She stole Therin’s horse, a deep brown mare, and left the older nag for him. She needed speed and she wasn’t a good rider. The young mare was eager to run as Henry taught her how to saddle the horse, the chestnut skin rippling in excitement.

Where did you learn to do all this stuff? She asked as she swung into the saddle, her pack strapped to the horse behind her.

I used to ready your mother’s horse for her at the Temple. Because she had a spirit bound to her, she was afforded privileges that others did not get. Access to the stables was one.

They slipped into the night and she let Henry into her body to show her how to hold herself as the horse picked up speed.

You have to ride with the horse, not against it. Draw your shoulders up and lean back further. Keep your chest wide, not curled in. Don’t let your lower legs get out from under you, keep them directly beneath your body. Use your upper body to steady the horse. He instructed as he slowly gave her the control of her body back.

They made excellent time and as the sun was rising, Alira stopped to allow the mare rest and to stretch her own legs. The dusty road that wound north to the Plateau was bordered on either side by farmland, lush and green in the mid-summer day. A single black bird flew over the field, its inky feathers catching the light and shining green and blue.

This is a lot faster on a road. Henry mused, noting they were almost a third of the way to the crossroads just south of the Plateau.

I was trying to keep out of sight when I left Ohira’s.

And now? He asked.

And now I just want to get there and make it back in time to keep my promise to Therin.

Henry didn’t reply right away and Alira finished the apple she had been eating then tossed the core to the mare.

You intend to tell him about Shadesorrow, then?

I’ve decided to completely trust him. I can’t do this alone. I’m not strong enough…

And? Henry prompted her, noting the way she did not finish her thought.

And he knows more about the Morinn than I do. He might have valuable insight into things.

You could ask me, you know. I lived with them for a long time.

You were her toy. Alira said coldly. Like I was. Our memories of her can’t be trusted.

Alira continued on her way, eventually reaching the crossroads where the road north split into three ways as the sun sank below the horizon. Directly north went to the river crossing downstream of the falls. There was a road that led directly east and in between the two paths was a third, less used track. It led to the Plateau. She nudged the tired mare onto the wild, overgrown path.

Henry had begun withdrawing the closer they got to the Plateau, the single word mutterings he offered finally petering out to complete silence. Alira felt a calmness fall over her as they came out of the forest to the barren area around the Plateau, the reddish stone catching the moonlight. The night birds in the woods began their calls.

Where should I make camp? She asked Henry but he didn’t reply so she hobbled the horse at the misty, humid edge of the forest and found stones to make a small campfire. She was no stranger to sleeping on the ground and with the fur lined cloak she had taken from Noran, she knew she’d be warm enough.

Soon, she had a small fire, had eaten a modest meal, and was in the shadow of the burial mound of the Blood Hawk Coven. It loomed above her, threatening and oppressive, but under its gaze she felt fuller, more awake, alive.

Henry, too, noticed the change in her it seemed. He didn’t say a word before he slipped from her skin and coalesced into a man, his hands in his pockets, his cloak over one shoulder. He looked up the Plateau and a frown lined his face.

“Tonight or tomorrow?” he asked her, not turning.

“Tonight. Right now,” she whispered and she could feel the hum of the night against her skin, the call of the wild making the hair prickle on her arms.

“This way,” Henry said and made his way around to the left, the tether that bound them drawing her closer to him even in the darkness.

They picked their way around large boulders that pressed against the Plateau, some so spherical as to look man-made. Just as the Plateau was starting to curve around the spirit stopped, glowing faintly in the moonlight.

They were before a tiny crack in the red rock, the silky sand pushed up against it. A four pointed star had been carved into the rock just above the crack.

“You’ll have to dig a little,” Henry said and Alira tensed, staring at him.

“I’m not digging up Galvyn,” she said in horror and backed a step away from the grave.

“She may have left clues with his body. She knew I was the only person who knew where he was.”

She hesitated long enough that he huffed, annoyed.

“Alira,” he began but she bent and touched the center of the star and felt the holy magic wash across her, zapping like lightning across her, zig-zagging its way up her arm and finally reaching her chest.

Something made an inaudible click, something intangible falling into place. With a deep rumble, the sand began to fall away beneath their feet. They leapt back and watched the sand drain away, revealing a wide, rectangular hole with a chest, a shrouded figure curled on its side and stone plinth with a book.

A book.

Without thinking she made to step down into the hole but Henry caught her arm and pulled her back.

“She’ll have trapped it!” he hissed. Nodding her thanks, she began to walk around the outside of the unusually wide, spacious grave, taking note of the particulars.

It was roughly six feet deep with a set of narrow stairs leading down to the shrouded figure and burial treasure. The chest was engraved with the crescent moon of the Morinn, sand still piled on the top, obscuring the crest. It was bound with chains and had a familiar looking lock.

The book looked unsuspecting, small, and in horrible condition. The leather cover was cracked, the gold lettering on the front faded to nothing legible. In the dim moonlight, Alira could not make out what it could possibly be but she pointed to the book.

“Is that the book we’re after?”

Henry shrugged, his glowing hands turned palm up.

“It looked like any book. Small, unprepossessing. It could be.”

“How do we know this is Galvyn?” she whispered and then spied the hammer, still mostly buried in the sand, lying just below the curled figure’s feet. She looked at Henry to see what he might be thinking and he was standing there with his hands at his sides, still and unblinking. He shook himself and nodded.

“I guess there’s nothing for it,” Henry said and jumped into the grave, landing silently in the bottom. He crouched, his hands splayed in anticipation.

Nothing happened.

Straightening, he turned slowly and reached for the book then paused, listening.

She heard it too. She opened her mouth to speak but a wave of his hand silenced her.

Thum-THUMP.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A whisper of the leaves, a sigh of wind through the trees covered the sound of droplets falling into a pool and a deep, otherworldly pulse.

Thum-THUMP.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Her skin prickled and tingled as though the whispering was a spell…

Henry stiffened and his face snapped to Alira's, his eyes wide with warning. He opened his mouth to shout but no sound came out.

The shrouded figure stirred.

“Get out,” Alira whispered. “Return to me!”

She watched him blur and fade but he remained corporeal.

The shrouded figure stirred again. The sand falling off it was a sibilant whisper.

“Henry,” Alira pleaded and she felt their tether grow taut.

The curled figure, long dead, groaned deeply, an inhuman rasp of dried flesh scraping against dried bone. The hammer at its feet glowed and Alira noted that the whispering, rushing sound was coming from the mace itself. The head of the mace lit up brilliantly, the holy light searing Alira’s eyes and she shielded herself with a hand, her face turned away.

A desiccated hand shot out and clutched the haft of the bludgeon. The fingers crunched as it curled around the wood. The figure used the heft of the heavy weapon to stabilise itself as it sat up. Sand fell away from it, showering down its back. Alira realised then that the shroud it had been covered in was a wide cloak and the hood was still drawn up, hiding the skeletal face beneath.

Alira’s daggers, still sheathed at her waist, began to glow a bright violet, the blind blade flickering while her mother’s remained brightly lit.

Without thinking, she drew them and immediately felt Henry shift inside her, rushing into her like a breath of air, somehow released from his frozen state by her action. Floodgates inside her strained, small cracks popping and creaking, and she felt their power join. The wall between them became a little less firm, holes and tears allowing their powers to mingle freely.

The figure was now kneeling, its bones and tissue creaking and snapping as it moved. With a hushed groan accompanied by the metallic tinkle of chain mail, it stood and hefted the mace. One hand holding the heavy weighted end, the other wrapped around the lower end of the haft.

Henry’s spirit had rushed into her bones, seeped into her muscles and joined her completely. She felt him inside her, beside her, acknowledging her but guiding her hands and arms as she adjusted her stance. He nudged her to toss the blind blade once and catch it so it was held overhand.

She dropped to the floor of the grave, crouching low with the blind blade in her left hand before her. Her right hand was held behind, waiting to strike. She had never wielded blades, had never fought, but with Henry guiding her, her muscles felt like they had practised for ages.

The figure adjusted to her presence, standing before her within arms reach. The earthy dry smell coming from him filled her mouth and nose and she stifled a cough. His feet and legs were bare but he had on a chain mail shirt and leather bracers. Two leather pauldrons were strapped across his upper body but settled awkwardly on his fleshless shoulders. His dusty black cloak billowed but the hood, mercifully, remained tightly drawn over his head. She caught a whiff of blood, fresh, tangy and alive.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Settled inside the skeletal remains, tucked behind the chainmail, Alira caught the sound of broken glass, the sharp grind of it against bone. Something glittered inside his abdomen and she saw a trickle of bright red blood seeping from his withered body.

He has something inside him! She gasped.

Henry’s answer was a low moan of horror and disbelief.

She wouldn't have… He whispered inside her.

The figure shifted slightly again and Alira heard the glass thing inside him crack again. The blood dripped faster down his ruined legs now.

Henry? Alira asked but the spirit had evaporated back into her completely and she felt her teeth elongating, the claws emerged from her fingers. Something had upset Henry enough that he had shrugged off his hold on his power and was actively trying to merge with her. She fought him, hastily erecting a flimsy barrier between them inside herself.

Her teeth remained sharp and the talon-like claws stayed out. She felt her eyesight improve, the dimness slowly brightening as her eyes adjusted. She suddenly could smell so much more than before. The blood from the figure was hot, bright, new. The corrosive, acidic smell of holy magic burned her nose as she drew in a deep breath.

As her ears grew longer, they could suddenly take in more information as well. The rasp of his dry flesh, the creak of his leather bracers, the rustle of leaves. And the beating of a heart, slow, steady and deep.

His heart.

Bright golden eyes ignited in the shadow of his hood and the head of the mace flared golden again. The electric smell of magic filled the air.

Stay alert, watch his feet. He will have to shift his entire weight to swing that thing. Henry said from far away, the line between them blurred.

She tensed, waiting and suddenly the figure took a half step back and raised the mace, a dry rattle from its throat as it exerted itself.

Strike. Henry said and she struck first with the blind blade, slicing down the front of the chainmail, sparks and an unholy screech hurting her ears. She followed the strike with her other hand, a deep stab in his gut. It glanced off something smooth and hard. Something glass.

Back. Henry said and she danced back as if she had done it a thousand times. He swung his mace and it went wide, missed her, and made him have to take a step forward to catch himself. The figure threw out a hand and a rasping whisper caused her daggers to flare again, suddenly hot. She held onto them, their metal burning into her flesh. He closed his fist and pulled down with his hand and she stumbled.

Fight it. The Light does not command you.

It was both her and Henry’s voice inside her, urging her to tap into the well of power they shared. She resisted, pushing her own self forward and forcing the deep darkness to retreat.

With a scream, Alira took two quick steps forward, bringing herself close enough to touch the skeletal remains of her father. With a backhand swing, she stabbed the blind blade into the gut of the figure and brought the other up, aiming for his neck, far above her in the depths of the cowl.

The blind blade caught on something and she had to pull and pull again to tear it free of his stomach. Warm blood spattered her face as she ripped her blade free. She skipped backward, nearly tripping over the chest as it slammed into the backs of her thighs.

The undead paladin grasped his mace again in both hands, raising it above his head, ready to smash it down on her. She rolled away, landing on her hands and knees. The mace smashed into the chest, destroying the chain and punching a hole in the lid.

As she stood, she realised she had dropped her mother’s blade.She frantically cast her eyes around for it, finally seeing it half buried in the sandy bottom of the grave. She threw herself forward to her knees and grabbed the blade and rolled between the legs of the figure. She came up behind it and crossed her blades before her. She pushed out with her power and he stumbled forward, tossed by the invisible blow.

He steadied himself with his mace then spun to face her again. He reached a hand out and this time she was not prepared to withstand the might of the Light. He clenched his fist again and she crumpled to her knees, her heart in her chest beating against the ghostly hand that now held it. Her blades fell to the sandy floor.

The figure took a shuddering step forward and then another. She couldn’t move as he advanced. His outstretched fist opened and then closed around her throat, lifting her from her knees.

“You…are…not…worthy…” the voice that came from him was strangled and halting. “Prove…yourself…or die.” He clenched his fist tighter and she struggled to breathe, grabbing his bony wrist, her breath gone.

How… she begged Henry. How do I prove myself?

She kicked her legs, trying to unlock his hand from her throat but the more she thrashed, the less air she felt she had. Her eyes bulged.

Henry toppled the shabby wall she had erected and she felt the well of darkness rise up, as fast as a flash flood.

You are The Bestial Wrath. You are Shadesorrow, the Unmaker. You are the Bane of Man.

And as the darkness took her over, she agreed and accepted the union.

She shrank, suddenly smaller than he could hold and slithered from his hand. In a flash of violent icy power, she became Shadesorrow.

She grew taller, her legs and torso stretching to accommodate her new height. She was now eye to eye with the figure, the top of her head above the lip of the grave. Long white hair tumbled into her eyes, her now grotesquely long ears protruding behind her. She felt the black wings erupt from her back, ripping through the back of her shirt. Her fingers and toes became talons, deadly and black in the moonlight.

She could see the sound of the night and smell the colour of the leaves. The wind was both cold and hot. The moon was so bright as to be painful. But around her nature filled the void of night, bugs and animals and plants all twining together into a glorious, beautiful veil.

Her senses were temporarily overwhelmed. She shook herself, settling into the new body and bared her teeth, longer than could be contained in her mouth, sharp and ready to taste flesh.

She lifted a clawed hand and raked it down the figure, ripping his mail shirt from him. She saw what was trapped inside him was a jar, now only half full of blood, his heart bobbing grotesquely in the thick liquid.

He swung the mace and it caught her in the chest. Rage boiled inside her and she let out a roar, and batted the mace away from her.

As he was trying to right himself to lift his weapon again, she kicked his knee out and watched it hyper extend, snapping backwards.

Alira…

A ghostly voice was calling to her from somewhere far, far away.

As the reanimated corpse fell to one knee, his leg unstable, his hood fell back. She stared into the ruined face of her father. His eyes glowed but remained entirely alive, their chocolate depths as alert and human as they had surely been in life.

Do not give in.

The voice echoed across an expanse of space so vast she wasn’t sure which direction it came from. It was not within, it was not Henry.

Do not give up.

She raised a clawed hand to swipe the head off the bowing figure.

“You…are…worthy,” rasped the figure as the light faded from his eyes. He toppled backward before she could claw at him and the jar inside him shattered. The blood poured from him, soaking into the sand, a black pool of his life. The heart beat once, twice, and stopped.

Thank…you…

With a shuddering, gasping, rattle, her father finally took his last breath and lay still.