Third Age, Year 579

I

A few droplets of water had fallen on Jim’s brow. His boots were uncomfortable, the linen shirt was itching and now it started to rain. He hated the night shift even more on days like this. Only the quiet of the forest to keep him company and…Bert. This fat stubby little man always talked about his sow, of a wife and his little piglets—or how good of a captain he would be, in spite of his peasantry. “One of those days…” muttered Jim, a feeling of defeat washing over him.

“Ei laddie. Have you heard what happened at the outpost out north, near Har’naan?”

“What? Do they want you as their captain?” replied Jim in a snarky tone, still glancing towards the horizon, where brooding clouds clashed with one another.

Seeing his expression Bert pondered for a second. “Maybe, after they rebuild it.”

“What do you mean, rebuilt it?” Jim’s frown deepened, his eyes drifting towards the storm brewing in the horizon.

“Well, earlier, while I got myself ready, I overheard one of the messengers talking to the Captain. The brass couldn't get in contact with the outpost and after that, they sent a detachment to investigate, but they found it burnt to the ground and no corpses.“

“Eh, isn't it the third one this year? What are the higher ups doing? Since they let the dross filth join our ranks everything has been going to shit,” Jim punctuated the sentence with a bit of flem over the railing while clenching his fist.

“If the opportunity arises, I would undergo the surgery for a high ranking position. You know, you also get benefits,“ replied Bert nonchalantly. “Good pay, only seven years of mandatory service.”

“Is losing your mind and soul worth it?” Jim mumbled while keeping his gaze towards the western wall of the outpost as Bert wandered off on a tangent, like he always did.

Something felt off. “Quiet,” Jim ordered. “Do you see that?” he said, pointing at the thick coils of white mist rolling between the trees.

“Mist?” mumbled Bert with a confused expression. “I'll get the chaplain,” he added, while hastily descending the worn out ladder. Meanwhile, Jim opened the small leather pouch of twilight soot, filling the censer up to the brim. Taking the flint out of his pocket, he stopped. Clicking noises were resonating through the trees, sending chills down his spine. His attention was drawn by hunched shapes lurking behind the trees.

“Hurry!” he begged quietly, tracking their movements as the fat man descended the watchtower’s ladder.

II

The commissar stood on a rise of broken stone, overlooking the outpost remains. Where once buildings stood, now lay only charred wood and mud. His boots crunched on debris as he surveyed the aftermath, the smell of rain and ash still strong in the air. The heavy black coat adorned with the badge of office swayed in the gentle breeze. Two puffs of smoke escaped the corner of his mouth while he glanced over the five men investigating the scene. A young soldier approached, with one hand touching his stubble, grazing over a deep scar set on his chin.

“Commissar,” spoke lieutenant Flint with a hoarse voice. “We have found two graves in the trees nearby. In the first one there is the corpse of a guardsman and in the second one, the body of an emaciated small boy. The rest are missing.”

“As expected. The pattern is similar to the other incidents. Anything else of note?”

“Yes. We found a carved wooden stag, a leshy charm, clutched tightly in the child's hand.”

Commissar Konnrad raised an eyebrow, “Peculiar. I have no reports of any tribes around these parts, especially of Cernos descent.” A small grin crept at the corner of his mouth. “We might track down this white demon after all. Let us proceed to the chapel, lieutenant.”

The small building was standing among cinders. The windowless stone walls were untouched by flames even though the adjacent barracks had been turned to ash.

The Commissar lowered his head upon entering the nartex. In the middle of the nave a dark stain seeped through the embroidered carpet. Further away in the apsis, close to the back of the chapel, a circle made of branches and animal bones was twisted together into a suncatcher. A severed hand was tangled in the middle desecrating it.

A mockery in poor taste, I would have used a head. Alas, that's what they deserve with only one exit and no windows. He thought, inspecting the scene.

“Sir, this hand bears the taint of corruption, the symbol etched deep into the skin long ago. Its age is evident in the worn lines, as though it's been there for years.” spoke a scrawny hooded figure with a rugged broken voice, not unlike all the thaumaturges within the military. “It’s similar to the ones found at the other incidents.”

“The church is not what it used to be, Savir,” the commissar replied. “The Inquisition is old and senile. It’s as if they’ve let their flock scatter without guidance.”

“There is a hidden space under the altar and signs of makeshift living quarters,” Savir continued.

The commissar approached the hatch, wincing in distaste at the stench of sweat, filth, and stale bodily fluids that wafted from within.

“Destroy the evidence and collapse the building. Make sure nobody can find out anything from this place,” he uttered with cold indifference. Afterwards, he took a long drag of smoke, turning his gaze toward the young lieutenant. “Prepare the carriage and the horses. We’ll head for the nearest settlement, Il’shar. They couldn’t have gone far, especially with all that baggage.”

“Yes, sir,” replied lieutenant Flint, bringing his heels together firmly.

III

After six hours of swaying in the carriage, Savir finally broke the heavy silence. “Sir, the cimmerian circuits are weaker around the town and the flow of lytel is diminished.” His fractured voice grated on his ears, but the news he had was good.

“Their strix should be impaired between these hills,” he continued.

The Commissar smirked. “Are you up to the task?” he said, watching from the opposite seat. His powerful gaze was piercing through Savir, compelling him to avert his eyes towards the mud caked floor.

I'm still useful…even if a bit weaker. Savir thought, trying to soothe his nervousness as he nodded in approval.

A few moments passed, and the carriage ground slowly to a halt. The groan of the nearby gate was accompanied by a quarrel. A knock followed, disturbing the still air between the Commissar and the Arcanist.

“Commissar”, spoke the lieutenant, skipping formalities. “The watchmen want to confirm your identity as instructed by Count Erwil. By several accounts around the area, a seditious group is impersonating military staff. Some nearby villages were ransacked last week and some of the villagers killed.”

With annoyance, the Commissar alighted from the carriage and presented himself in front of Il’shar’s northern gate. His retinue followed closely behind, with Savir leading to ensure their protection. Upon seeing this, the man in charge hurried over to greet Commissar Konnrad, though he kept a wary eye on Savir.

After a blunder like this I would be sweating too. Savir thought after seeing the weary eyes of the Captain.

"Welcome to Il’shar, sir!" the disheveled, forty-year-old said, saluting with a sharp jerk. He looked as if he might snap his back from holding such a stiff, upright position. “I apologize… for the inconvenience. I was just informed about this!” he squealed, excusing himself through missing teeth.

The Commissar replied with an irked tone, dismissively waving his hand.

“Hail to the Emperor.”

The dozen guards in front of the gate saluted back, some out of sync. “Hail the Emperor!”

Undisciplined peasants, trying the Commissar’s patience. All of them, no better than swine. Murmured Savir under his breath.

"Captain, in the past week, has anyone unexpected arrived in town?"

“No, Sir.”

“Think harder.”

“Sir…” Beads of sweat trickled down the captain’s shirt.

“Search the ledgers for the past week. If you don't find anything, find me the ones who took the bribe or I’ll make sure your brigade is sent to Ereš-qi-gal. They always appreciate good bodies up there.” The mention of the accursed city sent a surge of uneasiness through the men present. Some instinctively clutched their suncatchers—small charms hanging from their necks—seeking protection from the Seven.

The Commissar paused a moment then continued, “Send word to Count Erwil of my arrival. He should not worry, my visit will be quick.” His sardonic smile never failed to send shivers down Savir’s spine. “Also, inform the church that Commissar Konnrad requires a līhteran guide back to the capital in two days. Understood, Captain?” The last words, slow and deliberate, cut through the heavy air like a blade.

“Yes, Commissar! I’ll take care of it personally!” squeaked the captain.

“Dismissed.” Turning back toward Lieutenant Flint, he nodded and said, “Make sure they obey to the letter, and deal with the rat yourself.” The lieutenant saluted and walked toward the captain, whose linen shirt was now drenched with sweat.

After a few short puffs on his pipe, he spoke with certainty.

“Let’s get moving. I know a few places where they might be lying low.”

Traveling through the winding, narrow streets, Savir gagged at the pungent smell in the air.

Blast this filth, they're still throwing shit everywhere. Their absurdity is beyond the night.

His lip quivered in disgust at the boorish inhabitants on the streets. After a while the carriage stopped. This was the fifth halfway house in town, the last one on their list. Savir peeked through the thin red curtain. It felt like a window into his past, before he enlisted in the military. A rundown, one-story building stood nestled between two cottages, with a suncatcher dangling in the wind. The looming shadow perpetuated by the evening light made it look almost alive. Something felt off. He noticed the lytel in the area was dwindling, as if being siphoned away.

“Only one warding sigil, sir, ” Savir said. Looking at his hand, he produced a small bead of flame on one of his fingertips. “There is enough lytel for our purpose.” The Commissar nodded as he descended the two wooden steps and adjusted the poltka on his head, signaling for the three officers to take their positions.

IV

The arcanist, Savir, wove a glowing sigil in the air, in front of the door. After a moment, the wood groaned in protest, warping, as an unseen force pressed against it. The frame shattered as the door was hurled violently inward by invisible hands, crashing into the room beyond.

The Commissar stood a few paces back, observing through the ruined doorway. Two of his men surged forward, weapons at the ready, their movements precise and disciplined. He waited, pipe in hand, tapping it lightly as they entered. Through the gaping hole, he spotted the albino moving swiftly, positioning himself between the advancing men and five trembling children. A spark of interest flickered in his eyes.

The albino’s eyes burned with a tinge of orange fury, betraying the storm simmering beneath his calm demeanor.

Fascinating.

He mused as he took another puff from his pipe, watching the scene unfold.

The first young soldier hesitated, his attention faltering as he glanced at the sobbing children. That pause was enough. He was struck like lightning, disarmed with a swift kick. Before the lad could even react, the albino delivered a barrage of blows, leaving him crumpled on the floor, blood streaming from his nose. The Commissar frowned. He felt it—a shift in the air, pressure dropping as the street outside grew silent. The familiar hum of lytel being drawn from the cimmerian circuits resonated through the air, a subtle vibration signaled the arcanist’s power at work. A thin miasma enveloped the startled children, swirling around them like a ghostly shroud.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The other soldier took the albino by surprise, sending him sprawling across a table. Splinters erupted in the air as the tattered wooden surface shattered beneath his weight. Soon, the albino’s head was pressed firmly against the cold, unyielding floor, his breaths coming in labored gasps.

Savir entered the room, his voice thick with a pessek accent as he hushed,

“If you resist further, the children will suffer the consequences.”

The albino was hoisted up, forced to confront the grim sight of the children lying unconscious on the floor. He clenched his teeth in frustration but complied, allowing his body to go limp.

He was dragged outside and forced to kneel on the grimy street, where the Commissar stood waiting—tall and stern.

Savir conjured ribbons from the cobblestones beneath the albino, wrapping them around his feet and hands, restraining him in place. The Commissar watched as his men withdrew their hands, backing away from the captured man. One soldier tended to the lad with the broken nose, while the other made his way into the house, keeping watch over the children.

With a flick of his wrist, the arcanist conjured two sigils that flickered above his hand, weaving a barrier of vibrating air around them. The albino gasped, his breath shallow, while the world beyond became muffled and distant. He groaned, the sound distorted, as if caught in a whirlwind.

“You're a hard man to find,” the Commissar remarked, packing his pipe with slow, deliberate movements.

“Yet, here we are.” Smoke curled upward in a hatching pattern.

“For your crimes against the Azak Empire, you should be sentenced to execution in accordance with imperial law.”

“By Rak’ul’s judgment, they deserved it! Killing and trafficking young children — it's a sin I cannot forgive.”

“You're not paying attention,” the Commissar mocked, gesturing dismissively towards the children with his pipe.

“Unfortunately, they’re accomplices and will share your fate.” A smirk crept at the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

The albino lowered his gaze to the pavement, a pained expression on his face. The faint hum of the spell filled the silence. After a few moments, the Commissar continued.

“I’m willing to overlook your transgressions against the Empire and even spare the children’s lives. There’s an orphanage in Arquen where they will be well cared for. In return, I need you in my service.”

“You may have survived the battle of Ro’hdan, Ginn Blutaxt, but I will end you right here if necessary.” The Commissar's gaze was piercing, filled with an intensity that belied the hint of reminiscence lurking beneath the surface. “I remember you—tearing through enemy lines and breaking their ranks during the counter-offensive.” After taking a deep pull from his pipe, he continued, “It’s a pity you’re among the last survivors of the 41st Brigade. They could have accomplished so much more if they had been under my command.”

“Sir, there’s a disruption in the flow of lytel,” the Arcanist interjected. “And it’s heading toward us.”

A waft of dark mist flooded the narrow street, its coils writhing and clinging to every surface. The warding sphere took the brunt, like a boulder resisting the force of a rushing river. The Commissar frowned. “How did it bypass the wards on the walls? No matter. Dissolve the spell.” He continued issuing orders, barely audible beneath the tolling of the main church bell.

V

Alana leapt, just as a heavy thud reverberated through the roof where she had stood moments before. The narrow streets below echoed with the sound of shattering windows. Her sharp sense of smell had saved her—there was that pungent odor, a reminder of thunderstorms from her childhood. Strange, rhythmic sounds thrummed in the mist-filled air, and remnant electricity crackled in jagged arcs.

The skittering grew closer, making her shiver. The dense mist obscured her vision, but her instincts were sharper than ever. Years of raids and incursions alongside White and Haroon had honed her skills. Shingles cracked under her boots, and wooden beams splintered under the weight of her pursuers. In one fluid motion, Alana pushed off the roof and loosed an arrow before landing on another. A second later, a satisfying thump echoed as one of the deformed creatures plummeted into the darkness below. Her worry lessened, if only for a moment.

The distant ringing of the krytth infused bell slowed her pursuers, giving a brief respite, but the wound at her side stung painfully, warm blood trickling down. She gritted her teeth and kept moving, every breath sharp with the taste of iron.

These abominations will be on my trail. I can not lose them. Stag’s Mercy! I need to find White—quickly.

After a few more streets, a familiar scent caught her nose—along with a pungent mix of mud, blood and burnt metal. Alana hoped to find White soon. Her instincts flared as she drew upon the charm hanging by her waist. Following the scent through the dimming light, she stopped when the outline of a sphere was seen ahead, still visible through the thickening mist. Three figures moved within, their shapes blurred, but distinct. She recognised White’s posture, in between the others. One of them weaved a sigil, dismissing the orb of wind and let the black mist wash over them. At this realization, fear squirmed in her chest. A sullied…

She observed for a moment, picking her target, the thaumaturge. Her whistling arrow was swift, slicing through the mist like a hawk's cry. However, before it could find its mark, an invisible force deflected it. Alana ducked quickly, her heart racing, and took cover behind a house, her muscles tense. When no response came, she composed herself and moved silently, climbing onto the roof and slinking into the attic of the orphanage where they had entered.

Peering through a half-opened hatch, she surveyed the lower floor. Three soldiers were frantically barricading the windows and the destroyed doorway. Below, the thaumaturge—the target she had sought earlier—was releasing White from his restraints while the other figure stood by.

White, now holding his dagger, spoke in a flat tone, loud enough for her to hear, "Alana. I need your help."

Stowing her bow, she descended to the lower floor. Alana caught the surprised glances of the soldiers, their eyes widening at the sight of her towering form. Slim and over two meters tall, with silver trinkets adorning her small antlers, marked her as a rare sight—a leshy, sired by Cernos the White Stag.

“Haroon?” inquired White.

“It took us by surprise. Haroon was... captured. I am so sorry. He provided me with an opening to flee. This creature was unlike any other; it was vile, stitched together, part human and part goat.”

White grunted low and nodded.

“A koshmera,” he said with a worried expression she rarely saw before.

“Take the children to the basement and secure the hatch with a charm.”

Alana reached into her pouch and produced a small acorn, the only one she had managed to infuse, handing it over to White. It shimmered with a faint silver glow. “It’s not much, but it will be of use,” she said softly. White's hand lingered for a moment before taking the charm.

“I'll find Haroon.”

“Ill wait for you.”

Then Alana, following his instructions, guided the children into the musky cellar. Soon after the enchantment was complete, a thundering boom echoed through the building, followed by a loud crash upstairs. Dust cascaded from the upper floor into the cellar. All five children huddled behind her, frightened and clinging tightly.

May we graze with Cernos once again.

VI

White's grip tightened on the worn dagger, each second stretched painfully long. Silence hung in the air, broken only by the ragged breaths of the soldiers, tense and waiting. His eyes narrowed, drawn instinctively upwards to the roof. A shuffle—barely perceptible. Three of them, he gauged, licking his lips in anticipation.

In an instant, the quietude was shattered. A deafening crash echoed as a carriage ripped through the makeshift barricade, the splintered remains scattering debris across the room. Through the gaping hole, dark mist poured inside, twisting its tendrils of dread. With it they came. Half a dozen malformed figures emerged from the mist, their pale skin pulled taut over grotesque, hunched bodies. They trudged with unnatural jerky motions on all fours. White recognised some of them as part of the enemy forces he had slain at the outpost only days earlier. The cool misty air filled his lungs with the scent of decay, his focus narrowed.

“Hold fast!” the Commissar’s voice echoed, sending his men into a defensive posture, weapons ready to bite into their foes.

The ghoulish creatures bore down on the soldiers. Heart pounding in his ears, White prepared for the inevitable clash. The thaumaturge swiftly inscribed a sigil into the air, unleashing a scorching wave of flames. Staggering under the sudden heat, the creatures wavered in their stride.

“Advance!” The Commissar’s command cut through the haze, spurring the men into action. They charged with lethal precision, blades flashing in the dim light as they dismembered the twisted creatures still recoiling from the thaumaturge’s fiery onslaught. Three bodies lay butchered on the floor, while the rest shrunk back, retreating momentarily.

Amid the chaos, White spotted a tall figure through the swirling mist. With a sharp breath, he darted into the street.

If they want my blood, then I shall give it to them.

He heard the Commissar issue a command to hold their position. However, chaos erupted as an abomination of animals sewn together descended the stairs haphazardly. The koshmera lunged at one of the soldiers, catching him off guard. With a sickening crunch, it sank its teeth into his neck. The body went limp in its grasp, swinging lifelessly like a broken doll.

Outside, a tall figure was wielding a massive rusted greatsword. It was a yfelkynn, its body shimmering with a faint black aura, as it moved by another’s will. Within a breath, White sprang toward the cursed giant, his grip tightening on his weapon, determination coursing through him.

The greatsword flew toward White’s head, forcefully parting the mist in its path. He ducked underneath, feeling the thrill of battle as he slashed at the foe’s heel, severing a tendon and bringing the creature to one knee. Lastly, he vaulted upwards to end its misery with a quick blow to the nape.

Before piercing the rotten flesh, the dagger was deflected by shimmers of blue light, as a dreadful bleat reverberated from the building across the street. Blood-red eyes, heavy with malice, shadowed White’s movements. The goat-man raised a staff crowned with Haroon's severed head. White’s heart sank as his friend’s mouth opened, unleashing a bolt of lightning. Reacting instinctively, he flung his dagger to the ground, drawing the attack while rolling sideways. The lightning missed him by a hair's breadth, as the lanky giant lurched a few paces closer, its milky, lifeless eyes filled with confusion while its injured leg sank into the shifting cobblestone.

The goat-man screeched, its attention now at the figure standing outside the broken entrance. Two ghouls, led by the bleating, pounced from an adjacent roof, hurtling toward the man. One was caught off guard as the Commissar joined the fray outside. His bloodied saber sliced through the creature, severing it clean in half. The other ghoul was blown apart by a bead of fire, unleashed by the thaumaturge.

Out of nowhere, a hefty swing came for White. He jumped out of the way, but couldn’t dodge in time; the sword’s broadside slammed into his torso as he jumped, hurling him through the air against the stone wall. White groaned from the pain, feeling the tip of one rib jutting out and a few more broken. Breathing became a struggle, each inhale sharp and raspy, his heart staggering like an out of tune drum.

He lay there, crumpled on the ground. White closed his tired eyes, but only for a moment. This time, instead of the cold, lonely darkness, an image of her youthful face flickered in his mind: red, curly hair, partially obscuring one eye, while the other—a velvet crimson—burned with intensity as it stared at him. A faint smile crept across White’s bloodied lips.

“Scarlett,”he murmured, recalling the name he had given her long ago. “Close to death, I see.”

He hoisted himself up, his body groaning in protest as the storm within him surged stronger, pushing the pain into a distant memory.

I still have work to do.

White slid across the ground, retrieving his scorched dagger and a piece of chain from the carriage's hitches. In one swift motion, he looped the chain around the giant’s neck, yanking it off balance. Dashing around the creature, he jerked its head back. The beast, still ensnared in the cobblestones, toppled backward. With a powerful downward thrust, he plunged the dagger deep into its neck, severing the spinal cord and ending the giant’s torment.

“You will not rise again,” White uttered, spitting blood as he spoke. His brief moment of respite was interrupted by new sounds on the rooftops above, prompting him to survey the neighboring buildings. He noticed them—dark shapes skulked in the shadows, prowling through the mist, waiting for their master’s call.

“Tsk. At least two dozen more—and the koshmera goat.” White exhaled, irked by the new development. He gathered the chain, wrapping it around his left hand before picking up the heavy greatsword lying at his feet.

Insistent growls and shrieks echoed within the black mist as creatures poured into the street below. White crushed Alana's acorn between his teeth and sprang into action. In a blur, his image split into four, making it difficult for the enemy to read his intent. The first creature in his path felt the full blunt force of the weapon as it had crushed its skull with ease in an attempt to sever. White charged past several of them, leaving a trail of butchered torsos and limbs in his wake. Most lay in pieces, while a few tougher ones squirmed, incapacitated in the street filth. The heavy sword took a toll on him; with all the maneuvering, it became increasingly difficult to maintain both his accuracy and grip. Alas, it was the only way to fulfill his purpose.

White danced with the greatsword, guiding it with intent from enemy to enemy. In quick succession, the weapon bit and tore through them, painting the ground with blood, sinew, and bone—a tapestry marking this battle as one in which he would survive.

Now, only the goat-man remained, perched atop one of the southern buildings. White glanced toward the house where Alana and the children were hiding, wanting to ensure everything was fine. Outside stood the Commissar, shrouded in dim gray light, dispatching the last ghoul by crushing its skull with his bare hands, while the thaumaturge knelt in exhaustion. Both bore wounds from the skirmish, and most of the lytel around them had been consumed.

As the effect of Alana's acorn on White faded, the goat-man seized the brief pause to gape its mouth, inhaling motes of red lytel—the magical energy swirling within its throat.

“Take cover!” White shouted. The Commissar acted quickly, grabbing the thaumaturge by the cloak and yanking him into the safety of the building.

White darted towards the goat-man and hurled the chain from his left hand, snagging it on the edge of the roof, along a wooden beam. His fatigued leg muscles protested as he leaped upward, using the chain to propel himself further, letting the greatsword slip from his grasp. He reached the edge, but it was too late—the goat-man unleashed its wicked breath, flooding the street below in a cloud of acid. A wall of wind repelled the cloud, preventing it from entering through the broken doorway, a barrier maintained by the thaumaturge.

The second breath engulfed White, forcing him to shield his eyes. Impetuously, he thrust his fist into the creature’s open maw, catching its tongue and locking its jaw ajar. All the pain he had suppressed surged back to the surface sevenfold—his eyes burned from the noxious fumes. His flesh felt seared. Agony radiated through his right arm, and with every breath, he felt his strength slipping away, ebbing into nothingness.

White’s thick blood coated the creature's throat, intoxicating it with the last thing it would ever taste. The koshmera managed to let out a muffled bleat of elation.

The creature remained trapped in place as White grinned through bloodied teeth. With his left hand, he reached up and grasped one of its horns, feeling the warmth of the arumvel beneath his fingers. His grip tightened as he pulled on the horn, twisting it while wrath swelled with orange flames within his eyes. On his third pull, the bone beneath gave way with a sharp snap.

Wielding the horn, White gathered the last remnants of his strength and drove it through the crown of the goat-man's head, finally extinguishing its semblance of life.

White exhaled deeply, relief washing over him, but only for a moment, as sorrow crept back into his heart. He staggered a few steps before collapsing alongside the koshmera corpse in the dark abyss below. In the misty street, he dragged himself toward the staff, cradling Haroon’s head close to his chest. Tears streamed down his pale face as he let out a wail of anguish.

“Your sacrifice will be remembered, dearest friend,” White murmured through his sobs, feeling his heart chip away. The familiar pain struck him hard, a stark reminder that he could never truly grow accustomed to such losses. After a while, consciousness eluded the young man, and he fell into a deep slumber.