“We’ve arrived.”

In a rush of wind and feathers, the demon let go of him and pulled its wings back. Rosomil stepped forward on the blackened stone and looked around.

The landscape was bleak and dead. The once lush green trees and the well-kept gardens of the monastery were torn apart. The corps-like remains of the plants, like gravestones and monuments to a cemetery. The monastery itself laid in ruin. Its roof and the timbered parts burned down. The massive walls in part fallen in and broken apart. Even the sky above was dreary and covered by a thick layer of clouds, as if the sun couldn’t stand shining onto the remains of the Order of the Crimson Hand.

Rosomil took a deep breath. The smell of ash was ever present.

“Admiring your own work?”, the demon asked behind him – once again it had taken the shape of a Knight.

“Don’t waste my time, demon”, he replied and glared at it. “And don’t forget why we’re here.”

“I won’t”, it replied, strangely agreeable for some reason. “What are your orders, master?”

“Stay close by my side and make sure no harm befalls me.”

“As you wish, master.”

Without sparing the creature another glance, he stepped forward towards the main gate. He didn’t remember how often he had walked or rode past those massive stones. Foggy memories clawed their way into the forefront of his thoughts. The well-meaning blessings and well-wishes when he and his squad rode out to destroy another so-called evil. The joyous shouts of victory when they had killed the abomination and saved a few dozen people at the price of many more. All of it seemed so distant and meaningless now.

“Do you still want to rebuild this place once you achieved your goals?”, the demon asked without its newfound mean-spirited, almost rancid mockery.

“My resolve never changes”, he answered but felt a part of it crack.

A large fountain, which had once been a depiction of Saint Michael vanquishing the Devil in the shape of a dragon, was resting in pieces spread out over the courtyard. The angel’s face looking skyward as if pleading for God to intervene. But no intervention had come. Just like Rosomil had once pleaded for help but received none.

“Again, be weary of your sentimentality”, the demon reminded him. “Too much will break your resolve.”

Rosomil refrained from reacting. Despite the demon’s words hitting their mark, he knew that he could neither allow it nor the truth to shake him. Still, some part of him, as the demon so graciously remarked back in his castle, was screaming.

“You also need to be weary of it once we arrive at the heart of the monastery”, it continued as they moved past the fountain.

“I know”, he replied sullen. “Why do you concern yourself suddenly so much with my mind, demon?”

“Because you’ve ordered me to stave off any harm that comes your way. And mental turmoil and pain is a very special form of harm to receive.”

Rosomil glared at the creature but refrained from commenting on its remark. After all, he was no stranger to inner turmoil. He could handle it.

The path continued past once beloved parts of the monastery. It was surprising to him how much all of this still tore at his heart. Walking past a few alcoves, he stopped and considered not only the broken architecture for a few moments, but also the remains of the flower pots that had once kept him hidden away from prying eyes. Often with a book in his hands, he had sat surrounded by the lush plants on the stone slaps, with the coloured windows behind him. He had loved the way the colourful glass had painted beautiful reflexes across the pages of his reading material.

The fact he could remember everything in the almost nauseating detail shocked Rosomil.

“Are you torturing me, demon?”, he asked in a lows voice.

“No, master”, it replied softly – he wasn’t sure if in mockery or concern. “I told you, keep your sentimentality in check, or it’ll consume you. Also, remember, you just have to tell me to get you out of here, should everything become too much. I shall immediately take you back home.”

For a moment, Rosomil frowned at the demon before turning away with a huff and leaving the remains of the alcove behind. With purposeful strides, he moved along the corridor and headed towards the chapel at the heart of the monastery. It was a path he had taken more often than passing the gates, but he didn’t allow those memories and feelings to hinder him any longer.

“Wait”, said the demon suddenly and held him back.

Rosomil considered hitting its hand away, but he had given it the order to protect him. Placing caution on the forefront, he turned toward it.

“There is someone ahead”, it explained.

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“Hostile?”, he asked and unsheathed his sword.

“That’s left to be determined”, it replied and moved in front of him. “I’ll also remain invisible to anyone except you for now.”

With slow, cautious steps, they approached the large door that lead into the inner courtyard, from which it was just a few more yards until they arrived at the chapel. But even the shortest of paths could harbour nasty surprises.

Once they arrived at the door, Rosomil pulled the demon back and pushed the ajar door open.

The former garden behind the door was as dead as the rest of the area. After all, he had taken all the life-force from this place. Nothing would take root there ever again. But in the middle of it he saw something very alive, or rather someone.

Rosomil didn’t remember the face, despite some features appearing familiar. However, he did remember the emblem on the doublet on top of the armour, which was itself so peculiar in its design he would’ve recognised it anywhere. One glance at the young man’s face told Rosomil that he recognised far better. For a moment, there was surprise written across the youthful features, but within a few heartbeats it turned into a hateful mask.

“Traitor!”, shouted the young man, who was more of a boy than a proper man, and unsheathed his sword. “How dare you come back here!”

“You’re one of the apprentices, aren’t you?”, Rosomil asked unimpressed, which in turn made the boy visibly loose some of his determination.

“What is it to you?”, he replied like the sullen child he seemed to be.

“Nothing, really”, he remarked almost bored and looked around as he felt the presence of more people – judging by the tension emitting from his demon, it had noticed as well. “Just go with whomever travels with you and hides like a coward behind a mere child.”

“How dare you call the captain a coward!”, the child shouted and immediately pressed his free hand over his mouth.

The very second, a volley of at least four arrows flew from both sides towards him. Rosomil remained unfazed and continued to stare at the boy, while his demon returned the projectiles with one strong beat of its wings. Judging by the outcries, at least two hit their mark.

“Two dead”, the demon whispered while pulling its wings back – the boy didn’t seem to have seen it deflecting the arrows. “And two hurt but still able to fight.”

“Cowards”, murmured Rosomil again, and stepped towards the boy, who had trouble stifling his trembling hands. “Go and tend to those still alive, then leave. I won’t give you another chance.”

“I’d rather die than waste the chance to kill you!”, the child shouted, but he didn’t raise his sword-arm nor did he look like he truly meant it.

“Big words for a scrawny runt like you”, he replied impatient. “And a proper display of the hypocrisy typical of the Order of the Crimson Hand. Protecting the innocent by using them as distraction or bait? How quaint.”

“I’m no distraction!”

“Then why did your elders hide in the garden while you stand on full display? You did expect me, didn’t you?”

“Don’t listen to him, Offilo!”, shouted a man behind Rosomil, his voice strained by pain.

“Captain!”, the boy almost cried, while his expression turned into utter relief.

Rosomil turned around slowly. While the calm of his demon unnerved him, it also reassured him that the situation was still under his control. The man, on the other hand, seemed worse for wear. Parts of his armour were broken beyond repair, and the fabrics he wore looked old and tattered. Beyond the man’s own arrow sticking in his arm, he also missed his left eye. The wound looked fresh, but Rosomil realised immediately that it had been caused by his attack on the monastery. Magic wounds were the most persistent and vicious in the world.

“I remember you”, said Rosomil as the man was close enough for him to avoid shouting. “You’re Commander Rugulf of the Second Chapter. You never struck me as a coward, but the times have changed.”

“Thanks to you, you miserable Judas”, he replied and spit at Rosomil’s feet.

“Leave this place”, Rosomil continued unbothered and turned towards the chapel. “I’ve important business to take care of.”

“You stay right where y-”

Rugulf was knocked over by Rosomil’s demon in the middle of swinging his fist at him. It grabbed the commander by the throat and lifted him into the air. That moment, the boy reacted with a scream and stumbled over his feet. Rosomil smiled softly as he took note that his demon had not only decided to appear to them, but it had also taken the shape of Sunila. This time with enough monstrous features to make her appear like a proper demon. Despite him holding the high ground at the moment, he remained cautious about the second man still hiding somewhere.

“How shall I dispose of this vermin?”, the demon asked softly and licked over its lips like a hungry beast.

Suddenly, the last man ran out of his hiding place with his blade drawn. Sunila threw Rugulf against the assailant and jumped at them like a vicious beast. At the same time, the demon turned into a fitting monstrous chimera that looked like a mixture of a raven and a panther. It killed the second man with one bite, the sounds of cracking bones and ripping flesh prominent.

Rugulf grabbed the sword of his fallen comrade and tried to stab the demon. He even succeeded, but it didn’t flinch and ripped into him like the frenzied beast it was. Shortly thereafter, everything was still. Everything but the boy, whom Rugulf had called Offilo.

Rosomil turned towards him, half expecting the child to attack him in a last desperate attempt to avenge the Order and his fallen comrades. Offilo remained on the ground, his rusty sword laying in the dead grass.

“Do you still wish to fight?”, Rosomil asked, while his demon turned back into Sunila but kept the blood on face and hands.

Trembling and with wide eyes, Offilo looked at him and shook his head.

“Then take off the emblem of the Order and go”, he advised. “I don’t care to where.”

“Why not keep him?”, Sunila asked with a predatory smile.

Offilo let out a strangled noise and crawled away from it as the demon approached him.

“You don’t struck me as the motherly kind”, Rosomil remarked with an amused smile.

“I’m thinking more along the lines of an heir to your kingdom”, it replied, and let the boy be for a moment.

“An heir?”

“Or rather prophet, considering your goal.”

Rosomil scowled at it then turned to the boy who was still on the ground. He felt anger but also pity towards the child. A pity he couldn’t allow himself to feel but, as the demon had told him plenty of times earlier, his sentimentality was gnawing at his heart.

“Conjure him something to eat and let us finish what we came here for”, Rosomil ordered the demon without breaking eye contact with Offilo. “Should he still be here, he can decide if he wants to come with us or die.”

Sunila looked surprised for a moment, but not for long. An amused chuckle escaped its lips and its features softened. If not for the blood, the demon looked almost like the real Sunila for a moment.

“As you wish, master”, it said, and made several apples appear out of nowhere.

Leaving the fruit in a pile in front of Offilo, it didn’t spare him another glance and moved ahead. Rosomil followed without looking back. For now, the boy wasn’t likely to cause him any major trouble.