Ancient bones rested peacefully at the being’s feet. Bones not of armies or mercenaries, but of heroes, felled by a being of such immense strength that they would never comprehend. It had no name, no purpose.

  Animals pranced and chased about between the creature’s stalky legs, ignorant of the latent power standing motionless amongst them. It towered amidst the trees, its ashen skin delicate and translucent, stretched tight across long, black bones. It bore no eyes, nose, ears, or mouth—merely a hollow shell, almost spherical.

  A pair of mated birds perched atop its shoulder, lulling it with their practised song as a cool breeze wisped gently by, caressing the treetops and loosing the first autumn leaf. Without eyes, it gazed—watching the animals frolic; watching the serene beauty which surrounded it; watching that dying leaf fall.

  The summer months had come to pass. Soon would come the harvest.

  A deep croak curdled within the beast’s belly. The once playful wildlife scattered as the croaking grew louder—more powerful—each creak, a percussive blast battering against the hardwood trees. Its body convulsed violently, anguish and agony boiling within. The being flailed its elongated, spindly limbs wildly about itself until it hunched—curling over itself—sending a final, ungodly roar reverberating into the sky.

  Worne craned his thick neck, his full, greying moustache and brows bristling in the chilling breeze. His horse faltered under his broad frame as he eased at the reins and listened. That sound. Though he couldn’t know its origin, he could feel its intent; it carried on the wind, fetid and rotten. Something stirred awake deep within the woods, but it was not for him to put to rest. It had been a long journey, and he had work to do.

  The dwindling twilight was exacerbated so far north. Heavy fog often plagued the king’s road at dawn, and that morning was no different. Worne had ridden through the night; he wasn’t paid to sleep, and at his age, sleep was already fleeting enough. His gaze turned slowly forward, the haunting roar already entering the back of his mind, instead replaced by the clattering of bottles and jars from the large chest mounted behind him.

  Ahead, something shimmered through the veil of morning fog. The shapes were formless at first but were quickly realised into distinct silhouettes as Worne grew closer. Several of the figures surrounded a single dark shadow. It somehow appeared submissive, showing no signs of struggle despite its circumstances. As he neared, the largest silhouettes resolved further: several men mounted on horseback. They, like him, silently watched the surrounded shadow from the road, each man clad in castle-forged steel, each cape brandishing the green and yellow elk insignia of Worne’s destination.

  “Halt,” the man on the tallest horse commanded. “On your way to Gildaun, good sir?” His voice was lilted, high-pitched, not the kind Worne had expected from a high-ranking officer.

  “Not much else around,” Worne grunted.

  “I suppose not. Well then, that’s lovely news indeed. We hardly get so many travellers up this way.” The man seemed chipper, in fact, all the men on horseback seemed in strangely high spirits.

  “Don’t make me ask again, sir,” said another trebled voice, sounding as if spoken by a woman. “Would ya spread your legs apart, if it please ya.” Worne turned to the voice, it was a woman, dressed as a city guard along with the rest. She crouched at the feet of the surrounded shadow: a man with skin black as charcoal. He was young, some might have said still a boy, yet his skin was rough, speckled with ash-like pockmarks. His arms were shackled, the woman still working at his feet. Worne had neither seen a female soldier, nor a man as black of skin before.

  “Just don’t go making trouble for us like this one there. He’s a murderer that one, if you’d believe it.”

  Worne peered into the young man’s sorrowful expression.

  “I don’t,” he grumbled, then spurred his horse, leaving the strange tableau behind him.

  The ride to the town of Gildaun was short, the sun’s light was still golden by the time of Worne’s arrival. Wooden houses with thatched roofs sparsely littered the land as the forest thinned. They grew closer together as he neared the village’s centre, but something was wrong. Worne had been instructed to find his employer at a large tavern, but this village—if it could even be called that—seemed too small for a tavern.

  Worne straightened his back and sharpened his grey eyes. There was something beyond the village, something he’d have easily spotted earlier if he’d expected to see it. It was a wall, at least thirty feet in height, built entirely of stone. It stretched nearly half a mile in either direction. Such a feature was typically reserved for only the wealthiest of cities and castles. By all accounts, however, Gildaun was supposed to be a small, poor town with no more than a few hundred people. How could it be, Worne came to wonder, that such a vast city was unknown to him?

  As he passed through a massive gate reinforced by thick rods of iron, the city’s true beauty and scale revealed itself. Gildaun was not the home to hundreds, but thousands, possibly tens, with bustling streets, and lively trade. Most of the buildings were made of a coarse, stony, pale concrete, none the likes Worne had ever seen. The steep roofs were shingled with pale pink clay plates, sloped downward to prevent the collection of rain or snow. Even the roads were sturdy and smooth. Worne wasn’t one to admire beauty, but he appreciated a well-built road and skilled craftsmanship.

  In the distance, however, stood the true beauty: a castle, white as chalk, not to be admired for its size, but for its utter absence of complication. The grace of the city would appear entirely discordant if not for the castle’s simple elegance. A fact, of which, Worne would never care to know.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  There was no creak when Worne entered the tavern, the large, clinking chest secured tightly in his hands. He wanted to close the door more slowly to test its quality but was too encumbered to do so. He made a mental note of it for when he later left. The tavern was well decorated and designed with purpose, with wide arches, sturdy wooden supports, and dried, seasonal flower wreaths.

  “Oh my,” a hearty woman said, throwing a rag over her shoulder. “Almost mistook you for a bull there, big man.”

  “I’m looking for a woman named Madwen. Short, white hair, silver jewellery. Said she’d be here.”

  “You’re with that omen-woman then, eh?”

  “She rent one of your rooms or not, wench?”

  The tavern wench flipped her thin copper hair and raised an eyebrow. “First off, big man, I’m the owner of this fine business, not some wench, so I’m expecting you to address me properly. Second, I offered her our private room, aye, but she insisted on using our cellar if you can believe it. Strange woman that one, but I s’pose that’s part of her kind, meanin’ no offence of course.”

  Worne maintained his permanent scowl. “I have business with her.”

  “You don’t say!” The tavern keeper widened her eyes mockingly. “Come, follow me then, big man. Though I doubt you’ll fit seeing as to the size of you.” A jestful fact, but an accurate one.

  With heavy footsteps, Worne clambered down the cellar’s steep, narrow stairs. He squeezed his arms and shoulders down through the cellar door; one never designed to accommodate men of his stature. Worne came to rest at the bottom of the stairs and stared into the dank room.

  “I take it Aston delivered my list. Did you find everything?” Madwen stood with her back toward Worne, fumbling through the pages of a large tome. An unseen white light sparkled about the stone cellar, Madwen’s frizzy, white ponytail glowing in the paleness of it all.

  “Come, place it all on the table,” she said, sweeping several items aside. Every movement of her hands rattled the assortment of plain silver bracelets that burdened her wrists. Worne stepped over a broken line of salt at the room’s entrance.

  “Still can barely read your writing,” said Worne. The chest made a heavy *thunk* as he placed it on the sturdy table.

  Madwen stared at him momentarily; unimpressed. “You’ll learn.” Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion and smudged dark makeup, adding another decade to her already mature face. She rummaged through the chest.

  “The darkblood weren’t where you said it’d be.”

  “Nonsense, I never separate my bloods. It should have been with all the rest.”

  “Was in the apothecary.”

  “On the table?” Madwen asked. Worne stared. “Yes. Well, I must have left it there after the Céincéile incident.” Madwen lifted the small, brown, darkblood vial into the gleaming light, noting its missing label. “It’s a wonder you found it at all,” she said.

  “You needed the job done. It’s done.” Worne turned to leave.

  “And where are you off to?” Madwen watched Worne over her shoulder. He stopped at the salt line.

  “Been a long trip. Need a drink.”

  “You can drink when we’re finished here. I appreciate it's been a long journey, but I have more need of your services.”

  “Better not be another delivery.”

  “Indeed not. I need you to speak with the lord of this fiefdom. He's called ‘Daithi,’ no doubt you saw the castle on your way in.”

  Worne grumbled. “Not so good with speakin’. Haven’t seen him yourself?”

  “If only I could, but I need to continue my research.”

  “Seems like a lot o’ work to hunt fairies and pixies.”

  “You should consider yourself lucky. Two moons and the worst you’ve seen is a mangy dog, but we’re dealing with something real this time.” That caught Worne’s attention.

  “Go on then.”

  “I wish I had more information, but I still need time to make sense of it all.”

  “Huh, thought you’d have more by now.”

  Madwen gestured generally to the table laden with various experiments and apparatuses. “Sometimes you need to figure out what something isn't before you know what it is. I know what it isn't, hells, I know a thousand things it isn't, but the only things left that it could be, however…” She felt a great pressure pulling down on her. “They’re dark, Worne. Sinister”

  The roar in the woods tickled Worne’s mind once more. The pair’s relationship had always been professional and Madwen was never one to embellish. When he watched her speak about whatever dark evil she believed was about, with her unwashed clothes and sunken eyes, he knew there was real danger about.

  “We should get out there. Hunt it.”

  “Hmm, yes, and how do you propose we do so?”

  “If it’s as dark as you say, then it should come out if we make enough noise.”

  “If only it were so simple. I’m telling you, this isn’t some jealous love-sprite or mischievous humble-cat. Do you remember what we did in Slyzch?”

  Worn nodded. “Paskies.”

  “And do you remember the experiment?”

  “You lit a powder and asked me the colour o’ the flame. Said it reacted with magic in the air.” Madwen raised an eyebrow. This felt like a test. “Blue flame, blue smoke, black residue.”

  Madwen turned and dragged a flat, stone plate across the table. Worne approached, watching carefully. Most people would go an entire lifetime not once seeing a single ounce of magic, but Madwen performed it on a daily basis so casually that it had lost almost all whimsy—not that Worne had felt anything less than animosity for magic. On the stone plate was a peppering of white powder and shiny flakes.

  “Saltpeter and flakes of aluminium,” she said, bringing a dim flame close to the compound. The substances sparked and fizzled violently, then… nothing. Madwen looked to Worne, awaiting his observation.

  “No flame, no smoke, no residue. What’s it mean?”

  Madwen crossed her arms and leaned against the table, this was the mystery she’d been dealing with for several days now.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “Every experiment I could think of has ended like this. It's not that they're yielding faulty results, it's that they're yielding none. You may as well ask me to record the colour of the air or the taste of water.”

  “And you want me to tell the lord this?”

  “Now that you've brought me some proper materials, I can finally start some real research, but I'll need time. Normally, I'd investigate the city myself, but I need you to speak with Daithi. Don't tip our hand just yet. Who knows how he’d react. We need to know if he’s hiding anything, and by the looks of this city, there should at least be something suspicious about him. A place like this doesn’t get built without making a few sacrifices.”

  “Fine,” Worne grunted. “Get some rest while I’m here. Look like shit.”

  Madwen gave a single laugh. “Perhaps later, there’s work to be done.”

  Even without the chest, Worne’s lumbering steps caused the stairs to bend under his weight. Madwen could hear the taverness’ flirtatious voice through the ceiling, accosting Worne as he left the tavern, pausing at the front door before doing so.

  Madwen dragged her paint-chipped nails down her face. Finally, the supplies she’d needed so desperately were here, but she felt a fierce fatigue overcoming her.

  Something shifted. The mystical, sparkling light within the cellar flickered. Madwen’s eyes darted, but saw nothing. Every day since she’d arrived had been like this; whispers in the dark, shadows just out of view. She instinctively reached for a jar of salt, but abandoned the endeavor. At every attempt, any salt line she drew was instantly broken before her eyes. She knew none of the precious, rare minerals or herbs that Worne delivered would make any difference.

  Madwen stretched her neck and pulled the last item from the chest, a thick tome titled: “Relics, Demons, and Demigods: Detection and Eradication.”