Brother Marten was powerful in the ways of the spirit. If anyone doubted it before, they wouldn’t now – not with that dark guest he carried inside him, heavy as a curse and twice as unwilling to let go. There were not many left who would doubt him, anyway; the other two Brethren who tried to host such spirits were now gone. One was a husk, hollowed out by his own dark guest. The other was dead; the swordstress had seen to that.
During the day, the uneasy partnership was manageable. Brother Marten’s dark guest stayed quiet then, almost drowsy, like a predator resting between hunts. Nights were different, though. In his dreams, the entity had free rein, probing the edges of the prison Marten had forged from sheer willpower. It sent out tendrils – dark and wisp-thin – that wormed their way through his mind, spreading like infesting roots.
But those weren’t the worst nights. Not by a long shot. The worst were when the entity, in a rare show of mercy, let him slip into deep, dreamless sleep. Because whatever it was doing instead of tormenting him, it couldn’t be anything good.
His dark guest was always on the hunt for a new host, that much Marten knew – someone just as promising, but far less constraining. The entity loved to dangle that threat over him. If that ever happened, Brother Marten would be as good as dead. That was his fear whenever he woke in the dead of night, strangely at peace, the entity’s spirit-shriving gaze fixed somewhere else: that it had found another.
That had been his fear the night his dark guest had first bid him to sneak out of the village and go to the Sacred Training Grounds. It wasn’t a gentle nudge, either. The entity was growing impatient, and it made sure he knew it.
Since then, there’d been a handful of nights like that. The entity would rip him from sleep, tearing at the walls of its prison, nearly taking control of his body. Then he’d slip out of the village, unseen, and spend the rest of the night lurking as close to the Aspirants' camp on the edge of the Sacred Training Grounds as he could without giving himself away.
He’d come a hair’s breadth away from getting caught, once or twice. The Transient had familiars bound to his service guarding the camp, spirits wearing the guise of birds. Curious, ever-watching. A cunning move on his part. Only by borrowing his dark guest’s skinshifting magics had Marten slipped past their gaze. And he didn’t like that, not one bit.
He’d been trying to puzzle out whose dreams the entity was so intent on darkening, why it dragged him all the way out there, night after night. It wasn’t the Transient; that one had a habit of vanishing into thin air at dusk or early in the night, and didn’t reappear until dawn. It wasn’t the swordstress either, thank the Ancestors. The nightly visits had started while she was still off chasing her tail in the woods. That left Elder Wroth and the three Brennai Aspirants – two, if you discount the laundress’s fool of a son. He did not look like anything special, that one. The swordstress had only demanded his inclusion to spite Vanchik, or at least so the alderman thought.
Most likely, it was the Behemoth Elder who had caught the entity’s interest. A formidable warrior, well-respected among the folken, with a Behemoth and a band of fighters under his command. Marten knew the sort. Men like Wroth rarely had the force of will needed to contain and tame a spirit like his dark guest. The old warrior would make a good puppet, he reckoned – but just that. A puppet, not a worthy host. Certainly not a worthy partner-in-crime, and the entity had to know that.
Or at least that was what Brother Marten hoped, hidden in the underbrush just a stone’s throw away from the camp, fuming as the night’s hours dragged on. The night’s chill bit into his flesh, sapping the strength from his limbs. He was getting a bit too long in the tooth to spend nights away from a cozy campfire or a thick wool blanket.
Everyone in the camp was fast asleep. The swordstress and her direwolf had been the first to turn in. The rest followed soon after – everyone except the alderman’s son. He still lingered by the campfire, prodding at the dying embers with a stick, his face cast in shadows.
Was he the one whose dreams the entity had been darkening?
It wouldn’t be a stretch.
He felt his stomach clench at the thought. Forging a bond with the entity had cost him everything. His home. His kith and kin. Ishitraiy, the spirit that had been his namesake and companion since childhood. He’d given up all that and more. He wasn’t about to let those sacrifices be for nothing just because that thrice-damned entity had taken a liking to someone else. If his plan with the Skaarn didn’t –
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A soft rustle came from the underbrush, and Marten flinched, snapping his head toward the sound, heart pounding against his ribs. His eyes darted restlessly through the darkness, every crack of a twig or whisper of leaves twisting his nerves tighter.
He’d never been this jumpy before, but the fear was gnawing at him now, sinking deeper each night. He found himself gripping his blade a little tighter, fingers twitching with the urge to lash out at every shadow. The paranoia was sinking in, poisoning his thoughts.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching. Maybe it was the entity testing him, or maybe the Transient had set his familiars on him. Or maybe it was the swordstress. Ancestors knew her kind was cunning.
He knew he was spiraling, but he couldn’t stop. He’d given up too much, and the idea of losing control now was pushing him to the edge.
He could end them all, he thought. Right here and now. Give in to his dark guest, unleash it on the Sacred Training Grounds, let it wreak havoc in ways most profane. That’s what it wanted, wasn’t it? That’s why it had been tormenting him all this time – for blood. For Essence.
Marten closed his eyes, feeling the familiar pressure swell in his chest. It was like a hand squeezing his heart, cold, iron-stiff. He forced his breath steady, then whispered into the darkness.
"Come, then. You want blood? You want Essence? Take it."
His voice was a rasp, full of challenge and desperation. He felt the air grow thick around him, the cold turning sharper, biting into his skin.
"No more games. Come to me," he snarled, baring his teeth. "Have your feast."
Something within him shifted, the walls of his mind cracking as the entity stirred. The darkness inside him slithered like oil through his veins, thick and cold. The voice that answered was his own, but wrong – twisted, stretched thin, as though spoken through a mouthful of blood.
"Mindlessly slaughtering them is not the way," it crooned, parroting him, mocking him. The words dripped with a sickly sweetness, a parody of his own reason, every syllable a dagger of derision. "No, no. We must be smart."
A shiver tore through Marten, his pulse hammering in his ears. He could feel the entity’s hunger. It was like a living thing, gnawing at the walls of his mind, making a mockery of his anguish. Why was it holding back now?
“You can have them!” he gasped, delirious. “Tear them limb from limb! Defile their bodies, devour their Essence, shed their blood on holy ground! String them up on that thrice-damned totem pole, claw their bellies open, spill their innards, make a feast for the crows! Come on! That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The voice cracked then, a wet, gurgling laugh that bubbled up from the depths of his own throat.
"Patience, Marten," it purred, the voice a twisted echo of his own, stretched thin and mocking, like a poor imitation. The way it lingered on his name – drawn out, like a lover's taunt – sent a shiver crawling up his spine.
Twin shadows shot off from a tree branch by the camp – the Transient’s familiars, damn his eyes. Had they spotted him? The swordstress burst from her tent, too, blade in hand, wolf by her side. The alderman’s son still sat by the fire, unmoving, eyes wide and unblinking as if frozen in place.
“Who’s there?” the swordstress barked. “Show yourself, or I’ll set the wolf on you!”
"Hide me!" he hissed at the entity, frantic and wild-eyed. He felt its presence lurking in the back of his mind, grinning wide with a maw full of jagged, monstrous fangs, as if savoring his fear.
Marten's hand shot up, fingers curling instinctively as he started to weave the old blessing, the one Ishitraiy had always guided him through – sharp eyes, swift feet. He could almost feel the familiar rush of power, the surge of Essence that made the night clear as day, his limbs light as air.
But nothing came.
Just a hollow ache, a void where his companion’s presence should have been.
Panic flared hotter, searing through his veins. He tried again, fumbling with the threads of his will, but it was like trying to weave water. The entity’s grin widened, a jagged rictus splitting the darkness in his mind. It didn’t offer to help. It only watched, relishing his helplessness.
The wolf let out a low growl, the sound vibrating through the underbrush, and the swordstress took a cautious step forward. Her eyes were locked on the shadows where Marten hid, suspicion turning to certainty.
“Last chance! Come out now, or face the consequences!”
Marten swallowed hard, the entity’s laughter echoing in his skull. A surge of cold fear clawed up his throat, and before he knew it, he was moving – scrambling out of the underbrush, legs pumping as he bolted into the night.
Branches whipped against his face, tearing at his skin, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He could feel it now, the entity thrumming with excitement, its presence swelling inside him like a second heartbeat, urging him on faster, faster. He stumbled, almost fell, but caught himself just in time, his breath ragged and sharp in the freezing air.
Behind him, the direwolf barked. He could hear the swordstress shouting something, rousing the others, her voice carrying through the dark like the toll of a bell.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t dare.
All he could do was run, feet pounding the forest floor, his dark guest’s laughter still ringing in his ears.