A chilling breeze of winter blitzed the hall, sucking out warmth in a greedy swig of an old man. Drunk men croaked like toads on the floor that stunk of wine, grease and urine. The wooden door repeatedly banged against the masonry before pulling out of the way of the freezing pressure and locking in place. Servants rushed to slam it shut and with a whoosh the silence returned.

The initial line of Magus broke all atmosphere and mood. Some of the men didn’t believe what they heard, thinking it was just the wind messing with them, others figured it was their drunkenness speaking, perhaps even a wicked spirit playing with their minds. The fact was, they all had it in their head, - no sane person would say that.

Unfortunately, he did. And, as it was shown by his red face and bloodshot eyes, the Duke didn’t mishear, however fortunate that would have been.

“I am joking of course,” said Magus, bringing realization to the human minds.

He was yet to grasp their taste for humour, but even the inhuman him could tell that this time it was especially bad. He was unsure why it sounded better in his head, but for now he hoped that writing it off as if it was nothing would seal the enormous pit that appeared in-between them, or at least he could move on with the next, more important, subject.

“Lord Viktor, I believe we should speak privately.”

The undead thought it could see through the face of the Duke, his emotions, thoughts and all of that, but, although it understood the joke upset him, already a large improvement on its own, it completely missed that Viktor was not just upset.

Without looking every person still breathing and conscious felt the fury of the Duke. It was as if the room turned hotter, the walls rumbled and the glass tensed. His anger was like a boiling pot, there, but still. This emotion slowly gathered and approached the limit of the man’s sanity.

No vassal in the room wanted to see their liege like this, though this fear mainly came from them not knowing what would happen. They never seen him go beyond shouting or verbal abuse. Even in times when people ended up dead everything was carried out calmly and with tact. But it seems today was no such day.

With a teeth grinding roar, he flipped the table over, sending its expensive cutlery and fragrant food everywhere, and jumped down onto the greasy floor. Face red in anger and absolute will to kill, his hand automatically moved towards the hilt of his sword. In a war chant of steel, the blade slid out, breathing air and thirsting for combat.

“Joke you say?!” The pointy blade turned towards Magus as the man screeched in a voice unfit of a ruler. “Kill him! Kill that bastard!”

The drunken knights scrambled to respond, their brains entering the panic mode as limbs lunged faster than snakes to do the bidding beset by their Lord. One step forth, two sideways and face down to the cobble – betrayed by their bodies, that’s how far their march went.

That moment of peace was followed up by another insane bellow, something akin to a scream of a lunatic, and, urged by the goosebumps in their spines, they stirred again. On all fours they hurried towards the skimpy wenches laying among piles of sweaty nobles. Their bosoms seemingly gripped onto the weapons, the devil himself must’ve lodged them in there, as they could not, for the life of them, pull them out. They damned all and screamed to never drink again, the Duke reminding them at every moment what power he held.

“Father! Are you insane?!” Shouted Iphis as she jumped down. Instead of going to Viktor however, she ran towards the mage.

Standing in front of him she spread her arms, as if that would protect him. The undead guard stuck to her as she moved, not giving way to even one metre of space.

There was no way she was allowing this. If the undead perished, however unlikely that was, she’d be stuck inside this mess all on her own. In a way, he was both the key and shackles to her future.

“Margareth,” intense anger burned inside his eyes and the voice sizzled, fury quenched in tears. “Move away from him. That bastard. . . he killed my boy!”

“No, I di-”

“Silence!” He began lifting the men to their feet, stacking them like pieces on a board game. “What am I paying you for, oafs?! Kill that man! Now!”

Still phlegmatic, a decent-sized mob eventually gathered. Men, barely holding onto the uprightness of their own flesh, wobbled and struggled to stand. It was as if a tremendous weight pulled on their arms, or perhaps gravity played tricks on them. Of them, only the rare few wore something akin to protection, but even that was nothing against a good swing from a sword, or a blazing fireball.

A couple of nobles also managed to get mixed among this rickety formation. Redness of wine seeping into their faces and silver and gold rattling against the leathery waistcoats, they drew their weapons. Shiny and gleaming, perfect craftsmanship for perfect pay, the swarm of pitch-black eyes stared deeply at the undead guard, clearly conscious of the steel covering its intimidating frame.

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This army of filth-stained breeches was about to take their first tipsy steps when Iphis fell to her knees, almost blowing them from their feet in surprise.

They were crazy, the washed out brains played tricks and hid all reason. If this continued even she dreaded the sight, smell and sounds that would come to haunt her at night. Her mind saw a multitude of solutions to this. None but one was enough for the moment asked for disgrace.

Knees against the cold floor, the mental curtain dropped and tears began trickling like rain down onto the floor. Her inhuman body did her bidding, disgrace hoped to crush her like a rock, and even though she knew how pathetic she must have looked, how the weak humans looked down on her in pity or otherwise incomprehensible faces, her mind was clear.

Throughout the eight decades of her life, all the experiences, falls and pain has beaten her into something so densely apathetic her resolve could not be scratched by anything anymore. Not this, and not even the walking disaster behind her.

The murky sight of her tears and dusty floor taunted her to look up, but she resisted, only hoping, almost praying – not to a god or a goddess, but fate and luck – for the humans to fall for the trick and give the undead an opening of some sort.

His power was lacklustre when compared to the mages throughout the history, but it was terrifying and destructive. The walking curse could easily turn the room to ash, in a single move culling a large chunk of leadership the human lands possessed. She only hoped he was smarter than that and that he would use his words, not violence, although, at the end of the day, what mattered the most was her own life, even if she had to see through to that with the use of brutality.

She let go of these thoughts and carefully picked her words and tone.

“Would you please stop this madness!” Her hoarse voice screeched, bouncing off the walls and spreading throughout the castle, soaking into the stone and heads of madmen. The glass vibrated from her magic, but no one noticed. “Can’t you hear him out first?!”

There was a long pause after their minds were shaken awake. Although the knights lowered their weapons, Viktor was unaffected. His blood was boiling and his mind told him he can do anything. The vivid memory of the mage bringing his son’s head like a barbarian or a vile usurper turned every precious second of his life into unimaginable torment. Even if the head fell not because of him, the fact he joked about his son’s death was more than enough of a reason to kill him. Every bit of his body and soul wished to pour blood tonight, be it innocent or not. This was the only outlet he could cling to.

Magus saw what was coming. His undead nature urged him to kill, but now was not the time. He needed to somehow stop them and pursue the finish line which was right before him.

“As I’ve tried saying previously,” he spoke, finally able to get a word in edgeways. “It was the greenskins whom. . . murdered, your son. For his soul, and your wellbeing, I believe this is not the time and place for details. We must speak in private.”

The inhuman voice glued the men in place. Was it primal fear or the unknown? They themselves had no idea as the grinding of teeth forbade any deeper thought. Just like that their malice was completely put out.

Time passed as the Duke focused on the words rather than voice of the mage. During this opening the knights regained the last pieces of their senses and began to rack their brains about what caused this mess in the first place.

The Duke’s daughter was crying in front of them, a bloody head lied on a plate. Whispers rose with every second as everyone chimed in with a theory of their own.

“Ishn’t thaat th’ Kount?. . .” A wobbly noble started, lighting the fire of thought among men.

“K-” another gagged before gulping down whatever wished to escape. “K-Kinghss! Kinghs jab! I knneu! I kneu ‘e waz u’ to it!”

“Y’r a ful! T’is abviuzly a best! T’e red! T’is the red! W’r dead! W’r fucked!”

“You’re all idiots,” spoke a young noble with surprising clarity, though his face was as red as the rest. “I agree with Gerard – it must’ve been that bastard.”

“Nay nay! T’s t’e dragan! I kno’!”

Their murmurs went back and forth and Viktor’s head had cooled in the meanwhile, his anger slowly shifting towards his idiotic subordinates. He then saw the mage standing and casually speaking with his dear daughter Margareth. His anger flared up again as his son’s stare met his and the blade felt awfully comfortable within his grasp. That’s when the group chose to agree to disagree and focus on one focal point – Count Levi Anworth’s death.

Like a cold slap against the cheek, the Duke went rigid and pale to the realization that his only male heir was but a head on a plate, meaning that his own might soon follow its fate. Immediately his mind worked out the consequences, reminding him of the battles with his own siblings and the bodies that he had to lay down along the way.

He looked at Iphis, Margareth as he knew her, grimaced, and barely blurted out the words that will torment him for life.

“. . . let us speak.”

***

Every corner of the castle wheezed in the echo of rushing steps, mumbling of disbelief and frantic breathing. People ran up and down the dark corridors, uneven, claustrophobic stairways and hidden pathways inside the walls.

Although the news of Count Anworth’s death has just reached their ears, many of the servants were already hard at work for the upcoming funeral. This was likely caused by the fact that their own Lord, Duke Viktor, was old and withered, and after years of servitude many of the servants got used to the idea of an unexpected funeral, some even prepared for it daily. This was why when they heard that ‘Anworth has died’, their minds automatically assumed that it was the Duke, not his son.

As such, knights ran up and down halls, following whatever order they were given. They slammed open doors, spurring every peasant out of their sweet dream and then emptied armouries to increase their chinking noise with the addition of a dancing mail. As if that was not enough, they later began ringing bells, lighting braziers and yelling back and forth at each other. Eventually even the large portcullis was slammed shut and guards were stationed at the postern, finalizing the lockdown.

Unfortunately, even though their orders were to keep any news from spreading, every townsman could now see the shining keep whether they wanted to or not, and this sight brought upon them the thoughts of, ‘what is going on?’