Christoph sat beside the bed where he’d laid the Chief of Rothmire. He wrung out a cloth from a bucket of muddy water. His eyes were focused on each movement he made as it was the only way to keep his hands from tearing the house down. There was a rage, unadulterated and undying, for what he’d seen. His hope was that the Chief could provide answers to his many questions.

Wringing out the cloth, he carefully placed it over the Chief’s head. The man stirred slightly, but his moans were ones of exhaustion. Christoph did all he could to give him a little more rest. It was agonizing to wait that hellish ten minutes, but Christoph couldn’t bring himself to push the elder. He needed answers without the man panicking or passing out again.

But, soon the time came. Christoph could wait no longer. He turned to the old man and pushed on him with a false gentleness. There was another shifting, but the man’s eyes remained closed. Christoph gave another nudge, “Old man, wake up.”

Christoph hadn’t worked much on his voice. The tones of his words were still harsh and low—a voice that a human would almost surely never possess. It was as if the boy were a fiend summoned to stand watch at the man’s bed. The village Chief did flinch as he awoke. The sight of the boy’s return had been a shock to the pit of his soul.

“C-Christoph?” The Chief smiled with his lips as his eyes twisted in sorrow. “Is that you? Truly, is it you?”

“It is.” He leaned over in his chair to stare down at the old man. His Chief’s skin had loosened a bit. Dark circles fell below his eyes like an eclipse soon to happen. His thin hair was matted back with dirt and days of sweat. Christoph could smell the man clearly. It had been a difficult number of days for him.

“Oh, praise the gods. Praise their goodness.” The Chief looked to the ceiling and wheezed his words before coughing. Christoph offered the elder a cup of water; which he took excitedly as he lay in bed. Once finished, he smacked his dry lips and continued. “Where are the others? The boys? What of your bro—”

The Chief cut his wild questions short at the sight of Christoph’s stone face. It had become more refined, he had grown a considerable amount, and his eyes were dulled by the experience only Death can offer mortal men. He swallowed back hard, pursed his aged lips, and nodded.

“I see.” He shut his eyes as tightly as he could, “That explains that. They broke through the defenses, eh?”

“Who did?”

The Chief opened his eyes with pain and confusion glistening over his pupils. “The barbarians. Those blasted invaders came through. Ungrown Kingdom swine!” His voice choked up as he tried to sit up in his bed. “I thought… I thought seeing you meant that hope hadn’t been lost. I don’t think we’ll even make it through the winter months.” He was beginning to see past what was in front of him. His mind slipped into the worry of the unknown.

“Chief.” Christoph tried to bring him back.

“They destroyed the town. We lost so many.” He was rambling.

“Chief!” Christoph rose his growling voice to the old man.

“Your family’s fields! Your family!” And as if he’d spoken a secret that was never meant to be heard again, meant to drown beneath the weight of time itself, his eyes opened wide and he turned toward the boy.

Christoph’s eyes, even those of his disguise, were completely open and struggling to find tears to shed. His heart demanded that he cry, yet his undead form prohibited the too-human act. He simply stared forward and felt the wrathful intentions of an undead dragonkin take over.

“What of my family?” His voice shook the Chief.

“T-they came too quickly. We’d heard nothing from the soldiers that took you away, and so we thought the fight hadn’t completed. We continued on with life as best we could with the lack of hands… but that just wore us out before they came.”

“What of my family?”

“The hordes attacked us. They didn’t give us any chance to negotiate or prepare. They came right out of the woods, you see.” He pointed in the direction of their approach; though, he seemed to be pointing at a wooden wall. “They set the buildings on fire. They took the women as they pleased. They cut down any that tried to stop them!”

“Old man!” Christoph stood—flinging his chair back into the wall where it clattered to the floor. The old man’s eyes widened and dropped. “What. Of. My. Family?”

Hearing the growl in the boy’s voice, this boy who had grown and sunken into darkness, the old man spoke through shivers. “Your father was killed protecting your mother. Your mother and siblings also perished.” He began to sob. “I am so, so sorry, my boy. Your father did all he could. He fought,” he thinks better of it and falls silent.

Christoph now stared out the one window in the old man’s room. His own wife, who had been by his side through the years, was also missing from this room. There was great suffering, a great imbalance, within this village. Christoph couldn’t help but let a bit of the “Unhallowed Aura” ooze into the air.

“Where are they?”

“Your family has been buried for two days now.” He had shared the more important information, but it was not what Christoph had meant.

“Where are those savages?” His eyes were set out that window into the bright light of day. His voice brought a chill to the old man’s spine as the aura began to infest the room.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The Chief, unbeknownst to Christoph, was already succumbing to the fear of this magic. He trembled as a leaf in the autumn winds; the last of his kind aloft upon the branches. Turning to gaze at the disguised monster, he did his best to respond.

“T-t-t-they went east. After they killed and violated as they saw fit, they left us to bury the dead.”

Christoph stared out that window and considered his options. Though the fury within was bleeding through into the realm, his undead mind was incredibly focused on the task at hand. His family, his life, his village… had all been destroyed.

How best do I correct this? He considered his duties across all spectrums. I must control the monsters. I must save my village. Protect the Empire. I must … The thought of having to pray for his family’s rest pushed the aura out further. I’ll be the man I couldn’t be before.

“W-what?” The old man flinched away as metal softly clanked over his sheets. He glanced down to see three beautiful necklaces with several jewels sparkling over the humble blankets. His eyes almost fell from his head as the tears began to burst. “What is this?”

Christoph had already begun to move toward the door. There were things that needed to happen. Tasks that needed completing. Wrongs that needed righting.

“Those should hold you over at least until the next spring. I will never be too far, old man. I’ll send word when I’m done.”

“Done with what?” The weak voice was unsure how to respond. His hands were holding pure gold, silver, and platinum. For the first time ever in his life, the old man held wealth that other men would kill for.

“What they started.”

The man couldn’t move. He couldn’t grasp why the boy had returned changed nor how such wealth had fallen into his hands. He couldn’t comprehend the gods’ plans for him and his people. They’d sent their boys off to die, and the war had followed their tracks home.

Now, the only survivor from the youths had returned with gifts of impossible wealth and an aura of death. The old man watched the boy leave with little resistance. He could neither form the words nor make his body move in the magical energy the boy had produced. He watched him leave—the monster in disguise.

Christoph marched through the village without making eye contact with a single person. Feeling the energy about him, his servants kept a distance and restrained their tongues. Once they saw his direction, Calzion motioned for Gitma to follow as he retrieved the horses.

Their master wouldn’t cease. His boots kept tempo beyond the edge of the village. At the wood line, past the crops that had been destroyed, there was an opening cut into the woodlands. It was hidden away as to make sure it wouldn’t draw the attention of monsters or creatures to the villagers that still breathed.

Christoph walked this distance with horror swelling in him. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear down every tree between him and his newly sought prey.

But he couldn’t, not just then. He had to mourn as best as his undead heart could allow. He found his way through the brush and the thicket to find how the graves had doubled in numbers. They had not been a very old village, but now the historic rows of silent citizens painted a false history of the settlement.

Christoph moved over the mounds with respect; careful to not disturb the soil of any that had recently been laid there. Gitma had kept to the edge of the thicket where the overgrown grasses and weeds had built up around a low stone wall the villagers formed years ago. She watched with beady eyes as her master walked through the clearing of mounded soil and simple, wooden tombstones. She resisted, with all her might, asking permission to sample the crops here.

It didn’t take long for him to find them. Of course, they’d buried them together. Two tall, two short, and all put close together. The signs were small slabs of wood. Each had markings on them. Christoph had been one of many in the village that couldn’t read, and he assumed the Chief had written their names so others might know who rested beneath their feet.

He fell to the ground in the middle of the four mounds. Landing on his knees, he sniffed back tears that wouldn’t fall. This frustration burned the back of his eyes. He felt as though tearing them from his skull would be the only way to let the liquid fall.

But, of course, he couldn’t do such a thing. He just knelt thinking about what moves to make next. Where to go. What to do. Who to find. They were not questions, but the paths he had to take.

In this moment of agonizing loss, he placed a hand atop the mounds that read “Silvana” and “Bev”. He was only able to know their names because of the equipment on his head. Gifting him the knowledge of language, he read the names of his family for the first time.

In solitude, the book to his side caught his glance. Dragging his hands from the dirt, he opened the pages. Scouring the ancient book for the right spell, he found only the mimicry of life—an abomination that jests in the face of creation. He found no spell that could raise the dead with souls intact. He found nothing that could return his family to him.

So, there he knelt for an hour or two. Time had lost much meaning, but he knew that time allowed more distance between him and his prey. He had to set off. He had to become more than he had been.

“Move out.” Christoph stepped over the overgrown, stone wall. His boots fell to the side of Gitma as both she and Calzion (who now sat beside her) watched him return. They stood up and prepared the steeds.

They took off, leaving Rothmire behind. Christoph rode out front with a readiness for action—a culling of these lands. His claw reached up to grip the bulge beneath his shirt. The disguise that reflected who he once was faded away; illusionary lines streaking in the winds as he continued on. He stared forward while clutching the wooden totem.

Streams of blackened aura flowed like ghostly hands into the woods. Not a single beast or monster would threaten this area for some time. The lingering bloodlust became an unholy barrier to all that might seek violence.

Behind him, at the edge of the wilderness where the citizens of Rothmire had laid their dead to rest, there was one disturbed grave. He hadn’t meant it to upset any or keep the spirits from rest. He’d done it because he’d told himself he would. Of all the treasures he brought, he’d told himself that one would be left with his mother. A gorgeous woman that deserved gorgeous things. She’d been kind, giving, and a fabulous mother the entirety of his life. It was only just.

One pile of dirt was dug into. Just one. A ruby flower set in gold. Just one hole, now covered, where he could finally give his mother the jewelry he’d fought a dragonkin’s greed to deliver.