-Year 7335, Marquisate of Lunos – Forest of blue and red pines-
The clearing smelled of blood and sulfur.
Alór van Decatry dismounted from his horse, his hardened leather armour creaking with the movement. The sword in his hand — a long blade of dark steel with silver veins, different from Andy's, different from the one Ethan had lost at the bottom of the sea — still dripped the black substance of the monsters he had just killed.
Seven goblin corpses lay scattered across the scorched grass. Heads separated from torsos. Crude weapons broken.
Behind him, the rift of the Torrus-endra closed slowly, like a tired eyelid. The purple glow disappeared. The air grew lighter.
"One more," Alór murmured, wiping the blade on a rag.
He sheathed his sword. Mounted his horse.
The wind blew cold, bringing the smell of smoke from a nearby village.
---
He met the knights of Ban on the road to the coast.
There were three. The eldest, Torvin, had a grey beard and the tired eyes of someone who had seen too many winters. The youngest, Kael, looked at Alór with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. The third, a quiet man named Hedrik, stayed behind, his hand on his sword.
"You are Duke Decatry's son?" asked Torvin, noticing the silver-blue hair, the features that resembled Andy.
"I am a lordless knight. My name is Alór."
"We know who you are." Torvin spat on the ground. "Your father spoke of you."
"Did he speak well?"
"He said you're as stubborn as a mule."
Alór almost smiled.
"It's the only compliment I deserve from him."
---
They rode together for a few hours. Torvin told of the journey from Ban, of the three knights Magnus had sent, of the rotten crops and the famine plaguing the islands.
"King Zayan will stay in Decatry until the war ends," said Torvin. "We came to watch. And to kill monsters, apparently."
"Three men won't win a war."
"They won't. But they can save a village."
Alór didn't reply. He looked at the horizon.
"There's another Torrus-endra open further south. Goblins, probably. Or worse."
"Will you close it alone?"
"I will."
Kael interrupted:
"The goblins are multiplying. We found a family two days ago. The father was bleeding. The mother carried her son. The children..."
"I know what goblins do." Alór's voice was dry. "I've seen decapitated children in Lunos. Heads hung on bone necklaces. Goblins like to play with the dead."
Kael paled. Torvin spat again.
"That's why we kill them."
---
The attack came at dusk.
The Contraranures emerged from the darkness like shadows. Black robes, bone masks, curved knives. Their invisibility magic made them almost impossible to see — but the smell of rotting blood and sulfur gave them away.
Alór drew his sword before he saw them.
"Six. Maybe seven," he said quietly. "In front of us. And two behind."
"How do you know?" asked Kael, trembling.
"They breathe like animals."
The cultists attacked. Alór moved first.
The silver blade gleamed in the half-light. The first Contraranure fell with his throat cut open. The second tried to flank him, but Alór spun, the blow striking his chest. The third retreated, frightened.
Torvin and Kael fought beside him. Hedrik protected the rear.
In two minutes, it was done.
Alór wiped his sword.
"Go to the port. I'm going south."
"Alone?" asked Torvin.
"Alone."
"Your father would be proud."
"My father is proud of no one."
Alór mounted his horse. He looked at the Contraranures' corpses.
"Tell him that Alór doesn't need a god's luck. I need a sword and an enemy."
"Your father knows that." Torvin touched his shoulder. "That's why he let you come north."
Alór didn't reply. He tightened the reins.
The horse galloped away.
---
— INTERLUDE – THE LIAR AND THE CULT —
Far away, in the foothills of Derylini, Trussum walked along a dirt road.
His human disguise remained perfect. Blood-red hair, grey eyes, traveller's clothes. The Trásserius flowers in his cloth bag glowed faintly.
'The Contraranures', he thought. 'Where are they hiding?'
He knew the cult worshipped the gods of hell. He knew they offered sacrifices. He knew they had cells scattered throughout Endomyar — in Lunos, in Mercius, even in the Graylor Islands.
But he needed to find them. He needed allies.
A secluded hut by the roadside. Smoke rising from the chimney.
Trussum knocked on the door.
A middle-aged man, his face marked by smallpox, opened it.
"Who are you?"
"A traveller. I need water."
"There's no water for strangers."
"Not even for brothers?"
The man hesitated. Trussum's eyes gleamed.
"Not even for those who serve the lords of the abyss?"
The door opened a little wider.
"Come in. But if you're a spy for the Decatrys..."
"I'm not." Trussum smiled. "I swear by the first strand."
The man relented.
Trussum entered the hut. The smell of dried blood and incense enveloped him.
'The cult is weak', he thought. 'But it's a start.'
Outside, the stars shone. The night was long.