It would be a lie to say I always acted with reason. As much as I tried to maintain a level-headed outlook and avoid unnecessary displays of anger, something broke in my head—if even for a moment. When I saw Ronald, the royal thorn in my coccyx, running down the street with a burning torch after I'd just witnessed the desecration of my best chance for winning over the town—well, it was rather hard to keep that unbridled rage within me from lashing out; lash out it did.

  I whipped out my arm and summoned Decaying Tendrils. The dark magic streaked from my hand like the tentacles of an ancient darkness and wrapped around Ronald’s leg. I yanked back, tripping the man face first into the cobbled road.

  I paid the gasps of the surrounding townsfolk no mind and stalked toward my enemy as he rolled over, blood running down his forehead.

  His eyes quivered, and his mouth trembled. “Wha-wait, what are you doing?” He said, hand raised up in surrender.

  I let those black tendrils of mine lash about my hip, ready to devour the man after I cut out his confession.

  “You,” I said, planting my feet just short of his. “You did this?”

  He scowled. “You. . . You told me. . . You creature, you to—.”

  I slashed his face with the tendrils, spraying blood across the road.

  He rolled over and cupped his face.

  “Stop!” a woman cried.

  I turned toward her, hate flaring in my eyes.

  She, a young lady with a simple bun and apron, cowered to the ground. “Please, master, please.”

  Please,

  Master,

  Please.

  ***

  “Please, master. Please,” I pleaded as I stood in front of the mayor and his wife. “This is not what I wanted.”

  Dread’s white eyes dropped to face mine. His brow tightened, wrinkling his dark grey skin. His purple tattoos, which streaked his bare head from front to back, radiated with his aura. His blackened armor smoked, the gold of its bulking trim periodically shining as the magic shifted around it. He raised his arms, thick as pythons, and brandished his scarred hands. In one was a purple flame, like that on the head of a torch. In the other was a knife, crooked like the spine it was drafted from.

  I looked at the two. One was my life, and the other was suffering, and neither held the mayor and his wife’s salvation.

  So I took the knife and faced them, they who had shunned me, they who had cursed me—they who had driven me to Dread’s service. I raised the knife.

  “Jevrick,” the mayor begged. “Don’t.”

  ***

  “Don’t. Jevrick, don’t.”

  I snapped back to myself.

  Atan stood between the woman and I, his knife’s edge facing me.

  I looked around to see that a crowd had circled us. I then looked at the dark spell that twisted round my arm. I let it dissipate. “I would never have harmed her,” I said to the paladin.

  His knife did not lower.

  I turned to Ronald, who still laid on the floor, coddling his wounds. “Why did you do it? Why did you burn down the chapel?”

  He shook his head, “that’s not what I burned.” He nodded his head to the alley I’d caught him in.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I took a step in that direction, the crowd shifting back away from me as I did.

  It was the merchant’s building that I saw, flame dancing upon a mound of hay just out their doors. Warehouse workers fought to kill the fire, much in the way the town had just attempted to save the chapel.

  I cocked my head back to Ronald, but no words came out. I had erred, in more ways than one. I had sicced him on the guild. I had attacked him. I had frightened the townsfolk, and I was certain I’d dashed what faith I’d built through this single act.

  I turned, taking in the faces that watched me. Men, women, children. There was the blacksmith, who sneered at me. There was Atan whose knife was still drawn. There was the woman I’d frightened, and dozens who had given me their dead for resurrection. There were many others, watching as I acted like the monster they saw me as. What power I had. What destruction I could cause. But still, what good I could muster.

  I didn’t know what else to say. I just stood there in shame, as the crowd dispersed, disgust upon their faces.

  Some of Ronald’s fellow guardsmen helped him up. He spat on the ground when I looked at him, then walked away with his arms draped over his accomplices.

  I turned to Atan to say something, but the knight had already left, as well as that woman.

  It was just me who stood on the road now, the smoldering ashes of the chapel behind me, as well as my ten thralls and nine sticky corpses. I sighed. Well, there was one blessing out of all of this—I now only needed nine phoenix tails and eighteen feet of iron chains. But I still needed time, and now my way of preserving the bodies from decay had been completely sabotaged.

  I looked at the scythe in my satchel and thought about how Green Thumb’s soul had seemed to be absorbed by the tool. I wondered if I could do the same with the bodies here, perhaps save their souls for when I could find a suitable time to raise them. But, such a venture would be a burden of its own. No, that would be the last resort. I had to prioritize resurrecting these last nine souls above all else. Everything depended on it.

  A gust of wind brought my top hat rolling across the road. I took it up, brushed off the dust, and popped out a dent before placing it back on my head. I took in a long breath and exhaled even longer.

  “Tomorrow is another day,” I said. With that, I ventured to continue my good work.

  ***

  The night brought with it a chilling wind, but Atan accepted its sting as penance. He brushed a hand over the ashen remnants of the chapel beneath him. The black soot was still hot to the touch, but he deemed it respectful to go without his gloves. The scalding sensation served as a cleanse for his sin. He let the black dust paint his fingers and his trousers and tunic. He knelt in the charred wreckage and let guilt wash over him.

  “I am sorry that I failed to protect your home,” he repented. He had been asleep when it started. After a harrowing week, he had foolishly given into the exhaustion his body had built up. Now the house of his stewardship was forever lost. He cursed himself. He cursed that necromancer. But then he cursed himself again. He should never have allowed that dark wizard to house the dead here. This was punishment for attempting to subvert the natural order of life and death. Those souls were meant for Zyon, were they not?

  Atan sighed. He did not fully believe that either, as he’d seen clerics and paladins restore life just as well. Though, perhaps the necromancer’s use of blood and arcane to raise the dead was in fact a perversion, an act at war with the divine’s plan. Atan searched his heart for some answer to the pain he felt, the guilt that overwhelmed him for letting this happen.

  “Ser Atan?” a small voice said behind him.

  He composed himself and faced the speaker. It was Nora Jakoby.

  Atan cleared his throat and attempted to brush the soot from his clothes, which only served to smear it deeper. “Young Nora, should you not be in bed?”

  She stood there in a nightgown and sandals. Her shoulders were tense with the weight of something Atan could not perceive.

  He eased himself out of the rubble and took a knee in front of the girl. “What is it, child?”

  She did not face his eyes, hers welling up with tears.

  He placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Nora, you can tell me what you need. I will not judge you. I swear.”

  Her eyes crept up to face him. Her voice was a whisper. “It was me.”

  Atan’s mouth parted in shock. “What?”

  “I-I burned the chapel.” The tears trickled down her cheeks. She panted as the guilt broke free.

  The knight struggled to understand. It made no sense. Was she taking the blame to cover someone else? No. . . These emotions were true. She had done it. She had burnt down his beloved chapel, a place of much peace and memory to him. But he did not scold her. He did not yell. He did not storm off. He simply took her in his arms and held her quivering body. “It is ok. It was just a building.”

  She shook her head. “I was scared. . . I didn’t want him to bring them back.”

  Atan drew her to face him. “Why?”

  She swallowed. “My uncle. He’s not the same. . . You are not the same. You sided with the wizard over the other paladins. I. . .”

  Now it was clear to Atan. He let out a deep breath. “Dear Nora, I understand your fear. I do not blame you. You are right to fear the necromancer, his powers are horrifying, though I believe he means to help us.”

  “Please don’t tell him,” she snapped.

  “I. . .” Atan smiled. “I will not tell him. He will not know.”

  With that, she fell into his arms sobbing and shaking, and he held her as a father might hold a daughter.

  “You are safe,” he whispered. I will protect you.

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