Eric sat with both arms on his raised knees before a magical bonfire in the courtyard. There was nothing left to burn, so Griz had conjured the large flame. Aside from the tingle of magic, it looked like any other fire, with more green than orange at its center. It didn’t crackle like burning wood, but its warmth didn’t waver. The feel of it on his front, across his face and arms, reminded him of summer and the constant heat of noonday sun.

“I almost died today,” he told Griz, in the same way he might have mentioned finding a cool rock.

The few goblins in the castle were either resting, on guard or out on patrol. The shaman sat beside him with a carving knife and a small piece of wood. He’d been whittling the individual links of a chain. Griz paused and gave Eric a look of concern.

“How did that happen, master?”

Eric chuckled and asked, “Have you ever seen a fey?”

“Oh, dear,” the shaman said. He looked as if he might put down his whittling then continued to work at the first link. “You know, master, just as demon is a general term for the many races upon Inexium, fey is also a general term for those who come from Twilight. What you faced could vary greatly from what I’ve seen or even read of.”

“Twilight,” Eric repeated in distaste, “like the crappy teen romance novels? I never read the books, but the movies were fuckin’ terrible. Chick was dumb as a rock, and the sparkly vampires were ridiculous.”

Griz kept working at the first link until it finally came free. He blew the shavings from the middle and looked pretty pleased with himself.

I swear he just ignores half of everything I say.

“Twilight is a dreamscape, master,” he said and started working the next link, “a world between worlds, a realm where thoughts and desires can manifest into reality.” He gave Eric a meaningful look. “It can be a truly horrific place. If you encountered a fey, it could mean their war with the demons is bleeding onto Taellus.” He set back to work and asked, “What did it look like?”

“Like a crackhead, grandma zombie.” When Eric saw his description wasn’t helpful, he added, “It was almost as tall as me, super thin, all white skin, black eyes, with crazy fuckin’ hair and nails that tore me open like a god damn burrito.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The shaman actually stopped to consider. He looked worried and confused, as if he was trying to piece together a motive for crazy.

“What you’re describing, master,” Griz said and put down his whittling, “is a collector. They gather souls for the Hunt, a host of fey that prey on those with weak or damaged spirits.”

Why go after Taliana then?

“What do you mean by damaged spirit?” Eric asked. “Like some kind of trauma or mental disability or actual damage to their soul?”

“Yes.” Griz had a far off look as he answered. “All of those, master. Fey can cross realms in a number of ways, but collectors… they dwell inside and move between marked trees.”

Those big trees with the diseased sap?

“Marked how?”

“By stalkers, master,” Griz replied. “Like scouts, they are vanguard to the Hunt, seeking out the greatest number of prey.”

Eric said, “You say stalker, I hear crazy ex. What the fuck is a stalker?”

“Stalkers are spirit hunters, master. They can sense suitable prey. They leave their mark and move on, let others pick up the scent.” Griz scratched at his forehead. “All of this is highly unusual. Something drastic must have changed.”

Should I go back? Eric wondered. Is Taliana marked by one of those guys or just the trees?

Eric rubbed at his back. Even though he was healed, it still ached.

“How is it my runes can be damaged,” he asked, “but I don’t die? I mean, it was so bad… I lost the use of my legs, but I was able to keep going.”

“Well, a simple enchantment, master,” Griz said and drew a gold ring in air, “can be like a circle. If the circle is broken –” he smudged a piece away, and the ring fell apart – “the enchantment is broken. However, a complex enchantment,” he said and drew multiple rings, each one connected to the last, “like a glyph, is a collection of circles. If one is broken –” he broke the first circle, and none of it fell away – “the glyph, as a whole, is damaged but not broken.”

Eric considered how many rings of runes were across his body before he turned them inside. There could be even more, what with how many transformations he’d undergone.

“So to die,” Eric guessed, “I’d have to have all of my circles broken. Either that or some are too important and can’t afford to be broken.”

“The latter, I’m afraid, master.” Griz wiped clear the air of golden scrawl. “Your body is a masterwork of art, an incredibly complex enchantment, but it is not without flaw. Break one, and you’ll lose the ability to speak; one more and your ability to walk. Who is to say which of them all contains the spark that is you.”

Eric sighed at the thought of his own mortality.

“That’s just fan-fuckin’-tastic.”

An orange goblin ran through the gates, panting and out of breath. She was wearing breeches and a tunic, with a leather hooded cloak. Eric recognized her as the one Bitters had sent to spy on Sebran.

“Marshmallow!”

“Marbit, master,” Griz corrected. The orange stopped before them, trying to catch her breath. “Easy now. What is it?”

“Body… the body. Your body, master,” she said to Eric and gasped. “They have it.”