There was nothing at first. Just a ruthless, empty void. Then came the lights. Tiny pinpricks, flickering in the distance. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Millions. Billions.

The Guardian had seen stars before, back on earth, but never so many. Unimpeded by the atmosphere and the pollution of Big City, he saw them all. An uncountable number of galaxies, overlapping each other into a glaring white sheet.

But in front of that glimmering wall, much closer, was something troubling. A roiling, billowing form of cloud, circling the planet. Dread quelled up inside of him.

It was Hress, the Eater of Worlds. The great serpent of destruction. The herald of doom, foretold by the Aaken Cycle. The gargantuan snake coiled herself around the planet, squeezing it.

It seemed to remind him of something he had seen before. A figure made out of dark smoke, yet still solid. Except... he couldn't remember where exactly he'd seen something like that before.

And then Hress lifted her head and turned her flat face toward him. Her eyes were like two galaxies of their own, piercing his soul. She looked right at him and he saw nothing but evil.

Terror gripped the Guardian. A deep, animalistic instinct inside of him that even centuries of training could not overcome took control of his body. Self-preservation. He turned and fled.

----------------------------------------

There was another light in front of him, though his vision was blurred. It was warm and bright. The glow of a candle. Soothing and comforting after his experience in the void.

But there was more than just the light. There were smells, too. The clean sting of antiseptic, the mellow fragrance of ethereal oils, and something sickly sweet he did not recognize.

The Guardian blinked and his sight grew clearer. It was a candle. The flame flickered and bounced atop the white shaft, like a happy dancer, merrily crackling loud enough for a bonfire. The candle seemed to smile at him, leaning over his... bed?

Blink.

It wasn't a candle at all. It was a woman with the most flaming red hair the Guardian had ever seen. Long and curly, draping over her shoulders down to her bosom. She studied his face with curiosity, her green eyes flickering from his face to his arm to the door. The Guardian wanted to laugh. She reminded him of a mouse, sniffing at a piece of cheese. Furtive and interested, but also quivering with fear.

Except she was no mouse. She was dressed in all white, a simple linen shift. Over her shoulders was draped an olive cloak. That marked her as a Butcher.

There was a dove on the windowsill. A white bird who looked around the room with curiosity. That was odd.

"You're awake," the woman said in a sing-song that, on any woman other than a Butcher, sounded pleasant.

The dove seemed startled and took flight, disappearing into the dark night. The Guardian opened his mouth but found his throat too cracked to reply. His body felt numb and his limbs were leaden, too heavy for him to lift. The blanket alone was enough to keep him still.

"My apologies, Master Guardian," she squeaked and turned to the bedside table to pour a glass of water from a pitcher. "It's so wonderful to meet you," she babbled. "I'm a big fan of your work."

The room was sparsely furnished. The walls were made of light stone and the ceiling was supported by thick wooden beams. A fire roared and crackled in the firepit opposite the bed. The door to the small room stood open, a bright hallway beyond.

It was the Butcher's manor, dubbed the bloody palace, quite a ways outside the metropolis. The people of Big City did not like the Butchers but in all of his time of service, the Guardian had never been called to exact justice upon them. What they did was not evil. It was neutral, at worst. A service that none else wanted.

"Here," the woman said, placing the glass, half-full of water, at his lips. He sipped the refreshing liquid eagerly.

Despite the salacious rumors, the white women of the bloody palace were not in the business of whisking away children and stealing husbands. They were the last respite for the terminally ill. A last home for whom the hospitals could do nothing and had no other place to go. All it cost was to let the Sisters of Mercy, as they called themselves, use the earthly remains for their magic.

It was precisely that business which imbued him with more than a passing familiarity to the sisterhood. A long time ago, it was decreed that those who fell to his justice were given to the Butchers for the greater good. As such, the sisters seemed to revere their benefactor, who used his sword like a scalpel. He was the lethal artists and they were the clumsy aspirants who dropped the brush as often as they connected with the canvas.

Their nickname was well deserved

"Sword," the Guardian said. The word burned in his hoarse throat.

"I'm sorry, we looked, but it was not there."

Above everything, he had to recover his sword. Without justice, he was nothing. Fear lent him strength and he sat up. Or at least, he attempted to. He swung his upper body and braced himself on the mattress but his right hand only found air. The woman stepped back as he nearly toppled out of the bed.

The Guardian looked down at his right arm and dread filled him.

"Oh no," the sister squeaked, wide-eyed. "I should have—You weren't supposed to—Oh no!"

There was nothing where his forearm should have been. His elbow ended in a stump, tightly wrapped in gauze. His stomach revolted. As if seeing it made him aware, intense pain flared up inside of him. Every part of his body hurt.

A smile crossed the Guardian's lips. He took solace in that pain. It meant his other body parts were still attached. Only his right forearm and hand. Only... he thought, grimly mocking his own relief. His sword hand was gone.

The Guardian without sword or instrument to wield it. Even dead would have been better. Even Butchers were better than him now.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Are you in pain?" the sister inquired cautiously.

"Sword," he repeated. It was important to him. He was the sword and the sword was him. There was no room for anything else in his mind.

Tears welled up in the woman's green eyes, though she tried her best to fight them back, unable to reconcile her desire to help him with her inability to do so. She was younger than he'd judged originally, though appearances could be deceptive.

"I will get Elder Anne," the young woman said after overcoming her inner turmoil. Three long strides and she disappeared into the hallway with a swish of olive.

The Guardian closed his eyes and meditated. The city cried out for him in pain, its screams of agony ringing in his ears. The bitter taste of helplessness bubbled up inside of him. He cast out his presence for Justice but he found nothing. Not even a direction. It was as if the sword no longer existed.

Perhaps he was too far from the city. He had to reach his home, right at the heart of Big City. That was where the pulse was strongest. The Guardian opened his eyes and cast aside the blanket.

At least that was his intent. His right arm swung uselessly through the air, unable to even shoo away a fly, let alone grip the cover. For such a simple task, his left sufficed. His shoulder ached as he tossed it away and swung his legs out of bed. He was naked, save for his underwear.

Bandages were wrapped around his torso and chest. Dimly, the memory of that night returned. The thing had wounded him. The acrid smell returned to his nostrils and he felt nauseous. He remembered the seething pain the claws left on his arm. The claws, sticking out of his stomach.

It was the first injury that had left more than scars. Of those, he had many. His entire upper body was bedecked with them. He had scars on top of scars.

A tall woman wearing the Butcher's garb entered, immediately filling the room with her presence. Austere and formidable. She looked at him sitting at the edge of the bed with a scowl. "Guardian."

"Butcher," he replied coolly.

Behind the leader of the Sisters of Mercy, the young woman who watered him squeaked and blanched at the slur. She shook her head from side to side, eyes urging him not to upset the Elder.

"That's all I get?" Elder Anne asked, smirking.

"Where is my sword?"

"Stubborn as ever, Guardian," Elder Anne said and sighed. "Alas, we do not have it. Was it on you when—oh, don't glower at me like that. Yes, of course, it must have been. It was not in the alley."

"I must find it," the Guardian persisted. The few minutes he had been awake was the longest time he had ever been separated from Justice. It felt like someone cut off his arm.

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes. What happened to my arm?"

"I'm sorry about that. It was infected with... something awful. And the infection was spreading. We did not know how to cure it but we could not leave it to fester."

It had only been a skin-deep wound. A laceration by the thing's sharp claws. He remembered seeing black tendrils creep out of the wound just before he... died?

"Cutting up people is your specialty after all," he said grimly.

"No, it is not! We are care—" the young woman cut in but when both the Guardian and Elder Anne turned to glare at her, her voice faltered.

"You must rest. You are weak and need to recover," Elder Anne continued as if nothing happened.

"How long has it been?" At least his voice seemed to have returned to normal.

"Nineteen days," she said nonchalantly and placed a fist on her hips as if she expected him to get upset.

"How is the city? I can hear it screaming..."

"That it does, Guardian. That it does. It's a grim business."

"Will you take me to the city, Butcher?"

"We are not butchers, we are the Sisters of—" the young woman blurted out.

"Quiet. The Guardian may call us whatever the Guardian wishes," Elder Anne interrupted her and nodded at the Guardian, who seemed amused. "I implore you to stay and rest. Your wound is not yet healed. At least go to a hospital, though I daresay they wouldn't even know where to—"

"I need to see the place where I di—"

"Where you were injured. Fine. I will arrange a car," Elder Anne said and sniffed as if she took personal offense at him leaving. As if her umbrage wasn't good enough. It wasn't. "Out of curiosity, who attacked you?"

"I don't know."

That startled the young sister. "How can you not know?" she asked accusatorily.

"You think I am omniscient, little Butcher?"

"I am not a Bu—" she snarled, hands fists, shaking with anger.

"Calm down," Elder Anne admonished the young woman before she rounded on the Guardian. "And you might show her a little more respect. She was the one who found you, if it wasn't for her we'd never have gotten there in time."

That was something the Guardian hadn't expected. "Her?"

"Yes, Master Guardian. It was the first successful divination I ever cast. Used up a whole leg doing it," she said proudly.

"Lia has a rare gift of farsight," Elder Anne said, putting a name to the face.

"It was a thing," the Guardian said, rerailing the conversation. "I don't know what. It called itself 'my end'. The end. It appeared as a man made of black smoke."

"No," Elder Anne uttered and took a step back. She braced herself on the frame of the door.

"Do you know it?"

"Yes and no. It is the end. Literally. The end of everything. A husband of Hress."

The flickering light of the fire cast a long shadow of Elder Anne against the wall. The room felt colder as if the topic itself sucked the life out of it.

"I saw Hress in my dream," the Guardian confided.

"You saw the eater of worlds?" Lia asked, terrified, but impressed.

"Only in a dream. It circled the earth, its jaw wide open as if it was about to swallow it whole. Then it saw me and stopped. Turned to look at me." An involuntary shudder ran through his body and the air chilled.

"This is... troubling, Guardian," Elder Anne said. She snapped her finger at Lia. "You, run and get him some clothes."

"But—"

"No buts. Go. Now. And be quick about it."

For a split second, it appeared that Lia contemplated arguing but she thought better of it. She practically sprinted out of the room. Her loud footfalls echoed in the hallway.

"You must come with me at once, Guardian."

The tone of voice left no room for arguments. Despite her imposing stature and commanding presence, the Guardian felt no urge to do as she said. But he also had no reason not to. "Where to?"

"The Archive."

"What's in the archive?"

"Our collection of the Aaken Cycle."

The Guardian braced himself to stand up and tipped to his right. He cursed himself. The change would take some getting used to. On bare feet, he followed Elder Anne out of the little room.