The hybrid cub howled with a sense of desperation, just as any other abandoned infant would…Brandan could hear these cries from at least a mile away, they held pain and immense amounts of sorrow… it was heartbreaking. Between the trees and bushes, he could barely see through his spyglass. He sighed with regret… No matter how pitiful and helpless the little creature looked, he knew he couldn’t do anything to help. The best proposal would be to let nature run its course, which- with considering the noise it was making, wouldn’t take much longer. Brandan had been traveling off road into the woods of the forest for the last two days in order to avoid the main roads. Crimson Spears patrols often strived to ask him awkward questions in their attempts to catch underage runaways…At least some did. He wasn’t willing to take his chances either way.
Brandan began making his way southwards when he heard the noise of trees getting torn down. He drew his spyglass again and saw a gigorpion rushing down the far east hillside, mowing down trees with its claws and anything else that stood in its path. if it had been any other predatory beast, he would have made haste in his briguar and stayed clear of its way, except, a gigorpion so far away from its burrow was outright uncanny, a considerably bigger one with pincers and stinger which looked to belong to a different species was even more so.
“Tainted.” Brandan murmured as he grimaced before charging in its direction, firing three spells between the gigorpion and the wolf-bear cub who was just now beginning to run away, then fired another two to further widen the distance between them. Now he and briguar, Nashan, had its attention.
The gigorpion rushed past them, narrowly escaping getting impaled by its claws. Brandan cast
“Never forget, No mercy.”
then proceeded to hammer it down with
“Disgusting beast.” he muttered again as he stared at the charred remains of the mutated animal, the smell caused him to have a coughing fit at the worst moment as the beast’s corpse began crumbling into ashes, he had been this cold for almost fifteen days now, he wasn’t even sure whether it was a cold or an allergic reaction but the disease assailed him nonetheless to the point of making him grow blassé to it. He coughed heavily due to the exertion and his near constant illness. It was at that moment of growing tranquility that his thoughts went back to her again.He breathed a sigh of relief knowing that there are things which he would never forget no matter how far from home he goes. After musing for a while, he then took the satchel from his briguar and took a drink from his leather canteen, only to find that it only had less than a quarter of water remaining.
He hadn’t made it that far when he finally decided to address the source of the steps behind him, and with a sigh he did something about it.
“
The nearby river, too shallow to yield clean water, offered little hope of quenching his thirst. To find a suitable depth, he would either have to retrace his steps deep into the forest or veer off course for at least eight miles. After consulting his map, he noticed a town just three miles ahead. With a bit of money in his pocket, he decided it was the perfect opportunity to not only secure fresh water but also to replenish his dwindling food supplies
Before long, he found himself being lectured by a guard, who warned him that it was a bad time for the town to be welcoming strangers. The guard spoke of rising dangers in the streets and the necessity of an additional payment to fund the militia, now burdened with enforcing the town’s law.
As he entered the town, it was quieter than he had anticipated. Even with the rain, he had expected to see at least a few vendors braving the weather. The downpour was growing heavier, but back home, a lively town would still show signs of activity even in a storm. Perhaps the threat of crime was more serious than he had initially imagined.
The strong presence of guards in this part of town confirmed his suspicions. What struck him most was how different these guards were from those stationed at the gates and on the walls. The inner town’s guards didn’t wear steel plate armor with chain mail and turban helmets; instead, they donned simple studded leather vests and fabric turbans. They were also noticeably lighter armed compared to their counterparts on the walls. He found these militia soldiers to be an interesting contrast to the heavily armed mercenaries who maintained order in his home city.
The few people he encountered eyed him with a mix of wariness and suspicion. The sky, already overcast, promised rain soon, but the lingering heat of The Sorrow had left him weary. He longed for a large, chilled ginger punch and needed only to find a tavern.
As he navigated the town, the locals greeted him with either cold indifference or outright hostility, offering no help. A guard did, however, remind him to stable his mount. With little choice, he headed in that direction.
It wasn’t long before something unusual caught his eye. A girl, sitting alone under the awning of a shuttered shop, sheltered herself from the first drops of rain. What drew his attention most was the bird perched on her shoulder—a rarster. It was an odd sight, indeed. He knew enough to recognize that this wasn’t a native species of Dobeth, yet here it was, accompanying a girl who otherwise appeared to be of humble means. His briguar slowed to almost a halt as he pondered the scene. What was a seemingly homeless girl doing with such an exotic creature? Then again, she didn’t look entirely destitute, at least not in the financial sense.
He urged his mount forward, dismissing the thought. It was peculiar, yes, but he was certain it wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’d encounter on his travels.
He had nearly resigned himself to going without the drink he craved when he encountered an elderly woman near the bridge that spanned the river dividing the town. She was kind enough to finally point him toward what she called "a good place," and as luck would have it, it was on the same path as the stables.
/***/
She tentatively rubbed the brooch on her old, worn-out cloak, calmly watching them go. Few people spared her more than a passing glance—just enough to notice the rarster perched on her shoulder. Yet something about that boy’s presence felt oddly familiar. She sighed softly, determined not to dwell on anything irrelevant. The grumbling in her stomach, however, was harder to ignore.
“What do olkins use in exchange for food?” she mused.
Coins. The thought came to her, and she checked her bag, finding the purse with the money she had earned working for those merchants. It amused her slightly—those coins were the only thing at risk for her now.
As she reached the middle of the bridge, she looked up at the sky. Although the rain had abated almost completely stopping, the sun remained engulfed by the dark clouds and she noticed Haro flying above, always watching over her. Her gaze then fell to the river's still, dark waters below, where the cloudy sky cast a shadow over her reflection. She could still see herself, though, and the sad contempt etched on her face. Memories flooded back, and she wished once again to return to the past and change things—though she knew such a wish was impossible. The past was all she had left.
She stood there, staring at her reflection for what felt like an eternity, her mind replaying everything that had happened, everything she had lost over the last three weeks. She leaned further over the ledge, her posture gradually lowering until she pulled back with a scowl, as if the water had personally insulted her.
“Not deep enough,” she thought, before continuing on her way.
She was pleasantly surprised to discover that the local cuisine wasn’t as bad as she had feared, nor were the cookshop clerks as dishonest as she had expected. She was served a beef stew inside a hollowed piece of bread they called a trencher. She found it both charming and delicious, even as the raindrops began to fall once again, urging her to eat faster. Thankfully, she kept her hood up to shield herself from the rain.
As she hurried through the streets, two young drunkards noticed her. They beckoned her to join them for a drink—and perhaps more. She ignored them and continued walking, but her silence only seemed to encourage them. She already found Olkins difficult to be around, their language still half unintelligible to her, and their thinly veiled arrogance grating. Now, she was learning that they were even worse when inebriated. They persisted, following her and calling out, even as she quickened her pace.
Then, she felt a sudden yank on her cloak. Shock flashed through her, quickly replaced by a growing irritation. In hindsight, her reaction was impulsive, but she acted on instinct. With the quick reflexes she had been trained to have, she spun around and yanked back with a snarl. The already shabby fabric of her cloak finally gave way, tearing apart.
The wind, a playful, icy hand, swept through her hair, carrying with it the scent of rain and the promise of a storm. Raindrops, like tiny, insistent fingers, tapped a rhythm on her back and face. She felt the chill seep through her, but it wasn't the cold that made her heart pound. It was the shock etched on the faces around her - the tipsy revelers, their laughter abruptly stilled, the elders, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and wonder.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, morphing into a symphony of murmurs that grew into a deafening roar in her ears. She couldn't escape the weight of their stares, the unspoken questions they held. With a shudder, she dropped her cloak, the heavy fabric pooling at her feet, in realization of what all of this meant.
“Ishaedra!” an old woman shouted, her voice filled with a mix of fear and anger. The crowd’s reaction soon blended into a volatile mix of emotions, intensifying the chaos around her
Panic surged through her as she saw two burly men, flanked by two armed militiamen, pointing accusingly. Instinct took over, and she sprinted away, a desperate rabbit fleeing its pursuers. She darted through the throng, ignoring the curious stares and worried whispers of bystanders. A flicker of hope, naive and fragile, extinguished in her chest as she spotted two more guards joining the chase.
A looming brick wall abruptly halted her escape. Her breath hitched as she spun around, four figures closing in. There was only one choice. She had no love for the Olkins, and they certainly had none for her people, but violence seemed unnecessary. All she needed was space, a chance to disappear.
She dexterously ducked under the closest one, then did a cartwheel between two other militiamen and finished with a backflip over the last one who attempted to tackle her.
The guards were easy enough to lose. A simple weave through the bustling market, a dash down a narrow alley, and they were gone from sight. But they weren't the only ones on patrol. Soon, she found herself facing a new challenge: three guards and a throng of people, all jostling to enter an imposing elenian temple. The crowd was too dense to push through. Retreat was the only option.
"Just avoid getting caught," she muttered to herself, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. "But a little fun wouldn't hurt, would it?"
She turned, facing the growing knot of anxious onlookers. Then, with a flash of daring, she sprinted towards the guards who were already on alert. Their faces registered surprise, then disbelief as she effortlessly danced around their attempts to restrain her. Each lunge, each grab, met only empty air. She was a whirlwind of movement, a phantom in their midst.
A voice, sharp and urgent, pierced the air. But she was too focused on the intricate ballet of evasion, a choreography of her own design, to pay it any heed.
Then, a searing pain erupted across her cheek. A baton, wielded by a new guard, had connected with her jaw. The taste of blood filled her mouth, and a cold fury washed over her. This was no longer a game. The playful dance had become a battle. Her non-violent approach, once a source of amusement, now felt utterly foolish. The fire of anger burned within her, demanding retribution. She was no longer dancing. She was ready to fight.
Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her fist, the urge to strike burning bright. But a whisper of her father’s wisdom echoed in her mind, a guiding principle etched in her very being. She needed to defend herself, yet a deeper understanding bloomed within her – these Olkins, though adversaries, were merely upholding their duty, bound by traditions as ancient as the stars. She knew she had to subdue them, to neutralize their threat. But the thought of inflicting serious harm, of sending them to the healers' temple, felt wrong. There had to be a way to overcome them without resorting to such drastic measures.
Her fists, fueled by a measured rage, had left a trail of pain in their wake. A broken nose, a bruised liver, two aching jaws, and a battered groin – these were the souvenirs she'd bestowed upon the militiamen. Now, with the rain transforming from a drizzle to a relentless downpour, she was back on the run. The shouts of "There she is!" rang out, confirming her suspicions. Two more figures emerged from the shadows, their faces contorted in fury. One stayed behind, tending to the fallen, their groans echoing through the mud. The chase was on once again.
The town, surprisingly dense for its size, boasted a network of tightly packed, grand houses. This architectural quirk, instead of hindering her escape, became her weapon. Weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways, she narrowed the path, forcing her pursuers into a single file, their progress hampered by the constricted space. One, a burly militiaman, pulled ahead, his pursuit growing relentless.
Just as he closed in, she spotted her salvation – a taut clothesline strung between two houses, empty and beckoning. With a desperate leap, she launched herself onto it, the militia man's grasp just missing her. The momentum of the swing sent her spinning, her legs whipping around with the force of a pendulum. A calculated dropkick, aimed at his back, met its mark with a satisfying impact. The air whooshed out of the man, leaving him groaning on the ground, defeated. As she slid off the rope, a wave of guilt flickered through her. This, she realized, was far harsher than the swift knockouts she had dealt the other guards earlier. But there was no time for sentimentality. Another pursuer lurked somewhere in the maze, his presence a constant threat. A sudden realization dawned on her. Her eyes darted around, searching for another clothesline. Most were bare, the recent rain having discouraged their use, but one, tucked beneath a loom, held her answer. Several pieces of linen, including a vibrantly patterned bed sheet, hung suspended. With a practiced move, she snatched the sheet, wrapping it around herself with practiced haste. Invisibility regained, she melted back into the shadows, her pursuers none the wiser.
Those militiamen would have handed her over to the local inquisitor the moment they caught her, and she knew she wouldn’t have lived much longer after that. The entire chase brought her to a stark realization—the same one she’d had earlier on the bridge—she didn’t want to die. But what was she supposed to do? Return to working with a caravan of merchants? She had never enjoyed the company of the Olkins any more than they tolerated hers, and the thought of doing that forever was unbearable, even if she somehow managed to keep her lineage a secret.
But what other choice did she have? Was that really all there was left for her? The truth was clearer than ever—she wanted to keep living. Yet, despite that desire, she had no idea what to do with her life.
/***/
Brandan breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the tavern, its sign depicting a crescent tielia entwined with a heart—a surefire indication he'd found the right place. The dimly lit interior greeted him with a symphony of scents: the stale musk of bodies mingled with the tang of cheap ale and the faint sweetness of fine wine, an olfactory tapestry woven by the raucous patrons. Drunkards bellowed, bantered, and cackled, their voices mingling with the throaty laughter of a couple of brazen women. The tavern was bustling, its tables haphazardly arranged. Brandan, however, navigated the throng as if unseen, his presence a whisper in the cacophony. He ordered a pint of ginger ale, the bartender barely acknowledging him with a curt nod. His hands, slick with sweat trapped in his leather gloves, betrayed his nervousness. Ten hours in such attire would make anyone's palms clammy. He instinctively reached for his right hand, the one adorned with the Binder Ring. Just as the bartender turned his head, Brandan's gesture was caught in the flickering candlelight.
"My apologies," the bartender murmured, his voice laced with a hint of regret. "I had no idea."
Brandan, utterly perplexed, watched as the bartender gestured towards the gleaming ring adorning his ungloved finger. "Spellbinders aren't served here," the bartender explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "It's the law, you see."
Brandan bristled, rising from his stool, but the sight of two burly guards approaching, seemingly ready to intervene, quelled his protest. It was a blatant bluff – their presence here implied they were off duty. Nonetheless, a prickle of unease ran through him. The thought of being touched by these boorish men, of needlessly stirring trouble so early in his journey, gave him pause.
With a sigh, Brandan retreated, leaving the exact change for his drink on the counter. He reluctantly exited the tavern, feeling a profound sense of his newfound visibility.
Rain lashed down as he pulled his hood over his head, finding a twisted irony in the fact that the stables, according to directions, were a considerable distance away. The walk, he mused, would provide a welcome opportunity to cool his heated head.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
He found a flicker of solace in the thought that at least his trusty briguar would have a chance to quench its thirst.
Y'all still doin' right well, son? Said the man who had just begun to gather hay in the feeders.
"I wish, then I would at least get what I need and leave."
"Well, I reckon this town ‘ere ain't been much of a hoot, huh?"
"Considering how I could not even get a glass of ginger punch, I doubt how it could be much of anything to anybody."
The man glanced at his bare hand, noticing his binder ring.
"Ain't for the likes o' you, now, no offense meant. Not with the way things be goin' 'round these parts."
Brandan simply regarded the man with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. As such, the man went on as he kept feeding the rest of the animals.
"Y'ain't noticed how twitchy them guards are? They got a real nasty curfew after dark, y'know. Been that way 'bout two years now. We don't get hardly no visitors 'cept for the odd merchant stoppin' by, and folks 'round here have pretty much just learned to deal with it."
That is, for the ones who do make it home on time."
Brandan made to ask a question and the man kept going
"Folks been vanishin', ain't no doubt 'bout that. Found a few stiffs here and yonder, but they're always stone cold, like they been froze solid. Takes a right long time for 'em to start rotin', too. Ain't nobody got a clue what's goin' on, or who's doin' it. Been like this for nigh on two years now."
"Two years?" Brandan's look turned filled with outcry and skepticism. What about the inquisitors? They wouldn't let such crimes go without inquiry!"
"Well, shoot, an inquisitor done come by already," The man replied and before Brandan could speak, he continued “He was the last one who got took.”
"But..." Brandan now couldn't hide the utter bewilderment gradually taking hold of his mind
"Well now, son. You aimin' to stick around a spell longer, or what?"
"If I can't find a place at an inn, then I will sleep right here in this stable and leave first thing in the morning."
"I reckon you might wanna leave even before that."
Brandan's brow furrowed in confusion as the man spoke.
"Y'all remember that kerfuffle with the ol' Inquisitor, rest his soul? Seems like the local militia, still findin' their sea legs, are itching to show off. With that Inquisitor gone, any folks vanishin' will be blamed on dark magic, and they'll be pointin' fingers at you, since they're all riled up about sorcery."
"But the disappearances would continue even without me. They can't possibly be that shortsighted!" Brandan protested, his voice rising in agitation.
"It won’t matter. If the disappearances continue, they'll simply tell the inquisition and the populace that there were two perpetrators, and the other is yet to be apprehended."
A shiver of unease slithered down Brandan's spine. Trapped in town, with the militia's suspicion swirling around him like a storm cloud, he needed a solution, and quickly.
"The disappearances... can you recall who vanished first?" he asked, hoping to glean some insight.
The man's demeanor shifted, his face clouded with sorrow. "Well, I'll be a dang dog's breakfast. It was my boy, Kerill, that done it. Nobody paid no mind, of course, 'til folks started disappearin' like a bradillo in a cornfield."
"No one noticed?" Brandan tilted his head, his gaze questioning.
"He was a right fancy pants, spellbindin' fella like you, or leastways, he yearned to be," the ol' man sighed, his voice thick with sorrow. "He toted a pendant, a gift from his maw on his sixteenth birthday. An Akur symbol pendant, polished hirzium with a delicate chain of baroque links. It musta been a treasure, but she loved him so dearly..."
Brandan remained silent, processing the information, the man's raw grief resonating in the air. The man likely hoped for further questions, a chance to vent the pain that burrowed deep within him, but Brandan, trained to absorb information with ruthless efficiency, held his tongue. He contemplated the information, weaving it into the tapestry of his understanding, until the very last moment, as the man turned to leave.
"You wouldn't mind if I stayed here, would you?" Brandan asked, his voice calm but firm.
"Well... to be honest, no. But this ain’t exactly a consul's manor, you see."
"I wouldn't mind. I merely require a place to rest until nightfall."
The man's gaze narrowed, concern etched upon his features. "You don't intend to..."
"That is precisely my intent. If you have no objection, I'll make myself comfortable here. Thank you for your hospitality, good sir."
The man, a mixture of concern and resignation etched on his face, finally departed, leaving Brandan alone in the stable. As he settled down, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd stumbled upon someone with a death wish.
/***/
The roar of the crowd washed over her as she found herself seated in the small arena, a sea of faces swirling before her. Familiar faces, friends and neighbors, mingled with strangers, their excitement palpable. Beside her, she recognised the faces of those she knew well, their expressions mirroring the vibrant energy that pulsed through the arena.
The spectacle in the arena was mesmerizing. The two combatants moved with a ferocity that held the audience captive, their every gesture a symphony of skill and danger. But beyond the thrilling display, a raw, palpable tension crackled in the air. This wasn't mere entertainment; these warriors fought for something far greater, something that blazed in their eyes, tightened their grip on their blades, and fueled every desperate move.
For a time, the contest remained evenly matched, a dance of steel and shadow. Then, with a sudden shift in momentum, one combatant began to dominate. The crowd roared, anticipation thickening the air. But even as the victor seemed inevitable, something felt wrong. The fallen warrior sat motionless, his gaze unyielding, while the elders, their faces etched with disapproval, shook their heads. The victor, his weapons now lowered, argued fiercely with the elders, his voice echoing in the silent arena.
The fallen warrior, though wounded, was not defeated. A flicker of defiance lit his eyes, a spark of determination. He saw the elders' rejection, the victor's refusal. He would not let his honor be sacrificed. A triumphant smirk played on his lips as he rose, his eyes fixed on the victor. With a swift, precise movement, he regained his blades and lunged, the final act in a drama where victory came at a heavy cost.
“Father, no!”
Who shouted that?
Hunger gnawed at her stomach. She needed food, but the thought of encountering the city guards sent a shiver down her spine. They patrolled the streets in pairs, their faces a mix of worry and clipped irritation. They escorted small groups, their movements tense and hurried. The flickering light of street torches barely pierced the gloom, but even shrouded in her makeshift hood, she felt exposed. Prudence dictated she avoid the guards, keeping to the shadows, their backs a safe haven. But her hopes for a late-night snack were dashed. Every food stall, every cart, was either gone or secured behind a wall of rope and tarpaulin. The city, it seemed, was closing in for the night.
The weight of the marquee's canvas shifted as she stirred awake, the rain now a mere whisper of droplets against the fabric. Night had fallen, the sky a bruised purple above the city. Her internal clock let her know that it was barely past nine. Haro, the rarster perched on her shoulder, ruffled his feathers, his claws clutching her cloak as she rose.
she felt rather hungry, she figured it would be best to keep avoiding the city guards, as many as there were now. Some of them seemed to be escorting people or small groups of people through the streets, they were a strange mixture of anxious and mild annoyance. Visibility wasn’t optimal, even with light coming from the street torches, and despite her makeshift hood making her rather inconspicuous she still opted for prudence and avoided moving only behind their backs. Much to her displeasure she found that all food carts were already either gone or tightly secured to their spots using rope and tarpaulin.
It was no use—there were no food vendors on the streets at all. Everywhere she looked, it was the same: nothing to eat. As she wandered aimlessly around corners and down avenues, she toyed with the idea of using her knife to pry open some of the carts she passed. Maybe it would be worth the risk, maybe not. Would it cause trouble with the Olkins? Probably. And trouble was the last thing she needed right now—or so she thought.
She briefly considered finding a place to sleep, remembering what the merchants she’d worked for had told her about a good nap when feeling hungry, and there had to be one or two good spots in town. It shouldn’t be too hard to find them. But then she felt something strange—a tingling at the tips of her ears. It wasn’t just the absence of food vendors; the streets were completely empty. No pedestrians, no militiamen—nothing. An eerie silence hung in the air, as if the wind itself carried it, growing more oppressive the further she ventured.
The sensation intensified, a creeping unease settling over her. It became all the more unsettling when Haro suddenly flew off her shoulder, leaving her alone in the strange, silent streets.
/***/
Brandan waited until the hour had passed, just as the man had assured him the patrols would cease their searches. With a mind full of warnings, he ventured deeper into the city, where only the flickering street torches seemed to have any life. Mounted on his briguar, he wandered the streets without a clear sense of direction. If his hypothesis about the creature stalking the night was correct, he didn’t need one—he only had to keep moving closer to the center of town.
As he rode, he began to sense something deep within, a feeling almost palpable in the air. It was a sensation he was already familiar with, though he couldn’t yet pinpoint its direction. The feeling was faint, but he knew it was destined to grow stronger, and with each step, his hypothesis seemed more and more likely
For a brief moment, she felt something was eerily wrong, just before she heard the sound of hurried, determined steps—like those of a predator on the hunt. But it quickly became clear that whoever was attempting to attack her hadn’t anticipated her speed. With practiced precision, she countered, executing an overhead arm drag that sent her assailant crashing headfirst to the ground with a loud thud—enough to end most fights. But this was no ordinary opponent.
To her surprise, the figure quickly got to his feet. From the grunt he made and the glimpse she caught of his body frame, she deduced that her attacker was male. Then, under the hood, she saw a brief flash of blue—a monstrous, ravenous glow in his eyes—followed by a disturbingly unnatural snarl. He prepared for another attack, and she instinctively shifted into a hand-to-hand combat stance, ready to meet his next move.
The assailant swung at her several times with his hands wide open, which she found odd as she easily dodged such predictable attacks, she avoided four more attacks but it was during the fifth missed swing with his left arm that the remaining distance was too little, he then swung that same arm and without time or distance she was forced to block it instead, the impact sent her flying eight meters and impacted against the beam of a nearby store front noticeably damaging. It hurt, but her soul rune protected her, though it wouldn’t last forever. She hadn’t gathered her surroundings when the assailant came for her again, she dodged once, then he attacked her with his other arm in a twisting motion, this time he caught her gripping her shoulder close to her neck and opening his mouth wide, she then felt a repugnantly terrifying sensation as if she was getting bloodletted while at the same time molested though even more intimately derogatory, he was too strong, she couldn’t shake him off not even with a martial technique.
But there was something more, the spot he was gripping began glowing with the same color she remembered the day she was marked and then a blinding flash separated them with the assailant pitifully coughing a strange bright mist, she took that opportunity to kick him in the jaw as hard as she could, he staggered to the ground and she sprinted to hit him with a running knee strike to head but, once again, he was too quick and getting to his feet again he back stepped with an animalistic agility. his two glowing eyes shined more intensely as he repeated that same abnormal snarl while white fiery claws grew from his fingers. His eyes were now bright enough to illuminate at least two thirds of his face revealing a severe deformity.
If she had her suspicions before, now she was sure, she was fighting against a demon so she drew her war club and got ready to apply one of the few lessons she was willing to carry on even all that happened, to allow its existence to keep sulling the realm of the living, that which the goddess created for her children and the ancestors inherited to them
With a swift, sinuous movement, the demon advanced, claws glistening like dagger tips. A rasping breath escaped its lips, the sound akin to rustling leaves or distant thunder. The woman countered, her feet firmly planted, muscles coiling like taut vines. She swung her club in an arc, a powerful strike aimed at the demon's head, but it ducked, the air whooshing as wood met emptiness.
The demon retaliated, lunging with a predatory grace. Its claws slashed through the space where the warrior stood moments before, a chilling whistle marking the near miss. Undeterred, she pivoted, her club crashing downward with an earth-shattering thud, splintering cobblestones beneath the blow. The demon skidded back, avoiding the impact by mere inches, but she was relentless.
With a primal roar, she charged, the war club raised high. The demon, unfazed, sprang sideways into the shadows, its form flickering between realities, feeding off the darkness that surrounded it.
“What—?” She thought
Just when the warrior thought she had lost it, it materialized behind her, reaching for her neck with a grasp of cold shadow.
In a swift reaction, she ducked and rolled, the demon's flaming claws grazing her shoulder making her lose her makeshift cloak and eliciting a sharp gasp from the depths of her being. The attack somehow managed to bypass the protective aura from her soul rune. Blood glistened momentarily in the moonlight, the sizzling pain was almost blinding and the sound of the flesh of her skin nauseating, but she did not falter. Gritting her teeth, she lashed out, her war club swinging back with the force of a storm.
The heavy wood struck the demon squarely in the side, sending it sprawling across the ground. It writhed in pain, a guttural growl echoing through the silent night. The warrior leaped forward, eyes alight with determination. She brought her club down again, this time aiming for the creature’s head.
Yet the demon was agile, rolling away and disappearing into an alley, leaving only the faintest traces of its grotesque form. Breathing heavily, the warrior paused, scanning the shadows that swirled around her like a vengeful mist.
Suddenly, the demon lunged from above, claws poised to strike. Instinct kicked in; she raised her club just in time. The demon crashed into the weapon, the impact vibrating through her bones. Eyes locked, they were a moment frozen in time—a defiant warrior and a ravenous demon—each unwilling to yield.
She turned the momentum of the blow into a second strike, the stone end of the war club smashing into the demon’s midsection. A bone-rattling crack reverberated through the square as the creature was hurled backward, crashing into a weathered stone wall.
Seizing the moment of chaos, she pressed her advantage. With swift, powerful strides, she closed the distance, raising her war club with determination. The demon, blood seeping from its wounds, staggered back to its feet, a snarl like thunder escaping its gaping maw.
She struck, relentlessly, the club dancing a deadly rhythm in the moonlight, each swing deliberate and fierce. Again and again, wood met flesh, stone pulverizing the demon’s defenses. It howled in frustration, trying to dodge, to retreat, but she matched its every movement, fueled by the raw might of her ancestors.
Finally, with a ferocious battle cry for the spirits of her tribe, she swung with all her strength, a devastating arc of wood and stone, and the club connected with a shattering force.
The demon reeled, struggling not to tumble to the ground like a stunned pugilist, and yet, it managed to balance itself again, if only barely.
Although still snarling, though now raggedly, she knew then that the fight was already over. The demon remained standing, but it seemed to do so against its will. Despite the pain still burning fiercely in her shoulder and her own labored breathing, she was ready to keep fighting.
The demon seemed to understand how this would end, yet it crouched for one final charge. Just then, she heard a voice somewhere nearby, and before she could react, the demon was suddenly engulfed in a net of crackling, flowing electricity. The creature convulsed before tumbling backward like a felled tree, revealing a boy dressed in a shoulder cape and dark leather boots—the same one she had seen earlier that day. He was mounted on a briguar and quickly dismounted to survey the scene more closely.
“I knew it was this way,” he muttered as he frantically approached the body. “So… this is the thing that’s been spreading terror in this town…”
He stepped over the electrocuted corpse and spotted it—a polished hirzium pendant with the symbol of the god Akur. His heart sank as the realization hit him—this was the stable manager’s son. The discovery sent a chill down his spine, adding an even more unsettling twist to the ordeal. A human Tainted, but not in the usual sense.
He had slain plenty of Gash-Tainted beasts in the past and heard countless tales of people sacrificing their souls to dark gods, their flesh warping as a symbol of their unholy pact in exchange for demonic sorcery. But this? This was different. At first glance, it seemed as though an actual demon had fused with this poor soul’s body, creating something far more horrifying. If only he had the time to study it thoroughly, he might have uncovered the full extent of what had happened.
He heard the sound of hesitant footsteps circling around him.
“Apologies, I didn’t mean to ignore you. Honestly, based on the stories I’ve heard, I was certain it would come for me without a doubt.”
She froze, caught off guard by his words.
“I don’t know how you did it, but I’m amazed you managed to last this long without any spellbinding or reinforcements. You must possess some remarkable combat skills.” He shrugged with a pleased grin. “All I can say is, nicely done.”
As he glanced between the corpse and her, he noticed the way she held her shoulder, a sign of injury.
“Are you wounded? Let me have a look.”
She backed away, almost shrinking into herself.
“Come now, I won’t hurt you, I give you my word.” He made the hand sign of the Eleniian faith, a gesture that conveyed soul-bound honesty, and began to approach carefully, as if dealing with a wounded Mustelcat. He genuinely wanted to help her but was careful not to startle her.
“I may not be an expert, but I’m reasonably competent at knitting wounds using spellbinding. You can trust me.” He took another, longer step, gently grazing the hand she had pressed against her shoulder. She gasped—whether it was a guttural sound or a word in a language he didn’t understand, he couldn’t tell.
“I know it’s not something you see every day, but it can’t be that bad,” he reassured her.
She pointed with a trembling finger toward the discarded sheet that had served as her makeshift cloak.
“Cloak,” she managed to say.
“Oh, is that yours?” He walked over and picked it up. “Here’s my offer: let me take a look at your wound, and you can have this back. What do you say?”
She didn’t respond, nor did she move, but she straightened up and slowly removed her hand from her shoulder which he took as her consent.
“Thank you,” he said softly. He then gently guided her toward the nearest torchlight. She was trembling a little less now, though her gaze remained fixed on the ground, her head turned away.
“
The searing pain wasn't merely fading; it was being eclipsed by a profound tranquility, a soothing balm she hadn't felt since leaving her tribe. It was like being enveloped in the tender care of her parents once more. She turned to face him, drawn by the incongruity of his demeanor. His smile was warmly amicable, his manner placidly polite, but his eyes… they held a stark contradiction. A ginger-brown, almost auburn hue, they seemed filled with a strange, familiar melancholy, a gnawing sorrow, and a simmering anger, all overlaid with a profound exhaustion, not of the body, but of the soul. She could have lost herself in the depths of those eyes, the silent storm they held, but his gaze was fixed on her, drawn to her eyes, her ears, her horns.
He stepped back, leaving the procedure unfinished, his expression a mix of confusion and shock. An Ishaedra? The realization struck him hard. He had been warned about them many times, told countless stories about the dangers and threats they posed. And now, he had already looked her in the eyes—what manner of degenerating curse had been placed upon him? Panic gripped him. Maybe, if he eliminated her quickly, the curse wouldn’t have time to take hold. His mind raced as he began muttering an incantation, summoning a small yet precise fireball, ready to hurl it at her in a desperate attempt to undo what he feared had already begun.
Realizing what he was about to do, she quickly raised her war club, ready to defend herself. But in a split second, cognition dawned on Brandan, and he halted his actions even before the sound of galloping hooves reached his ears—before he saw the growing crowd of people emerging from their homes to see what had caused all the commotion.
Three mounted militiamen were closing in on him from behind. Reacting quickly, the first thing he did was throw the sheet over her, shielding her from view just as the guards and more townsfolk began to gather. She swiftly wrapped the sheet around her shoulders and over her head, retreating into the shadows while everyone’s attention remained fixed on Brandan.
Moments later, four more mounted guards arrived, accompanied by an even larger crowd of people—some following the guards in hopes of witnessing something exciting, others stumbling out of their homes, groggy and irritated, their faces a mixture of annoyance, confusion, and curiosity.
The militiamen surrounded him as the demon’s corpse began decaying into ashes. They demanded, with no small amount of rudeness, that he accompany them to the detainees' carriage. Brandan cursed under his breath but agreed, knowing he had little choice. By this time, the Ishaedra girl had long vanished into the night.
Once at the precinct, they questioned him relentlessly about what had happened and why he was out during the curfew. He claimed ignorance, insisting he was merely taking a nightly stroll on his briguar. The militiamen, though skeptical, had to reluctantly accept his story; after all, he was just a traveler who had supposedly rescued a young girl when he heard her terrified screams—of whom he provided only a vague description—and who had fled the scene.
After nearly two hours of questioning and arguing, Brandan finally agreed to let the local militia take credit for slaying the beast. Whether the inquisitor would believe their tale was of no concern to him. The only important outcome was their promise to lift the curfew soon.
When they finally dismissed him, Brandan feigned exhaustion and asked if he could sleep in one of the cells for the night. The militiamen, seeing no harm in it, allowed him to stay until morning.
Sleeping in the jail cell at the precinct wasn’t pleasant, but it was certainly better than riding through town with a drowsy head, surrounded by meddling bumpkins. At first light, he retrieved his briguar from the precinct stables and set off toward the town’s exit. Almost in a straight line, except for two stops.
The first was to deliver the Akurian pendant to the stable manager. The man’s tearful gratitude was palpable as he invited Brandan for a hearty breakfast and generously provided him with supplies for his journey. The second stop came later that same day at a tavern on the edge of town, where Brandan ordered a ginger punch. The flask was chilled, and he barely resisted the urge to down it all in one gulp.
Before reaching the outskirts, he turned back for one last look at the town. It seemed to glimmer, almost golden, under the early afternoon sun. A pinch of pride made him smile—a familiar feeling, even after all that had driven him from his home. Helping people, even in small ways, still brought him a quiet satisfaction. The townsfolk had been mostly unpleasant, but even so, that still felt rewarding enough to make the pride swell into a quiet excitement for the future as he carried on his way, leaving the town behind.
As the afternoon wore on, two figures were seen departing from the town, one mounted and the other on foot, closely trailing behind. Overhead, a rarster bird circled watchfully, keeping a vigilant eye on their path as they made their way through the easternmost part of the town.