Chapter 4: A Devil Amongst Men
The mountain remained still. The laughter had come unexpectedly. Even after it had faded, some villagers clutched their clothes with fear in their eyes. Flora stood, as she always had, but her eyes held something unspoken. Collins' face stayed as stoic as ever. Not even the broken laughter of a child could move him.
Leon's voice finally resurfaced.
"Please... just answer me. I deserve to know. That's all I'm asking." He was weary of pleading. Now he simply wanted answers.
But Collins stared at him the way a man stares at rain—present, but untouched. The villagers knelt a few meters away, their hands clasped in prayer as he was about to be killed.
Geralt walked toward them with a dagger in hand, but stopped as he passed Collins. "Your Grace." He bowed. "Thank you for granting me the honour of ridding this stain from my forefathers' line and village."
Collins regarded him with a lazy wave of his hand—as if shooing a fly.
Geralt turned toward the altar. Toward Leon. The dagger caught the light from the dome above—clean, sharp, meant for this.
Leon stopped speaking.
He just watched his father approach. The same hands that had once held him now gripped a blade meant for his heart. The same eyes that had watched him take his first steps now looked through him like he was already meat.
Leon's eyes no longer saw him as such. To him, Geralt was just another person. To him, his father was dead.
"Be done with it, bastard," Leon said. Already accepting his fate.
Geralt's hand closed around Leon's throat.
Not hard enough to choke. Just enough to hold. To feel. To make sure he was real before he stopped being real.
"You were never my son," Geralt whispered. "You were a mistake I carried for thirteen years."
The blade pressed against Leon's chest. Cold. Pointed. Right over the heart.
Geralt leaned close. His breath smelled of ale and something sour. "Your mother cried when you were born. Did you know that? Not from pain. From horror. She looked at you and knew. And then she killed herself so that you could live." His voice broke—not with sorrow, with rage. "You owe me this, boy."
Leon couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The blade—
Geralt pulled back. Raised the dagger high. The villagers chanted in a low, rhythmic tone. Flora watched with hungry eyes. Collins observed like a man watching cattle be slaughtered.
The dagger came down.
Shink.
Blood sprayed.
I pray you all suffer and burn in hell. The final thoughts drifted through his mind as his consciousness slipped into the cold embrace of death.
But as he drew his final breath, he cast one final glance at Collins. At the man who held the answers he so desperately needed. And for a split moment, he saw his mouth move.
I'll be waiting.
The words registered.
Then his heart stopped. And his breath ceased.
....
Seven days passed.
Some villagers had rejoiced at the death of the 'devil spawn.' Others stood with downcast expressions—they had just sacrificed a child for their own well-being. After thanking Lord Collins, they descended the mountain, leaving Collins, Flora, and the body on the altar at its peak.
"My Grace. It is time."
"Yes, Flora," Collins replied, his eyes still fixed on the body. He sucked in cold breath as he moved towards it.
As he reached it, he began to chant in a different tongue. Sigils on the altar began to glow with fierce light. He stretched out his hand and drew a cut across his palm.
His blood dripped into Leon's mouth. With his blood, he drew signs all over the body. When he was done, he took a couple of steps back, the cut on his palm already closed, towards Flora-- who stood with a cloth in her hand.
Collins wiped his hands and returned the cloth to Flora. "What now, your Grace?" She asked.
"Now. Now we wait." Collins replied. But his voice held doubt. For even he wasn't completely sure as to what would happen.
And Flora caught onto the doubt. She had served at his side for times long forgotten. But this was the first time her master had ever held doubt in his power.
Could I be wrong? Is he not the one? Collins thought. It's been seven days since his death. Shouldn't the signs be showing by now?
He had spent years reading, researching, and preparing for this. Lord Collins was a man who did many things, but placing a bet on a losing horse was not one of them. Either the horse won, or the other horses lost.
And he'd be damned if this boy was the one who broke his streak.
As if in answer to his silent prayer, a sharp crack of snapping bones drew their attention to the altar.
The decayed body had begun to shift.
Its dried, cold skin regained warmth and colour. Its sunken, hollow eyes—once devoid of life—slowly formed black irises. The process took little more than an hour as the body healed itself.
When it concluded, a strange silence settled over the mountain. A silence that screamed something big was about to happen.
And it did.
A strangled gasp filled the air as a boy—thought to be dead—came back to life.
A devil—thought to be erased—awoke to bring destruction to the land of the living.
"And so it begins," Collins said, a sinister and eerie smile spreading across his face.