The earth shook as Levret leaped to the side, barely evading the thick oak tree-trunk. Tucking into a roll, Levret swung their sword up and over, hoping against hope that the Ogre was clumsier than it looked.

His hope was for naught; rumbling laughter shook overhead. “Foolish boy of woman born, I’ll strip your skin like fleece is shorn!”

A gust of wind ruffled Levret’s long blonde hair as he turned to face his hated foe. “You’ve plagued the countryside for too long, Gob. Once you are slain, the valley villages will at last be able to live in peace!”

Hate.

It was like a sauna inside her skull.

Pressure. Hissing through leaks and cracks in the skin. Moist air flecked with sparks and flashes of venom and bile. Aversion. Desire. Inflamed. Hate.

Years passed.

Only once a year did she open her single eye, to gaze upon the black stalagmites and stalactites that were her prison. Her home.

For centuries she saw nothing, and so for centuries she went hungry.

For the first half¹ of my creative career, I was an actor. Still am, in some ways, and a great deal of my writing has the stain of performative dialogue.

What I mean by that is: a lot of my writing comes out on the page sans the tone or emphasis that it has in my head.

Sometimes this a wonderful thing. Good writers can convey the sound of their characters’ voices with just words on the page, while bad writers…well, compare any transcript of a Donald Trump monologue to its recording,² and see how much information is lost without the pauses, the emphasis, the pitch of voice…

No one is at Binny’s place anymore.

I showed up there once or twice, and it was just me and him.

I don’t say anything to him, and he doesn’t say anything to me. What is there to say? Word gets around, so why talk when you’ve heard it all?

Raiselig was allowed a maximum of seven days of vacation a year. It was a paltry amount for most, but Raiselig constantly had trouble finding times and places to indulge.

Relaxing was such an odd concept to Raiselig. When your being was your purpose, pausing in your efforts was akin to a kind of suicide, wasn’t it? If you weren’t working, then why were you?

Calchona had tried to explain it several times. Raiselig understood the idea of sleep, rest, even the idea of taking a moment to catch one’s breath — which was no small feat for someone who didn’t breathe.

The courtyard of Doom Keep was little more than a pile of mud. There were no paths walked by mortal feet anymore, save the aimless drifting of the soulless bodies clad in rusting armor. They stared, unblinking, into the dark skies that rained with black ichor.

Raiselig and Shosushai walked side by side down the slick stone steps, each holding onto the other so they did not fall. The corpses watched them pass.

Fitting, that the thunder split the sky like a sword. Well did it suit the mood of the warlord that rain fell like arrows, piercing the heart with their chill. It was meet that the distant fogs billowed like acrid smoke towards the fortress gates.

Drozior, the Dark Lord, Slayer of the Seven Moons and bringer of death and blood to the lands of Illshir, had slain thousands of men and women. He slaughtered the peasantry with no hint of fear nor dissatisfaction. For all of Drozior’s reign, the great palisades of Doom Keep rose high over a land run wet with red blood. So they said it was this that gave the stones their dark red hue.

Day later. Week later. Don’t know. Sitting on the steps outside Binny’s. Darla comes by. Dressed to the nines.

“Hi,” I say. “Haven’t seen you around.”

“I’m not staying,” she says.

I nod, suck on my stick. “Yeah?”

“Gotta go.”

I nod. Suck again. “Where?”

“Don’t know.”

What did she want from me? Did she really not give a care? Try as I might, I had no idea what caused her to change her mind. Must have been something miserable I had done, but I had no idea what.

Deep in the darkest night it lay.

It had learned, over the years, to be patient. Good things would always come to those who wait, and it had waited a very long time indeed. Empires rose and fell, languages came and went. Certain words fell in and out of fashion, and sometimes took on new meanings all together.

Before long, it could feel the time was right…

And it reached out a shadowy claw…

It took only an hour for Raiselig and Vharpanu to prepare themselves.

As it was in Vharpanu’s ancient nature to find things hidden, she acquired the necessary tools. A sprig of living holly and a twig of dead birch. Shavings from a newborn calf’s hoof. Three drops of innocent blood. A plank of wood from an old woman’s bed. It was makeshift, but satisfactory.

Raiselig, for their part, sharpened their steel memory with the ancient laws. Contracts were studied, decisions were analyzed, and the myriad strings that wove the tapestry of ritual together were made plain.