“War?” Darian exclaimed. “War with who?”

“Everyone,” Alistair said with a grin. “But I think they plan on starting with Lonelen.”

Jorg’s hands balled into fists. “Treacherous filth.” He glared at the prisoner. “The fey have been fighting us for years, but they’ve never launched an all-out war. Why would they do so now?”

Alistair shrugged. “With how many of them have been around, you won’t have to wait long to ask a fey yourself. In fact,” he looked between Jorg and Darian and into the courtyard. “There were a pair of fairies hanging around here. Snatch one of them and I’m sure they can explain the situation.”

Jorg went to start asking more questions, but Darian gripped his arm.

“More talking will have to wait.” He nodded at the door. “Sun is about to show itself. Let’s go.”

Darian peered at the man’s chains. They were latched to floor by a thick iron ring that stuck up from the center of the cell. Even with the bars destroyed, Alistair was going nowhere.

Jorg grunted and then huffed his way out of the room, snatching his mace up as he went. Darian stood there a moment and watched the prisoner. There was a knowing look in his eyes as he watched the old Justicar leave. It sent a slight edge to Darian’s senses, though he could not tell why.

“You keep curious company,” Alistar said, rubbing his temples.

“Don’t we all?” Darian turned and marched out of the prison and into the chill courtyard where the scent of morning warmth hung thick in the air.

Isaac awaited them. The boy’s brow was arched down, his body rigid as he stood next to an open door.

“We found a few bedrooms in this one,” he said, nudging his shoulder at the building behind him. “Found what had to be the garrison commander’s room. Krast is in there though, says it’s his.”

“He can sleep wherever he wants,” Jorg said.

“Bed looked real comfortable though. Big and full of nice furs.” He shook his head. “But Krast always gets what he wants.”

“No one ever always gets what they want,” Darian said, moving past the boy and into the darkness beyond.

The interior of the building was much less drab than the others. The wooden floor was old, scarred by time and the scrape of soldiers’ boots. But it was well maintained, and the scent of cedar still touched the air. The walls, while made of the same dark stone as all the other buildings, were decorated with tapestries and paintings. If Darian wasn’t already in a fort, he could have mistaken the place for a noble’s home.

“Beds are upstairs,” Isaac said, pushing past Darian. “Stairs are this way.”

The boy scooped up a flickering lantern that hung by the door and motioned for them to follow. As they made their way down dim corridor after dim corridor, Jorg whispered at Darian’s back.

“The prisoner, what do you plan on doing with him?”

Darian shrugged as he walked beneath a low arch that led to a set of stone steps. “He still hasn’t said where Oliver is. Until we get all the information we can out of him, he stays in his cell.”

“I figured that much,” Jorg said with a hint of annoyance. “But I’m asking about after that? The man is dangerous, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. And while I saw no signs of a bloodthirsty killer in his past, he was a member of the lich cult.” Jorg stopped, his voice low. “We should execute him once we’re through with our questions.”

Darian paused. “You want to kill him? Why?”

“I may have faltered in my faith to the church, but not to Argus. And Argus’ teaching about necromancers are clear and absolute. They possess darkened souls, and they should be purged wherever they appear. Lest they spread like a festering wound.”

Darian couldn’t handle it anymore. He rounded on the Justicar, doing his best to keep his anger in check.

“Jorg, you’re no longer a Justicar. You’re a vampire. A bloodsucking monster of the night who is closer to the undead than you are to the living. Should you ‘purge’ yourself, in that case? I know I’m not the best person to say this, but please stop being such a self-righteous hypocrite.” Darian couldn’t help but feel like a hypocrite himself, and so he stepped back, his temper cooling. “I’ve killed people. Some good, some bad. I killed them because I thought it was the right thing to do. And I will continue to kill where I see it as necessary. But I think we both need to change if we’re going to survive out here. And part of that means we can’t just kill people because we don’t agree with who or what they are.”

Jorg’s body tensed, and he glared into Darian’s eyes. “Change? Change how? Would you have me abandon my faith? And you are no better than I.” He took a half step forward, his face and Darian’s only an inch apart. “Your sense of morals is what drives you, do not pretend otherwise. You play the hero when it suits you, take lives when it suits you, and make demands when it suits you. And now, do you even contemplate your actions? Why is finding and killing Oliver so important to you? Is vengeance for a man you hardly knew worth so much?”

Darian’s hands flew up and gripped Jorg by his collar. But Jorg did not relent. He simply continued to stare, their crimson eyes locked together, old rage bubbling up between them.

Then Isaac approached, the boy rubbing his hands together timidly, the lantern creaking as it swayed in his grip.

“Sirs,” he said, his voice meek. “I know it’s been a long road, but can we leave it be for now? You need to rest.”

They both turned their heads at the boy, and he shrunk back.

But looking at him, Jorg and Darian relaxed.

“We should not fight in front of him,” Jorg said, brushing Darian’s hands away.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

“I’m sorry,” Darian mumbled, anger still simmering beneath his flesh. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Perhaps you’re just hungry? I know I am.” Isaac tapped his stomach. “Maybe we can go looking for something when night falls?”

“Maybe,” Darian said. “But there is a prisoner we must…deal with first.” He cut his eyes at Jorg.

“But first, we rest.” Jorg moved past Isaac and up the stairs.

Darian waited there for a moment, listening to the man’s heavy steps. Why did I get so upset? He and Jorg weren’t friends, but they weren’t exactly enemies either. But something about what he said needled Darian’s heart. I need to find out the real reason he came with me. Jorg had followed Darian from Fria’s village on some supposed quest, but he had not shared details with Darian. He thought maybe the man had just been confused, having gone from dying of a plague to being a vampire in the span of only a few hours. But if they were to continue traveling together, this tension would need to be resolved. And that couldn’t happen until all parties were honest with each other.

He followed Isaac up the steps. The air became significantly warmer as they walked, and Darian spotted glowing orange runes carved into the stone along the ceiling.

“Krast said they’re dwarven heating runes,” Isaac explained, noticing Darian’s wide-eyed amazement.

“Heating runes?” He reached up, the tips of his fingers brushing the hot stone.

“Well, even if they’re not, I’m thankful for the heat.” Isaac led Darian to another open door, a small bedroom beyond. “Krast’s brother is an adventurer. He might have told him about them on one of his last visits.”

“This brother…is he?” Darian knew both Krast and Isaac had lost their parents to the plague, with Isaac also losing his little sister.

“He’s alive. Well, maybe. Haven’t seen him in an age. But he’s tough. Not as tough as you, but close.” Isaac smiled. “He used to have me and Krast come at him at once, but we never got the better of him.”

Seeing the boy smile warmed Darian’s heart, and some of his lingering anger dissipated. He reached out and gripped Isaac’s shoulder. “Thank you for finding these rooms for us. It was a big help. I want you to know Jorg and I, we both appreciate it.”

“No need to thank me sir, Krast is the one who found the rooms. You should be thanking him.”

Darian looked around. “I don’t see him. In fact, I hear he claimed the biggest and best room for himself.” He grinned. “I can thank him later. But for now, thank you, Isaac. I mean it.” He pulled his hand away. “Now then, I think it’s time we all get a good day’s rest. I’ll see you tomorrow night, dark and late.”

Isaac nodded, then left, his lantern casting shadows along the hall. Darian closed the door and pulled Sparkblade from his inventory. He placed the blade by the bed in the corner, just in case anything tried to surprise him while he slept.

The room itself was sparce, with a bookshelf in one corner and a bed in the other. A dresser of darkened wood stretched along one wall, the surface scattered with random small tools and a half-built crossbow. The ceiling was low, a glowing rune situated at its center. It bathed the room in dim, amber light, and waves of heat rolled from it like an open flame.

Darian slowly took off his clothes and armor, his body sore all over from the night’s battles. His shoulder, while no longer torn, was red and puffy. He balled up his armor and clothes atop the dresser, and he lowered himself onto the bed. It was soft, the blankets and sheets made from some kind of animal fur. Sinking into it, Darian’s mind began to swirl.

The argument he had with Jorg played again and again, his temper rising each time he recalled the brief exchange. But he could not place where his anger stemmed from, not exactly, at least. Part of him knew Jorg was right. Maybe it was the fact they were both kindred hypocrites. One held to the standards of his faith, the other to a set of morals that eroded with each passing day. What did right and wrong even mean to a vampire? What should it mean?

But beyond all of that, his thoughts returned to Oliver. Even thinking about him and his sly smile sent fire to Darian’s blood. He wanted to tear him apart, to wet his tongue with the man’s blood. His blood had been the most delicious he had ever smelled. There was power in it, power Darian wanted for himself. And while he did want vengeance, there was more to it. A hunger Darian no longer wanted to deny.

With his thoughts still tearing at him, Darian rolled over and did his best to let sleep claim him. But despite his morning induced fatigue, he did not find the sweet embrace of oblivion easy.

***

Tellal fluttered by her sister’s side. They’d spent the night curled up in the hollow of an old oak tree, Lallet’s magic keeping them warm. But now night had fallen, and so the nightblood fairies took to the skies in search of mischief.

But then she remembered all the men were dead.

Well, not all of them. She looked down at the fort. Such a lonely, ugly thing. But the soldiers had proven fun targets for their pranks. She smiled especially at the time they managed to get a hot coal into one of their trousers. But the stupid dwarves and undead had ruined all the fun.

“What should we do?” Lallet asked.

Tellal was the older sister, born a whole two seconds before Lallet came into the world. And that, naturally, meant she was in charge.

“We could stay a while. I know you fancy that white haired fellow.”

“He is quite the looker.” Lallet hovered toward the fort. “But I fear any pranks will not be to his liking.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” Tellal asked.

“Did you see what he did to the nightmare?” Lallet shivered. “I would rather not upset him.” She rubbed her ribs, the place where Tellal knew her soul brand was.

“He’s far too nice to carve us up. I can tell.” Tellal smiled. “He could have squished me, but he didn’t. I’m sure he can handle a little mischief.”

Lallet nodded. “Then what do you have in—” She stopped, her wings buzzing. “What is that?”

Tellal followed her sister’s concerned eyes. There was a trail of light heading toward the fort from the road into Vizzera. Judging by how far it stretched, the caravan had to be massive.

“Vizzerans?” Lallet asked. “Why would so many be coming this way in the dead of winter?”

Tellal activated her skill [Far Sight], increasing her level of visual perception enough that she could make out the blurred figures on the road.

“Not Vizzerans,” she mumbled. “Dwarves.” Her eyes rested on the banners they carried. A gold cog on a black background. “The same mercenaries that attacked the fort.”

“Why would they return?”

“I don’t know, but they mean business.” The dwarves marched in neat rows, massive golems among them. And they had carts and wagons bursting with supplies. Whatever they were doing, they were in it for the long haul.

“We should go,” Lallet said. “Before they get here.” She fluttered higher. “The frost witch Rena is dead. We could nest in the forest. Find a nice village to torment.”

“Maybe,” Tellal said, noticing a small fire within the fort’s courtyard. “But I’m going to warn them first.”

“Warn them? Why? We should be leaving.”

Tellal ignored her sister, her wings carrying her toward the fort. She could hear Lallet groan behind her, but soon the buzz of her wings joined with hers.

“If something goes wrong, it’s going to be your fault,” she said.

“Naturally,” Tellal replied. “But we should be gone before all the killing starts.”

“We better be. I’m not dying here. Not after all we’ve been through to make it this far.”

They wouldn't be dying, not on Tellal’s watch. But worry ate at her heart, for she could sense one of her kind nearby, watching and waiting.