In the Caves of the Archfiend Mountains: The cave wrenched and sprawled like a wyrmcrawl, its vast halls twisting into darkness, illuminated only by spectral blue flames stroking the walls. At the heart of the cavern, the throne room was steeped in a silence that curdled the environment.

  A fresh stain darkened the center, where blood pooled. Moments before, Mother Nyx’s whip sliced through the air, its vicious crack still echoing faintly in the chamber. Now, only a broken man remained, a stark reminder of her cruelty. The slaves cowered back to their corners, heads bowed low, avoiding her glances.

  Fucking scavengers! As though it were not hardship enough to feed our swelling ranks of sisters, now I must contend with thievery as well.

  With a flick of her wrist, Mother Nyx gestured for three coven sisters to drag away the limp body of the punished slave. They moved awkwardly, struggling to haul his dead weight, their hands slipping on the blood-slick flesh as they pulled him from the chamber. His low, pitiful moans echoed faintly down the darkened corridor, consumed by the distant shadows.

  The rats will eat what I give them.

  Mother Nyx’s eyes narrowed on the remaining silhouettes. She motioned to the door. “Out of my sight!” she roared. The remaining slave flinched, scrambling out of the room as fast as their blistered and bloodied feet could carry them.

  Mother Nyx brooded on her throne, the melanite folds of her robe pooling around her like ink spilling into shadows. Her gaze swept the room, a quiet command embedded in her presence, born of fear and unquestioned obedience. Beside her, a staff holster lay abandoned on the floor, carelessly discarded. Her staff stood upright, its wicked spiked tip gleaming—a weapon athirst for carnage.

  How long had it been, she mused, since I last tore flesh from an enemy’s bones with this staff? Her jaw tightened. Ruling meant enduring endless petty grievances and mind-numbing rituals, a far cry from the visceral joy of direct, bloody action. A toll I must bear, she reminded herself. For now, I must protect my sisterhood. But gods, how I miss crushing my enemies beneath my boot.

  She seized her staff and slammed it against the stone floor with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the chamber like the snap of a neck. From the recesses, Sister Mother Mourgha slithered forward, her presence draining warmth from the chamber. Mourgha’s name passed through the coven in hushed tones, as if invoking it invited misfortune, laden with deeds too horrid to be spoken aloud. She was the one who did what others could not stomach.

  “Sister Mother Mourgha,” Mother Nyx bid. “Walk with me.”

  Mourgha bowed low, rigid in her obedience, before rising to follow. The flames along the walls flared and swirled, mirroring their tension as they stepped into the narrow corridor.

  As they walked, Mother Nyx’s hand brushed Mourgha’s, the fleeting touch turning into an entwining of fingers—a gesture both intimate and a silent vow of support.

  “You seem troubled, my love,” Mother Nyx said, her voice carrying an unusual warmth.

  Her neck muscles tightened. “It’s that eerie bitch, Airsil-hime. I despise bowing to her whims. Must we be her damned pawns?”

  “The Scorsorai are a wretched lot,” Mother Nyx muttered, lips curling in scorn. “My father, when he wasn’t drowning in drink or taking his pleasure with me, would grumble about his dealings with Scorsorai sea merchants.” She spat the words, as if even speaking of him left a bitter taste. “He never tired of spitting his disdain for their vile origins.”

  Her father’s gravelly voice bedeviled her psyche. “They believe they were brought into this world on the back of a god-dragon named Scorso,” he’d say. “For a thousand years, Scorso ruled the continent, devouring all who opposed him and his progeny until his sister, Lasro, banished him underground. She gathered his offspring onto one land, tore it from the mainland, and tried to tame them. All but the royal family lost their dragon eyes and fury—but if you ask me, they’re all still beasts!”

  “I don’t care about their vile origins,” Mourgha snapped. “I care about how vile their presence is to our Sisterhood.”

  Mother Nyx sighed, her shoulders knotted with frustration and sorrow. “We all serve a higher power. The Dinehin demands hardships, and we must endure them.”

  Mourgha stopped, turning to face her. “But at what cost, my love? How many more hardships must we bear? How much more suffering must we endure?”

  Mother Nyx’s grip tightened. “There are so few paths for women the Realm has discarded. We’ve found a way to seize power.” Displeasure crept across her face. “Every step toward power exacts its toll. This, like all our hardships, is a load we must carry.”

  As she spoke, her mind returned to the blood sacrifices that had stained her hands. She remembered how the lifeblood of countless beasts had erupted from their bodies, spilling in torrents as if the very essence of their being couldn’t escape fast enough. But it was the sacrifices of intelligent beings that granted the most power, their innocence amplifying the dark magic. The purer the soul, the greater the potency.

  The men, she mused, their riddance is good. Yet the Dinehin demands a frightful equivalence. Gods, how I loathe sacrificing the virginal women and girls!

  Yet, she thought bitterly, worse than the bloodletting are the filthy carnal acts I’ve had to endure. Every repulsive touch, every violation, dragged her back to the fraternal abuse of her adolescence. These acts were far more than repugnant; they tore at her soul, leaving scars deeper than any blade.

  She had endured it all in her relentless pursuit of power. Each ritual etched a scar into her body and soul, sapping her vitality like a flower caught in winter’s relentless grasp. It’s not only me, she reminded herself. All of us wither a little with each rite. Though this transformation rendered them grotesque, it extended their lives unnaturally and imbued them with a strength that defied their deteriorating forms.

  Her once radiant skin had turned ghostly and papery, stretched tight over the sinewy strength hidden beneath. She was gaunt, her cheeks sunken and eyes shadowed, yet her grip could shatter bone, her steps vibrate with a disturbing force. Her fingernails, once pristine, were now brittle and darkened, threatening to break at the lightest touch. Strands of hair, thin and brittle, clung desperately to her scalp, falling away in clumps each time she ran a hand through them. Her teeth, once bright, had grown dull, some cracked from clenching through nights of endless suffering. And her eyes, once vibrant, were now bloodshot and sunken, with an otherworldly gleam—a haunting glow that betrayed both the horrors she had endured and the power she commanded.

  Each vile act devoured fragments of her soul, leaving behind a hollow shell filled with a force stronger than the failing flesh it animated. The warmth she reserved for her coven sisters remained, a sliver of compassion in a heart otherwise grown cold. Yet, joy and laughter had withered, choked out by a relentless purpose that now defined her existence. The outside world, with its fleeting pleasures and empty promises, no longer stirred anything but disdain within her. She found herself driven by a different kind of satisfaction—a need to impose her will upon those beyond her coven, to revel in the power that made others tremble. It was a twisted form of joy, but in that decay, she found strange comfort, knowing her brittle body still wielded a strength that no untouched soul could ever fathom.

  “Are these discomforts any greater than what we endured before we found the clan?” Mourgha’s voice trembled with emotion.

  “Every Sister in this coven suffers,” Mother Nyx exclaimed. “But now, we have a purpose. We have power.”

  Mourgha’s tone softened, though doubt still sat within it. “And what is our ultimate goal? To live forever in the shadows?”

  “The goal remains unchanged,” Mother Nyx replied. “To bring material dominance to the Realm. The Dinehin has promised it. We aren’t enduring for the sake of endurance. We strive for a future where we no longer hide, where we can reshape the world in our image.”

  Mourgha nodded slowly, absorbing the words. “I trust you. I always have. But the burden of these sacrifices crushes me at times.”

  Mother Nyx cupped Mourgha’s face, their foreheads touching. “I know, my love. But we must stay resolute. For each other, and for those who will follow us.”

  They walked in sync, hands intertwined, entering a chamber draped in shimmering beetle-wing silks and trembling candlelight. The dust of forgotten centuries clung to every surface, the air thrumming with the pulse of ancient magic.

  Mother Nyx turned to Mourgha, her voice softening. “Before we lie together, there is another matter to discuss. Tomorrow, I need you to undertake an important task. Take nine of our finest pets, five Sisters, and Ramiko. Go to the city of Mani and gather sacrifices and slaves for our rituals. You will oversee the slave cart.”

  Disappointment streaked across Mourgha’s face. “I’d rather lead one of the sacrifice carts.”

  “Not this time. But you will have your fun. It’s been ordained that a male Saggarin will be among the prisoners. Put him in your cart and, once outside the city, kill him immediately.”

  “Why not offer him as a sacrifice at one of our strongholds?”

  “And risk inviting the gods to assert their wills? It’s too dangerous!” Mother Nyx’s voice sharpened with urgency. “I trust only you to kill him swiftly.”

  “I will. But let me also lead a sacrifice cart, so I can kill him and more.”

  “No, damn you! I cannot afford to lose you for a full month. When you deliver the slaves, bring me the Saggarin’s head.”

  Mother Nyx clenched her jaw, recalling the last time she’d let Mourgha oversee a sacrifice cart. Mourgha had turned a simple task into a blood-soaked pilgrimage, dragging it out for weeks. Stronghold after stronghold, she’d reveled in the slaughter, feeding her need for power with every sacrifice. It had consumed her, each offering pulling her deeper into the abyss.

  It was never enough. Power and blood—they carved away what was left of her. Mother Nyx knew it. She’d seen the hunger in her eyes, how it bled through her veins like poison. She’d warned Mourgha not to waste time, not in times like these. But warnings meant nothing to a woman driven by her own madness. Blood had always whispered to her, called her further into the dark.

  But this time, she couldn’t let her go unchecked. Mourgha’s indulgences were dangerous—too dangerous. Nyx could feel it in her bones. She would have to be more careful.

  “As you wish,” Mourgha said.

  “One last thing,” Mother Nyx said. “I know how much you enjoy torturing men, but manage your rage with this one. Do not play with him.”

  Sister Mother Mourgha’s lips pressed into a thin line, strained with determination and sorrow, betraying her displeasure. “It shall be done, my love. Mani will tremble before our might.”

  They entered the bedchamber together, their movements causing the candles to tremble. In the intimacy of the chamber, their robes slid from their shoulders like water. Crawling upon Mother Nyx’s bed, they found solace in each other’s arms, their love a brief respite from the darkness that surrounded them. As warm candlelight danced across the chamber walls, their anthems of lovemaking mingled with the sounds of the cavern—a testament to their unyielding bond and the sacrifices they were willing to make for their coven and each other.

  Outside the City of Mani: Loose stones scraped and clattered beneath Elter’s feet as he darted for the opening beyond the specter.

  She blocked his escape.

  A freezing force locked him in place, his body seized by the specter’s touch. Her transparent hand reached through his body, fluttering as it protruded from his chest. The ghostly white fingers opened, then plunged back inside, coiling around his heart with a chilling grasp. Numbness crept through him, a deadening chill that congealed his blood.

  Damn the hells! So cold!

  Through gnashing teeth, she snarled, “Devious frog fucker. Devious frog fucker. I knew you were here to distract me.”

  “Lux veritatis!” A shout rang out from the darkness. “By the decree of the Genieavesin, be banished!”

  Light erupted through the room, rays spiked with brilliance. The undead woman’s hand slipped from Elter’s heart, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. She let out a low snarl and slunk back into the shadows, cowering away from the light.

  Alive. Thank the gods. He barely believed it.

  “Haste, Elter! Shelter behind me,” called the silhouette behind the beam. He recognized the voice—Rolisha. With a burst of energy, he scrambled to his feet and dashed to her side.

  “Remain within the protection of my ward. We must flee here,” she ordered.

  Outside the mine, Rolisha released the glowing orb. Its light dimmed as she turned to face him, whispering an incantation that caused the orb to float and radiate a soft, healing glow. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and soothing warmth swept through his body, chasing away the lingering cold. The wounds gathered from his earlier hunt closed and vanished.

  In the space of a heartbeat, the orb contracted, folding in on itself until it was no larger than a glimmering pearl. It spun furiously, shedding faint trails of light like embers swept in a wind, then stilled. With a soft plink, it struck the ground, dim and inert. The once-vibrant relic now lay indistinguishable from the stones and dirt around it—a mere fragment of a broken world.

  “You can be so foolish sometimes,” she said, pulling him into a hug.

  “I thought you had gone to the church to pray,” he replied.

  Of course she’d come looking. Always sensing my mistakes. He recalled watching her form grow smaller as she turned back toward the town before he reached the outcropping. She must’ve changed her mind and returned to find him. He clenched his jaw, both grateful and irritated at his own lack of foresight.

  “And I thought you were wise enough not to crawl through mines alone.” She let go, her eyes sparkled with annoyance.

  Mirak, preserve my pickled wits, he mused. She sees right through me.

  Her sharpness never failed to stir something in him, though. He met her gaze, admiring how even in anger, her features remained regal, untouchable. “It was a moment's decision,” he said, his tone more measured now. “Yet I do wonder if you'd let me have the wisdom of your guidance, next time.”

  Elter’s eyes lingered on her, struck by how her clear blue eyes remained endearing even in anger. Her flaxen hair, braided with gems, framed her face, while her slate-colored kirtle, cinched at the waist with a leather cord, accentuated her figure. Over her slender shoulders, a long black wool cloak draped gracefully, just shy of her satin shoes.

  How could someone so fierce look so celestial?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, eyes narrowing in frustration.

  “Like a cross-eyed jester?” he quipped.

  “By the gods!” she exclaimed. “Like you wish to bed me. I’m still angry.”

  He stifled a grin, raising his hands defensively. Bedding? That will come shortly enough. The goddess will see to it when Kitra calls her. Seven summers—barely a blink in lives as long as ours. And the true blessing, should Kitra favor us, would be a child.

  “Don’t be angry. Yesterday, rock goblins killed two merchants along this trail,” he explained. “As Lord Voron’s huntsman, it’s my job to keep this route to Mani free of their kind. I found four goblins outside this mine. I killed three, but the fourth ran inside.”

  “You should have let him go,” she said.

  “And why would I do that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Because it’s haunted,” she replied, shaking her head.

  Amusement glinted in his eyes, though his lips barely moved. Haunted only? It be more revolting than a sperm geyser! “Yes, it seems it is.”

  “You must have sensed it. But I know you—you have no sense of caution, do you? Sometimes, I wonder why I let you follow me to this perilous town. It’s quite a journey just for courtship.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It's much more. I stand ever prepared to blast any man who dares bow too deeply in your presence, he mused. Though I’d rather skip the formalities.

  “I remember asking for your hand back in Saggara, but your father said, ‘No.’ He said—and I quote—‘No offspring of mine will marry an accursed sorcerer.’” Elter mimicked an angry, inexplicably fat elf shaking his head.

  Rolisha laughed. “He fears you’ll go mad.”

  “Not every sorcerer loses their mind to madness.” Though most do. But most are not Saggarin.

  “You get credit for trying to reason with him. High priests can be insufferable. We’re lucky I serve the church here in Mani. If we were closer to his reach, he’d have had you locked in irons.”

  “Not even the gods could keep me from you,” he assured her.

  Nor would I let them.

  “What about ghosts?” she asked.

  That again? “My first encounter with an apparition could’ve gone better. I may be new to this, but you inspire me. I must be bold—for our sake. The only way to secure our union is to prove my worth so your father has no choice but to bless our marriage. Then, we’ll grow old together and live wherever we choose.”

  Her lips quirked into a fond grin. She reached down, taking his hand. “Then you are my worthy fool. Look at you, coming out here so boldly without aid. We should head back to town. There’s a chill in the afternoon air,” she said, pulling him along. After a few steps, she stopped, as if recalling something. “Oh, Elter, I must tell you, I saw tracks far more troubling than goblins. Fresh troll prints and droppings on the ground.”

  Trolls now? This afternoon keeps on delighting. Best not to show concern though.

  “I pray that soil on your shoe isn’t troll shit.” He wrinkled his nose in mock disgust, but a laugh slipped out before he could stop it.

  He stifled a groan, though it was quickly replaced by a smirk.

  She smacked the back of his head. “Mind that tongue, Elter. You stand in the presence of a pious lady.”

  “Yes, m’lady Rolisha. I apologize if I made you blush.” He swept into an overdone bow, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  I wonder how long she’ll stay cross with me after this demonstration.

  “Elter, I’ll strike you again if you address me that formally. Call me Rol, or would you rather sound like my father?” Her face scrunched at the thought.

  The Swamp King forbid I become anything like that old tortoise's prick.

  The muddy trail meandered through gentle, rolling hills to the southwest. Small shrubs and smooth stones dotted the treeless landscape, while the mineral-rich peaks of the Ed Vahmyrre Mountains rose in the distance. They walked hand in hand, their laughter mingling with the wind, light and carefree. Low clouds rolled in from the east, and a cold breeze kicked up, sending Elter’s chestnut hair swaying. The layers—a black high-collar undershirt beneath a thick yellow and red over-tunic—wrapped him in warmth, shielding him from the cold. Even with his leather boots and crimson gaiters dripping from the mine, the cold was distant. Rolisha always had a way of making him forget discomfort.

  As they neared the town, the trail forked: the left led to her church, the right to the city of Mani. She stopped and turned to him.

  “I need to return to the church,” she said. “Find yourself something warm to eat. Here, take these coins.” She offered him a small purse.

  She thinks so little of my purse. It’s not that light! Well, nearly so, perhaps.

  He pressed the purse back into her hand, shaking his head with a soft smile. “I have my own earnings. Give that to someone in need.”

  She tied the purse to her girdle and nodded. “You’ve become a better huntsman. I’m impressed with how your reputation has grown. I’d like to vouch for you to do some missionary work. We could work together if that happens.”

  His jaw dropped. “I’d do anything the church asks, as long as it means staying by your side.”

  If only your father could behold it. He would march headlong into quicksand, chins and all.

  She raised a hand, cautioning him. “The priests are selective, Elter. My influence may not be enough. To be chosen, one must prove their worthiness in the eyes of the Genieavesin, usually through a heroic deed. But I could argue that protecting travelers and merchants from goblins is hero’s work, though common,” she teased.

  “I’ll strive to do better, to take on more daunting tasks. If it means slaying demons to prove myself to the church, then so be it.”

  The heavens shit with glee! He almost laughed but caught himself. Slay a demon and win a priest’s favor, it is.

  “Don’t get yourself killed, Elter. Let me speak with the priests. In the meantime, refrain from hunting demons.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, the gesture soft and fleeting. As she turned toward the towering cathedral, her hair swooped in a graceful arch. He lingered, watching her elegant departure.

  Perhaps it’s not demons I should fret over, but the thought of losing you, Elter mused as Rolisha’s figure receded toward the cathedral’s towering spires. Her increasing involvement with the temple unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite pin down why. Maybe it was the way the priests of the Genieavesin and Eriu wore their smiles—too polished, like well-oiled gears in a machine that ground up faith and spat out coin. In a town where death lurked just beyond the walls, faith had become the most lucrative business.

  Nothing loosens purse strings like the fucking promise of salvation, he thought as he shook his head, pulling his cloak tighter as a cool breeze whistled towards Mani.

  After a short walk Elter strolled into Mani, the afternoon snow dusted his brow, melting into tiny rivulets that trickled down his face. He paused as a slurred voice called out from a nearby alleyway. “Oi! If it isn’t Lord Voron’s favorite lapdog!”

  Elter turned to see a disheveled man leaning against a wall, clutching a bottle that had seen better days. His clothes were tattered, and his beard looked like it was trying to escape his face. The scent of stale ale and poor life choices wafted over.

  “Do I know you?” Elter asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Know me? Ha! I’m just another soul crushed under the heel of that bastard Voron,” the drunk spat, missing the ground entirely, the glob now hanging from his sleeve. “But you—you work for him, don’t you? His mighty huntsman, slayer of goblins and... crapper in privies!”

  Elter smirked. “Well, the goblins, yes. The privies? Only when a shit’s coming.”

  The man cackled, revealing a set of teeth that looked like they were playing hide and seek. “Shite comes a lot in this town, doesn’t it? Probably because Mani squats at the mountain’s feet like a beggar who found copper but lost his pants!”

  “An interesting analogy,” Elter replied. “Is there a point you’re getting to, or shall I continue on my way?”

  “Don’t rush off! It’s not every day I get to chat with the esteemed Elter,” the drunk said, attempting a mock bow and nearly toppling over. “Tell me, how does it feel serving a lord who squeezes the town harder than a Stonebeard grips his ale?”

  “Sounds like you’ve had enough squeezing of your own,” Elter said, eyeing the bottle. “Perhaps it’s time to let go.”

  The man’s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and sorrow. “Fuckin’ easy for you to say. Voron’s men took everything from me. Used to have a shop right over there.” He waved vaguely toward the burnt-out district. “Until the ‘accidental’ fire. Didn’t pay his exorbitant taxes, so poof! Up in smoke like a magician’s trick, minus the applause.”

  Elter’s gaze shifted to the charred remains, the blackened timbers poking into the sky like accusing fingers. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.

  “Sorry doesn’t rebuild my shop, does it?” the man snapped, then sighed heavily. “But what does Lord Voron care? As long as his coffers are full and his militia parade around like peacocks in tin armor.”

  “Voron keeps the peace,” Elter countered, though his words lacked conviction.

  “Peace? Is that what you call this shite?” The drunk laughed bitterly. “A peace bought with blood and fear. The priests preach harmony, but they’re just as bad, lining their pockets while we scrape by. Faith has become just another commodity in this cursed town.”

  Elter shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps things aren’t as black and white as they seem.”

  “Oh, they’re as murky as the ale at the Pherlis,” the man retorted. “But who am I to judge? Just a drunken fool talking to a gods damn hunter who thinks he’s above it all.”

  “Believe me, I don’t think that,” Elter said, his eyes meeting the man’s. “We’re all trying to survive here.”

  The drunk waved his hand dismissively. “Survival. That’s all Mani is now—a collection of souls trying not to get crushed under the weight of its own greed. Fifteen thousand people packed into crooked streets, each one convinced they’re better than the dirt they crawled from.”

  “Seems you’ve got it all figured out,” Elter said, a hint of sarcasm creeping in. Gods, this drunk won’t shut his his fucking gob!

  “I’ve got nothing figured out, Elf. Except that places like Mani only ever trade one kind of misery for another.” The drunk took a swig from his bottle, grimaced, and wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve. “But what do I know? I’m just the town’s fuckin’ drunk.”

  Elter sighed. “Well, I should be on my way. Try to stay warm.”

  “Warm? In this economy?” The man chuckled. “Next time you see Voron, give him this for me.” The man grabbed his crotch while thrusting his pelvis forward. “Tell him Marrock says he can put his lips on this!”

  “I’ll... do that, good sir,” Elter said with a smirk.

  As he walked away, the man’s voice followed. “And watch your back! This town eats men like you for breakfast and doesn’t bother picking its teeth after!”

  Elter shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. Mani was a place of contradictions, much like the drunk’s ramblings—nonsensical yet containing shards of truth.

  Ahead, the crooked streets twisted like snake tracks, filled with the cacophony of daily life—merchants hawking dubious goods, children darting between legs, and the ever-present watchful eyes of Voron’s militia.

  As he neared the town’s smallest alehouse, the Pherlis, he decided a brief respite wouldn’t hurt. Warmth greeted him as he entered, followed by the low murmur of voices. The patrons were mostly common humans—Northemors, as they were called here. Rolisha and Elter seemed the exceptions in town, aside from one other man.

  The barkeep was a Stonebeard, fresh from the mines of Rocorus, if the coal dust clinging to his boots was anything to go by. Dwarves, the locals called them—as if reducing an entire race to a single, half-chewed word wasn’t the height of ignorance. But then, the locals were known more for breeding goats than for broadening their minds. Breeding ‘with’, for some, I dare think.

  You could spot them a mile off, these Stonebeards, with their beards like hedgerows and frames like ale barrels. This one stood no taller than a sturdy table, built like a boulder, with arms thicker than most men’s thighs. His face was a maze of wrinkles, his nose flattened like a squashed turnip, and his ears stuck out like jug handles. But his beard—that was a masterpiece. Thick as a badger's pelt, braided tighter than a hangman’s noose, and oiled to a sheen. It was the pride of the Stonebeards, their most sacred adornment. He’d sooner lose a limb than let a single hair tangle.

  Elter recalled telling Rol once, “A Stonebeard’s beard is his fibrous crown, more sacred than any lord’s phallic sigil.” It had earned a slight giggle from her—though not as loudly as the jest deserved.

  Their eyes met, and with a grunt, the barkeep waddled over. “What’ll you have to drink, lad?” he asked, his loud, guttural voice making Elter flinch.

  “Something warming?” Elter asked with a polite smile.

  Better to leave pleasantries brief. Stonebeards tend to be friendly until drink dulls their tempers.

  The barkeep grinned and winked. “Try some Uisge Beatha. It means ‘water of life’ in my homeland. This’ll warm you right up, young Saggarin.”

  He poured a strange russet liquid into a small gray goblet. This must be what the locals call whiskey, Elter thought. It has quite the reputation—I should sip cautiously.

  He took a tentative sip, but the burn hit instantly, searing its way down his throat, a fiery jolt spreading through his chest. He doubled over, coughing so hard his ribs ached, while the barkeep’s booming laughter filled the room, loud as thunder, his hands slapping together like a butcher tenderizing meat.

  Sensuous demons above! What infernal piss is this? Elter wheezed, trying to catch his breath. If this is what they call ‘life,’ I fear what they drink in death.

  “Ha ha ha, a drink that strong’ll grow a beard on your chin and one on your cock!”

  “Or rot my cock off,” Elter muttered under his breath. He set the drink down and signaled for the barkeep’s attention. “Many thanks for the whiskey, I—”

  “‘Uisge.’ It’s pronounced ‘uisce.’ What in the daemons is whiskey? Why can’t you locals get that right?”

  “Many thanks for the whis—whi—w-uis,” Elter stammered, then paused, struggling to pronounce it. Perhaps my tongue needs be as forked as this Stonebeard’s, to say such a word! “I look forward to my cockbeard,” he said, forcing a grin, not wanting to appear pathetic. If that’s still a hope. “But until then, might I trouble you for a firkin of potage as well?”

  “Aye! I’ve got Goagh tongue, the best around. You won’t go hungry on that broth—a huge piece of tongue in there.” The barkeep clapped a hefty hand on Elter’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off his stool. The locals used “Goagh” as a derogatory term for goblins, though consuming them was clearly against Realm law.

  “Isn’t it outlawed to sell Goaghs as food?” Elter asked. He had no problem killing them, but eating one? That was another matter entirely.

  With each dish, this place grows fouler still.

  “Not outlawed here, or at least not enforced. Folk in these parts follow their own counsel. Why? You an officer from the lord’s court?” the barkeep asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “No, just curious. Most consider eating intelligent races immoral,” Elter said, unsettled.

  Intelligent or not, I’d sooner eat Rol’s found troll shit.

  “Most have never seen a Goagh. Nothing intelligent about a creature that laps up its own retch. Enjoy the tongue, lad.” The barkeep dropped the firkin in front of Elter and waddled off.

  Elter’s stomach twisted at the very thought of it all, the stench already thick in his nose. By the gods, it reeks as though a marshcarp has lain rotting for weeks. His gut roiled, acid rising in his throat as he shoved the bowl away. I’ll not be that desperate.

  He turned to call the barkeep, but a sudden blast shook the alehouse, rattling the walls and setting mugs to clatter. A horn followed—deep and brassy, its mournful wail filling the room like a dirge, echoing off the stone.

  The partitions rose in a stampede, turning over tables and crawling over each other for the exit. Elter’s mouth hung open like a beached fish, his shock evident as the scene descended into mayhem.

  “Better run ‘til you’re puggled, lad,” the barkeep said urgently.

  “Run from what?” Elter demanded.

  “Haiver later. This way.” The barkeep’s tone left no room for argument as he hauled Elter off the stool and dragged him toward the back door.

  Outside, chaos surged. Horses whinnied in panic, people screamed as they scattered in every direction. Elter's gaze darted about, trying to comprehend the pandemonium. The source of the terror remained unseen, but fear clung to the air like smoke. What in the hells is happening here?

  They bolted toward the privy, the barkeep grabbing Elter by the arm and dragging him inside. The stench hit like a Bogmarrow’s tail—thick, wet, and vile. Elter gagged, his stomach turning, but there was no time to retch.

  “Down the hole, lad.”

  “You’re fucking mad. Only a bedlamite would jump in there.”

  Jump into shit to escape? I’d sooner face whatever haunts the streets.

  “Suit yourself.” The barkeep didn’t waste another breath. He yanked a maroon pouch from his vest, scattering its dust over his chest. “Gr?st Vardrak,” he muttered. His stout form began to stretch and twist, bones creaking as his body elongated, becoming something far too tall for the squat frame it had been. The transformation was grotesque in its speed. Before Elter could blink, the barkeep was gone, disappearing down the narrow hole with a splash. A door slammed below, the sound of it echoing through the fetid air. He fought the clawing nausea. The privy stank worse than death.

  Gods spare my nose the assured pestilence! He peered through the cracked door, debating whether to flee. But what he saw outside made him hesitate.

  A dozen trolls, hulking brutes as tall as two men and thrice as broad, trampled through the streets with ponderous steps that rattled the cobblestones. Their leathery, gray-green skin gleamed with a slick sheen, mottled with scars that spoke of countless battles. Their grotesque, tusked faces twisted in crude snarls as they hauled caged carts brimming with captives—men, women, and even wide-eyed children huddling in terror. The mangled bodies of the town's militia lay discarded in the snow, their crimson blood pooling like spilled ink against the unbroken white blanket.

  Elter’s gaze locked onto a cart hauled by four hulking trolls. Inside, three unconscious figures lay sprawled. His heart clenched as he spotted the golden emblem of the Genieavesin glinting beyond the bars.

  Rol? He squinted. Fucking dredscape, it truly be her! His heart fell, sinking deep as if into a marsh’s mud. I shall rend the fucking hells asunder to see her freed.

  “Fucking trolls!” he cursed beneath his breath. The abyss aborts these filth to this land, and now they hold my beloved!

  He itched to chase after the cart but forced himself to stop. Hold, Elter, he thought. Never before have I beheld so many trolls gathered in one place. Charging in would mean certain death.

  He needed a plan.

  First, escape undetected.

  Second, follow the cart.

  Third, free her.

  Elter gripped the wooden door, ready to shut it, but his pulse spiked as he saw a troll barreling toward him.

  He slammed the door shut, grimacing at the revolting thought that his only option was the foul pit of the privy. By all the gods, what a wretched end this would be. With effort, he wedged his shoulders through the seat’s narrow opening and dropped into the muck below, his body coated in waste. I’ll retch even in death at this memory. He stumbled to his feet, groping the slick walls for the door the barkeep had used. In the dark, his fingers searched in vain.

  A deafening crash tore through the air as two trolls ripped apart the privy above.

  “Fucking trolls!” Elter shouted. Sorcerous energy crackled in his palms, casting vivid blue light over the slick walls. It’ll take more than their hulking hands. But before he could unleash it, the door he sought swung open. A massive troll jumped into the pit, sending a tidal wave of filth splashing over him. His blast went wide, striking the wall harmlessly.

  Fuck. Filth’s fucking fuck! The troll’s pug-like face loomed close, tusks jutting from its lower lip. Sour breath—rancid with decay—poured over him as its beady eyes gleamed with malevolent glee. Gods, the fucking stench!

  A thick hand wrapped around Elter’s neck and lifted him effortlessly off the ground.

  Elter struggled, but the troll’s grip tightened like a vise. Its grotesque features filled his vision: yellowed fangs dripping with saliva, rough, pockmarked skin, and a stench so overpowering it made his eyes water. How in all the excretahells has this day grown fouler? First a specter, now strangled by a troll—whilst covered in the town’s shit. Curse this wretched day! Darkness crept in as the troll’s crushing grip choked off his air.

  “Fucking tr—” he wheezed, the world fading to black.