Fifteen years had passed since I’d been reborn into this world, and still, the memories of my past life clung to me like shadows. The gunshot, the blood, the cold pavement—it all came back in nightmares that left me drenched in sweat.

  But this life wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was better than the last.

  For starters, I had a family. It was just my father, but he was a good man. Quiet, though. We didn’t talk much, but I could tell he cared. He worked the farm from dawn till dusk, his hands calloused and his back bent from years of labor.

  Our village was small, a handful of people clinging to the edge of the wilderness. It was a place for washed-up legends—clans that had once been great but were now little more than memories.

  The Knights of the Silver Order? They were just old men now, muttering about their “golden days” over watered-down ale at the tavern. The Crystal Ascendants? A bunch of hermits brewing questionable potions in their crumbling towers. And then there was us—the Downhornes. Once, five of us could’ve taken over a village. Now, it was just me and my father.

  The other reason this world was better? No school. I was barely homeschooled, which suited me fine. The language here was close enough to what I’d known in my past life, but the writing was a mess of symbols I couldn’t decipher.

  There was no TV, no YouTube, no games—just farm work and training. But that was fine. It gave me time to focus on what I loved most: boxing.

  We also had a church here. Not my thing. Pretty sure they hated me and my father, though I didn’t know why. Last week, I found their symbol—a flame inside a circle—scratched into our barn door. When I asked Father about it, he just wiped it off and told me to forget it.

  My days were simple: farm work by day, training by dusk. Today, I was hoeing the field while Father tinkered in the shed. The last time I’d walked in on him, he was sharpening his sword—a relic from his knight days. I’d never seen him use it, but he polished it like it was made of diamonds. Maybe he was saving it for a rainy day.

  My day was interrupted by loud voices.

  “Well, well, look who it is—Edward Iceborne, the failed wizard,” one of the bullies sneered.

  I looked up. Three kids had cornered Edward near the river. His robes were singed, his hands blistered and raw. He was muttering spells under his breath, but nothing came of it.

  Edward Iceborne. His family, the Icebornes, had once been legendary ice mages. Now? He was the village joke, the guy who’d abandoned his birthright to chase fire magic.

  Magic in this world was simple: if your family was good with ice, you were good with ice. Fire? That was a different story.

  Edward raised a trembling hand. A pathetic flicker of flame sputtered in his palm before dying. The bullies roared with laughter.

  I shook my head. Why bother with fire when you were born with ice? Last life taught me: stick to what you’re good at. But hey—not my problem.

  This time, I wouldn’t stick my nose where it didn’t belong. My last life had taught me that too.

  “You’ll never make it into the wizard academy with that little spell,” another bully taunted.

  They all laughed. I looked around, wondering why I was the only one who had to witness this.

  “Begone, and trouble me no more,” Edward said, his voice trembling.

  “Or what? You gonna hit me with a fireball?” the bully mocked.

  Before I could decide whether to intervene, a voice cut through the air like a whip.

  “HEY! GET OFF MY PROPERTY NOW!”

  The bullies froze. My father stood at the barn door, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. For a retired knight, he had lungs.

  “Shit, it’s the Downhorne! Run!” one of the bullies yelled.

  They scattered like rats.

  Father stormed over and slapped the back of my head—the kind of slap you give a dog that ate your dinner.

  “Where you just gonna stand and watch him get beat up, Clancy? Make sure he’s okay now.”

  “Father, I—”

  “No buts. Do it now.”

  I scowled but obeyed. Edward was already on his feet, brushing dirt off his robes. His glasses were cracked, but his pride was worse.

  “Hey, man, you good? You need any help?” I asked.

  He hissed at me like a snake. “Spare me the hero act. Even the rats fleeing your barn know better than to play dumb. Vermin can smell the rot in your bloodline.”

  I blinked, taken aback. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. If you don’t want it, I’ll be on my way.”

  As I turned to leave, Edward spoke again.

  “Have you ever asked your father why the elders cross the street to avoid his shadow? Why your mother’s bones are buried beyond the Hallowed Veil, where even the Church’s zealots won’t tread? Ask him… and watch how fast his sword handshakes.”

  I turned back to him, my patience wearing thin. “What’s your problem? You’re just asking to get messed up, you know that? And how do you know about my mother?”

  Edward laughed mockingly. “Finally curious? The Church talks about you half-demons. You’re all power and no show, in my opinion. Your mother was a ghoul—a Duskweaver. The villagers called her a curse. And your father?” He leaned in closer. “He called her his wife. Imagine the scandal.”

  “Why should I believe a washed-up wizard who can’t even use his ice powers?”

  Edward’s eyes flashed with rage. “You think I’d waste ancestral ice on gutter trash? Save your concern for when I stop holding back.”

  “Sure, buddy. You’re just a madman. Get outta here.”

  “Or what? You’ll bleed on me? Your shadows already writhe like snakes, boy. That ‘witch-blood’ isn’t just in your veins—it’s screaming to get out.”

  I stepped closer, ready to throw him out, but Edward snapped his fingers and yelled, “Fyr’andel!”

  Ice shackles clamped my wrists. Edward’s breath misted, but his hands trembled faintly.

  “The hell…? Quick to freeze when you’re cornered, huh?”

  “I’m being cautious. I know I shouldn’t mess with whatever you are. All the wizards and mages see what circles around you. You’re not something to mess with.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Edward turned to leave. “It means you’re a natural disaster wearing boots, Downhorne. And when you finally erupt? Don’t expect anyone to mourn the rubble.”

  “What a bitch,” I muttered as he walked away.

  And with that Edward Iceborne has left my farm.

  I honestly have no idea what that guy's problem was or why he knew so much about me but apparently, the church is spreading rumors. He knew stuff I didn't even know myself, but to think that my mother was that well-known—I'm realizing it now. So why do I care so much? I mean…

  It's not like I knew her, but she's my family, even though in my past world, I never knew what a family was. These emotions I'm feeling…

  This sucks I should ask my father about this.

  After finishing my chores, I found Father in the barn, sharpening his sword. The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filled the air.

  “Father,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence, “who was my mother?”

  The scraping stopped. For a moment, the only sound was the creak of the lantern swinging overhead.

  “Why are you asking about her?” His voice was low, guarded.

  “Because I deserve to know. Everyone in this village looks at us like we don’t belong. Like we’re cursed. So tell me. Who was she?”

  He set the sword across his knees, his calloused fingers tracing the blade’s edge. His jaw tightened, and when he stood, his shadow loomed large against the barn wall.

  “Sit down, Clancy.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  He nodded as if he’d expected that. His steel-gray eyes flicked to mine, sharp and unreadable.

  “The Hallowed Veil,” he began, his voice rough, “that’s where she’s buried. She saved my life, you know. I was on a mission, fell into a cave so deep I thought I’d never see daylight again. And there she was—her true form, ghoul-like, terrifying. But she didn’t attack. She healed me. Nursed me back to health. And in that moment… I felt something I shouldn’t have.”

  He paused, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the sword.

  “Your mother wasn’t like other women. She was strong. Fierce. And she had a power I couldn’t understand. The Church called her a demon. The villagers called her a curse. But to me… she was everything.”

  “What happened to her?”

  His knuckles whitened around the sword’s hilt. “I convinced her to leave the cave with me. I told her to take human form, to come with me. And like the fool she was, she did.”

  He laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the barn’s shadows.

  “The Church doesn’t tolerate power they can’t control. When they found out what she was, they declared the Downhornes traitors. Gave us a choice: hand her over, or burn with her.”

  My stomach churned. I’d always thought the Downhornes disbanded because they were outdated, not because of… this.

  “Our clan split,” he continued. “Half said I should sacrifice her. ‘For the greater good.’ The other half stood with me. We fought. Brother against brother. Blood soaked these hands long before the Church’s enforcers arrived.”

  “So it’s your fault the Downhornes are no more.”

  He flinched but nodded. “We were losing. So she… she made a choice. She unleashed the power inside her. Tore the Church’s soldiers apart. Saved what was left of us. But she never returned. She was gone. And our clan scattered. Ashamed… because of me.”

  He set the sword down and walked to the far corner of the barn, where a locked chest sat beneath a layer of dust. He opened it and pulled out a blade—simple, unadorned, and utterly ordinary.

  “I’ve seen you train,” he said, his voice softer now. “I never wanted this for you, but you’re a born fighter. So I made you this.”

  He handed me the sword. I turned it over in my hands. It was well-made, sure, but… basic. No engravings, no magic hum, no glowing runes. Just steel and leather.

  “I don’t use a sword,” I said flatly.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be good with it.”

  “I’m good with my fists.”

  “Fists won’t stop a knight in full plate,” he shot back. “Or a mage with a fireball. You think the Church fights fair?”

  I scowled but didn’t argue. The sword felt heavy in my hands like it carried more than just its weight.

  “Now you decide,” he said, his voice firm. “You can hide like I’ve tried to make you do. Or you can embrace what she gave you. But know this—once you step onto this path, there’s no turning back. The Church will come for you. And they won’t stop until you’re dead.”

  “I’ll… think about it.”

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip steady. “Train. Learn. And when the time comes, fight. Not for revenge. Not for glory. For her. For us.”

  He hesitated, then added, “In about a year, you’ll set off to Valdoria. The king needs a protector for his princess, and I think you’d be a good fit.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” he admitted. “But now that you know everything… I think you’re ready.”

  “And the Church? What about them?”

  “If they wanted us dead, they’d have done it by now. They didn’t wait for your mother. But if you stay here, you’ll spend your life shoveling pig shit. Your choice.”

  I stared at the sword, turning it over in my hands. Protect a princess? I’d never even left the village. But the blade, plain as it was, felt like a step toward something bigger.

  “So let me get this straight,” I said, my voice tight. “You’ve been sitting on this ‘honorable mission’ while I’ve been out here breaking my back?”

  His jaw tightened. “The king’s summons came last winter. I ignored it. But now… you’re stronger than I let myself admit. And Valdoria’s court is the one place the Church won’t dare strike openly.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Why? Because they’re scared of a crown?”

  “Because the king has his own mages. Because the princess isn’t just a girl—she’s a symbol. And symbols are guarded.”

  I swung the sword experimentally. It felt awkward in my hands, but the weight was balanced.

  “You think sticking me in a palace will stop the Church? They marked our barn. They’ll mark me.”

  He stepped closer, his hand gripping my shoulder. “You’ll have allies. Resources. Here, you’re a target. There, you’re a shield. And shields… they survive.”

  “Like you did?” I snapped, yanking free.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I survived because of her. You’ll survive because of you. To the Church, you’re a weapon. To Valdoria, you’re a knight. Choose the lie that keeps you alive.”

  The barn door creaked open, moonlight slicing through the dark. I stared at the sword. A year.

  “What’s the princess like?”

  His smile was grim. “I heard she’s a looker.”

  …

  The days blurred into weeks, and the sword remained a dead weight in my hands - a clumsy, foreign thing that hung at my side like a guilty conscience.

  In the fields, my fists found their purpose. I crushed overripe apples one-handed, their sweet juice running between my fingers as the pulp yielded effortlessly. When the old plow horse kicked its stall, a single thump between its ears settled it faster than any bridle. Even splitting firewood became a game of knuckles versus grain - the satisfying crack of oak giving way under a well-placed strike.

  "Again," Father said at dusk, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

  The training sword felt like a betrayal in my grip. I swung, and the blade clattered against the dummy like a drunkard's footsteps.

  "You're holding it wrong." Father's calloused hands adjusted mine, his fingers pressing my knuckles flat against the leather. "Your stance is too wide. You're not a brawler, Clancy. You're a swordsman."

  I wiped sweat from my brow, tasting salt and remembering the crisp snap of apple skin bursting under pressure. "I don't feel like a swordsman."

  Father sighed, the lines around his eyes deepening. "You'll get there. It just takes time."

  But time was a luxury I didn't have. The summons to Valdoria loomed, and while my fists knew their language - direct, honest, brutal - this length of steel remained a stranger.

  When Father finally dismissed me, I walked the long way home. Past the orchard where my handprints still darkened the bark of the old cider apple tree. Past the blacksmith's where I'd once, in a moment of frustration, bent a horseshoe back into shape between my palms.

  The sword at my hip bumped against my thigh with every step - a persistent, unwelcome reminder of the fighter I wasn't, and the one I'd have to become.

  I set off on a jog through the village, hoping the rhythm of my footsteps would clear my head. But something felt off. The streets were quiet. No church ramblings echoed through the square, no children laughed or played in the dirt. It was as if the village itself had gone silent, holding its breath.

  As I rounded the corner near the river, I saw him—Edward Iceborne, hunched over the water, muttering spells like a madman. His robes were singed, his hands blistered and raw.

  “You!” he snarled, lobbing a feeble fireball at my feet. It fizzled into smoke. “Come to laugh? To sneer at the failure?”

  “The hell’s your deal, bro?” I asked, crossing my arms.

  He ripped off a glove, revealing cracked, blistered skin. “Look at this! Fire eats. It doesn’t care about lineage or discipline—it’s a rabid dog. And I… I fed it my birthright.”

  “Sucks to be you,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t care about your little problem. Thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”

  “You ignorant swine,” he spat.

  “Well, screw you too,” I shot back, turning to leave.

  “Wait!” he called, desperation creeping into his voice. “The Cairn—it’s a crucible of raw magic. I can rebuild what I’ve lost there. And you… you might finally understand something about your mother’s power.”

  I paused, my curiosity piqued despite myself. “And you just want me to help you? Sure, bud.”

  “You think you don’t need magic?” he sneered. “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed the eyes on you. The summons to Valdoria? Every knight and wizard wants that spot. They’ll kill you for it.”

  I clenched my fists, the weight of his words settling heavily on my shoulders. “So, what? You’re offering to help me out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “I’m offering a trade,” he said. “Help me navigate the Cairn, and I’ll translate its secrets. You might learn something useful.”

  I hesitated. Magic could be useful. And if what he said was true about the competition…

  “Fine,” I said. “But I better get what I’m owed.”

  Edward smirked. “Good. How reassuring. Dawn tomorrow. Bring your father’s sword—if you can lift it.”

  “..." I couldn’t say anything after that but he was already walking away.

  The next morning, I found Edward at the village’s edge, clutching a charred spellbook and a pouch of ash-colored herbs.

  “You’re late,” he said, not looking up.

  “Shut your ass up,” I shot back. “You’re the one needing my help, remember?”

  Edward sniffed. “Charming. Try not to faint when the Cairn’s shadows start singing.”

  And with that, we started walking toward the Cairn. It was a long walk, and I hoped I’d get what I needed out of this mess.

  We walked in hostile silence. The forest died as we walked. No birds. No wind. Just the crunch of dead leaves and Edward’s spells fizzling into smoke.

  "Give it up," I said. "Your fire’s gone."

  He whirled, eyes wild. "You think I wanted this? To watch my family’s legacy crumble because I dared want more?"

  I shrugged. "Should’ve stuck to ice."

  His laugh was razorblade. "Spoken like a man who’s never hungered."

  He shoved me out of the way. The fuck is his problem?

  I shoved him back, moving in front of him. “Touch me again, and I’ll fuck you up. I’m sick of your shit, Iceborne. Why do you hate me so much?”

  Edward stopped abruptly, his voice icy. “I don’t hate you. I despise what you represent. A farm boy with no understanding of the world, stumbling into power he doesn’t deserve. You’re special because of your mother’s blood, but you don’t use it. You’re a curse with no meaning. A walking reminder of everything the Church fears—and I see you waste what you could do, training with no end goal, just for the thrill of it.”

  I stepped closer, fists clenched. “Oh, I’m the curse? You’re the one who burned through your own magic because you couldn’t handle being an Iceborne. Don’t blame me for your screw-ups.”

  Edward laughed bitterly. “You think I wanted this? To be a failure? To watch my family’s legacy crumble because I dared to dream of something more? Fire was supposed to be freedom. I thought long and hard about it until I realized it would burn through me—that I couldn’t handle the heat. Tell me, why are you going to protect the princess? Do you know her? Are you trying to restore your family’s clan, like the rest of the knights here? Or is it for fame and glory? Or maybe you’re just doing it because you have nothing better to do. If I had what you had, I wouldn’t waste it like you. I would do so much more—more than you could ever think of. I would be the best.”

  I paused, my anger flickering. “Yeah, well… maybe you should’ve stuck to what you were good at. Like I do.”

  Edward sneered. “Stick to what I’m good at? That’s rich, coming from a boy who swings his sword like a wild dog. Do you think brute force will save you when the Church comes knocking? When the other knights and wizards at Valdoria see you as nothing but a threat?”

  I glared. “I don’t need magic to handle myself. And I don’t need your lectures.”

  Edward leaned in, his voice low. “You’re wrong. You need everything. That’s why you came with me, isn’t it? They’ll tear you apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left. And when they do, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

  I shoved him back. “I don’t need to listen to a washed-up wizard who can’t even cast a proper spell. You’re just mad because you’re useless without me.”

  Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Useless? Perhaps. But at least I’m not blind. You think the Cairn is just a pit of magic? It’s a trap. The Church uses it to lure in fools like you—and like me. But if we’re clever, we can turn it against them.”

  I snorted. “Clever? You? That’s a first.”

  Edward ignored the jab. “The Cairn’s magic is raw. Unfiltered. If I can siphon even a fraction of it, I can rebuild what I’ve lost. And you? You might finally understand something.”

  I paused, my curiosity piqued despite myself. “Something?”

  Edward smirked faintly. “It means you’re more than a farm boy. You have something in your blood, Downhorne. And if you’re too stubborn to see that, you’ll die ignorant.”

  I glared. “I’m not ignorant. I just don’t need some pompous wizard to tell me who I am.”

  Edward shrugged. “Believe what you want. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Sure, bud.”

  As we approached the Cairn, the ground began to crack and crumble beneath our feet. The air grew colder, thicker, and harder to breathe.

  Edward stopped suddenly, his voice low. “Do you hear that?”

  I paused, listening. “Hear what?”

  Before Edward could answer, the ground erupted. Skeletal hands clawed their way to the surface, followed by hollow-eyed skulls and rusted armor. Dozens of skeletons rose from the earth, their movements jerky but deliberate. At the center of the ruins stood a figure cloaked in tattered robes, their face obscured by a hood. It raised a gnarled staff, and the skeletons lurched forward, weapons in hand.

  “The fuck? There are skeletons in this world?” I muttered.

  “This world? There’ve always been skeletons. This is no time for jokes, Downhorne,” Edward snapped.

  “Alright, alright. Skeletons shouldn’t be that hard of a fight.”

  The skeletons came in waves, their hollow eyes burning with unnatural light. My father's sword felt like a stranger's hand in mine - all wrong angles and hesitation. The blade clattered against a ribcage, sending shockwaves up my arms that made my teeth rattle.

  "Stop flailing like a tavern drunk!" Edward's voice cut through the chaos. "That steel's not a club!"

  I barely dodged a scimitar swing. The wind of its passage stirred my hair. "Then why does it hit like one?" I spat, wiping sweat from my eyes. The sword's grip was slick now - with my blood, not theirs. The damned thing had given me blisters through my calluses.

  Dark energy crackled as the necromancer's staff flared. I threw myself sideways, feeling the spell sear the air where my head had been. The stench of burnt hair filled my nostrils.

  "íss brotna!" Edward's voice cracked like thin ice.

  A frost spike impaled two skeletons mid-lunge. Edward collapsed to one knee, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood dripped from his nose onto the charred pages of his spellbook.

  The sword grew heavier with every parry. My shoulders screamed. This wasn't fighting - this was drowning in dry bone. When the next skeletal blade came, mine moved too slow -

  Clang.

  The impact numbed my fingers. The sword spun away, landing point-down in the dirt, vibrating like a struck bell.

  The skeletons paused. Almost...smug.

  "Fuck you," I breathed. "And fuck this sword."

  I rolled my shoulders, letting fifteen years of muscle memory take over. The first punch shattered a skull like rotten fruit. Bone shards stung my cheeks.

  That's when I felt it - the wind answering my exhale, carrying the next strike faster than my muscles could.

  Was this what magic felt like

  I slipped into my stance and dropped the sword, feet light, hands up. The first skeleton swung it's sword at me, and I ducked under its blade, driving a fist into its ribcage. Bones shattered, and the creature collapsed.

  The wind picked up around me, though I didn’t know why. I moved quicker, fists a blur, bones scattering with each blow. But every strike was painful.

  The first punch landed hard, shattering a skeleton’s ribcage. The impact sent a jolt of pain shooting through my knuckles, the skin splitting against the jagged edges of bone. I gritted my teeth, shaking off the sting, and swung again.

  The second blow connected with a skull, the brittle bone cracking under the force. My hand screamed in protest, the raw flesh of my knuckles grinding against the rough surface. Blood trickled down my fingers, warm and sticky, but I didn’t stop.

  The third strike was a hook to a skeleton’s jaw. The pain was sharper this time, like fire racing up my arm. I could feel the skin tearing further, the bones in my hand protesting with every movement. But the skeletons kept coming, and I couldn’t afford to slow down.

  Each punch was a piece of my skin, a fragment of my strength, for another enemy down. My hands were a mess, the knuckles raw and bleeding, the skin hanging in tatters. But the skeletons couldn’t touch me.

  I ducked under a rusted blade, driving my fist into a skeleton’s spine. The impact sent a fresh wave of pain through my hand, but the creature crumpled to the ground. I spun, catching another skeleton with a backhand that left my palm stinging and slick with blood.

  The wind howled around me, carrying the sound of cracking bones and my ragged breaths. My hands were on fire, But I couldn’t stop.

  The necromancer raised their staff, but I was already moving. I closed the distance in seconds, ignoring the screaming pain in my hands. A sharp jab to their ribs sent them staggering back, and I followed up with a quick hook to their jaw. The hood fell back, revealing a face twisted with rage—and fear.

  “Duskweaver filth!” the necromancer hissed. “The Church will purge you just like your mother!”

  I didn’t hesitate. I stepped in close, driving a brutal uppercut into their stomach. The necromancer doubled over, and I finished them with a devastating hook to the side of their head. They collapsed.

  The wind died down. The ruins were silent.

  I stood there, breathing heavily, my hands trembling. The pain was overwhelming now, my knuckles a bloody mess, the skin torn and raw. But the skeletons were gone.

  Edward stared at me, his voice barely a whisper. “Interesting. I… I’ve never seen wind magic used like that.”

  “Wind magic?” I asked, panting.

  “Yeah. You used it to enhance your movements. You were like the wind. You were the wind.” Edward got up, brushing himself off. “Don’t get cocky. That was raw instinct. And we still have him to deal with.” He gestured to the necromancer’s crumpled form.

  The necromancers lay crumpled on the ground, their staff broken, their hood fallen back to reveal a face twisted with pain and fear. They weren’t moving much, but their chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. Their one good eye—the other hidden behind a patch—darted between Edward and me, wide with terror.

  Edward stepped forward, his expression cold and unreadable. He raised his hand, and a small flame flickered to life on his thumb, glowing faintly in the dim light of the Cairn.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice sharp.

  Edward didn’t look at me. “Finishing this. He’s a necromancer, Downhorn. A servant of the Church. If we leave him alive, he’ll come after us. Or worse, he’ll report back to them.”

  I stepped between Edward and the necromancer, my fists clenched. “He’s beaten. He’s not a threat anymore. We don’t need to kill him.”

  Edward’s eyes flicked to mine, his voice icy. “You’re naive. This isn’t a sparring match, Downhorne. This is survival. If you want to live, you need to stop hesitating. If he lives we die and our families then everyone we know and love”

  “I’m not hesitating,” I snapped. “I’m not a murderer.”

  Edward’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “No, you’re just a farmboy playing at being a knight. But this isn’t your village, and these aren’t your rules. Out here, mercy gets you killed.”

  I glared at him, my jaw tight. “We’re not killing him. End of discussion.”

  Edward sighed as if I were a child throwing a tantrum. “Fine. Have it your way.”

  For a moment, I thought he’d backed down. But then he moved—fast. He crouched beside the necromancer, his flame-covered thumb hovering inches from the man’s face.

  The necromancer’s eye widened in panic. “No—no, please! I’ll tell you anything! I’ll leave, I’ll never come back! Just—just don’t—”

  Edward didn’t hesitate. He pressed his flaming thumb into the necromancer’s eye.

  The necromancer screamed—a raw, guttural sound that echoed through the ruins. His body thrashed, but Edward held him down with his other hand, his expression cold and detached. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and nauseating. The necromancer’s screams turned into choked sobs, his hands clawing at Edward’s arm, but it was no use.

  “Stop!” I shouted, lunging forward. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

  Edward didn’t look at me. He kept his thumb pressed into the necromancer’s eye socket, the flame sizzling as it burned through flesh and bone. The necromancer’s screams grew weaker, his body convulsing, until finally, he went still.

  Edward stood, brushing his hands off as if he’d just finished a mundane chore. The flame on his thumb flickered and died, leaving behind a faint wisp of smoke. He turned to me, his expression unreadable.

  I stared at him, my stomach churning. The necromancer’s face was a ruin—his eye socket charred and blackened, the skin around it blistered and cracked. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, his body limp and lifeless.

  “You…” My voice shook. “You didn’t have to do that. He was defenseless. He was begging for mercy.”

  Edward met my gaze, his eyes cold and unyielding. “Mercy is a luxury we can’t afford. The Church doesn’t show mercy. Why should we?”

  I took a step toward him, my fists trembling. “You’re a monster.”

  Edward smirked, but there was no humor in it. “And you’re a fool. But at least I’m alive. Let’s see how long that lasts for you.”

  He started walking, leaving me standing there in the ruins, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on me. The necromancer’s body lay at my feet, his face frozen in a mask of agony. I felt sick. This wasn’t what I signed up for.

  I took one last look at the necromancer’s body, then turned and left Edward trying to forget what I saw.