Weeks earlier…
After returning from another successful hunt, I all but collapsed into my bedroll, a weary chuckle escaping my lips. As soon as I closed my eyes, a dizzy, almost intoxicating swirl took hold of my mind, the potent power of blood coursing through my veins like a heady, warm rush. The day's countless annoyances ebbed away, leaving only a pleasant haze. My limbs felt heavy, my stomach content, and a deep, irresistible pull guided me into a contented sleep.
I should have known such fleeting contentment was never meant for me. As I drifted deeper into what should have been a blissful slumber, something stirred in the depths of darkness—so thick and cold it seemed to snake through my veins and freeze my bones. The faint, rhythmic dripping of water began to echo around me, each drop a taunting metronome that filled me with a growing dread. When my vision cleared, I was standing barefoot on icy stone, the bitter cold biting into my flesh and sharpening every nerve into raw, quivering fear. My stomach dropped as the realization struck, I was back in Killian’s castle. And he was coming. He always comes.
A flicker of torchlight pierced the darkness, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Chains rattled in the distance, each clink reverberating through the hollow space and making my heart hammer painfully in my chest. I tried to move, to brace myself, but my limbs refused to respond. Panic surged, and I felt trapped, paralyzed and exposed. Then, out of the shadows, Killian emerged, his pale skin luminous in the dim light, his eyes glinting with malice and twisted delight. No words were necessary. I knew exactly why I was here—why I was always brought here.
My knees buckled, and I collapsed under the crushing weight of fear and forced submission. The air grew thick with the stench of blood and decay, heavy and suffocating. Killian, ever the predator savoring his prey’s terror, began to circle me. Each step echoed like a death knell, deliberate and heavy, a reminder that time was his plaything. He drew closer, and the anticipation coiled tightly in the pit of my stomach until I thought it would crush me. When his cold hand grazed my neck, I flinched instinctively. The touch was deceptively gentle—until it wasn’t. His grip tightened, iron-hard, and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.
"Your existence disappoints me," he whispered, the words dripping with sickly-sweet venom. He held me like that, savoring my helplessness, before shoving me away with cold disdain. The glint of sadistic joy in his eyes ignited as my punishment began. There were no physical blows this time; instead, Killian wielded his preferred weapon, the icy touch of magic, which coursed through my body like a firestorm, setting every nerve ablaze. The agony was relentless, a torrent of searing pain that blurred the line between screams and silence. My humiliation was complete; I was nothing more than a broken thing under his twisted gaze. There were no failures to punish, no mistakes—just his sick pleasure in my suffering.
The room twisted around me, shifting like a living nightmare. Chains materialized, binding my wrists and burning my skin with a frigid cruelty. Shadows coiled tighter, and Killian's laughter—low, mocking, and hollow—echoed through the air, a taunting melody. I was dragged to my feet by unseen forces, lashed with barbed whips of darkness that cut deeper with every strike. Each blow tore through more than flesh—it stripped away pride, dignity, hope—leaving nothing but raw, exposed agony. My misery was his entertainment, a cruel spectacle without end.
As the nightmare dragged on, pain morphed into desperation. I pleaded, I fought, but it always ended the same—Killian’s wicked grin growing ever more satisfied. The worst part was the suffocating certainty that nothing I did would change it. My suffering was a game he relished, an endless cycle of torment.
Just as despair threatened to consume me, the shadows around me tightened their hold. Killian leaned in, his face mere inches from mine, his breath cold against my skin. "Goodnight," he purred before dissolving into mist, leaving behind an oppressive silence and the echo of my ragged breathing.
I shot upright, gasping for breath, my skin slick with cold sweat. My heart pounded, and every limb trembled uncontrollably. The darkness around me felt suffocatingly real, and the phantom pain lingered long after the dream had shattered. This was no mere nightmare—it was a memory, one that refused to let go. I forced myself to take slow, steady breaths, wiping the sweat from my face. But as I did, a familiar, venomous sensation began to stir, creeping into my mind and coiling around my thoughts, ready to pounce the moment I lost control.
A cold realization settled over me—the nightmares were returning, and with them, the grip of the darkness I'd fought so hard to suppress. Time was running short. If I couldn’t find a way to keep it at bay, I feared what I might become. I stood, steadying myself with one final deep breath before stepping outside my tent. As I emerged, a wave of comforting aromas enveloped me—a sweet and spicy blend that filled my lungs and seemed to momentarily soothe the edges of my fraying nerves.
I found myself instinctively inhaling, savoring every note like a starving man catching wind of a feast. By the fire, Alexander stirred a pan of freshly scrambled eggs, their fluffy texture gently folding over fragrant chives and thyme. The subtle sharpness of melting goat cheese mingled with the warm scent, creating a creamy richness that usually accompanied his cheerful demeanor. But today, Alexander’s face was drawn and weary; whatever happiness cooking normally brought him had been stripped away, leaving only shadows beneath his eyes.
He plated the eggs beside flaky, fire-side biscuits baked to golden perfection. The biscuits gleamed with melting cinnamon butter, each drizzle of honey catching the morning light in amber threads. Yet even this inviting scene was undercut by the tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud.
I glanced around. Mylena sat close to the fire, clutching a steaming cup of spiced tea as if it were a lifeline in a sea of darkness. The earthy aroma of black tea mixed with milk, cardamom, cinnamon, and ginger wrapped around her like a shield, but the haunted look in her eyes suggested it was a thin comfort. Emre’s expression remained as stern and unyielding as ever, but the flicker of something—anxiety, perhaps—glinted briefly in her gaze before vanishing beneath her stoic facade.
Lyra stared into the flames, their dancing light reflected in eyes dulled by exhaustion. Her usual calm, meditative presence had crumbled, replaced by a weariness that spoke of sleepless nights and unwelcome memories. In stark contrast, Rhys stood close to Alexander, a spark of excitement lighting her molten-colored eyes. She was practically vibrating with anticipation, ready to dive into breakfast without a care in the world—a jarring contrast to the rest of us.
I lingered at the edge of my tent, hesitant to join. Whatever plagued me in the night had not spared my companions. Lyra caught me watching, her tired eyes softening as she rose and walked toward me. Her presence was a small light in the encroaching gloom, lifting just a fraction as she drew closer.
"Good morning, Kieran," Lyra greeted me.
"Morning, yes, but I have yet to see what is good about it," I teased, testing her spirits. Undeterred by a night of endless torment, she laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Do you always start the day this grumpy?" she asked, her giggle tinged with flirtation. Grinning, I played along trying to push away the dread still clinging to my bones.
"Only when no one has yet complimented my striking figure in comparison to the sunrise," I retorted smoothly.
"Oh, Kieran," she laughed, shaking her head. "Really? Vanity, there must be more that suits you?" My smile broadened as I let my eyes glide over her form.
"I can think of a few things that would suit me, but I am afraid we only have time for vanity darling."
Matching my grin with her own, Lyra teased, "A shame, really. I was hoping to hear what else suits you... but I suppose I’ll have to settle for watching you bask in your own brilliance” Our banter flowed effortlessly, and I couldn't resist another quip.
"Oh, darling, I could show you exactly what suits me," I purred, letting my gaze linger just a moment longer than necessary, the corner of my mouth curving into a slow, deliberate smile. Lyra rolled her eyes, but the flush that bloomed across her cheeks betrayed her thoughts. She was trying to hide it—poorly—but I saw the telltale flicker of intrigue beneath her playful exasperation.
She turned from me with a half-smile, her guard slipping just enough to let me know the game was working. Teasing her was proving to be more enjoyable than I anticipated, a delicate dance between flirtation and subtle manipulation. With each quip, each lingering glance, the attraction between us deepened—and she was already beginning to follow where I wanted her to go.
Still, as satisfying as it was to weave this web around her, we were running out of time. The wetlands awaited, and so did the druid—our window of opportunity growing smaller with every moment wasted. For now, I would let her believe this was just playful banter between us, nothing more than a shared amusement. Soon enough, though, she’d find herself standing exactly where I needed her. And by the time she realized it, it would be far too late to untangle herself from me.
The unease returned and settled deep in my chest as I approached the fire, each step weighed down by the oppressive sense of shared dread. Whatever horrors had haunted my companions through the night, I didn’t want to know. If they mirrored even a fraction of what I’d endured, they must have been nothing less than cruel and soul-crushing.
Alexander handed me a plate as I drew near, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes hollow. “Comfort food,” he said, the words forced through a heavy pause. “I assume you, too, found yourself floating in a sea of terror last night, yes?”
“I think I would have preferred an endless ocean to my dreams,” I replied, my voice raw. “Does this mean the venom is gaining control again?”
He nodded silently before sitting down and beginning to eat, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. I couldn't help but wonder what nightmare could drive Alexander, usually so resilient, into this heavy silence. Whatever it was, I knew I didn’t want to understand it. If their dreams were anything like mine… I shuddered, forcing myself to push the thought away.
I turned my attention to the plate in my hands, seeking refuge in the comforting warmth of the meal before me. I ate quickly, trying to let the food ground me, to drown out the echoes of terror that still lingered just beneath the surface.
After finishing the meal, we reviewed the day's plan, driven by a mounting urgency. The looming threat of venomous domination and endless nightmares haunted the edges of our thoughts, spurring us to action. With one last glance over the map, we broke down our camp and gathered our gear, plunging back into the wilderness, resolute in our quest to find the druid—or at least trace his path.
The rest of the morning crept by with a dreary weight as we slogged through a mire of mud and indistinct slime. What first seemed like a passable wetland revealed itself as a fetid swamp, tainted by something vile and evil. Its presence lingered thick in the air, saturating it with death and sorrow. It was a nightmarish landscape, reeking of decay, dotted with foul-smelling geysers spewing noxious fluids, and swarming with relentless biting insects. Traps lay hidden beneath the murky waters, adding to our misery. Exhaustion and disgust mounted with every step—gods how I longed for just one damn day without being drenched in grime, reeking like the backside of a Muckwretch Beast. As we trudged through the thick muck in search of an escape from this dreadful landscape, Lyra spotted what looked like someone camped on a ridge.
"Maybe they know a way out of this, umm..." she began, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
"Shit?" I interjected, unable to resist defining the vile substance underfoot.
"Actually, yes," Alexander agreed, looking down at his boots sunk deep into the ooze. "Shit is precisely the right word for what I'm standing in," he said, his face contorted with revulsion as he surveyed the grim, swampy expanse around us.
Eager to leave the sight of Alexander’s ruined boots behind, we hurried toward the camp, hoping for the comforting warmth of a campfire. But our hopes quickly dimmed as we drew closer. What we had taken for a traveler sitting by the fire turned out to be a scarecrow—a crude figure of stuffed cloth with a carved wooden face and a slouching, tattered hat. The fire crackled weakly at its feet, circled by scattered stones. It was clear the flames were real, but the camp itself was little more than a mockery of life; there were no cooking utensils, no supplies, no true signs of habitation. Everything else around the site was equally suspect: a worn bedroll draped on the ground, a dented metal cup tipped on its side, and a half-eaten loaf of bread, all placed with such deliberate care that it seemed obvious they had not been touched in days, if not longer.
“We should go,” Lyra’s voice was tense, her eyes scanning the clearing. “This feels like a trap, and I am in no hurry to meet whoever set it.”
“Nor whoever it was set for,” Mylena added, beginning to back away. But before she could take another step, Emre seized her shoulder, halting her in place.
“Do not move,” she ordered sharply. “We are not alone.”
Mylena’s gaze hardened, her usual coldness toward Emre momentarily forgotten as her eyes flickered across the swamp before us. I strained to see what she had noticed, but all that met my eyes were the murky waters, mangrove trees, and the ever-present swarm of insects buzzing around us.
“Tree tops,” Lyra whispered beside me, her voice barely audible. I lifted my head slowly, my breath catching as I scanned the canopy above.
We were surrounded.
High above us, the faint creaking of branches and the dry rustle of leaves betrayed the presence of our unseen watchers. My eyes focused on the figures crouched among the thick foliage—Marshkin’s. Frog-like humanoids, their skin a mottled pattern of green and black spots, blended seamlessly into the shadows of the treetops. They stared back at us with an unnerving stillness, their large, dark eyes unblinking, their bows drawn tight. Each arrow pointed straight at us, ready to let loose from above.
The Marshkin’s clung to the branches with an eerie, effortless agility. Their small bodies seemed as much a part of the trees as the leaves themselves, perfectly balanced as they crouched, hung, or crept from limb to limb. There was at least a dozen of them scattered throughout the canopy, each one perched in a position that afforded them a clear line of sight over the camp and the area below. The air was thick with the tension of a trap that had already been sprung, the drawn bowstrings taut like the strained silence pressing down upon us.
A larger Marshkin, decorated with woven vines and dark feathers, let out a harsh croak. It was a sound that echoed through the trees, and though its meaning was lost on us, the response from the others was unmistakable. They shifted their aim, adjusting ever so slightly, their arrows now trained on our every move.
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There was no mistaking the message. The Marshkin’s held the high ground, their vantage points making escape all but impossible. One wrong move, one sudden motion, and a hail of poisoned arrows would descend upon us like a deadly rain.
Out of the corner of my eye, a subtle movement caught my attention. Gracefully emerging from behind a large tree, a Marshkin appeared with an air of quiet authority. "A Marshkin Wildling," Lyra breathed, just loud enough for us to hear.
Standing at around three feet tall, the Marshkin Wildling carried herself with a composed, almost regal bearing, typical of Shaman’s of her kind. Her skin, a vivid shade of red, gleamed faintly in the swamp's dim light, its smooth texture broken by darker crimson markings that traced intricate patterns across her form. The markings accentuated her facial features, particularly around her large, bulbous eyes, which were ringed in a deep onyx hue. Her gaze, sharp and intelligent, glinted with a mixture of ancient wisdom and quiet cunning, setting her apart from the other Marshkin’s with their more aggressive stances. Unlike the tense expressions of her kin, the Wildling’s wide mouth rested in a neutral, almost serene line, giving her an aura of calm authority.
She was dressed in flowing robes of deep sapphire and rich garnet, the colors swirling around her like the shifting waters of a darkened pool. The robes were layered elegantly, each fold draped with purpose and tied at the waist with a sash woven from thin vines and twine. Her attire spoke not just of status, but of a life steeped in ritual and ancient customs. Small trinkets, charms, and feathers dangled from the vines, each one whispering spells and rites conducted in the heart of the swamp.
In her webbed, three-fingered hands, the Wildling held a gnarled wooden staff, polished smooth from years of use. Its dark wood twisted upward to form a natural hook, from which a strip of crimson cloth fluttered lightly in the dense, humid air. The staff was adorned with small charms and trinkets, some crafted from bone, others from polished stones, each tied with sinew. The entire staff seemed to pulse faintly, as if it channeled the magic of the swamp itself, serving as a perfect conduit for the Wildling’s shamanistic powers.
Without a word, she approached us with an unhurried grace, stepping past our group and making her way to the fire where the scarecrow sat lifelessly. There, she settled herself on the ground with practiced ease, her robes pooling around her. She adjusted her layers with a casual flick of her hand, as though she were simply settling in for a quiet night by the fire. Once she was comfortable, a soft grin spread across her lips, her eyes flickering with a knowing glint that suggested she was well aware of the power she held in this moment—and that she had no need to rush.
"Hello," she greeted us casually, her voice deep and commanding, as if she were welcoming guests to her home. We stood there in stunned silence, exchanging confused glances, our eyes darting from her calm expression to the Marshkin’s perched high above, their bows still trained on us.
Before any of us could respond, the leader high up in the trees, a Bogblade Champion of the Marshkin, erupted into a furious series of croaks from his branch, his tone unmistakably reprimanding. He gestured wildly, his small body practically vibrating with indignation. It was clear he was not pleased with the Wildling's relaxed demeanor or her decision to engage us so openly.
The Wildling Shaman didn’t even glance his way. Instead, she responded with a slow, deliberate series of croaks, her tone carrying an air of mild amusement and complete dismissal. Her casual response only seemed to infuriate the leader further, as he launched into an even more animated tirade, his croaks coming faster and louder, limbs flailing as if he could somehow compel her to take him seriously through sheer force of volume.
Once his small tantrum had subsided, she finally lifted her gaze to him, her expression one of serene indifference, as though she were patiently waiting for a child to finish whining. The look she gave him seemed to say, “Are you quite done?” Her gaze lingered just long enough to make her point before she turned her attention back to us, her smile never wavering.
The Bogblade, clearly flustered, croaked a few more times, quieter now, as if trying to save face. But the Shaman didn’t even bother to acknowledge him again. It was as though she had effortlessly put him back in his place with nothing more than a look and a calm voice, leaving me struggling not to snicker at the sight of the indignant warrior being so thoroughly dismissed.
"Ignore Yikzu," the Wildling Shaman said with a calm smile, her tone light and disarming. "I usually do." Despite the gentle humor in her voice, our party remained rooted in place, unsure of how to respond. The air felt heavy with tension, and trust was not something we could afford to give freely—not when arrows were still pointed at us from above.
She let out a small chuckle, her expression remaining relaxed. "You might as well speak to me," she continued, her tone coaxing. "Unless otherwise told, Yikzu won't give the order to fire, no matter how badly he wants to."
Lyra hesitated; her breath shaky as she finally took a step forward. Slowly, she faced the Wildling, her movements deliberate and careful. She exhaled deeply when no arrows flew in her direction, her shoulders dropping a fraction in relief. "Mind if I join you by the fire?" she asked, her voice betraying a trace of uncertainty.
The Wildling extended her hand, palm open, gesturing for Lyra to sit. "Please do," she said with a reassuring nod. Lyra settled herself by the fire, still eyeing her with a mixture of caution and curiosity. Seeing Lyra unscathed, the rest of us moved forward as well, inching closer to the fire with hesitant steps, glancing warily up at the Marshkin’s perched in the treetops.
"Ah, that’s better. More civilized," the Wildling said, her smile widening slightly as we gathered around. "My name is Sriss, Watcher of the Still Marsh." She paused, her large eyes sweeping over us, as if reading something beneath the surface. "Yikzu up there," she nodded toward the agitated Bogblade in the branches, "seems to think you're responsible for this camp and our lost children."
Leaning closer, Sriss tilted her head back, inhaling deeply as if to catch some trace of us in the air. "But your scent... it’s neither familiar nor foul, unlike the one who made this illusion," she murmured, her large eyes blinking slowly. Despite her composed demeanor and gentle words, there was something unsettling in the way she studied us—like a predator gauging its prey, or a healer discerning the nature of a wound.
Her manner was undeniably charismatic, even inviting, but as much as we wanted to trust the Wildling’s apparent warmth, the bows trained on us from above served as a sharp reminder that we were not yet out of danger. Sriss’s calm authority might have been genuine, or it might have been part of a carefully laid snare. We could not know for sure, and that hesitation hung in the air like a low mist, impossible to shake off.
Sriss tilted her head to the side, her gaze sharp as she studied us more intently. Lyra, glancing up at Yikzu with a wary eye, finally addressed Sriss. “If you know we’re not the ones who set up this false camp, then why the bows?”
Sriss let out a series of low chuckles. “True, you aren’t the ones we seek, but don’t think for a moment I don’t recognize the stench of the venom coursing through your veins.” Her smile remained, cold and knowing. “You wouldn’t begrudge me a little protection, would you?”
Lyra grimaced but nodded. “Point taken.”
“You could have ended us without revealing yourselves,” I cut in, locking eyes with Sriss. “So, you must want something from us.”
Her grin widened, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Don’t we all want something, in the end?”
Lyra shifted her attention away from Yikzu and his arsenal, now focused entirely on Sriss. “What is it you want from us?”
Sriss leaned in slightly, her smile fading into a more somber expression. “We Marshkin, proud though we are, face a threat far beyond anything we can handle alone. The creature we hunt is no mere nuisance—it’s a nightmare that stalks our village, poisoning our water, our crops, and worst of all, our young. We need capable hands—yours—to put an end to this... 'little parasite.'”
She glanced toward her warriors, the tension in the air palpable, before continuing. “This blight on our village has brought more than just death; it has unleashed a sickness upon us, a plague that spreads like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. And the truth is… we cannot stop it.”
“Sickness?” Lyra asked, her brow furrowed.
Sriss’s face fell, deep sadness etching into her features. “Blightseed Curse, to be exact.”
Mylena let out a small gasp. “Are you certain it’s Blightseed?”
Sriss locked eyes with Mylena, nodding gravely. “I am certain.”
The silence that followed was heavy. I broke it, glancing around the group. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what this... Blightseed is?”
Mylena sighed, her tone grim. “Within the first day of exposure, the victims show mild signs: nausea, fatigue, a weakening of the muscles. By the second day, it worsens—violent vomiting, unbearable fever, and haunting hallucinations. By the third day…” Her voice dropped lower. “The body begins to rot. Necrosis spreads from within, decaying flesh and tissue until there’s nothing left but a husk. The children…” She faltered as she watched a tear trace its way down Sriss’s cheek, her voice hollow. “As the sun sets on the third day, they die. But death does not release them they are reborn into darkness.”
“Reborn?” I asked, the weight of that word hanging in the air.
Mylena frowned. “Reborn into the servitude of the one who planted the curse.”
Lyra’s eyes flicked toward Mylena, suspicion creeping in. “How do you know so much about this curse?”
But Mylena only shook her head, saying nothing.
“It is a rather grim story,” Alexander winced, glancing at Mylena, “a black mark on all Clerics, truly.”
A somber silence hung in the air before he continued.
"A battle once raged between two enemies, the City of Dawnscross and the Vanator village of Wolfhaven. In the midst of this bloodshed was Sister Isladora, a Light Gatherer Cleric, renowned for her unwavering faith. But war had wearied her, and she grew frustrated with her inability to bring an end to the ceaseless conflict. She watched the bodies pile higher, the wounded cry out, and the innocent suffer. It broke her spirit.
In her desperation, Isladora claimed a divine vision, a 'gift' bestowed upon her by their god Arycruthos, the Lightseed. This spell was meant to be her salvation, a way to purify their enemies, turning the blasphemers of Tezanis, the Beastwarden, the Vanator Hunter god, into obedient servants of Arycruthos. It was meant to cleanse, not destroy.
But in her haste, she cast it on the food supply of Wolfhaven—not for the leaders or soldiers responsible for the war, but for the most vulnerable: the children orphaned by the senseless violence. Her heart was heavy, but her hand was unbroken as she worked what she believed was the will of her god.
Yet, the magic twisted. The hate and bitterness festering within her turned her 'gift' into a plague—what should have been the Lightseed Blessing became the Blightseed Curse. The food turned to rot in the hands of the innocent, the children falling victim to a curse that blackened their bodies and souls. Isladora’s spell did not convert them; it consumed them. And the corruption did not stop with them—it spread back to her. The rot that festered in her magic began to fester in her flesh.
Sister Isladora was no longer a servant of light, but a harbinger of death. She became Isladora of the Forsaken Rot, a fallen cleric who cursed all she had once sought to protect."
Alexander’s voice faded, the weight of the tale hanging in the air.
Sriss bowed her head, the weight of grief evident in the way her shoulders slumped, mourning in silence for the loss her village had endured. The air between all seated at the fire was heavy with unspoken sorrow. Lyra, her expression softening, slowly reached out her hand, offering a gesture of peace and comfort.
For a moment, Sriss hesitated, her sad eyes searching Lyra’s for something—perhaps understanding, perhaps solace. Then, with a quiet sigh, she extended her hand to meet Lyra’s. Their fingers touched, and in that small, fragile connection, a shared sadness passed between them. A gentle smile bloomed on their faces—one of mutual understanding, a silent acknowledgment of loss, and a fragile hope for healing.
They released each other's hands, the tension around us replaced by a shared resolve. Lyra, her voice steady, asked Sriss, "What is it you need from us?"
Before Sriss could respond, Alexander interrupted, “Mylena.”
We all turned to her. Mylena sat in silence, her head bowed, eyes tightly shut as though warding off an invisible pain. After a heavy pause, her voice finally broke through the quiet. “Only a cleric can cure a cleric’s curse.”
Sriss’s eyes flickered with satisfaction as she smiled at Alexander. “Clever man,” she said softly, her gaze shifting back to the group. “Yes, you’ve uncovered part of the truth.”
She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle. “Help us,” she continued, “cleanse our village of the curse that festers in our lands. A Vanator is the source of this corruption, poisoning our people, our homes. Destroy him, free us from this plague, and in return, I will grant you access to someone invaluable to your journey—our Mirebrew Master.”
Her voice lowered as she spoke the name. “Eicas, our finest alchemist, is renowned for his elixirs and his deadly poisons. Few can match his skill, while he is not able to cure you, he can certainly give you an advantage. You will need more than steel and spells for the road ahead, and Eicas will provide you with a powerful item of your choosing—each of you. Whether it’s a potion to strengthen your body, a poison to cripple your enemies, or something more... dangerous. The choice will be yours.”
Sriss’s offer was clear: a dangerous bargain for an even more dangerous reward. But the price—facing the Vanator responsible for their suffering—was one we could not ignore.
“A Vanator!” Mylena blurted out, her voice sharp with disbelief. “But they were the first victims of the curse. Why would one be using it against someone else?”
The words had barely left her mouth before I spat out angrily, “Pfft. Self-proclaimed monster hunters and glorified villains. They don’t need a reason to be cruel—they’re born of it.”
My sudden outburst seemed to hang in the air, sharp and unexpected. Lyra turned her head, giving me a curious, lingering look. She seemed to ponder the emotion behind my words, her brow furrowing for a moment. But without questioning it, she returned her gaze to Sriss. “We’ll help you. Once the Vanator has been dealt with, how will we find you?” All thoughts of our own peril were momentarily set aside, as none of my companions were willing to let this curse persist, each driven by their own motives. While some may have been focused on saving the children, I saw this as a chance to rid the world of another monster hunter—a resolve born from being a victim of their kind.
Sriss’s grin spread slowly across her face. “You won’t need to. Yikzu will find you and bring you back to me at the village.”
Her tone carried an unsettling certainty, but the focus in my mind was still on that single word—Vanator. I shuddered inwardly, forcing myself to maintain a facade of calm despite the fear and loathing boiling beneath the surface. I was all too familiar with the Vanator. Before Killian became my tormentor, it was the Vanator who haunted Everdare. A sneer twisted in my mind, hidden behind a mask of indifference. The Vanator—grim, battle-hardened criminals who masqueraded as protectors—were nothing more than a tribe of monster hunters and cutthroats, living on the edge of society, feared as much as they were revered.
They considered themselves saviors, defenders of the weak, purging the world of beasts that preyed upon towns and villages. But I saw through the illusion. Their methods were savage, born of years spent teetering on the brink of survival. They didn’t just kill monsters; they killed anyone they deemed a threat, human or otherwise. Their so-called protection came at a price far higher than anyone should pay.
While Lyra and the others conversed with Sriss, I leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, lost in the tide of unwelcome memories. The Vanator were viewed as heroes by some—a last resort when the world turned dark, and the creatures of the night came calling. They would stride into a town, slay the monsters, and leave behind blood and ruin. Villagers would thank them, though not without a flicker of fear, for the Vanator took what they wanted, whether gold, supplies, or something more sinister. Those who survived were left to whisper gratitude through clenched teeth, unsure whether they had been saved or spared.
But I knew better. The Vanator were no better than the creatures they hunted. Ruthless, cold, and utterly without mercy, they lived by a savage code where life and death were commodities. They killed not for justice, but for survival, for coin, or simply because it was in their nature. In the end, they became the monsters, just as dangerous and unpredictable. They answered only to their chieftain, or to the highest bidder, and their eyes always gleamed with the violence lurking just beneath the surface.
I could still feel that gleam on me now, a distant but ever-present reminder of a threat I had no desire to face again. These bastards—the Vanator—are driven by profit, vengeance, or sheer bloodlust. And I knew this better than most. My path crossed with theirs on a night I’ve tried countless times to forget, but the memories resurface in disjointed flashes, fragments of a nightmare I can’t escape.
I stumbled upon a group of drunken Vanator celebrating another bloody hunt. The details of that night are hazy, distorted by pain and fear. Words were exchanged—foolish, reckless words. Punches were thrown, cruel and unforgiving. I remember lying on the cold cobblestone streets of Everdare, fighting for every breath, my body broken and my mind teetering on the edge of oblivion. I was inches from death, ready to slip away into darkness.
And then Killian appeared with his Dishonored Watch.
He found me—bleeding and beaten—and with a twisted smile and a flick of his wrist, Killian’s Dishonored Watch drove off the Vanator. That was the first time I came face to face with him. To my desperate eyes, he appeared as a kind savior, a leader who could offer help and perhaps even become a mentor. But it was a carefully crafted illusion. Beneath his feigned kindness lurked intentions far darker than I could have imagined.
Killian rescued me from the brink of death, sending me back to my family and granting me hope—unwittingly setting me on the path to becoming his pawn. I did not realize then that I had exchanged one hell for another. The Vanator may have left me to die, but Killian ensured I lived—for his own twisted purposes. That night marked the end of whatever life I had known and the beginning of true suffering.
Years later, after the deaths of my family, I understood the full scope of his plans. Killian had secretly employed many of the Vanator to terrorize the streets, spreading fear and chaos that he thrived upon. The very monsters I despised for their brutality had, without knowing, delivered me into his hands. Their violence left me broken, and Killian used that weakness to bind me to him. For that, I will never forgive either side.
“Kieran?” Lyra’s concerned voice broke through my thoughts.
“Hmm” I replied trying to keep my feelings hidden.
“You looked as though you were miles away, are you ready to go?” she continued to look at me curiously.
“If we must darling” I sighed pushing myself off the tree and walking casually past Lyra. She watched me for a moment, eyes still contemplating my tone, before joining the others as we began to head in the direction Sriss recommended.