“He told me things, truths you all want to keep hidden! He showed me all your lies and manipulations! I know what the ‘gods’ really think of us! We are livestock to them, chattel to be moved, traded, and expended wherever they see fit! You are all traitors and whores, you sell us out to your masters for a taste of their power and a better market price when its time for slaughter! Now I have the truth, and I’ll never be blinded again. I’m free, and I’ll keep doing what I’ve done until everyone else is as well! I promise that, on the only thing I have left to call sacred, my own soul, now freed of the parasite’s touch!” - Testimony of (former) Hierophant Gothard after being apprehended for burning down the temple of Aunt Huntress in the city of Abasa.

  The skinny boy ran down a dark tunnel, his bare feet slapping against the cold, wet stone, their steady rhythm the only sound except for his ragged breaths. Every inhale tore at the boy’s insides, flavoring the stale cavern air with hints of blood and bile, both tastes testifying to his exertions and absolute terror. The boy was fleeing for his life and knew that to pause for even a moment would spell a grisly end. For somewhere deeper in the dark, a monster lurked, a slow but unyielding horror that would never stop hunting the youth. So, even as his lungs burned and muscles tore, the boy ran, driven onward by the raw panic common to all prey animals.

  Sweat dripped down the boy’s naked form, stinging when it met the ugly gashes marking his arms and legs, each born from a painful encounter with the jagged outcrops lining the cavern walls. With his hands desperately groping at the umbra before him, the boy had managed to avoid serious injury, but in the near pitch black of these warrens, avoiding every blood-hungry patch of rock was impossible. Still, he kept moving, ignoring his pain as his flight wasn’t mindless. A faint light shone somewhere beyond this cavern, its dull flickering hue reflecting off time-polished stone, creating a nearly phantasmal glow that still offered the only hope available to the boy.

  Crooked and branching as the cavern was, enough of a straight path lay ahead for the orange light to reach the boy, calling to him like a lighthouse might to a floundering ship. With every step, the glow grew brighter, and the youth found a new well of strength, pushing himself into a final frantic sprint. But even with salvation so close, it would only take a single mistake to doom the boy, and his new haste provided just the malign opportunity for him to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Eyes fixed on the light, arms out before him, the boy didn’t notice the fissure in the rock floor until his foot slipped into it. Calf bones met unyielding stone and broke like a tree branch snapped over a fulcrum, sending the boy crashing to the ground with an audible crack.

  For a split second, the youth just lay there, and then the pain arrived. He tried to force down the scream building in his throat, but it was impossible, and a high wail pushed itself past chapped lips. Once the scream ran its course, the boy started to hyperventilate, his lips and fingers tingling slightly. But even over the sound of his own shallow breaths, the youth could hear another sound, the steady drumbeat of boots against stone. The monster was close, and judging by the slow tempo of its footfalls, it was taking its time reaching him.

  Shuddering, the boy freed his foot from the crevice and started to crawl forward. He was so close; one more bend in the cave and he’d be at the light. Through teary eyes, he could see its flickering glow and knew a safe hearth was in reach. Dragging his broken leg behind him, clawing at the uneven stone, uncaring of how it cut into him, the Boy kept moving.

  Behind him, the footsteps of his pursuer grew faster, and with them came another noise, a light, feminine laugh filled with mockery. Knowing his opportunity was measured in seconds, the boy hauled himself forward, reaching the final turn in the cave, latching onto the uneven stone and pulling himself into the light. But before he could lay eyes on his salvation, an iron grip wrapped around his broken ankle and dragged him back into the darkness.

  The boy screamed, first in pain as he was violently pulled away from hope, then in terror when rough hands flipped him over so he stared face to face with his enemy. Looming over him was a giant, easily twice his height and covered in open wounds. Blood and pus dribbled from wicked cuts, festering burns, and deep gouges; no centimeter of the monster’s flesh was unharmed, but it didn’t seem to notice. Face split in a leering rictus, the giant’s icy blue eyes caught the flickering light, and in them, the boy saw murder.

  With a voice like two glaciers rubbing together, the giant growled. “You can’t run from me, Maggot.”

  Another form appeared out of the dark then, scuttling up onto the giant’s shoulder and perching there like a bird of prey. Lithe and cloaked in swirling patterns of red, the newcomer smiled at the boy, her face painfully familiar except for the long fangs peeking out from behind blood-stained lips. In a voice as melodic as the giant’s was grating, the vampire said, “Yes, you can’t run, Uncle; debts are owed.”

  Huge hands covered in gashes and drying blood wrapped around the boy’s throat, slowly squeezing with a strength he knew could turn stone to powder. Staring up into both sets of cruel eyes, one red, one blue, the boy tried to beg but no words could escape his bluing lips. With every second, the cave’s darkness grew ever more impenetrable, and the boy deliriously wondered if the giant would stop squeezing when he was dead or just continue until his head popped clean off.

  Then the tunnel started to shake, stone grinding against stone as a hot wind blew through the cavern, carrying a dull roar with it. New fissures snaked along the rocky ground, and hunks of debris began to fall. One of these chunks struck the giant, cracking against its charred scalp and sending it reeling. Forced to use its hands to stay upright, the giant let go of the boy as more and more stone fell, pelting the behemoth and the hissing vampire. Forcing air into his lungs, the boy didn’t waste the opportunity; he scrambled away from the monsters, letting out ragged coughs as the tunnel collapsed around him and grey dust filled the air.

  Fingernails broken, palm slick with blood, the boy reached the cavern wall and started to pull himself up onto his still functioning foot. Hobbling forward, using the wall to keep himself upright, he finally rounded the corner as the world shook around him. Warmth and light washed over the boy, forcing him to pause long enough for his eyes to adapt. Blinking away quickly drying tears, the youth stared at his sanctuary and tried to understand what he was looking at. He’d expected a large fireplace or blazing signal beacon; instead, he found a pit lined with swords, its depths glowing with volcanic heat.

  Hands pressed against the boy’s back then, shoving him violently forward and ruining his precarious balance. Arms flailing for anything to grab, the youth toppled into the pit with a scream. Fingers grasped at one of the swords but failed to find purchase on their smooth substance, leaving the boy to tumble head-over-heels, plunging down towards the waking fire below. As he fell, the boy heard a snapping sound from above, and he caught sight of the pit closing, the swords interlocking like… like sharp teeth. As seething flames surged up to meet him, the boy’s final thoughts were. ‘Not a pit, a mouth’

  Lord Aloyius Wolfgang woke with a start, slamming his forehead against the stone sarcophagus lid a few handspans above him. Hissing in pain as the final flickers of his dream faded, the Black Fly groped around in the dark of his makeshift nest and found the runes he’d etched into the stone coffin. With a whispered word of power, Wolfgang undid the slapdash protective spells he’d worked. The clatter of chains striking stone came from beyond the sarcophagus, and the Vampire pushed against the lid, slowly sliding it open. Fingers twitching slightly, Wolfgang clambered free of the coffin and examined his surroundings.

  The Kunras family of Harmas had been a traditional lot. They kept a private tomb beneath their manor, which, once properly desecrated, had proved a reasonable lair for Wolfgang. Shutting the coffin lid and reattaching the magically locking chains to it, the Black Fly skulked towards the tomb door, sparing a glance for the quartet of rattlers standing guard. They were shoddy workmanship on his part, but the tomb’s original inhabitants hadn’t been great material, and he’d been pressed for time.

  Leaving the crypt, Wolfgang made his way up into the dilapidated manor’s foyer, trying to ignore the dull but growing thirst within him. Bathing in the building’s original owner’s blood had regenerated his wounds, done little to refill his cistern. Thinking of the dead city beyond the manor, Wolfgang wondered how he was going to feed. Perhaps Scapino had a supply of life rust, ritually concentrated human blood, or maybe some survivors might yet be found in the city he’d murdered?

  As if summoned by the mere thought of him, the Ashborn sauntered down the manor’s main staircase, a wide, vulpine grin upon his face. “Well, well, well, I see our newest understudy is back among the living… or at least the undead.”

  Eyeing the flamboyant monster he was indebted to, Wolfgang rasped. “Do you have any thralls here?”

  Scoffing, Scapino shook his head in mock disappointment. “We aren’t in the Duchies anymore, don’t expect to be pampered by a dozen fawning fools. No, here we must work for our meals, and hunt like true vampires.”

  Wolfgang scowled; he wouldn’t consider his life and then subsequent unlife in the Duchies as anything close to pampered. Seeing his expression, Scapino rolled his eyes. “Oh, honestly! Just consider it as us helping finalize the population collapse of Harmas. You’d be surprised how many enclaves of mortals are still scurrying about; it seems your plague wasn’t quite as deadly as advertised.”

  Biting back his annoyance, the Black Fly called upon decades of experience playing the courteous toady to half-mad monsters. “Unfortunate but not unexpected; they’ll provide us with substance and test subjects when the time comes.”

  A crooked grin spread across Scapino’s face, and he slung an arm around Wolfgang’s shoulders, sending a jolt of fear up the younger monster’s spine. The night before, he’d seen the truth of Scapino in a dusty mirror, and no amount of foppish melodrama would ever change that. If the Ashborn noticed the Black Fly’s discomfort, he did not comment, merely chuckling and saying. “Ah, that prodigious mind of yours is already making plans, I see. Tell me, what is the first step in completing what my colleagues and I have commissioned from you?”

  Another flicker of suppressed fear went through Wolfgang; shortly after waking from his healing torpor, he’d been introduced to Scapino’s ‘colleagues,’ and the experience had been… enlightening in many ways. As a direct scion of Vovoide Gens Sullia and member of his court, Wolfgang had thought himself experienced when it came to being a small fish swimming amidst leviathans, but meeting the Troupe forced him to realize the limits of his perception. Terrible as Igori Gens Sullia and his coterie of monsters were, they suddenly seemed a much more manageable problem. But the time for regrets and bleak nostalgia was long passed; Wolfgang had sold himself to the Reaper of Sorrows, and she, in turn, had loaned him to this Troupe for a pair of very specific tasks.

  Staring off into the middle distance, unwilling to meet Scapino’s smirk, Wolfgang asked. “I can start work on the new plague as soon as possible, but I fear that uncovering the homunculus’s secrets will require our prisoner’s aid.”

  Buzzing his lips with mock weariness, Scapino stroked his goatee. “Then on the plague you shall focus. In the meantime, I’ll make some arrangements to see if we can shake anything loose from the Countess’s skull.”

  Pausing, Wolfgang said. “I’d imagine Gens Silva’s mind is protected in more ways than we can fathom. Judging from my readings, her lineage specialized in psychic constructs, so even in her current state, Isabelle Gens Silva will be difficult to deal with.”

  Scapino patted the Black Fly’s shoulder and brushed off his concerns. “She won’t be the first formidable mind we’ve pulled secrets from, and I’m certain with the right aid, you’ll be more than up to the task.”

  Unnerved by this congeniality, Wolfgang slowly nodded. “Before I begin, I need to know what resources are available to me. My original creation uses the Broodmaiden as its anchor and draws power from the ancestral Almtree to propagate. If I’m going to do what your colleagues asked of me, then equivalent assets must be at my disposal.”

  Considering this, Scapino headed towards the manor’s main dining room, casually gesturing for Wolfgang to follow. After a moment of pointless hesitation, the Black Fly complied, finding a long, dirty table covered in myriad trinkets and documents waiting for him. Tossing a vellum scroll to Wolfgang, Scapino gestured for him to open it. “Our patron has been very generous, and she’s made one of her favorite servants available to us.”

  Slowly, half-expecting some wretched hex to be inscribed onto the scroll, Wolfgang looked at its contents. His brows quickly shot up as he scanned the arcane symbols and scrivenings covering the yellowing sheepskin. This was a summoning rite, and an exceedingly complex one as well, designed to call forth a demon of high pedigree. Staring at the scroll, Wolfgang quickly understood exactly who this spell was meant to conjure and what would be required to enact the ritual. Gingerly rolling up the scroll, Wolfgang whispered the demon’s name, “Romosus-Ur-Liaga: Arch-Apostle of the Fractured Covenant”

  Beaming, Scapino slowly circled the long dining table. “Yes, he is a high demon in service to the Reaper and, more than that, one easily summoned here in Harmas.”

  Staring down at the scroll in his hands, Wolfgang went over the previous night’s meeting and found new meaning. Upon being inducted into the Troupe as an ‘under-study,’ he’d been given two tasks: uncovering Isabelle Gens Silva’s method of making an immortal homunculi and creating a new plague. At first, he’d thought the Troupe merely wanted him to modify his original work, countering Gens Silva’s cure and letting the Screaming Plague continue its spread unimpeded. Many of the masked faces in the cracked mirror laughed at him for that assumption; they had no further use for Wolfgang’s original pestilence. In fact, as far as the Troupe was concerned, the city-killing plague he’d created to earn a Duke’s favor had been just a good ‘proof of concept’ for the weapon they now wanted from Wolfgang.

  In the simplest terms, the Troupe sought a plague of doubt. A disease that didn’t simply mar a person’s body but also damaged their ability to believe in what they’d once thought sacrosanct. Before reading the summoning rite, Wolfgang had assumed this prospective contagion was meant as a tool of subversion, a way to spread paranoia and discontent throughout an enemy population. Now, knowing which demon was supposed to fuel this plague, the Black Fly understood the terrible scope of this scheme a little better. Romosus-Ur-Liaga, was a demon of grief, but unlike the vast majority of his kind, he did not feed on the traditional forms of loss, instead, the Arch-Apostle fed exclusively on the pain felt when a soul lost faith in a higher power. But like all truly powerful demons, Romosus didn’t just feed passively; he could twist the minds of any unfortunate to fall under his power. So, if this demon were to become the heart of a new plague, those infected would find themselves slowly but inexorably stripped of all the faith and trust they’d once had for the Pantheon.

  Wolfgang could scarcely imagine the damage such a disease might inflict across the world. What would the Gods do when thousands, perhaps even millions of people found themselves beset by doubts that literally festered inside them? How could the Gods influence the world when their followers reacted to them with suspicion and fear? Where would the Gods find Priests if no one trusted the power they offered? Who could stand in Wolfgang’s way if every Paladin looked upon the magic within them as a curse or infection?

  Flashes of the terrible dream that had haunted his torpor danced across the Black Fly’s eyes and a cold slit of a smile formed on his lips. He somehow doubted that scarred homunculus and his abomination of a grand-niece would pose much of a threat anymore without the Tenth God’s patronage. Besides, this new plague offered other options; the Reaper would, of course, demand an inoculation, a way to protect her own twisted faithful and perhaps those of any other fell god she considered allies. With her stigma branded onto him, Wolfgang would have no choice but to comply, but once he’d found a way to loosen his collar… well, it wouldn’t take much to modify this project to cripple his supposed patron. Then, even if the Reaper still proved a problem, another plague might be created, one that stripped the very emotion of grief from all those infected. Something like that would certainly give him the leverage to gain true freedom.

  Filing away these schemes for later, Wolfgang set the scroll down on the dining table and started to peruse the other arcane offerings. Examining what could only be the mummified head of a seer priest, judging by its faded tattoos, the Black Fly asked. “I take it these are aides for the summoning rite?”

  Scapino shrugged. “Some are, some have other purposes, others are just distractions. Speaking of, I should probably tell you more about our current situation here in Harmas.”

  Unrolling an annotated map of the city, the Ashborn gestured at a spot on one of Harmas’s three islands. “We are here, near the center of Jobbzary, the ‘eastern wing’ of the city. Ghouls are still very prevalent here, unlike in Balzary, the western wing, which had a solid mass of its infestation leave thanks to well… a mess I’m still not entirely certain about. Information is a little hard to come by here, but from what I’ve learned, a group of survivors attempted a rather spectacular breakout attempt that went poorly, instead simply letting a mass of ghouls escape, which seems to have been exactly what Duke Umbria intended.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Looking over the map, Wolfgang remembered his many conversations with Spymaster Arici and how they’d worked together to plan Harmas’s downfall. “Yes, the idea was to turn the heart of Alidonar into a weapon facilitating the Duke’s conquest. Creating a massive stockpile of dangerous undead from the city’s population while simultaneously decapitating the Marches’ leadership.”

  Nodding, Scapino replied. “A good plan, but one hampered by unforeseen communication issues, according to what I’ve heard.”

  Letting his fingers trace over the Almtree grove’s map marker, Wolfgang techily muttered. “That was a failing on Arici’s part, he clearly underestimated how disrupted the Aether would become thanks to my plague and the city’s guardian spirits.”

  The Ashborn quirked an eyebrow in mild amusement. “Yes, well, that worryingly clever goblin found a workaround, at least for a while, judging by the timing of the breach and the recent lack of messages reaching his agents in the city.”

  Gaze snapping up to his unusual ally, Wolfgang said. “You’ve made contact with them?”

  Scapino smirked. “Oh yes, and they’ve proved not just to be wonderfully ignorant about the situation beyond the city but also receptive to our cover story.”

  Wolfgang licked his fangs. “They think I’m still working for the Duke?”

  Nodding, Scapino replied. “Yes, and that you’ve been smuggled into Harmas at great cost in order to neuter the Leaguer attempts to neutralize your plague. Which, like all good cover stories, is close enough ot the truth that it should mask our efforts while also putting the Duchy assets inside Harmas at our disposal.”

  Pausing to think over much of what he’d learned and deduced, Wolfgang asked. “I take it a scheme akin to this one is how you got Sir Dietrich Freymond’s aid in attacking Vindabon?”

  Shrugging in a non-committal, but still very telling way, Scapino japed. “You’d be shocked how many vampires can be easily convinced to join a conspiracy or plot by simply implying their overlord is its origin.”

  Considering this, Wolfgang found himself grateful to be back on the side pulling strings. “So I’m to begin work on this ‘plague of doubt’ while pretending it's simply a modification of my original work to keep Arici’s agents compliant?”

  Scapino’s smile faltered just a tiny bit. “Yes, well, we’re going to need more from them than compliance. Dead as Harmas is, it’s not without dangers, and I fear they will only grow the longer we stay here. Having a few elite vampires and thralls between us and our enemies will be extraordinarily useful.”

  Frowning, Wolfgang thought of the few dim lights he’d seen across the city. “The mortal survivors?

  Chuckling bleakly, Scapino replied. “Some of them are dangerous, but the majority are more of an opportunity than a problem.”

  This made a sour sort of sense to Wolfgang; survival of the fittest was true among all animals, even among livestock. But before he could start to plan counter-measures, Scapino added. “Though, ultimately, they’re a secondary concern compared to the real threat that is fast approaching.”

  Grabbing a nearby dusty oil painting, Scapino swung it aside to reveal a hidden alcove containing a heavy chain-wrapped chest. Setting the container on the table and gingerly unlocking it, the Ashborn opened the heavy, stargent-lined lid and gestured at its contents: a cracked vampire skull. “The Homunculus Knight will never stop hunting us as long as we have her, and considering a Seraphilim is aiding him, it won’t take that monster long to uncover our location. And call me craven, but I don’t relish the idea of facing not just an Immortal Paladin but also the Reborn Alukah and a Sun-blessed Saint, as well.”

  Staring into the empty eye sockets of Isabelle Gens Silva, Wolfgang felt a cold knot grow in his stomach. “You have access to potent spatial magic. Why don’t we relocate to somewhere farther beyond our enemy’s reach?”

  Scapino smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, we will, once our business here is finished.” Gesturing at the scroll containing Romosus-Ur-Liaga’s summoning rite, he added. “Conjuring a demon of that potency is never easy, but Harmas’s corruption will make it feasible. Besides, there are still hundreds of desperate mortals who will make excellent test subjects, along with a city’s worth of arcane resources and equipment to scavange. What you have here, dear Wolfgang, is a monumental laboratory, the likes rarely found, and a limited time to use it. I’m certain a mind like yours can see all the possibilities.”

  Wolfgang considered this. He’d been in torpor for two weeks, and if the Homuculus had learned his location during that time, it still needed to find a way into Harmas and past all the dangers infesting the city. Loath as the Black Fly was to wait around for that scarred creature, he couldn’t deny the opportunity Harmas presented. For once in his unlife, he’d have access to vast resources without any overbearing taskmasters or conniving rivals to hamper him. He didn’t need to just create this plague, he could start working on other ideas, ones he’d been leery to even consider back in the Voivode’s court. Yes, as the more Wolfgang thought about it, the more spending a month or two draining every drop of value from the city he killed seemed a wonderful notion.

  Cole woke up screaming, a ragged moan ripping past his scarred lips as he thrashed himself free of a particularly vivid night-terror. Heart pounding like a war drum, the Homunculus frantically sat up, hands clawing at the sheets, gaze sweeping around the dark room before settling on a pale shadow with red eyes. Scream turning into a roar, he followed his instincts and threw himself at the skulking terror, wrapping an iron grip around the monster in the dark, ready to kill it before his wretched dreams could become reality.

  Feeling cold dead flesh in his fingers, Cole snarled and started to tear, ready to maim the vampire before it could respond. A panicked gasping voice cut into his madness, its tight fearful tones somehow both piercing his fugue and growing the tempest inside him. “Cole! Stop!”

  Freezing in place, the Homunculus let his grip slip from the vampire as recognition returned to him. Natalie, stared up at him with bright crimson eyes, fear and worry marring her beautiful face. Sucking in cold lungfuls of air, Cole stumbled back, nearly tripping over the low bed he’d been on. Darting his gaze around the room, he remembered where he was, a guest room in Inner Azyge; and realized what he’d done as Natalie lay on the ground, clutching at her right shoulder with obvious pain. In those frantic first moments of consciousness, he’d attacked his partner and nearly ripped her arm out of the socket.

  Reaching out to her, Cole’s voice was a croak. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry… I-”

  Natalie pulled herself up without his aid and offered a lopsided shrug. “I know, it’s okay.”

  Managing a faint sad smile, Natalie added. “Honestly, after what I did, this is the least I deserve.”

  Shaking his head, Cole cleared his scream-parched throat. “No, no, don’t think like that. Everything that happened isn’t your fault; I should have been there for you, if I’d been stronger you’d not have had to tap into the curse.”

  Slowly sitting down on the bed, Natalie hung her head. “Annoch’s power brought out the worst in me, but it was still me.”

  Covering her face, she muttered. “I’ve dealt with plenty of drunks before, and some of them seemed to be a totally different people when soused; but that’s just an illusion, its the same person, just… now unable to hide the truth.”

  Cole sat down on the bed nearly an armspan away from Natalie, and said. “I think there's a big difference between beer lowering someone’s inhibitions, and you being infected with an ancient blood-soaked curse.”

  Raising a hand in a gesture of dismissal, Natalie snapped. “The journey doesn’t matter much if the destination is the same. I acted like the exact kind of monster I’ve spent my entire life loathing, and hurt the one person whose always stood beside me no matter what horrible shit this broken world can unleash.”

  They sat in silence like that for a time, and Natalie brought her knees up to her chest. “I remember looking through your eyes and… and not even recognizing myself, instead just seeing some evil vampire bitch.”

  Cole flinched at those words; his own memories of events and his subsequent breakdown were raw. Upon seeing his expression, Natalie sucked a breath in between her teeth. “I’m sorry, your the one who woke up screaming, we shouldn’t be focused on me.”

  Staring blankly at the smooth stone floor, Cole pushed down flashes of suffering and sorrow, trying to make sense of them as he whispered. “My nighterror wasn’t normal.”

  As Natalie quirked an eyebrow he elaborated. “I can’t properly remember it, and that’s not what usually happens. It’s just a jumble of sensations and emotions, none of them good. Like the dream was fragmented or something.”

  Natalie went perfectly still for a few seconds before saying. “How long does it take you to regenerate from psychic damage?”

  Seeing Cole’s confusion, Natalie swallowed pointlessly. “When I was inside your mind I tried to… to heal you, by taking away memories, and when I regained myself I didn’t put them back.”

  A flash of anger filled Cole, and he bared his teeth. “You damaged my mind and didn’t think to tell me?!”

  Shrinking in on herself, Natalie said. “They were memories of the larder, I think, of different tortures you suffered. With everything else happening, I didn’t think putting them back into your-”

  Cole stood up hands clenching and unclenching. “You don’t get to decide what should or shouldn’t be in my mind; that seems an obvious jagging lesson to take from this!”

  Natalie flinched like she’d been slapped, and as her lip quivered, Cole found himself torn between the desire to comfort her and his own rage. Sucking in a shuddering breath, Natalie nodded “You’re right, I should have-”

  Shaking his head violently, Cole walked toward’s the door. “I need some time.”

  Grabbing his belt and Requiem with it, Cole left the room, trying to fight down the boiling emotions inside of him. His group had been billeted in a burrow-home, one of the partially subterranean buildings close to the wall of Inner Azyge. Heading for a set of heavy doors, he flung them open, revealing a small balcony that offered a poor view of the town. As the cool night air washed over him, Cole grimaced as the smell of smoke and burning bodies reached him.

  It had been two days since the ‘battle of the broken walls’ as the locals called it, and in that time Azyge’s rallied defenders had managed to cull most of the ghouls swarm. Without the plague killing one half of the town and forcing the other into quarantine, the corpse-tide became a much more manageable threat, especially with Cole personally joining the fray to cut down any more potent undead mixed in with the ghouls. Now, despite victory close at hand, the Paladin almost wanted the fight to continue. Being out there, lost in the fervor of combat, he could avoid all these wretched thoughts and feelings.

  Staring up at the great plume of ash billowing up from the massive cremation pyres, Cole considered joining the workers clearing away the dead ghouls, or perhaps going out and seeing if he could find any stragglers to put down. Grip tightening on the belt in his hand, he even started to wonder if he should just leave and head to Harmas by himself. A foolish notion, but somehow still tempting if it meant fleeing his torment.

  “We should form a club.”

  A voice cut through the night from somewhere to Cole’s left, and he spun, axe in hand, finding a weary-looking Cat-eyes perched on the balcony’s railing, feet dangling out into the darkness. Shocked he’d somehow not noticed her, Cole slowly rebuckled his weapon and asked. “What?”

  Gesturing absently between them, Alia elaborated. “I mean it can’t be that common to have your girlfriend try and kill you because she’s got evil vampire magic twisting her mind.”

  For a solid ten seconds, Cole just stared at the City-warden, incredulity warring with confusion. “What in the world’s name are you doing out here?”

  Shrugging, Alia picked at her sharp teeth with a wooden sliver. “Same as you, I’d reckon, running away from my partner because I’m having a hard time with the fact she broke my head.”

  Patting the railing next to her, Cat-eyes added. “Well, come join me, and we’ll think of club activities. Because I’m thinking watching the smoke clouds from a couple hundred ghouls getting burned; shouldn’t be all we do.”

  Leaning against the banister, Cole sneezed and rubbed his nose. “It’s going to take forever for us to escape the smell.”

  Alia snorted. “Yeah, that won’t be a problem for me.”

  Frowning, Cole turned to his friend, seeing her bitter expression. Tapping her still bandaged forehead and then tracing down to her nose. Alia explained. “Tough as my kind are, even we can’t take a mace to the skull without consequences. My sense of smell is just about gone. The Angel says the nerve damage might repair itself over a few years, but no promises.”

  Stunned by this, Cole asked. “But she’s fixing up Kit’s arms without issue?”

  Smiling bitterly, Alia replied. “Yeah, well, y’know my people were originally cursed by a fell god, right? Werebeasts used to be all evil people-eating monsters, and sure, the Pantheon helped, but you can’t ever wash away all the darkness in something like that. And seeing how my nerves are what my curse is all latched onto, Deborah thinks the type of healing she used on our fiddler would do more harm than help.”

  Letting out a breath, Cole muttered. “Fuck.”

  Alia smirked. “Life’s a sow sometimes.” Clapping Cole on the shoulder, she continued. “But hey, we’ve got your weird mutant senses to take my slack, and besides, that Werewolf the Saint’s got has a better nose than even I used to.”

  Pausing, a sour expression went across Cat-eye’s face. “Huh, you think the Pantheon figured Mina and I weren’t enough? That’s why they made sure better jagging versions of us would show up to save everyone?”

  Spitting her toothpick out into the night, Alia grimaced. “They knew we couldn’t cut it, so they sent a living saint and one of the most feared werebeast mercenaries on the continent to play whatever role was expected of us, but do it properly?”

  Cole hadn’t even considered the now-obvious parallels between the two duos. Pondering the implications, he sighed and let his head settle onto the railing. “How do we fix this?”

  Alia grunted. “I dunno, but I doubt sitting here feeling like shit is part of the process.”

  Neither of them moved.

  Eventually, Cole rubbed at his scarred scalp and said, “I’m trying to follow my own advice and to figure out how to forgive Natalie, but I don’t know how.”

  Twisting and moving her legs so she now sat back facing the night, Alia said. “Then don’t, I know from both you and Mina how terrible mind magic is. I’ve also heard the stories from those on the wall when you…”

  “Had a mental breakdown and tried to take on the entire swarm by myself.” Cole offered.

  Alia smirked. “From what I’ve gathered, it wasn’t so much you trying as you succeeding. Anyway, what I’m saying is whatever our favorite vampire did to you, it was bad. She knows it, you know, so stop trying to move past it, instead, just embrace it.”

  Cole considered this and let his shoulders slump. “I still love her, but I’m also angry at her.”

  A mocking chuckle came from Alia. “Well, looks to me Isabelle did a good job making a person, cause from my experience that’s pretty normal.”

  Shutting his eyes, Cole muttered. “Her too. I’m angry with her too. For… for a lot of reasons, and I don’t know how to handle it. I’m just not used to feeling such different emotions for the same person.”

  Alia stared at him for a moment, brow furrowed. “That’s called having a relationship, jackass. Partner, parent, sibling, friend, don’t matter, you’ll eventually run into shit like this with people, its normal.”

  Meeting her gaze, Cole whispered. “But I’m not. I’m an immortal monster predisposed to fanatical loyalty. What if… what if my brain can’t handle this, what if-”

  Alia kicked him then, not hard but enough to hurt. “Oh grow the fuck up, Cole. Stop thinking yourself into an early (if temporary) grave, and just feel what you feel and get through it. Be angry, be upset, be hurt, and then be done; it's painful, but it's possible.”

  Rubbing at the rib she’d kicked, Cole mused on his friend’s advice. It rang with truth, but some truths weren’t universal; his existence proved that, but still, she had a point. As Cole thought more about it, Alia’s biting comment about ‘growing up’ might be a little more accurate than she’d intended. From the moment of his creation, his life had been defined by unyielding duty to first Isabelle, then Master Time, and now Natalie. While he’d never been blind to any of their flaws, he’d also never really allowed himself to dwell on any negativity related to them. Somehow, Isabelle’s abduction had put a major crack in whatever mental barrier he’d erected, and events since then had conspired to only widen it. Leading him now to face his complicated emotions without the tools to handle them.

  Standing up straight, Cole slowly nodded. “I guess it makes sense; not having a childhood would certainly rob me of some things a child learns.”

  Pushing off the railing, he headed towards the door and said. “Thank you, this was helpful.”

  Shrugging, Alia replied. “Yeah, well, you made a good point back in that gods-forsaken cavern, helping others is sometimes a great way to help yourself.”

  Leaving his friend, Cole returned to the room he shared with Natalie, finding her curled into a ball on the bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling. As Cole set his belt down, her gaze snapped to his, and they both started to speak.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  After an awkward beat, Cole came over to the bed and said. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that, my emotions are proving… tempestuous.” Pausing to look at his hands, he continued. “Natalie, I’m angry with you for what happened, but that doesn’t change how much I love you. It’s just… I’m not used to feeling like this.”

  Natalie slowly nodded and started to unfurl herself. “Well, that makes two of us, I’m pretty angry at myself as well. And I’m sorry for not mentioning the memories earlier. I don’t really have a good excuse other than how overwhelmed and horrible I’ve been feeling.”

  They shared the silence for a moment until Cole took a deep, steadying breath, returning to their earlier topic. “I think your hunch about my night-terrors being connected to the stolen memories is correct. My mind is probably already repairing itself, which, considering what it's restoring, consequences are inevitable.”

  Wincing, Natalie rolled her one shoulder. “I’ll make sure to be not so close when I wake you up in the future.”

  Mirroring her pained expression, Cole nodded. “That’s probably wise.”

  Hesitantly, Natalie licked her lips and said. “I have a request.”

  Cole motioned for her to elaborate, and she looked away. “When you stormed out, taking Requiem with you, I feared you were going to just run off. So, could you… just hold me for a little bit?”

  The words had barely left Natalie’s mouth by the time Cole was beside her in the bed, arms wrapping around her frame. As Natalie settled her head on Cole’s chest, he started to gently stroke her hair. Something about the familiar actions calmed Cole, and he found his eyes slowly shutting. But before he could drift back to sleep, he needed to be honest.

  “I considered leaving, just for a moment,” he whispered, and Natalie tensed in his arms. “But I don’t think I ever could, at least not like that.”

  After a pause, Natalie started to relax and murmured. “Thank you.”

  This time, when Cole fell asleep, he stayed that way till morning, unbothered by nightmares.

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