Prologue: The Fall of Rusikar
The world was painted in blood and fire. The blackened sky, torn by lightning, loomed over the battlefield like a grim omen. Jagged hills surrounded the ruin of what had once been a grand cathedral—a testament to faith, now crumbled beneath the weight of heresy. The shattered remains of the Veilstone lay scattered in the mud, glowing faintly, whispering their curse into the ears of the dying.
Rusikar stood at the heart of the desolation, his once-pristine armor now scorched and rent, his blade trembling in his grip. He was not afraid—Rusikar feared nothing—but he could feel the weight of something far greater than himself pressing down upon the earth. Across from him, wreathed in shadow, stood Him. Bartholomew Yon Wauter.
Bartholomew was a specter of wrath incarnate, his hemomantic aura pulsing like a second heartbeat. The crimson ichor that dripped from his claws boiled the ground where it fell, and his eyes burned with an ancient, insatiable hatred. His voice, when it came, was a guttural snarl, laced with mockery and venom.
“Rusikar, the chosen of your pathetic god. How pitiful you look now, with your faith shattered and your prayers unanswered. Blind and withered.”
Rusikar tightened his grip on his incredible seven-foot claymore, customly forged for his unique style of beastial fighting, its golden edge dimmed but still sharp. He did not respond. Words were useless against monsters and even less so against Dimens. Instead, he lunged forward, a blur of steel and fury.
Bartholomew met him with a roar, his clawed hands catching the blade mid-swing. Sparks erupted as steel scraped against the hardened bone of the humanoid’s talons. With a surge of strength, Bartholomew shoved Rusikar back, sending him skidding across the blood-soaked ground.
“Faith won’t save you, mortal,” Bartholomew hissed, stepping forward, his towering frame eclipsing the faint glow of the Veilstone fragments.
Rusikar shakily rose to his feet, blood trickling from a gash across his cheek. “Faith has already saved me,” he spat, his voice low and steady as he gave a huff. “And now it has brought me here. To end you.”
Bartholomew laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed across the desolation. “Then let’s see if your faith can hold back death.”
The fight erupted again, a whirlwind of clashing steel and claws. Rusikar’s strikes were precise, each blow aimed to exploit a weakness in Bartholomew’s monstrous form, not just sending a barrage of strikes but being able to dodge and block Bartholomew’s own counters. But Bartholomew was no mere beast. His movements were fluid and calculated, his counterattacks unrelenting. Each swing of his claws carried the weight of a thousand deaths, each step brought him closer to overwhelming his opponent.
Rusikar ducked beneath a swipe that could have torn him in half, pivoting to deliver a blow that carved deep into Bartholomew’s side. The Sanguisyr howled in pain, crimson ichor spilling from the wound. For a moment, the tide seemed to shift.
Rusikar pressed his advantage, leaving his blade embeded in the entity, one of the surrounding crusaders watching their duel tossed him a greataxe and he began to drive Bartholomew back with a flurry of strikes. He could see the cracks forming, the exhaustion creeping into his foe’s movements. Victory was within reach.
And then he felt it.
The air grew thick, oppressive. A new presence seeped into the battlefield, crawling up his spine like cold fingers. Rusikar froze, his instincts screaming. From the shadows behind Bartholomew, a figure emerged.
It was a boy, no more than twelve, yet his form defied comprehension. His frame was humanoid, but his limbs were too long, his posture predatory. His eyes glowed with a feral light, blood stained and dripped from his mouth, and his movements were unnervingly fluid, like a serpent poised to strike. He wore no armor, only tattered cloth, yet the aura around him was suffocating, even the battle hardened crusaders that Rusikar had spent years fighting monsters with buckled at the pure presence of this child.
“Sebastian,” Bartholomew growled, a grin splitting his bloodied face as he grabbed the back of the claymore sticking through him. “Show him the future.”
Rusikar barely had time to react. The boy moved faster than his eyes could track, a blur of raw power. The first strike shattered the axe, the fragments scattering like falling stars. The second sent him sprawling, his armor denting inward with the force of the blow, cutting into his ribs.
Sebastian didn’t stop. He was on Rusikar in an instant, claws tearing through steel and flesh. Rusikar roared in defiance, trying to push back, but the boy was relentless, a storm of teeth and nails. Each strike was calculated, each movement surgical. This was no child. This was a predator.
Rusikar tried to place the staff of the axe between them but Sebastian splintered it in seconds before tossing a piece into a nearby crusader, turning and with a final, brutal motion, drove his hand through Rusikar’s chest, claws piercing flesh and bone. Rusikar gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. His vision blurred, the world fading to black as he could merely tremble.
Bartholomew approached, towering over the fallen champion. He looked down at Rusikar, his grin wide and cruel.
“I am the only god of this world,” he said softly, raising Rusikar’s sword high above them as the Crusaders and beasts of either side paused to watch. “But take solace in this: your death will herald a new age. My son will see to that.”
Sebastian yanked his claws free, letting Rusikar’s body collapse into the mud, yet still he held himself up by the knees only to have his body cut through vertically, severing his right arm, only stopping once the blade was clean through him and impaled deep within the earth below with only the long handle sticking out.
Bartholomew placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, pride gleaming in his monstrous eyes, a mix of yellow and red.
“The age of man is over,” Bartholomew said, his voice carrying across the battlefield. “The world belongs to me!”
As they walked away, the light faded from Rusikar’s eyes as his body split, and the shattered Veilstone whispered its mournful song into the silence.
The Dirge of the Veilstone
In the dawning mists where the gods once tread,
The Veilstone bound what the living dread.
One heart for the light, one soul for the flame,
One truth eternal, one curse untamed.
For kings who ruled, their hands did burn,
For sages who saw, their minds did turn.
For warriors bold, their blades did break,
For dreamers lost, their hopes did quake.
Seven shards fell from the heavens’ tear,
To forests deep and chasms sheer.
Seven realms hold their fragile grace,
Seven trials for those who dare the race
One child born to the blood of kings,
Shall unmake the Veil, as sorrow sings.
One shadow rising, one sun shall fall,
One end awaiting the root of all.
So tread with care where the roots do creep,
Where the silence lies and the stars don’t weep.
For the stone that shattered will one day call,
And bind the living to the roots of all.
Faelshai mazorth velkai rakhalai uth,
Kelthesh zanthi mazhel qorthai uth.
Un helai vorath, un nyshka vorash,
Un eleth zanthi, un mazorth uthnai.Rakhalan vorash, kelthar sangeth,
Nerosh vorai, drauvai heluth.
Zhulmai zanthi, thalrak uthnai,
Dralai vorash, fasorth uthkai.Salthun zanthi drauv sanghelai,
Qavren dralmor kelthar uthnai.
Salthun qorthai kelvon fasang,
Salthun mazorth tharnis qorth sang.Un nyshen helai rakhalis sang,
Kelthesh uthlai, mazorth fasang.
Un mazhel vorai, un faelsh drauv,
Un uthnai vorash, tharnis uth vorn.Velth fasorth tharnai drauv qorthai,
Mazhel velkai iskrai uth fasang.
Kelthesh sanghel vorath uthnai,
Velkai kelvon fasang tharnis uth vorn.
Chapter I: A Fool’s Errand
The ship rocked gently on the churning waters as the coastline of Vuemand came into view. A foggy, cragged shoreline met their approach, the skeletal remains of forgotten fishing villages dotting the horizon. The town ahead, Mirepoint, sat slouched like a beaten dog, its crumbling piers stretching out like bony fingers into the gray sea. The smell of brine, decay, and rot clung to the air, clawing its way into the nostrils of the passengers aboard the ship.
At the prow stood Lord Edric Valcor, the Red Herring, dressed in finery ill-suited for the salt air. His coat was a deep maroon trimmed in gold, and his boots gleamed with a polish that mocked the world around him. His face was youthful, yet lined with arrogance, his nose turned upward even against the biting wind. Behind him trailed his translator, Albrecht, a wiry man with a sour expression, clutching a tome filled with the intricate script of Vuemand’s native tongue.
The ship’s captain, a leathery man with a face weathered like driftwood, cleared his throat. “Begging yer pardon, m’lord, but I’d not linger long in Mirepoint if I were you. This is a cursed land—monsters in the shadows, curses in the air.”
Edric turned, his brow furrowed. “Monsters, you say? Curses? Do you think I’m a child, trembling at bedtime stories?”
The captain stiffened but refused to meet Edric’s gaze. “Not stories. Truth, m’lord. The kind of truth they write warnings about. They say the storms here don’t come from the sea—they come from them. And the townsfolk, what few are left, they’re not the kind you’d want to share bread with.”
Edric waved dismissively, a sardonic smile creeping across his face. “Superstitious drivel, the lot of it. The same nonsense that fuels the Crusades. The East hasn’t seen a ‘monster’ since Rusikar lost his head, and that was—what—centuries ago?”
Albrecht coughed politely, stepping forward. “M’lord, if I may, the captain speaks to the folklore of this region. They call it Wyrdwrit, the belief that the land itself carries a curse.”
Edric sneered. “Wyrdwrit. Another superstition to keep peasants in line. I’ve no patience for fairy tales.”
The captain, undeterred, stepped closer. “Peasant tales or not, m’lord, you’ll find few here willing to guide you once you leave the ship. And none who’d dare tread Mirepoint’s roads after sundown. Best keep that in mind.”
“Duly noted,” Edric said dryly, his gaze fixed on the crumbling town ahead. He turned to Albrecht. “Translate that nonsense to the locals when we dock. I want it known that I’ve no time for their wailing or ghost stories. We’re here on business.”
Albrecht nodded stiffly, though he shot a glance at the captain, who shook his head grimly.
The ship pulled into the splintered dock with a groan. Mooring lines were cast, and the gangplank was lowered with a hollow thunk. A handful of dockhands shuffled into view, their forms gaunt and their eyes sunken. They moved with the lethargy of men long resigned to misery. None spoke; their mouths moved, but no sound came out.
“Charming place,” Edric muttered, stepping onto the gangplank. He gestured for Albrecht to follow. “Make yourself useful and see if any of these scarecrows speak enough to understand you.”
Albrecht approached one of the dockhands, the heavy tome under his arm. His words were precise, carefully enunciated in the guttural Vuemand dialect. The dockhand’s empty gaze flickered with faint recognition, though his response was slow, almost mechanical.
“They say the path to your estate is… unsafe,” Albrecht translated. “They recommend staying within the town limits.”
“Unsafe? Of course, it is,” Edric scoffed. “Because the path is cursed, or because I’ll be carried off by flying goblins?”
Albrecht’s jaw tightened. “They imply bandits, m’lord.”
“Ah, bandits. At last, something real amidst the fog. Well, they’ll learn that crossing House Valcor isn’t worth their lives.”
One of the dockhands muttered something under his breath, a rapid string of syllables that made Albrecht pale.
“What did he say?” Edric pressed, noticing the translator’s hesitation.
“…That even bandits fear the estate you’re about to claim,” Albrecht replied. “They say it was abandoned for a reason.”
Edric barked a laugh. “Fear! The people of Vuemand are terrified of their own shadows. If I spent my life in hovels like these, I’d invent ghosts to explain away my failures too.”
The dockhands stepped back, crossing themselves in a gesture unfamiliar to Edric. He frowned but said nothing, pulling his coat tighter against the growing chill.
As they left the dockyard, the town opened up before them in all its dismal glory. Rotting wooden shacks leaned precariously against one another, and the streets were more mud than stone. A handful of townsfolk lingered in the shadows, their eyes darting nervously toward the newcomers. A chill wind cut through the air, carrying whispers of curses and something darker.
The party—Edric, Albrecht, and three of Edric’s household guards—moved quickly through the streets, their fine clothing and polished armor drawing stares from the locals. Edric made no effort to hide his disdain, commenting loudly on the stench and squalor.
At the edge of town, the road to the estate stretched into the mist. The forest loomed, its skeletal trees clawing at the sky. A strange stillness fell over the group as they stared into the fog-shrouded path.
“This,” Edric declared, “is where your monsters live, I suppose.”
Albrecht hesitated. “M’lord, perhaps we should wait until daylight.”
Edric smirked. “Nonsense. Monsters don’t care for light or dark—they only care for fools who give them power by believing in them. Let’s move.”
The guards exchanged uneasy glances but followed, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. As they disappeared into the mist, the townsfolk murmured quietly among themselves, their voices carrying a single word: “Wyrdwrit.”
The cart’s wheels groaned under the burden of Edric’s belongings, the uneven path jarring him with every bump. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying foliage, and the occasional caw of unseen birds echoed ominously through the canopy above. Towering trees framed the narrow path, their gnarled branches intertwining like skeletal hands, casting shadows that seemed alive in the dim, filtered sunlight.
Felix trudged alongside the cart, swatting at the persistent swarms of midges. He muttered curses under his breath, his annoyance mounting with every step.
“You’d think a ‘lord’ would have better sense than to send his son to this gods-forsaken place,” he grumbled in his accented version of Edric’s language.
Edric, seated atop the cart’s bench, straightened his posture, his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his ceremonial sword. “You’d do well to keep such opinions to yourself, translator. Your job is to follow orders, not question them.”
Felix gave a derisive snort. “A job that should have come with hazard pay. Do you even know what’s waiting for you out here?”
“An overgrown house, a title, and an inheritance I didn’t ask for,” Edric replied curtly, his tone dismissive. “What else would there be?”
The cart driver, an older man with a face weathered by years at sea, shifted uneasily in his seat. “The land’s cursed,” he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.
Felix perked up at this, looking to the driver. “Finally, someone with sense.”
Edric groaned. “Not this nonsense again.”
“Call it nonsense if you like, but folk don’t come back from the Wyrdwrit,” the driver said, his voice low and gravelly. “The woods don’t let them.”
“More tales for superstitious fools,” Edric said, rolling his eyes. “Do you have any idea how much blood these so-called crusades have wasted chasing shadows? How many men have died waving banners at things that aren’t there?”
Felix shook his head, muttering, “You’re too green to see the truth.”
“Keep talking like that, translator,” Edric said sharply, “and I’ll have you shipped back to Ebuceci in chains.”
The driver’s lips tightened, and he snapped the reins with more force than necessary, urging the mule to quicken its pace. The forest seemed to close in around them as the path narrowed further, the sunlight dimming until the journey felt more like a descent than a simple ride.
The estate came into view suddenly, as if the forest had been hiding it. The wrought-iron gates were ajar, their rusted hinges groaning in protest as the wind nudged them. Beyond lay a courtyard choked with weeds, the statues of ancient ancestors now weathered and defaced by time. A fountain stood at the center, its once-proud sculpture now crumbling, the dry basin filled with stagnant water and the skeletal remains of small animals.
The manor itself loomed like a tomb, its spired roof sagging and its stone walls streaked with moss and mildew. Windows that might once have gleamed with life now stared like the empty sockets of a skull.
“Well,” Felix said, breaking the silence. “Home sweet home.”
Edric dismounted, his boots crunching on the gravel as he approached the gates. He hesitated for a moment, a faint unease prickling at the edges of his composure. Then, steeling himself, he pushed the gates open with a resounding creak.
The air inside the manor was thick with the stench of mildew and something sour, like spoiled meat left to rot. Dust blanketed every surface, muting the colors of the ornate rugs and tapestries that still clung to the walls. Chandeliers hung above, their once-sparkling crystals now dull and caked with grime, casting faint, warped reflections in the dim light.
Edric’s footsteps echoed across the cracked marble floor of the entry hall. The grand staircase, which should have been the centerpiece of the room, was a ruin of splintered wood and sagging bannisters. Portraits of grim-faced ancestors stared down at him, their painted eyes seeming to follow his every move.
“Gods above,” Felix whispered as he stepped inside, holding his lantern aloft. “This place feels like a tomb.”
Edric ignored him, his attention drawn to the far end of the hall where a heavy door loomed. Deep gouges marred its surface, as though some beast had tried to claw its way through.
“Stay here,” Edric said, his voice clipped. He drew his ceremonial sword, the blade gleaming faintly in the lantern light, and pushed the door open.
The stench that greeted him was overwhelming. He gagged, raising an arm to shield his nose and mouth. The lantern’s glow revealed a narrow staircase spiraling downward into darkness.
“Felix,” Edric called, his voice muffled. “Bring the light.”
Reluctantly, Felix joined him, descending the stairs with cautious steps. The walls of the cellar were damp, the stone slick with a sheen of moisture. Iron cages lined the room, their bars rusted and warped. The floor was littered with chains, broken and stained with something dark and unidentifiable.
At the far end of the cellar, one cage remained intact. Inside crouched a figure, gaunt and skeletal, his hair matted and his skin pale as parchment. His head was bowed, but as the lantern’s light reached him, he stirred.
“Visitors,” the man rasped, his voice brittle yet strangely resonant. He lifted his head, revealing sunken eyes that burned with an unnatural intensity. A crooked smile spread across his face.
Felix stumbled back, nearly dropping the lantern. “What in the—”
“Stay a while,” the man said, his tone almost casual. “The night’s not kind to strangers.”
Before Edric could respond, a low, guttural hiss echoed from the shadows. Felix swung the lantern toward the sound, revealing a hunched, goblin-like creature with mottled green skin and sharp, yellowed teeth. It crouched low, its muscles coiled, ready to spring.
The man in the cage moved with startling speed, gripping the bars and wrenching them apart with a sickening screech of metal. He stepped out, his movements fluid despite his emaciated frame. In a single motion, he lunged at the creature, snapping its neck with a sickening crunch.
The goblin’s lifeless body crumpled to the floor, and the man turned to face Edric and Felix. His crooked smile returned, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too white.
“Don’t waste your strength,” he said, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “You’ll need it before the night is through.”
Edric stumbled back, his ceremonial sword clattering to the stone floor. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to process the chaos unfolding before him. The goblin’s corpse lay crumpled at the feet of the gaunt man, its head lolling unnaturally to one side. The lantern’s flickering light cast twisted shadows on the walls, distorting the cage bars and the man’s hollowed figure into monstrous silhouettes.
Felix, gripping the lantern tightly, was frozen in place. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, as though trying to form words but finding none sufficient for the scene before him.
“What… what are you?” Edric finally choked out, his voice cracking despite his effort to sound authoritative.
The man tilted his head, his skeletal features taking on a mockery of curiosity. “That’s the first question you ask?” he said, a grin spreading across his face. His sharp teeth glinted in the dim light. “Not ‘who are you?’ or even ‘why am I still alive?’ Interesting.”
Edric’s hand instinctively sought the hilt of his sword, but his trembling fingers betrayed him. He backed away, his boots scraping against the damp stone. “Answer me!” he demanded, though his voice lacked conviction.
The man took a step forward, his movements unsettlingly smooth, like a predator stalking its prey. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, his tone almost playful. “But if you insist—” He spread his arms in a mock gesture of welcome, his tattered clothing hanging loosely from his emaciated frame. “I’m Ren. The Devil, they call me.”
Felix finally found his voice, though it was little more than a hoarse whisper. “Devil’s right. You shouldn’t be standing after being locked in that cage. Shouldn’t even be alive.”
Ren’s grin widened. “Alive? That’s a matter of perspective, don’t you think?”
“Enough riddles!” Edric snapped, his fear giving way to frustration. He forced himself to stand taller, drawing on the authority he had been taught to wield as a noble. “I don’t care what you are. You’ll answer to me now.”
Ren’s laughter echoed in the chamber, a sound that sent a chill racing down Edric’s spine. “Oh, you don’t care? That’s precious. Do you have any idea where you are, little lordling? Do you think this is some petty estate you can tame with titles and gold?”
Edric faltered, the weight of Ren’s words sinking in. He glanced around the room again, truly taking in the chains, the rusting cages, the unmistakable stains of blood long dried into the stone. “This… this is my cousin’s estate,” he said weakly, as though the words could make it true.
Ren’s expression darkened, the grin fading from his face. “Your cousin was no more human than that thing I just killed.” He gestured to the goblin’s corpse. “This estate? It’s not a home. It’s a larder.”
Felix swore under his breath, taking a step closer to Edric. “He’s right. Look around. This isn’t the work of a man. This is… something else.”
Edric shook his head, his mind reeling. “No, you’re lying. My cousin was… he was eccentric, sure, but he wasn’t—”
Ren interrupted, his voice cold and sharp as a blade. “Your cousin was a Báuturíí, boy. A blood drinker. A parasite. And from the looks of this place, he was a gluttonous one.”
“No,” Edric whispered, his voice barely audible. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s more than possible,” Ren said, his tone softening slightly. “It’s the truth. And if you don’t start accepting it, you’ll be dead before dawn.”
Edric’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, his head in his hands. The weight of Ren’s words crushed him, the naivety of his sheltered life crumbling under the grim reality of the world he had stepped into. His mind raced with questions, but none of them seemed to matter anymore.
Felix crouched beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Milord,” he said quietly, “you need to focus. We’re not safe here.”
Ren watched them with a mixture of amusement and impatience. “The translator’s right. This place is a graveyard waiting to happen, and you’re sitting in the middle of it like lambs to the slaughter.”
Edric looked up at Ren, his eyes filled with a desperate defiance. “If what you say is true, then why are you still here? Why didn’t they kill you too?”
Ren’s expression turned grim, his voice low and measured. “Because I don’t die easy. And I have a knack for killing things that need killing.”
For the first time, Edric saw something in Ren beyond the monstrous grin and predatory gaze. There was a weariness there, a quiet fury that burned beneath the surface. It was the look of a man who had seen too much, survived too much, and carried the weight of it all.
“We’ll see about your cousin’s ‘estate’ in the morning,” Ren said, turning toward the staircase. “For now, we bar the doors and pray nothing worse comes knocking.”
As Ren ascended, Edric felt the full force of his own naivety. The world he thought he knew had shattered, leaving only darkness and monsters in its wake.
The morning air was thick with decay, a fog hanging low over the cobbled streets of the town like a shroud. Edric walked cautiously beside Felix, his head pounding from a restless night. Behind them, Ren followed at a leisurely pace, his expression inscrutable but his eyes keen, scanning every shadow as if expecting it to leap forward.
The town was eerily silent. The handful of structures that remained upright sagged under the weight of years of neglect. Most of the buildings were barely more than skeletons of wood and stone, their walls riddled with gaping holes and their roofs collapsed. The streets were littered with debris—broken carts, shattered glass, and the occasional gnawed bone.
“Where is everyone?” Edric whispered, his voice barely breaking the oppressive silence.
Felix shrugged nervously, gripping the hilt of a knife he’d taken from the estate. “Could’ve fled. Or worse.”
“Worse?” Edric asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Ren chuckled dryly from behind. “Oh, there are plenty of ‘worses’ in Vuemand, lordling. Maybe they became goblin meat. Maybe the Báuturíí bled them dry. Or maybe…” He trailed off, sniffing the air like a wolf. “Maybe they didn’t leave at all.”
Edric stopped abruptly, turning to face Ren. “What does that mean?”
Ren pointed to a dilapidated tavern a few paces ahead. Its sign—a crude depiction of a tankard—swayed in the faint breeze. “Why don’t we ask inside?”
Felix hesitated, glancing at Edric. “Milord, perhaps we should—”
But Edric was already moving, his frustration and fear boiling into a need to assert some semblance of control. He pushed open the tavern’s creaking door, stepping into the dim interior.
The smell hit him first—a rancid stench of sweat, stale beer, and something coppery beneath it all. The interior was dark, lit only by faint slivers of daylight filtering through cracks in the walls. Tables and chairs were overturned, some broken into splinters, while the bar was a mess of smashed bottles and sticky residue.
At first, Edric thought the room was empty. Then he saw the figures.
They were huddled in the far corner, half a dozen of them, their eyes wide and unblinking. Men, women, and children—clad in tattered clothing and smeared with filth. Their skin was pallid, their cheeks sunken, and their breath came in shallow gasps. They stared at Edric as if he were a ghost.
Felix stepped in behind him, his knife at the ready. “By the gods…”
Ren entered last, his presence filling the room with a tension that made Edric’s skin crawl. He surveyed the scene, his lips curling into a grim smile. “Ah, survivors. Always a treat.”
One of the men, a gaunt figure with a patchy beard, staggered to his feet. “Please,” he croaked, his voice dry as sand. “Help us.”
Edric’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, though he wasn’t sure what help he could offer. “What happened here?”
The man’s eyes darted nervously to the others, then to the boarded-up windows. “They came at night. Took the strong ones first. Left us… the weak. For later.”
“Who?” Edric asked, stepping closer.
The man flinched, his gaze dropping to the floor. “The pale ones. The blood drinkers.”
Edric felt a chill run through him. Báuturíí. His mind flashed back to Ren’s words at the estate. Your cousin was no more human than that thing I just killed.
Felix muttered a curse under his breath, backing toward the door. “We shouldn’t be here. Milord, we need to leave.”
Ren chuckled, leaning casually against the bar. “Leave? Oh no, translator. We’re right where we need to be.”
The first scream came from outside—a blood-curdling wail that froze Edric in his tracks. Then another, and another, until the air was filled with the sound of sheer terror. The survivors in the corner began to sob, clutching each other as the noise drew closer.
Felix grabbed Edric’s arm. “Milord, we have to go!”
Edric hesitated, torn between fear and the sense of responsibility drilled into him since childhood. “We can’t just leave them!”
Ren’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. “They’re already dead, lordling. We stay, we join them.”
The door burst open, and a man stumbled in, his face pale and his chest heaving. “They’re here!” he screamed, collapsing to the floor.
Behind him, the shadows moved.
They were human-shaped, but only just. Pale, with elongated limbs and eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. Their movements were unnaturally fast, their faces twisted into grotesque parodies of humanity. The Báuturíí.
Edric barely had time to draw his sword before they were upon him.
The first Báuturíí lunged at Edric, its claws outstretched. He swung his sword wildly, the blade biting into its shoulder but not slowing it down. It snarled, its fanged mouth snapping inches from his face.
Felix tackled the creature, plunging his knife into its side. It screeched, its blood hissing as it hit the floor like acid. Felix cried out, clutching his burned hand as the creature turned on him.
Ren moved like a shadow, faster than Edric thought possible. He grabbed the Báuturíí by the neck, slamming it against the wall with bone-crushing force. “Stay down,” he growled, snapping its neck with a sickening crack.
Another Báuturíí lunged at Ren, but he was ready. He ducked under its claws, driving a stake he’d seemingly pulled from nowhere into its heart. The creature shrieked, its body convulsing before collapsing into ash.
Edric fought desperately, his sword heavy and unwieldy in his hands. He managed to slash one creature across the chest, but it barely flinched, knocking him to the ground with a swipe of its claws.
Before it could strike again, Ren was there, driving his stake through its back. “You’re welcome,” he said, yanking Edric to his feet.
The Báuturíí were retreating now, slipping back into the shadows as quickly as they had appeared. The survivors were silent, their eyes wide with fear as they huddled in the corner.
Ren wiped the blood from his hands, his expression grim. “Welcome to Vuemand, lordling. Hope you’re ready for the rest of the tour.”
Edric stumbled onto the path leading into the marshlands, his breath ragged and chest heaving. Felix was no better, clutching his side as though his ribs might collapse from the strain.
“We made it,” Edric gasped, collapsing to his knees. “We’re alive.”
“You’re not dead yet,” Ren said, emerging from the shadows. His voice was cold and matter-of-fact, the smirk gone from his face. He strode toward them, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of distant fires. “But if you think you’ll survive on luck, you’re already halfway to the grave.”
Edric looked up, confusion and exhaustion clouding his expression. “What are you talking about? We escaped—”
Ren cut him off with a low whistle.
At first, nothing happened. Then the shadows shifted, and out from the surrounding trees stepped more Báuturíí. Their pale forms glided forward, their golden eyes locking onto the trio with hungry intent.
Edric’s blood ran cold. “You… you led them here?”
“Not them,” Ren said, stepping forward, stake twirling in his hand. “Just one. The rest followed because they’re scavengers. And now you’re going to see why people like you don’t make it out here.”
Ren didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, his movements a blur as he threw a small vial at the Báuturíí. It shattered on impact, releasing a cloud of silver dust that clung to their skin, causing them to shriek and recoil.
“Silver salt,” Ren explained over his shoulder, as though giving a lecture. “Coats their flesh, slows them down. You’d know that if you’d bothered to learn anything about this place.”
One of the Báuturíí lunged, its claws swiping toward him. Ren sidestepped with ease, his stake plunging into its chest in a single, fluid motion. The creature let out a guttural scream before crumbling to ash.
Felix grabbed Edric’s arm, his voice trembling. “We need to run—”
“No,” Ren barked, his voice sharp and commanding. “Watch.”
The remaining Báuturíí hesitated, their predatory confidence shaken. Ren took a step forward, his expression daring them to attack. One of them snarled and leapt, but Ren was faster, spinning to deliver a kick that sent it sprawling. He was on it in an instant, driving his blade into its throat with grim efficiency.
“They’re not invincible,” Ren said, standing over the ash. His eyes flicked to Edric, cold and unyielding. “But they’re not stupid, either. They can smell fear, and they will use it against you.”
The last Báuturíí didn’t charge. It circled instead, its molten eyes fixed on Ren as it bared its teeth in a twisted smile. Ren mirrored the movement, his stake held low but ready.
“This one’s smarter than most,” Ren muttered. “Probably a pack leader. Felix, toss me the oil flask.”
Felix fumbled at his belt, tossing the small flask to Ren. Without breaking stride, Ren uncorked it with his teeth and flung the contents at the Báuturíí. The creature howled as the oil splashed across its chest.
Ren struck a match. The small flame danced in his hand, casting flickering shadows across his face.
“Time to send a message,” he said, throwing the match.
The Báuturíí erupted in flames, its scream echoing into the night. It thrashed and writhed, clawing at the air before collapsing into a smoldering heap.
Ren turned back to Edric and Felix, his expression unreadable. “Now we’re done.”
Edric stared at the charred remains, his stomach churning. “You… you could have warned us.”
“And what good would that do?” Ren shot back. He crouched down, wiping his blade clean with a scrap of cloth. “You need to understand what you’re up against. Out here, no one’s going to hold your hand. Either you learn, or you die.”
Felix swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Ren and Edric. “What do we do now?”
Ren stood, slinging his stake over his shoulder. “We move. The Báuturíí aren’t the only things out here, and the noise we just made? It’s going to draw everything.”
He started walking, his silhouette fading into the darkness. Felix hesitated before following, his knife clutched tightly in his hand. Edric lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the smoldering ashes.
Then he took a deep breath and followed, his heart heavy with the weight of his own ignorance.