It was a regular day for William of Thornguard. He had spent the morning chopping wood to stock up for winter and trading some to cover his basic needs. Helga from the inn had a stew that was as spectacular as the amount of wood it consumed – six hours straight. In his opinion, and most of the townspeople's, it was a worthwhile trade.

The old hag had a mood; she was cranky most of the time and found faults in perfectly fine situations. On one occasion, William was splitting trunks inside the city when Helga came complaining to him that the splinters went airborne all the way to her kitchen. Again, she chased him off with her broom because his wooden bowl cracked, even though he offered to pay for it.

As the soft, golden hue bathed the village – nay, city – the distorted silhouettes of the buildings gave William a homey feeling after a long workday. Passing by the chapel, the local priest saw him hauling logs and told him in a depreciating tone:

"Again to Helga's? Death looms over that place, and her morbidity might rub off on you, William. You have a family to take care of."

"Yeah, but she makes one hell of a stew. Did you know she tenderizes beef legs to cut down the budget and keep prices affordable? And with barely some tomatoes, few onions, and a head of garlic, the taste!" His mouth watered at the thought of the meaty stew over a hearty bowl of rice.

William ignored the priest's further warnings and bid him farewell. Helga took the wood as payment for the food but grumbled about it burning too fast, so she squeezed a few extra logs per plate.

He went back home and dined with his family, as they merrily talked about their different affairs. His son was apparently trying to woo the town's general store manager's daughter, and for the looks of it, he was getting a good reception. William felt the fatherly need to call him out and tell him to manage expectations, but ultimately resisted the impulse.

After dinner, instead of joining his wife in bed, William snuck off to the walls to meet his childhood friend, who was on duty. It was the dead of night, and the chilly air somehow relieved his exhaustion better than plain sleep. One would think that spending all day in the forest was plenty of fresh air, but the night's chill had something irreplaceable.

He climbed the stairs and greeted his friend, but the latter shushed him and told him to go away. William wouldn't desist so easily. He looked outside the walls and saw a small, bright spot – like a company of vagrants walking around in the night.

The figures started to get closer, and the guards looked at them intently. A little closer, and the first signs of anomaly began to show. The figures were short, like children, and extremely pale, as if sick. But someone so sick shouldn't be able to move so quickly. And where were their parents? Surely no parent worth their dime would let their children wander in the forest at night, especially with the rumors of some manner of creature out there.

William's friend opened his eyes wildly and shouted:

"Ring the alarm! Blow the horns! It's them!"

"'Them'?" William thought. The other guards didn't seem to share his ignorance and followed orders. Soon, the whole watch was on this side of the wall.

As the figures drew closer, William saw something that made him gag: the children weren't just sick; they were emaciated and had lost all their hair.

"What is that on their skin?" William asked, trying not to panic.

His friend, without looking away from the incoming monsters, replied:

"Those are the children who went too deep into the forest. We don't know what happened to them, but we can't risk letting them back in. You see how they look; God only knows what kind of pests they can bring into the city."

William imagined if his son was the one who got lost in the forest, only to return half-rotten and barely recognizable, unable to talk...

"Don't the parents try to sneak them inside?"

His friend gave him a knowledgeable look.

Before William could ask more questions, the guards took position and started shooting arrows at the monsters. Despite being hit square in the chest, they kept running towards the walls with reckless abandon.

The arrows kept piling into their bodies, arms, and shoulders, legs. They just kept running forward, holding the torch like a sacred item.

The monsters finally fell, one struck between the eyebrows, while the other, though on the floor, kept crawling, holding the torch above his head.

"They never come in such little numbers. Once we fended off over fifty of them on this very wall. They kept trying to climb it, but –"

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BOOM!

The monster lost all strength and dropped The monster lost all strength and dropped the torch on top of itself, and then, as if made of explosives and acids instead of flesh and blood, it exploded, taking a great part of the outer walls with it.

William's ears were ringing, and he was injured, lying on the dirt. Next to him was his friend; he tried to mumble a few words, but only an incomprehensible sound, a product of his concussion and deafness, came out. William approached him and tried to slap him awake, only to realize that half his friend was buried in the debris.

He lifted his eyes but saw nothing but dust. "They never come in little numbers, no. I need to get back to my family," William thought, as he wobbled his way back to his feet.

As he made his way home, screams filled the atmosphere. The fire from the walls, caused by the explosion, was expanding, and new ones on the other side of town had been started by someone. "We're under attack; I need to hurry!" William thought.

To his left, he saw one of the monsters ripping the milkman's neck with its blackened claws. To the right, two soldiers battled against three more, and the fight dragged on as some of the creatures had learned to use shields and armor to defend themselves. A bowman shot down one wielding a sword, only to get stabbed in the back by another.

The tide of monsters advanced, and the guards were in disarray, causing more of them to die than they should. Many forsake their positions and simply ran, like William, to defend their families.

Thankfully, the priest was there to provide support! The priest walked out of his temple, a glow of righteousness around him, his face transfixed with anger, holding a book of enchantments. Magical energy flowed around him and swirled through his pristine white robes.

"Divine Radiance be my guide as I purify your souls, forsaken children of Elyria! I, Prior Nicholas, cast light upon your exhausted souls! Relinquish this mortal vessel and walk towards salvation!"

Bolts of holy light, like William had never seen, shot out from the priest's book, hitting the creatures and making them wince in pain as the golden flames of the spell seared their flesh. This created momentum for the defenders, morally boosted by the presence of their spiritual guide started mowing down the invaders; steel came down on two like the reaper's scythe, claiming their lives. The shielded monsters were crushed under the heavy, now firm weight of the defenders' attacks; their slim physiques unable to cope with the sheer kinetic energy behind the blows.

"The Ever-Dawn knows no time, no hours, days, or months. In your Light, Elyria, we rest forever, and forever do we—ugh!"

The priest looked down towards the offending sword that had cut through his stomach, cutting short his speech. He gurgled a few words, trying to conjure more magic, but they had no form but that of death. His body fell, and the advantage he had provided turned upside down along with him. The few soldiers still on their feet fled, filled with fear towards the horned beast-demon that had appeared upon their village to exert revenge on their sins. This was a message: Elyria had abandoned them.

Malcolm shook his head disapprovingly at the fleeing men, even though he had been in a similar position no more than a few days ago. He cleaned his sword with the robes of the Prior and told him quite loud and clear:

"You're lucky it was me, two-rate mage, who found you first. Had High Magus Rivel crossed your path, he'd bring you from the dead over and over, only to savor the death of someone so crass at conjuring again."

The battle was over, and William saw the demon general had his ghoul-like minions round up the most relevant villagers, merchants, local lords, and landowners, prominent figures, and public influencers such as innkeepers.

"Where is Helga?" William asked his wife, who had luckily been hiding inside their house with their son when the whole commotion went down. She pursed her lips and reluctantly answered:

"I heard she went outside unarmed the second she realized monsters were assaulting the town, yelling 'come and get me', 'right here, you bastards!' or something like that."

William had never seen her so sad before. He was feeling strange, slightly hectic, almost happy. A lot of people had died today, and not all because of the monster; all sorts of knaves had taken the opportunity to settle old scores, hoping to pin the blame on the attackers when the whole thing blew off, although they had been wrong on that last part. Each soul lost placed them a little further at a disadvantage to the cold-hearted, calculating monster that now appeared, bathed in the dawn's light as if wreathed in flames.

William didn't look at him; he looked at his wife, at his son. Both were covered in dirt and looking down, grief-stricken by the enormous casualties the town had suffered. But they didn't suffer any; they were the lucky ones. And as guilty as that made William feel, he was glad. Yes, he'd trade ten lives, or twenty, or even a hundred if that meant giving his family another day to live. The wails of the widows and the orphans soured his heart, but the bittersweet taste just made him numb.

The demon spoke:

"Mundanes, I'm Malcolm, general of the Tenebri armies. All you need to know is that you now answer to me: what I say is law, and failing to comply means death. Spread the word; tomorrow I'll give the first orders. Dismissed."

William covered his mouth, and with the others crying, they thought he was holding back vomit, but he was hiding a smile. The demons' armies would spare him, as long as he played along. He didn't care who called the shots as long as he and his family could be together.

"We will never surrender to you, monster!" said a widow, none other than the wife of his late friend, who had died mere hours ago. Yet the whole memory seemed so distant, as if it were a lifetime ago.

The demon, Lord Malcolm, clapped and had his minions grab the widow.

"Perfect occasion. Look closely, mundanes. This is what will happen to those who question my mandates." He kicked the woman in the stomach, and she bent in pain. Even though William tried to look away, the next thing he saw was the rolling head of the widow, detached from her blood-spitting neck. The body fell, and a little kid went to cry over her dead body; his head soon joined hers.

William held his breath, but he felt a strong grip on his hair lifting his eyes to the execution.

"It won't only be you who dies. It will also be your loved ones. Think thrice before crossing me."