The fallow light of a weak moon shines through the tall glass windows of the grand hall. A regal, heavy carpet runs toward an ornate staircase of several steps, atop which rests a throne of wood and gold, woven into one another seamlessly — as if the formed metal were a natural extension of the fibrous material. The dark, royal purple hue of the carpet is made weaker and softer than it ought to be by the light, turning its hue into that of a gentler lavender. Everything in here seems softer at night when the darkness comes to hide the imperfections revealed by daylight's shine.

He sits there, atop the throne, his head resting in his hand and his fingers resting just below his left eye as he stares down through the empty chamber. At this hour, there are no messengers bringing news, no members of the court seeking an audience, and no disturbances while he thinks.

The young man’s eyes don’t shift to take in any of the creeping and crawling shadows that cast out behind the many suits of decorative armor and out from the many grand statues of dragons and beasts of forgotten ages, said to have been slain and conquered by his ancestors. It doesn’t matter how tauntingly those shadows twist and turn throughout the throne room, almost warping as the moonlight — obscured by clouds now and then — dances around the hall, causing these shadows to almost come to life. Like a grand ball, the black silhouettes twist and spin around the floor of the throne room, their elongated forms streaking across the polished stonework that has been tread on by thousands over the span of generations. It has become his burden to see that this tradition continues on.

The king’s eyes stare directly toward a single point in the darkness, paying no mind to the thought of any other kind of monster than that. Monsters, the real blood and bone type that one finds in the dungeons and holes of the world, feed on flesh and sinew. But these particular monsters here — these spiritual parasites that plague him and his — feed on the turmoils of the soul instead. These monsters that exist only within his head and eyes thrive instead on the energy they receive when one becomes afraid at night, when one answers the rapping that comes on the door at midnight — only to find nobody there on the other side — or when one begins to walk faster outside in the dark after hearing steps behind themselves. It is the fear of men that these particular shadows here feed on, rather than their flesh. Such beings — if they could ever be proven to exist — can only be exercised by depriving them of their nourishment, since they cannot be slain by blade and cudgel. Demons, the shadows that one sees at the foot of their bed during night terrors, the movements of the curtain at midnight when there is no breeze, the whisper in one’s ear when the door is locked — such things haunt him; they terrorize him — or at least attempt to do so.

But he will not give them the satisfaction of a meal.

“My Lord,” says a voice, appearing at his side, despite him having watched the grand doorway into the throne room this entire time. Nobody had entered through it. His eyes don’t turn toward the voice, instead continuing their stiff vigil. “It is as you expected,” reports the agent. “The civil war in the southern nation has begun. Separatists have taken the port city. The king stares and listens, not looking at the messenger and not blinking either. “Meanwhile, we’ve encountered the enemy at our borders. The front lines are moving into our lands.”

The king of the nation sits there for a while, not speaking as he watches the shadows all around the throne room carefully, looking at them as they move left and right in the shifting glow — many of them pretending to move correctly. But he can tell; he can see that some of them are off; they’re wrong. They’re just pretending to be shadows.

“The Holy-Church?” he asks, finally breaking his silence.

“His holiness, the high-priest, has begun a great mustering,” reports the agent. “The rhetoric of preachers around the nation has become more and more volatile by the day,” says the voice. “They’re riling our population up against the war. They’re beginning to leverage the faithful against our cause, as expected. But their act of passiveness continues.”

He sits there, thinking. Everything is going exactly as he expected it to. The enemy is pushing harder because of their shift of focus, thanks to the black knight. The rebellion is in the contentious south. The church of the faithful is taking its chance to form a third party of power between the nations of the men of flesh and blood. Everything is as he had predicted it would be.

“Go,” is all the king says, having heard enough for now. The plan stays as it is.

“There is one more thing, my Lord,” says the agent. “Lady Acacia.” The king’s eyes immediately turn at the mention of the name of his younger sister, moving from the false shadows for the first time to look at the figure standing there with their hands behind their back, leaning over to whisper into his ear like the phantoms that come to his dreams. “Something has changed,” explains the agent. “One of our agents following her was found out and subverted by her Majesty herself. It seems that the youngest princess has begun to…” The king's tired red eyes stare into theirs, causing the agent to fall silent and then quickly avert their gaze. “— aspire,” finishes the agent.

He stares at the messenger, who slowly steps back with their head still held in a bow. After a moment, the king turns his gaze back forward toward the throne room.

“A little pressure can do wonders for a person’s development,” he explains, his burning eyes widening a little as he looks back ahead of himself. The fingers of his free hand grip the throne’s armrest as he sees them. “Keep her watched.”

“My Lord, she brazenly plans to usurp your throne,” warns the agent. “The black knight is a problem for you as much as it is for the enemy.”

The king sits on his seat, his streaks of unwashed hair dangling down over his face and his exhausted gaze as he looks at the shadows that he was watching before. In the brief moment he had turned away from them before to look at the agent, they came closer. They’re all there now, hovering in front of him — always just there, but not where he is.

“My favorite sister has always had a selfish heart,” replies the king. “Go,” he orders again, making it clear with his tone that he will not do so a third time.

There is little to indicate that the person at his side has left, their presence fading just as mysteriously as it had come. He sits there by himself on his throne, staring at the darkness, and the darkness stares back at him — neither afraid of the other.

“Well?” he asks, looking at the shadows that twist and turn in the moonlight now that the two of them are alone again, hanging over him like a beast about to strike from the dark woods. “What are you going to do about it?” he asks, holding out his arms open defiantly as he stares at them, at the entities that expect him to feel horror at their presence but receive only annoyed rage instead at his continued staying there to confront them.

The darkness doesn’t answer him, receding like always, as it is simply a monster with no teeth.

Besides, it would be against the rules of the game of theirs if it had.

He tsks in annoyance, resting his head back in his palm as he glares toward the shadows that have festered inside his throne room. He’d love to sleep, but he has to keep a watch.

There’s no rest for the wicked.

 

---

 

 

“Then clean the windows!” snaps Acacia, sitting there on the foot of the bed with one leg laid over the other. Her hands lie folded on her lap as she stares with a loveless expression.

“I already cleaned the windows,” replies Junis, holding her hands together in front of her chest.

“Well then wipe the floors, girl,” barks the princess, narrowing her eyes in annoyance.

Junis stares at her and then down at the, essentially, single piece of floor that makes up the ‘floors’ of Acacia’s little room below the adventurers’ guild, being in total three to four good steps long. “…I already wiped the floors,” replies the elf, without emotion to her voice.

Acacia lifts her nose, closing her eyes. “Well. You always have a smart answer, don’t you, Junis?” hisses the princess, who really isn’t fond of the elf at all. “If you are so efficient at your tasks, then you may now feel free to lick my boots clean,” she says, stretching out her leg.

A voice growls into the conversation from the side. “Your boots are already clean,” says Sir Knight. “I didn’t lick them, though. I thought that would be weird.” Acacia opens an eye, peeking down at her own outstretched leg and the meticulously polished boot adorning it. A tendril of shadow pulls a rag away, down beneath the bed that she’s sitting on. “Be nicer to Junis,” he says. “She’s not a bad person.” The elf smiles slightly, holding onto the rag in her hands.

Acacia immediately stands up, planting her hands onto her own hips as she glares up at the taller elf, standing more than a head above her and essentially close enough to nudge with her nose, given the space constraints of the room. Acacia glares up toward the elf. “I hate Junis,” she says to Sir Knight, as if the elf wasn’t there at all. “After everything she put me through in the academy, I won’t forgive her,” explains Acacia. “No matter how many times she cleans or wipes away the grime of her own presence in my home.” Acacia turns her head, to look down at the darkness below the bed. “Or no matter how often you tell me to accept her.”

“Junis might have saved your life from the Baron,” replies Sir Knight to Acacia's venom. “That’s worth something.”

Acacia crosses her arms, sitting back down on the edge of the bed again. It’s quiet for a moment before she speaks again, her voice cutting the tension in the room. “Two men walk down a road together. One man pushes the other out of the way as a wayward carriage threatens to run them both over,” she explains, starting a little story. “But the carriage never actually hits anybody in the end. The shoved man falls into glass and is cut.” Acacia sits there, not opening her eyes or her tight posture. "Is the man who pushed the other man a hero or an idiot?”

“You don’t know what he was like!” snaps Junis loudly, looking at Acacia with large eyes, referring to the now deceased Baron Ersteig. The royal man was murdered. As far as any of them know, given the limited information they received from Chicory, this was done by agents of the royal family in order to protect Acacia from the shadows. Although this theory is unconfirmed. Water drips out of the damp rag that Junis is tightly squeezing. “He was a monster.”

“Be that as it may, Junis,” replies Acacia immediately, saying her name quickly as if it were poison, opening her emotionless eyes. “I nonetheless accept your presence only because Sir Knight wishes for it,” she explains clearly. “No amount of chores and busywork will change the fact that, in my memories, you are no less a beast than that man who I never knew.” The two of them look at each other until Junis looks away and down to the floor. “You saved my life from the Baron. I saved yours from the dungeon,” says Acacia. “As such, there needs to be no dilemma about our standing with another. We are even, and I continue to dislike you.”

The room is quiet; nobody is moving or saying much of anything. Acacia glares at Junis, while Junis stares down toward the floor, where dirty water from the rag drips down, leaking down over her boots. “…I’ll go clean the stairwell,” says Junis, turning around and opening the door to squeeze through it and get outside of the tiny room.

Acacia huffs, exhaling as the door closes behind the elf. She falls backward onto her bed, her legs hanging down over the front of it. Lying there, Acacia stares up at the ceiling of the tiny room. Somebody went through the effort of wiping it down and applying varnish to the wood, making it much more vivid in tone. She breathes, the sound of the air moving in and out of her lungs audible through its raspiness, her lungs feeling full — as if she had taken in a full gasp of air already, yet at the same time burning as if she hadn’t gotten enough.

“That was a bit too much. I like you more when you’re nice,” says Sir Knight.

Acacia rolls her head, looking over the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, but this was me being nice, Sir Knight,” replies Acacia in a wheezy voice, closing her eyes as she rests there, lifting a hand to hold the back of her palm over her eyes to ease her dizziness. “She ought to be glad that I haven’t had her expelled from the academy or assassinated.”

“These don’t really feel like equivalent options,” remarks the voice from the darkness below her bed.

“Nobles do things differently,” replies Acacia, narrowing her eyes.

— A loud rumbling comes from up above their heads as a cheer erupts in the adventurers’ guild, with people running around and stomping as they dance and drink.

Acacia doesn’t say anything else.

“It’s late. You should go to sleep,” says the disembodied voice from the darkness below her bed. “We have to buy your medicine tomorrow,” he says. “A new shipment is coming in to the city tonight and demand has been tight, so we need to go early.”

The princess nods, lying there as she kicks her boots off, letting them strike the door one after the other, and then just crawls up toward the pillow and the fat, stuffed duck that is resting next to it.

Sir Knight watches her lying there with her eyes closed, like a child pretending to be asleep, before he fades away — a leak of shadow crawling down through the gap in the door like a snake.

There’s no rest for the wicked.

 

---

 

 

In between screams, she just mutters frantically. Blood streams through his fingers as he presses his palm against her gut, running deep into the fabric of his white priest’s robe. The woman screams, fighting against him instinctively as he compresses the deep wound. She slams her head back against the ground, the metal helmet she’s wearing striking the damp soil. The fabric that he’s holding soaks through in an instant as he applies pressure to her injury. A soft light of a healing spell weaves through his wet fingers, but the blood just keeps flowing out of her as the wound she has in her gut is too large to be stitched together by the spell. Instead, he tries to have the skin fuse to the fabric — a severe risk of infection tomorrow — but it is better than bleeding out on the spot. Her hands grab his wrist as she tries to get him to stop — the pain of the action of his healing is more severe than the concept of just accepting dying here and now in her panicked mind. Burning flags fly through the air, tattered segments of ash breaking off and flying like flakes of snow across the field of battle, covering the moving bodies that flow in either direction like two colliding tides.

The armies of both the nations of the Kingdom and the Empire have collided here at the border in a new skirmish. The church, having officially not taken a side, even if they have done so unofficially, has sent priests and members of its stock here to aid the wounded of all parties as a third, neutral faction. Despite fighting him off with one hand, her other clutches the fabric of his robe, her pale fingers clenched tightly as if hanging on to it so as not to be swept away by a powerful tide. She keeps switching between screams and mumbling to herself as if holding an inner conversation that he can’t follow because of the total war that they’re surrounded by on all sides. Fires burn all around them, the greedy blaze consuming everything that the living leave in their wake — siege engines, stockpiles, corpses. Knights fight one another within reach, allowing him to do his work on the wounded as a member of the Holy-Church.

“You must hold still,” he says in a calm voice that separates itself from the anarchy all around them as they sit in an inlet trench created by several magical explosions. “You need to stop panicking, or you’ll bleed out faster,” instructs Kaisersgrab, holding the compress down with one hand as he reaches around behind himself toward a bag to grab a potion. He looks down at her side, looking at the dark, black waste contaminated blood that leaks out in a continuous stream from her midsection. Horrified eyes of a scared animal look at him as she tries to fight the instincts of her body with those of her mind, only to lose herself again in a fresh scream as the ground next to them explodes. She’s not there, inside of her vision. Her mind has spaced out and left to go to a safer place.

Fire washes over them; everything shines alight as an explosion lands only feet away, just outside of the small hole they’re in. Kaisersgrab drops himself down, covering her as flames scorch over his back. The knights and soldiers of both armies who had been fighting there have been blown away by the destructive spell, their bodies broken indiscriminately into pieces no larger than the rocks or debris around them that they fly toward. His head lands down in the mud next to her, listening to her delirious muttering.

“— scared of the dark. Scared of the dark. Scared of the d-” is all that she keeps whispering and muttering to herself in her state of delusion, her amber eyes never blinking as they stare blankly up toward the sky as a streak of red, bile, and fire flies over them.

“RETREAT!” yells a voice from the side, coming from an officer of the field as loud horns blaze to signal the order across the skirmish. Metal and bodies clash all around the area, explosions casting chunks of dirt and rubble into the air, creating massive plumes of smoke and debris that knights of many orders and the soldiers of two nations press through as the line begins to shift away from their favor. “RETREAT!” calls the officer again as soldiers of the Kingdom pull back toward their prior defensive line as those of the Empire press forward now that their opportunity has arisen.

Kaisersgrab sits back upright as boots run past them on all sides, soldiers pressing the line. He looks back down at her, getting ready to apply the potion he had dug out of his satchel.

However, she’s stopped muttering. Her eyes stare blankly as before, straight up toward the sky above their heads, as if gazing into the mesmerizing sight of the ten-thousand and then some stars that hang there so far above there so far away. But her words no longer flow, her mouth only hanging slightly ajar as if she had something else to say but never managed to say it.

The priest sits there, looking down at her, lying there dead for a moment, and then wipes his face on his sleeve and his hands on his robe. With clean fingers, he closes her mouth. But he doesn’t close her eyes, as one would usually do for the dead, which would be a traditional act of kindness and dignity.

After all…

Kaisersgrab turns his head, looking toward the sky that she stares at too, both of them staring at a patch there in which no stars shine and no moonlight dares graze.

— He’s scared of the dark too, and that’s what he would want.

The war rages behind him now as he rises up from the mud, moving on to the next screaming person lying only a few feet away.

 

---

 

 

Junis kneels there on the ground outside, her dress scrunched up around her knees so that it doesn’t get dirty, as she scrubs the stone steps with an old wooden brush that has stiff, firm hairs in order to clean off the crusted sediment and gunk that has worn its way into the stone steps over the years. Like always in life, she keeps her head down and scrubs. Just focus on the work and stay out of trouble — that’s always been her strategy. It’s gotten her this far. However, despite saying that, she doesn’t really understand where ‘this far’ is. What is she doing?

Not much longer, and she’ll graduate from the academy like she always had planned. That was always her goal, so that she could become officially licensed and leave this city to start a new life somewhere else. She just needs to work a little to finish up here, and then she’ll go to the dungeon and kill a few monsters so she can afford lunch tomorrow. Plus, she has to save up for next month’s tuition again. It’s getting to be about that time again. When the Baron was still alive, she was paid well there, at least. But now she has to earn her money in different ways since the estate where she had been a maid no longer exists — even if it is for the best.

“Don’t take it personally,” says a voice from close to her. Junis, not frightened anymore by his always spontaneous appearances, turns her head to look up the stairwell at the large suit of armor that now sits there at the top of it, despite having not been there a moment ago. Like a ghost in the night, Sir Knight has a way of just… appearing here and there. Her hand, with the brush in it, hits his metal leg, which had manifested where she was cleaning.

“It is personal, though,” replies Junis. She grabs hold of his leg, pulling on it to lift it off of the spot where she was scrubbing. He obliges, lifting it for her.

Junis works, grabbing the brush with both hands as she rubs at a particularly old stain that has eaten its way into the pores of the rock. “You know that she’s not going to pay you no matter how much you clean,” he says. “Right?” She doesn’t say anything as she continues scrubbing, pressing the brush into the corner of the stairwell to scratch out some mildew that has thrived there. “I would,” he explains. “But I’ve been ordered not to,” says Sir Knight. “Sorry. You know how she is,” says the man, referring to Acacia, whose contempt for Junis simply cannot be understated. “She thinks you’re only being nice now because you know the truth about her royal title. And that you’re weaseling your way around to get something from her.”

“I don’t want to be paid,” explains Junis finally, as she finishes that step and crawls up one more to start on the next one. The elf works silently for a while, with him just sitting there and watching her. “- And I’m not doing that either.”

“Then why all the cleaning?” he asks as she scrubs her way up another step toward him.

Junis lifts her head, looking at Sir Knight for a moment before returning to her chores. “It’s also personal,” replies the elf as she toils. She works in the dark of night during the hours when one should be asleep — especially given that there is a class in the morning she has to attend at the academy. But that has to wait. This all takes priority. "I guess. I don't know."

“Well, I can’t help you clean or pay you,” says a voice from close to her. She looks back again at the man, who has turned his helmet away from her and is gazing down the exit to the alley toward the city square as if he had seen something there in the shadows of the night. “But I am going to the dungeon soon,” he says. “- If you want to join me,” offers the knight. “It’s dangerous to go there alone this late.”

She nods to him. “Don’t you ever sleep?” asks Junis. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Sir Knight shakes his head.

“There’s no rest for the wicked,” replies the giant in black armor, looking down at the other wicked soul, who seeks repentance in her own fashion. “And I’m not a monster,” explains Sir Knight.

 

---

 

 

“It was a monster!” exclaims the inquisitor, staring around the room, his sweaty palms almost instinctively resting on the surface of the table that he sits at, his red sleeves draping against it as he stops himself from touching the wood at the last second. Sitting back up straight, he pulls his hands back onto his lap, where he can keep control of them. All around him are the elders of his faith. Men and women in ornate, deeply complexly patterned, and layered robes sit there and watch him carefully as they judge every twitch and spasm of his movements. “It came to us from the north; I’m sure it was him,” he explains. “O Cavaleiro,” mutters the young man — 'The Knight'.

“And this is your excuse for failing your charge?” asks a stern voice from across the table. People mutter, looking toward the now-speaking elder, who looks toward the young inquisitor — a baby-faced man who looks as if he were carrying more burdens than years on his shoulders. “For generations, we have fought monsters to protect the sanctuaries and holies of our faith.” He lays down his palm on the table and then flips it over so that the surface of his empty hand faces upward.

“The Knight is not just a monster, Brother,” argues another man, looking toward the elder. “It is the well from which all monsters come. We know it is real; we know it has returned to our world,” he explains. “The northern heretics have fought with it and failed to contain the beast,” he says. “It is not our young brother’s fault that they failed to do so,” he says, gesturing to the inquisitor in red and placing his other hand down on the table with the palm facing downward against the surface. The elder looks toward the inquisitor for a moment. “A… man of his age… shouldn’t be expected to stand against the devil himself and live.” He shakes his head, his long beard swaying. “Given the circumstances, I find that our young brother Zabaniyah has shown bravery beyond his years, even if his attempt to protect our artifacts failed.”

Another voice chimes in from the side — a woman with tight, worn features. “But I do expect him to stand against the devil nonetheless, even if it means death,” she argues promptly, looking at the inquisitor. “You gave chase, but you did not directly confront the black cavaleiro, did you, Brother Zabaniyah?” she asks.

“...No… your Mercy…” replies the inquisitor.

“And you were faced with his compatriots, including her royal majesty of the northern crown — a dying, frail girl with no training in warfare or combat — and failed to injure or capture even a single person despite this,” she states. “Is this correct?” she asks.

“I- your Mercy -” he starts,

“- Is this correct?” she repeats frigidly before the inquisitor can explain.

“...Yes, your Mercy,” replies the inquisitor, lowering his gaze away from her hand as the elder turns her palm to face upward, the back of her hand resting against the table as she casts her vote on his fate. This alone says everything that she has to say to him.

All eyes turn toward the last person sitting at the table. Another man, another elder — although he keeps his face cleanly shaven and as smooth as can be despite the leathery texture of his sun-warmed skin and the deep wrinkles that rise and fall like waves down from his eyes toward the bones of his cheeks. “It seems that we have a dilemma,” he explains, holding his hand out onto the table sideways. “In truth,” he starts, looking upward. “I, too, find that your rather experimental order has failed us in our darkest hour yet,” he explains. “- Zabaniyah.”

The young inquisitor — Zabaniyah — does his best to maintain his composure as his name is spoken, knowing now that his final hour has come. The elder’s judgement is to fall. Once the man places his palm face downward, he will have cast his vote to seal his fate because of the failures of that day of the battle. He’ll be excommunicated and executed — with luck, without torture. “...But…” he holds his hand there sideways against the wooden table, letting it teeter back and forth. “What my Brothers and Sisters of the council fail to recognize is that we will have darker hours than this very soon,” he explains. "Midnight has yet to come." The others murmur, looking at him, as he lifts his hand away from the table and rises up instead to his feet. He very slowly walks around the table, past the others. “I believe the issue that has arisen here is that your place is now uncertain in our eyes,” he explains, standing behind Zabaniyah and placing his hands on the young man’s red-draped shoulders. “Your identity is confused, no?” he asks, looking around the table at the others who stare. The others all nod in mild agreement with his statement. “But despite your unorthodoxy, we have accepted you in our ranks as one of our own," explains the elder, squeezing Zabaniyah's shoulders. "You were trusted here, but you were too weak to keep hold of that trust.”

“Forgive me,” replies Zabaniyah, lowering his head in shame.

“It is my will, as the man with the final vote, to vote in favor of a stalemate on your future,” he explains. An old hand leaves Zabaniyah's shoulder and runs down his arm toward his own hand. The young man quickly lifts his head, looking in surprise at the news, his chest striking strongly for a moment with hope. He hadn’t expected this, coming in here. He was sure he was going to die for his failure to stop the theft of the ancient crown. The elder priest, holding his palm with his own from below, stretches out Zabaniyah's hand with the palm facing upward to show his vote in favor of sparing the young inquisitor’s life. “But we need something from you,” he explains. “To prove your commitment.”

“Anything, your Mercy!” replies Zabaniyah fervently. “My faith and my loyalty are pure,” he affirms. “I am weak and unskilled and a failure, but I will not falter in matters of the soul!” he promises devoutly, looking at them in the eyes.

“So you say,” replies the elder priest of the Orthodox Church of the southern nation, patting Zabaniyah on the back with his other hand. “But it is clear, in my opinion, that the identity you wish for in spirit is not compatible with the identity you hold now in body,” he explains. The hilt of a sharp knife is placed into the inquisitor's hand as the old priest closes his fingers firmly around it. “Your indecision in this matter is clouding your abilities in other matters,” he explains, walking off and slowly returning to his seat. “It is time to decide who you are, Zabaniyah of One Thousand Rapiers.”

“Agreed,” replies the older woman at the table.

“Agreed,” reply the other elders as well.

The cleanly shaven man looks toward the young inquisitor with a round, soft face. “Your moment has come,” he says. “You must choose,” he instructs. “Will you leave us in disgrace and go about your days with the shadow of your failure over your head?" he offers, gripping the edge of the table as he slowly sits back down, his old body wracked with the pain of his years. “Or will you prove yourself worthy of being called Brother and go to the north and hunt the cavaliero?" he asks. “Will you serve the gods and return what has been lost so that you might redeem both your soul and your honor?”

Zabaniyah looks at the elders, knowing that the sparing of his life is a rare gift that is not afforded to many in such circumstances. He’s always been a favorite of the elders, ever since his youngest days, when he was abandoned by his parents at the church since they couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. His eyes look down at the knife in his hand, which his fingers are still tightly wrapped around, having not loosened even a little.

The ornate chair scoots back as he rises to his feet. “I will never disappoint you again,” promises Zabaniyah in what promises to be a very long night, in which the wicked sinners of the world — such as himself — might find no rest. "I will hunt o cavaleiro and kill everyone who defiles our good world alongside him," swears the man in red.

"No, Zabaniyah," interjects the elder, shaking his head. Zabaniyah looks at him in confusion. "You cannot kill a creature such as it," he explains. "No one can kill a devil except a god. The northern heretics failed to understand this."

"- But you can kill its summoner," adds the older woman at the table. "The creature is bound not to this world but to the girl, Zabaniyah," explains the elder. "She is the monster's black heart." Zabaniyah looks down at the knife in his hands. "Bring it to us," instructs the woman.

The inquisitor nods, now understanding his path to redemption, as he leaves to prepare for his journey to the northern nation.

 

---

 

 

Is somebody watching him?

He sits there, his face resting in his palm, and an untouched ration sits out next to him. Finally, after hours of screaming and horror, the world has become quiet. The skirmish has ended, with the army of the Empire pressing inland toward the enemy continent. The lanky man rests now that the killing is done, with so much more healing left to do. The wounded of both armies are in dire need of attention, and the Holy-Church treats both as equals in this matter. Priests and priestesses run around everywhere, their white robes long since stained to an unrecognizable degree like his own has been.

The noble families of both nations have agreed upon the proper etiquette of battle, forcing an exchange of prisoners after each skirmish and a complete forbidding of executions. Rank and file members are to be exchanged under favorable conditions toward the victor, with two captured soldier being traded for two of the losing faction’s. Any extras left over are to be exchanged for a regulated amount coin, the value of which has been neatly agreed upon by the bean counters of both nations, based on a soldier’s rank and seniority.

Officers are never to be harmed outside of the field of battle, and even if captured, they must be held in the same quality of lodging as the officers of the capturing army. This is, of course, because officers, in comparison to normal soldiers, tend to be of noble blood to some degree or another.

In the context of total warfare, it makes no sense, really. It’s okay to kill someone, but not again ten minutes later under marginally different circumstances. But this is how the nobles of all nations are, striving toward unrealistic ideals and holding the rest of the world to them. True nobles, the people that make these deals, aren’t the ones down here in the mud, so they live by romanticized ideals of what warfare really is.

The sun begins to rise on the horizon, marking the end of one of the first of many horrific nights to come.

Kaisersgrab — a man who finds no rest — turns his head, looking behind him at the collection of the dead being gathered and sorted. Soldiers and knights of both factions are being heaped up into piles in order to be buried — the officers being prepared to be transported back to their family graves, and the rest to be lovelessly thrown into a big hole right here that the men are already digging. His eyes wander over them as they all work, none sparing any time for his gaze, until his eyes land on a particular corpse, laid out there on her wounded belly with her face sideways on the ground, two amber eyes staring out of her mud-covered helmet.

And despite her having been dead for at least several hours, he’s sure that, from the distance he’s sitting away from her, she’s still looking directly at him. He’s sure that he sees her face, pressed down sideways against the mud by the weight of her armor, move as her mouth opens only just a little, cracking apart again.

He’s sure in his mind that he can see her lips wording a single statement toward him, perhaps a warning, perhaps a message, or perhaps just an idle note to pass on to him from some other source beyond the scope of normal things.

‘There are monsters here.’

But when he stands up to look at her from up close, her mouth is closed, and her eyes stare blankly and firmly in one direction with no orientation behind them at all.

His fingers grasp her eyelids and pull them shut.