Helmach understood perfectly well that he was vastly outnumbered. However, that knowledge didn’t dissuade him from lunging towards the horde of thralls, the heft of his ridiculous blade catching motes of light filtering through the canopy above. A poor necromancer crumbled when confronted by such baseless confidence. This was his strategy - to carve a path towards Lieze and her allies with such speed that he wouldn’t become bogged down by a battle of attrition.

“Drayya! Alma!” Throwing her arm, Lieze gestured for her allies to execute their strategy. Slowly but surely, Group B’s thralls broke off from the main force to create distance before circling around to the bottom of the hill. The presence of the Rot Behemoth lugging its corpulent form enlightened Helmach to Lieze’s plan as his greatsword cleaved a Gravewalker from head to taint, sending rotting viscera flying in every direction.

“He’s going to focus on one or the other.” Marché commented, “The question is - which one?”

“Drayya’s force, of course.” Lieze answered.

“Why is that?” He asked.

Helmach shared Lieze’s abilities. He could parse the strength of each and every thrall participating in the battle with a mere glance. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d already seen the formidable [Level 40] Briarknight among her thralls - an adversary more than capable of facing him on equal ground. The thrall in question was still wielding Stürm’s old equipment, meaning that, assuming Lieze’s deduction of Helmach’s true level was correct, the odds were strictly in her favour.

The Rot Behemoth, on the other hand, was a measly level [20], but benefitted from a staggering HP pool of [7,109]. While its offensive capabilities left much to be desired, it represented a continuous threat in need of swift elimination. By splitting the most powerful of the cult’s thralls between two separate groups, Helmach was forced to determine the most efficient target in the heat of battle without exposing his rear. There was no other choice but to engage one group before he was completely surrounded.

“Drayya may not last.” Marché warned.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If she’s in danger, I can sacrifice some of our blood reserves to protect her.”

There was no need to be coy about it. Lieze had filled her Bag of Holding with no less than 50 litres of blood in preparation for the battle.

“...That plan doesn’t sound airtight to me.” Marché replied.

“You aren’t here to question whether my strategies are ‘airtight’ or not.” Lieze scowled, “Look - Helmach is splitting his attention. We need to begin moving forward. Hover your Gravewalkers at the edge of his attack range.”

“Is that wise?”

“We want to maintain pressure without needless sacrifice. I will order the Briarknight to engage him in direct combat. During that time, attempt to manoeuvre your own thralls to his-”

“Yes, yes. I understand. I’ll distract him- oh!?” Marché held out both hands to prevent himself from slipping on the hill, “Hah.. you really need to start shortening your lectures when our lives are on the line…”

She was growing impatient. It was a bad habit of hers, and had been for longer than she’d possessed her newfound powers. While Lieze was explaining her strategy, Helmach had already turned his attention to Drayya’s group and set about carving into her thralls. A chorus of repulsive violence desecrated the serene countryside air as bloodstained flesh and bones littered the dew-soaked grass.

Moving as one, Lieze and Marché attempted to remain in the centre of their horde while approaching Helmach’s rear. She could just barely pick Drayya’s raven-black hair out from the swelling horde as she stared down the incline. Alma was clinging to her side like a lost puppy, half-convinced that the Gravewalkers surrounding her were about to switch allegiances and tear her to pieces.

With wide, horizontal swings, Helmach tore into as many thralls as possible. His wrists screamed in protest as the colossal greatsword cleaved through the bloated bodies of countless undead, staining its fine edge and heft with discoloured flecks of blood. If Stürm had exercised a certain grace in his swordsmanship, then Helmach was his polar opposite - a shameless brute using his unbelievable strength to wicked effect.

But, for all his struggling, a new Gravewalker would simply walk forward to replace the last. He understood the sheer futility of wasting his strength on the weakest thralls Drayya had to offer, but refrained from carving too deep into her horde for fear of exposing his flank.

A white-hot pain seared into his midsection - the familiar sensation of a blade paring flesh. Swinging his blade in an uncontrollable arc, the unseen adversary took a step back to avoid being sliced in two. Helmach blinked as the rotting visage of Stürm stared at him with glazed-over eyes. The two had only met on a single occasion before, but the young man’s confidence and unmistakable talent with a blade had left quite the impression on Helmach. Seeing the former hero reduced to a puppeteered corpse inflicted him with a loathing mixture of anger and repulsion.

His eyes darted upwards, taking note of an invisible presence above the thrall’s peeling scalp. In the next moment, he was anxious. Reluctant to approach. Lieze didn’t allow the moment to go unnoticed, and neither could Helmach be certain that she hadn’t as he allowed a fleeting glance in her direction.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you are.” Lieze’s voice was distant, “If only you had your voice, then I’m certain you would love to explain everything to me.”

“Hah.” A dry scoff escaped Helmach’s throat, “Foo.”

“Foo?” She repeated.

“‘Fool.’” Marché touched a finger to his cheek, “No tongue.”

“Ah. Of course.” Lieze cleared her throat, “-You would call me a fool, Helmach? I couldn’t possibly overstate your hypocrisy. As we speak, Alistair is deposing Ricta and taking the throne for himself. What more evidence do you require to prove that the Church strives for nothing but domination? You are their tool - no better than the legions of undead surrounding you.”

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

Why did she even bother? There was no hope of receiving a reply, much less a confession of Helmach’s pitiful beliefs. His answer came simply and swiftly in the form of a terrifying overhead slash which sunk his greatsword into the soil where the Briarknight once stood. Its surprising speed and comprehension of martial prowess seemed to catch the Acolyte off-guard - a sensation quickly replaced by pain as the former longsword of Stürm descended to leave a crying gash on his shoulder, ripping through layers of fabric to cut the tender flesh beneath.

The Briarknight was more capable than Lieze could have ever hoped. By sheer quantification, it was a more talented swordsman than the living Stürm was. Helmach was quick to take a step back to place some distance between himself and the thrall, only to leap forward a second later upon realising that Drayya and Alma’s forces had boxed him in completely, creating a ring of shambling corpses around his position.

“Such poor awareness.” Lieze mocked, “What did you think was going to happen, trying to barge straight into our hideout single-handedly? Did you really think yourself capable of taking on the might of an entire cult? Have you finally lost your mind?”

“Careful, Lieze…” Marché warned, “As I just mentioned, a cornered animal is often the most dangerous.”

“As if I expected this to be the extent of his abilities.” She crossed her arms, “I know of your true power, Helmach, so why hide it? There are no dogs of the Church nearby to punish you for making full use of your God-given gift. It is a great honour indeed to be chosen by the Blackbriar.”

Her words ignited a dormant fury in Helmach’s chest. She knew he couldn’t tolerate having his hidden ability lauded like some kind of divine gift. Lieze understood the look in his eyes well - an envious glare that left no desires unspoken.

Why are you the Gildwyrm’s chosen? Why am I the Blackbriar’s?

Are we mere playthings of the Gods made to battle for their amusement?

Have I not suffered enough? My family, my allies - even my own voice… will fate ever be satisfied by my despair? All the while, this cold-hearted witch reaps the benefits of the Gildwyrm’s boon and plummets my city into darkness. Is this my trial? May I reclaim lost hope by emerging victorious from this clashing of souls?

“Helmach!”

The holy man’s ears recognised that voice well. An innocent, nasally tone which reminded him of his youth. Though he cared not to admit it - even to himself - Marché had changed very little since last they met. His face had remained oily and blemished, and his hair continued to burn up in the midday sun. The only true difference was that the two men had gone from the closest of friends to the foulest of enemies.

“Do you remember that fateful day?” Marché placed a hand to his chest, “The three of us had just finished pulling the weeds from Mrs. Bartum’s garden. 2 bronze coins between us for a half-hour of work.”

The stench of pig shit in the air. The sting of a sunburn on his arms. He didn’t want to remember it - his innocent youth, when everything was so simple. Noma was barely able to speak a word and Marché couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Helmach was a quiet boy. Very quiet. He spoke only when it was necessary, and it rarely was. He drifted through his adolescence without so much as a single tantrum.

“I lose hours of sleep each and every night trying to figure out what it was that set you off.” Marché continued, “Was it the heat? The stress? Balum’s pup was killed by a slime the week before - do you remember that? We were out in the woods playing soldiers and saw its corpse dissolving in the creature’s body when it dropped from a tree. Was that it? I only need to hear that you had some reason for doing what you did.”

He remembered that day, too - covering Noma’s eyes to distract from the morbid sight in front of them. But he was only as affected by the occasion as any other boy of his age would have been. There was a shameless pleading in Marché’s eyes. He had been awaiting the day of their reunion with baited breath, just to hear the answer to a simple question.

“I remember the scent of smoke that night. My bedroom door was stuck shut. I sprained my ankle trying to clamber down from the window. If I had been a few minutes too late, the fire would have claimed my life as well.” He recounted, “I convinced myself that I was having a nightmare. The whole village was aflame! At first, I thought we were being attacked by bandits, but when I ran to the village square, you were stood next to the well, torch burning in one hand with a knife in the other, Noma clinging to your waist...”

He was on the verge of tears. Every time he relived that night, questions swarmed like locusts in his mind. He was betrayed. Homeless. But most of all, he was confused. The scar running down the path of his missing eye began to ache.

“I tried reaching out, but the boy who turned to face me was no longer you.” He said, “What brought you back, I wonder? Was it the sound of my bawling as I fell to the ground, clutching one eye while blood pooled in the mud? You tried to kill me, and in the next moment, you offered a hand as if nothing happened! I thought you’d lost your mind!”

Helmach did not remember that night. All that remained of his wordly self then was instinct and fury. Something was different about the village that day. He could feel gazes on his back as the villagers passed by. When someone drew close, he could feel it in his gut that they were about to snatch Noma away. The blinding-blue sky shimmered with heavenly colours. He could barely keep his eyes open. Laughter turned to jeers, and every smile directed his way became insincere and laced with sickening intentions.

As night fell, the stars pinched and grew in the sky. He sat on his windowsill and caught the contorting silhouettes flanking his field of vision. Something was out to end him and steal Noma away. A monster that had infested the minds of everyone in the village. He wouldn’t allow his sister to be taken. From the kitchen, he took the sharpest knife he could find before waking the sleeping Noma, demanding in a hushed tone that she follow his lead.

In the cellar, he fashioned an amateurish torch from a stick and scraps of discarded cloth. Snatching his father’s striker from the living room, he wandered out into the night’s beating heart and pushed back the evil with holy light. Noma was afraid, he could tell - clinging to his side knowing full-well that a beast from the darkest corners of the world was stalking them.

In the next moment, the village was alive with brilliant chaos. Embers sparkled with phosphorescent colour as the dry summer air became choked with plumes of smoke. A second sun dawned as light invaded the darkness. Noma’s cries reminded him of her days as a newborn, when he awoke in the midnight hours to her bawling and listened carefully to his mother entering the room and cooing the child back into a deep slumber.

He was delivering the world from evil - sending off the creatures of the night with the fire of mankind. His soul became a kaleidoscope of enticing shapes, dancing playfully in the corners of his vision. For the very first time in his life, he felt true freedom. He smiled and laughed and cried into the monstrous abyss, brandishing his blade and light like a hero of legend.

No. He did remember that night. In fact, he recalled it with such unbelievable clarity that the stain on his soul had yet to be cleansed. And yet, he found himself longing once more for that carefree madness. No longer was the evil before him a mere fabrication of his troubled mind.

“Kill her.” His mind demanded, “Kill Lieze.”

Something creeped out from the palm of his hand - a mass of calcified tendrils sinking their thorns into his flesh. A forbidden power waiting eagerly to be unleashed.

“...It’s coming.” Lieze unfurled her arms and clenched her first, “Prepare yourselves.”