Atop the walls, Malcolm surveyed the soon-to-be battlefield below, along him Kantor and the other blighted hissed at the enemy. The king's men had announced their presence long ago and remained at a prudent distance of a kilometer from the gates.

A row of hastily armed citizens prepared to defend the city, frequently glancing back, weighing the possibility of surrender. However, the Loyalists standing next to their wives, sons, and daughters, held at sword point near Malcolm, dissuaded them. Although outnumbered, the Loyalists compensated with zealousness and a hint of sadism, eagerly awaiting their neighbors' breakdown.

The opposing general had spread his few hundred troops to appear more formidable, attempting to daunt the untrained conscripts into submission. An envoy was sent, and Malcolm descended to meet him, feeling trapped and behind enemy lines. He wondered how his initial advantage had turned into his greatest weakness.

The imminent danger could be the end of his life, and this was merely the first probing attack of many to come. Time was ticking; he needed to find Rivel, but first, he had to survive.

As the horseman arrived, Malcolm noticed the envoy's smug face looking down on him, exacerbated by his Morion helmet, which made him appear smugger.

The envoy feigned an incident, throwing the horse at Malcolm, asserting dominance. Malcolm recognized the type – cowardly men who felt invincible because they spoke in the name of a tyrant.

"Demon," the envoy spat, "I don't know what witchcraft allowed you to overrun this town, as I see no hellish forces backing you. I congratulate you on your victory and offer a reward in gold for your persistence. Yet, it's time for you to leave; the King won't show weakness to some recently born hell-spawn that still reeks of sulfur."

The envoy's chainmail glittered with gold plating, an ostentatious display of wealth meant to intimidate. Malcolm wasn't fooled; he knew the offer was a ploy. A novice soldier might have fallen for it, grabbed the gold, and started anew, but Malcolm understood that even if they let him go, they'd hunt him down once Thornguard was secured.

Malcolm sneered, slicing the horse's leg in one swift move. The envoy fell, surprised, and tried to scurry away, but Malcolm grabbed him by the head and crushed it like a sparrow's egg. The battle commenced immediately, with both sides springing into action.

Malcolm made a few token kills in the vanguard before pulling back to his post. He watched his troops, outnumbering the enemy five to one, get butchered.

The king's men sprayed fire on the field, affecting both sides, and the flames consumed as many allies as foes. The Loyalists and the King's archers launched volleys, but barely a twentieth part of the arrows reached their target.

As the fires intensified and corpses piled up, the conscripts' will broke, and some started fleeing. Malcolm nodded at William, who began rolling heads. The message was clear: deserters would be executed. However, the reaction caught Malcolm off guard – the conscripts stopped fighting, dropped their swords, and surrendered immediately.

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William paled, hastening the executions, but soon none were left alive. An old Loyalist broke into tears, seeing the blood of a little boy stain his hand.

"Close the doors!" Malcolm ordered, seeing the King's men advance unimpeded. He looked to his sides; his fifty Loyalists were better armed but shared the same inexperience as the troops on the field. Worse still, after the old men began to harden their looks, they appeared paralyzed by guilt.

"Let's retreat to the chapel! We'll make our last stand there!" Malcolm shouted. Finally, feeling they were fleeing their hand-made horrors, and promped by the guilt-less blighted, the Loyalists followed his lead and holed up in the chapel.

The doors were barricaded, but Malcolm knew the structure wouldn't hold much chastise. He descended the staircase, and everyone followed – it was time to make a deal.

"How many lost lives..." someone whispered, to which Malcolm simply replied, "They were fulfilling their part."

As they descended, the atmosphere seemed more ominous than Malcolm remembered. The reverberations of the King's men trying to break down the door echoed through the depths. The walls beside them had a distinct red hue, as if blood seeped from them, and a heavy stench of humidity hung over the place. The enormous room remained unlit, exactly as Malcolm had left it.

The reflection sat, smiling with an unsettling feline grin. It was unclear whether it tried to scare them or merely appear smug. "I knew you'd be back, Malcolm. Have you brought something for your friend?" it laughed.

"You wicked thing, you don't even attempt to hide your sinister nature, do you?"

"From whom? The mundanes over there? We both know they don't matter. Why are you even trying? Didn't I tell you that if you walked out, you'd be dead?"

"I'm not dead yet, nor do I intend to be. Let's make a deal, thing."

The darkness seemed to close in, and the chamber grew more somber. The reflection stood up and walked towards Malcolm, stopping at the glass boundary with a tapping noise.

"Straight to business, then? Here's the deal: I'll give your Loyalists expertise and courage to fend off this battle and whatever comes next, in exchange, you'll free me from this accursed prison."

A feeling of uneasiness washed over Malcolm, a spine-chilling sensation of ice-cold water running through him. A sudden bang on the doors above broke his reverie.

"You'll free me now," the thing demanded. Malcolm felt rigid and answered huskily, "No. You'll do your thing, and if it works, only then will I release you."

The reflection returned to its jovial demeanor, laughing and mocking Malcolm. "You think you're in a position to make demands? Release me now, and I'll hold my end of the deal. Refuse, and I'll have your animated corpse do the job!"

Malcolm walked towards the mirror, breathed heavily, and smashed it into pieces. A dark mist flung from the shattered pieces, forcefully entering the Loyalists' bodies, making them collapse instantly.

"You, betrayer!" Malcolm shouted, paling at the realization that the thing had conned him.

The banging noises grew louder, reverberating through the chapel, making his eardrums ring.

What could he and barely a dozen blighted do against a hundred soldiers? He grabbed his sword and prepared to die as the doors finally gave in, and the thundering steps of heavy boots approached the basement.

Behind him, he suddenly heard William mumble. He turned around to see him pale, withered, and infinitely sad, saying in a hollow, echoing voice:

"Skies of ruptured muscle and clouds of noxious gas over a ever-shifting land of darkness and blood. Only pain awaits beyond, dulled by the soul-rot that simmers as your loved ones are endlessly tortured by things that look like you, deaf to the screams yet forced to listen, watching with burnt eyes and feeling at the same time the pain you inflict and the pain inflicted upon you."friends again, should we join them in death- but we were never told how"