With the Adepts taken down as if they were nothing, and the spell gone into Sunday’s soul space, most of the magi seemed to find themselves. There was worry, panic, and some flashes of spells as a few retreated, but none came for Nysandra or Sunday.

  He didn’t care either way. The spell was taking in all of the remaining essence inside him as if it were feeding. It felt different from other spells. Not as natural nor as lively and independent. A tool with a sliver of a will that consumed all the energy in Sunday’s body. Even the moths he had left surrounding him and soothing his soul burst into essence that was swiftly reabsorbed, only to rush into the spell. The remnants of divinity that had tried to turn his lost arm into a means for agony, and perhaps to prevent him from healing were eaten up too. The image of a tree in his soul space was absorbing it all, and feeding it to the spell resting in its crown after transforming it in the energy that had fueled the strange iteration of his slapping talent.

  Even with his eyes closed, Sunday felt the world spin around him once again. He half expected something else to go wrong, but this was probably his sheer exhaustion’s doing. Nothing was in his control once again, so it was the perfect timing though, wasn’t it? What sort of a chosen was he, when his choices, his agency, and his very desires were simply nothing against the turbulence of the path others picked for him? Even now he had been saved countless times after his own talent, a tool that was supposed to serve him, had thrown him into a situation he didn’t understand at all.

  How many people do I owe for their help now? He hated feeling indebted most of all and part of him wanted to turn his back on it all. However, he was also the reason for most of the issues in the city.

  “How is it?” Nysandra asked, kneeling next to him.

  Sunday struggled to open his eyes and turned to meet the dark voids that were the wight’s eyes. She was a vision he would’ve appreciated once. However, her sheer brutality, strength, and presence that promised untold suffering, chased all of that away. To the current him, he was the one who would hold his leash, and who would terrorize him in the near future. There was no escaping that unless Chaotic Step deigned it necessary.

  “It’s taking it all, and it's not enough. I can’t give any more,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. It was so difficult to speak, suddenly. The spell still hungered, but it seemed content for the time being. There was nothing more to take, after all. A single glistening jewel with unknown properties, making everything else pale in comparison.

  “Can you tell what it does?”

  Sunday hesitated, then nodded.

  A golden page unfurled before him and trembled for a few moments, before showing him what he wanted to see.

  Spells 5/5

  Phantasmal Fall (bonded)

  Omen of Duality

  Visage of the Berserk Moon

  Essence Ward

  Key of Divinity

  Ah, fuck. What type of name is this?

  “It’s called a Key of Divinity, but that’s all I know.”

  Nysandra helped him up, and he felt as light as a feather in her hand.

  “Don’t speak of it anymore. A name is plenty. You’re truly special, after all,” she smiled like a predator, then without further consideration for him, dragged him along. “Do you have a place in this city, or should I take one?”

  “You can all come to my home,” Mera said eagerly from the side.

  “I left Elora at the gates. The ghouls were coming—”

  “They’re of no concern. My… friend… is there. No lowly rot eater would dare even flinch in his presence,” Nysandra said.

  The way she pronounced the word friend was strange, but Sunday didn’t question her further. Elora would be fine. He was in no position to worry.

  “So the war is taken care of?” Mera continued.

  “I’ll think about it. I might just let things play out, although something tells me you have a connection to the one responsible for the hordes of ghouls storming the wall.”

  The last part was aimed toward Sunday, but it took him a few moments to understand that. Why was it that only he felt so beaten every time? It was simply, not fair. Wasn’t undeath supposed to come with limitless stamina and other such boons?

  He didn’t know when or how they reached the Wayward Rat, or who led him to a bed deep underground set near his other spells. As if their proximity would bring relief. He only knew that sleep was calling, but also that it wouldn’t be restful at all.

  He didn’t notice Nysandra, as she stalked the shadows and kept all others from him, friends or foes. In a bag held in her hand was another. An undead who had long stalked out from the burial grounds. An enigma. A lich servant of the Corpse Kings.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The third ‘adept’ of Blumwin’s Arcanum.

  An alchemist of the Cauldron’s Path.

  And currently a prisoner to forces that were beyond even him.

  ***

  Jishu grumbled as a hand easily lifted him into the air by the back of his collar. It was humiliating, to say the least.

  “Send the ghouls away, friend. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

  To be handled like that by a mere vampire was an insult his black heart couldn’t stomach, but… No. This was no mere vampire. The creature before him was one who could take even on the strongest of the Ishiren clan if it so desired. It was as strong as the old leader, but many times more vain and stupid.

  Jishu was sick of listening about love, sex, and how pleasurable undead could be. He was sick of hearing about cousins, foolish acts of theft, and petty schemes to steal another’s wife. He was sick of it all.

  But he had to endure. Even at his peak, the being before him would’ve needed a simple moment to dispatch him like an ant. Perhaps there was an opportunity in that… Perhaps his one spell could surprise him yet again.

  With a deep reluctant sigh, he sent out the command. The ghouls remained frozen, unwilling to listen to the will of their King while the vampire’s presence was rolling around the city like a dark stormy cloud. He was a predator among predators. A killer among killers. A mere moment of his dissatisfaction was worth more than Jishu’s lifetime of ruling ghouls.

  A humbling experience if there had been one.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  And just like that, the vampire was gone. If Jishu didn’t have eyes, then he wouldn’t have known he was there. So terrifying was the change.

  Like a wave, the ghouls retreated.

  “Good boy,” the vampire smiled. “I’ll say, high ghouls are not quite as stupid as everyone makes them to be. You strike me as a reasonable fellow. Tell me, why was it that you decided to attack this city?”

  Jishu hesitated. Honestly was the path to many favorable outcomes, but one wrong step and he would doom himself. There was little he could offer to such beings. Especially that woman…

  “I… have a grudge to settle.”

  “Does it have to do with the way the black sands reacted to you, hmm? Come on, be nice and I’ll be nice as well.”

  Jishu hesitated once again. He did not know of black sands, but the mention of them made him think of Sunday. Something was telling him to trust the vampire before him. The feeling was insistent. Relentless. Perhaps… He was a friend. A trustworthy ally… Yes. Why not? Those eyes were not the eyes of a liar. Jishu felt the last of his worries fall into darkness and smiled.

  All was well in the world.

  Something deep inside him screamed in protest.

  The vampire smiled back.

  ***

  A city of gothic beauty sprawled before Sunday. Eternity had passed since the last time he had stepped upon these streets. At least it felt like it. A life between his two lives. The thief and beggar had become the undead enigma, after spending some time as a corpse slaying corpses. Had it lasted for days? Weeks? Years, perhaps? Time lost meaning in this place.

  A wretch connected the two sides of the coin. Lost. Roaming. Fighting his brethren for survival, not knowing if all was a dream or a nightmare. Or something else. Sunday found it difficult to relate to that wretch as he roamed the city of Blumwin. Now though…

  Why am I back here…?

  Sunday took a step and looked down. His body was that of an old corpse, with none of the grace and ‘liveliness’ of his actual flesh. He was back to the state he had been in the first time crawling out of the soft ground in the graveyard.

  He was in no graveyard now, however.

  He was on a square of gray cobblestone. A beautifully depraved fountain rose in the middle of it, demanding all the attention. A large sculpture of intertwined angels and demons reached for the sky, long dried out by the invisible sun. They were all struggling to go higher and each figure was holding an item placed as to pour water into the fountain pool below. There was no water coming from the vases in the cherubs’ hands, nor fire burning in the candles held by the demons oppressing them.

  The rest of the city made for a beautiful canvas and it surrounded Sunday, covered in mists. He took a step and the city moved with him, as if it was breathing. Buildings shifted. Alleys fled only for others to take their place. Yet, Sunday walked. He needed no direction nor cause. The memory of that darkness was still fresh, and even the hounds and their master hadn’t been able to give him such a feeling of terror.

  A touch of oblivion, was it?

  The wretch returns victorious. The last of the outsiders to become one with the world, yet the first to face a Divine and slay a part of it. Your deeds are truly grand, and your strength shall only benefit from your bravery.

  You’ve earned a reward for completing your quest, but it has been chosen for you by another. Do not despair, for it is a choice well made.

  Walk the long-forgotten streets and you shall grow. Let the masters of all that you hold be your teachers, and know that some legends are eternal, and their power cares not for the passage of time or the shift of worlds.

  The narrator’s words were oddly comforting, and fully set Sunday’s heart at ease. He truly felt like he belonged. A sensation long lost to him.

  The significance of the black sands was also not quite clear, but the very act of being fed with them had awakened something in the world itself. He was now part of it, and he was certain a lot was about to change if it hadn’t already. The question was… how could he find out what it was? Things were threading on fine lines. Like a simple thought taking a new direction. There was no black and white to discern but millions of shades of the same color, blending so finely that it was impossible to understand when one had crossed the threshold and himself.

  Buildings rose on his sides and Sunday’s eyes widened as he found himself on a familiar street. Again, time was irrelevant. This was perhaps a dream, or something similar.

  A mural sprawled before him. A mountain, and a young master drinking tea. It was made of three parts but they shifted like water, becoming one. It was all gone in the next moment, like leaves blown by the wind. Not the mountain, nor the man.

  The city had melted away, turning into valleys and peaks. The soft wind rustled against Sunday and made the robes on his body flutter gently. There was peace in the scenery and a slight scent of flowers tickled his senses and made him relax. Another joined it. Herbs and spice. Warmth.

  A young master sips from his wine and smiles in arrogance at all of existence… His gentle hand welcomes you.

  A gentle laugh of a young-looking man whose presence was rival of the sun in the sky, and the infinite blue stretching in all directions. And yet he was also just a man. A ghost of one. An illusion, or a memory.

  Sunday’s eyes widened, and he felt his palms itch. This all felt too real. Too detailed. Not a dream then. Nor a vision. Was he gone from the tavern, lost to the world? Or was it his soul that was dragged here? Strangely, no worry wormed his way into his mind.

  This place too offered the comfort of a warm home.

  “Took you long, enough, my student,” the young master said.

  The voice was ethereal. Too perfect to be real, too real to be a lie.

  “Come. Sit. Drink with me. I can only spare some stolen moments.”