He dragged himself into the next room, slamming the door behind him. The air inside was still. Quiet.
Too quiet.
It was an old reading chamber with dusty velvet chairs, a cracked fireplace, and tall, shuttered windows that hadn't seen daylight in years. The scent of rotting wood clung to the air like a warning.
Desan slumped into the nearest chair, letting his head fall back. His leg throbbed. His ribs ached. His arms felt like lead.
For a moment, when he killed those things, he felt something.
Like his soul was healing, or maybe not healing. Growing. Like it had fed on something that died.
"See? That wasn't so bad," Velcrith murmured smugly, echoing in the back of his skull. "Bit of blood. A few bruises. Nothing a walking corpse like you can't handle."
Desan didn't answer. He just closed his eyes.
That was his mistake.
He took a breath, slow and ragged.
"What are those freaks called?"
"Freaks?" Velcrith hissed, words twisting like smoke. "From my perspective, you're the creepier one."
"I don't look that ugly."
A dry chuckle scraped against his nerves.
"Well, they're called Vowbound. Low-tier fodder. Good for war or anything that only needs half a rotting brain cell to get done."
Desan raised his sword and set it across his lap, wiping the blood from its surface.
The blade was rusted, but in the patches that still gleamed, he saw his own reflection. pale, mutilated, stitched like a corpse, covered in bloodstained yellow bandages.
A subtle creak echoed from the far end of the room.
Desan's eyes snapped open.
He didn't move—just listened.
Another creak. A shift of weight. Fabric brushing wood. Something… breathing?
His hand drifted toward his blade.
Then he saw it.
In the dim corner, tucked behind one of the high-backed chairs, something stood.
Not moving. Not breathing anymore.
But it had been.
It had waited.
Desan surged forward just as the creature lunged—jaws stretched too wide, limbs bent like cracked marionettes. Its skin was pale and veiny, its eyes pitch-black, leaking ink like tears.
It had been watching him. Waiting for his guard to drop.
The ambush was perfect. Too perfect.
He raised his sword. Steel met flesh in a blur.
The chair shattered beneath him. Desan hit the floor hard, his blade caught between the thing's gaping jaws. It screamed—high and wet and furious—and slammed him against the boards.
He kicked it off, scrambled back.
"Velcrith—any bright ideas?"
"That's a shadow mimic," Velcrith rasped. "Don't let it bite you."
"Wasn't planning on it!"
It moved wrong—too fast, too fluid—slipping across surfaces like oil. It was only solid when it struck.
Desan lured it toward the fireplace, ducked under a claw swipe, and grabbed a broken iron poker.
He rammed it between its ribs and kicked it into the dying embers.
Then he seized his sword and didn't hesitate—drove it down through the creature's spine as it flailed.
Its blood spread in thick streaks across the floor.
Silence, again.
He stood panting, shaking, scanning the room.
He stared at the mimic's body.
And felt it again.
That same wrong sensation creeping under his skin.
Not fear. Not relief.
Something deeper. Hungrier.
"Velcrith…"
"Yes?"
"Next time I rest… make sure it's actually safe."
Desan slumped back into the chair and instinctively touched his leg.
He paused.
It was healing. Slowly. But it was healing.
And he felt stronger.
Not much. But enough to notice.
"…It must be my brain playing tricks."
Velcrith's voice slithered through his head, amused. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing…"
He looked through the window, maybe hoping to see something different, but there was nothing. Just the darkest stretch of void. Not true black, but something stranger, wavering and faintly shifting, like a haze behind glass. Maybe that was the Veilkeeper's Sigil at work.
He closed his eyes and slowly drifted into sleep.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the dark behind his eyelids.
Then
Thud.
The floor trembled.
His eyes snapped open.
He didn't move. Just listened.
Thud.
Closer. Heavier.
Something wet dragged behind it. Wood creaked under the weight, slow, deliberate.
Desan reached for his sword.
He'd heard that sound before.
Something had found him.
And it wasn't in a rush.
That thing was taking its time.
DMMM.
The door exploded inward—blasted open with brutal force.
The heavy, rust-rotted slab of wood slammed into his chest, hurling him across the room like a ragdoll. He hit the wall hard enough to crack his bones and dropped to his knees, coughing blood.
From the swirling dust and torchlight haze, it stepped through.
A giant.
In its hand, a massive battle mace.
Its muscles bulged grotesquely from armor held together by ropes and nails driven straight into its flesh. Skulls were tied to its exposed intestines. A sigil the same mark from the letter, was nailed to its face.
Desan forced himself to his feet, blood running from his mouth. He tightened his grip on his sword, dropping into a defensive stance.
"Velcrith—"
But there was no answer.
The thing didn't wait.
Thud.
It charged.
Desan barely dodged, rolling to the side as the ground where he'd stood shattered beneath the swing. Splinters shot through the air like knives.
It was too fast, but.
There. An opening.
Desan lunged, sword flashing, aiming for the joint behind the beast's knee.
The blade scraped metal.
Not deep enough.
The monster twisted and backhanded him. The hit landed like a sledgehammer.
He flew again, hit the ground hard, rolled, and gasped.
Think.
He couldn't match it head-on. Not in strength. Not in speed.
But he had eyes. A brain.
And pain sharpened both.
Desan staggered to his feet, sword dragging, blood leaking from his nose and mouth.
The thing was slow between attacks. Heavy armor. Top-heavy swing.
He lured it left, then feinted right, darted toward it.
One chance.
Desan sprinted under it, slicing the support rope with a burst of strength.
A few of the iron plates came crashing down.
Boom.
It fell.
Smoke. Dust. Shattered flame.
Desan coughed and moved. Fast.
He climbed onto its back and stabbed the blade into a seam in its shoulder. Once. Twice. A third time. Screaming.
The thing screamed too—but not in pain.
In joy.
It laughed.