Anthos spent the entire day resting and recovering. During the evening, Volrath went to see him in his room to check on his condition, the progress of the poison, and to provide him with some medicinal herbs. At no point did he mention what had happened with Kisenthea, but the guide noticed a certain distance in his attitude. Or perhaps it was that he himself was on the defensive. The truth was that the situation felt genuinely awkward.

  "Begryn told me about the wound on your cheekbone. It caught her attention quite strongly. The insight of the Sharpshooters is world-renowned, so I decided to check it in person. Let me see." He stepped closer and began to scrutinize the skin of his face as if trying to see beyond it. "How did you get this cut?"

  "To be honest, I have no idea... I was dreaming..."

  "And what were you dreaming?"

  "I was dreaming of Ertai, the dark druid who betrayed us and whom we killed to recover Drako. In the dream, he approached me and cut me with his dagger. I woke up, and I had the cut in reality." The mage paused to meditate for a few moments. "At the time we brushed it off because we were coming from a difficult journey... but those dreams began to recur."

  "Did something happen during the combat against the dark druid?" he asked.

  "When I was about to finish him off, a kind of shadow came out of his eyes and flew directly into mine, but nothing else happened."

  "Give me the context of the dream… what was in that place?"

  "In the first dream, I think there was a door… I don’t remember what else, but I decided to go through it."

  "Why the hell would you do that?" Volrath asked, angered.

  "I don’t know... in the dream, I couldn’t control myself. I rarely can. Can you tell me what’s going on?" The mage sighed.

  "Those of us who wield the magical, spiritual, or arcane arts usually have a range of abilities that people like you do not. When a dark druid places his magical essence into an object or person—in this case, into you—he does so to leave a window open to the plane of reality where that subject resides. Sensing his imminent death, he must have made a pact with some entity to pass into another plane. You are his window to reality, but since he cannot materialize physically, he does so through dreams, the consequences of which have real-world effects. In other words, if Ertai attacks you in your dreams, he also wounds you physically. It sounds as terrifying as a story to scare naughty children, except in this case, it is real."

  "Shit... He mentioned something like... how was it? Ah, yes: Hol 'Dor."

  "By Mistilanya..." he shook his head. "Hol 'Dor is a plane of reality created by the Necromancer, whose name I do not intend to utter. It is a flawed and chaotic plane where countless demons and entities are trapped, trying to enter our world. Unfortunately for them, they can only do so through dreams... or rather, nightmares. That is to say, in the dream world."

  "And how can I defeat him? In my dreams, I can barely move. And they are becoming more real every time."

  "You must kill him on that plane. The only thing I can tell you is that if you go to Hol 'Dor in your dreams, the dark druid will control you. You must remain in a middle point…”

  "And how do I do that?"

  “I can help you reach Hol ’Dor in a state of semi-consciousness. In that state, Ertai will not have direct influence over you, but he will be powerful within the environment he inhabits. You must understand that if you do nothing now, he will begin to take increasing control of your dreams, until the influence becomes total. Eventually, he could cause your death—or worse, drive you mad. You must make a decision.”

  “I want that son of a bitch out of my head.” The mage nodded.

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  “Let me prepare some potions for the transition… I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”

  “Thank you very much… Listen, Volrath… about Kisenthea…”

  "What happens between you two is your business," he said, interrupting him. "But if it even crosses your mind to hurt her, wound her, or fail to treat her like the lady she is, all the fury of the demons of the Abyss will fall upon you through my magic. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Hell, loud and clear."

  "Good. I will return in a few hours."

  Lord Devan de-Oppengraf, now simply known as "Devan," was heading out through the main street, passing the citadel walls where the head of Count Dromak Valderan rested upon a pike. His face bore the final spasm of weeping and fear before receiving the punishment of the Executioner knight, who had severed his "palace of ideas" from the rest of his body with an axe. His black hair fluttered in the wind, with strands matted by dried blood, stiffening them against the movement. A large crowd had gathered to witness the public execution, for it was quite a novelty that the Count—the right hand of the Immortal Queen—had betrayed her.

  "I hope you enjoy your life. It seems fortune smiled upon you this time," he heard a voice to his right. It was Sir Kalen ‘Fal, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. Beside him was Galfrido, chewing on a piece of dried meat. Despite the cold, the massive warrior had his arms bare, wearing a V-neck tunic with a bearskin cloak thrown over it. Naturally, his greatsword rested upon his back.

  "You ruined me," he said with disdain, adjusting the red tunic that now covered his shoulders and shifting the burlap sack slung across his back.

  "You’re clearly a very lucky man to make a comment like that and not have your skull split in two..." Galfrido added, looking at his friend without even glancing down at the bald, disgraced man standing before them. "I’m telling you, Kalen, I wouldn’t mind at all correcting that ingratitude. If it were up to me, you’d be sharing a spot with that son of a bitch Dromak Valderan." This time he did look down, withering him with his brown eyes.

  "He’s not worth it. Leave at once, Devan. And I hope you can raise your children to be better than you are now... May Leiorus light your path."

  The count said nothing. He simply glared at them with hatred, spat on the ground, and continued his walk. He wanted to get out of Trabarioth as quickly as possible, but the Queen hadn't even given him time to secure a wagon or horses. All he wanted now was to cross the main walls, reach the nearest village, rent a carriage, and head southeast toward the town of Tir, where he was lord and where his home lay. He would have to abandon that too, leaving the frozen lands behind along with his wife and three children, but right now, staying alive was his primary concern.

  He finally crossed the titanic walls of the Frozen City and, once again, spat on the ground in a show of contempt. The sunset now offered a bit of orange sun through the reddish clouds, accompanied by a biting winter breeze. The ground around him was covered in snow and sparse vegetation. There wasn't much movement on the road anymore, especially with war knocking at the capital's gates.

  "How did I let myself get dragged into this?" he said, almost in a whisper.

  Inevitably, he remembered when, during the festival of the sun god, Count Dromak Valderan had approached him with a colorful story that grew increasingly dark. He had been deeply enticed by the prize of his hidden and stealthy work; the forested lands north of Daim could be incredibly rich if exploited correctly, and with them, he would have become the greatest de-Oppengraf since Sir Froyd de-Oppengraf—the hero who had quelled the rebellion in Trabarioth, ending the civil war and making his family the guardians of the Watchtower. What would Sir Froyd say if he could see him now? He had lost everything that he and so many others with his surname had earned.

  Damned fortune.

  He was deep in thought when a presence made him stop. Further down the road, a figure dressed in black with a hood pulled up blocked his path. Judging by the slender, petite frame, it appeared to be a woman. Beneath the hood, Devan could see strands of purple hair falling in whimsical locks. She carried a bow slung across her chest and a quiver full of arrows with blue, black, and violet feathers. A curved machete was sheathed at her waist.

  "I see the mockery of your companions wasn't enough, Begryn. And now you’ve come to gloat too?" he said nervously, for he knew the elf was not the gloating type.

  "No, Devan de-Oppengraf. I came because justice was not served… at least, not completely. We, the Sharpshooters of Mistilanya, deal with the minions of evil who so often slip through the clutches of justice. We are the ones who balance the scales." She looked up, and through the shadow of the hood, the man could see the elf’s eyes flashing and reflecting the light like those of a feline.

  "Go to hell, elf!" He swallowed hard and began to back away. "I’ve already been judged! They took everything I had! Are you happy? Everything! I have nothing left!"

  "They didn't take everything…" she said, unsheathing her machete and advancing slowly with a half-smile, her nostrils flaring as if she could scent a coward. "Not yet."

  The shadow of death's mantle enveloped a terrified Devan de-Oppengraf, who passed into the next life without pain or suffering—but with urine in his pants.