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The pits of ice had sunk in the most sepulchral quietude.

The wind bowed low, as if growing heavy.

The giant dared not to snore — it wanted not to rouse his anger.

And the skittering, the drums of wars belonging to the horde of the depth, had been cut silent.

Oh, the silence, the hymn of reformation.

That which signaled the end of a dynasty.

That which chorused the presence of the reborn.

And as the North held its breath — when the banquet table lay empty — did the vampire take in the reverence he was receiving from the ambiance itself, the genuflection of every shadow.

First had been his vigor, which he wore like a butterfly wore its wings right after breaking out of its chrysalid. The prime of his mortal life recrudesced, and so did the weight of a jaw, which was wiggling from side to side; a row of teeth finally clicked with their twins.

The eyes caught more than a graveyard of spiders. It was darkness — a fleeting and welcomed one. In life, that darkness served like a guide to the dreamscape; now it was cosmetic, a tool to convey words and emotions, mostly to persuade or intimidate.

The fingers of his free hand rose to touch his face, and at once the revenant noticed the skin on his face was no longer under the stress of dried skin.

The skin was smooth.

The nose was complete — long, sharp, and straight — worthy of nobility.

His defined cheekbones, among his defined jawlines and chiselled chin, had re-emerged.

At last, his hand rose overhead. Fingers, each crowned with a sharp tip, were no spider legs but fit combatants, curling smoothing without eliciting that sickening _crack _so characteristic of dead branches.

No longer stretching or clinching to muscle fiber, the tone of his skin deviated from that reminiscent of withered rose and adopted that of pinkish smoke, like a pile of ash that preserved a flame within.

Mouth went ajar, sucked air in, and a sigh ghosted out; breathless, warmthless, blissful.

Silence itself winced.

For the first time in centuries, his newly grown lips bent into an eminent smile.

“Complete at last.”

A heartthrob pulsed within his grip.

_Disedge? _ The message the blade conveyed was embellished with conceit.

“As never before.”

Mightful?

Madakai bunched and loosened his grip in succession. He estimated the strength by the movement alone. Steel might well be clay under his grip.

“As the Netherian Princes pretend.”

Thanks art welcome.

How talkative the piece of metal had growth.

“...” He nodded, still scanning the changes on his body.

Grateful thou soundeth not.

Talkative and arrogant, indeed.

Nonetheless, Madakai had to make some concessions. Where would he be without the sword?

“Thou had been a behoovefull leveller, I come to accept. My gratitude is yourn. Shalt thy time come, I will gift thee a debellished scawberk befitting of thine edge.”

That sentence tasted like corpulent nobleman’s clotted blood, but Madakai agreed it was an appropriate reward. Although quite an inflation, it was honest; Dalavut came to accept it and moved on.

Nex step?

“... Of that I shalt think with fartherance.”

Krtsh… Krtsh.

Amid the graveyard of vermin, a diehard, bleeding through joints and short of a few legs. Madakai had not inflicted any of these, the previous cave-in did, hence its tardiness in locating the intruder.

But even with its kind reduced to husks soaked in green ooze, its mother’s last will prevailed. A fighter of a lost cause, but a fighter regardless.

Thus, it crept closer, tiptoeing across the debris and the carcass of its brethren. When the spider positioned itself on a column, two yards away from the target and six yards high, its legs drew in and its abdomen lowered to the ice. A leap ensued.

The vermin clicked its fangs midjump.

The air buzzed as it drew an arc.

Sploosh!

And its body burst into a sickening crunch.

One heartbeat the arachnid was whole; the next, a spray of viscera, exoskeletal shards, and ichor.

Its fluids showered over the area, joining its brethren in tomb-like silence.

Madakai remained in the same position as before the attack — none of his feet left the spot, and not a single droplet of green blood landed on him. The spider never saw the strike coming its way.

“This place the vermin plagueth. It disgusteth me.”

Madakai heaved his sight above until his attention latched on one specific crack from where the northern lights seeped in. Detecting the proximity of the blazing sphere was an innate ability of all witful undead. The night was young, the vampire could estimate.

The vertical walls of ice opposed no challenge to the lieutenant, even during his weakened state. Nonetheless, he wanted to test his renewed strengths.

Instead of moving next to the glacial wall, he crouched low before propelling himself into an upspring.

His prowess drove him several yards high onto a nearby pillar; there, he repeated the process again, a leap from surface to another, each time closer to the ceiling. Quiet and swift, like a jumper spider bouncing from leaf to leaf.

By the sixth leap, he was already leading straight for the crack, nearly two hundred feet high from the floor. The crack was narrow, even for someone sleek like Madakai was, but that factor was not something the vampires worried about.

As soon as his body hit the ceiling with unperturbed speed, the burrs of ice along the crack’s border burst into tiny pieces, disturbing the lieutenant’s trajectory in the least.

Right after the cloud of frost was swept by the wind, Madakai landed crouched on both legs and one arm, producing the least of sounds.

Atop the titan of ice, under the whirls of gust, his meditation persevered.

The knot that held down his possibilities was finally undone; the sellsword — the latest heir in the line of obstacles — no longer defined the next step of the vampire’s schemes. His latest foe now rendered an obstinate calf among a herd of obstinate cattle, Madakai turned toward a more imperative goal.

Grætøh — testimony to his failure.

Each day that the lavender cat wavered on top of its watchtower was a day humanity rejoiced in the Princes’ defeat. Madakai wished for the Capital’s destruction, but if he could not cause its fall when he had an army of his own, what could he attain now?

Pragmatism over resentment.

There were a myriad of villages, human and orc alike, scattered across the Frostscape, all serving as raw matter to grow an army. With his powers back, Madakai should be able to raise _lesser ones, _witted undead capable of tactical thought.

By haunting the region and converting its citizens, the lieutenant should be able to gather an army and take Grætøh by surprise.

…

But… What if Grætøh was no longer as prominent as before? What if time itself flooded forward while leaving the Capital to erode? Other city-states might have emerged in his absence — new kingdoms might have risen from granite and iron.

Not even the starred sky was the same.

An alternative flashed in his mind: _spycraft. _

A web of scouting weaved by his hands; he would train lesser ones so they could infiltrate settlements.

Assassination. Manipulation. An Undead Lord posing as a Puppeter.

This task on itself was its own lattice of odds.

Whatever he decided to do, many years might pass before he could make a noteworthy move.

It did not matter — eternity was his ally. He had plenty of time to scheme his ascend.

Aimless, Madakai?

And so, the echo in his mind chimed in. Could Madakai aspire to privacity from now on?

Mightful anew, yet arfe.

Scavenger, all along.

“Pekish me thinking our presence shalt be shrouded.” His voice edged on weariness, laced with sarcasm.

Gall is unwarranted.

Here during thine absence.

Listening is wise.

Madakai narrowed his eyes, considering the sword observation.

“Any insight?”

Humanity groweth hard.

Weapons flatten cities.

Kill by thy millions.

Detection and thou will be riped up.

Thy more thou slive, more chances that turneth reality.

Madakai shed its annoyed expression and adopted an impassive one.

So engaged in survival had he been that the idea of human progression had escaped his wits.

Through the lens of the mercenary’s memories, he had taken glimpses at weapons that bolted like thunder and roared like volcanos. How common were these weapons among the more advanced civilizations?

Overwhelmed?

To be expected.

“Humankind has grown grievous. The farther reasons to slive hidden.”

Riped up before accomplishment.

None but failure awaiteth.

“Insight is a brush. Colour me.”

A rush of foreign thoughts hummed in his mind. Ripples in a lake instead of sentences, each followed by an image of what Dalavut conveyed.

A frozen summit here. A underice hollow there.

Then a beast, unique in presence, near the end of the ripples, followed by one last set of visions.

The stark dive of a obsidian-black edge; the burst of all red all around.

“Demency,” bluntly came his voice. “Not a day since ableness returned to me, and thou wish for me to affront a dragon.”

Demency not.

Since birth, potential of dragonkind is carved in thir souls.

Delicious is thy snatch thir veins hold.

“Thine thoughts art led by hunger.”

Not mine, but Princes’.

Provide dragon blood, and mightfulness shalt thou have.

“I am in my prime.”

Mental ripples stirred erratically; they conveyed amusement.

Thine prime is but a bud.

Spriteth further it may if thy Princes will it.

Fill thir glass and reward shalt be exquisite.

Madakai took his chin between his fingers and rubbed it, grasping what Dalavut had revealed to him. He could grow stronger; the only thing he needed to do was to serve the Princes as a headwaiter and pour dragon blood in a black-scarlet glass for them to drink.

“To kill a wyrm is no lurch. Thou expect me to affront its might with no army under my command?”

No need.

His brows drifted together.

Someone else parthed thy same goal.

For the next eyeblinks, the frown did not leave his face. But as his mind geared, the answer came to him as a shooting star.

“Thy sellsword.”

Thy means he hath.

Thy path he cleareth. Thy prize thou take.

Marek Blakesley was equipped with a weapon of great destruction, forceful enough to cause cave-ins and blow edifices sky high.

Madakai just needed to follow the man close, wait for him to soften the mythical beast with the burst projectile, and intercept the man so Dalavut could land the coup de grace.

To Dalavut’s credit, the idea seemed more tantalizing than wandering for generations; it almost made one corner of his mouth bent up.

There was only one potential flaw.

“And if thy sellsword cannot live up to thy toil?”

Then help.

Orchestrate from shades.

“I cannot approach with the firk halshed by his leash.”

Another way.

More pawns for thy game.

“Spare me thy vagueness.”

The hum returned, and so did the ripples, one after another, each charged with enlightenment. If the blade held the power of claircognizance, why even bother with chatter?

Nonetheless, the thoughts kept flowing in, ripple after ripple, until no detail was left out. Scheme sorted out within, Madakai went off his way to the edge of the glacier.

The windful cold did nothing but make his spectral hair and waistcloth, now resembling a loincloth, flutter wildly.

At the brink of the precipice, vertigo would make any man wince back and cower with something more than sheer frigidness, but the vampire saw the bottom floor like nothing but a soft canvas where he could step with no issue.

After impaling the longsword on the ice, his eyes sealed close, and his chin rose.

A sensorial arrangement was unfolding inside. Colors and sound became dull, but taste and smell broke the confines of his tongue and nose, expanding beyond what was possible for a vulture under these climatic conditions.

In the darkness of his mind, hotspots of sensorial information, scattered away from each other, flared with variable intensity and ting.

Blood. Vortexes of blood scent.

He focused on the most intense hotspots, taking in the sample and breaking their composition down from the smell alone.

Most intense hotspots were like poodles where warg and manticore blood mixed, or where the aforementioned monsters stockpiled their hunt prizes.

Of the sellsword of his beast, there had been no hint. They had done well in covering their bloodied footprints.

The scanning went on, his sense of smell shifting from hotspot to another, until he found a hybridation of scents like no other in the region — a node where the blood of wargs, manticores, and other dangerous animals gathered, along with another one deemed the weirdest of all.

Human blood. More than one sample of human blood.

The focus halted at once, and when the darkness faded away, Madakai found himself staring at the East.

“Found thee.”

A smirk of satisfaction crept to his face.

He presented his arm before him, golden rings boring deep into it, as if seeing what lay inside his pores and underneath the skin. A lapse of concentration where he tried to picture every single fiber that made out his arm.

And after a moment that lasted no more than ten seconds, a hump emerged in his skin, followed by that same hump moving as if there was a critter inside.

The bulge swelled further and further until it moved no more. Then, it peeled off.

A whole ply of skin, flesh, and muscle tissue flaked off as if it were a book’s page.

The injury, if that could be called that way, poured with no blood.

The ply of flesh undulated as it tried to morph and rearrange itself, both ends flapping as wings. It was growing blacker, then feathery, each second becoming more avian in appearance until—

Kaw!

—An avian cry announced the end of the transformation.

What began as a cut of his own flesh was now perched on his arm, posing as a raven.

It spun its head to see its creator, with whom it shared its eyes.

“Greetings, charrey lichfoul.” He used his free hand to caress the bird. It gladly accepted the gesture, cawing again.

“Indeed. I am back.” His head tiled to the side. “Aleyne, brid of mine?”

Another caw.

“Then let us be a murder once more.”

As soon as he finished that sentence, pleats began to appear across his body, from toes to head; even his tattered kit peeled off.

In matters of breaths, Madakai was not a single vampire but a swirl of pitch-black feathers and avian cries. Dalavut was likewise absent — it, too, had merged with the murder.

Thus, without further procrastination, the murder of ravens soared off the titan, unchallenged by the winds that would hold down a grown man, faster than any earthly bird.

Straight to the Icing Boundary.

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

The last flecks of sunlight seeped off the horizon.

Sight had become unreliable.

Like clockwork, the body grew heavy with tiredness.

What was left to do during these dark hours but sleep?

In the end, weary men drifted off easier than others. Right?

Zhwe-Zhwee.

Idiocy.

Such a principle only applied in places of tranquility, which the Frostscape was not known for.

His armor was no sleepwear.

The shaft of his halberd was no pillow and neither was his shield.

And the overhang of icy tusks was no shelter but a transitory withdrawal from struggle.

No matter how much his body craved it or how secure the alcove had been alleged, sleep was not achievable.

Zhweee-Kch.

Cold bit bitterly.

His belly throbbed with hunger.

Injuries burnt underneath the ochrelloy metal.

How to sleep with many spear points deep in him?

Kch-Kch.

And to pour salt over the injury, his mind was as scarred as his body was.

The darkness behind his eyelids, intended as the refuge of his psyche, hid the avatar of his trauma. And that avatar was shaped like cats — multi-headed cats. With eyes glowing like precious tones, as sharp as the point of daggers, each loaded with more than a beastly need to feed.

Zhwee-Zwh.

Too tired to remain awake. Too shaken to surrender to sleep.

The veil between wakefulness and sleep had become limbo for him.

Was it possible to sleep?

Could the cavalier expect to survive the night when body and mind writhed?

Zhweee!

… More importantly: would that infernal noise die off?!

“Quiet the _hell _down, damn it!” Ulrich finally snapped, breaking from his limbo of restlessness.

“I see ya hold a bit of backbone,” a response came from a man a few feet away. He wore a fur robe and crouched low, attention too busy to follow speech manners. “Were ya to remain silent, I would think ya dead.”

“The dead don’t have to withstand that—”

Kssh!

“Said no more!”

The man on the floor reacted to the bawl in the least, as if he were listening to the fit of someone else’s child.

“For real, Tinman. The sky roars overhead and ya suffer for this petty jingle. How touchy ya’ve grown, Ulrich.”

“And you cockier, Imants.” A growl.

“Good grief. Go nap in silence, Tinman. Let the hotshot here do the work.”

Imants continued scratching the ice with a ceremonial dagger, not bothering to see Ulrich to his face.

“You think I can with that damned noise of yours? Or with this damned cold or these injuries?”

“Oh, _boo hoo. _Lil stick-swinger got his knee bruised. Wanna shake a rattle? Hear me cradle? Perhaps momma’s teat?” Ulrich did well in controlling himself. Were he in normal conditions, he would have bolted straight and sunk the butt of his halberd in the wizard’s stomach.

Instead, his grip hardened around his poleweapon.

“Ya forget I got my hipbone cracked? I’m not without pain, ya scrap-wearing griper.”

“Would you rather have your entire waist torn apart? I wrestled a manticore to save you. You should be grateful, scumbag.”

“After all the time I pushed ya ass off danger?” A scoff. “Sure, Tinman. Once ya stop cutting beef, I lull ya a song.”

Imants kept avoiding visual contact. Sheer thoughtlessness enraged Ulrich more than the noise itself.

He could keep the hostile exchange bounce off back and forth. Hell, he could even pick himself up and greet the wizard with a punch on his thin-haired head.

But the ambience was harsh enough, and the tension thick like never before. They had fought all these days against the wild; better not to fight each other.

Besides, were he to knock Imants out, he would delay the creation of the glyph.

“... Should have let Mørk kick your ass.”

Thus, Ulrich stood the scratching noise while sitting against the wall of the alcove.

With a tight belly and clenched teeth, Ulrich gathered his will to fight the elements, occasionally tapping his own forehead against the length of his halberd.

The noise the wizard produced did more than nick his eardrums. The sound fed his nightmares — so reminiscent of manticores running their claws along the ice.

More vivid by the moments, Ulrich could not help but think that the nightmares were merely no tricks of his tired psyche but signs that hellhounds — _hellcats _— were looking for him.

And among the many sojourns from and to the sea of dreams, the _tap _of something hard pounding ice made him jerk and gasp on the spot.

As if gaining a boost of energy, his eyes winced wide and sharp, and his metal-clad form bolted upright with the poleweapon as support.

For once, Imants paid attention to the cavalier and shifted his gaze to the edge of the precipice that made the alcove’s border, hands reaching for his pouch.

“Fear not, friends.” A gentle breeze of a voice reached them before the image of its speaker could.

Coming from the rightmost part of the alcove, a man manifested, a bag slung on his shoulder and with a fag of sticks under his arm. Hooded with a cape that fell to his waist and with a collar trimmed with raspberry leaves, no one that saw his appearance would say that he had spent two weeks in the wild.

His clothes seemed dirty but not torn, and although the quiver of his back was light with the absence of arrows, there was no sign of blood or injury across them or the young visage he wore.

Ulrich deflated with a sigh before falling seated. Imants, instead, clicked his tongue and went back to work out on the floor.

“Fuck, Sully. Should at least announce you were climbing.”

“Against the winds? A waste of breath. My boots were fitter for the task.”

“Found any trouble?”

“Fortunately, my venture had been uneventful.”

“What ‘bout the food? Ya brought some?” The wizard chimed in without meeting the newcomer’s face.

“Of course,” the hooded man disregarded the haughty undertone of his partner. He unslung his bag and opened it, revealing two sizable pieces of shevon.

Imants turned his attention to the goatmeat. “Two legs?”

“The uneventfulness was not without costs. I left a decoy for the manticores.”

The ranger walked beneath the overhang and dropped the group of sticks and bag a few feet away from Ulrich.

“How do you fare, Ulrich?”

“A lion with scabies, but a lion regardless. Would fare better if it weren’t for that jackass right there.”

“I see,” he turned to Imants. “What about you?”

“Think of me as a whiner, Leaf-praiser?”

“The wound in your hip seemed significant. And given you have been doing that engraving—”

“Glyphization,” Imants corrected.

“Doing that glyphization since I left, I believe your body must be quite sore.”

“Did I stutter when I say I am no whiner?”

“No, you did not.”

“Then spare me the nursey charade. More than anything, I need silence.”

Sullivan pursed his lips to one side.

“_Bah, _ignore that scumbag. He is hurt once and suddenly feels compelled to bite the hand who feeds him. Been like that since he got here.”

Imants had not been the only one growing sour. With each day they survived, their moods took a spiteful turn. As their numbers decreased, the guilt was shared out among the survivors.

“What about you, Ulrich. Will you bite my hand?” He offered a faint smile.

“My teeth for the enemy.”

“So, care if I…” He trailed off, seeing no need to clear up his intention.

“Just be quick… My pride is hurt enough and won’t stand longer.”

Sullivan chuckled before walking toward Ulrich. Once in front, he knelt and settled his palm over the cavalier’s shoulder plate.

Not a breathing cycle passed when the ranger’s hand began emitting a wimpy green light, which suffused onto the gilt-gray metal and onto the man inside.

A wave of elevation flowed Ulrich, as if the spear rooted in his flesh were removed until only the tip remained. Bone throbbed less, and his muscles relaxed.

The cavalier could not help but sigh in relief and close his eyes.

The surge over, Sullivan rose to his feet and spoke: “Sorry. The fruit of my faith is running empty for the night. The best I can do tonight is alleviate your pain.”

“Mommy Glynn ran out of milk.” Sullivan heard muttering from his back.

“It had been enough to keep us whole. Mother Gynn demands not your worship, but a bit of gratitude is welcome.”

More muttering and scoffing. Then, the ice scratched harder.

“Mørk did well in looking for solitude. Were I in his position, I would have knocked some sense into that scumbag.” Ulrich remarked.

“So that’s why he left.” He crossed his arms. “Keeping the party in one piece would be easier if none of you were fighting each other.”

“This party is but an association of wrecks.” He elicited a series of coughs. “Couldn’t even reach the goal in one piece.”

“One one seed to sprout a tall pine.”

“This is no pine but a half-smothered bud, Sully. Look around. Of nine fighters, only four survived.”

Sullivan fell quiet for a moment.

“The dead aren’t without merit. Because of them—”

“Because of them we underwent logistic problems.” Imants added.

“Too much for aspiring to silence…” Ulrich mumbled.

“But what else could ya wait for leaving wannabes and gold-seekers into our ranks?”

“They wanted to defend their lands.”

“Oh, and how _damn _well they carried out that task. Deadbrained commoners couldn’t do something well even if the Governor himself offered gold in return. But I already have this debate with Mørk and plan not to have it with _ya. _I grew tired of talking about dead-ass people.”

The jerk had a point — with so many individuals making up the party, problems surged once and then. Even when their lives were not at stake, rupture threatened them as much as the monster did.

“... Regardless, we have come this far. It wouldn’t be fair to say none of them contributed to our cause.”

“Whatever ya says, Leaf-praiser. Fortunately for us all, I stick to my task, and whether ya are grateful or not, I’m getting ya asses back to Vergrárr Path.”

“I never denied your contributions…” Sullivan said under his breath before getting close to the wizard.

He saw the intricate marks carved on the ice, a trio of rings encircled by a larger ring, each with eccentric characters written across.

“How much time before you complete this?”

“Because of my hip injury, I lasted one _fucking _day in getting this glyphization ready. Then, I shall transfer my magic to it and recite a series of chants.”

“And that will take…”

“With my current reserves? Two days.”

“Shit.” Ulrich swore. “Two more days in this derelict icecube.”

“Should have protected me better, Tinman.”

A dog-like growl rumbled across.

“Easy, friend. We are almost done. Manticores don’t come this far, nor do other predators.”

“‘Don’t come this far’? Gee, I wonder _why? _Stems from no bitches around, or is it because of the tax policy?”

“Withhold the derision, Imants. You want silence? We give you silence. Take care of the sigil while I prepare our food.”

“What of Mørk?” Ulrich queried.

“He is impulsive, not stupid. He isn’t far. I’ll seek for him once the food is ready.”

The cavalier settled up for that answer, whereas the wizard seemed not concerned with the whereabouts of his leader.

As custom during these two weeks of struggle, Sullivan did the cooking, after which he left the cavalier rest and the wizard carve the floor.

Mad Axe needed some company.

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

Silently and defiantly he stood on the crest of Everwintry Blackpeak.

Overhead, a massive horn of ice loomed, shaped like the palette of a beast. At his feet, at the feet of the abyss, a road of spikes, like the surface of a floss tree, stretching downhill with no discernible bottom.

The gorge of an entity that led to another one, inferior in size, unmatched in lethality.

And from the depths, a sigh rose like steam from a cauldron until it lapped his short but thick beard and made his fur cloak waver.

Fists bunched hard, he dared not to tear his green eyes off the path of frosted horns, almost as if the depths themselves had challenged him to an exchange of glances.

“Here you are.” His one-sided contest had cost him the sense of awareness. He had not noticed the arrival of his partner.

“Tell me. Was Imants so insufferable that you rather face the dragon alone?”

“... I came here for tranquility.” His voice, although not deep as he was robust, was rigid as a statue.

“Beware of what you wish. The tranquility you seek here might evolve into that presented in a burial.”

“If so, then I’ll make sure it’s something else’s burial.”

“Even in quietude, you think of nothing but conflict. May I recommend you play the kannel to ease the moods?”

His comment, intended to raise the moods, had no effect. Lukewarm chatter seldom helped Mad Axe himself.

“I can hear it breathe… snoring even.” The northman mouthed as soon as Sullivan closed the distance. “How easy should it be for me to go down and cleave its neck clean?”

“A question not worth betting for.”

“It slumbers. It won’t see the ax coming.”

“It’ll survive. A manticore endures a swing of your ax. A dragon certainly will.”

“An eye will do, then.”

“Half-blind dragon is no less dangerous if enraged. And it has a good sense of smell.”

“You shoot excuses as skillfully as you shoot arrows.” Annoyance edged his voice. The ranger could see his friend’s mouth showcasing an immature snarl. “You speak as if I’m weak.”

“You are not—”

“So let’s kill_ it!_” He let a bawl out.

“How? Ulrich is hurt badly. Imants resorts to cheap manners of spellcasting not to be defenseless.”

“One person for each eye. That is all it takes.”

“I will not join you and leave the rest on their own. Completing the glyph is our utmost priority.”

“You speak like that bastard.” He bared his teeth. “By the time it is done and the guilds gather noteworthy fighters, weeks would have passed by!”

“There is no other way—”

“I will not let the beast roam free!”

He finally snapped, spinning in Sullivan’s way and casting a fierce stare.

The ranger elicited no notable reaction. Although his stare was blankly, his blue eyes glimmered with a speck of sympathy and understanding.

Mørk seemed to pick it up, and his features relaxed ever so slightly before turning his sight back to the depths.

“I can’t let that happen. Not when Lilli’s life is at risk. She already suffered a lot…”

“Your concern over your niece is admirable, but you aren’t the only one with a protégé.” Sullivan took his hand under his hood and pulled out a medallion.

Polished slate and shiny even under the shadow of the Icing Boundary, the medallion had the image of a tree whose top with a wide canopy embossed on its face. The treetop branched off into four types of canopy, each representing a different season.

“It is not easy to fight in the name of Mother Glynn,” Sullivan let out while seeing the medallion. “The deeds I do aren’t attributed to her, and so trust is put on me, a mortal man. Thus, they, the inhabitants of Glen Guffa, feel lost without me, helpless before thieves and greys’ forays,” he turned to Mørk. “With time they must learn to trust something more than men, but for that I shall stand near. That’s why it is important for me to end the task. I shall not seek the dragon for the time being.”

Mørk’s face strained. “Your alternative involves me returning to the capital as a failure.”

“You took us far to the lair’s entrance. The teleportation glyph is being completed. You have not failed.”

“The glyph was Imants and the wizards’ duty, not mine. Mine had been to keep the party whole and slay the beast. I failed in the former and have not the strength to fulfill the latter.” His sight lowered to his feet. “I came here because Imants were getting on my nerves, but now I understand. He has been right: I’m a poor leader.

“I could not prevent Evert from leaving. Vadim and Syarhey ended up astray because I could not protect them. Pavlin nearly turned against us before dying. And Sven, that poor, brave kid… How would I face his parents?”

Sullivan placed his hand on top of Mørk’s shoulder.

“They all knew the risks. You are a leader, not a miraclemaker. Were you a poor leader, would I follow you all these years? Take not to heart what Imants says, as he even blasphemes against Mother Glynn. His words are as sharp as eggshells.”

Sullivan took the moment to let his hood fall, revealing his auburn locks that extended past his shoulders.

“All that could be done has been done, my friend. You led us to where no man has arrived. Our task is complete thanks to you.”

“Everyone’s task but mine. I shall not rest until the monster is slain. I owe that to Lilli, Georg, and those who perished.”

“And I expected no less from you.”

For many beats, Sullivan joined Mørk in his gawking, trying to pick up whatever the northman had heard.

“Well. I believe you have no intention to join the others.”

“... Not now.”

“And with good reason. Surliness abounds, and Imants has growth insufferable.”

Sullivan reached into his pouch and retrieved two pieces of cooked flesh skewered in two broken arrows.

“You must be hungry. Care to join me?”

Mørk saw the piece of flesh askance, considering the offer for some breaths before taking the stick in his hand.

“Thank you.”

“No dragon shall find us with an empty stomach.” He tapped his stick with Mørk’s as if he were making a toast with glasses.

“Will you stay?”

“Two persons for each eye. Were the beast to wake up, two are required to hold it down for the others to escape. I owe my leader that.”

Against all odds, the ranger accomplished what he intended to do from the beginning: extracting a smile from the berserker.

“You are a great friend, Sullivan.”

The ranger smiled back. “And you, a great leader and uncle. Don’t ever forget that.”

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

One would be astounded by the air of tranquility that swirled around Everwinter Blackpeak — a _metaphorical _air of tranquility, that was it, as the omnipresent air blared unhindered whenever the sky called for it.

No howls. No hoots. No racket of beasts. The song of the wild had its entrance denied. Just the sky chorusing, constantly and noisily.

No monster served in the fortress of glass — the dragon allowed no serf in his domain.

As long as the wyrm slumbered, the place was considered safe; if the sovereign stirred awake, then bid farewell to calmness! — execution would ensue, thunderously and inevitably.

All manner of living beings knew this, of course. Animals, monsters, greys and humans; whatever serenity the retreat and its myriad of alcoves held was by no means an assurance. A natural disaster reposed within, and no one wanted to be there for when it awakened.

Flocks of birds would rather face the feather-tearing winds before stopping by any holes the draconic lair had to offer… Or so the ranger believed until a faint sound rode the streams of cold air.

“Mørk. Wake up.” Said Sullivan; he was back from his watch shift.

The northman elicited no more than a wince before his eyes were wide open.

“What?” Under his fur cape, both hands were gripping two axes.

“I heard something.” Sullivan, on the other hand, was standing straight and had his sight fixed outside.

“The dragon?” Mørk stood to his feet.

“Crows.”

A frown found its way to Mørk’s visage. “Crows? Like, the birds?” Sullivan nodded. “You put us on alert because of birds?”

“No murder migrate this far.”

“Then no crows. There are several birds out there, it might be a group of owls or buntings.”

“I’m familiar with bird cries, friend. I know what I heard.”

Mørk slanted his mouth, trying to understand why a flock of birds had alarmed his partner that much.

Meanwhile, Sullivan gripped the emblem shrouded by his cape.

A bell chimed within, stirring his body into alertness. It was a strange sensation but not one he had not felt before. The tingle had resounded in the past right before a natural disaster or when the animals became altered.

It was a gift, given to him by Ethne Glynn herself. The ability to detect disturbances in nature.

“... Take your axes. We need to go back with Ulrich and Imants.”

“Becasue of a flock of birds?”

“Let’s pray it is _just _a flock of birds.”

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

Ulrich roused awake, gasping sharply.

The glow of the feline eyes were still fresh in his memory, lingering like embers in the ash.

It was all so tiresome. Placid dreams had become a faraway aspiration.

Once he found himself in the safety of his home, he would get so drunk that any surface would be as alluring as a fine bed. Definitely would do; any other form of therapy would be a waste of time.

He rubbed his face with his gauntlet-clad hand before glancing at Imants, who was curled against the wall of the alcove, closer to the shelter’s cusp than to Ulrich.

“Lucky bastard…”

Determined not to fight sleeplessness right away, Ulrich thought that might be a good moment to survey the surroundings, and so he prepared to lift himself up and walk around.

He did not have the chance to shift on his seat.

As soon as his view wandered too much to the outside, rarity itself presented before his eyes. A pitch-black wolf, as beautiful as dreadful, stood no more than ten feet away from his dozing partner.

Unlike the cats, this had no jewels embedded in its eyes. Instead, it had rings of burning gold.

Rings that were boring into his.

The cavalier froze, lips drawing a flat line on his mouth, eyes unblinking.

His first inquiry was how did a wolf manage to climb that far. But as the eye contact prolonged, the cavalier realized that the wolf was no mere wild dog. Its demeanour was too meditative to belong to a common wolf. Behind that gilt halo of irises, a sharp mind operated.

Left hand crept for the shield leaning against the ice. Right hand held the halberd firm but without raising it from the floor.

Ulrich came from no family of hunters, nor had he studied the nature of wolves beyond what he experienced in the wild. Nonetheless, something was _off, _the wind itself hummed it. A normal wolf would have bristled, bared its fangs, or at least recoiled in the slightest of hesitancies.

This one displayed no reaction beyond staring, as if the cavalier’s very intention was as readable as a scroll with large and red letters.

Whatever operated behind those otherworldly eyes had deemed Ulrich as inferior.

What are you?

Right before he blinked, the beast broke eye contact and blurred off its spot.

It bolted toward Imants.

“—!”

Action burst, and in a swift motion, Ulrich grabbed the edge of the shield and pitched it in Imants’ direction. The wolf foresaw the trajectory and backstepped; the shield had been one hair from slicing the nose off.

A loud clang ensued, jolting Imants out of his sleep.

“What the—”

“Watchout!”

Ulrich screamed before bolting upright, thrusting the point of his halberd forward. The wolf halted its own attack so as not to get impaled.

Before Imants could fathom the situation, there was a poleweapon right in front of his nose.

“Cast! Now!”

Imants would ask no further and; he bit down the pain in his hip and scrambled away with the pouch’s strand in his hand. At his back, the wolf persisted in its assault, stepping back and trying to circumvent the armored man.

“Stay away!”

Ulrich slid the blade out of the ice and drew a wide arc, which the wolf dodged by flattening low. Unsatisfied by the outcome, the cavalier swung the poleweapon anew.

“Fuck is wrong with you?! Stay away, damn beast!”

The staff fanned the air over and over, but it never connected with flesh. No matter how weakened the cavalier found himself, there was no way for a wolf to dodge this swiftly.

And the glow of its eyes… it traced beams that lingered in his vision as if he looked at a light source for a bit too long.

“Keep it busy!” Imants yelled at his back, his hand already inside his pouch.

Ulrich saw a hint of urgency rise on the wolven’s snout. His eyes flashed wide with the realization.

This thing knows about magic!

As soon as his thought took shape, the wolf leaped forward; Ulrich greeted it with the point of his halberd… or tried to. Trajectory unchanged, the wolf pushed forward until its forelegs landed on top of the metal.

The beast might as well be hollow. The pole hardly drifted downward; even when the other set of legs hit the length, Ulrich felt no more than one additional apple on his grip. The animal was running fast, so the fighter could not linger further into that strangeness. He moved his shield in front and braced for impact.

“—!”

The metal resounded loud, and the animal, which weighed no more than one fruit, hit with the force of an elephant. The man could not hold the footing and reeled back until his head struck the ice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ulrich saw the smear of blackness flying toward an astounding Imants, halfway through casting and with components not fully consumed under his grip.

Imants was no melee fighter nor tougher than a farmer. His shield was the distance that separated him from his enemies, which in this case was less than five yards.

Gritting his teeth, Ulrich painfully twirled in Imants’ direction and threw his halberd.

The weapon swished inches away from Imant’s face, separating him from the attacker and becoming the unwilling target of the wolf’s jaws, its length creaking as ranks of fangs pressed across its surface. The alchemical metal stood the pressure, barely so.

“Shoot!”

One last hop to make distance, and Imants plucked out what looked to be fangs and claws from his pouch. The remains adopted an indigo glow and underwent transformation; curls of energy that changed into claws and fangs, and claws and fangs that morphed into shadowy beasts.

Ash Casting, Imants had called it. Cheap cantrips that require the minimal consumption of matter to work. Simple, but when used correctly, stronger than most man-made projectiles. And also faster.

With no more than two yards in the middle, there was no way for a wolf creature to dodge it, not all of them at least. Hence, the ethereal claws sank into the wolf, shedding a liquid so red that it might as well be noblewoman’s lipstick.

Imants, ever so haughty, could not hide his satisfaction and flashed a smug grin — a grin that lasted as much as the glows from his cantrip had.

Although the impact made the animal recoil, the odd beast emitted no yelp of pain or peeled its lips up. The spouts of blood that the wizard had extracted from its body meant nothing.

“Ya kidding?”

Within an eyeblink, the wolf shifted its weight and prepared to rush ahead. Imants would have no time to even grab the components he needed.

The beast morphed into a blurry shade as it closed the distance, moving past the sole barrier of protection the human had.

Imants prepared for the worst, raising his free arm in defense and pressing his eyes shut, as if renouncing sight would mitigate the agony.

“I said stay the fuck away!”

Not all barriers had failed. The last one — a hurt man clad in gray-yellow armor — charged with all his might, shield in front.

The impact turned true, and for the first time the wolf noised discomfort through its fangs. The battering ram of a man went on with the momentum, and dragged the mass of a wolf along with him.

The wall was right there, and Ulrich should be close to hear the visceral _squelch _of bones and organs imploding under the force of his tackle.

Clunk!

His ears stayed expectant as the only sound that rose belonged to that of ice and metal colliding.

After the impact, his ears buzzed and the bones of his arms ached. Maybe he missed the sound of flesh being smashed flat, or maybe the beast, fast as it was, fled away. Whatever the case, he would not give it any chance — the shield should keep pressing hard.

“Magistellus… It is gone.” He heard Imants gasping out.

That could not be. He must have misheard.

“You mean… Gone from this world? Dead?” Ulrich croaked out without relaxing.

“I meant gone as damn gone, Ulrich!” Imants rose to his feet. “Poofed. Literally vanished in thin air. It fucking became thin air! See around.”

His eyes, until then half-closed, sideglanced at his surroundings. A sheet of mist had filled the alcove. Finally, after confirming what part of what Imants said, he lowered his shield ever so slightly and peered past the edge. There was no wolf between him and the wall.

“What? How?”

“‘How’? How did a wolf come this far ya meant!”

“If that’s a wolf then I’m a grey.”

“That contrast falls short.”

Still shocked, Ulrich ignored that unnecessary observation. “Did you see its eyes?”

“Wish I hadn’t. Me thinks this one was a hellish breed of a wolf.”

“Maybe it is one of these Spirits shamans lecture about.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They think of Spirits as watchers, not as beasts that feed upon people.”

“... Maybe… Maybe it had deemed us trespassers.” He turned to Imants. “That’s why it tried to kill you first. Your magic might have roused its anger.”

Imants’ face froze, meditative at first, but then a grimace found its way to it.

“Nah... I think ya hit ya head hard.”

A twitch settled into one of Ulrich’s lower eyelids.

Imants turned to the exit, but doing so extracted a heavy groan from his mouth.

“Fuck… hip is killing me…” He hunched and put his hand on his hip. “Let’s go out.”

“Where?”

“Wherever Leaf-praiser and our leader went. Our food might have attracted that thing, so no use staying here.”

Ulrich saw the wizard limping toward the outside while his mind still digested the entire event.

After rubbing the spot on his head where he had been hit, the fighter broke from motionlessness and followed Imants. Nevertheless, as his leg kicked strands of mist up, a sinking feeling made the air at his nape stiff straight.

“The mist… the wind should have blown it by now.”

“What ya say?”

“No mist lingers this long… it is so cold and looks alive.” he stirred the rug of mist with his poleweapon. He scarcely finished twirling the staff when he noticed the gas drawing behind, like water on shore prior to a wave.

Ulrich observed with a wrinkled face how the fog released his boots. When there were no mist remnants before him, he warily began to turn around.

A concentration of mist gathered past his shoulder, its shapes no longer resembling that of a mass of gaseous curls. Instead, the mass wore the image of a humanoid.

And embedded on its head, golden rings glowed preternaturally.

Sheer stupefaction made Ulrich perceive time as if immersed in mud, each heartbeat feeling like many seconds. A cry for alarm grew from the bottom of his throat while his reflexes tried to bring his arm and halberd against the apparition. It turned out both actions required a lot of time to pull out, so much it felt agonizing.

So much agonizing that before he could fulfill any, a brumous set of claws was already lunging in his way. Evasion summed up to his list of responses.

“Watchout— Gah!”

Out of three, he only managed one toil. A flat smile was drawn right below his jaw, beheading avoided by sheer divine providence.

He bore the pain bravely and kept the trajectory of his weapon unchanged. An arm gripping his own ended any attempt of counterattack.

“What the damn?!” Imants spun around, his shock no lesser than Ulrich’s. He retrieved more components that sooner than later began oozing with elemental energy. Given the fierceness of his features, Ulrich had the slight hunch his partner might not care about friendly fire.

His theory was never corroborated; a heavy slam rippled on his chest and his weight was dashed directly to the wall. The impact was such that a crater had been carved on his breastplate.

Imants finished the chanting, and the ghostly paws bolted toward the entity. The entity elicited no evasion course, and one by one, the claws carved red alleyways across the ashen chest of the creature; the spell succeeded in shedding blood, but failed in stopping the attacker.

“It cannot—!”

The entity, no longer wearing the paleness of fog, squeezed Imants’ neck shut and lifted him up before slamming him against the wall, all within a motion no human short of honed skills could perceive.

Ulrich lay in the back of the shelter, using one hand to cover the wound in his neck, choking out words of frustration. He barely had the energy to pick himself up, let alone rush to help his partner.

So, with the little vigor he withheld, he grabbed his shield and hurled it in one last desperate attack.

All pain and damage considered, the disc whizzed forward with accuracy, but when it reached its target, a swift arm diverted the shield to the outside and past the edge of the precipice, losing itself beyond the veil of wind and frost.

In the instant the monster shifted to defend itself, Imants shouted loudly and brought forth his ceremonial dagger into the enemy, right where the neck and shoulder crossed paths.

Any kind of pain expression was absent; the dagger might as well be a construct of the mind.

“W-why? _Why?! _What the fuck are ya?!”

The entity stared back and met the enraged man’s scowl; then, the monster offered a chill-inducing smile worthy of a young tyrant, one which turned the defiant stare into one of fear.

“I am thine new lich, spellcaster.” His words were like an ice spell that froze the blood in his veins.

There was no window for screaming — the creature’s jaws parted wide to reveal a pair of gleaming knives. Within that very instant, the set of knives lunged forward, straight for the exposed neck.

Ulrich had no choice but to see wild-eyed how the color on his partner’s face drained until the tone of his skin matched that of ash. The wizard’s face, once a canvas of arrogance, exhibited a mouth petrified with powerlessness.

“Gas— Gasdard…” No amount of blood flowing out of his neck would stop Ulrich from cursing this enemy.

Imants was gone, and so was their way home. He could not beat this monster in his current state and, even if he did, the wilderness would devour him as soon as he tried to go back to the Capital. Everything was doomed, rendered a tragedy by the most unexpected of foes.

Condemned as he was, the cavalier was unwilling to give up to desperation. He knew Sullivan and Mørk were next, and Ulrich had no intention to pass the toil without inflicting a significant injury upon this foe.

Thut-thut-thut.

A series of thuds came off from the icy overhang, faint in intensity but repeatedly so. The entity also noticed this, its eyes scanning the ceiling as if they could see through solid matter.

Ulrich’s eyes followed the enemy’s, and down from beyond the ceiling, a man wearing a cape trimmed with leaves manifested. Plummeting fast, his eyes were locked into the monster, and it was then that he pulled the string of his bow.

What seemed to be a string loaded with nothing but air sparked with a green flame that quickly split into three flaming spikes. Right before the ranger touched the ground, the green quills abandoned the string and flared toward the enemy.

The monster dropped Imants’ corpse and displaced himself out of the way, leaving afterimages of himself in his wake. The quills bolted on and past, bursting into spark upon hitting the wall. None landed directly, but the last missile grazed the monster’s arm, leaving a distinct burn.

Not even that extracted an expression of pain from the monster.

“Back up, demon,” the ranger warned, hostility edging his voice.

“Sul… Sul!” The newcomer’s eyes drifted a bit to check on his hurt partner. “Mants ish… Mants ish… Ghur!”

Blood drowned the cavalier’s words, but there was no need to speak. The plight was pain too, a wound on everyone’s morale.

“Most interesting.” Blue eyes darted back to the enemy. The creature had halted and now appraised the damage that his arm took. His survey done, he stared at the bowman. “A Priest of Ethne Glynn. To think thy Grove Matron keepeth gathering acolytes despight delivering thine lives to us.”

The string creaked tenser. “Mutual knowledge is one-sided. Who are you supposed to be?”

“Caud-pie. History seemeth neglected among thy acolytes. Or perhaps, they all choose oblivion over shame.”

The ranger’s sight sharpened until his eyelids formed a blade-thin slit. “... We have not forgotten. You are a Rotbringer.”

“Not bringer but a herald. Not rot but truth. I am an offspring of semptiternity.” The entity took the handle sticking out on his flesh and removed it whole; it then clinked beside Imants’ corpse. No more than two breathing cycles after, the wound hissed sealed, not even leaving a scar. “Conflateth not thine perception with those that belong to my liches, Priest.”

Thum, thum, thum.

Once more, the tusks overhead reverberated with a series of thumps, this instance louder.

Another newcomer landed from the roof onto the alcove’s entrance; unlike the ranger, this one wore might instead of grace and had two axes in each hand.

“As if this hellscape had not tormented us enough…” The axeman hissed as he rose upright. His eyes wandered around just to confirm how bad their situation was. The circumstances appraised, a beast took over the berserker’s countenance.

“I give no shit about where you come from, monster. But after what you did, I assure you are going straight to hell.”

“That label is unwarranted, barbarian. Thou might call me Madakai Striigori. Commit to that name; thine tongue will praise it relentlessly for thy years to come.”

Mørk spat, and then took some walks forward.

“Careful, Mørk. His arrogance is backed up by his might.” The northman stopped and eyed Sullivan. “This creature is a Rotbringer. It holds the strength of a dozen beasts, and deadly wounds are but illusions.”

Mørk’s brows winced closer. “Rotbringer? An undead? Does this creature belong to Baron’s tales?”

“Never were tales.” Sullivan’s thin lips bent into a growing scowl. “They are a stain in my creed’s record.”

“That stain is none but thine goddess’ doing, Priest. She handed down thine forefathers to us centuries before.” He brought his hands up at the level of his shoulders, both palms flat. “Wantons on one hand; humans on the other. She chargeth both before deeming the wantons her favored ones.”

His analogy was less a story lesson and more a remark of self-humor. But even after having his faith mocked, Sullivan abstained from giving off an overreaction.

Coughs wet with blood flew across, and the sense of urgency filled both humans. Sullivan and Mørk exchanged glances; a glance that held a whole conversation, a skill product of years of adventuring together.

“Thine eyes hold pross, that I can see,” Madakai tilted his head. “Conning surrender?”

The ranger’s eyes landed on the vampire. The glimmer of defiance was as evident as his decision.

“Guessed wrong.”

Emerald fire kindled in his bow and one flaming arrow dashed ahead.

Madakai dodged, and veered into a stride, right toward the ranger. Sullivan distanced himself from the attacker, moving toward the center of the half moon; the vampire closed in fast, his speed having little to envy the manticore’s.

Through and through, the ranger was without quickness in his feet, and so was the berserker, who managed to stomp near before Madakai latched out his claws upon the ranger.

Boomingly the roar of a warrior came forth; swiftly the first axe cut into the scene. Geometric in design, serriform edge like the dorsal scutes of a crocodile; an ax that held the power of the storms. Mørk had named the weapon _Trym _— The Tusk of Thunder.

A trail of spark arced past as the vampire bent low, smoothly so. With the ranger spanning from reach, Madakai changed from target, so after bouncing straight, claws swirled toward the burly man.

Trym stood in the middle, and claws and metal played each other to elicit a scratching jar together.

“Savor the storm!” Angular patterns glowed with an argentine hue, and lines of electricity surrounded the metal before crackling their way to Madakai.

The shock of currents bit like vermin with acid. Smoke rose from burned skin, but nothing more; a pained expression and the paralysis associated with shock were equally absent. Painless damage hindered him in the least, but before the vampire had the chance to bounce back, Mørk plucked out his second weapon.

More sinuous in design and with a metal that resembled molten rock, this weapon gave off an orange hue through its engravement. The berserker baptized that one under the name _Hyrr _— The Molten Retribution.

Madakai’s face lit incandescent as Hyrr ascended past his face in a missed upswing. His evasion capability proved masterful, which compelled Mørk to scowl and intensify his attacks, so much that the air lit with silver and orange hues; so much they roared like their master had.

Amid, swings, a tongue clicked; an accomplishment — the vampire broke a sweat! Metaphorically speaking, at least. This, of course, indicated no victory lay near. The opposite: as a flare of black and scarlet uncoiled from the vampire’s right hand, Mørk realized that the true battle had not begun until now.

The radiance matured into metal; its hues shifted between obsidian black and blood red. Its crossguard was a beast skull, one which wore cursedness as a halo. Fully formed, full of bloodlust, the length stood in the middle of Hyrr’s trajectory, spraying fire and darkness around upon colliding

“Not without toys,” breathed the vampire.

Titanic might riposted — a few slashes, a few lunges, full of nimbleness. Mørk found himself forced onto the defensive, unable to immediately counter the swift and heavy fencing his foe was showcasing.

The northman began to lose terrain, each swing of the longsword pushing him closer to the center of the alcove. Mørk groaned each time the ebony-blood red struck his axes, but by no means he was in a tight corner. When the Rotbringer projected a half-moon loaded with otherworldly strength, Mørk knew this was the time to act.

Mørk managed to transform the force he took into a backing up maneuver that put him on one knee. Without a tower of a man in the middle, Sullivan and Madakai met each other’s stare, but the meeting turned out short-lived as vision grew green.

The dark blade intercepted the attack, but doing so gave Mørk a second-long gap to counterattack. A chain of attacks followed, one that debuted with a piece of fur flying toward the undead. Many swings, many pieces of cut fur — all but a distraction that concealed Mørk’s next action.

Madakai leaned back and avoided the first upswing by leaning back and turned a torso-splitting slice into a superficial slash, but failed to defend against the blunt edge of the backswing and the subsequent low kick. The strength the kick delivered was nothing short of surprising, even for vampire standards.

Had Madakai counted with more time, he would have noticed the set of belts that wrapped Mørk’s upper body. More noteworthy than its leatherwork, lines and lines of runes shone across its surface, giving off a magical aura.

The belts granted him the strength of a giant; and yet, the best he could attain was putting him down to one knee. Breakthrough is breakthrough — the enemy was at the right height for beheading.

“Begone!”

Mørk executed a crossed slash, Trym and Hyrr closing over Madakai’s neck. But before thunder and magma could cross paths, the entity’s body broke into mist and crept low and flat against the floor.

“—!”

Offguard, the berserker looked at how strands of mist ghosted past his legs like immaterial snakes. He spun behind, and saw a fully formed vampire swinging his sword in his way.

Evasion occurred but not fast enough to prevent fire from emerging on his cheek; then, a crash of a battering ram on his stomach. Madakai had deigned a kick, one that sent the northman forth to the wall. Upon leaving the berserker breathless and at the verge of throwing up, the Rotbringer wheeled back and rushed toward the ranger and the cavalier.

Whatever distance advantage Sullivan held was quickly overrode by vertiginous speed; his bow, half-way tensed and about to release a magic missile, was reduced to firewood before it could do anything useful. He tried to draw his sword free, but the enemy acted quicker, grabbing him by the tie of his hood.

For the instant that Sullivan was slammed against the wall, everything seemed over for him. The cursed sword would pierce, past flesh and bones, until it embedded itself into ice. The ranger of Glynn bore a refined form of swordmanship, but with his main weapon still wrapped in leathers, miracles could not be worked out.

“—!”

Or perhaps they could.

The countenance the vampire held morphed unexpectedly. It was no annoyance, anger, or surprise but a new emotion altogether, a concept theretofore deemed nonexistent for the undead.

Agony.

“ Aaarrrggh! ”

All living ears cowered before the wraithful bawl. The undead drew back, his hand smoking as if it had barehandedly blocked Hyrr. Sullivan missed no beat in exploiting the miracle; his sword whizzed out of the scabbard and drew a trench across Madakai’s chest; his grip prepared to swirl back for a backswing, but the vampire mist-stepped, displacing himself out of the way at the same time he blinked in and out of mist form.

Solidness of flesh returned to him, his left hand bunched and smoking while his eyes shooted daggers at the ranger, mouth twisted into a snarl.

“Silver… Seolvor’s mettle,” he hissed. “Thine goddess insculpeth her symbology on Seolvor’s mettle.” His lips peeled up, revealing a beastly snarl. “Ethne Glynn had become a pleasure-lady of Seolvor.”

Sullivan froze with his guard up, rapid breathing coming in short gasps and giving away subtle jerks on his muscles. He composed himself, strengthening his posture and gaze before reaching for the knot of his hood.

The garment came undone and the medallion hidden beneath became visible. In the act, Madakai’s eyes narrowed as if he were looking directly at both an incandescent source and a dung heap; silver metal inflicted both pain and disgust upon him, that was evident.

The cape that Sullivan used to wear slip free; before it had the chance to fall past his waist, the Rotbringer burst into action.

But right before his sword collided with Sullivan’s, a blade butted in between them.

“Not… done.”

Ulrich stood next to the ranger, no longer choking with his own blood and with a piece of fabric wrapped around his neck. Madakai could not display surprise, let alone attack, as a roaring man closed in fast, axes raised with the intention to dive deep into the enemy.

Another mist-step, and Madakai stood out of danger.

“I thought… Your faith ran empty…” The cavalier’s voice was raspy.

“So did I. But Mother Glynn has other plans. The echo of her voice rings inside me.” There was the sound of a fire sparking to like, and green flames surrounded the edge of his sword. “Greater forces had deemed this monster a threat to be dealt with. And fast.”

“We came here for a damned dragon.” Mørk approached his companions, his eyes keeping the leer locked on the vampire the whole time.

“Fate pushed us toward a greater evil, it seems.”

The northman spat. “Hate when they do that. I’m no one’s pawn.” He twirled his axes in his grips. “But their urge is understandable. This walking waste shalln’t soil our lands. If they want us to dispatch this scarebug, then so be it!”

The berserk charged first, thunder and flame crashing against darkness and blood. A loud _clunk, _visible wave and all, pushed the foe a few feet away.

The ranger raced second, bounding over and past the northman; his sword wheeled emerald and dove down upon steel. More clunks; more recoil.

A third silhouette — slower, less graceful, unswerving as any other — converged from the party’s right with a poleweapon.

Hence the air began to sing with the whistle of missing strikes. And the blades that hit other than wind, jarred and clinked loudly, so much the alcove might as well be mistaken by an armorshop from afar.

A change of pace would soon emerge after, and Ulrich would be the first to feel it.

The halberd’s tip skewered flesh, but it bit nothing but curls of brume; curls of brume that splat, joined, and solidified, all within one beat. Body and longsword material anew, Madakai swerved at the metal-clad man; the armor, worn and dented as it stood, saved him from a sure death but nonetheless the impact sent Ulrich reeling.

Grip reverted, and a backswing came right in time to deflect the priest’s flaring sword.

Emerald green was deflected aside, but the radiance of a precious metal shone hazardly around the ranger’s neck. The vampire squinted his eyes and dropped his guard for Mørk to push forward.

A clawed hand had to desperately hold the sparking ax barehanded. The stream of electricity missed no beat to crackle across his body; neither did Mørk’s free hand and Sullivan’s divine-empowered sword, which went for Madakai’s exposed chest.

The blade had not touched the chest when its skin peeled open, making eyes around burst wide. Sheets of skin blackened and grew feathers; they transformed into a group of ravens that cawed and scratched at the humans.

The damage was minimal, but the avians played their role. Madakai withdrew at a safe distance before unleashing another crescentoid of cursed force upon the trio. He cared not about the birds that spawned from his own flesh, which got caught by the slice.

Mørk took the greatest damage, a superficial slit on both arms.

Sullivan parried just in time, but the impact sent him staggering back.

Having previously been deflected by the attack prior, Ulrich never stood in the middle of the arc; now he was harnessing the range of his halberd to spear from the rear.

A head tilt and the attack hit nothing, then Madakai grabbed the blade and pulled it closer, wielder and all. Ulrich could do little to resist the inhuman pull, and once close, an elbow smashed his chest.

Within that window where no weapon was converging into him, Madakai became mist and glided low for a better position. Or tried to.

Sullivan saw past the trick and ran his sword along the ground, which ended up dispersing — and surprisingly, _burning _— the fog. Madakai materialized to the left from where he used to be, a considerable portion of his upper body scorched; after transmuting part of his skin in birds, his sternum was visible for the most part.

“Magic bypasses the mist!”

Sullivan was yelling when a sword lunged ahead. He blocked, but stopping each attack felt like stopping a boulder. The mere crash harmed his hands and sent him tottering off balance.

Mørk recovered from his latest pain and spun to face the vampire. Axes swayed back and forth, up and down, tracing all manner of curved patterns in Madakai’s way. The more the Rotbringer danced round each swing, the more the berserker pushed to the extreme.

Trym crackled louder.

Hyrr burned hotter.

Sooner than later, twin axes caught the vampire underneath and crashed against the dark blade. The impact elicited a wave visible for everyone, and once it dissipated into thin air, Ulrich whirled his halberd.

The pressure of twin axes locked him in place and his back was wide open. What could the vampire do?

A bump and the axes skipped upward.

Flesh to mist — Mist to flesh.

One instant, he had been giving the edge of the halberd the back; the next, he faced directly to the blade. Fully solid to block the axes from above once more.

His hand stopped the weapon dead; then, Madakai veered, dragging Ulrich, who failed to loosen his grip in time. The longsword was without its role; at the same time the vampire spun, the dark blade diverted the axes that had pressed him down.

By the end of the maneuver, Ulrich had rolled away, near Imants’ corpse, and the pair of blades had driven down to the floor.

“Damn your trick!” The berserk screamed before his axes pursued the enemy, which they did with unfruitful results. The vampire had ducked away but Mørk was not done. His third weapon — the magically empowered mass that was his body — followed suit, its result turning out a success.

A boot sole bludgeoned the vampire’s face, knocking him to the floor. The flesh quickly morphed to mist, but before creeping away, a silvery ax spun off its owner’s grip and sank in the ice around the sheet of mist.

Arcs of lightning whipped wildly and the misty form underwent disruption; fog was forced solid, and Madakai appeared laying on his back, Trym locking him to the floor by the shoulder.

Quick and heavy came down Hyrr upon the Rotbringer, but the cursed sword blocked the blazing retribution no more than an inch away from his nose.

The stare of both northman and vampire pierced past the light of Hyrr, each expressing their own intensity of contempt.

“Awkert cattle…” Madakai glowered. “Dadless in purpose. Spawns of senselessness and slaves of unwit—”

“Shut up and die—Akh!”

His bawl of sullenness broke into a sharp wheeze as the undead delivered a headbutt to his forehead. How? The vampire had jolted ahead and up, uncared about the ax or the piece of gory tissue the former’s edge held pinned on the ice floor.

Mørk staggered two steps backward, and upon stopping, a blast force emerged on his stomach. The kick that Madakai had deigned jolted him toward the back of the shelter.

As soon as his leg lowered on the floor, Madakai spun to meet the ranger. The flaming sword hit the cursed blade, and as the edge of each pressing onto the other, an aura of leafy sparks and oozing darkness whirled around them.

“This plane belongs to the living!”

Green grew in intensity; emerald hue devoured black and red alike the way grass regrow on burned soil. And then the silver tree on the grassland — Mother Glynn’s emblem — shone off. The faith minted in silver dazed the Rotbringer, bit him, tormented him. His pain was evident for all.

The monster withstood little, and all resistance faded out when his accursed longsword dashed off his grip, arcing behind his back and away.

Lastly, and upon noticing his foe lay bereft of magical steel, Sullivan rearranged the grip on his sword and prepared for what could be hinted as the deathblow.

All eyes, fuzzy in their vision as they were, remained unblinking, expectant to the next move.

“Join the elements as dust!”

The emerald flame, devoid of heat, crisped skin, muscle, and bones the more it swung closer, as if it dried out the force that held the dead body together.

The tip loomed near, one or two nails apart, green suffusing on ice.

But then, unexpectedness.

Flashes of sapphire.

Flashes of ethereal beasts.

Cries of pain, an echo after another.

There was less green and more black and more red.

It was a bustling of events no one had the chance to fathom, not from the start.

Mørk, who was already half-way from jolting upright, gawked with wild and shaky eyes.

Sullivan had been assaulted — bitten and hacked — by a pack of unearthly animals and driven to the other end of the alcove.

“Gotta stop ya right there, Leaf-praiser.”

The berserker’s green eyes darted toward the surprise made flesh. At the other end of their shelter, Ulrich stood not only perplexed but injured, more than when he joined the berserker and ranger in mutual attack. Through the gaps of his ochrelloy scales, a hand pierced deep.

The orchestrator? None other than their wizard partner theretofore thought dead.

Imants.

“Wh… why…” The cavalier gasped out.

“Sorry, Ulrich. I serve a greater power now.”

The hand thrust further, lifting the cavalier high and wringing out another gasp of agony.

“Aa-argh—”

“Snake! Let off of him!”

Mørk scrambled to his feet and rushed to help Imants. A serious mistake. He felt the charge of a carriage on his side, and his hasty help fell short.

The northman bit down the pain, so much his mouth bled, writhing on the spot until he looked at the one who carried out the charge: Madakai. Utter fury took over, so much his veins bulged at the verge of rupture.

And so he gripped his ax and his lips peeled up before unleashing the roar of the North—

“Oh, give me a break…”

Components crushed under Imant’s hand, and chains made of indigo flames flew toward the berserker. One by one, the magical binds coiled around his body until the northman was trapped into a spiderweb, rendered completely immobile.

“Always racket over presence, donnot ya, ‘Leader’?”

The belts’ embossing flickered intense blue, and Mørk began thrashing about like a troll. Magical as they were, the chains would not hold the berserker for much longer. Before any result was achieved, a blur of movement connected with Mørk’s stomach, drowning his uproar with blasts of air and vomit.

“Bar-up.” Madakai uttered, impassiveness back to nestle on his noble face.

Imants burst in chortles. “It was ‘bout time someone put his ass down.”

Madakai did not share his sense of humor, choosing to ignore him for the time being.

“No… Imants…” The last of Madakai’s foes said from the other half of the alcove, drawing all gazes upon him, cutting short all laughter.

“You… became a thrall… a slave.”

Half his body was stained with blood, and the sword left his grip after the impact, losing itself forever. Nonetheless, if his hard stare and his firm posture were something to go by, the Priest of Ethne Glynn wished not to surrender.

“Slave ya say? Ya think so?”

The wizard looked at himself. His skin was way paler, and his nails longer. The irises shone like copper pieces, and the white that surrounded them had become black as ink.

“... I feel like no slave. Actually, I feel wonderful!” He twisted his waist before stretching his arms in the air. “My waist no longer hurts. Cold is gone! This ain’t slavery. This is freedom!”

“Your body… Your free will… They no longer belong to you.”

“I feel no brainwashed, Leaf-praiser. My mind is my own, and so is my body”

“The roots of his domain run deeper… You cannot—”

Imants let out a groan. “Oh I pooped of ya metaphors. I feel like never before. I attained what a lot of wizards crave,” He flashed a smirk along with his fangs — his unnaturally long fangs. “Immortality!”

Sullivan stared hard at Imants before shifting his sight to Madakai. Despite all the wounds on his body, the vampire wore a victorious smile.

“A whole plane standeth between thee and I, Priest of Glynn. Thine victory lost itself in the dorsers of possibility.”

“Mother Glynn gives me the cloth… The darning needles…”

Sullivan pulled the necklace holding the medallion, clean of blood, out of his head and wrapped it on his left forearm.

“... I weave my possibility.”

He held the emblem of his faith like a lethal weapon; then, he cast a defiant look at the vampire, who squinted his eyes and discarded his smile.

“Hard ass ranger…” Imants clicked his tongue.

“Thine desire art acknowledged, Priest.” His longsword tilted forward. He was bowing. “I gave thee my permission to join thine Goddess.”

No sooner had he finished that sentence, Madakai broke the reverence and blurred forward, practically teleporting.

Sullivan ducked off the first attack and so did for the second one and for the one that followed.

He dodged and ducked and sidestepped as if no injury afflicted him; no groan of pain escaped him once. Such was the drive of his faith. But all help considered, the odds were against him. This was no miracle but a last ward from his Mother. He would make her effort not go to waste.

Thus, he kept evading, fleeing the dark blade’s path, with nothing but the bright of a medallion as shield and his own speed to defend. Even when his body was gaining red lines, he abstained from delivering an attack.

“Toss the towel, Sully. Ya donnot want to rise as a limbless trunk, do ya?”

Discouraging from a third party. Wounds had failed to put him down. What could empty words achieve?

If any, it had been Madakai who grew more irritated as the fight dragged on. Clearly, standing next to his bane was as comfortable as staying next to a nest of fire ants.

His own exasperation triggered the action Sullivan had been waiting for.

The ebony-red sword hiked high, ready to deliver another wide, slashing arc. It was then when the ranger plucked out another weapon until that moment hidden in his sleeve.

The revelation produced no surprise in the enemy. The green flame that ignited immediately after did.

Infused with a vortex of divine energy, the small dagger managed to lock the cursed blade mid swing. And so, Sullivan attacked with the hand that held the real weapon.

“ Aaarrghh! ”

Intense the hit came on the vampire’s right side, right below his ribcage.

The flesh sizzled, smoked, and perfumed the air with the scent of burned tissue.

“This plane is not your hunting ground.” He pressed the medallion further into the flesh. “I am only one. Mother’s children are many. You are fated to lose. You will be no one’s master!”

“ I had enough! ”

Three beats; three attacks.

A claw swipe that pushed the ranger away.

A sword swing that sliced his thighs, making him fall to his knees.

And last, a pivot and a kick; a heavy kick. So much force it carried that it stirred the air; so much force that it heaved the ranger from place.

He did not scream, _could _not scream.

Only the body displayed a reaction, and that was flying across. Past the shelter; past the overhang; past the edge.

The destination was no other but the vertiginous abyss of the Everwinter Blackpeak.

After all that unfurled, quietness settled over the alcove. Madakai stood quietly, his sight locked where the ranger was last seen. His many wounds hissed and steamed, slowly sealing.

“Wheew…” A whistle broke the tranquility. “Done with this shit. I see now why ya wanted me to hold until the ranger was busy. Leaf-praiser was something else.”

Madakai tore his eyes from the abyss and walked toward Imants, picking up his longsword in the way.

“I wonder. Wouldn’t it have been better to turn Sully into a vampire?”

“... No. Such an act was deemed a failure.”

“Why so?”

“Ethne Glynn flavoreth him. She would have not lapped his flesh.”

“Oh, if you say so,” he paused, “Master.” He cringed visibly, even making a face.

“If… my Master… is still looking for raw matter, there is an extra dish ready.” He turned to Mørk, who was already awakening.

“... I’ll… kill you…”

“Even defeated, cannot help but behave like a brute. Ya honor too much your roots, Mørk, and for the worst.”

“Kill you… first…”

The berserker’s body tensed as he pulled against his magical restraints, which blinked with the stress.

“Shit, he still holds this much strength. Ya gotta hurry and transform him into a vampire, Master. My magic runs empty.”

“... No.” Madakai mumbled, already standing before Mørk. “Something else in mind.”

His cold hand slapped against each side of the northman’s face and then forced his sight up.

“Avise me, heir of warriors past. Wander deep in the gersom of my eyes.”

The berserker’s first reaction was to scowl at the enemy for his audacity. But as the eye contact dragged out, the face of defiance melted into a grimace of confusion. Mouth gapped a bit; eyes widened as plates.

Then, stuttering ghosted out of his mouth. “S-stop. I d-demand you to stop!” His lips were quivering as the words took form.

The seconds during which Madakai refused to fulfill the northman’s demands, Mørk’s words did nothing but grow in both intensity and brokenness. Sooner than later, words stopped being words and became cries, the ones of a beast.

Not a beast that yowled out of fierceness, but out of desperation; one last resort a dog had when caught between the jaws of a fake wyvern.

And as soon as his screams reached the peak of intensity, silence plunged; his expression blanked, and his mouth hung ajar, almost drooling.

“Thine wits art no longer yourns, barbarian.”

Madakai set the head free and stepped back before addressing Imants. “Lese him.”

“What? ‘Lese’?” Imants wrinkled his face.

“Undo his binds.”

“Ah, that. Ya sure?” A slow nod. “Very well.”

A chant and a snap of fingers later, and the chains of darkness disappeared. Mørk almost dropped to the floor, but he caught himself at the last moment and stood half-crouched.

“Retrieve thine weapon.”

For a moment, Imants frowned and gave his master a weird look, but as he saw the northman lower to pick up his ax, Imants pale visage sparked with realization.

“Ahhh, so it was that. Hypnotism.” The wizard approached to study the thrall. He breathed, which meant he had not joined the undead ranks. His sight was absent, looking at nothing in particular. It was also bereft of any emotion.

“I’m no stranger to mind-altering wizardry. To think Master can make use of it free of charge.”

“... Not free. Thy barbarian is strong-minded. Thy control I imposed upon him is unwareliable.”

“‘Unware-what’?”

“... Cannot be foreseen.” Madakai glanced at his servant, the look of his face displaying mild annoyance.

“Shall I recommend a modern dictionary?”

“...” His eyes narrowed further.

“Ya know? Forget what I said. One question, tho. If it is unreliable, why hypnosis over vampirism?”

“Because my unwilling pawn loatheth my kind.”

Imants made a mouth; he felt lost. “Ya may want to give me the full picture. I might… sense ya voice lurking my mind sometimes, telling me what to do, but I can get what ya’r thinking.”

“... Indeed. I shalt acquaint thee with details.”

“Very appreciated.”

“But first…”

He swished off the spot, his form disappearing from sight within an eyeblink. When his image became visible again, Madakai was standing next to the cavalier, his foot locking the latter’s arm onto the floor.

“... Let me… off.” The cavalier croaked out, struggling to slip his arm free. His hand held the ceremonial dagger.

“What the— Oh! Tinman, ya live.” Imants turned around, caught lost for the instant his master dashed out of his sight. “Not even my newfound strength is enough to silence your tantrum.”

“F— fuck y—”

“And what ya pretend to do with my dagger?” His eyes bounced wide. “Donnot tell me? Ya tried to kill yaself.” Laughter. “So ashamed ya are from becoming one of us you rather take ya own life.”

Ulrich bared his teeth and used all his strength to release his arm and take the tip of the knife into his neck. He might as well try to unroot a tree.

“Resist no more, human.” Madakai empowered his pin over the man, extracting groans of pain. Then, he crouched low, like a beast over its prey, and stretched his jaws wide, ready to sip on blood.

“May I suggest an alternative, Master?”

Madakai stopped; then, he half-turned to eye his servant.

“I feel like a young hare that learned what hid in its crotch, yet I’m not at the zenith of my capabilities. I can serve ya better if ya wish.”

“Make thine point.”

“No theatrics! I like that! I am not only ‘burly’ but magical. _Among the best wizards to ever walk this hellscape! But I ran empty of magic and now need, well, _fuel.” He raised his hand, the one used to hurt Ulrich badly, and moved it to his mouth. Then, he licked it. “Delicious. I bet Tinman’s blood will make a damn fine fuel.”

Madakai seemed unconvinced.

“Let me spice up the deal. See this glyph?” He pointed below their feet with both hands. “It’s a teleportation glyph—” Madakai’s whole visage subtly winced; his brow then curved ever so slightly. “With this man’s blood in my belly, I can finish it this very night. I can spare us— er, _ya, _the way back to Vergrárr Path.

“Imagine all the assets ya can access. All the men ya can convert. All the red juice awaiting the kiss of my fangs…” Imants was at the verge of drooling, but composed himself after a head shake. “Oh shit. Leaf-praiser might have held a bit of truth.”

As his servant fantasized about satisfying his newfound hunger, Madakai was standing silent, lost in thought. His eyes drifted at his hand, or rather his sword, and stayed glued to it for twinkling.

“...” At the end, Madakai took his foot off Ulrich and moved away, not without taking the dagger with him.

“Feden.” The dagger flew toward Imants, who caught it midair. “Then, thou serve me. Listen, and prepare thy sigil. My plan must unfold while the night hangeth overhead. I, too, must rest.” Madakai glanced down at the injury the ranger inflicted.

The Matron’s Tree was scorched on his side and showed no clues of healing anytime soon.

Imat’s mouth warped into a grotesque smirk. “Gladly_._”

Ulrich panicked, flipping over and swaying his arms wild in an attempt to crawl to the abyss. When he felt the weight of a boot smacking his back, he realized all escape was for naught.

“No escape for ya, old Ulrich.” Imants grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head upright.

“Mats… Don’t do this…”

“Nothing personal. I’m just hungry and need my magic back. Let me tell ya something,” he knelt and leaned his head next to Ulrich and his exposed neck. The cavalier felt no warmth of any kind; what whispered to him was nothing short of a ghost.

“Out of the three, ya busted my balls the least.”

“No… no…” Ulrich took his hands to his hair and tried to get rid of Imant’s hand; he failed — the grip was simply too strong. Tearing his scalp from his head was a more feasible task, and yet he had no strength to pull up such a deed.

“As a reward, I’m going to end all ya nightmares.”

“N-no…”

“Ya might sleep like a babe!”

“No, please…”

“So long, Tinman. Sleep tight!”

“N— no— Haah.”

Protest was rendered a silent gap as teeth sank deep into his neck.

More and more, his eyelids fell until they were sealed shut. The darkness that had tormented him for the last days greeted him.

There was no sound of scratch.

There were no gem-like eyes.

In that regard, Imants had delivered.

Never again did Ulrich dream with manticores.

Never again will he have trouble falling asleep.