Where the blue sky had hung over their heads as an infinite ceiling to the underworld, the red rays of dusk invasively coloured the landscape, drawing long silhouettes that trailed the pair like fish dung. Inconvenient for sneaking, but with the puppet’s assurance, they had made their move only after the final guards had cleared the path. They could hear them as they stepped onto the cobblestone, their armour clanking as they marched into the central avenue.

The little garden shed’s exterior was deceivingly meagre, nothing but a modest, overgrown shack at the bottom of the hill. The ring road rose above it and around the entire garden’s perimeter, a vantage point from where a convoy could observe the castle’s majesty from a distance.

They followed the path as the scenery abruptly changed like a roulette wheel, from a hedge maze to a fountain park to a silent village. Each lifeless, save for the sounds of the wind playfully whistling through them.

“How did you lose your arm?” Céline asked as they passed an open-air jousting arena, banners still proudly fluttering overhead. Matthieu walked beside her, sword in one hand and eyes forward, recalling the route over and over so as to never forget it.

“A shotgun,” he answered absent-mindedly. “By some miracle, the bâtard missed my chest.”

“What was happening?” she asked further. “What were you trying to do?”

Matthieu turned to meet her gaze, finding a little glimmer of genuine interest had returned. Recalling the events felt like running a finger over an open wound, but to someone who had so politely kept their mouth shut, it was only natural to wonder.

“My company was tasked with the defence of a strategic location, one of many small towns that delivered new troops.”

“What happened?”

He leaned his head back, swinging the sword lightly through the air as they kept up their pace, the jousting ring trading places for a flower garden.

“The location was of...strategic importance, but the legion decided to divert too many resources elsewhere, leaving us with nothing. The enemy took their chance and encircled the city.”

He had ordered them to take up defensive positions, pressing their hungry bodies against barebones blockades they had painstakingly built from scratch. He had ordered them to hold out for as long as possible and to retreat before it was too late. He had never seen them again.

“But the enemy outnumbered and encircled us, and our perimeter was soon found and bombarded.”

He had seen his men run for their lives and cower in between buildings as their comrades were gunned down in the street. He had watched from the church tower as the shells rained down on them like the will of angels enacting punishment.

“They pushed us back until we were shooting from the church windows and towers. The rooftop caved in at some point, and we were left with the bones of the building.”

Crushed by debris, a horribly inglorious death. Grenades would fall from the holes in the roof, exploding before they even hit the ground. Gas grenades and yellow death clouded the house of God and rendered it inhospitable. Eventually, his men saw the enemy as they stormed the shattered windows; the fight, his strategy degrading into bayonets, knives and rocks; whatever could strike a man dead cold.

“And then—”

“Stop.”

Céline’s steps faltered, leaving Matthieu ahead. He turned around, finding the spark gone from Céline’s eyes and replaced with the shimmer of tears.

The memories, his guilt; he had let them slip at some point.

"Sorry."

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just…I don’t know.”

She inhaled deeply, puffing her chest and forcing the tears back into her eyes, gathering herself with an exhale and sheer willpower. Stepping forward, she approached his missing arm and felt his drooping sleeve.

“How did you do it?” she asked. “How do you manage to keep walking?”

Walking? It only ever felt like running away to him.

“I don’t think I do,” Matthieu said. “Not by my own will, at least. It’s like I’m a zombie. I'm afraid if I blink, I'll find myself in the mud again.”

“And who brought you back to life?” she asked, gripping the sleeve.

Who had been the one to give him one final order?

“The person at the top of the tower.”

Céline let go of the sleeve, letting it slip through her fingers. “She must be an angel, my cousin.”

“Maybe,” Matthieu agreed, “I don’t know what I’d do or where I’d be without her.”

He took his hand and patted her head, reminiscing of the many times he’d performed the gesture to the children playing on the street. Céline was much older, but whatever compelled him to do so did not seem to differentiate.

“And I don’t know about angel, and I don’t know if she had anything to do with it, but meeting you was certainly another miracle,” he said.

Céline’s shoulders tensed as she softly grabbed his hand, peeling it away how children did when they insisted they were adults. She said nothing nor tried to meet his eyes.

“Céline?” he called.

She punched his shoulder and walked past him. “Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The lily pond sprawled before them, its title ill-fitting of its expansive nature. Bordered by lush forestry and rustic wooden fence line, the pond was thick with lilies, their damp, leathery surfaces gleefully reflecting the moonlight as they rode the subtle waves. Matthieu was sure it was beautiful, yet under the map’s criss-cross pattern and the scarce moonlight, its serenity had turned sinister.

A lone, stepping stone path stretched from their feet to an inlet across the pond, metal gates half open and taking shelter from the dark under the watchful warmth of an oil lantern.

“That’s where we need to go,” Matthieu muttered. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“You wouldn’t last a second without me,” Céline said as she leapt from the water’s edge to the first stone. Her soles gripped and landed with ease. She turned, beckoning him to join her.

The stones were large enough to account for both of them, but their jumps would have to remain conservative; neither could catch the other without stumbling and slipping. Matthieu jumped, joining her in a shared first success.

“Don’t slow down,” he said, “I’ll be right behind you.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she muttered as she took another leap.

Stone after stone, their landings echoed through the night’s stale air. The wind had died, losing its vigour to where not a single leaf danced to its whims. The waves ceased lapping, and the lilies’ playful waltz lost its rhythm. They continued, refusing to slow down everywhere but the longest jumps where time would slow as they left the ground, the heels of their boots kissing the rock’s slippery edge.

Halfway. They were halfway to the small oil lamp beckoning them with the promise of shelter, a point of respite in their journey, if not for only a moment.

Then it came. Decaying fingers wrapped around his ankle.

Matthieu stumbled, his heart skipping a beat as he planted both feet on the stone. He turned around and saw it, the hollowed-out eyes behind a torn gas mask and rotted flesh kept warm by a drenched military overcoat. It grasped at him, knowing nothing else of its own nature besides the need to latch onto the living, onto the soul.

Matthieu unsheathed his sword and swiped at the hand, cleaving it cleanly as the water around them began to bubble.

“Keep going!” Matthieu ordered Céline, shaking the severed hand off his foot and following behind her. The bubbling continued, and the grime began to surface. Dead soldiers: a most ironic form for them to take. They waded through the water, struggling over each other as the bodies piled and piled. They made passes at Céline’s feet, ones that she barely dodged as she kept leaping.

The bodies overflowed, encircling them and severing their path forward. Céline stopped as Matthieu caught up to her. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands, leaving her safety in his care without a word passed between them.

“Immortals of the realm, please awaken from your great slumber.”

Matthieu stood by Céline, putting his sword and body between her and the encroaching hoard. With every swipe, he would cleave through several, their limp and useless bodies dropping into the water as more lumbered over them.

“Perform your duties and protect the realm of our people’s souls.”

Blast wounds, bullet holes, hanging flesh. Brains spilling from skulls and grime leaking from eyes. He watched them as they approached, searching for a soul, their soul, searching for the heaven they were promised. They searched for their reward, their immortality in a form greater than rot, and all they found was Matthieu’s sword.

“Lend me your blessings, lend me your strength and release the soul of mortal pain and memory.”

The flailing hands of the hoard grabbed onto the hems of Céline’s skirt, muddying them and pulling them both closer to the edge. Matthieu swiped as more grabbed at her shoulders. The golden light began at her chest and glowed brighter and brighter like a kindling fire in a blizzard. He had to protect it, no matter what.

“Cut these shackles and burn these ropes.”

Matthieu felt countless fingers dig into his shoulders and tear his balance from him. He slipped and felt the world spin as the golden glow reignited the night. The slap of the water and the lilies was painful as the cold enveloped him. There was sound under the water; a great something took the place of silence. His ears could hear, but his brain could not decipher.

The black at the edge of his vision was not his mind fading but the encompassing rot that infested the water. It pulled him further down, blocking his vision and encircling him, smelling his soul like blood in water.

He watched as Céline’s silhouette faded into a golden light: a beacon, a lifeline, a final buoy as a reward for his efforts. He gripped his sword, readying for one final act where he had not before, when he had laid in the mud, soaked to his bone and awaiting a death that would not come.

He would hold out for the light.

The golden glow exploded, running deep past the water’s surface and through Matthieu’s tired body. Warmth ran through him like whiskey, re-igniting the fire almost quenched by the black water. The grime burned around him, disintegrating into nothing as the small sun reduced them to ash.

Matthieu found the strength to smile and reach for the surface, reach for the silhouette at the centre of the fading gold.

He resurfaced at the mercy of Céline’s strength as she tugged on his only arm. He caught the stepping stone, pushing off it with his arm as she grabbed his shirt and hauled him over the edge. Only then did he realise how close he was to drowning.

Gasping for air, he coughed up the last remnants of crystal-clear water from his lungs, heaving in the chilled night-time air as his eyes struggled to realign their vision. He shook his head, water in his ears rattling as they finally caught onto Céline’s voice.

“Are you okay? Matthieu?”

“Yes…yes, I think so.”

He stood, legs still shaking. He had been through worse before, and there was no time.

“Let’s keep on moving.”

Céline once again led the way as Matthieu used the exercise to warm himself. The water held to his skin while the wind chose its moment to return and make him shiver. He gripped his sword and kept his eyes on the girl’s back, adrenaline rousing his senses to keep alert for the telltale signs.

With one final jump, Céline reached the inlet’s brick pathway, ducking under the iron grid and offering Matthieu a hand. Under the lamplight, they took a moment to rest, but only a moment.

“How are you,” Matthieu asked, “can you keep going?”

“I can,” Céline said. “It’s you who I'm worried about.”

“You forget I have been through much worse.”

“Perhaps,” Céline said. “Perhaps you have seen death.”

She unhooked the lantern from the brick archway’s peak, leading the way with damp footsteps that seemed to travel infinitely into the void. They kept walking with no thoughts in mind apart from where the next infestation could come from.

It was like this, cold and rigid in both mind and body did they find a staircase hewn into the brickwork. No lantern to mark its presence nor signage to denote its purpose, just an empty staircase.

“Do you think this is it?” Céline asked, her eyes useless in deciphering the void. “I can’t tell.”

“The puppet mentioned no more information; he would have said if there was a path we had to—”

Céline raised a finger, silencing him.

“Something’s coming.”

She threw the lantern into the water, quenching it and plunging them into darkness. Through the ink, he could see Céline press herself against the wall, and he opted to do the same. At first, he was doubtful, wondering if she had extinguished their only light source for nothing more than paranoia.

It was the first footsteps that reached his ears that, in turn, extinguished those doubts.

Light, unarmoured, just the familiar creak of an oil lantern’s handle against its bearings. The light sheepishly pressed into their surroundings, illuminating the brickwork of the tunnel before leaping across the water to the other side of the tunnel. Closer and closer it came.

Dirtied white cloth and an apron, arms forged through the ceaseless swinging of cleavers under the banner of a drooping chef’s cap. It walked past Matthieu, blank face and hollow eyes not so much as acknowledging him.

A puppet. That was all. Nothing dangerous about it.

The chef continued walking its errand to God knew where, leaving Matthieu and Céline to sink back into the darkness, one mechanical footstep at a time.

They looked at each other, their eyes having to readjust to the darkness again.

“I think we found the kitchen,” Céline said.