Nestled in the Valley of the Vanbatar, a newer monastery lay along my route to Garivasnk in the east. The trip from Utokayavak was long, as it was at the western mouth of the valley, where the mountains thinned into the foothills. Even with the paved roads of the old kingdom, the compound marked one of the only safe rest stops.

  Traveling from Utokayavak to the Olovfian Monastery took the better portion of a worker's week, and the mountains themselves blotted out the sun for most of the sunbathed portions of the day. I always found this phenomenon rather eerie, as the hills cast their shadow below. But the sun's faint lights kept the sky above bright and blue, a small consolation to the few who trekked this route. Most were pilgrims from the west, others minor merchants or caravans fleeing the rising sea. I was none of these in my early adulthood, but as a child, I walked this path east to west and back again and so it felt familiar to me.

  Brother Granvich greeted me at the gates, though it was his job to stand and keep undesirables and unpleasant visitors from entry. It was less a greeting and more a checkpoint, but he was himself a polite and charitable man who often ignored the tenants of his order.

  Granvich was otherwise a bland and uncontroversial man who had aged poorly since the last time I had seen him. Of course, I was only a child the first time we met, and the negotiations for entry between him and my parents lasted nearly an hour. We were refugees of sorts, worshippers of the Elder Gods who fled the new kingdoms and their accompanying wars, which grew like tumors from the carcass of the dead Empire.

  But as I said, he was a charitable man who took a certain sympathy toward my mother and father that no other would extend to us throughout my childhood. If I could go back and warn him, I would wave him off from accepting us. We would have never made it west, and my mother would never have been impregnated by the old fickle god of the hills, and the afterbirth of his vengeance—my sister—would have never been born.

  When I met him again as a wandering adult, he was just as charitable. He ushered me into the gates without much to do, knowing my face and gait well by then. The courtyard had wilted since my last visit, and I could not ignore the suffering of the foliage. The members of this order—explicitly devoted to Saint Olovf—were known for their blessed green thumbs. When I questioned Granvich about the sorry state of their monastic garden, he noted that their efforts had been fruitless. I am still unsure if this was his poor attempt at humor, and at the time, it settled equally as poorly as it does now, in my recollection.

  Brother Granvich guided me through the grounds to the mess, where the other monks worked to tidy and preserve the space. They paid no mind to us as Granvich gathered a bowl of stew from the hearth's cooking pot and sat with me as I scarfed down the unpleasant—but free—collection of roots, nuts, and well-overcooked marmot.

  "The ground pigs have been a nuisance of late," Granvich explained, "Desperate they are, as we brothers are, for tubers, it seems. Their little holes and tunnels normally sprawl across the fields, but lately, they've sprouted through the courtyard. Killing them is unpleasant because I rather enjoy them, but who am I to deny a good stew a ready supply of meat?"

  "You'd be no good man at all, I'd say. I might be bold to speak on so many other's behalf, but the marmot does well at hiding the otherwise unpleasant texture of the stock. Know I mean to make no complaint; the likes of me well appreciate your charity."

  Granvich laughed softly, "Such is so obvious that I dare not question it. And I dared not question it when we first met during the Heretical Migration. But what brings you through again so soon, son?"

  "Advice," I replied. "From the Church, in fact. Though I do not doubt your knowledge, I fear your dedication to Olovf may leave you in a spot of ignorance to my concerns."

  "Try me," Granvich replied with a polite smile. I slurped the stew broth while I considered his offer but relented.

  "Azre has been missing for some time, and I waver at the dauntingness of my search. While following an old lead that didn't pan out, I found myself in Utokayavak."

  "The old mining company's town?"

  I nodded, and he motioned for me to continue.

  "While there, I found a demon that had grown swollen and fat from the town's people. A young girl had gone missing, and while I failed to find any trace of her, I suspect the creature ate her. Lured her into the depths of the mine with greedy promises a child couldn't understand. Such creatures exist; we all know this, Brother. But is it not strange that one would settle so close to our kind? Do they not typically linger in the virgin forests further west?"

  Brother Granvich scratched at his pocketed cheeks and hummed troublingly. "Your concerns are fair, son. I do not doubt your recanting of events, but as you've said, such a thing would be strange. And to be so active in its feasting on the locals? Their numbers are far and few between in these times, and eating a child is horrific enough to attract a hunter."

  "That much is true. I slayed it. Inelegantly, but it no longer haunts the children and their soup. That's how it seemed to reach them through their soup bowls. But surely now you see the information I seek?"

  Granvich nodded to me. "You wish to know why it would take such a risk to begin with. And I must be honest with you: the winds have changed. I cannot quite explain it, but I feel it in my bones. The fall is coming faster than usual, the fish flee the lake, the garden suffers, and the game is sparse. It is as if the essence of life itself is fleeing the valley. But rest assured tonight that the valor of the Vanbatar keeps vigil over your weary body, my son. Remind me before your leave, and I will write a letter for the diocese in Garivansk on your behalf. Bishop Rysk will see you under my suggestion; I am sure of it."

  I watched the salt and tiny bits of food debris settle in the negligible puddle of broth at the bottom of my bowl and half-smiled. Granvich was, as always, a charitable man. "You are held in such high regard to me that your word is truly an honor. Thank you, Granvich."

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  The wrinkles on his face pulled as he hummed politely. He stood and bowed, and I did the same back after he took my bowl. Off to the Moonlight Carrel, he went for evening repentance, and I trudged along to the familiar hostel on the other side of the courtyard where my family had stayed decades ago.

  Living in the West meant that I rarely heard the term, but Granvich always mentioned the Heretical Migration. My family was pilgrims of it—followers of the elder gods who feld Cambray for the unsettled western shores, though we stopped short of it when father took up work as a miner. Many of us did not survive the march, be it the elements claiming us or the roving bands of the Saintly who feared us with great fervor. The fear subsided long ago, but the scars of the Migration remain upon the land; Granvich himself has led the excavation of many a mass grave, but he was always sure to leave the empty pits behind as a reminder. Not a reminder meant to strike fear but to remember the horrors humanity can act against itself. It was not a reminder for the heretics but for the Saintly followers who praised him and the Vanbatar while acting against their beliefs and wishes.

  I stopped in the courtyard and took time to appreciate the starry night. The brothers of Saint Olovf chose a spot most beautiful to settle. I enjoyed watching the glimmering of the Vanbatar, even if I did not believe in their supposed powers or that their spirits indeed lingered in the lights of the sky. But they were good people, except for a few—namely Saintess Fraust, whose actions led to the Heretical Migration. However, the Church's veneration of her is sensible when one considers their context. Even I, one branded as a heretic at birth, can understand the simplicity of supporting a martyr who helped shore up one's cause. The winners write history, and the Saintly are far more numerous than those of us who followed the Elder Ways.

  My room was equally as simple as the politics of Saintess Fraust: an austere stuffed mattress, an ancient second-hand nightstand with a candle that the monks themselves created, the metal holder forged from a continuous hunk of scrap beat with crude tools to form it appropriately. The window was a pleasant addition from the last time I had stayed within the grounds and had a wondrous view of the lake.

  But that night, as I watched the serene, quiet beauty of the lake, the few boats and the returning fishermen on the shorefront vanished in a sudden ominous fog. Seconds passed before their screams and cries of abject terror echoed across the water and throughout the valley. Then, silence. A lingering silence stagnated the symphony of suffering, so much so that even the insects and birds had stopped singing. I recall now that they never did return.

  I painfully admit now that I know the truth of that night: that the darkness I found in Utokayavok had followed me, my actions waking it from a deep and evil slumber.

  I rushed from my room as the silence beset the monastery and found Brother Granvich joined by others of the order, though not all were accounted for.

  "What's happened?" He asked as if I were some expert on the unholiness that had occurred. My hands shook, my brow wettened, and my legs trembled. He approached and took my hands, placing a silver-plated blade upon them. Seeing the weapon drew my focus back to the moment, and finally, I noticed that Granvich and his companions had taken up spears and swords.

  "Tremble not, son, for Saint Olovf blessed those who grow within themselves, and you are hardier than any plant." Those words found a permanent home within me, and I clutched the sword's hilt in a solemn commitment of my aid to Granvich.

  The five of us made way for the central courtyard, where three of them formed a makeshift spear wall oriented toward the main gate. Two took up a rear defense of the formation while Granvich and I took to the flanks.

  We waited so long that we wondered if anything was genuinely coming. The awkward stillness of our defense was broken when a bony spike passed through the skull of the leftmost member of the spear wall, cleaving clean through and spiking into the dirt. The man made no sound, and not one of the brothers reacted audibly, though I could see the horror on their faces and feel the tension rising as they committed to their faithfulness.

  I darted my eyes toward the monastery's exterior walls, desperate to see what shape the darkness could create. I saw it first, and then Granvich.

  Its skin was flayed and falling from its body in seemingly endless clumps. Its arms were removed, and the head was sunken below where the shoulders should have supported its weight. Thus, the head was left lined up with pulsing, festering gills. It had no tongue; instead, it was replaced by a slowly regrowing pointed bone protrusion that soaked and burned in some unholy acid, which swelled and leaked from deep within its gullet.

  During this process, it hacked and screamed, and I began to make out its bent and contorted legs. Each toe of its feet was dislocated and moved independently from one another as it dug into the stone wall. This is how the creature could climb and navigate at such a height.

  "Charge forward with faith, brothers! We must deny it footing on our holy grounds!" Granvich ordered the four remaining brothers.

  His head swiveled to me next, and he pointed toward a set of stairs behind me that led onto the battlements. "Cut it off, son! I'll take the demon from the other side!"

  Old as he was, the speed by which he cleared the distance to the other stairs was impressive. I rushed up the steps, and we cornered the beast as the brothers below drove their spears upward to draw its focus. It reacted with fear—genuine and nearly human—just as the demon in Utokayavok had when I wounded it.

  Granvich and I drew our blades and awaited our opening. I chopped and hacked wearily into the creature's leg and fell forward as my blade cut clean through the decaying flesh and rotted bones. As I fell, its head reared back to face me, and the acid slobbering from its mouth fell across my face and chest. The searing pain was too much for me then, and as my consciousness faded, Granvich hollowed and stepped forward to drive his blade through the neck of the creature. I remember its wails and gurgles as my vision faded to blackness.

  When I awoke the following day, I was convinced that I had experienced a nightmare. Only when I felt my face and chest did I recall that the dream had indeed happened. Bandages seeped in aloe had been wrapped so tightly around my body that I could scarcely move, but even so much as turning my head dragged the linens just enough across my melted skin that all I could acknowledge was my agony. The damage from these wounds never healed, and the constant, subtle pain never faded.

  Granvich tended to my wounds as payment for my aid. In total, three of the beasts beset the monastery and neighboring hamlet. Thirty-three were killed, Granvich attending to each for their final rites and incineration. The cremations took four days, the last of which I was well enough to provide a meek assistance in carrying bodies and shoveling the ashes of the corpses. Four days later, I was well enough to travel and met with Granvich the night before my leave was anticipated.

  "You've brought the letter, Brother?" I asked.

  "I have brought something better, my son. You and I will be traveling to Garivansk as companions. The attack has left behind concerns I fear must be addressed with haste, and we both are far more likely to reach the city in one piece together. Especially if more of those creatures stalk the valley."

  I nodded in agreement, "Your company is much appreciated, then."

  "We must make a stop along the way if that's agreeable?"

  I cocked my brow, "A stop to where?"

  "Not to where, but for what? The reliquary is two days east along our route up an old, winding mountain path. We must delve into it so that I can retrieve an artifact."

  "And what artifact is that?"

  "The Scythe of Saint Olovf."