Nita thought she could hear whispers – soft, melodic, and unrelenting. She opened her eyes, blinking several times before her vision settled on the low wooden beams above her, darkened and blackened by smoke. The rain drummed steadily on the roof, and water seeped through the ceiling. The air was heavy, damp, and carried a stench of smoke, wet earth, and something metallic. She tried to move, but a sharp pain shot through her leg, pinning her to the bed and forcing tears into her eyes.

  "Finally decided to wake up, did you?"

  The voice was rough, and Nita turned her head carefully to see who had spoken. In the doorway stood an older woman, hands on her hips. Strands of gray hair peeked out from beneath her scarf, enhancing the stern and disgusted expression on her face.

  "I was already afraid you’d stay here and be a damn nuisance. As if we don't have enough to deal with." The woman clicked her tongue in annoyance and turned toward the open door. "Hey, Olbo! She's awake now – come get her and get the hell out of here!"

  A red-haired man burst into the room, his clothes wet and caked with mud. Nita recognized him despite his gaunt face, hollow cheeks, and the dark shadows under his eyes – he was one of the soldiers who had stayed behind in the village on Symer's orders. His expression soured the moment he saw her, filled with disgust – and hatred.

  "You look like a drowned rat."

  "Where-" Her throat burned, cutting her words short. She coughed violently.

  "Where are you? In deep shit. You’ve got a lot to explain." Olbo dragged a chair over and sat beside her bed. "How the hell are you breathing when we had to scrape the others off the ground?"

  The woman in the doorway shook her head in disgust and left the room, muttering curses under her breath.

  Nita’s last memories surfaced, and she began to tremble. Panic, loss of control, death… so much senseless death.

  Flaethrun!

  He had been there. He had been present, waiting. Just like Olbo.

  She swallowed hard and raised her hands to cover her face, hoping to shield herself from Olbo’s glare. He grabbed her wrist roughly, shaking her.

  "Talk, damn it!" he barked, his voice trembling with barely restrained anger.

  "Elders! The Elders were there!" she cried out, trying to wrench her arm free. Olbo’s grip only tightened.

  "There weren’t more Elders than you!"

  Flaethrun’s presence within her bristled, readying for another attack – and the sensation terrified her even more. In a hoarse voice, she blurted out the first lie that came to mind.

  "They ambushed us! We didn’t see them until it was too late!"

  "You were supposed to protect them, damn it!" he roared, shaking her again before releasing her wrist with a frustrated sigh. He slumped back in his chair. "You were supposed to protect them…" he repeated, his voice weary.

  Flaethrun’s tension eased.

  "I’m sorry," she whispered weakly.

  "Regret's fucking useless," he snapped. "Half our guys are pushing up daisies. If this is all you’ve got, maybe you should’ve stayed hidden in your damn catacombs."

  Nita didn’t know how to respond.

  Don’t say anything – what could you possibly tell him? The truth? By all means, go ahead... Flaethrune’s mocking voice echoed in her mind, but she didn’t react. She felt hollow – tired and empty, like the shell of a long-rotted nut. She was far beyond guilt or shame, having sunk into something deeper, somewhere outside herself.

  Why did you do it? she finally asked the demon silently. She sensed his indignation – he withdrew, silent and brooding.

  "How long have I been here?"

  Olbo flinched, as though she had interrupted his thoughts. "Two days."

  "Really, no one else-"

  "No." He cut her off quickly. "We brought Symer down, but the others are all in mass grave. Even the miners."

  "And the Elders' bodies?"

  The moment the question left her lips, she realized her mistake. Olbo’s expression hardened.

  "What about them?"

  Nita quickly averted her gaze, scrambling for an answer. "I just… wondered if…"

  Olbo leaned in, close enough that she could smell his sour breath, making her stomach churn. "Wondered what? You think they deserved a burial?"

  She shook her head, but Olbo’s glare didn’t waver. Then, in a low, threatening voice, he continued. "I saw the wounds – on our men and the Elders. They were the same. Like they’d been cut by the same blade."

  Nita’s heart thundered in her chest. Olbo reached out again, this time grabbing her chin and forcing her to look into his bloodshot, menacing eyes.

  "What the hell are you hiding? Did you help the Elders?"

  "No!" Nita shoved his hand away and rubbed her sore chin.

  Olbo snorted derisively. "You’d better not have. We left them to rot, as a warning to the others. You could join them," he added cynically, straightening up.

  The tension in the room lessened. Nita exhaled as her body relaxed. "There aren’t any more Elders left," she said.

  "Yeah? And how do you know?"

  She shrugged evasively. "I didn’t see anyone else before I passed out."

  Olbo scoffed. "If you’re right, good. We need to get out of this pit."

  "Out?"

  "Back to Rovisk. Half the men are dead, and the rest are puking their guts out. The foreman was right – we can’t stay here."

  "When do you plan to leave?"

  "Now."

  Cold sweat broke out across Nita's skin. She tried to push herself up onto her elbows and sit, but her first attempt failed – she was too weak, her head spinning, her arms refusing to hold her weight. She tried again.

  Olbo watched her with bloodshot, pale eyes, his expression unreadable, before asking coldly, "And what exactly are you trying to do?"

  "I need to go back with you," she said, trying to sound urgent, but her voice faltered.

  "You don’t."

  Nita looked at him desperately.

  "Stay here, for all I care. The foreman will make sure you stay busy. Maybe you can help dig more graves." She shook her head and tried again to sit up. This time, she managed it, though her vision darkened, and the spinning in her head worsened.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Olbo folded his arms across his chest and and eyed her with mocking disdain. "You’re crippled. You can’t travel in this state."

  "I’ll manage."

  He shook his head, the smirk never leaving his face. "Not on your own two feet."

  She gave him a confused, frightened look. "On the cart-"

  "The carts are for supplies and Symer’s body." Olbo stretched out his legs and added with a satisfied sneer, "You don’t seem to get it – no one wants you with us. You were a burden before, and now you’re an even bigger one."

  "Please," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. The thought of being left behind, alone, to waste away like the rest of the villagers, filled her with dread.

  Olbo’s eyes glinted with strange satisfaction. His smile widened, but it wasn’t kind – it was filled with quiet contempt, mockery, and, worst of all, a sadistic delight in her misery. "Ha! Look at that. Even a warlock knows how to beg."

  Flaethrun was silent, but she could feel his disdain as well.

  Nita clenched her teeth. "I was ordered by the king to go with you. You’ll be in trouble if you leave me behind-"

  Olbo burst into laughter. "Your job was to accompany us here, as far as I know. No one said a thing about bringing you back."

  Nita closed her eyes and swallowed dryly. Her options were running out.

  How low can I sink? she asked herself before speaking aloud. "What do you want me to do so you’ll take me with you?"

  Olbo stared at her in silence for a moment, his upper lip twitching slightly. His eyes seemed colder now as he scrutinized her, lingering on the torn fabric of her pants and the blood-stained bandage on her thigh. His expression twisted with disgust.

  "Climb onto the cart. By yourself. If you can’t manage that, we’re leaving without you."

  Her stomach turned – just sitting up had drained her. Still, she nodded. Taking a deep breath, she tried to stand. Her injured leg gave out immediately, and she had to grab the back of Olbo’s chair to keep from collapsing. Her sweaty palms slipped against the wood, and he didn’t lift a finger to help her.

  She bit her cheek to stifle a cry of pain, the taste of blood filling her mouth as she slowly straightened. She had to pause several times to catch her breath before taking another step. Then another. She shuffled toward the door, using the rickety furniture for support, ignoring the sickening sensation of something tearing in her wound and the growing stain on her bandage.

  When she finally crossed the threshold, the rain soaked her instantly, heavy and cold. The ground had turned to slick mud, clinging to her feet with every step. Her heart sank when she saw how far away the wagons and soldiers were – thirty paces, at least.

  "Changed your mind yet?" Olbo’s voice came from behind her.

  She shook her head and forced herself to take another step. Her foot slipped in the mud, and as she tried to catch herself, she put too much weight on her injured leg. This time, she couldn’t stop the cry of pain that escaped her lips. Behind her, she heard Olbo chuckle. She kept going. Her leg trembled violently, sharp, stabbing pain shooting up to her hip with every movement. Mud clung to her boots, resisting her steps with a sickening squelching, as if trying to hold her back.

  The soldiers watched in silence. They stood by the carts, drenched and motionless, their expressions grim. They were statues, and Nita could feel their loathing – sharper, colder than the mocking laughter they’d thrown at her before. Now, they openly despised her.

  One step. Then another. And another. She was almost there when her foot slipped again, and she fell hard into the mud. Gray sludge splattered everywhere. Her breath hitched, her ears rang, and the rain streamed down her face, mixing with the mud and sweat. Struggling, she pressed her hands against the ground and managed to push herself back up. The soldiers still said nothing.

  With trembling fingers, she grabbed the edge of the nearest cart. The wood was slick with rain and caked with dirt. She tried to pull herself up, but Olbo stopped her.

  "Not this one. You’ll ride with Symer. Maybe you’ll protect him better now than when he was alive."

  Tears streamed from her eyes, but the rain quickly washed them away. She stumbled to the second cart and peered inside. A body wrapped in burlap and a cloak lay there. The stench of death and decay hit her, making her stomach churn again.

  Shivering, she grabbed the edge of the cart and tried to haul herself up. Her muscles screamed in protest, her leg burned with pain, and splinters bit into her palms. Slowly, inch by inch, she climbed until her knees reached the cart’s edge. With one last burst of effort, she hauled herself over the side, collapsing onto the hard wooden boards beside Symer’s shrouded corpse. She dragged herself as far from it as she could.

  He fought better than you did, Flaethrun murmured faintly, his tone carrying a quiet reproach.

  She had no answer for him. She just lay there, gasping for air, as the rain drummed against the tarp above her. Her wet clothes clung to her, cold and uncomfortable, and she began to shiver. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried to preserve what little warmth she had. Her eyes burned, and she couldn’t keep them open.

  She didn’t even flinch when someone tossed a leather water skin onto her. The cart lurched forward, and Nita felt her body sway with its motion. Exhaustion, combined with the rocking of the cart, soon pulled her into a restless sleep.

  In her dream, she saw eyes—so many eyes, some clouded, others sharp and clear. They glowed in the darkness, watching her. Then they began to swell and bloat, as if they were about to burst like soap bubbles. And they did. Each rupture was accompanied by a sharp popping sound, and thick, viscous tissue spilled out, coiling around Nita's ankles.

  Finally, only one pair of bloated eyes remained in the darkness—eyes she recognized. They belonged to the apprentice she had killed in revenge. Nita tried to run, but the eyes swelled larger and larger. The sticky substance around her feet grew heavier, slowing her movements until each step felt like wading through molasses. The eyes swelled closer and closer until they engulfed her, burying her in the sticky, clinging substance. She tried to scream, but a thick liquid filled her mouth, and the massive eyes pressed her deeper and deeper into the suffocating mire… until she began to fall.

  The impact jolted her awake. Her heart raced wildly, pounding against her ribs. She rolled onto her side, and her hand brushed against the burlap covering Symer’s body. She flinched, trying to pull away, but there was nowhere to go in the cramped cart. The stench of decay was overwhelming—thick, sickly sweet, and clinging. It felt like it was seeping into her skin, suffocating her. She pressed a hand to her nose, and that’s when she realized something was terribly wrong.

  Her breath burned.

  With what little strength she could muster, she sat up and tried to unwrap the bandage on her leg. Her fingers were so weak, trembling with exhaustion, that she couldn’t even loosen the knot.

  Flaethrun...

  She felt his presence wrap around her mind like an embrace. Resting her fevered forehead against the wagon’s damp canvas, she let the coolness calm her.

  Do I have a fever?

  Yes.

  She frowned. The wound is infected?

  Yes.

  Exhausted, she lay back down. Her clothes were still wet, and she trembled, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the fever.

  Can you help me?

  Flaethrun’s wordless denial echoed in her mind.

  You haven’t been much use to me so far, have you?

  He snapped at her with venom. Ask the soldiers for help. You seemed good at begging.

  If you hadn’t killed their friends, maybe they would have treated me, she shot back bitterly. Why did you have to do it?

  Flaethrune fell silent. The cart creaked and jolted over the uneven road, and as Nita waited for his answer, she began to drift off again. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and icy, so much so that she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it.

  You and I are bound together. The stronger you are, the stronger I become… and the weaker you are, the weaker I become. An attack on you is an attack on me—and you were in danger. They saw how weak you were, how you were falling apart. They would have gotten rid of you.

  "And maybe we should have."

  The whisper came from beside her. It was soft, yet somehow louder than the rain and the cart’s creaks combined. Turning her head, she looked at Symer’s body. It seemed as though the head wrapped in the cloak had shifted toward her. The dark fabric remained still, but she felt as though his dead eyes were staring at her, piercing her.

  "If you hadn’t been there, we might have lived. You betrayed us." Symer’s voice was muffled, devoid of emotion, as though he was merely stating a fact.

  "It wasn’t me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I couldn’t control him."

  "Liar. Couldn’t control him?" Symer repeated mockingly. "Tell me, should a demon control the warlock, or should the warlock control the demon?"

  His question struck her. She opened her mouth to answer, but her voice failed her. Her thoughts tangled together in a confused mess. It wasn’t my fault… Flaethrun made me… I had to survive… But none of those excuses felt strong enough to give her the courage to say them aloud.

  Symer moved—or perhaps it was just her imagination. The burlap covering his body seemed to twitch almost imperceptibly. "Blame whoever you want. Keep accusing your demon. Keep hiding behind your weakness. Or..." He paused, and Nita’s eyes fixed on the cloak covering his face. "Or learn to live with what you are."

  Nita stayed silent. The words she wanted to say crumbled like dust. She could have defended herself, made excuses, but what would be the point?

  The truth was unpleasant, heavy, and sharp as broken glass. She had killed him. And others. Needlessly. Because she had failed.

  And what exactly are you? Symer’s voice shifted, becoming Flaethrun’s. She pressed her fevered forehead against the wooden side of the cart. Everything inside her screamed, twisted, and writhed, but at the center of that chaos was a small, fragile shard of calm – acceptance.

  "I’m a warlock."