“You're crazy,” said Nevin, pushing back against the chained doors like he might somehow be able to melt between them if he tried hard enough.

From the other end of alley, the black-haired warrior laughed, a full-body cackle that spattered droplets of milky sweat and blood across the interlocked stones beneath his boots. His fingers raked at the gouges in his face, tearing pieces of discolored flesh from their ragged edges until they exposed the muscle beneath. Fresh blood coated his claw-like fingers, and the bright red fluid drizzled off his wrist in a long, gelatinous line.

The laugh quickly morphed into a series of wet, wracking coughs, and Vincht hunched over his knees. He fought against the powerful fit, struggling to catch his breath, wheezing and choking and clutching his throat.

Now is our chance. Give in to me, and I will save you.

Nevin ignored the disembodied voice and straightened, cautiously stepping off the doors. “Vincht...you're sick,” he said softly, his tone morose.

“I'm not sick, you foolish child.” His voice was hoarse, but still he smiled. “I am driven.”

“No, I mean you're sick. Feverish. Your wounds, the cuts to your face...they're infected. It's making you-”

“Nothing makes me!” Vincht screamed. His sword flew to attention and he jerked forward a few steps. “I am the maker! It is my will that creates, my will that moves, my will that...that creates! I...I am the...the...”

He swayed on his feet, reaching up to cradle his head between shaking palms.

He's weak, distracted. Together, we can end him.

“I am trying, papa,” Vincht whispered, so quietly that Nevin had to lean in to hear. “Please don't be cross. I just need...I just...a moment to catch my breath. A moment, papa. Please.”

The sounds of battle echoed down the alley, the sharp ring of steel and the clatter of wood punctuated intermittently by the terrible cries of death. Nevin tuned them out, the entire breadth of his attention honed in on the fragile yet life-threatening situation playing out before him.

Vincht was a man on the precipice of madness.

************

Twenty two.

As his opponent dropped, Theis caught a brief glimpse into the heart of the alley before another soldier took up his fallen comrade's place. A black-haired warrior stood near the farthest wall, only a few feet from stepping forward and disappearing around the corner. In the man's right hand, an ivory-handled short blade gleamed in the late morning sunlight.

Theis scowled. Vincht.

The man in black lunged, slicing through the air with his blade before springing away from the reaching spear-points, too slow to catch him.

Twenty three.

A blast of chill wind from behind pressed his cloak against him, and his eyes burned a few shades hotter. The four other spearmen squinted to keep from being blinded by dust, and wildly jerked their spears this way and that to keep the seemingly untouchable swordsman from sneaking through their defenses while they couldn't see.

It didn't make a difference. Twenty four.

Infused with energy, Theis quickly surveyed his opponents to identify his next target. However, the dry slap of leather on stone gave away the rapid approach of reinforcements, and the man in black begrudgingly rolled aside to prevent himself from becoming surrounded.

He grabbed an extended spear with one hand as he straightened and sundered the shaft with his blade before hopping back a few steps. From his new vantage point, he could no longer get a clear view of what was happening in the deeper reaches of the alley. Luckily, Vincht hadn't appeared to be in any kind of hurry, but every moment Theis allowed himself to remain caught up by these poor excuses for soldiers was another moment for Vincht to change his mind and put the defenseless boy to the blade.

The rear deck of an open-topped wagon jammed into his lower back. The aging contraption creaked at the impact, but Theis was most surprised by the faint groan of effort he could hear coming from the large crate atop the wagon's bed. His sword raked through the air in a wide, whistling arc, sending the soldiers back on their heels, and he used the brief opening to glance through a bore hole in the crate's front.

“Cat?” he practically yelled over his shoulder, returning his attention to staying alive.

The lynx pressed a silver peeper to the hole. “Theis! Am I glad to see you! Nevin's trapped down the alley and Vincht-”

“I'm aware,” he barked, batting aside a spear and wrapping his fingers around its owner's throat. Grunting, Theis hefted the wide-eyed soldier into the air in time to block a different soldier's spear with the man's body. The surprised man arched in the blow, his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. Theis shoved him into his companion, and the two went down in a tangle of limbs.

Twenty five.

“Okay,” the cat mewled. “But can you stop playing around? He's running out of time!”

“Khek, cat, I'm not-” He ducked just in time to avoid being skewered. More soldiers weren't far off. Theis wasn't making nearly enough headway to enter into the alley without chancing serious injury, and if Vincht was half the swordsman Theis expected him to be, he couldn't risk engaging him at anything but full strength. Especially with any number of spearmen hot on his heels.

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“Let me out, Theis! The latch is stuck, but if I can get out, I should be able to-”

Theis whirled around, and with otherworldly aim, wedged his sicklesque blade between the lid and the crate and twisted. With a sharp crack of wood, the lid burst from its hinges, and a streak of golden fur emerged from its depths and sailed over the group of warriors. One soldier yelped and spun on his feet, landing in a heap on the cobbles, a sizable chunk of flesh missing from the side of his neck.

“Now, then.” The man in black grinned at the remaining warriors. “Who here knows how to count to thirty?”

************

Nevin couldn’t fathom how this man had survived since his escape from Elbin. All that blood and shredded flesh…it seemed unreal. The remnants of his confrontation with Aidux were evident all over his face and arms – ragged gashes oozing blood and pus and deep enough in places for a hint of white to show through.

It wasn't possible. He should have bled out days ago.

But the man's otherworldly constitution wasn't his biggest concern. Vincht was barely holding it together, his self-righteous speech on the makers and the made having devolved into mumbling pleas of mercy toward an invisible father figure. In his fevered state, Vincht was as unpredictable as a Waking storm cloud, but Nevin knew one thing for sure – he wasn't going to talk his way out of this.

He looked down, taking in the full length of the enigmatic object he gripped with both hands. Maybe...maybe the Sharasil could save him, just not in the way he'd initially hoped.

The muffled grind of metal on stone barely registered in the narrow alleyway as the cylindrical object tumbled across the cobbles and came to a rest between the two men.

A gaunt shadow seeped out of the cobbles and rose to its full height beside him. What are you doing?!

Not now! Nevin held his hands high, hesitantly stepping away from the two metal doors. “I'm not going to fight you, Vincht. I couldn't win, even if I wanted to. Even if you were unarmed.”

Shivering uncontrollably, the black-haired warrior jerked his head in Nevin's direction. His facial expression seemed caught between a scowl and a grin, twitching back and forth as he took a step toward the unattended weapon. “Of course you couldn't. Couldn't fight me, couldn't win. Nevin.”

The young man chewed his lip anxiously. In his weakened state, the Sharasil's magical defenses might just be enough to incapacitate the man. All he had to do was bend over and pick it up.

Vincht picked at his face and squatted, tap-tap-tapping his short blade on the stones. “You'd give it up? Your only defense?”

Nevin shrugged. “Won't need a defense if you just take it and go.”

Vincht nodded, the fingers on his free hand folding inward like they had already reached out to grip the Sharasil's coarse stone handle.

Come on. Nevin slid forward another half-step. Just take it already!

Down at the other end of the alley, someone screamed. A man, Nevin thought, not a woman. Not a cat. Not a friend.

He suddenly missed the stoic man in black more than he could put to words.

“No.” Shaking his head in disappointment, Vincht closed his eyes and ran a hand through his thick, black hair. “You're weak, Nevin. You not the one to help me. You're just another one of the pathetic 'made.' Tools of the makers, victims of Fate, pawns in the great game. The walking dead.”

The gaunt figure took its place by Nevin's side, leaning in to rest a pale hand on his shoulder. He could feel its touch through the fabric of his shirt, drawing the heat from his flushed skin.

“If you won't take responsibility for your own life,” Vincht stood, running a bloodied finger down the length of his spotless blade, leaving a small trail of red in its wake. “Then it's up to me to take it for you.”

With a gruesome grin, the black-haired warrior readied his sword.

The two metal reinforced doors rattled against Nevin's backside, shedding flecks of rust like red smoke. The gaunt figure pressed up against his side, sensing his sudden spike of fear, of desperation, of hopelessness. Its chill breath hissed against his ear.

Just...say...yes.

He pulled his head away, recoiling from its touch even as he wanted to give in to its singular desire. He knew from their dialogue at the gorge what giving in would mean. His lips trembled, from fear, but also from fighting the urge to answer, to open his mouth and speak that one simple word, and then...

Darkness.

“Vincht!” he yelled instead, holding his hand out to stop him. The force of the word drove the tenuously sane warrior back a step, and he looked at Nevin as if seeing him for the first time.

And that's the exact moment when a whirling ball of teeth and claws collided with the man's torso.

An involuntary smile broke Nevin’s trembling lips. Aidux! Just like before, his best friend had arrived at the last possible moment to save him. Vincht cried out, new wounds rapidly appearing on his arms and face as the lynx tore into him with abandon.

There was a faint yelp of pain, and before Nevin could process what had happened, Aidux collapsed at the base of the alley wall, motionless.

“Wait your turn, demon,” Vincht growled.

Nevin stared, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes and rocks filling up his throat. A thin line of blood trickled from his best friend's ear.

Oh no. Is he even breathing?

Time slowed to a crawl, then stopped all together.

Somewhere in Nevin’s mind, beyond the furthest shadows and darkest corners of his consciousness, something died. Something he could never get back. Something precious, something priceless, but as he turned his murderous glare to Vincht’s shredded face, Nevin hardly noticed.

Death was all he could see. It burned in his mind like a shard of the sun, driving back the shadows and consuming everything in its path. His fear, his uncertainty, his idealism…everything fell before the all-consuming light. Only his intent, pure and impervious, was left unscathed.

Say it.

The words resounded through his entire body, and a pair of icy cold hands wrapped his shoulders in a frigid, unyielding embrace.

“Yes.”

And that’s when everything went black.

************

As the final soldier fell before Theis’ blade, a brilliant white light flashed deep within the alleyway, and the temperature in the open plaza plummeted. His breath crystallized into a small white cloud before his face.

Then, just as suddenly as it departed, the heat returned to normal levels.

With the path before him clear, Theis darted down the alley, only to come to a skidding halt. Behind the cover of his mahogany mask, the man's jaw hung slack and his burning eyes searched for an explanation. Aurnia rushed up to his side, inhaling sharply at the sight before them both.

“Khek, woman. What-”

“How dare you invoke that name at a time like this,” she hissed. “Fool of a man.”

He shot her a sharp look, but kept silent. You're not wrong.

Aurnia hiked up her dress as she stepped through the scene. “Grab the boy and cat. We were lucky only one Breather joined this fight, but that luck will only hold for so long. Captain Williams awaits, and I’m afraid he may leave without us if we don’t make haste.”

A million questions blazed through Theis’ mind, questions he knew would have to wait, questions with elusive and complicated answers.

With the boy over one shoulder and the cat over the other, Theis chased Aurnia through the field of dead bodies clogging the alleyway entrance as they raced off to catch their boat.