Sixteenths. Verse 3/16, Compiled.

Verse III

You haven't slept.

It's the guilt what keeps you up—the feeling like you should've known, somehow.

You bade him leave because you were dying.

You thought it'd be best for his mind.

The waste left you with tremors, but you manage little bounties.

"Madame Swordbearer? We've arrived."

Sunrise.

You step from the wagon and onto scorched, bitter soil. The Valour-Upton Waypoint's seen better days.

You married a gentler man than this.

You search the ruins for hours, tearful, then numb.

You're smarter than to look.

"I see you." It flutters in your peripheral vision. "Who's there?"

A soft, hesitant hum. You grip your blade.

A faceless woman inches into view, carrying satchels.

Finally.

"Where's your master...?"

She hesitates, flits away.

Soon, she returns with him.

You both stare.

"Why?"

Silence. You lunge first.

Under his direction, she becomes your opponent.

"Eloa—"

"Just go quietly!"

You behead her, and charge.

Your blade finds his side—

Smoke?

"You're undead."

He smiles bitterly.

"If I die here, no-one'll stop Esgil."

The wound smokes through his fingers.

"It likes him better."

"Even demons think I've shit taste."

He laughs, then winces, bracing his side.

"...You deserved better."

"Don't start. Please."

You help him up while he mends.

"Where's Esgil now?"

"Ah..."

Hours pass.

"You can't. There's an army--"

"Help me raise forces."

"You're bad as him!"

"We're powerless elsewise."

"I've made influential friends? Fuck. We're only people, Giles."

"I know. We'll need soldiers—sacrifices—too."

Something about Giles' voice throws you. "You don't mean that."

"Am I wrong?"

"Of course!" You whirl on him, grass crunching under your heel. "Might as well make a family business outta murder, if you're so keen on answering bloodshed with more."

"You're overreacting."

You don't recognize those empty eyes. Giles is many-flawed, but 'cruel' isn't among them.

"Listen here." You grab his collar. "What animal got loose at our wedding and trampled the cake?"

Giles pries at your hand. "Let go of me."

"Answer up. What trampled the cake?"

"Let go, Eloa, lest I force you."

"I will when you answer me!" Your voice distorts; your blood feels leaden. The universe warps at the edges. "What animal? What? You wouldn't forget!"

...Hᴍᴍ. Sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ.

Not-Giles' eyes blacken, and you recoil with a curse. Smoke and laughter billow from Its mouth.

Vᴇʀʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ.

Nausea wrenches your guts. Reality liquefies beneath you.

'The rot stains your soul,' the healer said, when you surprised her by surviving the waste. 'You're marked now, poor thing. The hallucinations come and go.'

Then you return to your body, slumped against his. The rot must have got you mid-conversation.

"...Giles?"

"There you are. God, you frightened me. How do you feel?"

"Fine. Question." Your eyelids weigh elephants. "What got loose and ruined our wedding?"

"A mudyak. Black."

Embarrassed at your weakness, you pull away. "What were you saying, before I keeled over?"

"That we'll need to raise forces. The situation's bleak, but—"

"Right, right." You've made powerful allies. "I think I know where to start."

Credits:

Created with images by Iwona_Olczyk - "winter snow white castle the ruins of"

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