“Tell me bladed one,” said Osto, squinting. “How did you know that creature was my bastard?”

  “I told you, it’s a wraith, a special kind of one—a mortuus-filius-infedelis, the natural philosophers call them.”

  “Fancy name.”

  “It means, quite literally, undead bastard,” said the rogue, noticing Osto anxiously stroking the woman’s hand. “I’ve seen it a dozen times before. The tell-tale signs were all there—glowing eyes that burn through flesh and bone, unnatural speed, retractable claws. And to be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure if the bastard was yours until you just confirmed it.”

  Osto didn’t say anything.

  “Then again,” said the rogue, looking down at the arm which Randal left on the floor beside him. “I had a hunch it was yours to begin with—you see, wraiths are creatures of vengeance, relentlessly seeking out their target, someone that grievously wronged them in life. They won’t stop until they’ve found their target and killed it. I’ve seen the wraith of a farmer claw through two layers of brick wall to devour a duke that unrightfully murdered him and his entire family. Now, how dangerous and vicious the form of the wraith depends on its target. If, say, you had been some lowly cobbler that murdered his son, his remains would animate in a less severe form. Maybe no burning eyes or unnatural speed, perhaps just the claws—cobblers don’t have any royal guard or coup of henchmen, so claws should do fine to kill him. But to find a wraith with all of those features—the eyes, claws, speed—is a rarity. The only time that happens is with some member of royalty, a prince, a queen...a lord.”

  “I’ll say this, bladed one, I’ve underestimated you considerably,” said Osto, adjusting his posture in the throne, crossing his legs. “You’re perceptive, knowledgeable, and witty. You really should dress the part—this brooding attire of worn steel and patchwork dark leather makes you look more like a dull brute. Well, anyways, I’m the drunk lord who’s completely barefoot right now, what do I know of the heights of fashion?”

  The rogue grew frustrated with Osto’s careless attitude.

  “Listen,” commanded the rogue, his tone bitter. “It’s not a game—you killed your son, your damn son. Slit his throat. That’s not a merciful death for a child. No doubt he bled there for a few minutes with his wavering consciousness wondering why the world is so fucking cruel before his demise overcame him.”

  Osto was silent again, his brow furrowed. The woman smiled slightly—she always admired the rogue's moral character, his willingness to condemn the sins and hypocrisy of authority figures.

  “Bladed one,” said Osto, his eyes downcast. “It’s not as it seems.”

  “A slit throat, a bastard son. It can’t get any—”

  “Stop!” shouted Osto, standing up from his throne. “If you could spare me a fucking moment and if you could stop letting your prejudice hinder you, I’ll give you context—very much needed context.”

  Osto walked away from his throne, staring up at the mounted dragon skull behind it. It was menacing, its double set of dagger-like teeth protruding from its agape jaw.

  “A dragon,” said Osto, his gaze fixed on the skull.

  “Really? Could have sworn it was a squirrel,” replied the rogue with biting sarcasm.

  “Bladed one, do you know the story behind this obtrusive piece of skeletal decor?”

The rogue walked up beside Osto, staring at the skull. The woman silently scanned the rogue up and down—getting a better view of him now that he had walked into the pulsating glow of the crackling fireplace. He looked older, she thought. He was more rugged, more jaded than she remembered. She noticed a new scar on his face, its edges caught in the firelight. It started at his temple and ended at his chin.

  “Enlighten me,” replied the rogue.

  “Not many know the story, at least not many foreigners do,” said Osto as he took a side step, getting a better view of the dragon’s snarling jowls. “It was more than two decades ago. My father, the great Ramaul II, heard tales, rumors, of some beastly dragon stomping through the nearby woodlands. He was sick at the time, my father—deathly ill with some cough, so I’m told at least. You see, I was studying in the city of Rovin, the bastion of thought, the height of academics!” Osto mockingly flailed his hands in a dramatic gesture. “He had sent me there when I was fourteen. I was not a good son—me trying to bed one of his maids was the final straw for my poor father. So he threw me away, his only son, to the academies. But the bustling streets of Rovin, the absolute freedom of the vast city, swallowed me whole. I learned to be a careless drunkard, a womanizer, a man of vice and hedonistic impulse. Many of these charming qualities I carry to this day.”

  “Is there a point to this long-winded tirade?” interrupted the rogue.

  “Yes, settle down—let me finish. Gods, I thought the High Temple taught its students that patience was an arch virtue.”

  The rogue remained silent.

  “So, my father, the practical and headstrong man that he was, decided to hunt the dragon with a battalion of his finest warriors. The men were well-equipped, much more battle-ready than the bumbling idiots under my command. He took his greatsword, found the dragon near an old sheep farm, and battled it. It burned alive half of his battalion. But after a flurry of arrows, it was wounded. It pawed at my father, cutting open his chest. Though gravely injured, with one last mighty blow he made himself a legend. He cut the jugular of the beast, and both he and the dragon fell to the ground. He bled to death—to the people of Etka he died a hero, a hero through his spilt blood. I think my father wanted to die then. Perhaps he let his guard down just enough to be wounded. He knew he’d rather meet his demise heroically besting some monster than shriveling away with his suffocating cough.”

  “Some story.”

  “And it’s not finished. So I return back from the academies, no father to guide me, no man to correct my vices. I was a cesspool of sin and debauchery, a twenty-year-old fool thrust onto the throne, now cursed to live in the fatherless shadow of the heroic Ramaul II—a capable ruler, a respected leader, a legendary man. There was no way I could live up to him, so I created this.” Osto held his hands wide outwards into the air. “I made Etka a victim of my own carelessness, of my incompetence. Yes, I know what the peasants say about me, I know the cynicism they hold towards me. I’m smart enough to agree with them at least. I’m a shite lord, a weak son that can barely measure up to the dirt my father tread on.”

  The rogue sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “The part with the bastard child and the slit throat, is that relevant at all?”

  “Yes, you’ll see. Patience.”

  “Fine.”

  “Six years ago I met a woman. The first woman I fell in love with. The way her silver eyes glistened in the candlelight, her soft smile, her coy temperament. I loved her, bladed one, I was infatuated with her every movement, every word, her scent, her voice, everything. I fell captive to her charm. But there was a problem. She was a whore—a woman of the night, a prostitute. I first met her in the nearby town of Alfare. I suppose I was feeling somewhat lord-like that year, striking up trade agreements with Alfare’s lord.”

  “Wait, this woman,” interrupted the rogue. “Is she the child’s mother?”

  “Yes, bladed one, yes she was.”

  “Undead bastards can be laid to rest if their mothers—”

  “Say the prayers of Remorse and Graciousness in their presence,” Osto said, finishing the rogue’s thought. “I know, trust me. I’ve researched it all, but such a ritual is not possible.”

  “Explain,” said the rogue, his eyebrow raised.

  “Let me finish and it will all make sense, bladed one. So, she bore my child and raised it. I secretly visited them once every month. I didn’t know why she wanted to have my child, perhaps her life of whoring was too shallow, too empty—perhaps she needed a worthy cause to live for: motherhood. I played the role. I had a family, I was a father. I loved her and the boy. He barely knew me though—must have thought I was some kind stranger bringing gifts, food, candies. Then, four months ago it all changed. I didn't want to be a husband and father from a distance, I didn't want to make covert visits anymore. I wanted that child with me in Etka. I wanted a son by my throne—I had a rapturous change of heart. Perhaps, I don’t know, I thought it would jolt me out of my gloom, make me a better man. Maybe a drunkard like me could at least redeem himself through his progeny. And maybe Etka could have another great lord after my passing. I didn’t care what the villagers would think about a lord and his whoreson—I wanted to be a father and to always be there for my child. I didn’t want to damn him to a fatherless life of poverty with his mother, tucked away in some mud-and-hay hut. I argued with her. I shouted at her. I offered her to stay with me, to become the Lady of Etka. I wasn’t going to abandon my son. And so...and so...”

  Osto walked slowly back towards his throne and collapsed back into it. His face weary, sorrowful.

  “...And so, Edum and I went to seize the child. But I had underestimated the fervor she held against me. She resisted. She didn’t want to go. So I resolved to take the child and leave her. She called me a monster. Gods, to watch the woman you love curse you to oblivion, it wrenches the heart, bladed one, it really does.”

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  Osto paused and silently looked away, gazing out the nearby window, the branches of a cherry tree slowly swaying in the wind, the songs of a mother-bird and her nesting young slightly muffled by the rustling of leaves.

  “I should have seen it coming. The signs were there prior to the whole bloody mess. She wasn’t right in the head, she was never right. In retrospect, she had some bizarre qualities. She would always tell me the grandest stories of her conversations with woodland fairies, or how she met a talking donkey. I thought them strange folk stories at the time or just some endearing knack for imaginative storytelling on her part. Now I see that they were all delusions. But, love is blind, is it not? So, she took the child. There was a struggle. She pulled a knife on me—a fucking knife—holding the child in her other arm. I drew my blade, and Edum his. I was numb, I didn’t know what to feel. Her eyes, her silver eyes, were manic. She looked crazed, lost, confused. I had never seen beauty reduced to such a jittery madness. I walked towards her with my sword, thinking that I could intimidate her into letting the boy go. And then she did it."

  Osto paused. The hall was silent for a moment save for the crackling of the fire.

  "The whore slit his throat. I watched him collapse. Gods, I watched him collapse, I fucking watched him collapse. He couldn’t scream, he only wheezed. So…”

  The woman put her hand on Osto’s hand and cradled his head with her arm. Osto blinked several times, his eyes welling with tears. He began to sob.

  “I killed the whore, bladed one. I killed the woman I loved. I butchered her, I had her bleeding out on the floor of her hut. All I wanted was a family, a fucking family, a normal, healthy life. All I wanted was to reach beyond my vices, to wring dry my debauchery, to be a better man, a father. And it came crashing down.”

  The rogue was silent. He never thought he would feel sympathy for Osto the Tyrant.

  “And so,” Osto managed to mutter through heavy sobs. “And so, we buried her and the child on a hilltop not too far from Alfare. I speckled their mounds with lily flowers, the ones she would pick for a nearby valley. And I left them on that hill. Until, well until just a couple months ago when the rumors started roiling about a child’s corpse stalking the outskirts of Etka. I returned there and saw the burial mound gone, dirt strewn over the grass, the plot empty. The canvas sack I buried my son in was shredded to bits.”

  “Did you suspect a wraith? Did you think he had a touch of vampirism?”

  Osto looked up at the woman, smiling at her.

  “Mona, my sweet Lady Mona knew about it all. She told me it was a wraith, that my bastard son had returned, and that he could only find rest again once his vengeance was complete, but—”

  “But the creature couldn’t find its murderer,” interrupted the rogue. “She was dead, you killed her. So it was a wraith without a target. You’re the next best thing. The fates deemed you worthy of substitution.”

  “Indeed, bladed one, indeed they did,” said Osto. He paused and gave a deep sigh. “Lady Mona convinced me that the thing wasn’t truly my son.”

  “She’s right, it’s not—merely his animated corpse, nothing more.”

  “Right, so I sent a request to Sir Jackmere of Merrimont to hunt him down, and you know the rest. To bring things full circle, here we all are, standing in my hall, discussing it all.”

  “Forgive me, I know you must have a different opinion of knights and their capabilities, but to me they’re nothing more than swindlers. Yes, there used to be a time where some knights earnestly adopted the chivalric code, where knights weren’t consumed by their ego, their desire to be known by all far and wide. But that was some time ago. Plus, no knight could kill an aberration like this. It requires more than just a blade and a capable hand to wield it. I’m surprised Lady Mona didn’t tell you this. If she is truly a sorceress of such a legendary caliber, I would expect her to have basic knowledge on how undead bastards are handled.”

  The rogue glared over at her, his suspicions beginning to heighten. It was an odd sight, someone of such an esteemed pedigree, who once delighted in the monotonous cordialities of the highest courts, now lurking around the drab corners of Etka.

  “I was mistaken—I suppose we aren’t all privileged with the comprehensive knowledge of the Order of Blades,” the woman said softly, once again looking down at the rogue, her chin angled high. “Now tell me, stranger, how do you expect to kill this creature.”

  She wasn’t mistaken, she knew how to easily dispatch an undead bastard in the absence of its mother. She at least knew as well as he did. The rogue still didn’t know what her angle was, what game she was playing here in Etka, but he suspected something sinister if not just purely self-serving.

  “Listen,” said the rogue, turning his head towards Osto. “I can deal with this creature. Not just for your sake, but for the people of Etka. This thing is growing. I saw it develop hind legs while devouring a horse. It will become an enormous monstrosity if we don’t act in time, and it will be able to wipe out defenseless peasants and guards easily.”

  “What will it require,” asked Osto, a hint of desperation in his voice.

  “Blood, lots of it. Your blood specifically. I’ve done this ritual twice before and, I will admit, it is intense, very intense. I can’t assure your survival, but if you were to die then you won’t have to suffer the undead jowls of your son tearing into your throat or his claws eviscerating your intestines.”

  “Right,” said Osto, stroking the stubble on his chin.

  “Right,” repeated the rogue. “But if we don’t do this ritual then the creature won’t stop until it finds you, it will kill you. You’d be a hero either way, a hero to Etka. Die during the ritual, you have given your life to save your village. Successfully conduct the ritual, you have sacrificed your blood in a grueling process to save your village. Any man willing to shed blood for another redeems himself.”

  “Redeems?” asked Osto, still stroking his chin.

  “This is your dragon,” said the rogue, Osto—you lament your father’s shadow, the virtuous ideal he cursed you with, do you not? Give your blood, redeem yourself.”

  “Redemption through blood—quite poetic, religious really.”

  “Yes.”

  There was another long speechless pause. Osto sighed twice.

  "Blood lots of it," Osto muttered to himself.

  The rogue was silent, anticipating an answer.

  “It shall be done,” said Osto glancing upwards at the dragon skull, “Do I really have a choice anyway?”

  “Not really,” said the rogue. “Yet, consider it a virtuous act if you must.”

  “And you, bladed one, how many gold marks do you want, considering of course we all don’t die?”

  “None.”

  “Priestly charity—I’ve heard rumors about it, never thought it was real.”

  “It rarely is,” said the rogue with a smirk. “No, I don’t need coin. I need a royal decree to get into Anthum.”

  “Anthum? The capital of Myrcia? The whole city is overrun with plague rot,” said Osto with a slight laugh, shocked at the request.

  “I’m aware, which is why I need a royal decree—I don’t need the quarantine guards spearing me with crossbow bolts at the gate.”

  “Fine, and what are the conditions of this decree?”

  “I need an audience with the king, an urgent one."

  “It must be quite urgent if you’re willing to risk the plague.”

  “It is.”

  “It will be done, worry not, bladed—wait, forgive me, what is your name?”

  The woman raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a discrete smile. She knew he was hiding his identity, she knew what he had done those years ago that had cursed his name.

  “It’s Elvor,” the rogue feigned.

  “Well, Elvor, pray that we don’t fuck it up. When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow night. There’s a lake not far from here that we could use.”

  “A lake?”

  “I’ll tell you why tomorrow—let me think everything over first.”

  "Very well," said Osto, grabbing his goblet in one hand, peering down at its shallow contents. "A lake it is—you look tired, Elvor, I’ll have Lady Mona here show you to some guest quarters.”

  “I would love to,” the woman interjected. “Follow me, Elvor.”