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Iland silently atop the castle’s defensive walls, quickly crouching down to avoid being silhouetted against the night sky.
The moat was no barrier to me. An ordinary invader would have found it troublesome indeed—wide, deep, filled with carnivorous fish that would tear the flesh of any creature foolish enough to take a dip.
But I simply leapt over it.
I’ve spotted at least six human guards stationed on the battlements. Crossbows in hand, their eyes are trained upon the skies.
They’re waiting for me.
But they didn’t know that I move faster than light; I’m almost invisible against the night sky. I’ve pulled a black hood over my hair and face, hiding the paleness that would make me stand out.
I hardly make a sound.
I listen to my surroundings; to the faint shuffling of feet, to the gentle hiss of the wind and the whispers of movement within the castle proper.
The air is thick and oppressive, as if I’ve waded into a miasma. The stench of decay grows ever stronger.
Instinctively, I recoil. I yearn for Tyron; for the big skies and the majestic snow-capped vistas.
I yearn for Finley. For her sweetness. Her pure, bright energy.
The memory of her strengthens my resolve. I know what I must do. And it means that men will die here, but I can’t afford to hesitate.
There is no point in showing mercy. It will only make things worse.
The Talavarra Fortress has stone walls reminiscent of Tyron Castle’s, only these are made of pale, golden-hued stone. The main entrance is a pair of imposing metal-studded wooden doors set in a stone arch.
I could probably go in through the side or the back, taking a stealthy approach, but it’s pointless if they’re already expecting me.
They know they can’t best me with physical force alone. They can throw men at me, but I’ll cut them down—each and every one of them. Compared to when I was human, I’m a thousand times stronger.
That means they have a trump card. Something they’ll bargain in exchange for my cooperation.
I suspect it has to do with Finley and her mother.
Their plan seems painfully obvious to me. I suspect they’ll try to threaten me with Aralya’s life; make me yield in exchange for her freedom or something equivalent.
I think I have an idea of how this is going to play out.
And I know what I’ll do.
There are many ways to win a war—many ways to gain leverage.
I leap off the wall and land in the forecourt, my boots barely making a sound on the cold stone pavement.
All of a sudden, I’m surrounded by monsters. Undead souls; sons of Deignar, judging from their dark, matted hair and distinctive angular features. Some are long dead; shuffling corpses of desiccated skin and exposed bone. Others are fresh from the grave. They’re more animated, with intact bodies and analmostsentient aura about them.
There must be at least a hundred of them flooding into this stone-walled courtyard—or more. A veritable army. And they just keep on coming. They have weapons, too; halberds and broadswords and war-axes and crossbows.
I throw my hood back. No point in hiding myself now. They know I’m here. I whip out my sword and wait, perfectly still as the undead army advances.
The easiest way to put down an animated corpse is to separate the head from the body. Some of these undead soldiers wear chainmail and plate-armor. No doubt it’s to make it harder for me to decapitate them.
Well, this is going to be interesting. I haven’t really had a chance to test the full power of this body of mine. And now I’m brimming with Finley’s power; with the knowledge that what I am isn’t an abomination but a gift.
I am my mother’s legacy, made flesh.
I trace a path with my gaze, determining the path of my blade.
