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Not far away…
Lyren was almost at the goal. The plan was clear, the trail of pitch nearly laid. But then he saw her.
In the middle of the street, surrounded by darkness, sat a woman on a wooden chair. Her gaze was fixed on him as though she had known he would come.
"Mother?" The words barely left his lips. His heart twisted painfully.
"Of course, my son," she purred in a voice that had once been comforting. "How could I not recognize my own child? I have missed you so much."
Her smile was gentle, so familiar, that it tightened his throat. She extended a hand, fingers slightly curled, invitingly. "Come. Sit with me."
Lyren hesitated. His body wanted to obey, wanted to feel that warmth he had missed for so long. But his mind screamed. This isn’t right.
Something in her tone, something in the way she looked at him sent cold shivers down his spine. She had never called him "my son."
Her eyes shifted to the pitch barrel he carried with him. Her smile remained, but her voice turned colder, razor-sharp. "What is this going to be?"
"What do you mean?" he asked with feigned innocence, though his body remained tense, ready to react.
"Such a pity." Her face lost all warmth. Her eyes, once full of life, were now nothing more than black, endless voids. "I had so much hope for you. You were supposed to be the embodiment of our madness. But you're nothing but a disappointment."
Her words cut like a dagger. "I prepared this ritual perfectly. You were meant to be a part of it. My masterpiece. And now... you're destroying it."
Lyren felt his throat tighten. His hands trembled as he slowly drew his sword from its sheath.
His gaze froze. "What? What are you talking about? This has to be the—"
"No," she interrupted, her voice suddenly unnervingly cold. Her eyes gleamed with a disturbing mixture of madness and euphoria. "It has nothing to do with those little, helpless worms."
She spread her arms wide, as if addressing an invisible audience. "It is me. I am one of their apostles. May madness return this decayed world to its true glory!"
Lyren felt his stomach churn. The words of his friend echoed in his mind: "Kill her with your own hands."
"Mother... are you saying that everything that's happening here is your fault?" His voice trembled, the sound of his own words feeling alien.
"Isn't it wonderful?" Her eyes widened, the smile on her lips a grotesque distortion of joy. "So beautiful, my son. Listen to your mother. You were always so good. Come to me."
An icy shiver crawled down his spine. His heart hammered, but his hands tightened around the hilts of his swords. His breath came in shallow gasps.
"I will redeem you." The words were barely a whisper, but they felt final. "Whether you're possessed or not, it no longer matters. I... I can't allow this."
He saw the images before him. The suffering, the blood, the screams. He remembered the last words of the man he'd killed. His apology. His peace.
"I have to end it."
Her expression twisted into a mask of fury. "You dare point a weapon at your own mother?"
Lyren fought against the trembling in his legs, his grip on the swords tightening further. "You're no longer my mother." A lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. "Please... die."
„Oh, you’re actually right. I banished your mother and took you in. Such a waste of time,“ she said smoothly.
She stood up gracefully, her movements so fluid and precise that they sent a chill through him. It was almost like a dance, but one that heralded death itself.
“I see. She really wasn’t possessed. Before, she always seemed so weak,” he said with a sad smile. “I wonder if I can win.”
He thought of his friend, of what he had said, and a smile crept onto his own face. “Probably not.”
A small flame flickered at his finger, the orange light dancing in the dark.
“So, I really doubt this will work against me,” she commented in a voice that gave no indication of the enormity of her words. But suddenly, her expression changed in an instant.
He had set the pitch trail alight behind him. At a furious speed, the flame devoured the surface, flaring up into a deadly path of fire.
“No!” she screamed in panic. Her gaze was full of horror as she tried to run past him, but it was too late. The flames spread like an unstoppable storm. Unstoppable and mesmerizing.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He waited, biding his time. With a swift, fluid motion, he struck. The focused woman only noticed too late. A cut appeared on her leg, and for a moment, she faltered, her step stumbling.
“You stay here,” he whispered coldly. “I will burn you to ashes. So burn.”
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23.32
One house after another ignited in flames. "Damn," Azrael cursed. The sight of the roaring fires told him everything. His friend was in danger. Defeat was inevitable.
Without another thought for the burning city, he wasted no time and ran toward the house that had caught fire first.
23.39
Everything was ablaze. Screams echoed through the streets, laced with pure agony. Azrael stood before an insurmountable wall of fire. The heated air shimmered, and twitching, burning figures darted like ghosts through the fiery curtain. The plan was working nearly perfectly. But something was wrong. Lyren, Bartho, and he himself were still here, in the city.
"I hope Bartho makes it," he thought. The thought made him hesitate for a moment. "I need to get to Lyren quickly. But how?"
23:46
His advance was abruptly halted. Before him stood Bard and Lorena, cold smiles on their lips.
"There you are, boy," rumbled the tall man. In his hand, he held a massive broadsword, its gleaming edge threatening in the firelight.
Azrael tensed. The danger was palpable. "You still don't follow the path of Light, do you?" Bard continued, his voice like a sentence. "You don’t need to answer. The Church commands your elimination. The command of the Church is God's will."
“Pity, we shouldn’t have saved you back then. You looked so pathetic. How you crawled, disgusting,” the brute sniffed, as if the mere thought of the memory was an inconvenience.
Azrael clenched his fists but forced himself to remain calm. “Breathe deeply. Don’t lose control. Think of the others.” His thoughts helped him to tame the rising anger. He took a slow breath and asked with a cold voice, “What are you talking about? You just took me in after you killed them.”
“Oh, so you know,” Lorena said, a disdainful smile playing on her lips. “Well, whatever. No one cares about that anymore. But you’re wrong about one thing.” She took a step closer, her eyes glittering. “We didn’t know you existed. At least not until you crawled to us. You really did look pathetic.”
Azrael stared at her. It was happening again. A cold, incomprehensible feeling crawled up inside him. “Why does my body always act on its own?” He didn’t know. How could he? There was no answer. No why, no explanation.
Then another thought came. “Kill. Revenge.” He could finally strike down his foe. The murderer of his parents. This was his long-awaited chance.
He stopped his quickening breath. Calmed his racing pulse. “I won’t lose another loved one. That’s why I’ll kill them as quickly as possible.”
“So, boy. You will pay for your heresy with your life,” Bard said in a dark, almost casual tone. A flicker of pleasure danced in his eyes.
23:50 PM
Suddenly, Bard charged forward. His massive figure like a shadow darkening the sky. Azrael drew his bow. The tension in his fingers familiar, but Bard’s greatsword strike came with such force that Azrael barely managed to dodge. The ground beneath him vibrated with the energy of the blow. The air seemed to be filled with the shockwave.
Azrael was fast, agile, and quick. In the next moment, he shot from close range. The arrow hissed through the air and struck Bard’s side with a resonating thud. It left a bloody trail that slowly trickled along the metal of his armor.
Without any sign of pain, Bard slammed his fist into Azrael’s stomach. Azrael gasped. The air was forcibly expelled from his lungs. The familiar sensation of pain overwhelmed him. His mind cleared. Became calmer. His hand slid to his sword and drew it.
“It seems my opponent has put a lot of effort into physical improvement,” he analyzed thoughtfully. Mentally, he prepared himself for the next strike.
Greatsword from above. Azrael leapt to the side. At the same time, he lunged, his sword sliding off the opponent’s broad blade. A powerful kick sent Azrael flying backward. Blood dripped from his mouth, the impact hitting him hard.
He ignored the pain and ran forward, faster than before. When Bard struck again, Azrael dropped to his knees, the blow missing him by a hair's breadth. With a quick spin, he slashed at Bard’s thigh. Still in his retreat, the hilt of the sword struck him hard on the head. A loud crunch echoed. "Probably broken," he observed dryly, though the pain in his nose was burning and intense.
He feinted a strike at Bard's legs, then suddenly jumped upwards, aiming for the giant's face. Unfortunately, Bard was faster. He extended his hand and blocked the attack. One of his fingers was severed and fell to the ground.
Before Azrael could feel any satisfaction, a heavy fist slammed him down.
“Damn...” Azrael muttered. He tried to push himself up again, but a heavy pressure on his chest prevented him. Bard had placed his foot on him and pressed down with all his strength.
His ribs began to creak dangerously.
With his left hand, he hastily grabbed a handful of sand and threw it with all his might into Bard's face. For a moment, Bard was distracted. Before he could react, Azrael drove the sword with a quick, desperate jerk into his groin.
Azrael watched with a mix of relief and rage as Bard recoiled in pain. "There it is..." he thought with satisfaction, "the scream." But he also knew the sword was too short to kill him. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Bard staggered, and Azrael seized the moment of weakness.
Quickly, Azrael created some distance between himself and the fight. Just in time. Two throwing knives struck the ground with lightning speed. A quick glance allowed him to spot Lorena’s frantic movement as she held two more knives in her hands.
“Annoying,” he thought, feeling his pulse quicken. He spotted his bow, jumped to the side, and narrowly avoided the knives that barely missed his face.
In a half-lying position, he drew his bow and sent an arrow her way. The arrow hissed as it buried itself in her shoulder. A hysterical scream escaped her rosy lips. Azrael couldn't relish the joy and satisfaction that should have filled him. Because in that moment, a sword flew toward him like a deadly flash.
Bard had thrown it with all his hatred. Azrael knew he had no time left. He couldn’t do anything. Everything in that moment felt like the inevitable end of his life.
But suddenly, a shadow appeared in the path of the sword.
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“Not good,” Lyren groaned. One of his arms hung broken at his side. The confrontation hadn't even lasted a minute. She had dodged his blades with ease and broken his arm with a single strike.
She paid him no further attention. She wanted to return to the fire. Lyren, however, wouldn't allow it. Almost blinded by pain, he positioned himself in her way. His sword left a trail of fiery light behind it.
Boom
A blow to his stomach sent him crashing into a house. "Cough, cough."
Blood obscured his vision. She turned away again. "Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn." All that mattered was the desire to burn everything. He saw the flaming houses. They should burn just like that. His mark began to glow. In his mind, an almost unbidden thought appeared. A choice: either improve the body or improve the abilities. The body was out of the question—it would take too long. “I choose...”