The dead weight of midnight smothers the hillside, where a pale, fractured moon cuts long, skeletal shadows over the stone markers of the graveyard.
Two men drive iron spades into the fresh earth, their breath rising in heavy plumes against the wind. One holds a flickering oil lantern; the other drags a stiff, grey arm from the loose dirt, heaving the weight into a creaking wooden cart.
Seven corpses already lie piled inside the cart, tangled in linen shrouds.
"I'm freezing," the man with the spade mutters, wiping mud from his brow.
"Let's load the last one and go. That crazy bastard Viktor doesn't care if the cold kills us, so long as he gets his corpses."
They haul the heavy cart down the rocky path, away from the graves and toward the jagged silhouette of an abandoned castle overlooking the cliff.
Inside the stone gates, they wheel the cart down a drafty corridor and dump the stiff corpses into a vaulted storage room.
Huge blocks of river ice line the walls, yet the air carries a thick stench of rot.
From the stone levels beneath their feet, a high, ragged scream echoes through the floorboards.
The lantern-bearer shivers, setting the light down on a crate. "He's at it again. I wonder how many graves we have to empty before that bastard's greed is full."
Down in the subterranean theater, iron rings bolt Luan to a heavy stone table.
Viktor stands over him, a rusted scalpel clenched in his fist. A sharp, erratic laugh tears from the doctor's throat as he clutches his own temples, his fingers digging into his hair.
"Why won't the flesh of the corpses bind?Why does it turn to ash?" Viktor drives the blade deep into Luan's shoulder.
Around the room, previous subjects lie in liquefied heaps along the drainage gutters, their decomposition accelerated by luan's cursed blood.
Viktor rips the knife free, plunging it back into Luan's chest with a wet, rhythmic strike. The blade hits bone. He shoves Luan back against the stone, his breath coming in ragged, jagged gasps.
"Your fault," Viktor wheezes, his voice trembling with a cocktail of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated hatred.
He wipes a smear of black, volatile blood from his cheek with the back of a shaking hand.
"All your fault, you colorful freak. The synthesis is failing. The cells are rejecting the infusion. I keep failing because of your stubborn, impossible blood."
Luan does not scream. His head lolls to the side, a thick, dark clot of blood escaping his lips to stain the table. He stares at the ceiling, his eyes vacant and dark, completely detached from the wreckage of his own chest.
Viktor stares at the liquefying remains of his previous subjects piled in the drainage gutters.
The sight of his own failure—the mountain of grey, necrotic waste—seems to snap something inside him.
His face distorts, the skin pulling tight over his skull as rage overtakes his desperation.
He drops his weight into a violent punch against Luan's jaw. The sound of cracking cartilage echoes against the damp stone.
He stands there, panting, staring at the motionless creature on the table. The silence of the laboratory is heavy, oppressive. He needs a release. He needs to feel in control of the monster he cannot break.
Viktor's manic expression settles into a cruel, hollow grin. He wipes his bloody knuckles on his apron and leans down, his voice dropping to a treacherous, rhythmic whisper.
"If you won't give me the secrets," Viktor says, his eyes glinting with a predatory light, "then you'll give me the only thing you have left to offer. You want to suffer in silence freak? Fine. But I think it's time you earned your keep."
He draws a slow, deliberate line down the center of Luan's healing chest with the tip of his scalpel. "Hurting you doesn't seem to work anymore I'm getting bored of tearing you apart again and again. How about we try something new?
Luan turns his face toward the damp masonry, his eyes vacant and dark.
Viktor claps his wet hands twice. The heavy door groans open, and two guards drags a pale trembling young boy into the light, iron shackles chafing his ankles.
The guards forces young boy into a wooden chair, pinning his small, dirt-caked hands flat to the table.
Viktor grins, the skin around his eyes crinkling.
"No jests? No riddles? Then the little bird loses a feather. If you speak one normal word to me, freak—if you don't make me laugh—the knife drops."
The heavy blade falls.
A wet *thwack* echoes through the vault as the boy's finger rolls across the wood.
A muffled, agonizing wail rises before a guard slams a leather-gloved hand over the boy's mouth.
Viktor unbolts Luan, stepping back. "Entertain me."
Luan forces his lips into a wide, theatrical smile. He steps onto the wet stone, his limbs moving in a jerky, stylized waltz, his eyes locked on the bleeding child.
"Humans, humans everywhere I roam and stare,
Yet humanity itself is strangely rare.
I searched the streets, the courts, the shrine—A crowd of humans, but not a soul divine."
Viktor sinks into a chair, a breathless chuckle escaping his lips as Luan leaps onto a side table, his long fingers manipulating a deck of cards with deceptive speed.
Luan catches the boy's tear-filled gaze, his voice dropping into a soft, rhythmic cadence.
"Be strong, your sun will rise one day,
And chase the darkest clouds away.
All suffering shall come undone,
And freedom greet you with the sun."
Viktor's smile vanishes. He rises from his chair, delivers a backhand to the boy's face, and reaches for the knife. "Boring. It's not fun anymore."
The steel bites down again, severing a second finger.
Luan lunges. His fingers claw the air toward Viktor's throat, but mid-stride, an invisible weight slams into his chest.
The ancient geas binding his soul twists like iron; he cannot harm a living soul.
The force hurls him backward into the stone wall. The distinct, wet snap of fracturing ribs echoes through the room as he hits the floor.
Luan coughs up a fresh wave of blood, his breath rattling in his broken chest. He forces himself to his knees, his voice rising in verse through the pain.
"Release the child, O beast of night,
Turn your wrath upon my life.
Torment me till the ages cease,
But grant that innocent soul release."
Viktor strides over, grabbing Luan by the chin and lifting him till their noses touch. He draws the tip of his scalpel from the corner of Luan's mouth straight to his earlobe, splitting the flesh down to the jaw.
"Look at you. So obedient," Viktor whispers, his breath hot against the ruin of Luan's face. "You care so much for that little piece of shit that you only speak in riddles now. I love it. If I hear you scream or talk normally even just once, the boy dies."
Luan laughs, the sound thick with blood as the skin along his ribs begins to knit and pull back together.
"You got your wish, O monster cruel,
Now spare the child and break your rule.
Let the innocent go free from pain,
And I'll be your plaything, bound by chain."
Viktor waves a hand dismissively. The guards drag the sobbing boy out into the dark hallway.
Viktor forces Luan back onto the table, pinning his limbs under heavy iron bars. He drives the scalpel deep into the column of Luan's throat, pinning the tissue to stall the regeneration.
"Your healing gets in the way," Viktor mutters, reaching for a dark glass vial of crushed ivy poison. "Die for an hour so I can look at the liver."
He pours the black fluid down Luan's open throat. Luan's body spasms, every nerve igniting with fire, but his jaw locks shut. He swallows the agony, his eyes rolling back into his head as the shadow takes his vision.
One final, silent breath slips past his teeth.
"Elsbeth."
A sharp, violent gasp shatters the silence of the house.
Elsbeth bolts upright on the mattress, her fingers clawing at her own collarbone. Her face is slick with sweat, and tears are already tracking through the old paint on her cheeks.
Downstairs, the frantic rattle of her bare feet on the steps jolts Henry and Grace from their light doze by the hearth.
Leonard stands by the door, his hand instantly falling to his sword hilt. Elsbeth's eyes wide and unseeing as she heads straight for the exit.
Leonard steps into her path, his massive hands closing over her shoulders to anchor her. "My lady, stop! What happened? Are you alright?"
Elsbeth twists violently, shoving against his chest with a strength born of pure panic. She flings the door open and breaks into the night.
Budsle is gone, swallowed by a dense, milky fog that clings to the earth like wool, reducing the houses to grey shapes. Leonard, Henry, and Grace sprint into the mire after her.
Leonard pulls up short at the boundary line where the mud path dissolves into the black treeline of the forest. He stays there, his chest heaving.
Henry catches up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "What happened? Why aren't we moving?"
"The loop," Leonard says, his eyes fixed on the grey brush. "She will be back."
Within seconds, the thick briars part twenty feet to their left. Elsbeth stumbles blindly out of the tangle of thorns, her bare feet bleeding from the rocks as she collapses into the red mud.
She digs her fingernails into her scalp, pulling at her hair as her frame shudders.
"He is suffering... he is suffering..."
Leonard takes three slow steps into the grass, kneeling before her. "What did you see, My lady?"
The princess's head snaps up. Her hand flies out, striking Leonard across the cheek with a sharp, echoing crack.
Henry tenses but Grace catches him by the elbow, pulling him back with a firm shake of her head.
Elsbeth's fingers bunch into the damp wool of Leonard's collar, dragging him down until their faces are inches apart. Her eyes are bloodshot, swimming with water.
"You said you would find him!" her voice breaks into a ragged shriek. "He is waiting for me... he is under the stone!We are rotting in this town, stuck in this circle! How can we save Luan when we can't even save ourselves?"
The strength leaves her fingers. Her hands drop into the mire, and she slumps forward, her forehead pressing against the cold earth.
Leonard does not speak.
He reaches down, lifting her small frame into his arms, pulling her head against his chest. He lets her weep, his own jaw tightening as he looks over her shoulder into the fog.
"I'm sorry," Leonard whispers into her hair. "I am so sorry."
Grace steps forward, her boots squelching in the clay. She places a hand on Leonard's shoulder, signaling him to rise.
As he lowers the princess, Grace takes Elsbeth's face between her palms, using her thumbs to wipe away the silver streaks of tears and the remaining greasepaint.
"Look at me," Grace says, her voice low and grounding. "Everything is going to be alright. We will find him. Whatever you saw... it was a nightmare."
"It wasn't a dream," Elsbeth chokes out, her words tumbling over one another like a frightened child's. "It was real. He said my name. He is in so much pain, Grace... he's waiting."
"Then we will move faster," Grace promises, her fingers brushing wet leaves and twigs from the girl's hair. "Lord Azik is already looking for him. The moment we break this loop and leave this town, we contact him. But you have to stay whole until then. Do you understand?"
Elsbeth gives a weak, shivering nod. Grace takes her by the hand, guiding her barefoot steps back toward the dim yellow light of the house window.
Henry steps up beside Leonard, his hand pressing firmly Leonard's shoulder. "Are you alright, sir?"
Leonard turns his head away, using the thick wool of his cloak to wipe his face before Henry can see the moisture in his eyes.
He draws a long, cold breath. "Yeah. Everything is fine, Henry. Let's just get back inside."
They walk back toward the porch. Grace and Elsbeth have already crossed the threshold, their shadows moving into the kitchen.
But as Henry reaches the bottom wooden step, his boot freezes mid-air.
He stares at the ground.
Leonard pauses behind him, his brow furrowing. "What is it?"
Henry points a trembling finger at the red clay directly beneath the bottom riser of the porch. "Sir... these aren't our tracks."
Leonard gets the lantern from the front walla and bends low, bringing his lantern down until the yellow light hits the mud.
The impression is massive—two times the width of a human foot, the clay Gouged deep by blunt, heavy claws.
But there is no alternating stride. No left or right. It is a single, linear path of a solitary foot pressed into the mire, as if a massive, one-legged thing had dragged its weight through the dark.
The final print sinks deep beside the wood, where the creature paused, facing the door.
Henry's throat clicks as he swallows.
"It was here," he whispers, his eyes tracking the line back into the fog. "While we were all out... it was standing right here."