The woman in flowing robes fled through the woods, and Drunnoc Trellec followed.

As he stalked behind her panicked figure, slipping from tree to tree to stay clear of her backward glances, he came to the realisation that he was bored. Not so bored as he would forgo this morning’s entertainment. Dear me, no. But he certainly did not feel the same level of, if not ‘thrill’, then at least ‘momentary diversion’ that he had always associated with such an activity.

Drunnoc paused and sighted along the crossbow, imagining the bolt shrieking outwards to pierce the lower back of his prey. Of late, since his hunts had ended in such a curiously unsatisfactory manner, he had found it slightly more fun to avoid the immediate, clean kill. Although he was grateful – actually, was he even capable of that emotion? Perhaps ‘satisfied’ was more appropriate? – to the Dark God for the myriad of Skills that had come his way since their association had formalised, there were also some significant downsides.

For example, once upon a time, he would have been able to anticipate, with relish, bringing a chase such as this to its inevitable close. And, of course, a vital aspect of that pleasure would be the background, nagging fear of, somehow, his ultimate shot going awry. Or of an unexpected turn of events leading to his quarry slipping away and finding her way to safety. However, after his god gifted him with the Skill, such concerns had abruptly ceased.

Drunnoc stepped from cover and let out a loud, yipping laugh, which caused the woman to scream and set off in the other direction in a blur of frantic motion. He half-tracked her movement, but as the Skill rendered his aim flawless in such circumstances, there was a lack of jeopardy to what would happen next that curdled his stomach.

He could not miss. Would not miss. And was not that the problem?

The woman – not much more than a girl, if truth be told - zigzagged through the underbrush, a fleeting shadow in the early morning light. He wondered if she thought such movements were making her more difficult to hit? If so, she needed to be far less consistent in her meandering movement. The way she progressed, it looked almost like she was following a winding path through the trees rather than seeking randomness to avoid a quarrel.

Honestly, she would be making much better progress if she simply ran in a straight line. All this jinking hither and tither – well, it was tiring her out far more than it was him.

Her ragged breaths were audible even from this distance, a sign of fear that, he knew, should have stirred something in him. But, in reality, such sounds never had. And that was not new since the Dark God had chosen him for his own. No. That was just how Drunnoc Trellec had always been.

But at least, he thought, he might once have found some excitement in the chase. Now? Now, it was just another morning stroll through the forest.

He sought to remember back to the last time one of his little diversions had escaped him. With a start, he realised it was Bella Acas, was it not? That feisty girl whose unexpected elbow to his face could be argued – by someone who believed in such things, of course – as setting in motion the seismic train of events that led to this precise moment.

Bella Acas had bloodied his nose, which had led to his father dragging her before the Lady Darkhelm for ‘justice’. And, well, that meeting had not worked out as anyone watching had expected had it?

Daine Orban’s confrontation with House Trellec, starting with that banal confrontation about a sobbing child, had culminated with the West announcing secession from the wider kingdom and that particular Knight of the Road fleeing, bloodied and bowed, to Swinford.

From little acorns, what great oak trees could grow.

Drunnoc dragged his mind away from what had occurred in the last six months and exhaled slowly, steadying his grip on the heavy crossbow. The bolt was a whisper away from release, a silent promise of death under the influence of . Even this close to the deed, he felt nothing but a dull, throbbing numbness. The woman’s face flashed in his mind, indistinct like all the others. He didn't know her name, story, or crimes—if she had any. It didn’t matter.

It never did.

Had it been like this before the advent of the Dark God in his life? Drunnoc was not sure. He couldn't remember the last time he felt anything beyond the mechanical satisfaction of his will being enforced. He was sure he used to cringe at the recoil, used to taste the metallic tang of adrenaline in his mouth. Now, there was only emptiness. A dark hole where he imagined a conscience should reside.

No, he was seeking something that had never been there.

Had not the despair of his late, unlamented mother always been that he did not seem like other children? This version of him had existed long before the Dark God had provided his gifts. As much as he might like to pretend that he had been through some sort of mighty evolution, this was an enhanced Drunnoc Trellec, not a transformed one.

The blackness had always been there. It had simply been given greater opportunities to express itself. Which, in theory, sounded beautiful. The reality, though, was so crushingly dull.

He adjusted his aim, finally choosing to track this woman’s wayward flight - eager to bring this all to a conclusion. There was no thrill, no satisfaction—just the cold, clinical execution of something he was expecting to accomplish.

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Without any further ado, his finger tightened on the trigger. The bolt flew true, as it always did under the auspices of the Dark God’s gift. The woman stumbled, a soft, surprised gasp escaping her lips before she crumpled to the ground. Drunnoc watched her fall, a puppet with severed strings.

As he lowered the crossbow, he waited for the rush of . . . something. Not guilt or sorrow, of course; such things had never been on his emotional palette. But pleasure? Satisfaction? No. Nothing came.

Only the oppressive silence of the forest around Keep Trellec, with the distant hum of night insects his sole companion. Oh, and the weeping of a woman who could no longer feel her legs. He heard the crunching rumble of her seeking to drag herself through the undergrowth and felt disappointed. She was a whimperer. He preferred it when they screamed.

He drew a knife, swinging the crossbow onto his back, and crossed quickly to stand over her. With all her zigzagging, she had not made it very far. As he drew closer, each step felt heavier than the last and, not for the first time, he resolved that this was to be the last of these nighttime pursuits. He knew they were expected of him, but the crying was pitiful.

He silently reached the fallen woman and stood above her. She was so preoccupied with pulling herself forward that she did not even realise he was there. It occurred to him that if she had put as much energy into running as she did dragging herself, she may have had more chance of reaching the King’s Road and – who knew – maybe salvation?

There was a movement to his left. Drunnoc turned to see a green portal shimmer into being, through its reflective surface, a young woman could be seen. With a sigh of smoke, Pernille stepped through the veil of the portal and was in the woods beside him.

The Dark God had refashioned her Healer Class into something called a Shadow Cleric. Drunnoc was not especially interested in the mechanics of the whole thing – but was generally pleased with the greater scope of her powers. Her use of continued to be very helpful whenever a member of the High Houses located their backbones. And several of the more . . . exotic Skills had the potential to be very useful in the struggles to come against the Capital.

“Having fun?” Pernille’s voice had become far huskier of late. It was as if she had a permanently sore throat, which, for a Healer, led Drunnoc to suspect that the young woman was putting it on. When the voice was considered alongside all the kohl she had taken to wearing around her eyes and the sudden fascination with clothing made entirely of leather, he assumed Pernille had a ‘look’ she was seeking to achieve.

“Not especially.” The woman at their feet squealed in terror at hearing them talk above her. They both ignored her. “I found this sort of thing much more engaging when they had a chance – however small – of escaping.”

Pernille looked down, her eyes flashing with violet light as she considered the woman's injuries. “Isn’t this the one you had me heal yesterday?”

Drunnoc shrugged. “I wanted to see whether she would do better on a second attempt.”

“And did she?” Pernille frowned, glancing back at the streak of blood the woman’s crawling body had left behind.

“No. Not really. If anything, last night’s experience seems to have actively inhibited her efforts this morning. You would think she would have been more motivated, not less. All a bit pathetic, really.” Drunnoc kneeled next to the crying, prone form. “Hello? How is it all going?”

“Please don’t kill me!” the woman gibbered. “I’ll do anything you want. Just let me go!”

Drunnoc sighed and stood up, shaking his head at Pernille. “You see? The will to live seems to overcome all. No matter how certain the death which awaits in the future, the internal need to survive overcomes all. I am sure if we were to offer her the chance for another try tomorrow, she’d take it.” Drunnoc kicked the woman’s leg, then remembering her paralysis, kicked her in the side instead. She screamed and recoiled in pain. “Wouldn’t you? If I said I could have you healed and that we could try again tomorrow, I am sure you’d want to do it.”

The woman’s hysterical crying indicated that she would, indeed, like another opportunity to try to escape from Keep Trellec.

“You have to admire that sort of spirit. Was there something you wanted?”

Pernille regarded Drunnoc with steady eyes. The Dark God had been kind to her, she understood, and she probably had enough power not to need to fear this man – this boy, in reality. And yet, something chilled her to the bone about standing before him. She was not at all squeamish, but even she might have blanched at the torture he was putting this poor woman through.

It would be straightforward, with a quick tug of , to put this crying wreck out of her misery. However, she had no interest in gaining Lordling Trellec’s displeasure. This may be a world in which heroes existed, but it had been a while since Pernille had seen one.

And the Lady Darkhelm had not seemed especially heroic when Drunnoc Trellec had chased from her from this village. Speaking of that irritating woman . . .

“We have received a messenger from the Blades of Ruin.”

That grabbed Drunnoc’s attention. “From the Stonehand?”

Pernille shook her head. “No. From one of his . . . well, he calls himself an ‘officer’, but I sense from the context of the message there is probably little military discipline remaining anymore.”

Drunnoc clicked his teeth in irritation. He raised his foot and pressed down on the wound in the fallen woman’s back. Her sudden intake of breath and frozen stillness momentarily soothed him.

It had been at least two months since he had heard directly from Gallant Stonehand. From what Drunnoc’s spies told him – and what he gleaned from the ravings of the Dark God, of course – Swinford had fallen to the Stonehand’s mercenaries some time back, which was no significant victory. However, rather than slaughtering the entire population - including a certain troublesome Knight of the Road – it appeared the civilians and the remnants of an army the King had dispatched to pacify the West had managed to slip away. The Blades of Ruin – Stonehand’s ragtag, yet undeniably efficient, force – had set out in pursuit but could not seem to bring them to heel. And, worse, their commander had not seen fit to give a report himself since the final climatic battle at the City’s walls.

“What does the message say?”

Pernille smiled, an odd expression on her pale, gothic face. “It appears that the refugees from Swinford may have taken somewhat of a wrong turning.”

Drunnoc waved impatiently for Pernille to continue. He disliked her habit of dramatising her role and took out his frustration by pressing down even harder on the woman's wound beneath his foot. The loud crack and sudden cessation of noise suggested he had taken things too far. His eyes flashed with anger at Pernille; he had hoped to have the woman healed and sent out for another few nights' sport.

However, the Shadow Cleric’s following words entirely soothed his spirit. “It would appear that they have sought to cross the Bloodspires.”

Drunnoc smiled broadly. “Well, that changes things a touch, does it not?”