The lock creaked, and Zayne groaned. None of the keys worked.

  It could never be that easy.

  After nearly dying, Cenebrous knelt, bedraggled, shivering and still holding his sword like some sort of lifeline.

  “Could you use the sword?”

  He looked up, swung twice, hacking free the lock in an instant. Zayne watched the old man stagger out, handing him the staff.

  “We nearly died to get this.” he tried not to sound mad, “You better be grateful.”

  He received a long, silent stare, beaten stick snatched, and looked away. This guy was so ungrateful! It was starting to get on his nerves.

  Cenebrous trudged over, “Oh, sir. Please tell me that you at least know a way out of here. Why, I’ve been wronged. I would be immensely thankful to the Flawed if you could do something.

  “Wait, what did you say?” Zayne suddenly found himself paying attention.

  His question was ignored, as if the coward no longer cared what he had to say. The old man leaned upon the stick, a single raised eye appraising their new companion, only to completely ignore him. Jutting a finger at Cenebrous, he shook his spare hand questioningly in Zayne’s direction. Oh, now you want answers? Tempted to stay quiet, he crumbled at the uncomfortable insanity that loomed in front of him.

  Hunched over, the old man’s wrinkled face looked like a creature wreathed almost completely in shadow, as if he were shuddering in unison with the ground.

  “I found him in some sort of altar down that way. And then we almost got swallowed, and the lantern’s broken. Now we have no light, and we’re gonna die. Can someone please explain to me what a Flawed is before that happens?”

  “You do not have them in your time.” Cenebrous stated the observation like a revelation, breathing.

  “No, we don’t! Now just tell me.”

  Scrawled Flaws. Zayne hadn’t forgotten. If this was where he was meant to meet that fate, then there would be a connection. He noticed the old man had stood still at the conversation, and a quiver passed through his hand. No, he wasn’t just standing still. He was perfectly motionless.

  “The Flawed deny the gods. They stand alone, strong in their belief of the human soul. Some people call them evil, despicable, but I really find it admirable. Far more respectable than the Hollow Scabbards.” he was practically kneeling in front of the old man, reverent, “I’m sure you can get me home, sir. Don’t worry, I do not lay a claim to a speck of the treasure.”

  His target shifted, and Zayne stifled his amusement at Cenebrous’s failure. But then he saw it, a split second of surprise whipping across the old man’s twisted features, and it soon broke into panic.

  Movement tore apart the edge of his vision, and Zayne reflexively threw himself into the side, as what looked like a sleek shadow tumbled from the ceiling, landing in a sprawled thump before them. Beside him, Cenebrous gawped like a fish, so he seized the sword in a desperate grab for protection.

  But nothing could take his eyes from the thing that unfurled out in front of him. Spindly and thin, an elongated mouth draped down like papery cloth, flowing like liquid onto a patched torso that looked like it was entirely made of squirming cords. Pulsating lines trickled like tears in the place of where eyes were meant to be.

  In the moment, however, Zayne saw none of that. All he registered was a thing of blinding speed, snarling in a spray of sharp flesh, that would slice him open like a pig. The panic overcame him completely, tossing him barely out of the first stretching swipe straight onto the floor. Paralysed, he tried to kick away, but right before he was impaled, a wooden staff beat away the lethal blow. That was enough to jerk him awake. Pushing upon his useless arms, he scampered away and fell back.

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  Zayne held the ornate blade in front of him, but didn’t dare intervene as he watched the shrivelled old man whip the staff in perfect momentum, parrying and weaving in sync with the force that he was being overpowered by. It was like watching a natural force, wielding and warping its intent against a power that could crush it in a single moment. Cenebrous was similarly entranced, but as he watched, he saw through the display.

  Growing, pooling sweat, the dim cover exposing the clammy, frenzied lunges that were growing more and more deranged as the old man fought to stay alive. A tendril, taking the place of a tail, broke free and tore towards the unarmed guy just lying on the ground. He had no doubt that if he tried to run, then he would become its primary focus. Only a few minutes had passed, and he had no choice but to risk his life again.

  One.

  He levelled the tip of steel forward, an arrow poised at his target, and tensed, waiting for the right opportunity. Cenebrous cried, battered into the air, but he could not move.

  Two.

  He lunged, and the whip-like tail immediately changed course. Swinging, Zayne crouched his footsteps, blow resounding into his legs as he drove the blade in a scrape that held death off at bay.

  Three.

  Death shifted its attention firmly onto him, a current that splashed within a single stride, having had enough. The old man lurched, wheezing as his cane tried to keep him up.

  Four.

  His dad had shown him a sword style once, a true one, from the woman that had claimed his heart. In some vain hope, Zayne had thought that he would manage to recall it, now that his life was in mortal danger.

  Instead, he fled back, his entire perception consumed by the creature, its vast, writhing form swallowing everything—darkness, sound, and space—until only its nightmarish presence pressed against him, suffocating, devouring every trace of reality. Zayne gasped, but did not stop.

  Five.

  He plunged the blade into the fleshy wall, and a jet of ‘blood’ the same colour as what burst from the pores struck the form of the monstrosity. Even with its menacing appearance, it appeared quite affected by the pouring stain absorbed into its skin.

  In a shriek that pierced the heavens, it flailed in rage. Zayne dove, teeth clenched tight in gritted malice, as he attempted to carve off the thing’s head. There was no skill in his movements whatsoever.

  “Just die already!” he met its cry with his own, mad fury driving him forward.

  And even though his entire body felt like it was being torn apart from the tyranny it had to deal with, exhausted, burned, cold, parched, drenched, begging, his skin grafted in misshapen lumps at the effort, the movement went through. With little resistance.

  Zayne collapsed over what he had somehow managed to kill, overwhelmed. He lay there for a while, trying to regain his bearings, unable to move. Then next to him, the two halves shimmered, and he groaned. Surely not. The creature began to disintegrate, melting into a sweeping radiant mist that descended around its withering corpse. Then, in a pop, it shrank down into a single, small egg-shaped stone that plopped onto his lap. He was left dumbstruck. It was like the fatigue struggling inside of him suddenly simmered away into a soft, welcoming peace, and all he wanted to do was cradle the source of his comfort as long as he could, allowing the power to wash over him. It felt endless, nourishing, a spring that he drank with his mouth wide open. Granting him the strength he so sorely desired.

  Then a gnarled hand extended its dirty fingernails in an action that dangled the waiting palm in front of his face. The other one motioned in an unfeeling wave.

  “I killed it.” he protested, kicking back onto his full height with the staff poised below him.

  He stared into the empty sagging space where the old man’s soul was meant to be, seeing nothing but desire within. Now Zayne knew what a Flawed was capable of, and that meant that it was better to kill him now. While he felt this good.

  Two times now that he had nearly died, and these two had left him helpless. Some part of him realised that the stone was trying to manipulating him, but for some reason, he just couldn’t care. All that mattered was that he kept this thing with him.

  “We should start going now.” Zayne said, feeling like he was in control for the first time in a good while.

  “That was incredible! You know what, friend, I’ll let you keep that sword. After all, you wield a Mark of Destin-”

  The old man swivelled around like he was on ice, and Cenebrous’s words collapsed back into his chest. He waggled his fingers questioningly.

  “Yeah, buddy. I have the Brand. Listen, you scare the shit out of me, but I’m keeping what I fought for. You were pretty helpful too, but I got the final blow. Now we both know that if we fought now, with this, I could kill you where you stand.” Zayne said, dramatically.

  He was completely bluffing. Sure, he felt strong, but that didn’t mean anything. But whatever this thing was, the old man wanted it, so it probably had something to do with strength. Inside though, Zayne was panicking. The moron had revealed the one thing that he didn’t want the old man to know. Why? Because he didn’t really want a guy that would try kill him at some point to know all his secrets. Now it was out, and all he could do was pretend that it was all part of his plan like some crazy supervillain.

  Yet it seemingly worked. With obvious reluctance, the old man backed down, and motioned for Zayne to lead the way. Cenebrous looked at them both like an imprudent fool but wisely kept his mouth shut.

  This was the second time where he felt like he had won an exchange over the terror that had apparently denied the gods. That built an impression which appeared to be crumbling. But then why did he feel like he was the one being tricked?