Rulf wakes because something is wrong.
Not a sound. The absence of one. His wife's breathing—gone.
He sits up. The room lies in half-darkness, but he spots Grem at once. Standing. Motionless. The eyes—
"Are you well, my boy?"
Grem doesn't answer. He studies his father. As though something ancient and shadowed gazes through his son's young eyes. As though Rulf were an object whose utility must be assessed.
"Do you love Mama?"
The question comes calm and emotionless.
Too calm.
Too hollow.
The words hang in the air. No child's voice. Something older speaking through the boy.
Rulf laughs—nervous, half-asleep. "Of course. Why do you ask—"
"Mama is dead."
Silence. Rulf blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens, closes. He searches the bed beside him, finds only cold sheets.
"That's... that's not—"
Grem tilts his head. "You never deserved her."
The door opens. No sound, no movement Rulf might have seen. Tilda stands there. His Tilda. But her gait is wrong. Too measured. Her face in the half-dark—smiling, but the eyes...
"Were you worried, beloved?"
Her voice. Her voice, but the inflection foreign. She steps closer. Rulf scrambles back in the bed, collides with the wall.
"Tilda?"
She seizes him. One hand around his throat, lifting him high. He thrashes, gasps, strikes at her arms. Iron. They feel like iron.
"Would you save your wife?" The voice comes from Grem, still standing motionless. "Would you kill her so she might find peace?"
Rulf stares into Tilda's face. Searches for something human. Finds nothing. Only a grin too broad, too rigid.
"I would—" he wheezes. "kill her."
Tilda hurls him. Not onto the bed. Through the room, against the wall. He crashes down, feels his ribs crack, tastes blood. When he looks up, Mira stands before him. His daughter. Her eyes—empty. A mirror.
She grabs his hair, yanks his head back. He sees Grem, still in the doorway, watching.
"Why?" Rulf whispers.
Grem turns away. "Because you were never worthy."
The darkness comes from all sides. Tilda. Mira. Hands, teeth, the roaring of his own blood. Rulf screams one final time.
Then silence.
Grem steps over what remains and walks into the living chamber. The progeny already stand there. Heads bowed. None breathing. Motionless. Waiting. As though anticipating a command from their father.
He seats himself at the table. Takes his father's place.
Something is missing. He feels it as a hollow behind his breastbone, where a heart should have beaten. No hunger. Longing.
But for what?
He rises and walks out into the night. To find answers to his questions.
He wanders into the village proper, but his posture, his gait, his footsteps betray him—he is not the person he pretends to be. The villagers of Glutheim sense this, turning all their gazes upon young Grem.
An approaching villager halts before Grem in reverent fear, for the dark presence radiating from the boy is so potent that even common earthly beings can perceive it. Grem asks the man: "Who is the finest smith in this village?"
The villager answers with trembling voice:
"That would be Molrik, of course."
"Are you well, young Grem?"
The Dark King learns to suppress his monstrous aura, finally managing to restrain it so the villager can breathe freely once more.
Grem asks the villager where Master Molrik's house stands. The man points with a finger toward Molrik's dwelling. Grem does not deign to look at the villager and turns away.
Always knew something was wrong with that boy, the villager mutters to himself.
Too well-behaved for a lad his age.
The stone floor beneath Grem's feet is cold. Too cold for a summer evening.
Molrik's forge lies in darkness. Only the glow of the furnace pierces the black, casting dancing shadows upon the walls.
Grem stops at the door. He does not knock.
Molrik turns. The hammer falls from his hand, lands heavy upon the anvil. The echo dies too quickly.
"Grem?" Molrik's voice, rough from labor. "What do you want here? It's late."
Grem enters. His movements are wrong. Too fluid. Too calculated.
"You are the smith," he says. No question.
Molrik nods, slowly. His hand searches the wall behind him, finds the grip of tongs.
"The finest here," Grem adds. "That will suffice."
Helka steps from the chamber. Her nightgown white in the half-dark. She sees the boy, then her husband. Freezes.
"Grem?" Her voice breaks. "Are you unwell?"
Grem turns his head. Too fast. Like an owl. His eyes—no longer a child's.
"Homunculi," he says. "You know the word."
Silence. The fire in the furnace crackles. A spark leaps, dies upon the floor.
"Homunculi are not human," Helka whispers. Her fingers claw into the fabric of her gown. Her face contorts with horror. "That is forbidden magic."
"You should go home now. It's late."
"Your mother should bake me another spark-cake, yes? They're quite delicious."
"I'll pay..."
But before Helka can finish her sentence, Grem hurls the massive stone table against the house wall, creating a gaping hole. The massive stone table lands with tremendous force upon the muddy street.
Nearly crushed by the massive stone table, the villagers barely manage to dodge it. They draw closer to the house to witness what unfolds.
Helka now holds a dagger ready behind her back, Molrik a heavy iron pan.
"Who researches such alchemy?"
Molrik snorts. Nervous. "You're a child. You don't understand what—"
Grem is before him. No run. No step. Simply there. His hand around Molrik's throat, fingers pressing, feeling the pulse beneath the skin.
"I feel your heartbeat," Grem says. His lips twist into something that is no smile. "Strong. Steady. Trained by the hammer."
Molrik gasps. His hands strike at the boy, find only air. His face flushes red, then blue.
"Molrik!"
"Wait! Please don't kill my husband. We'll tell you everything we know."
"There is an alchemist in the village Yulong. From the realm of Baiteng. He researches the homunculi."
"And you, old man, can surely build the vessel."
Helka, still in shock, nevertheless rushes forward to save her husband. "Smith's triumph!" she cries, the battle-shout of the Melanor. Grem turns his head, looks at her. She freezes. Grem hurls Helka into the muddy street with one hand, where she loses consciousness.
His body convulses. A tear rips through the air itself, a scent of ancient ash. Something crawls forth from Grem, shadows thickening, taking form—
A clawed hand, black as coagulated blood, reaches for Molrik.
The Noctusborn now stands fully revealed, unfolded from the boy like a beast from its lair. His eyes—empty stars, frozen light.
He regards Molrik, who has sunk to the floor, gasping, clutching his throat.
"Strong enough," the creature judges. "Skilled enough. You shall be my flesh-vessel, smith. Your hands shall do as I command. Your heart shall beat so long as I wish it."
Molrik tries to flee. His legs do not obey. The Noctusborn places a hand upon his forehead—
Molrik's eyes widen. His mouth opens in a silent scream as darkness penetrates him, fills him like water a jug. His skin turns black, then flesh-toned again, but wrong. Too smooth. Too still.
The body convulses. Once. Twice.
Then rises. Slowly. The movements still clumsy, like a puppet on new strings.
The eyes—Molrik's eyes, but behind them burns no light. Only waiting. Only hunger.
"Your shell shall be my flesh-garment now, old man." The voice sounds hollow, metallic. "For me. So long as I deem it worthy."
Helka, meanwhile regaining consciousness in the muddy street, sees Hagan standing directly before her. Hagan seems asleep, yet stands on both legs perpendicular, though his head hangs down as though he slumbers.
"Hagan!" Helka calls.
But he does not react.
Helka tries to rise, and as she manages to stand, she finds her face directly before Hagan's. She recoils slightly.
Suddenly Hagan's eyes open, yet they seem soulless.
Helka slips and falls backward,
but then Hagan opens his maw, his many long fangs protruding. He seizes Helka and overpowers her with ease. Her scream chokes off as Hagan's fangs sink into her nape. Not Hagan's teeth. Something else, growing from his mouth, forming itself, drinking.
She convulses. Once. Her eyes roll back.
Then she stands. Slowly. Her face pale, but calm. Too calm.
After some time, a frightened woman emerges from her hiding place, pale of face and drenched in sweat. She can scarcely believe her eyes and ears, what she has just witnessed and heard.
She seems to be no Mel'wynna.
From the appearance of her clothing, she seems to come from Kaelon.
She has heard everything, and after some time in shock, she can breathe freely again. She rides as fast as she can, eastward toward Yulong, to warn the people there of the coming... lurking... deadly danger.
Glutheim she can no longer save, but can she reach Yulong in time to save the villagers there?
All villagers of Glutheim flee in panic for their lives, frightened, cowering in their hiding places and praying one last time to the mountains. But they stand no chance. One by one they are drained to the last drop of blood, until only a single villager remains.
The Dark King in the guise of old Molrik says: "You shall guide me to Yulong." And crawls forth from the old Molrik's body once more. His fangs pierce the villager's nape.
The villagers of Glutheim stand side by side, heads bowed, breathing measured. Waiting. Behind them the forge, cold. The fire extinguished.
The courtyard lies still.
Too still.
"Show me the way!" the Dark King says to his newly created progeny.
His progeny points with a finger toward the east.
And the creature of darkness rises into the air and seizes his newly created progeny, who still points with his finger toward the east.
"We must make haste, dawn approaches soon and with it the daylight," says the Dark King.
Both vanish toward the east.