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John ran like he had never run before, his immortal heart pounding in his ears like a war drum. The instant he saw the misbegotten raise their blade over the helpless blindfolded woman, something ancient and primal surged inside him.
It was an instinct he had never known, one that screamed for him to move, to act, to kill.
His hand shot to the hilt of his Uchigatana and he drew it in a single motion.The weapon left his grip in the next heartbeat, spinning through the air like a black fang until it struck true, piercing clean through the neck of the first misbegotten.
The second staggered back in shock, turning toward the sound just in time to see a towering figure charging toward him, jagged obsidian armor glinting in the light.
John crashed into the creature like a battering ram, his shoulder slamming into its chest and sending it reeling into the rock. Before it could recover, he brought his armored boot down on its head.
Bone and scale crunched under the first stomp, the beast's body twitching as its brain rattled inside its skull. John's breath came in harsh growls as he lifted his foot and slammed it down again, the wet crack echoing through the road.
The third stomp split the head like an overripe melon, shards of bone and splattered gore marking the end of its life. A heavy silence followed, broken only by John's ragged breathing.
His slit-pupiled eyes burned with draconic focus as they locked onto the other misbegotten, the one still choking on the Uchigatana lodged in its neck. He stepped over, bent down, and gripped the hilt. With a sharp pull, the blade came free in a spray of blood.
The dying creature gave one final gurgle before collapsing into stillness. John looked down at it for a heartbeat, then flicked his sword through the air, scattering crimson droplets before sliding it back into its sheath.
The blindfolded blonde woman broke the silence, her voice soft but steady. "Who's there?"
Behind him, Millicent and Melina came running up, their expressions tight with concern.
"Are you alright?" Melina asked, her gaze searching his posture.
"You good?" Millicent echoed, glancing between him and the gore at his feet.
John let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. For a moment, he just stared at his gauntleted hand, flexing the fingers as though they might explain what had just come over him.
"It's nothing. I… don't know what got into me at the end there. I just couldn't let her die." He muttered with a small shake of his head.
Marika's voice rippled through his mind, sharper than usual. "Nothing? That was not 'nothing', mine Champion. I felt it. The flare of thy rage… that killing intent. It was almost feral. Bestial. This may be thy bloodline's doing. Thy blood is having effects greater than either of us imagined."
He shook his head again, more firmly this time. "It's nothing. I just got pissed. If she'd died… things would've gone sideways real quick. In more ways than one."
There was a pause in his mind before Marika's tone grew colder, suspicious. "What dost thou mean by that?"
John stepped toward the woman, answering her silently as his boots crunched against the dirt. 'Long story. But in short… if I let her die, the Frenzied Flame would have latched onto her corpse.'
Marika's presence flinched in shock, her mental voice suddenly quiet as he reached out and gently took the woman's hand in his bloodstained, obsidian-gauntleted grip.
"What happened, are you alright?" he asked aloud, his voice softening despite his towering frame. "And what's your name?"
A faint blush colored her cheeks, surprised by the unexpected touch, but she held onto his hand with the small comfort of knowing exactly where he stood. "M-My name is… I-Irina. And… I am fine, but I do not think the same applies to my guards. I heard… fighting, growling, pained grunts… then silence. Just the sound of those last two walking up to me… I… was not certain I'd survive."
John's gaze drifted to the ground where the bodies of her men lay. His jaw tightened at the sight, the sharp scent of blood still heavy in the air.
Melina stepped up beside him, her tone calm but firm. "All that matters is that you are safe now." She placed a gentle hand on Irina's shoulder and let a soft, golden light spill from her palm, the lingering blessing wrapping around the girl in a warm embrace.
A few feet away, Millicent prodded one of the fallen misbegotten with the tip of her sword, a faint curl of distaste on her lips. "Why would they try to kill you?"
Irina's frown deepened beneath the blindfold. "I… don't know. All the servants at Castle Morne have rebelled. They are full wroth… filled with hatred for every one of us. I can't be sure what it is. My eyesight's been weak since birth, you see… but I swear I heard frightful howling from all over."
Her lips trembled slightly as her fingers fidgeted together. "I barely escaped with my life from the castle toward the south, thanks to my good father and his men. He aimed to get me, and some of his soldiers, over to Lord Godrick's castle… or at least to Fort Haight for aid. But… I am the only one who still breathes amongst them, am I not?"
"I… I heard them fall, one by one…" She whispered, her voice trembling as well. "Then the sound of steel… the sound of…"
Her throat closed around the word, but her fingers clenched harder. "They were calling my name. And then… I could only hear chains. Dragging. The air stank of iron. I could feel the ground tremble when they…"
Irina's words trailed off, the last thread of her composure snapping. Her lips quivered as she tilted her head down, the faintest sob shaking her shoulders. "I… I thought I'd never hear another voice again."
Her breath hitched, and then the tears began to fall. She raised a trembling hand toward her blindfold as if to hide her face, though the cloth already concealed her eyes. The sound was a soft, fragile, breaking thing in the still air.
"Hey, hey… easy now," John murmured as he shifted awkwardly on his feet, crouching slightly so his imposing height didn't tower over her. "You're safe. No one's touching you again."
She took a half-step forward, hesitant, then reached out. Her hands found the cold plates of his chestpiece, and before he could say anything, she leaned into him, her arms slipping gently around his waist, her forehead pressing into the steel.
For a heartbeat, he froze. John the dragon-eyed warrior, drenched in gore not ten minutes ago, was now holding a blind, sobbing woman who couldn't even see the blood he had shed for her. His hands hovered awkwardly before finally coming to rest on her back in a clumsy but earnest pat.
In his head, Marika's amused purr slipped through like golden sunlight despite the harrowing situation. "Oh, mine Champion… How gallant~! The helpless maiden, rescued by her knight in shining armor… or jagged obsidian, in thy case."
A faint warmth touched his cheeks despite himself. 'Zip it, your Grace. Not the time…'
She laughed softly, the sound curling in the back of his mind like a cat settling in to watch.
Melina approached quietly, her expression softened from earlier. She rested a hand on Irina's shoulder and let her voice soothe like a lullaby. "Breathe slowly. You are safe now. Truly."
Millicent knelt nearby, her own tone uncharacteristically gentle. "Yeah… you made it. That's what matters."
With their help, and the steady weight of John's hand on her back, Irina's trembling began to ease. She sniffled once, then pulled away enough to wipe her cheeks. "I… I'm sorry… I didn't mean to…"
"You've got nothing to apologize for." John interrupted firmly. "Anyone would be a mess after what you went through."
His voice softened, his draconic eyes catching the faint light. "Look… I'm not leaving you here, you could get hurt. You're coming with us. We'll find your father, together."
She hesitated. "But… my father, he…"
"Is still out there." John finished definitively for her. "And I'm not the kind of man who lets family get left behind. Especially not when there are rebels, beasts, and… worse… running around this place."
Irina took a shaky breath, her head dipping in a small nod. "…Alright."
"Good." John glanced at Melina and Millicent, who both gave subtle nods in agreement. "Then let's get moving. The sooner we find him, the safer we all are."
"Alright. No sense wasting time." He extended a hand toward her, she let him hold her hand and guide her to her feet. He then turned to Torrent and motioned for the spectral steed to come closer. With a huff, Torrent walked towards the two of them and waited.
With practiced ease, he swung onto Torrent's saddle, then reached down to lift her up in front of him. "C'mon, up you get."
Irina made a small sound of surprise when his armored arms closed around her, steadying her against the motion of the spectral steed.
"You'll be fine here." He assured her, his voice pitched low so only she could hear. "You'll feel every turn, but I've got you. Nothing's getting through me."
Her head tilted slightly toward the rumble in his chest, the blindfold shifting with her movement. "Okay.. I believe you."
Melina, meanwhile, mounted the mortal horse with Millicent, sliding easily behind her and taking the reins. The mount shifted under their combined weight, but Melina's firm hands and perfect balance kept it steady. Still, her gaze lingered just a fraction too long on the sight of John riding with Irina nestled in his arms.
She knew the girl was blind. She knew the hold was for safety. But that didn't stop the quiet, unwelcome twinge in her chest. She kept her expression schooled, the brown strands of her hair flicking back in the wind.
"Your hands…" Irina murmured suddenly, her fingers brushing against the black steel plates encasing his. "They're… cold."
John blinked, glancing down. "Well, yeah. Steel usually is."
"Could you… take them off?" She asked quietly, a small blush coming to her blindfolded face. "Just… they feel so far away through the metal. And… I'd like to know there's a person holding me. To feel it."
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then, with a small shrug, he loosened the clasps and pulled off his gauntlets, putting them into his inventory for future use. The air bit at his bare hands for only a moment before he slid them around her again, warmer now, his calloused palms enclosing hers with a firm, steady grip.
"Better?" He asked, trying his best to ignore how soft and warm her hands felt on his own.
"Yes." She muttered simply, her voice softer than before as she leaned back on him.
Melina's eyes narrowed by the slightest fraction. She told herself it was nothing, that this was a necessity. But the sight of his unarmored hands wrapped around the blind girl's smaller ones, holding them with such deliberate care, made something in her twist unpleasantly.
She kept her silence, though the quiet clenching of her jaw betrayed the simmering annoyance she refused to voice or acknowledge.
The party moved forward, Torrent's hooves making no sound on the road, the mortal horse following close behind. The wind carried the smell of salt and steel from the south, hinting at the troubled land ahead.
Marika's voice slid through his mind with that silken weight it always carried, but this time it was edged with something sharper. "Now, mine Champion… tell me in detail. How is this Irina linked to the Frenzied Flame?"
John exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "When she dies… the Frenzied Flame will latch onto her body. It'll twist what's left into the Maiden of the Frenzied Flame. She'd spend what's left of her existence hunting for the Lord of Madness, serving him until the end of all things."
The mental link went silent for a beat, then Marika's presence pressed closer. In his mind's eye, he could see her floating down from her golden haze of light until she hovered just over Irina, close enough to inspect her like a jeweler studying a gem. The girl's faint blush only seemed to deepen under that invisible scrutiny.
"…Hard to imagine." Marika murmured, her voice low in thought. "That such an innocent-looking maiden could harbor such a fate." Her golden gaze shifted toward the southern horizon. "Yet with a village already overtaken by Frenzied Madness so near… perhaps not so unthinkable."
Her tone grew cold. "Such a thing cannot be allowed. A Maiden of Frenzy cannot exist."
John caught the subtle tension in her voice, it wasn't fear. It was absolute rejection, the kind that brooked no compromise.
"Whether 'tis suffering, agony, or despair that would have seeped into her corpse… something is wrong within the Weeping Peninsula." Marika leaned back slowly onto her illusionary cloud of grace, eyes narrowing at the disheveled road winding down into the valley.
"After thou quell whatever rebellion festers at Castle Morne, thou must turn toward this Frenzied Village. It cannot be allowed to fester unabated. That is an order."
He smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. 'Already planned on it before you said anything, but as you command, your Grace~'
She huffed in clear annoyance, looking away. "Canst thou not at least pretend to take things seriously?"
"You know better than anyone here that I'm completely incapable of taking anything completely seriously~" he teased back, earning the mental equivalent of her rolling her eyes. Still, a tiny, almost imperceptible curl tugged at her lips.
"…Hopeless fool." She muttered, though the helpless amusement bleeding into her tone made him snicker under his breath.
A gentle squeeze on his hand pulled him back to the present. Irina's head tilted toward him, her blindfold catching a glint of the sun as she looked over her shoulder. There was a subtle pink flush across her cheeks, but he thought nothing of it and kept his mouth shut.
"You and your companions never introduced yourselves." She said softly.
John blinked, then chuckled awkwardly. "Yeah… I guess we haven't, have we?" He scratched the back of his head, careful not to jostle her in the saddle. "My name's Johnathan, though you can call me John for short."
He started to gesture toward the two women riding behind them before remembering halfway through that she couldn't see. A sheepish chuckle escaped him. "The cool one with one arm is Millicent."
"Hi there!" Millicent called cheerfully, giving a playful wave even if Irina couldn't see it.
"And the quieter, smarter one is Melina." He continued.
A tiny, restrained laugh slipped from Melina's lips, the sound warmer than she probably intended.
John leaned his head slightly toward Irina, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Between you and me… she might look all cool and collected on the outside, but Melina's actually a big softie on the inside. She also probably even has a thing for-"
A sharp thunk smacked the back of his head before he could finish his sentence, causing him to freeze for a moment, eyes narrowing as he straightened slowly and glanced over his shoulder.
Melina sat upright in her saddle, one hand on the reins… and the other still suspiciously extended, her fingers just closing after a perfect toss. A self-satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth.
"I figured you were running your mouth again," she said smoothly, "so I put an end to it ahead of time."
John stared at her with a deadpan expression, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He couldn't hide the smirk that followed. "One of these days, you're gonna hit me hard enough to cause permanent brain damage."
"You speak as if there is something in that thick skull of yours to damage…" She shot back dryly, her voice carrying the same tone her mother's so often did.
Irina, caught between them, giggled softly into her hand.
The party continued on, hooves clopping against the dirt until the valley path curved sharply to the left. Their pace slowed instinctively.
A broken caravan lay ahead, splintered wood and shattered wheels strewn across the road. Several bodies were scattered around, some armored, some dressed in the garb of Castle Morne's servants. Standing (or rather, slumped) nearby was a massive Troll, its back rising and falling in deep, rumbling snores. A snapped iron chain hung loosely around its neck, its manacle still clasped shut.
John's eyes flicked across the scene with newly practiced sharpness. "We've got… a wrecked transport. Half a dozen dead. And a Troll. Sleeping for now, but it was chained, so I'm guessing it wasn't the aggressor here." He paused, then added for Irina's sake. "This looks like it came from Castle Morne. Probably got hit by the rebels."
Irina's expression fell, her lips tightening as her hands twisted slightly in her lap. "Then it is as I feared…" Her voice softened, touched with quiet sorrow. "It must have been intercepted by the servants who turned on us. They… they've gone mad with rage. To see them slaughter our own people…"
Her words trailed off, weighted with grief.
John gave a faint sigh and, with Melina and Millicent's help, murmured quiet reassurances until the tension in her shoulders eased. He nudged Torrent forward, guiding them past the scene without disturbing the Troll, and then tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"So!" He said with an encouraging tone "Why don't you tell me about Castle Morne? And about your family's history there."
Irina tilted her head slightly in thought. "Castle Morne has been the home of my bloodline for… as long as I was ever told. We were sworn vassals to the throne of Leyndell itself, charged with guarding the southern coast. My father told me it was first built to keep the southern shores free of invaders, Misbegotten, and worse."
Her fingers brushed absently against the blindfold as she spoke. "In the old tales, the castle stood as a bulwark even before the Shattering, its walls built from the stone of the very cliffs it crowns. The sword they keep there, the one in the great hall, was said to be the pride of a warrior clan who fought for the Golden Lineage. When our house took stewardship of Morne, that sword became a symbol of our duty."
Her tone turned slightly reverent. "They say the blade was forged from the swords of an entire clan who swore to fight until the end, even after their homeland vanished. My father always spoke of them with respect, as if they were watching over us still."
John raised an eyebrow slightly, remembering the lore he had heard. Before he could comment, Marika's voice slid into his mind, dry and clarifying.
"Half-truths, gilded and sweetened for tender ears," Marika murmured, her voice lilting through his thoughts like the hush of a cathedral at dusk. She reclined with effortless grace upon her cloud of light, one golden arm draped languidly over her knee. "Aye, the blade of which she speaks is indeed the Grafted Blade Greatsword… yet its history is not so noble as her tongue would tell."
Her tone grew cooler, the timbre rich and deliberate. "The 'clan' in her tale were called the Revengers. They bore no banner, nor bent knee to any lord. They were naught but berserkers, bound only by the creed of vengeance. They hunted the guilty as they judged them, and in time their country was laid waste, their name cursed and forgotten. One lone champion survived, so consumed by the will to fight that he gathered the swords of all his fallen kin, wielding them as one. 'Tis an iron monument to wrath."
John gave a faint hum, feeling her gaze sharpen even though she remained only in his mind's eye.
"As for Castle Morne…" She continued, her words now edged with a faint, regal weight. "It was ne'er the birthright of her line. Nay, it was taken and granted to them, wrested from its former masters by Godfrey himself, in the waning days of his long war. 'Twas his final conquest ere he laid down the mantle of Elden Lord."
Her voice seemed to grow the tiniest bit softer at the mention of her former Lord and Consort, though she didn't let it stop her. "The old blood that ruled there either bent the knee in subjugation… or were driven into the sea. The keep was granted to fresh, loyal vassals, that it might serve as a bastion of the crown. Such was the true beginning of her house's so-called stewardship."
'Guess the story's a little more… practical than what they think, huh?' He mused back at her dryly, an small, amused smirk drawing at the corner of his face.
"History is always told by the ones left standing." She replied smoothly.
Irina, oblivious to the divine commentary, went on softly. "Whatever its past, Castle Morne has always been our home. I… I only pray it still stands when we return."
The fading light cast the Weeping Peninsula in burnished gold as they rode out of the narrow valley, the air cooling with the coming evening. The road opened to a crossroads, one path leading further south into the heart of the peninsula.
Off in the distance, a colossal marble wall loomed, stretching from horizon to horizon like the spine of some ancient titan. Its vast bulk once split the southern lands in two, but the center lay shattered. Like an open wound in the stone that allowed free passage between all corners of the peninsula.
Nestled near one of the fallen wall's massive fragments was a small encampment of faded tents, the kind only the wandering merchants called home. A wiry nomadic merchant sat cross-legged near a low fire, plucking absently at the strings of a weathered instrument. John tugged Torrent's reins and rode up to him.
"Seen any soldiers nearby? Or maybe the lord of the castle in these parts?" John asked, his voice carrying just enough command to draw the man's eyes up from his music.
The merchant nodded slowly. "Aye. Saw battalions not long past, ridin' fast and hard. Came down from the lookout tower to the north, didn't stop to speak. They cut straight toward the forest just southeast of here."
John inclined his head. "Good to know. Thanks."
Without another word, he kicked Torrent into motion, the others following in his wake. "We'll check the forest first," he called over his shoulder. "Then we head for Castle Morne."
The air grew heavier as they approached the rise that overlooked the dark canopy ahead. From atop the hill, the forest sprawled below like a restless sea of black leaves. The wind carried something else with it now, sharp and metallic, the unmistakable scent of blood. And beneath it… the sound of battle.
Irina's head shot up, her blindfold shifting slightly as she turned her ear toward the noise.
"That's him..!" She whispered, her voice trembling. "I hear my father!"
The group exchanged quick glances before spurring their mounts forward. They descended into the treeline at speed, the din of combat swelling with every stride.
They burst into a small clearing, and chaos.
Half a dozen soldiers lay strewn across the ground, bleeding and broken, their armor rent by claws and steel alike. The survivors stood in a ragged semicircle, shields raised in desperate defense. At their center was a broad-shouldered man with streaks of silver through his hair, barking orders even as his blade turned aside a brutal swing.
Opposing them was a mounted figure clad in black, the lacquered plates of his armor gleaming faintly in the failing light. A tattered sable cloak streamed behind him as his undead steed reared, hooves churning the air. In his gauntleted hand, the Night's Cavalry's cruel flail swung in deadly arcs, each strike forcing the soldiers back a step.
And circling just beyond him, like vultures scenting a kill, were a dozen snarling Misbegotten, their rusted, stolen weapons slick with fresh blood.
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Author's Note:
Stones Please.
Unfortunately, I have Med School finals coming up next week, which is why this chapter is late. They'll continue till the 16th of January.
But don't mind my suffering, Happy New Year's Eve everyone!
…
Next Chapter Title: The Man Who Feared the Dark.
…
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