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I flick my sword, removing the dirt from the blade, and quickly sheath it.
Then I cross the square and arrive at the imposing double doors.
I push. Unsurprisingly, they’re unlocked.
There’s a great creak as the timber door swings inward, admitting me to the entrance foyer of Deignar Castle.
And inside, I meet another horde.
Hundreds, if not thousands of them. A sea of decaying, animated bodies lurching toward me.
Horror and revulsion well up inside me, threatening to spill over. I quickly convert them to anger. Anger fuels my destructive force.
I start to hack through the bodies as if I were a butcher, caring less about technique and more about efficiency. Thank thegoddessfor this dhampir body of mine. If I were anyone else, I’d be dead by now.
They really want to see what it takes, don’t they? To slow me down?
I cut a swathe through the horde, earning my share of stabs, cuts, and nicks in the process. My body heals quickly, but my armor isn’t infallible. I choose the leather armor because it affords me greater freedom of movement, and I value speed over protection. But even chainmail and plate-armor can be penetrated by a sharp enough blade.
And the edge of my sword is starting to get dull. I need another blade.
A hulking undead rushes me, his massive war-axe raised. I take his head off in an instant. The axe falls, clattering loudly on the stone floor. I sheath my sword and pick it up. There’s another body nearby, with a similar sized axe lying close to its outstretched arm.
I take both.
Before my transformation, I would have struggled to wield these heavy weapons.
Now, they’re perfectly weighted; comfortable.
I spin and slice an undead corpse in two. Then another, and another. My attack becomes a gruesome dance; it’s easier to spin and whirl than to cut straight through. The blades are sharp and carry wicked momentum.
Better.
Much better.
Eventually, I clear the room, leaving a pile of mangled bodies in my wake.
I don’t look back. I feel sick to my stomach. So many dead men; so many of them freshly dead, too. How did the Talavarras gain so many bodies in such a short amount of time.
Are theykillingthem?
Did all these men die for the sole purpose of becoming fodder for me? Are these people really so threatened by the mere fact of my existence?
I’m sick.
Sick and furious.
Rage eats at my insides, making me a little bit insane.
Kaithar was right. I never should have relinquished my claim to the throne. If I hadn’t been so blind to it, maybe I could have stopped this rot before it even started.
I know what Finley would say; that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, that I can’t hold myself responsible for the actions of others.
I go up a curving flight of stairs, encountering even more undead attackers. There isn’t a single living body amongst them, but from a strategic perspective, it makes perfect sense, because I would killlivingmen far more easily than dead ones.
I have a rough idea of the layout. I’ll turn this place over in search of them—and most importantly, Finley’s mother. I’ve visited this castle before, on official business. A banquet was held in my honor, hosted by Duke Rhaegar Talavarra himself.
The duke was pleasant on the surface, following imperial protocol to the letter, but sometimes the mask would slip, and I’d see his resentment.
