I await your return slayer of demons,” went the maiden’s voice.

Slicing through the air, reach the monster and each blade in the spin has chance multiple times to slash into flesh and shortly recalled to the hand. Engage foe after foe in daylight outdoors with nothing more than what slices the air, the glaive.

Battle instincts previously lent the good sense to survey the environs. Outdoors of attractive design, well-manicured greenery and clean walkways, the monsters couldn’t help but lend a dreary atmosphere too. Concentrating on visuals now would prove fatal, his battle spirit devoted to facing down the host. The castle grounds serve as battlefield, for a backdrop a castle that lay in dominating over watch.

The man mid-twenties and white featuring average stature.

Leaves the hand, flies true to sever the arm of an inrushing beast at the shoulder. Hadn’t gotten close to him. The triple edge is directed sideways to cutaway at a fellow monster’s chest. A feat conceivable by the handy cord between the hand and blade. When thrown trails a thin cord behind, connected to his index and middle fingers to manoeuvre aspects like distance and height and the tri blade generates lift allowing flight. Moving his extended arm left or right controls those lateral directions.

The spinning tri-blade returned to his hand, caught. The man repositions himself and tosses; the thrown instrument flew and tripped up a monster’s legs in the distance. Finger movements directed the glaive to pull back some, hover a bit, change direction and pummel the next target’s face. As he runs ahead recalls it back, adjusting its course to intercept his hand, a technique of coordination.

The ebb and flow of this clash. The enemies trying to hold him at bay, his every dynamic step taking him bit by bit closer to the castle.

The weapon is thrown sideways, takes a course in a half circle and sticks in a monster’s back, flying from behind. The man isn’t aiming to battle the entire throng. He runs forward ensuring passed close enough to the fallen to not pause their stride as its pulled out quickly whilst running past.

With this reached the impassable bridge, halting his progress. Thinking on his feet, pondered throwing the glaive into the surroundings, hook into something and pull himself across. As this went on the swing bridge moves. As he watched swings across sideways connecting its two ends to the path, nobody seen operating it, all the same trots across the span and left monsters behind. He ends up in more of the expansive grounds.

Before he could advance toward the castle proper, the size more imposing because closer. Without warning a summoner enemy appeared and like that manifested around half a dozen creatures, while they themselves hung back. The glaive must fly again.

The man performed a complicated dance of throwing his weapon to single out an enemy, recall the tri-blade, evade attack; slightest loss of focus and the opposition could end him. Portion of their number extinguished, the warrior changed tack adding some brain power – aim not for the summoner, the obvious play, alternative a toss of the glaive skyward, sliced off a tree branch, the fall of which slammed into the main enemy. With that the remaining creatures vanished.   

Walking briskly, shortly halts – he’s at the ground’s edge and here a water moat surrounds the castle. The wait miniscule for the castle’s drawbridge lowers over the moat. Easily enough walks across. Definitely in spite the monsters somebody or something wants him progressing toward whatever beckoned ahead.       

Barriers haven’t exactly gone. A portcullis at the wall - heavy vertically-closing gate, the form a latticed wood piece. The contraption raises and he enters the beast’s maw, immediately past it a narrow passage.

Making his way along, ambuscaded by this third enemy, wall monsters, minutely disguised, rush him from the wall itself. No time to spare, to close to throw at, the glaive an improvised sword, despatching the small mob with slashes and stabs.

Luxuries of a well appointed interior await, furnishings, paintings, marble, fireplace, polished floor reflecting his body. All that’s amiss is lack of life, not a soul. The intruder, unless apparently the case invited, keeps the glaive at the ready.

The layout leads to an open area inside the castle. A tower surrounded by inches deep still water. In turn the ground encircling it a picture covered in attractive flowers. Flowers whose dance a rhythmic sway thousands strong regardless of wind’s absence. The nose assailed pleasantly by their sweet odor.

The warrior walks the pathway open through them, glaive at their waist, instead the hand gently brushing flowers as he walks. Shortly at the water’s edge stops, as if on cue a drawbridge lowers. Within the tower’s confines are steps in the hundreds spiralling above his head. One by one takes them, finally the terminus, curtains part on their own, beyond which a bedchamber and his eyes lay sight of her, the maiden in a long dress.

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A mist glides across the surface, descending into a valley, grey blackish colour.

Nothing in particular busying himself, the man at home, none to spartan to completely admonish comfortable living. Fairly into his old age could reflect back onto his life as this period of rest slowly marches on. A young person came running into their sanctuary of a room.  

“Tiamar, Tiamar,” came the frantic shouts.

“What are you doing barging in?”

The person indicates no heed for decorum. “Come quick! The village.”

Whatsoever touched decays, be it structures, plant life, even the small puddles of water rendered stagnant black. The mist advances slowly along the ground. Village Zegrentz, nestled in a valley, a typically fantasy style one and today invested with a touch of horror.

The man stood stunned as the other onlooking villagers he grouped with. When he at last produces words, “Unquestionably magically malevolent in nature.”

A keen-eyed villager says the phenomenon hadn’t decimated anywhere else.   

Fellow villager nails the crux, “None of that actually matters. How to fight mist?”

Tiamar, “Fighting unlocks how to save everything.”

Back home is a not insignificant collection of medical material straddling bizarre and normal, stored in jars and cabinets. To the uninitiated falls in place knowing he the village medic man. His attire decorated literally in plants for he uses organic medicine. That way reach for medicines swifter and impact the mind of any seeing him.   

“Sure this will work?” says one villager.

“I best not perish in the attempt,” responds a somewhat agitated Tiamar. He’d rushed back from home, breathlessness put on hold. He and some residents approach and douse the mist in a coloured powder outpoured from bags.

The seconds pass, “Nothin’ but a colour change,” laments a villager. Tension is sure to mount.

Tiamar puts hands close together and between them glows softly a light. His magic. Shortly thereafter powder hardens into a hard, sand like substance, as does portions of mist and stays on the ground. “The Mystic Powder hardens and so does the mist it contacts. Particles in the dust bond to that comprising mist.”

Every eye but his bulges in astonishment.  

“Let me try…” decides a villager and tosses a pitchfork like a spear. On contact break up part of the brittle solidification.

Tiamar analyses, “This aberration not only is stopped by powder but solidifies intangible mist and the hard parts are laid bare for physical attack.” In essence turned from an air like to another state of matter, solid.

“You’re a village miracle,” congrats sincerely a villager.

He rests in the circumspect, “A close-run thing, easily could have gone bad. Exists in this world those of an ocean’s worth in skill compared to my water drop.”

The thrower, “What you said is to mean we can hurt it?”

“The magical reaction is proof.”

The mist in response to the attack coalesces in minutes to a single large creature, Zegrentz greeted with the sight of a man sticking partially out its torso – Yasdreen he groggily identifies himself. Goes without saying everyone shocked in spite confirmation no average mist.

With no other way further attacks on the creature frees him and remains motionless. Under questioning says his body is fine. Yasdreen relates he fought his way into the castle.

“I await your return slayer of demons,” went maiden Smeylia’s tender voice back to the moment he found her. Devoured him yes, and she became a mist that sought this village out. Albeit a part of his being shares not this fate, body devoured but his consciousness present because Smeylia subconsciously sensed the man’s belief she’d been wronged. Zegrentz wronged her.

That name freed from his lips; villager faces have knowing reactions, murmuring about ‘her.’

Yasdreen warns the beast is going to attack next, hand reaching for his glaive. Tiamar presumes Mist becoming a monster form is trouble because can more easily physically affect things. Yasdreen detesting, “You know better. Everyone knows better. We shared emotions as one, I could peer into her past. Blessed the village and prospered it, the people of this village rewarded with verbal abuse. Retreated to her castle. Not the anger that drove her, rather the sense of heartbreak at the ill treatment and longing for the village, your appreciation, turned her feelings into a maelstrom and bore an inhuman creature, as you can see a devourer of men. Ingratitude caused this woe!”

Tiamar, “The village, no us, felt her name was seen too favourably by outsiders who’d hear. That people far and wide would come and partake in the prosperity.”

“Wanted it all for yourself. When she admonished greed, you besmirched her.”

“Yes.”  

Far from mindless rampage of a common monster. Yasdreen freed with their help has no qualms exposing Zegrentz’s misdeeds against the maiden to their faces.

“The beasts I fought I learned were guardians. Smeylia is going to attack soon. Fetch Mora.”

To regret any more the village would have to survive first.

A villager astonished, “You do know her too.”

“I’ll battle Smeylia till she gets here. The beast will go yonder if Mora is brought and this fight with the beast is the maiden’s pressure to ensure she comes.”

The creature stirs and lunges, Yasdreen reaches for the glaive.

Flies back and forth, cutting into the giant, Yasdrren making sure swift footed to reposition himself. The creature for its part fired balls of mist, decaying what touched.

Yasdreen participates in the final fight against but not from the perspective as an enemy and would spin his blade against the village if fate’s winds let him.

Taking a last step forward, Mora arrived at a battle that immediately ceased. She an average build woman in her fifties. Smeylia the creature approaches closer. Tiamar and fellow inhabitants behold the warrior insert a hand into its body which morphed into the shape of maiden Smeylia.

This linkage allowed speech through the man. “Lady of my word and ceased my vendetta on this village when you appeared before me. Bravely found your way here. That said none of my tears would flow were not maliciousness swirling round you.”

Mora, this new person admits hating the maiden even more than the others. “With a passion. Yes, you could say I brought you here with my hate. I fanned the flames of abuse.”

“My good deeds flowers of misery.”

“Then to now I can’t find a good justification. The village hasn’t been the same since I drove you away, our blessing. Nothing I do can take it back. I…I wanted our village to carry one without your power. When you came our independence left us.”

“Too great is your maliciousness to apologize before me, but I who overcame her vendetta wanted the why off your own tongue.”   

Mentally Smeylia wanted a reckoning with this woman and could pass on with that realized. Her body became as particles floating away, Yasdreen’s closed around the last ones left.

Author’s note – the seeds laid 16 September 2020 watching a PlayStation 5 announcement video on YouTube. The Demon’s Souls trailer had a knight fighting monsters to maybe rescue or find a lady. I thought flip it by it this heroic journey being a trap of sorts.

Prequel to my novella THE HARDEST: BREATH OF PHAEDRA: FLORIAN BAND. Squarely set on Yasdreen, a comrade in that tale.

His weapon I took from a fantasy and a videogame. Well suited to fantasy.

Abuse when good in your heart – people need no reason or ill toward them to treat you wickedly. A terrible reality I can’t forget, wracked by experience.  

I feel discontent, yes, I finished but took way long. I began August 9th intending to publish on my birthday day next as I made that gift to myself every year. As though my mind wasn’t ready to write. I’m overdue on a next story but procrastination on a 12 page story…22 days shouldn’t have happened. Pushed myself August won’t pass without completion. Less than 40 minutes before midnight.

Date - 31 August 2022.