There is a discord for this fic. It has Live Updates about chapter progress and when they are completed, among other things. I'm also very active there and am likely to respond to any message sent there. Join at discord.gg/aWZ9qX9mAW
Glory to my Proofreader: Solare. For he is one who points out mistakes and acts as my favourite wall to bounce ideas off of.
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Morning seeped in slow and soft through the shuttered window, a pale wash of light gilding the dust in the air. John woke first to warmth and weight, cocooned beneath a tangle of limbs and blankets that smelled faintly of soap and hearth smoke. He blinked once, then sighed, letting the moment settle over him like a quilt.
Millicent had melted across his chest sometime in the night, cheek pillowed over his sternum, breath warm and even. Sleep had gentled her features, all mischief smoothed away, her lashes dark against her cheeks.
With her guard down she looked younger, softer, the lone hand that so often wielded steel now curled loosely against him like a child staking claim to something safe. A faint, drowsy smile tugged at her lips with each rise and fall of his chest.
Irina had tucked herself along his side, both hands gathered at his sleeve as if worried the night might blow him away. The blindfold cast her expression in mystery, yet the tender set of her mouth and the little tremor of relief still clinging to her shoulders made her seem almost luminous. Stripped of fear, she was beautiful in the gentle, breakable way of a spring blossom that had survived a storm.
On his other side, Melina had surrendered more than she knew. Sometime before dawn she had drawn his arm into her embrace as if by instinct, pressing it to the soft warmth of her chest, her brow resting against his bicep.
Usually composed, she slept with her lips parted and her face tilted toward him, all chill and distance melted into the quiet trust of a girl at peace for once. In sleep, the sharp lines of her poise became something delicate and unbearably lovely.
He hummed low in his throat and let his head fall back to the pillow. The battle for Morne could wait. Edgar would not be ready until noon, and there were no ballistae to dismantle here, no walls to climb, only the rarest treasure in the Lands Between. A morning where no one needed him to bleed.
Golden motes stirred above him as Marika drifted into view, reclining on her ribbon of Grace, hair cascading in sunlit waves. She regarded the cuddle-pile with a narrowed eye and a wholly unrepentant smirk.
"Truly, thou art the laziest dragon that e'er drew breath," she purred. "And shameless besides. Three maidens in thine arms whilst a Goddess resideth in thy skull. Doth thy greed know any bounds at all?"
He chuckled under his breath, careful not to jostle anyone. "Mayhaps not. And if I said I had nothing to do with winding up like this, I would be a liar."
Millicent stirred first, nose nuzzling into his shirt like a cat seeking a warmer spot. She blinked slow, the memory of last night returning in a soft widening of her eyes. Then she stretched like a satisfied lion and sighed.
"This is nice," she murmured, voice husky with sleep. "We should sleep together like this more."
John laughed quietly. "I am not opposed. Keep your voice down though. The other two are still out."
She blinked once, then nodded solemnly as if entrusted with a great secret. Rather than move, she settled more firmly across him, cheek finding the exact center of his chest. A faint glow pulsed beneath her ear, heat seeping through fabric from the slow thrum of his Immortal Heart. Through his shirt the molten core was a dim, volcanic glimmer, like embers hidden under ash.
"Mmm," she hummed, lashes lowering again. "You feel really warm. Especially here. It is comfy."
"Oh yeah?" He tried and failed to keep the smile out of his voice.
Millicent gave a tiny, contented nod without lifting her head.
"Thanks. I will keep it in mind."
Silence folded back over them, soft and forgiving. After a few minutes Irina stirred, fingers tightening on his sleeve before she remembered where she was. Color bloomed along her cheeks beneath the blindfold.
"Thank you for… letting me sleep here," she whispered, shy as a prayer. "It was not so frightening with you close."
"Anytime," he murmured.
Melina's body tightened almost imperceptibly on his other side, her arms unconsciously hugging his forearm closer. He felt the slow awareness ripple through her as she surfaced from sleep, the very moment memories crashed back and told her exactly what she held and how. She went very still. Then she released him like a stolen thing and pushed herself upright, face already heating.
"G-Good morning…" She managed, turning away as if the wall might conceal her blush. "It is time to rise."
"Good morning~" He answered, far too pleased. "Did you enjoy using my arm as a sleeping pillow?"
Her ears flushed scarlet to match her cheeks. She shot off the bed in a flurry of linen and dignity and fled to the bathroom with the composure of a knight retreating from a dragon to fetch the proper spear.
Millicent giggled helplessly and poked his cheek with one finger, still sprawled over him. "What is that word you call Melina when she acts like that?"
"A tsundere?" He offered, his tone hopeful and just a little wicked.
Millicent pushed up on her hand to sit straddling his abdomen, tapping his chest with a tiny triumphant pat. "Yes, that! She is acting like a tsundere again. It is always so adorable."
He laughed, the sound vibrating under her palm. Across him, Irina went a deeper shade of pink, privately grateful no one mentioned how tightly she had clung all night and privately baffled by how Millicent possessed no shame at all.
"Alright," John sighed at last, letting practicality nose its way into the warm den of morning. "We should get up too. Gear up, retrieve my weapons, all that. Castle Morne will not take itself."
Millicent nodded and began to lever herself off him with the careful, unhurried movements of someone who would happily stay five more minutes if not told otherwise. The mention of Morne sobered Irina in an instant. Her hands knotted together in her lap, worry pooling clear and heavy in her voice.
"Father…"
"We will be back with him soon, don't worry." John said, his voice firm and gentle at once. "He seems like a stubborn man, those are hard to kill. I'd know."
Millicent flashed Irina a quick, bright smile. "Exactly, he's just like him! But your dad is smarter, so he has it better. Promise!"
"Oi…"
They waited while the bathroom's latch clicked and water ran. John stared at the ceiling for a moment longer, listening to the soft footfalls, the muted clink of armor buckles gathering on a chair, the steady heartbeat under his own ribs.
He breathed in, breathed out, and let the morning's peace carry them a little farther before the road called them back.
…
John stood before the forge, the smell of hot iron thick in the air, sparks dancing off Hewg's hammer with each heavy strike. Millicent lingered at his side, her eyes gleaming with curiosity as she watched the blacksmith finish his work. The steady clang, clang, clang echoed through the chamber, measured and deliberate, until at last Hewg set the hammer aside.
"There, done what I can for 'em." The smith muttered, voice low and gravelly. "The greatsword'll bite deeper, carry more weight in the swing. Those twin blades? Sharpened keener'n they were, balance'll be tighter too. Won't sing much louder than before, but they'll sing longer."
Without another word, he turned back toward his anvil, already reaching for another piece of battered steel as if John's weapons were forgotten the instant he'd finished with them.
John hummed low, thankful, and grabbed the greatsword first, the weight comforting and familiar. He slid it into his inventory before reaching for the Uchigatana pair, strapping one at his side and flicking the other into storage.
Millicent tilted her head, brow furrowing as she watched. "Y'know… where do you put all that stuff? Every time, you just… shove it somewhere, but it's not like you've got a bag or anything."
John flicked his gaze up, lips quirking faintly. "Oh. Right. It's a spell. A kind of… pocket-space. Learned it from a certain benefactor. The one I told you about."
Her green eyes widened for a heartbeat before softening in recognition. "Marika," she murmured, nodding to herself.
Her gaze shifted sideways, catching sight of Irina across the room. The blindfolded girl sat with Roderika, their heads bent close, whispers muffled between them. "You think it's really a good idea to leave her here? In the Hold, while we go fight?"
John half-turned, and his dragon-born ears picked up their voices with crystal clarity.
"Y-you held hands during the horse ride?" Roderika whispered, cheeks flushed crimson. "Th-that's so… lewd!"
Irina's lips curved into a flustered smile, her own blush rising. "That's not all that happened yesterday…"
The rest dissolved into a rush of muffled giggles, and John had to stifle the bark of laughter clawing its way out of his throat. He forced it down, lips twitching as he shook his head. "It'll be fine. She's safer here than out there. Out on the field, we'd have no one to guard her, and… well, it'll get bloody."
Millicent blinked, considered, then nodded. "Good point. I'd hate to have to babysit her just to keep her from getting hurt."
John chuckled and tugged his gauntlet tight. "Don't be mean."
She puffed her cheek, pouting as she followed after him. "I'm not being mean. I'm being honest!"
His laugh came easier this time, warm and amused. Together, they walked through the hallways until the wide chamber of the Roundtable opened before them. Melina stood waiting at its center, her hands folded neatly before her, her golden eyes lifting as she spotted them.
"You retrieved your blades?" she asked, her tone even, but her expression eased just slightly.
John smirked, holding up a hand in a thumbs-up. "All good."
"Then we should depart." She tilted her head faintly. "Sir Edgar must be awaiting us already."
Millicent bounced once on her heels, excitement plain in her grin. "I wanna see if he got the blade I asked for!"
John raised a brow. "And to help him quell the Misbegotten uprising and take back Castle Morne?"
Millicent blinked, then repeated with confidence, "And to help him quell the Misbegotten uprising and take back Castle Morne!"
Melina's face fell into a perfect deadpan. Her gaze shifted between John's smug grin and Millicent's proud, wide smile. A sigh escaped her lips, long-suffering. "You've ruined her already."
John leaned forward and poked her shoulder lightly, whispering in mock conspiracy, "You love us for it."
Millicent joined in instantly, poking her other side. "Yeah, you do! You tsundere!"
Their poking doubled, each prod making Melina's brow twitch higher, until finally a vein bulged at her temple. With a flash of movement, she punched them both square in the chest, not hard enough to harm, but sharp enough to sting.
"Annoying dunces! Shut up and get ready. We're leaving for Sir Edgar's warcamp!"
Both of them froze for a beat. Then Millicent whispered, "Tsundere~!"
John couldn't help the giggle that escaped him.
Melina pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath. "Why in the Lands Between did Mother choose you as her champion?"
From the depths of his soul, Marika's golden laughter answered unheard, her voice warm, fond and amused. "I know not why it was thee specifically… yet I cannot bring myself to care nor regret. None other would I suffer at my side now, mine Champion. None."
…
The forest was alive with the rhythm of hooves. Torrent's steady gait beat against the dirt path while, just behind, the newly tamed spectral steed galloped with a lighter, sharper cadence, its blackened form blurring like smoke when the light hit it. Millicent sat proudly on its back, humming a tune to herself as they followed the side trail toward Edgar's camp.
John felt Melina's presence pressed lightly against his back as she rode with him on Torrent, her quiet composure a counterpoint to Millicent's bubbling energy. The girl's hum soon broke into words as she called out cheerfully, "You know, it feels a bit unfair. Torrent's got a name, but mine doesn't. Don't you think?"
John blinked, trusting Torrent to stay true to the path as he turned his head toward her. He tilted it slightly, feigning deep thought before shrugging. "Fair point. Guess you should give him one then."
Millicent nodded eagerly, only for her smile to falter into a blank stare as her mind froze. "...I have no idea where to start."
That earned a low chuckle from John. Melina, for her part, made no effort to join in the chatter; she simply kept her hands folded neatly over her lap, golden eyes fixed forward, as if refusing to dignify the naming of a spectral beast with her input.
John studied the obsidian horse for a moment, his eyes narrowing. 'Well… if it had white fur, I'd have gone with 'Gold Ship.' But since it's all black…'
He let the thought hang for effect, then snapped his fingers with mock inspiration. "What about 'Manhattan Cafe'?"
For a heartbeat, the only sounds were the pounding of hooves and the creak of leather tack. Even the birds above seemed to pause.
Melina leaned over his shoulder, her expression as flat as slate, unimpressed in every way.
Marika's laughter rang clear within his mind, golden and rich, spilling over into outright mirth as she peeked into his thoughts to see where the absurd name had come from. "By the Erdtree…! The tale behind it is as stupid as the sound of it. Perfect! A name most fitting, mine champion."
Millicent's eyes widened at first, but then her surprise broke into joyous laughter. She patted her steed's muscular neck, grinning from ear to ear. "It's so stupid… I love it! Manhattan Cafe it is!"
Melina sighed, her tone cool but edged with irritation. "Do you even know the creature's gender? Naming it blindly seems foolish."
John shrugged, completely unbothered. "Does it matter? It's not like 'Manhattan Cafe' is a gendered name. Expertly chosen, I might add."
Melina jabbed him in the ribs with a firm fist, the blow thudding against his armor. "Get the smugness out of your voice."
He only laughed, the smugness doubling.
The banter carried them through the forest until the trees thinned and Edgar's camp spread before them like a hive preparing for war. Where before the camp had been sparse and hidden, now it bustled with life and steel. Dozens of soldiers moved about in drilled lines, sharpening blades, oiling bows, and checking armor.
Canvas tents had doubled in number, spread with military neatness. Pikes stood in ordered racks, ballista bolts were stacked in neat bundles, and cookfires smoked with the smell of salted meat and broth. The low hum of men murmuring prayers to the Erdtree clashed with the sharp bark of officers drilling commands.
This was no longer a ragtag group clinging to survival. This was an army gathering to march.
A soldier in chainmail and a captain's sash strode up to meet them, saluting with a fist over his heart. "Sir Johnathan. Lady Millicent. Lady Melina. The commander awaits you in the war room. We'll see to your steeds."
John patted Torrent's mane, glancing at Millicent. They shared a small nod before allowing the men to lead the spectral mounts away, Torrent tossing his head proudly and Manhattan Cafe stamping once, eager for the attention.
The three followed the soldier deeper into camp, until they reached a large command tent. Within, the air was thick with sweat and anticipation. Several knights and captains stood around a great oaken table, where a map of Castle Morne had been laid out in painstaking detail, showing every battlement, stair, and gate.
Edgar stood at its head, helm tucked under his arm. He looked older than before, more lined with the strain of command, but his posture was iron. When he spotted them, his face eased just slightly.
"My daughter…?" he asked, his voice softer than the rest of him.
"She's safe," John assured him. "Kept at the Roundtable Hold. No harm will touch her there."
Edgar closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Then I owe you more than words can bear. Thank you."
He straightened and gestured to the map. "My scouts returned not an hour past. We know the Misbegotten's placements now. Their packs cluster near the lower gates, their raiders along the southern wall. More concerning…"
His hand pointed to the castle's central keep. "The treasury was breached. The Legendary Grafted Greatsword, our ancestral relic, has been taken. My men saw it in the hands of their commander."
John's expression tightened, though he nodded as though unsurprised. He already knew that weapon was destined to fall into the claws of a Leonine Misbegotten.
Edgar exhaled sharply. "We've no time for anything complex. The plan is thus: our forces will spear through the lower gate. Sir Johnathan, you and your companions shall lead the charge. Lady Melina and Lady Millicent will remain with the vanguard to support the men. But you…"
His eyes locked on John. "You alone must break away once the gate is ours. Hunt down the Leonine that wields our blade. He was last sighted moving toward the southern shore, beyond the castle itself. None else could match him. None else should try."
John smirked faintly, his hand resting on his blade. "Understood. I'll handle it."
Edgar turned, his voice rising, carrying like a hammer against a shield. "Men of Morne! You have bled, you have lost, but you are not broken. Today, we reclaim what was ours. Today, we avenge our fallen brothers, our kin, our homes. The Misbegotten think us weak, divided. They shall find us united! With Sir Johnathan at our fore, we strike as one! For Castle Morne!"
"For Castle Morne!" the camp roared back, a tide of voices that shook the canvas walls.
As the echoes faded, John and Millicent stepped aside to gather their weapons. He was pleased to find the Zweihander laid ready, its steel polished and already tempered to +7. He swung it lightly, marveling at the perfect balance. "Well, damn. Saved me a lot of stones. This is perfect."
Millicent's grin was equally bright as she received her second scimitar, the twin to the one she already wielded. She held it aloft, testing its weight.
John tilted his head curiously. "Why ask for another when you've only got the one hand?"
She giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just wait and see."
John chuckled, shaking his head, though inwardly he had no doubt she had something clever, or deadly, planned.
…
The warband surged down the main road in a living tide of steel and flesh, banners snapping high above them. Edgar's crimson crest flapped proudly in the wind, a symbol that had not seen such bold defiance in years.
John rode at the front astride Torrent, the spectral steed's mane flickering like molten embers in the setting sun. Beside him galloped Millicent on Manhattan Cafe, her face set in sharp determination, her one hand tight on the reins. Behind them came Melina, quiet as ever, her golden gaze fixed ahead with unwavering calm.
The distant bulk of Castle Morne loomed larger with every stride, its jagged silhouette rising from the sea cliffs like a broken crown. But the road leading to it was not unguarded.
The first of the guardian golems stirred as their vanguard approached. Colossal constructs of tarnished brass and stone, they had stood inert for centuries, their joints crusted with moss, their halberds dug into the earth.
One by one they shuddered to life, creaking with unnatural weight, their eyes flaring faintly with arcane light. Massive arms hefted halberds longer than a house, and their titanic frames blocked the road like sentinels of a forgotten age.
Further ahead, another stirred. A bow-bearing golem, tall enough to eclipse the outer walls of Morne, pulled itself upright from where it had knelt in stillness. Its bowstring sang as it drew back a shaft thicker than a man's torso. The air itself seemed to groan under the strain.
The soldiers faltered, voices rising in panicked shouts. But Edgar raised himself high in his saddle, lifting his banner and crying out with a commander's voice that carried over the chaos. "Raise the banner! Let them see their masters yet live!"
Standard-bearers at the fore hoisted their flags high. The crimson crests snapped like whips in the wind. The golems froze mid-motion, arcane eyes sweeping the fluttering cloth.
And then, as one, they lowered their weapons. The bowstring slackened. The halberds returned to their ancient rests. The titans stood silent once more, still as statues, allowing the army to pass beneath their towering shadows unopposed.
John's brows lifted behind his helm. He had half-expected to be crushed like a bug beneath those weapons. He let out a low whistle, muttering, "Well, that's new."
Marika's voice slid like honey into his thoughts, tinged with both amusement and pride. "Not new, mine Champion, merely forgotten. The Guardian Golems art not mindless beasts, but constructs wrought with ancient runes. They were bound to guard places and peoples, given glyphs to discern friend from foe. Thy banners bear such sigils still. 'Tis recognition that stayed their wrath."
John's frown deepened as his gaze tracked the towering sentinels. "So if we've still got banners that work… then that means…"
"Aye," Marika confirmed softly, her tone darkening. "The Misbegotten must have stolen some in their rebellion. Else they could never have passed unchecked through Morne's walls. Their cunning grows. Heed it well."
John grit his teeth, but there was no more time to dwell.
The castle gates rose before them, scarred with old fire, its once-proud steel bent and battered by years of neglect. Moss crawled over the blackened iron, and the hinges wailed as if remembering sieges long past. Edgar barked orders, his voice sharp as a blade, and the riders surged the last stretch.
Torrent thundered across the cobblestones, hooves sparking against stone, his spectral mane blazing faintly as John leaned low in the saddle. Ahead, the air shuddered with the thunder of boots and horses, a tide of steel and desperation hurtling toward destiny.
With one last push, John vaulted from the saddle. He soared through the air, his shadow stretching tall against the firelit wall before his boots slammed into the earth with bone-jarring force. In the same motion, he drew his uchigatana.
The gates trembled.
Then, with a roar and a heave, the vanguard crashed through, the wood and steel splintering under the sheer force of momentum. Men and women poured into the outer bailey with shields raised and blades bared, their voices echoing like a war-choir.
The Misbegotten defenders were caught flat-footed. Half-drunk on stolen wine, gnawing bones at cookfires, scattered across the alleys and the parapets, they scrambled in disarray as the tide of steel bore down upon them.
The first one shrieked, swinging its jagged cleaver wildly. John's katana flashed once, cleaving clean through the beast's neck. The head spun into the air, blood spurting, before thudding into the dirt. The body staggered two steps before collapsing in a twitching heap.
Another rushed him, club raised high. John felt them coming before he saw them, and his body moved by itself. The slash split the Misbegotten from collarbone to hip, its scream dying in a bubbling gurgle. Blood sprayed hot against the cold steel of his armor.
Millicent darted at his side, her scimitar whistling. Her movements were a storm, quick, relentless and merciless. She ducked under a spear thrust, her prosthetic arm catching the haft. With a savage twist, she wrenched it from her attacker's grip and in the same breath drove her blade into his gut. The Misbegotten howled, but her weapon was already out, already seeking another throat.
Behind them, Melina moved like a golden wraith, her voice a steady hymn in the chaos. She raised her hand, light flaring from her palm, and a wave of healing grace cascaded over the soldiers. Wounds knit, blood stopped, broken limbs steadied. Then, with another gesture, she unleashed a beam of holy fire, lancing through two Misbegotten at once and leaving only ash in its wake.
The bailey became a slaughterhouse.
John cut down one, two, three more, his blade never pausing. Each swing of his katana was precise, surgical, but his enemies were swarming now. Dozens spilled from doorways and shadowed corners, howling their hatred.
John paused in the middle of the battle, stepping back slightly, suddenly. "Hm… Seems like the perfect time to test out my new toy…"
He flicked his katana clean and sheathed it, a clean click sounding out in the cramped bailey.
The Misbegotten paused for the briefest moment, snarling in confusion, their prey seemingly disarming himself.
But John's hand was already on his back, pulling free the Zweihander.
The greatsword rasped as it left its harness, its sheer size gleaming in the torchlight. Forged with silver, gleaming steel, wider than some men's torsos. John's grin sharpened as he hefted it in his grasp, the greatsword was far less unbalanced than his other one, this one felt right, more balanced.
"Alright then…" He muttered, setting his stance. "This is more like it..!"
The first Misbegotten lunged. John swung.
The Zweihander came down like a guillotine. The weight and force of the strike split the beast nearly in half, the body crumpling into a mangled heap as the earth cracked beneath the impact. The shockwave alone staggered the Misbegotten nearby.
Another screamed and leapt at him. John twisted, swinging the great blade in a wide arc. It plowed through the creature and three more standing behind it, bodies snapping and folding under the raw force. Blood fanned out like rain.
The soldiers behind him gasped, some faltering at the sight of such carnage. Even Millicent blinked mid-swing, her mouth opening in awe as she watched the massive blade tear through foes like parchment.
"Cool…" she whispered, then shook herself back into motion, grinning like a child who'd just seen her hero at work.
The Zweihander was not graceful like the katana. It was not quick. But in John's hands, it was inevitable. Every swing cleared space, every strike broke ranks, every blow left shockwaves that shook the stones beneath their feet.
A Misbegotten twice his size charged, armored in scavenged steel plates. It raised a massive axe, its roar shaking the air. John met it head-on. Their weapons clashed with an impact that rattled the walls, sparks bursting like fireworks.
He pressed forward, teeth bared, and with a thunderous shove forced the beast's axe aside. Then he slammed the great blade down, cleaving straight through helm, skull, and chest until the creature split apart like butchered meat.
Blood spattered across his faceplate. His draconic eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Marika's voice whispered through his mind, tinged with both awe and satisfaction. "A fitting weapon for mine Champion. A blade to break armies."
"Damn right it is…" John muttered under his breath, swinging again.
The blade did not so much cut as decide.
The Misbegotten began to falter. Their drunken confidence turned to hesitation, hesitation to panic, panic to flight. But there was nowhere to run. Edgar's soldiers pressed hard from the rear, cutting down stragglers and hemming them in. Millicent laughed aloud as she carved into their ranks, her scimitar flashing like silver lightning. Melina's spells rained holy fire upon those who tried to retreat.
The bailey ran red.
By the time the last Misbegotten fell, the stones were slick with blood and strewn with mangled corpses. The vanguard had smashed through the outer gatehouse, and for the first time in years, the way into Castle Morne lay open.
John planted the Zweihander into the ground, its massive blade sinking into the earth like a tombstone. He leaned on the hilt, chest heaving with exertion but his grin wolfish, his eyes still blazing.
It had been brutal, it had been swift.
The soldiers surged forward as the last Misbegotten fell, Edgar barking for the vanguard to press deeper. Their boots struck the blood-slick cobblestones as they streamed toward the inner gate, banners snapping in the rising wind.
John wrenched the Zweihander free from the ground, the weapon heavy and sure in his hands. The silver edge glimmered faintly in the torchlight, streaked with gore and ichor. He gave it a single testing swing, the blade cutting the air with a hiss so sharp it might have cleaved the night itself.
"Forward!" Edgar's voice boomed across the walls. "Push into the keep!"
And so they did.
The gatehouse crumbled beneath their advance, its rusted chains torn, its rotten timbers splintered by sheer force. The defenders, too few and too unprepared, were swept aside. John's Zweihander rose and fell like the wrath of a storm, each blow scattering Misbegotten like chaff before the scythe.
Soldiers followed in his wake, striking down the dazed survivors. Millicent and Melina moved like shadows on his flanks, one a streak of silver and fire, the other a calm storm of golden light.
The fight carried them through a narrow hall, past shattered tapestries and looted stores. Blood trailed their boots in rivulets. And then, the passage widened and the battle cries faltered when they stepped into the courtyard.
The world seemed to stop.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. No Misbegotten lunged, no soldier raised his blade. Instead, every gaze was dragged inexorably to the sight that loomed in the courtyard's heart.
A mountain of corpses.
It rose like some grotesque monument, stacked without care or reason, flesh upon flesh, man upon woman, child upon elder. Arms dangled limply from the mass, faces twisted in their final agonies, hair matted with blood and ash.
The stench struck them first, rot and bile, sweet and sickening, thick enough to choke the breath from their throats. Flies buzzed in clouds so thick they turned the torchlight into shifting shadows.
The army froze.
Even the Misbegotten who had gathered there; dozens of them, snarling a moment before, went silent, their yellow eyes glinting in the gloom. They turned, bared teeth gleaming, but their pride was drowned beneath the horrific spectacle that they themselves had made.
A hoarse voice chittered from the massed creatures, pride curdled into a creed.
"A small tithe for broken chains," it rasped. "See us now."
Millicent gagged, stumbling back a step, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Gods above…" She whispered, her voice breaking. "They… they butchered them all…" Her scimitar trembled in her grip, her youthful bravado stripped raw by the scale of the atrocity.
Melina's face paled, her usual composure cracking. Her lips parted, trembling, but no words came. Only after a long silence did she whisper, hoarse and low, "This is… desecration. I knew it would be a terrible fate for those that remained, but this..?"
Her golden eyes burned with fury, but there was a sheen of grief behind them, something unspoken yet deep.
Edgar's men muttered among themselves, some lowering their blades, others crossing themselves with shaking hands. One fell to his knees, retching until nothing but bile spilled onto the stones.
A young spearman knelt, fingers trembling over a faded scarf caught on a broken wrist. "Elin…?" he whispered, and the name unraveled him.
"Vile, revolting, base creatures…" The Goddess whispered, unheard. The sight reminded her of far away times. Times she wished beyond everything to forget entirely.
John did not hear her, he did not even move.
His breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening until it felt like iron bands crushing him. He had seen this courtyard before in another life, on a screen. He remembered walking past the bodies, aware of the implication of slaughter but never truly thinking about it further. But this?
This was different. This was too real.
His draconic eyes scanned the mound, taking in every detail he wished he hadn't.
And then he saw him.
At the base of the pile, half-buried beneath bloodied limbs, lay a child. A boy, no older than nine. His small hands clutched a simple stuffed bear, its cloth face torn but still smiling. Even in death, the boy's fingers refused to let it go.
Something cracked inside John.
The Zweihander sagged slightly in his grip, not from weakness, but from the sheer gravity of what lay before him. His teeth ground together, sparks flickering unbidden between them as he struggled to swallow the storm rising in his chest.
Too many emotions coiled in his gut, twisting into one another until they were indistinguishable.
Disgust. It was raw and bitter, his stomach churning with the vileness of it all.
Horror. It felt icy and suffocating, his every nerve screamed against what his eyes were forced to behold.
Grief. It was sharp and merciless, cutting into the soft places of his soul he had long since walled off.
Hatred. It felt searing and black, not only for the Misbegotten who had wrought this but for the world itself, for its cruelty, for the ceaselessness and needlessness of it.
But beneath them all, deeper than any of the others, another emotion took root.
It scorched his insides, coiled like a serpent of flame, too vast to contain and too furious to name. His chest rattled with the force of it, his vision blurring red around the edges. His grip on the Zweihander tightened until the leather creaked.
Marika's voice brushed the edge of his mind, not playful, not sharp, but hushed and reverent, as if she were watching something she herself could not stop. "Mine Champion… thy spirit burneth hot. Temper thy fury but a breath, and let thy blade be justice, not blind flame."
John's jaw clenched, he couldn't help it. His breath came ragged, every exhale laced with sparks of embers. His slitted eyes burned bright, reflecting the mountain of the dead.
But one emotion coiled deeper still within his soul, one that scorched his insides in a way he could neither fathom nor restrain.
His Immortal Draconic heart thrummed louder as he recognised the smouldering emotion, almost like a confirmation.
WRATH.
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Author's Note:
Uh oh! Witnessing a mountain of corpses sure does bring down the mood, huh?
Stones please!
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Next Chapter Title: Blood for the Blood God.
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