Death had slipped into Vatanil. There were thousands of guards, too many for him too fight, he kept his head low as he wandered the streets searching for opportunities.

  The vortex flames of the Sentinels had a little flicker to their magic atop the towers, a beg from the soul of the city calling out for help to free it from the insects living in the bowels of the beauty it could’ve been. The people were the same. Blushed cheeks, faces caked in makeup, masks, hoods—suits, uniforms, clean faces on all and not a spot of dirt seen. Handshakes, deals, feigned friendliness, each smile came with venom and plots.

  Vatanil was dying, and it seemed that’s exactly what the people wanted to happen… to tear down the foundations and rebuild with their own dark philosophy paving way for something new. Death saw this harsh truth the exact second he was shoved through the gates by impatient peasants in rich robes that made them feel so much more important than they’d ever truly be.

  It took all of his effort to not pull out his godsteel dagger and stab it into the necks of those that brushed too close to him.

  He stood to the side of the bustling street and turned upward. He met the eye of the first Sentinel tower, the flame staring back at him like a giant pupil, a guardian, a protector, occasionally releasing a deep rumbly hum like a thousand horns of war were blown at once using the lungs of a god. During this, the flames would swap from blue to red, or red to blue, depending on the previous colour.

  The others would be uncomfortable when the red came, calming the blue, Death noticed the routine immediately. He had never met a structure that made him feel so small, this was the first time in his life he felt compelled to get as far away from something as possible.

  I don’t think any of these peasants would care to answer my questions on the function of the Sentinels—the guards laugh when it goes red, it must be a swap between active observation and… I don’t know, there are too many options, and I do not know what they do.

  “Oy, get a move on!” a guard shouted to death. “This is the God Street, no stopping at the sides to ogle at the bloody Sentinels!”

  Death walked in circles around the streets, scanning all gates, all Sentinels, there were hundreds across the city. There must be more than a million people living in Vatanil, so lively yet so dead; walking corpses, telling themselves they came her to live a life of honour and nobility, but they are hammering nails into their coffins each time they wake to inhale this disgusting smog just to feign importance.

  To avoid more attention for the guards he entered a small store serving hot milky beverages served with chocolate. He sat at a table and rested for a moment, head in his hands. “Heya mister,” said a maiden. “Never seen your face around here before, I know most of the folk around this part of the city… you lookin’ real fancy in those clothes, must be pretty high up in somethin’ somewhere.”

  “Are you a servant of the Valans?”

  “Aren’t we all?” she joked. “If you want a sip to drink just let me know and I’ll give you a nice price—if you’re just here to sit, that’s fine too, just try not to cause a ruckus, people who come here like the silence, our roof gives a little privacy from the Sentinels.”

  “What does blue mean?” Death asked quietly.

  “My, you are new to the city.” She sat at the table. “And you’re pretty cute, you married? I got a sister—”

  “I am not interested in marriage,” he said impatiently. “If you can’t answer my question I shall just sit in silence until I am ready to leave.”

  “You’re funny.”

  Death was confused at how she came to that conclusion.

  “Blue means the Sentinels are happy with what they see,” she explained. “They’re always watching. If it goes red, they’re looking at something—no one knows who or what, makes people a little on-edge, worried that the Blood Swordsman may come and cut open a few people. One time a dragon flew near the edge and apparently it deafened a few people below, knocked that dragon out of the sky and sent it running away to its momma.”

  The Sentinels have combat capability, that is interesting. “Killian Entrail?” Death asked. “Is he in the city right now?”

  “Yup. Now, here’s a drink on the house, you enjoy your stay at Vatanil and if ye change your mind…” She teasingly rubbed his shoulder with a wink. “…my sister won’t be married for a long, long while, so take your time to think.”

  Death consumed the drink and chocolate immediately.

  A woman offering their own sister to a stranger? These lands get even more degenerate the more I interact with the people. This knowledge of the Sentinels has displeased me, I thought it would’ve been an active cycle, maybe some room for violence during the blue. I see now why Vera didn’t want to come here, she wouldn’t even know if she’s the target of the Sentinels… I can only assume they are magically linked to either the Valans or someone else, a direct magical report of what’s being seen.

  He wondered if any of the Sentinels had identified him as the ‘cambion’ that Killian Entrail had put a ‘bounty’ on.

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  Eyes dashing from entrance to exit, he kept a firm and ready hand on the hilt of his knife. As he plotted his escape, a heavyset man, broad-shouldered man sat at his table. Hands withered from work, a black beard flecked with ginger, a curious glint in his eyes.

  “You look strong son,” he said. “You looking for work? I got a nice little farm not far from here, lots of flapping roofs to keep you away from the unease of the Sentinels. I can’t give you much, but you can stay in the barn in a nice bed, get some warm meals, all you gotta do is tend to some sheep and keep them cosy.”

  Death considered lying but was painfully blunt in his motive. He told the man he sought a council the Valan family and to kill a man whom he promised a fight to the death with. He said he came to understand who he was, to get a grasp on the power of the world he had been reborn into.

  “Well, I ain’t a snitch,” said the wide man. “My name’s Gunther, them hands you’ve got look strong and clean—I can’t get you an audience with the Valans but I can give you a place to reconsider your thoughts about killing a man… the Sentinels see all, they’ll send someone to come and get you, likely Killian or Bianca.”

  Mortal work? Muddying my hands with sheep stool is not what I came here to do. But what else can I do, this city is foreign to me, as is the routine, I cannot barge my way into that fortress, I know my own limits, Aleion’s strength is not enough for this task.

  Death accepted the job and Gunther grinned at the decisiveness.

  He was put to work immediately, shovelling sheep shit into piles and then mixing them with rotten fruit and straw in barrels. He spent his time measuring the lengths between the Sentinel changes and found no pattern or indicator of how to predict it.

  He used sheers to cut away the cotton of ripe sheep and piled it all into a wheelbarrow, shoving it into sacks; he used a scythe to cut away the wheat and harvest it; he planted seeds in small crops; he did all of this without the asking of Gunther, who had only expected him to feed the sheep.

  When Gunther came to Death with a plate of steak and peas, he almost dropped it in amazement. “Woah buddy,” he said. “I can’t pay you for all of that work.”

  “I am a conqueror, I do not need payment,” he said. “This work was simple and easy.” Death nearly fell over due to exhaustion. “Or maybe my body is catching up to the will of my mind.”

  “A conqueror huh?” Gunther joked. “I like the ethic—conquer your work, seize it for yourself! I would tell that to my son if I had the chance.” He took a seat in a chair and offered the other to Death, who happily sat in it and took the warm meal. “Where are you from then lad, what’s yer name? You’ve done a whole bunch of work on my little farm and I don’t even know your name.”

  “Death,” he said with a mouthful of peas. “Where I am from, I do not know, all I seek is to conquer, kill the Valans, take it all for myself and kill the man who sealed me for thousands of years.”

  Gunther laughed. Death laughed too, only because the man spat out his food on accident.

  I do not know why, but I like this man, Death thought. I have not told a single lie and yet he doesn’t care.

  “Good thing we’re so far away from the Sentinels,” Gunther said. “Those things have ears too, the all-seeing eye of Vatanil, all they see goes straight to the Valans.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yep.” Gunther rested his feet on a nearby crate and took a swig of beer from a half-drank cup nearby. “Figured you mustn’t know a single thing ‘bout this shit city. For example, that little drink you got from that woman is often left unordered—recent rumour that place mixes their milk with bull cum.”

  Death narrowed his eyes and felt disgusted.

  “I’m just fucking with you,” Gunther said. Death could feel the ground rumbling from how hard the man was laughing. “Ah, you should’ve seen the look on your face.” He put a hand on Death’s head and dragged it closer, kissing the side of it. “Gods, you’re a pleasure to be around… you gonna stay a while?”

  That man just kissed my head, why? I feel I should be angry, but that felt rather different than the lustful women. Is this what it feels like to be calm? I don’t think I like this feeling.

  “I would rather be slaying my enemies than doing farmwork,” he said honestly. “Being a mortal quite frankly disgusts me.”

  “Ah, we’re the same in that regard Death, me and you both. I fuckin’ hate this city. I love tending to my sheep but that’s about it, if I didn’t have my daughter with me, I’d’ve left for a nicer nation in a heartbeat.”

  A thought crossed Death’s mind to kill the man to prevent more of the nice feelings he was having. The consideration only grew, his hand on the handle of his blade. I like this man, but I like my goal more than his life—I am sorry, bearded man, this small chat has been enjoyable, but I am prepared for what I have to do next… I must erase all trace of me from this city and come back when I am much stronger.

  Death removed his hand from the handle as a young girl handed him a peeled orange on a silver platter. “Oh,” he said in confusion. “What—who? Who is this?”

  “This is my daughter.” Gunther put the girl on his knee. She was seven at most, black hair, an arm and a leg amputated—she walked on an iron peg. “Her name is Harther. Thank you for the oranges, my dear.”

  “Does she… talk?”

  “Never got a word out of her,” he admitted. “You don’t have to sleep in the barn. It’s getting late, come inside.”

  Death followed him inside and couldn’t escape the feeling of guilt for something he didn’t even do. What is this feeling? I feel so terrible about what I was going to do.

  Gunther pointed to a family portrait on the wall. “Haven’t got a word out of my little girl since my wife died of the plague that took Godric Valan and his wife away, never understood how the Valans moved on so fast from their passing.”

  I vaguely remember this mention in the book about their family, Death thought. All I’ve heard about is how the Valans are so strong. If they were taken by illness, it must’ve been imbued with magic.

  Gunther pointed to another man on the painting. “This is my son, my only son,” he said. “I lost him on the same night as his mother, and it’s why I asked if you wanted to come on the farm… you look just like him, felt like I was talkin’ to my boy again. My little girl sees it too, I can tell, look at how she’s starin’ at you.”

  Apart from the eye colour and the shape of the nose, it was like looking into a mirror. Hm, it does look like, he thought. I may have to kill this man and the little girl… no, I can still use him to gain more information on the Valans before I leave. I will continue to work for him until the benefit disappears, then I will have to kill them both to erase everything I’ve said to them.