The old temple's door opened without resistance. Broken furniture and trash filled the space. Grass emerged from the cracking floor and all the windows were broken.

“You go first, Lord Bag of Bones. You're the lightest one. If the stairs break under your weight, they're not safe for me, right? Come on, we're in a hurry.”

The necromancer complied slowly while Seros teased him. “You move slower than a zombie, friend. Is it because you miss them so much?”

The stairs creaked under Fran's weight and complained loudly under Seros, but they all made it to the top. Five floors.

Soon, Fran understood the reason for Seros' insistence on getting here soon. They were at the roof of the tallest building in the quarter. The view encompassed the rest of the city, including the Inner Quarter, the Unholy Cathedral, the magnificent black mountain and Azgal himself, who observed the dusk from the mountain's peak. Streaks of white and magenta painted the sky as the Sun vanished under the horizon. A little bit higher, a blue sphere shone a modest light blue. The dense liquid that covered its surface stirred faster. It felt like a living creature about to wake up from its slumber.

The group sat down to enjoy the beautiful vista. The view was breathtaking.

“No one's been to the blue moon, if that's what it is,” said Seros. “There's a folk belief in Udarpa that dragons fly to the moon when feel their time to die, but dragons never lived in Udarpa, you know.”

“Why is this place abandoned?” asked the necromancer.

“Doctrinal disputes,” replied Seros with a smile. “It's become a taboo, but the truth is that two groups of exiles made it here to try and woo the dragon. Both were formed by mad monks from the Eastern plains. Their home city banished for the same reason: excessive cruelty in their practices, which is quite a feat for clerics of the Blood God. They bonded over their misfortune and journeyed here together. Still, they remained two different groups. I ignore what their differences were. I'll sleep better without knowing. But the point is that those differences reemerged after they convinced Azgal of protecting them and the city. Well, there was no city back then, just a small trading settlement by the lake. Azgal’s protection transformed it into the city you now see. Lightning fast. But soon the tension between both groups of clerics reached the boiling point. One day, two clerics lay dead on the street at sunrise. The violence escalated. An eye for an eye and all that. Eventually, one of the Archpriests decided to cut the Gordian knot. He didn't even bother hiring adventurers to make it look like an accident. Hundreds of monks converged here in a nocturnal procession to pay their enemies a visit. Everyone was stunned. Who could have guessed there were so many? The crowd broke through the doors of this building through sheer force. They massacred the rival clerics with their curved sacrificial knives. Screams filled the air of Azgadal all night. Nobody escaped the massacre.”

“I thought magic was their forte,” the necromancer said.

Seros shook his head.

“Not combat magic, my friend. Blood monks hold great power, but the purpose of their magic is secret.”

“Seros, what's the difference between a monk and a cleric?” asked Fran.

“It's the same, more or less. Cleric is the right term for a priest of any god, but people get offended. Go and tell a cleric of the goddess of healing that she belongs in the same category as a hooded guy stinking of fresh blood.”

“You're too right, oh you areeeee,” said a voice behind them. It sounded like a hundred insects fighting to the death in a glass jar. “People like that don’t belong with us.” A figure emerged from the door next to the stairs with slow, heavy steps. A black and red robe became visible. Seros tensed up and terror conquered his leonine features. A penetrating reek of blood made Fran want to vomit. He felt chills all over his body.

The monk stepped forward and a second figure emerged out of the shadows. It was a humanoid of a species that Fran hadn't seen before, neither in the city nor in fantasy video games. He wondered if Rafa’s encyclopedic knowledge of video games would have helped. The creature was the height of a human being and had two arms and two legs, but moist scales the size of a hand covered its skin. The scales were thick, black and reptilian in texture, but they didn't lock into each other like Azgal's. Deep trails filled by a white chitinous substance separated this creature’s scales from each other. His fingers ended in sharp metal claws, long and black as the night. His feet were dragon-like too. But it was his head that captivated Fran. Scales covered it too, but there was something almost human to it, almost recognizable. Two completely white eyes were the only opening. The creature met Fran's gaze and its scales moved horizontally with astounding speed, closing the eyes like a helmet's visor. Fran knew that the blood this creature dripped was the source of the disgusting smell, not the monk.

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“Shall the lion enlighten us on the difference between my brethren and other clerics?” asked the monk.

“No, Your Holiness,” replied Seros.

The monk's hood scanned the group.

“Did you trespass to watch the sunset?” he asked in a playful tone, like a father who caught their kids doing something naughty but ultimately harmless.

“Yes, Your Holiness,” said Fran. “We'll leave now if that's fine.”

“It is not fine,” replied the monk without looking at him. “Bring the eye, deacons.”

Two more monks emerged from the stairs, as indistinct as the first one. One of them held a box covered by a plain black cloth. He closed in on Seros and extended his arms.

“The consecration was about to begin,” the first monk said. “We don't have time for nonsense and resent the interruption, but fortune smiles at you. Making you pay for your stupidity would be a waste of precious time. Submit to the Dragon's Eye and leave.”

The monk withdrew the veil, revealing a plain golden metal box with black corners. He clicked on an invisible button and its front panel opened.

The lion looked sideways as if he was considering jumping from the tower, but he eventually put his hand inside. After a moment, the monk nodded and Seros brought it out. He then approached the necromancer.

“I don't quite have hands, I'm all bones here.”

“Do it now,” said Seros. It was the first time that Fran saw anger in his eyes.

The necromancer's hand stood motionless in front of the box for an eternity. The monks didn't try to hasten him, but Fran noticed that Seros was mad with impatience. He must have wanted to grab the necromancer's bony hand and stuff it in the damned box.

Finally, Sancho’s hand penetrated the box. Nothing happened. Seros took a second look at the street below.

It was time to get this over with. Fran approached the monk and put his hand in decisively. He felt nothing, but soon things changed for the better. A pleasurable warmth spread from his fingertips to his arm and the rest of his body. The feeling intensified, making him experience an absolute bliss. Fran closed his eyes and became submerged in the feeling.

“Your Holiness,” said a confused voice.

“Silence.”

Fran floated again, in his mind. He floated in an eternal dream of pleasure and freedom.

“What are we supposed to do?”

A metallic voice intruded.

“Shall I get him?”

“Silence,” insisted the first voice. Doubt. Then, “Withdraw the box at once!”

Fran fell back into reality and opened his eyes. He felt returned from a placid slumber.

“Who are you?” the lead monk demanded. The insects in his voice chirped agitatedly.

Dazzled by the afterglow of the box, Fran opened his mouth without knowing what he’d say. Nothing, it turned out. The sudden impact of a big naked arm on his chest left him breathless. His feet left the floor and the evening sky whirled in a hundred directions. Panicked screams filled the air, then he felt a sudden burst of pain in his back. He lost consciousness for a second, then realized he was awake again, lying on the thick hay roof of a street stall. Fran realized that Seros had grabbed him and Sancho for a kamikaze dive to escape the monks. An extreme move, but he couldn’t disagree with the decision. Any option was better than falling into the hands of the blood monks. However, that was his rational side speaking. Deep inside, he wanted to go back up immediately and face the man in the blood-soaked armor. Everything about him felt wrong to Fran. His aura’s reek of evil, of course, but also something he’d seen in his eyes, a gleam of fear. Fran felt like he’d met his nemesis on a spiritual level and a natural desire to face him off lurked inside of him.

But the duel he wanted would have to wait. Fran breathed out and his whole body ached. He looked up for a second. That must have been a 20-meter fall. Above, coarse brown hoods leaned out of the tower. One of them pointed his gloved arm at him.

“Can you guys walk?” asked Seros.

“I'm fine,” replied the necromancer.

Fran tried to speak and a feeble moan came out. Without skipping a beat, the lion grabbed him and carried him on his shoulder live a rug.

“Run,” he said to the necromancer.

He did. They fled through deserted back alleys and empty old streets until they arrived back at their inn. They didn’t stop until they were back at their inn. Sancho and Seros immediately started arguing bitterly about what to do next.

Fran didn’t say a word. The others thought that he much be too fatigued from the fall, but he wasn’t. In his mind’s eye, Fran saw the dragon warrior staring back at him. He knew they’d meet again soon. He wanted to, but it wasn’t a matter of choice, really. It was a matter of fate.