The chapel was quiet, save for the faint crackle of candles burning in the main hall. Luther had just finished tending to Calder’s remaining wounds that still hadnt completely scabbed over and was sitting in a simple wooden chair by the hospice table, his fingers laced together in a moment of reflection. Lately, his bones had begun to ache, and the day’s events made it none the better. Perhaps it was time to retire soon? After all, the church would send a monk if he so requested. After he thought about potentially retiring once everything was said and done, a loud noise caught his attention.
It was sharp, loud, and insistent—three bangs against the chapel's heavy wooden doors. Luther frowned. The hour was late, and the village knew the chapel was closed after dark. Anyone in need would either have to call for him by name, or not knock so brusquely. He waited, hoping whoever it was would leave, but the knocking came again, harder this time and in greater number.
Sighing, Luther rose to his feet, his joints creaking as he crossed the stone floor. His shadow stretched long and thin in the dim candlelight. “Who’s there?” he called. No answer came, but the knocking persisted.
“If you’re in need, speak now,” he called again, more firmly. The silence on the other side was deafening.
Reluctantly, he pulled the door open just enough to see outside. The heavy oak swung inward abruptly as it was shoved with brutal force, slamming against the stone wall and sending Luther staggering backward. He barely had time to register what was happening before five figures pushed their way inside. The intruders were large, towering over him. Sacks covered their faces, crudely cut holes revealing a myriad of eyes. They carried weapons—a knife here, a club there, and so on and so on.
Luther knew in a heartbeat what they were here for and promptly reached into his robes for his dagger. One of the men however was faster as he stepped forward and struck him with a punch to the gut. The blow sent him reeling backward, his head striking the edge of a pew. A sharp pain lanced through his skull as he crumpled to the floor. Warm blood began to pool beneath him, trickling from the gash at his temple.
“Damn it, you hit him too hard Bren!” one of the intruders hissed, his voice muffled by the sack.
“He’s old. What did you expect?” Bren snapped. “Let’s just get this over with and get out of here.”
“Enough,” came a cold, sharp voice from the rear of the group. All heads turned as Dietrich stepped into the chapel, his confident stride cutting through the tension. His sack-covered face was just as obscured as the others, but his eyes that bored out from it left him easily identifiable.
“He slipped,” Dietrich said flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the story, understood?”
The group nodded reluctantly, falling silent as Dietrich turned his gaze toward the hospice room at the back of the chapel. “Let’s move,” he said. “We’re not here to debate. We have work to do.”
The men nodded again, their hesitation fading as they followed Dietrich toward the rear of the chapel. Their heavy boots echoed loudly against the stone floor, each step blending with the faint, labored sound of Luther’s breathing as he lay unconscious in a growing pool of blood.
Dietrich pushed open the door to the hospice room, his men filing in behind him. The air here was quieter, more stifling, the faint scent of blood and herbs hanging heavy. In the center of the small room, Calder lay motionless on the table, his bandaged form illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of a single candle.
Dietrich approached the table slowly, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. He stared down at Calder’s unconscious form, his lip curling in disdain underneath his mask. The man who lay before him was nothing more than a corpse still breathing yet at the same time, he was an obstacle—a threat to what was rightfully his. The sight of Calder, alive despite the wounds that should have killed him, filled Dietrich with a venomous rage.
“You think you’re better than me?” Dietrich said, his voice low but laced with fury. “You think you can take what’s truly mine? You are nothing.”
One of the men shifted uncomfortably behind him. “Dietrich, we shouldn’t linger. Someone might come—”
“Silence!” Dietrich snapped, cutting him off. He reached for a knife on the nearby table, its blade clean and sharp from Luther’s earlier work. Turning it over in his hand, he tested its weight, his expression hardening.
“This ends now,” he said, gripping the knife tightly. “We’ll settle this before sunrise.”
He raised the blade, aiming for Calder’s chest. His men exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing, their fear overriding their doubts.
Dietrich’s arm tensed, ready to strike, but a sudden commotion erupted from the main hall. The sound of heavy footsteps, shouting, and the unmistakable crash of wood splintering filled the air.
“What the hell is that?” one of the men hissed, his voice rising in panic.
Dietrich lowered the knife, his brow furrowing. “Stay here,” he ordered, his tone sharp. He turned and strode out of the hospice room, his men trailing reluctantly behind him.
In the main hall, chaos reigned as Otto stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving and his fists clenched. Blood trickled from a cut above his brow, but his eyes blazed with unmatched fury. Two of Dietrich’s men were in the process of fighting the smith’s apprentice but they were clearly losing. A third man lunged at Otto, swinging a club, but Otto ducked, the weapon whistling harmlessly over his head.
He retaliated with a wild uppercut, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw. The impact sent the attacker stumbling backward, crashing into a pew that splintered under his weight. Otto’s breath came in ragged gasps, but he didn’t falter. His determination burned hotter than the pain in his ribs or the exhaustion creeping into his limbs.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Otto!” Dietrich’s voice rang out as he entered the room, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the bloodied apprentice. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Otto turned his face a mask of defiance. “I would say the same thing to you,” he spat. “You think you can just come here and kill Calder? Not while I’m alive.”
Dietrich sneered, his confidence unshaken. “Brave words,” he said mockingly. “But you’ve already lost.”
Otto barely had time to brace himself before the remaining men surged toward him. The first came at him with a wild swing of a club, but Otto sidestepped, grabbing the man’s arm and twisting it sharply. The attacker cried out, dropping his weapon, but another was already rushing in. Otto ducked a punch and retaliated with a quick jab to the man’s ribs, making him stagger back.But the odds were against him.
Five against one and Otto was already bloodied and bruised from the initial scuffle. His breathing was labored, his body aching with every movement, but he refused to back down. His fists flew with desperation, landing solid blows when they could, but the men pressed him relentlessly. One caught him across the temple with a heavy strike, sending him stumbling into a pew. Another grabbed him by the shoulders, yanking him upright as a fist collided with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
Otto swung wildly, managing to land a punch on one man’s jaw, but it wasn’t enough. They overwhelmed him, their combined weight forcing him to the ground. Blows rained down on him—fists, boots, and clubs alike—each one leaving him more bloodied and battered. Pain exploded in his ribs as a heavy boot connected, and a warm trickle of blood dripped into his eye, blurring his vision.
“Hold him down!” Dietrich barked, his tone sharp and commanding.
Two of the men pinned Otto’s arms to the stone floor, their grips unyielding. Another planted a knee on his chest, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. Otto struggled weakly, his strength waning, but he refused to stop. His voice, hoarse and trembling, rasped out. “You... you won’t win.”
Dietrich stepped forward, looking down at the broken figure of his rival’s best friend. His lip curled in disdain as he crouched beside Otto, his voice dripping with mockery. “Look at you,” he sneered. “Still trying to fight. Still trying to save him. It’s pathetic.”
Otto glared up at him through swollen eyes, his breathing ragged. “You’ll regret this,” he muttered, though his words were faint, barely audible.
Dietrich’s smirk widened as he straightened, turning his attention back to Calder. “Oh, I doubt that.” He motioned to the men holding Otto. “Keep him there. He should watch this.”
Otto struggled against the grips holding him, his muscles straining, but the men pinned him down with brutal efficiency. Helpless, he could only watch as the other three disappeared into the hospice room. Moments later, they emerged, carrying Calder between them. His body hung limp in their arms, his head lolling to one side. Blood seeped through the bandages covering his torso, dripping steadily onto the stone floor, leaving a dark trail in their wake.
“Careful, he might bleed out before I get the chance,” Dietrich said with a mockery of concern, a smirk playing on his lips.
The men grunted as they carried Calder to the front of the room, dumping him unceremoniously onto the cold stone floor before the altar. His body landed with a sickening thud, and more blood pooled beneath him, spreading like ink on paper.
Dietrich stepped forward, looming over Calder’s broken form, his shadow stretching across the room in the dim candlelight. He glanced at Otto, who was still thrashing against his captors, his face twisted in rage and desperation.
“This is what happens to those who think they can take what’s mine,” Dietrich said coldly, his voice echoing off the chapel walls. “You should’ve stayed dead, Calder.”
Reaching down, Dietrich retrieved the knife from his belt, the blade still stained with Calder’s blood from the hospice. He turned it over in his hand, the flickering light catching on the dull sheen of the weapon.
“Dietrich, don’t!” Otto shouted, his voice raw. “Please, don’t do this!”
Dietrich ignored him, kneeling beside Calder. He rested the knife against Calder’s chest, his smirk twisting into something darker. “This is where it ends,” he muttered.
Otto’s screams filled the air as Dietrich plunged the knife downward. The blade sank into Calder’s chest with a sickening sound, and blood bubbled from the wound, spreading across the altar floor. Dietrich twisted the knife cruelly before withdrawing it, only to stab again, and again.
Blood sprayed against the floor and he stabbed Calder again and again. At a certain, he had begun laughing but didn't even notice, only stopping once the area where his heart should be was little more than a gaping wound. He panted heavily while behind him, Otto’s sobs echoed.
Otto’s screams filled the air as Dietrich plunged the knife downward. The blade sank into Calder’s chest with a sickening sound, and blood bubbled from the wound, spreading across the altar floor. Dietrich twisted the knife cruelly before withdrawing it, only to stab again, and again.
Blood sprayed against the cold stone floor, splattering across Dietrich’s hands and cloak. The blade rose and fell in a savage rhythm, each strike accompanied by the wet, visceral sound of tearing flesh. At some point, he began laughing—a low, unhinged sound that grew louder with each stab. He didn’t even notice the laughter spilling from his lips, consumed by the frenzy of his violence.
He didn’t stop until the area where Calder’s heart should have been was little more than a gaping, bloodied cavity. The bandages that had once clung to Calder’s chest were soaked through, hanging limply in shreds. The floor beneath him was slick with blood, pooling in a dark, spreading stain.
Dietrich straightened, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands, slick with blood, trembled slightly as he let the knife fall from his grip. It clattered against the floor, the sound startlingly loud in the sudden silence.
Behind him, Otto’s sobs echoed through the chapel, raw and broken. The sound seemed distant to Dietrich, muffled by the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He turned slowly, his expression twisted with a mixture of triumph and derision, and fixed his gaze on Otto.
“It’s done,” Dietrich said, his voice hoarse and low. He took a step toward Otto, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “Your precious friend is nothing but a pile of meat now.”
Otto’s head sagged against the floor, his shoulders shaking with silent cries. When he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes burned with a hatred so fierce it seemed to cut through the haze of despair. “You’ll regret this,” he rasped, his voice trembling but resolute.
Dietrich snorted, wiping his bloodied hands on his cloak. “Regret?” he said, his tone dripping with contempt. “The only thing I regret is not doing this sooner.”
He motioned for his men to hold Otto firmly. “But don’t worry,” he added, his voice softening into something almost gentle. “You won’t have to grieve for long. You’ll be joining him.”
Dietrich bent to retrieve the knife, his movements slow and deliberate. He turned back to Otto, raising the blade high as he stepped closer.
Before he could strike, one of the men let out a strangled gasp. “Dietrich—look!”
Dietrich froze, his grip tightening on the hilt of the knife. He turned his brow furrowing in confusion that deepened with what he saw.
Calder’s chest, though torn open and mutilated, was moving. His ribs rose and fell faintly, the motion shallow but unmistakable.
Against all odds, he was still alive.
Dietrich’s face twisted, his initial disbelief giving way to seething rage. His breaths came fast and uneven, and the knife in his hand trembled as he tightened his grip. “No. No, he is dead!” he snarled, his voice rising. “This is just... it’s... it’s nothing!”
He stormed toward Calder, shoving one of his men aside as he crouched next to the battered figure. His bloodied hands reached out, grabbing Calder by the hair and yanking his head upward. Calder’s body sagged limply in his grasp, the weight of it heavy and unresponsive.
“See?” Dietrich shouted, looking back at his men as if to prove something. “He’s nothing but a corpse! Just nerves twitching, that’s all!”
Turning back to Calder, Dietrich pressed the blade of his knife against the exposed flesh of Calder’s neck. His hand shook with fury as he hissed through clenched teeth, “I’ll finish it this time. No more doubts. No more—”
Before he could finish, he felt something grab his neck. For a single brief moment, he was confused since there was no one nearby who would dare to do such a thing yet looking down, he saw his answer. Calder’s right arm had shot up and was holding him by the throat and when he looked back up, Calder’s eyes were wide open as they stared at him.
They were darker than the night itself.