They departed the following noon, under better weather. Though the sky was still mostly covered with clouds, there were a few openings that allowed timid beams of sunlight to filter through, and the rain had stopped. The air and ground still felt damp, but even the temperature had risen slightly, becoming more pleasant.

  For the journey, they managed to get a cart pulled by Galfrido’s horse, in which they placed not only the contents of their saddlebags, but also bags of legumes and fruit, a barrel of water, and a small cask of rum to fight the cold—complementing the one they already had. They also acquired two more blankets and a long rope they bought from the innkeeper.

  The road south began to gradually rise, and they started to lose vegetation as they advanced.

  “Sir Kalen,” said Anthos, approaching the knight, who was walking alongside his horse, Blackmane. “Soon, we’ll have to send the horses back. The path I know runs through a series of abandoned mines, usually used by smugglers to transport slaves, among other things.”

  “Those bastards…” Kalen muttered, narrowing his eyes as he imagined the vile practice he had fought against so many times.

  “Yes, exactly—bastards. But I must warn you, it's likely they're still there. If that’s the case, let me do the talking to get us safe passage. Don’t try to fight them in the mines. They are many, and very dangerous. They also keep all sorts of beasts—some for trafficking, others as pets, and some for protection.”

  The paladin looked him up and down, then nodded in agreement.

  By nightfall, they found an abandoned barn where they decided to spend the night. Galfrido built a fire and began cooking some of the meat they had brought, along with legumes. Begryn and Kalen prepared a bed for Drako, while Anthos set up a resting area for the group.

  “So, tell me, Anthos,” said Galfrido, now seated in front of the fire, stirring a pot of stew, “what’s the story behind that sword? No offense, but it looks like a little harmless toothpick for kids.”

  Anthos smiled and unsheathed the long, thin-bladed sword. As he did, a high-pitched metallic hum lingered in their ears for a few seconds.

  "This is an Elbarien duelist’s sword, my friend Galfrido—and believe me when I say it is very dangerous," said Anthos. "In Elbarien, this type of sword is called Ak-Ahrimma, which in the common Bactragin tongue would be something like The Discreet Death."

  "I’ve never seen a weapon like it," Galfrido replied.

  "It has a rather curious history," Anthos said, sitting down by the fire and warming his hands. "Duels are a remnant of an ancient shanate, particularly of a sha who, after growing old and passing his kingdom to his heir, journeyed south of Elbarie. There, he founded a small city, and among the treasures he brought with him—spoils of his conquests—was a sword like this one—a unique piece. Grumenur-Sha developed a combat style and invented a way to test it. He summoned the best smiths of Elbarie and, using some of the remaining materials from his riches, had a dozen similar weapons forged, keeping the original for himself. Must’ve been good times."

  "And these duels… how were they carried out?"

  "Duels were fought one-on-one, with a small crossbow and the sword. They started ten meters apart, with a third party acting as moderator—usually the village lord. They were typically to first blood with the sword, although sometimes they were fought to the death. The crossbow could be used only once, and it had to be aimed at a limb. If the duelist hit anywhere else, they’d lose the match." He paused. "This discipline, once used for sport and competition, also turned out to be quite practical in real combat. The speed of the strikes, the precision of the blade—those features made a duelist a deadly opponent."

  "Still looks like a toothpick to me… And is that tradition still practiced in Elbarie?"

  "Truthfully, I don’t know. Before I left the desert region, very few of us were still practicing the art of dueling, even though it’s considered a regional sport. Let’s say… It’s a dying art. If not already extinct. Replaced by horse racing."

  "Well, whatever…" The burly warrior stroked the blade of his greatsword. "I wouldn’t trade this beast for anything."

  "You’d be surprised. Elbarien duelists are known to strike with the speed of a cobra—or a scorpion."

  The night arrived with a chill wind that cut to the bone. Despite the shelter of the abandoned barn, the missing boards and gaping holes made it feel almost like they were sleeping outdoors. The only real protection they had was from the dew.

  Though Anthos still hadn’t asked many questions, he was clearly intrigued by the nature of their mission. For reasons still unknown to him, the elf woman had yet to uncover the child from his blanket—except on the few occasions when she took him away to calm a fit of crying or to feed him. It was obvious that the whole thing revolved around the baby… but what was the mystery?

  If there was one thing Anthos had learned over the years, it was to be patient. Perhaps, in time, he’d earn the trust of his companions.

  And if not… well, at least he’d get paid three hundred crowns. And he was certain the knight would pay him—his condition bound him to keep his word.

  They decided to take shifts in pairs so they could rest with proper security. Even though they hadn’t yet entered truly wild lands, the further south they traveled—putting distance between themselves and the city of Doknar—the more inhospitable the region became. And beyond the natural dangers that lurked in the southern reaches, such as the Kasagir tribes or the swamp dwellers, they were well aware that more and more groups of orcs were roaming those parts.

  That night, Kalen ‘Fal had a very strange dream. He found himself walking across a gray desert—vast, dry, and cracked—its fissures forming hexagonal patterns on the ground. The sky above was covered by a thick layer of violet clouds.

  He looked at his hands and saw them stained with blood.

  Suddenly, right in front of him, appeared a massive, deformed being with a disproportionately large head and very thin arms. It was naked and not a single hair covered its entire body. In both hands, it carried a golden pyramid with a red-eyed iris at its center.

  When the abomination saw him, it began to weep blood.

  He felt a terrible fear—unnatural for him. The kind of irrational fear people feel when they stare into a dark corner after waking in the night, or when walking down a pitch-black hallway. A fear of the unknown, of that which is ethereal, intangible, and utterly malevolent.

  “What are you willing to offer?” asked the giant entity, its voice as deep as a thunderclap.

  “I don’t understand, I…”

  “Do not descend if you don’t know what burns at the gates of the Abyss! Do you think you can block out the sun with your hand, when even an eclipse cannot? You wish to turn back the threshold of demons, yet you fear the demons themselves!”

  The eye on the pyramid began to weep blood like a waterfall.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “What are you willing to offer, paladin? A life for a life.”

  “I’m sorry… I don’t understand…”

  “You must choose… Heroes are not made without pain.”

  “Choose what…?”

  “CHOOSE!”

  The enormous entity began squeezing the pyramid tightly, and it suddenly shattered, unleashing a crimson rain. Along with the thick red liquid, something else fell: a massive three-headed black dog, with red eyes and razor-sharp claws.

  The monster roared so fiercely that it knocked the knight to his knees. Then, without pause, it began charging at him in a furious sprint.

  The giant entity screamed in desperation:

  “The gods are dead! The gods are dead! The gods are dead!” it cried again and again, breaking into sobs.

  “You have chosen! You have chosen! The gods are dead!”

  The monstrous hound lunged at Kalen, its three heads striking at once, baring rows of teeth sharp as swords.

  “NOOOO!”

  Begryn sat in front of the fire, watching the flames dance capriciously, sending sparks into the air like tiny firefly embers that vanished into the surrounding darkness. Her watch partner, Galfrido, was holding little Drako in his arms, struggling to stay awake despite having consumed a generous amount of rum—according to him, “to ward off the cold.”

  Her mind began to drift backward, returning to the moment they had found the burned and destroyed village. She remembered how, many years ago, she had met Kalen and Galfrido in a similar situation—one in which they had been among the few survivors. That time, too, it had been Faradax. Now the Black Knight had returned to ravage these lands. Did he never know peace?

  The mere thought of him sent a shiver down her spine. She remembered their last encounter with chilling clarity:

  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone left, Begryn,” said one of her archers, her face smudged with ash from the lingering smoke and flames, mixed with the acrid stench of charred corpses. “A large number of orcs passed through here. Far more than we’ve seen in the other attacks.”

  “We won’t give up, itha… gather the rest of the unit and follow the tracks.”

  “There are two sets of tracks, itha. It looks like a small group broke off from the main force.”

  Another of her archers appeared to report in. Like all the others, he was dressed in dark colors, his face marked with bluish tattoos. His hair was shaved short, except for a crest along the top.

  Suddenly, as if heralding some dark omen, massive figures began to emerge from the shadows—men clad in black armor, most of it lined with spikes. They wore full-face helms, with horned or bat-wing-like protrusions on the sides. They carried greatswords, maces, or halberds.

  Begryn knew exactly who they were—Faradax’s elite soldiers. These were no ordinary orcs. These were the infamous Dark Warriors.

  “Aaarrgggh!” came a scream from one of her archers in the distance. She couldn’t see him—smoke obscured everything beyond a few meters. The ghostly figures clad in steel began to attack.

  “Begryn, we have to—!” The elf who had just given his report didn’t get to finish his sentence. His head exploded in a spray of blood, brain matter, and scalp fragments, splattering across the elf woman’s face.

  Behind him stood a massive Dark Warrior, wielding a mace, ready to strike her next.

  “Inkarthiel!”

  With a swift feint, Begryn dodged the attack, sliding between his legs and slicing behind the knee—right where there was no armor. The Dark Warrior collapsed, only to be finished with a swift slash across the throat.

  “How did they hide from us so easily, itha?” asked one of her archers, loosing an arrow straight into the eye of an enemy. “This has to be the work of some—Oh, by Mistilanya…”

  Begryn turned her head in the direction of the elf’s gaze—and what she saw filled her with dread.

  Out of the smoke and flames, emerging subtly from the shadows, came a figure on horseback. Two glowing red eyes pierced through the darkness. His gait was calm, serene, and steady—it was the one that struck fear into the world—the one that made even the bravest warriors shudder—was now standing before her. It was Faradax, the Black Knight.

  His helmetless face exuded an indescribable evil. His skin was pale as snow, with deep black circles under his eyes that contrasted violently with the blood-red rubies that served as his pupils. He had no hair whatsoever. His pitch-black armor looked as though it were made from dragon scales, with sharp edges and flame-like protrusions, perhaps a nod to the fires of the Abyss. He was the very image of the quintessential anti-paladin.

  “We need to get out of here!” Begryn shouted to the archer beside her—just as the elf began to cough up blood. A blade twisted through her abdomen, snapping her spine with a sickening crack. Behind her, a Dark Warrior had run her through with his sword.

  “Nooo!”

  Chaos engulfed her. She could barely see a few feet ahead through the smoke and shadow. She could still hear the cries of her fellow Sharpshooters… An entire elite elven strike team, reduced to nothing by these savage monsters.

  She began weaving her way through debris and corpses, dodging Faradax's soldiers. Every so often, she loosed an arrow, hitting her mark with deadly precision. But it wasn’t her technique that was the problem—it was the ambush, the sheer numbers. How could she possibly take them all on?

  She couldn’t. Not now. She had to flee.

  If her instincts were right, those separate tracks they'd found earlier might have belonged to someone who fled with the Dragon Knight. What other reason would Faradax have to be in that decimated village?

  Wasting no more time—and certain her squad had been massacred—she turned to follow the trail. Her mission was all that mattered now.

  Suddenly, a scream snapped her out of her thoughts.

  It wasn’t loud, but it pierced the heavy silence inside the barn.

  “Nooo!”

  Kalen ‘Fal woke with a jolt from the world of dreams. His grey eyes shot open, scanning the room.

  “Hey, easy now…” Begryn moved toward the knight, first checking that the child was still asleep. Galfrido also opened his eyes, startled, but then half-shut them again and stared at the fire. Anthos didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Bad dream?”

  “A strange nightmare…” He sat up. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep again.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind some company for my watch.” Begryn gestured toward Galfrido, who could barely hold his head up but still cradled Drako in his arms, forming a cozy cradle for the baby.

  Kalen sat by the fire and drank a little water from his canteen. Begryn sat beside him, never taking her eyes off the flames. Only a few hours remained before dawn, and judging by the night’s humidity, a thick fog would likely slow their progress further.

  “How long has it been since we last saw each other?” the elf suddenly asked.

  “I don’t know… maybe a year or two? I can’t remember exactly. What I do remember is thinking, the day we said goodbye, that I’d see you the next day… like always. And then you vanished—just like that.”

  The elf nodded, still staring into the fire.

  “Elves have a different sense of time. I’m not sure you’d understand,” she said. “Still, it was wrong of me to leave without even saying goodbye. We had some... interesting moments, didn’t we?”

  “You can say that again!”

  The knight turned to look at her. He took in her delicate features—those vertically slitted, feline eyes that almost seemed to glow from within; her upturned nose, now dusted with a bit of ash at the tip; her full lips, slightly chapped from a life in the open; and of course, her violet hair, a little messy but straight and neatly tucked behind her long, pointed ears.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, catching Kalen’s transfixed gaze.

  “N-no, of course not.” He quickly turned back to the fire, but the elf’s smile betrayed how pleased she was by the knight’s admiration.

  “Well, I suppose we’ll have more interesting moments to come... In fact, I think this might end up being the longest mission we’ve ever shared.” She paused for a moment. “And I’m glad to be doing it with you.”

  Now it was she who studied the knight’s face. Despite the several days’ worth of beard and the growing shadows under his eyes from exhaustion, he was undeniably handsome. That near-permanent furrowed brow and the squint in his eyes hinted at the many years he had spent in a military order—accustomed to the seriousness and discipline of such institutions, like the Order of Reidos.

  And yet, when he smiled, there was a sincerity and lightness in him that she had rarely seen in a human man.

  They both knew—despite their ideological differences—that there was something else that bound them together. And it wasn’t just their shared purpose, which had been a constant presence through the years. There was something more. And yet... something also held them back from fully embracing those feelings.

  It was like a torturous, ongoing game of mutual seduction—one that Galfrido had often, in private conversation with Kalen, labeled “sick.”