The walls of the cave were coated with a layer of mold, and water pooled across the floor. In the shadows, an old man lay crouched on the stone, bound in chains. His wrists, twisted and swollen, strained beneath their weight.

  “You’re in bad shape, Armyr,” Thana said.

  “It’s been ages since I last took a shower.”

  “I have a proposal. Capture a woman, and I’ll give you back your freedom.”

  “I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “You can refuse,” he whispered.

  “Very well. I accept.”

  A metallic clink echoed, and the chains slid across the rock. Armyr collapsed, pebbles digging into his skin as his arms searched for support.

  “You must capture a woman who wields fire. Her name is Iskra.”

  Thana’s hand settled on his shoulder, and a shiver ran through his body, a wave slipping beneath his skin. The wrinkles lining his face faded, his spine straightened, and his hair transformed into a golden cascade.

  “You’ve been given a second chance. Don’t waste it,” Thana said.

  He handed him a hairbrush.

  “She’ll return to the city in a few weeks.”

  A cloak embroidered with golden threads draped itself over his back, and a purse appeared in his hand. His lungs filled as his fingers flexed with ease. Filaments of energy burst into the air, swirling in a circle. His limbs tensed, his breath caught, and he was swallowed by the light.

  The next instant, he was hurled into an alley. He lifted his eyes to the sky, where dark clouds were gathering. A shiver ran up his spine, and his vision blurred; a tear rolled down his cheek. The clamor of the market rose around him, mingling merchants’ cries with the clink of coins. Armyr slipped through the human tide, dodging merchants burdened with bundles and staggering drunkards.

  A sign creaked under the assault of the wind. Below it, a wooden door let a stream of light spill through. When he pushed it open, he was immediately enveloped by the smell of roasted meat and fresh herbs. A burst of laughter rang out, followed by a sudden movement, a elbow cut through the air. He leaned back, narrowly avoiding the blow.

  “Forgive me, friend! I get a bit too lively when I talk!” the man exclaimed.

  “I noticed,” he replied with a smile.

  He took a seat at a table. A man wearing an apron stained with grease and wine approached, wiping the sweat beading on his brow with the back of his hand.

  “What can I get you?”

  “The dish of the day and a beer.”

  He returned with a steaming plate and a mug.

  “There you go,” the man said, setting them down on the table.

  He brought a bite to his lips. A spicy warmth flooded his palate, revealing a blend of salty juices and rich aromas. A memory washed over him: a lively table, bursts of laughter, a familiar warmth. His heart tightened, and his throat knotted. When he finished, he pushed the plate away, then lifted the mug to his lips and drained it.

  He stood, walked to the counter, and produced a gold coin. The server’s eyes widened.

  “I don’t have enough change to give you the difference,” he stammered.

  “Keep it.”

  He left the inn and was wrapped in the crimson glow stretching along the horizon as the first stars pierced the sky. He moved away from the lively streets, and as he went on, the hubbub faded, giving way to the song of crickets. In the distance, a light shone from a farmhouse nestled in the heart of the fields. He followed a dirt path bordered by tall grasses.

  When he reached the door, he knocked three times, and a man appeared in the doorway, an axe in his hand.

  “What do you want?” the man growled.

  “I’m looking for a roof for the night.”

  “We don’t offer rooms.”

  He drew a gold coin from his purse and let it slide between his fingers.

  “Just one night,” he insisted.

  The farmer took it and bit its edge.

  “Just for tonight,” he muttered.

  He grabbed a lantern and motioned for him to follow. Once on the landing, the farmer kicked the door open, which creaked as it swung wide. The room consisted of a bed and a table.

  “There.”

  “That will do,” Armyr replied.

  The farmer closed the door, leaving Armyr alone. He set his purse on the table before opening the window. A breeze rushed in, lifting his hair. He moved to the bed and let himself fall onto it.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  “This world…” he murmured.

  One last breath of air brushed his skin before he drifted into sleep. The calm lasted until his body shifted, and a heartbeat later he crashed to the floor.

  “Even beds can’t stand me anymore,” he said, running a hand through his tousled hair.

  His foot slammed into a bedpost; the wood cracked under the impact. He picked up the broken piece, drew a blade from his pack, and drove its tip into the wood. He then sharpened the end, slowly carving it into a keen point. He flipped the knife and pressed the blade against his palm, letting a thin trickle of blood bead onto the stake. He slid it beneath his shirt, then went downstairs.

  Below, the embers in the hearth glowed, warming the kitchen. Slumped in a chair, the farmer dozed, surrounded by empty bottles. A half-filled glass wobbled between his fingers, his gaze drifting into nothingness.

  “The meal was served at eight. You should’ve come down,” he grumbled.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Not my problem,” he muttered before gulping down the rest of his mug.

  “Everything all right?”

  “What’s it to you, kid?”

  “As a teenager, I helped my grandparents on their farm.”

  “Hope you still help them,” he shot back.

  “They’re dead.”

  “Everyone dies.”

  “Maybe,” Armyr replied.

  The farmer grabbed a bottle of beer and handed it to him.

  “Bottoms up, kid,” he said.

  The heat of the drink burned his throat before spreading through his stomach.

  “You can really hold your liquor, kid!” he exclaimed, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Are you alone here?” Armyr asked.

  “My wife died two winters ago, and my sons still haven’t come back since the war.”

  “That must be hard, running the farm alone.”

  “I fought in the Great War when you weren’t even born; you get used to it with time. Help me milk the cows and you’ll get a bed for the night.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You young folks never seize opportunities. Lazy bunch,” he grumbled, raising his mug.

  “You’re not wrong.”

  He reached for the bottle, but before he could grab it, the farmer seized his wrist.

  “That’s for the workers.”

  “Then let the work begin,” Armyr announced.

  A smile stretched his lips as he drew the stake from beneath his shirt.

  “What are you doing, you idiot?”

  “You have nothing to fear.”

  The farmer backed away, but his foot struck a chair.

  “Don’t do this! I can give you anything you want.”

  He brought the stake down, and a spray of blood burst from the farmer’s lips. His head snapped back, and he collapsed.

  “Promise kept.”

  A dark hue spread beneath the surface of the corpse, sliding along its veins. His pupils went out, swallowed by twin black abysses. Armyr placed a hand on his chest: a rough substance, veined with cracks, fractured beneath his palm. He tightened his grip, then tore the weapon free. A dark, viscous sap ran down the split surface.

  The body shuddered, then jerked upright. Armyr handed him the stake.

  “Kill everyone you meet.”

  The reanimated being grasped the handle. It crossed the threshold and vanished into the darkness.

  A young man stepped out of a farmhouse, dragging behind him a pitchfork smeared with straw. A creak rose from the path. Suddenly, a disjointed puppet burst from a thicket and hurtled down the slope. Its dangling arms beat the air with the rhythm of its run, and its tilted head revealed a smile. The puppet hurled the stake; it whistled through the air and lodged itself in the boy’s chest. His body convulsed as his veins darkened. His shoulders wrenched out of place, his back arched, then he straightened.

  Behind a tree, a woman held her breath, clutching her child to her chest. Her eyes, fixed on the scene, did not move. Her throat tightened, and a broken cry escaped her lips. Their eyes snapped toward her, and their bodies lunged forward.

  She pressed her son against her and threw herself ahead. Behind them, the sounds drew closer, sharper with every step. A freezing wave ran through her body. Her gaze met that of the creature, and pain exploded in her chest. The air left her lungs in a muffled gurgle as she fell backward. A veil of darkness flooded her eyes.

  Hands seized the boy, heat pierced his entrails. His gaze drifted into his mother’s empty eyes until the world faded away. But the void spat him back out, and the puppets turned toward the village.

  In a barn, an old man crawled between bales of hay. Through a crack between two planks, he watched the nightmare unfold outside.

  Shadows staggered across the yard. Among them, a child stopped, his gaze fixed on the barn.

  No… He couldn’t have seen me… He couldn’t…

  The man curled in on himself, his fingers digging into the hay as one plank gave way, then another.

  Please… Let them pass by.

  A point burst through the wall, grazing his face, and the man clamped his hands over his mouth. Then the stake withdrew, only to thrust forward again, straight into his chest. Through the crack, he saw the child, head tilted, a smile on his lips. The world wavered around him. The edges faded, darkness crept along the fringes of his consciousness, then swallowed him whole.

  Armyr slumped into a chair. His fingers slid along the neck of a bottle of beer on the table. He lifted it to his lips and savored a sip. His gaze drifted to the window, where, beyond the dulled glass, shadows quivered. They twisted and stretched, brushing the edges of the room. He tipped his glass and the golden liquid poured out, then froze, suspended in midair.

  The shadows slipped out of the corners, peeling themselves from the walls and ceiling. One of them drew closer and brushed his sleeve.

  “The mission will be accomplished.”

  They shuddered, then slid into the cracks.

  “This is only the beginning,” he murmured.

  The bottle smashed against the floor, the glass exploding into a myriad of shards. On the planks, the amber liquid spread into a golden pool.