai, who was holding onto the boulder, likewise disappeared from her view.

“Is— is he gone?” Marek asked, his tone giving away his fatigue.

“He fell, that’s certain,” she responded without stopping from looking down, somehow uncertain.

Marek panted for a moment before speaking again. “Give me the sword. I want to make sure.”

Sigrid twisted her neck to stare at the sword in his talons. The longsword glowed as usual, and despite grasping at its hilt, the beats Marek told her about were nonexistent to her.

“Could you… put it on my scabbard?” He petitioned her; his arms ached, and he lacked the strength to support his weight with one single limb; even a task as simple as sheathing a sword turned laborious.

Sigrid nodded and positioned the black-red sword inside its container.

In the act, the pulsation returned to Marek, but its tempo and intensity were vastly reduced compared to what used to be at the beginning of the latest nightmare. The relaxed throb barely got to calm his nerves — it is true that even after beating down the vampire master, ghoulish beasts were trying to climb from the foot of the mountain pass, hence the phantom heartbeats, but it could also mean Madakai Striigori lived and lurked closeby.

Either way, it was not wise to await him amid the floorless ridge.

Marek groaned and let his head drop on Sigrid’s fluffy nape. “Bring us to a stable soil, p-please…”

A faint peep was offered in response to the human’s plea, and Sigrid set her gaze up and continued the tiresome task of climbing for the third time that night. For their comfort, no entity chased them anymore.

Minutes passed by, and Sigrid reached the end of the ridge, the two once again standing in stable soil. Not satisfied with that, however, she carried Marek farther from the edge of the mountain. They vied for many stressful minutes, even two hours, to risk taking a breath at the border of the precipice — no reason to tempt luck and wait for a gust of arctic wind to drive them out to the bottom of the pass.

Only when the two set foot on even rocks did Sigrid halt and release Marek from her back.

With the heartbeats finally gone and feet standing on horizontal ground, Marek surrendered to exhaustion. Icy rock clattered with the fall of a short, metallic length, then thudded as a pair of knees plunged on it. Next, he began to pant and cough.

“Marc!” Alarmed and believing his condition was acting up on him again, Sigrid squatted down to his side, placing her arm and wing over his back. “Please, resist! Don’t black out now!” With a ragged breath, Marek turned his face toward Sigrid. “We just beat the cold ones. Don’t let the arcane thingy claim you, please!” She wailed, her eyes beginning to accumulate tears.

“S-sig…” The man muttered, his voice almost a whisper.

“W-we won. Madakai is g-gone,” whistles escaped from her nostrils, and she tightened her embrace over Marek. “You-u can stand this. You stood a-against the horde on your own. You just c-can—”

Marek jolted and shifted toward Sigrid, interrupting his friend’s almost tearful speech as he applied pressure on her chest. His trembling arms surrounded her sides, and his gloved hands grasped high at the fur of her back; moreover, he sank his forehead into her shoulder.

“I thought I lost you…” he murmured, practically sobbing on her tuft as he hugged her.

“Marc…” As she was squeezed, Sigrid could only remain still as the chilly sensation of wetness spread slowly on her fur. “I-I… I so—”

“Forgive me, Sig,” Marek continued, not letting Sigrid voice her thoughts.

“F-for what?”

“For everything, ” her face softened, ears lowering. “For disobeying you. For awakening the vampire. By almost killing you. By being a fucking jerk,” he detached his face from her collarbone, drenching himself with her blood and his own tears; notwithstanding, he refused to look at her face. “And for failing to protect you.”

“Failing me?” She echoed softly.

“Yes… that leech attacked you…” he suppressed a sniff by clenching his teeth, “and I did nothing to prevent it…”

Sigrid said nothing; she only stood there stooping, eyes hovering above Marek’s head.

“Since I joined you… I have done nothing but toss impertinent words at you. Belittle your display of kindness. And now…” there was a gulp. “And now… the monster that got loose because of my stupidity almost killed you.”

“... It was not your fault, Marc… he ambushed us both. Don’t be harsh on yourself—”

“The world is not harsh on me enough, ” he objected, balling one hand into a fist. “That monster turned out to be worse than what I’ve anticipated… he killed people and beasts and raised them as ghouls… I should have known that. I must have known that!” His shoulders trembled unevenly; he was clearly battling to keep his emotions at bay and not issue a weep. “And as a result, that abomination appeared from nowhere… then your blood splashed around… and I thought… I thought… ” He began to stutter, but in the act, a force on his back pushed him further into Sigrid.

“Easy, easy…” Sigrid comforted with her melodious voice, the wound on her neck disrupting the sweetness of her song in the least. “I’m alive and fine.”

With his face buried once again in Sigrid’s mane, Marek let his sobs escape from his lungs, the silky coat of the monstress muting his sorrowful noises. “I believed to be alone… that my br-brainlessness caused your demise…”

“You are not brainless. You are a mind-blowing warrior…” She added a layer of feathers to the embrace with her wings. “I… too, thought I lost you… It felt so horrible knowing you were up there fighting alone.”

“You have little to lose. I have everything to lose.”

“Don’t dare to think little of you, Marc. You’re the most fascinating hooman I’ve seen.”

“F-for real? Despite everything I’ve done to you?”

“Of course. I forgive you… I did it days ago.”

“How— how can you f-forgive me so easily?”

“Because you’re my hero…”

“I’m hero of no one.”

“Yes, you are. You’re the same fighter who conquered the wargs. And tonight… you conquered the cold ones. And you did it without my help.”

Marek issued one last low sniff. “I was not alone. You were there… You gave me strength.”

“A hero gains strength from those he loves.”

He snorted soberly. “Imbi told you that?”

“You think Ankarl would tell me that?”

“Pft, no, he wouldn’t,” he chuckled.

After sharing another twinkling within each other’s cuddle, both decided to break to hug, although Sigrid’s arms remained on his shoulders. “Why do you keep avoiding looking at me?”

Marek’s shoulders shuddered at the sudden inquiry. “I… suffered several injuries across my face. They are… swollen and rather gruesome…” he mumbled while he scratched one jaw with his finger.

Sigrid giggled. “Come on, Marc. Look at me.”

Marek sighed and, without adding anything else, looked up to Sigrid. His face was indeed bruised, with purple spots and red lines running across, but not without any particular bloodstained wound. However, Sigrid noticed his eyes were veiny red.

“Yeah… I’m sorry you have to see me like this…” he commented.

“Like how?”

“Crying…” He averted his gaze. “Shedding tears is not something proper of a warrior.”

“Oh~. Worry not about that,” A wing retracted and motioned toward his face. His jaw twitched at her warm touch, and his eyes were drawn back to hers. “My hero wouldn’t be as lovely if he were as cold and rigid as an icicle.” Sigrid then used the edge of her limb to clean the leftovers of the human’s tears as well as her own blood from his cheek and eye. “It is also good to know his feelings are the same as his admirer,” she added as one of her fingers reached one eye to clean the tears puddled on the lid.

Marek responded by clasping the remiges quite tenderly. When the owl-wolfess took her wings away from his face, Marek noticed the red tainting her feathers, and upon acknowledging that blood was not his, his eyes lingered on Sigrid’s upper body; his visage saddened a bit upon detecting the extension of her injury on her neck. He motioned his free hand to touch the damaged zone but stopped halfway as the fear of inducing pain with his contact spawned in his mind.

Sigrid saw through the gesture and spoke. “It’ll heal.”

“Your voice… sounds hoarse.”

“It’ll heal too. ”

Marek’s intense yet empathic stare focused on Sigrid’s orbs as if trying to see through her and confirm whether she was lying or not. He concluded she was not and let his hand drop by his side.

“I’m sorry… I’m truly sorry,” he got to say.

“Again with the apologies?”

“Is just… all this could’ve been avoided if I just had listened to you…” Marek looked at his feet, guilty once again overtaking his mind.

Sigrid sighed with a whistle, clearly weary of that game of guilt and apologies. She glanced at the sky, now less violent than at the beginning of the night, with the auroras bathing the top of the mountain with a bluish hue. She considered what to do now with her friend’s growing remorsefulness.

Her irises shimmered with one idea, after which they adjusted back at the blue man.

“Y-you know…,” she sheepishly said, making Marek raise his head just a little to observe her, “Imbi told me that when a hero does something impressive, they are often rewarded with… erhm, something special. ” Marek’s brows narrowly frowned, and his guilt deflated to give space to confusion.

“What are you talking—” Marek was about to inquire about her statement, but he stopped as soon as he saw Sigrid’s mask leaning closer to his face. One foot. Seven inches. Three inches. She did not show hints of stopping her approach.

Finally, her beak pecked the side of his right cheek, permeating the surface of his skin with the mellow breath expelled by her nostrils. The sensation did not stop there, and the rigid and crooked muzzle of the owl-wolfess began to trail circles around the man’s soft skin.

During the entire act, Sigrid issued feeble and adorable sounds characteristic of birds, which sent vibrations across Marek’s lower face and neck.

The fond display lasted no more than a minute, and after it ended, Sigrid leaned back, leaving Marek’s mien frozen with mystification.

“I… what exactly… was that a…” His tongue knotted as Marek babbled as he tried to come up with coherent sentences.

“Eh, yes, em…” and apparently, his mouth was not the only one that struggled to produce words. “I have seen hoomans doing this t-thing and… ehm… I have no lips, so…” her tuft ruffled, and her eyes battled not to wander off from Marek. “I believe settlers call it ‘bill’ or something…”

“B-bill… like… bill and coo?”

Sigrid gripped her elbows. “Y-yes… I— erh, expected to make you feel better by giving you that…” She stroked her arms and averted her eyes from the human, only to adjust them on him again immediately after. “Did… did it work? Do you feel better?”

“That was… well… it felt like…” Marek mouthed, but no comprehensible word emerged from his yap.

“I… don’t understand.”

He quickly raised his fist to his mouth and coughed, attempting to steady himself. “It was… fantas— nice— I mean, great, it felt… pretty warm and… sweet,” he coughed again, “I feel better. Thank you, Sig.” Saying ‘thank you’ after a girl gave you affection… You are clearly dense and stupid, Blakesley.

Sigrid offered a timid smile. “I’m g-glad you liked…”

After that juvenile exchange, both individuals submerged into silence for an awkward moment, which persisted until a silvery glow rose from Marek’s lower body.

Upon noticing the return of Ioustered, Sigrid opted to break the silence. “Well… We better find refuge… You— we had little sleep, and considering our injuries, rest is well-deserved.”

“Ah, yes. The heartbeats are practically gone, and the blazing sphere is about to appear. I don’t think the leech will show up, assuming, of course, that he survived. Well… I follow you.”

Sigrid nodded and stepped at Marek’s side, offering her wing for him to protect from the stinging currents. Marek accepted her wing without further words, and soon after, both started their march across the mountain range.

Nevertheless, as soon as they began to travel, a considerable heartbeat thumped in Marek’s ears.

For his tranquility, it was not caused by a cursed source.

He realized that the pulsations were coming from his own chest — a vibration stripped of any form of magical influence, neither produced by the distress of the body.

For the first time since possibly ever, his heart hit his chest because of a very human feeling.

A human feeling induced by a monstrous source.