“Aziz! Light!”

Hemlock’s voice shattered the cold silence of the meeting hall. A young, yellow-haired boy just old enough to start shaving, started and hurried to relight the indicated torch. His task was simple: keep the torches lit. She scowled at him. He was a good lad, but prone to distraction.

She pretended not to notice the fascinated way he peered at the skeleton standing motionless nearby. Children were so easily strayed.

He practically tiptoed back to his seat in the corner once his task was fulfilled. From beneath the dark hood of her cowl, she caught his eye lingering on her.

“Much better. Thank you, Aziz.”

Hemlock thought by now the boy would know to not let the torches burnout with how many times she’d needed to remind him. Nothing for it. They were simple townsfolk. Not the trained and dutiful people who looked after Nightshade’s castle.

Hemlock returned her focus on the map in front of her, able to see the finer details again.

She swore it was on a quest to give her a headache.

In the month since she had taken Hero’s Haven, her forces had been fighting off the player menace non-stop. Now, three weeks since slaughtering the players, increasing her army, reputation and political power in a single step, it was beginning to grow irritating.

They weren’t a threat by any means. This city was hers, and it would stay hers. The players hadn’t even managed to reach the walls, dying long before getting close. But the wretches were persistent. Even with each player who fell expanding her army ever so slightly, she didn’t have the forces to split her troops toward her next objective.

The continuous scuffles with the player vermin were keeping her locked down. Keeping her from her goals.

With a sigh, she pinched her eyebrows, squinting as she pushed the pain in her head away. These headaches had been growing stronger recently.

A bang from the front grabbed her attention as the large wooden doors burst open. Cobalt, his runes scuffed and marred, used a single hand to carry a pleading, round-bellied man by the nape of his shirt. Had it been possible, she swore he would have sneered as he tossed the man to his knees before her.

“My dark lady,” the skeleton rasped, inclining his head.

“What is it?” She ignored the honorific her second in command had been using as of late.

“Traitor. Caught attempting to sneak out of town. Making his way to the player settlements.”

Anger flared in Hemlock’s chest. Everything she was doing was to free people like this from the players’ uncaring service. Yet still there were those locals who chose to favor the slimy filth.

“Is this true?” Her voice came out thin, almost a whisper. Yet with the danger in her tone, there was no corner of the room that didn’t understand her clearly.

The man was nearly shaking, and though the panic in his eyes betrayed his desire to flee, he could not look away from the picture of death rising before him. The empty void where a face should be, features perfectly hidden by the cowl of the cloak, seemed to drink the light. Swallowing the flickers of hope that danced on the candles around the room. Even as he fought to avert his eyes, the flame of another died, the smoke subtlety drifting toward his captor.

Fear pulsed through his veins, ice cold as she walked through the long table, her body splitting and then recombining as if the table were but an illusion of smoke and fancy. Her steps were soundless and perfectly even, a slight sway to her body as she traversed the open floor—as though she floated, more an apparition than any being of flesh and blood.

At her feet, tendrils of shadow licked out at the room and gently caressed him as she grew closer. The endless blackness of her hood locked his gaze and stopped the sounds in his throat.

This fool can hardly bring himself to answer he is so afraid.

He was mid-forties with creases on his tanned skin from an easy smile—those smile lines were contorted oddly now on his terror-stricken face. He forced his gaze once again to the side, unwilling to look at the shadow hiding her face a moment longer.

“I… I… my lady,” the man stuttered. “I had to! I haven’t sold anything in weeks! My customers, they will be needing my supply. Well, those that are still around. You killed all the customers here—” His fear twisted into horror at his words. “I-I… A true accomplishment, that is, if ever there was one.”

“You are a merchant?” Hemlock asked, her voice even, emotionless.

The man nodded frantically.

“Yes, m’lady. Name’s Alfred. I’m the best merchant for general goods anywhere outside the capital city. Got everything an adventurer needs and connections to sell what they don’t. But it’s been nearly a month since you took over, and with such, uh…” He glanced nervously at Cobalt and the skeletons standing around the room, “content companions, I have nobody to sell to.”

“I see. And it hasn’t occurred to you to simply stop selling?” Annoyance frayed the edges of her resolve, leaking into her voice.

The man’s attention snapped back to her like she had grown a second head. Actually, he would probably be less surprised by that turn of events.

“Ch… change my occupation?” he asked in a hushed tone.

“Yes. You have been a merchant to the players for years. Buying and selling their left-over gear, making a living from their cast offs and scraps?”

“That is my place, m’lady…”

“I even heard rumor you had to buy from players, that you weren’t given the option based on market and demand. Why? To support your family? To feed those who depend on you? We can provide those things now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This city is mine and you are its citizen.” Hemlock had to force herself to remain calm. These poor people had been brainwashed for so long, she could spare a little patience, along with a helping of cold reality. “My followers have no need of food or creature comfort, and we have more than enough of both with the loot we gathered from the players. Why not lend a hand towards the crafts of war, and take our thanks and supplies? Why not provide my forces with equipment to make even the most cocky player shudder?”

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“I… I can’t, m’lady.”

“Why!” Hemlock exploded, her calm logical exterior vanishing in an instant. “Why can’t you, merchant? What could possibly be so important as to force you to try and sneak out under the cover of mid-day sun? What could possibly be so important that it drives you toward the filth instead of assisting those who would help you?”

The man physically shook now, fingers wringing together in a vain attempt to keep them still.

“I… I have to. It is who I am.”

“And if I were to have you killed?” Hemlock’s tone dropped to its biting whisper, and each of the silent skeletons positioned around the room lifted their weapons, taking a single step forward.

The man’s fear locked his voice as his eyes darted among the bared steel threatening him.

“What if it was the cost of your life?” She leaned into the man’s face, the void of her cowl blocking the faint light in the room. “My battle is with the players that have taken this land, not with the people who live here. What if the decision was your life or change your occupation?”

The man nearly whimpered as she slid sideways, gliding slowly, silently, around him, whispering, “Death or Occupation. What would be your choice?”

“I… I… can’t, my lady. Surely you understand! It’s who I am. I would simply start the next life the same way.” The man began to sob, tears and urine flowing freely, no longer able to hold back even a shadow of his pride.

Cold washed over Hemlock as she watched the man, pitiful in his refusal. Great wracking sobs shook his body and snot dripped from his nose. Something from the past called like deja vu in witnessing this pathetic display as the man… ugly cried? Pinching her wrist, she forced herself away from the questions that raised.

“Religion has no place here,” she responded flatly, turning her back to him. Something was off.

This merchant was terrified beyond reason. Even now, the pungent scent of his dribble assaulted her nostrils, contorting her hidden visage. Yet he cowered there, refusing to even lie about his intentions for his job. This went beyond a love for his occupation.

Laughing conversations with Maggie came to mind. The friendly young washer-woman who had been her friend. That had been how long ago? Could it really be so short a time? She remembered her friends desire to be a seamstress had been so strong, but it was destroyed in her complete refusal to follow that dream. The similarities of conviction could not be coincidence. There was something she quite obviously did not understand.

Hemlock turned her gaze to the great door at the end of the room, locking her eyes on her second in command.

“Cobalt, what does he mean, ‘it’s who he is?’”

“He means it is who he is, my dark lady,” the skeleton replied helpfully.

“Thank you, I gathered that. Explain further.”

“The man is a merchant at his core. It is built into his character. A foundational element of who he is as an individual. Any choice he had, at that level of his character, was long ago removed. He could no more change his occupation than change his height.”

“He simply can’t? Can’t? And what if I was to put a hammer in his hand and have him trained to be a blacksmith?”

“He would do as you ask, while you are asking. However, as soon as he was left to his own devices, he would attempt to buy and sell the materials left in his charge.”

“Has his choice really been so removed from him? Even when faced with the prospect of death?”

“Even so. It is who he is.”

Her quest started as revenge for the offhanded murder of Maggie, Doran and the others who had shown her kindness. She witnessed with her own eyes the sickness that was the player menace.

And as she stood before this man, her heart hardened. The players transgressions grew worse. These people had their very freedom removed at a visceral level.

Maggie just wanted to be a seamstress, and that small choice was stolen from her…

There had to be a way to free these people.

There had to be a way to give them back the choice of who they are.

Hemlock studied her second in command. The annoyingly blue skeleton proved himself quite useful to her, easing much of the suspicion she held for him previously. Loyal to a fault, one could say, and never once had he ever questioned her orders. Never once.

“Cobalt, do you suffer from the same condition?”

“I live to serve, my dark lady. But those like this man… I may have a solution.” Cobalt became motionless.

“Speak,” she encouraged when he did not further explain. Honestly, he could be so melodramatic.

“Locked into his role, into who he is at his core, this man has had his choice removed. To restore that choice, he would need to change who he is. Though it may be more accurate to say, change what he is.”

It took a moment for what the skeleton was implying to register, and when it did, she sucked in a breath through her teeth.

“Would this work? You are certain?”

The azure skeleton did not respond, the permanent smile of his fleshless face unmoving, almost watchful in a way that continued to grate on her nerves.

The portly man glanced back and forth between the pair, confusion painting his face. He gulped deeply when her shadowy figure returned fully into his field of view.

“Hear me well, merchant. If you were able to make your own choice, your own decision on who you would serve and what you would do, would you welcome that choice? Would you want that freedom? Answer me honestly, but consider your response. Your life hangs in the balance.”

“M…my lady, if I could serve you, I would not hesitate to do so. I simply can’t.”

“Very well. I will give you your choice, merchant.”

A mixture of fear and anticipation ran across his features.

The room dimmed as Hemlock stepped back. The candles in their sconces retreating from the darkness gathering around her, finally giving up the battle they had been waging.

With almost delicate intention, she lifted her hand, grasping at the air in front of her as she focused on the man. As she watched, a tendril of red light seemed to sprout slowly, so slowly, like a plant growing from the man’s chest. His eyes wide, he stared at the crimson appendage in fear. Ever so gently, she reached her fingers into that light, wrapping her hand in his vitality. With a grimace of effort, she clenched her fist.

The man screamed, falling to the floor, clutching at his chest.

There was a resistance to her will. A resistance against her push toward the grave, the instincts of every natural creature under the sky. With a snarl, she focused her intention, solidifying her grip on the man’s life force. She turned her hand, twisting the tendril of his essence and forcing it to bend to her will. The central beating of the man’s heart pulsed within her palm, the thrumming energy that flowed through his body, making him alive. It was this primordial force that she molded to her purpose.

Little by little, scream by scream, she transfigured that essence. The bright crimson of the man’s life force faded, turning pink and then grey. As she focused on that energy, that vitality in her hand, the tendril flared white.

She removed the vitality that beat within his chest and replaced it with the power of her benefactor.

And the man was changed by the process. The skin around his jowls shuddered with screams, no longer filled with years of comfortable fat. As she watched, those jowls suctioned into his face, leaving his cheeks gaunt and skeletal.

Gone was the portly, middle-aged man with an easy smile. In his place was a wiry man sculpted of sickly muscle. Veins and striations between muscles stood out like canyons under his emaciated grey skin.

“Stand, merchant,” she commanded, wanting a better look.

“I am no merchant.”

The raspy reply was long past hoarse, the vocal cords nearly destroyed during the transformation.

“Then stand and make yourself known.” Her reply held a tinge of warning as she planted her feet, ready.

Slowly at first, but gaining strength, the not-merchant stood facing his creator.

Six and a half feet tall, he no longer even resembled the man who cowered here moments ago. Blotches of red showed through his grey parlor, emphasizing the contours of his body, giving him the complexion of blood and ash.

No fear showed on his face. No hesitation.

“I, my dark lady, am freed.” The final word punched from the man’s mouth. He raised his head and screamed, beating on his chest with one hand, calling his victory to the sky.

Hemlock smiled.

“This will do nicely.”

Hemlock took in a deep, pleasant breath, relishing the success of the moment. Noticing the dark of the room, she turned to the yellow-haired boy. His mouth hung open, eyes locked on the transformed merchant.

“Aziz. How would you like to be free?”