The leader of the party rode ahead, the hammering of his steed's hooves on the earth like tower bells, deep and heavy, tolling doom. He stopped a short distance from me. The sea of men behind him closed ranks, a wall of bodies and weapons, their eyes like lanterns that gave no warmth, no light of mercy.
He looked down at me from horseback, and in that moment he was a king gazing upon a beggar. His features eluded me; every time I tried to focus on his face, it slipped away, smearing like ink in rain. The harder I stared—desperate for familiarity, for something human to temper the horror—the more it dissolved. My vision swam. The world tilted. My gut lurched, bile rising like floodwater against a dam. I staggered back a step, fighting to keep the contents of my stomach where they belonged.
"I can't even look them in the eyes for long," I muttered under my breath, jaw clenched. "I don't see a chance."
A sigh escaped me, ragged and weary. "One hell after another…"
"No. No." I shook my head, violently, snapping the thought apart before it took root. I had promised myself I would not wallow in despair. Promises were flimsy things, but they were all I had left.
When my eyes lifted again, the steed was gone. Vanished, as if swallowed by the wind. The man now stood before me. A warrior—yes—but one carved from the idea of honor itself. He held himself as though the duel were already sacred, already weighed by gods.
At some point, this had ceased to be a hunt. It had become a duel.
I gripped my glaive in one hand, the shaft splintered from strain, and in the other I drew the few arrows I had left. My eyes stung, wet and red, as though blood and water had mixed in them.
The warrior studied me for a long moment, then drew his sword. Not hastily, not hungrily, but with terrible patience. He unsheathed it as though to illustrate the vast difference between us—a gulf no weapon could bridge.
My throat convulsed. I swallowed, desperate for moisture, but it was like pouring a single cup of water onto desert sand—vanished, useless.
He lifted the blade as a judge might raise the gavel, the weight of my fate pressed upon it. Then—down it came. Swift. Absolute. A guillotine for the air itself.
I rolled, dirt scraping my palms, barely escaping.
He said nothing. Not a word. Only watched.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a smith at the forge. Each beat cracked my chest, and still I forced my body to move. My breath came jagged, burning my lungs, a furnace that wanted to collapse.
No respite. No mercy.
He lifted the blade again, parting the very wind, and brought it down with grace so chilling it was almost beautiful.
This time I stepped aside, thrusting my glaive in desperation toward his side.
Clank!
The shock rang through me. His sword met my strike with such force my bones ached. My grip faltered. Fingers went numb, the weapon nearly torn from me. Gritting my teeth, I clung to it and lunged again. And again. And again.
Each strike parried, each desperate attempt deflected. He moved like water. Like death dressed in silence.
He was playing with me.
A predator toying with prey.
I thought of running—but no. His men had formed a ring around us, tightening with every moment, like the knot of a noose.
The moon sagged faintly above, pale and lifeless. The sky bruised with dawn, purples fading to orange, to blue, to the inevitable red of blood. My end was coming with the sunrise.
Clank! Clank! Slash!
Steel sang and screamed. Sparks leapt. My body grew a map of wounds, nicks and gashes crisscrossing my flesh like treasure routes long lost to time. My blood marked the ground, a trail with no promised fortune.
Not one strike landed true.
But neither had I been felled.
I laughed—a cracked, bloody sound that hissed between broken teeth. He had driven the hilt of his blade into my mouth during one of my mad charges, sending me sprawling into the dirt. Yet still I rose. Still, I snatched my glaive back from the earth and stood, hunched, feral.
I was no warrior. No noble foe. Only a beast too stubborn to lie down and die.
Blood streaked me, my chest torn by a grim wound that burned with every breath. Behind me, the sun rose, spilling gold across the battlefield. It stood with me, but gave no strength.
Each breath rasped, each exhale a choke. My throat was desert-dry, cracked and raw. The cold air pressed against me, heavy as the weight of judgment itself.
He stepped forward. His blade rose. He was judge, jury, and god of death. The sunlight caught upon the steel, and for one instant it gleamed brighter than all creation.
"It's been one thing after another," I whispered, voice splintering. "I hope… I get to rest this time."
And then—my throat released a word I had never known, yet felt carved into my soul.
לִפְרוֹס (Lifros).
The sound tore itself from me, strange yet familiar, an ancient tongue my mind could not speak, yet my heart understood.
---
Elsewhere.
Beyond the clouds, past the reach of the sky, where mana corruption swirled in rivers unseen, a ship sailed. Not on seas, but on heavens. Its bulk moved like a predator's fin slicing through ocean currents, silent yet undeniable.
Upon the deck, life bustled as though this were no marvel at all. Men moved with purpose, ropes hauled, orders barked, the air alive with clamor and creak.
"Sir!"
A voice pierced the bustle. A man, no taller than five foot eight, hurried forward. His coat bore the flourish of Victorian inspiration, dark cloth stitched with arcane thread. Gloves etched with glowing runes shimmered faintly as he carried a brass instrument in his hands. A mask obscured his face, lenses gleaming in the morning light.
He approached another man, older, broader, his back as straight as a mast. In his weathered hand, he held a compass—though not one that sought North. Its needle quivered with unnatural purpose, straining toward something unseen.
"Sir," the younger man said breathlessly, holding out the device. "The mana compass has registered a distortion. One unrecorded—nothing like the documented anomalies."
The captain turned, boots thundering against the planks. His coat swept behind him like a banner, his gloved hands tightening around the strange compass.
"Where?"
"Just ahead, Captain. Roughly sixty kilometers. Near the ruins of that castle we marked."
"Good." The captain's voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "Inform the pilot. Rouse the engineers. Take us that way. Let's see what awaits."
"Yes, sir."
The younger man bowed and left at speed. His stride, once weary, now carried a spring. Discovery meant coin. Coin meant comfort. His thoughts already danced to the weight of gold in his purse as he vanished into the bustle.
Alone, the captain returned to his cabin. The table before him was a map of obsession: scattered charts, arcane tomes, a gun with strange runic etchings, odd trinkets whose meanings were known only to him. He set down his compass and reached for a mug of steaming drink, the bitter liquid grounding him against the mysteries that waited.
The needle trembled. The distortion pulsed.
Something stirred ahead the ruin they had passed.