Chest heavy, Vardille ran down the side of the slope, towards the demon horde and the red glow, towards Bryne and that wretched corpse, hidden from sight now by the rocks. Fighting Mjel proved harder than it should have been—it took a mental toll he had not thought he would feel in his life ever again.

He stopped short, as if hitting a solid wall out of nowhere. Then, a fierce gust of wind pounced him from the front—the sudden surprise and shock surging into him made him instinctively jump away, lifting his sword for a counterattack against the wall of … air. He blinked, darting his head left and right, in search of the threat that lingered.

Then he froze.

Limbs unresponsive and body fixed in place, panic washed over him. He struggled to move, air seemed to lock him in place. Less than an inch of space he had, practically to quiver.

Bryne was fighting for his life at that very moment; Mjelgralah was prone, and someone had just come to finish him off before he could reach his King, before his friend could know he was not alone amid this nightmare.

The cold indifference of life snuffed all he felt.

‘Forgive me, Vardille,’ cried a voice behind him. Idamin. The pain that tone bore could have shattered hearts; but not Vardille’s. He gave in, finally, languishing in acceptance, letting the faelin-bound air holding his form in place, helpless.

The short woman stepped into his vision; tears leaving filthy trails on her cheeks as she sniffed, hand tentatively reaching for Vardille’s … then pulling back.

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‘I’m so sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so sorry … forgive me, please … please …’

Vardille closed his eyes. Emptiness churned inside him. Nothing but an expanse of vacuous space, a humming scream of void.

The demons screeched. Long. Rabid. Hissing and growling and snorting and barking, they made a clamour of wicked rejoice, anticipation and agitation clearly present in their racket.

Footsteps. A hand on his cheek. A soft voice, gingerly whispering.

‘Hey… Look at me. Look at me, please.’

Vardille opened his eyes. Mjelgralah’s pale silhouette stood before him in the faint light of Idamin’s sapphire glowing in the Herald’s gloved hand.

‘It was written …’ Idamin sniffed. ‘It was all written in the stars. I’m sorry … please …’

Vardille watched in silence, indifferent. He was fettered by the faelin.

The demons hushed. Fell in complete silence. Then a low growl, a guttural grumble, and all the vermin screamed in the night as one amalgam of pure horror and evil.

‘Look at me,’ Mjelgralah said, hands gingerly holding Vardille’s face. He did as she told so; the northerner’s face trembled but did not break eye contact.

Vardille soon felt warmth on his face. A pungent sense in his eyes, a tightness in his throat, a twist in his stomach. Tears obscured his vision; for the first time since his teen years, he cried.

He wept for his King. He wept for his friend. But most of all, he wept for himself, for the loss he could not bear, for the memories now tainted.

He wept and let the river of his sorrow flow freely across his face, watching Mjelgralah’s face as a drop of tear appeared in the corner of her eye.