He should be dead. He shouldn't have lived.

Part of the basic training they drilled into their newest recruits was analysing their enemy before they faced them. Check their horns. Which House were they from? What was their sorcery? What were their weak points? The two groups that knew the most about Demons were Demons themselves and the Demon Hunter Companies.

The second part of basic training that he personally ensured was carved into the brains of his followers was simple: if they are a Demon of House Wrathius, do not engage alone. If the Demon you face has a Soul Steel blade, do not engage them unless you have ample reinforcements to back you up.

Fighting alone was deadly. Fighting one-on-one was suicide. That was why Demon Hunters had each other's backs, no matter what. And that was why you never, under any circumstances, grappled with a Demon of House Wrathius in possession of a Soul Steel blade.

Either one was deadly in isolation. Together, it might as well have been suicide.

He should be dead. He shouldn't have lived. He didn't deserve to.

His entire body was on fire. Chunks of flesh had been ripped out. His armour was in pieces, and that was the only reason he was still alive. If even one piece had given out too early, or in the wrong spot, then he would've been left a Soulless husk on the stone floor.

He saw it flashing before him. Throwing the Demon into the stone pillars, thrashing him with his chains, cutting, aiming for his heart with both blades. That or his head.

He'd thrown magic at him without restraint, without a fraction of concern for his own supply. Just use more, destroy more, anything to see him dead. Anything.

He'd known something was wrong when the voices, one irritating, the other taunting, had gone silent. Then the sound of battle began echoing down the tunnel. They had picked up their pace and ran straight into a mage retreating from battle. Or rather, fleeing it. He had barely been coherent, but once he was able to get the words out of his mouth, Brakenus had felt his heart threaten to jump out of his throat.

No thoughts, only action. He'd thrown himself down the tunnel with Gravitational Magic, leaving his men to run after him. He just needed to be fast enough; he just needed to get there.

And he'd been too late.

His eyes snapped open, and he drew his blade in a flash. He stabbed straight into the wood in front of him, digging in a few inches before stopping. He blinked away the grime in his eyes.

"You don't waste time, do you?"

An old woman was sitting in a chair a few steps away, eying his blade with bemusement, rather than fear. He took in her unthreatening appearance, her tattooed white skin, and her raised eyebrow all at once.

"Where am I? And who are you?"

"You're in my cottage, if that wasn't obvious, and I'm the woman who stopped you from bleeding out in a bush. I would offer you a hand to shake, but I fear yours is still riding off its adrenaline."

He glanced and saw that she was correct. The hand that had drawn the blade was now shaking, and when he tried to push himself up, he found his other arm was just as unstable. The longer he was awake, the more bodily awareness he felt. Almost every muscle in his upper body was writhing in pain.

"Usually, I'd tell you to wait before trying to stand up again, but your legs were probably the least damaged part of you. Frankly, you're lucky you still have your right arm. It was holding itself together by a string."

"My armour?"

"What's left of it is over there. I suspect it kept a lot of your body together for as long as it could."

She nodded to a corner of the room. As he looked around, he saw that he was indeed in a cramped cottage room of some sort. His armour had been stripped off him, leaving him in his pants and tunic. Even his leather had been stripped away.

"I left your swords on you only because you reacted in your stupor when I tried to remove them."

He ran a hand over his head. He had a splitting headache, he realised. "You found me in the forest? Which forest?"

"You are in the Crynmon Forest. It's been three days since I found you in a pool of your own blood out there."

"You're a healer?"

"In a way, yes. You're lucky to be alive."

He wanted to laugh. "Of course I am. My apologies, I haven't introduced myself. My name-"

"I know who you are, Brakenus Ulvargen, General of the Degormanus."

His eyes narrowed. "You do?"

"You talk in your sleep."

"I-" he paused. "Pardon?"

She pointed at him. "You talk in your sleep. Actually, it would be more accurate to say you shout in your sleep. It's woken the birds up more than once, and I began to worry you would attract carnivores if you kept it up."

"I'm… sorry about that." No one's ever told me I shout in my sleep. I camp within earshot; surely someone would have mentioned it. "What was I saying?"

"I think you were trying to drill me into being one of your little clay soldiers." She sniffed loudly, showing how much she cared for that. "I now find myself well-educated on how to analyse and kill a Demon on sight."

"Well, at least it was informative." He rubbed his head again, then found that his mouth was dry. As if on cue, the old lady reached forward and handed him a cup.

He began drinking from it immediately. "Thank you, miss…?"

"Hyacinthia. Yulia Hyacinthia. Witch of the Glen."

It was a sign of his age that he didn't spit out or even choke on the water. Instead, he calmly lowered it and placed it beside the bed he was in. A rather comfortable bed, actually, and as a General, he was afforded a certain luxury to begin with, albeit only the affordable kind.

"A witch. I should have realised it sooner. Even a healer would have trouble putting that much of me back together, and in three days no less."

"The healing process took me hours. The days spent asleep were you and your body trying to make up for all the lost energy." She covered a yawn with her hand. "I must say, when the hand of fate leads me to wander the woods, I didn't expect the person I'd find to be another feeling the weight of age. If you don't mind me saying, you're a lot older than your reputation implies."

He sat up straighter. "Fate? What do you mean by that? What led you into the woods to find me?"

"Now hold your horses, that's a lot of questions for a poor old woman." She waved him away.

"I'm not a fool, I know that witches practice an art that many consider outlandish. There is nothing poor or old about you."

"I'm almost seventy, I'll have you know."

"And yet you don't look a day over fifty and carried me out of the woods by yourself." He cleared his throat, "I am General Brakenus of the Degormanus, and I request that you inform me of everything regarding how you found me, where I am, and any other encounters you've had in the area."

She went still for a moment, then took a step forward and slapped the top of his head.

"Ow! What on Andwelm, woman?" His headache immediately went into overdrive, and he reached out instinctively with his arm, which made his muscles squirm and ache as well.

"And I am Yulia Hyacinthia, owner of the bed you're sleeping in, and I request you go back to being unconscious. Your shouting was at least intermittent."

It was several minutes before his head stopped ringing, and he was able to say anything that wasn't muttered curses. When he did, the witch re-entered the room, carrying a tray of cold soup and cut-up vegetables for him.

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are, your body just taking its sweet time realising it."

As if on cue, his stomach began to grumble. Unwilling to admit that she was right, but also unable to hide his cravings, he began consuming the meal with vigour.

"If I have to take in another batch of hungry visitors this week, I might well run out of food entirely."

His head snapped up. "You've had others here? Recently?"

She nodded. "A young man and a Demon, both barely holding themselves together, neither even realising it."

He tried to rise again, and his hands went for his blades.

"A Demon. Was it female? Where did they go?"

She practically forced him back down, and it dawned on him how much of his strength he was lacking, because despite her age, she didn't even have to try very hard.

"You won't even make it past the doorway. And besides, it wouldn't matter. Both of them are long gone by now. I led them to the road right before I found you. Three days ago."

He glared at her. "What in the blazes would compel you to do that? Aiding a Demon? Aiding the very scourge that threatens to descend on these lands? You're lucky it didn't kill you."

"That 'it' is a she, and she was somehow a better visitor than you are." Once she'd made sure he wasn't going to be trying to get up again, she settled back into her chair and stared at him, her eyes clearly trying to pierce through him. "There wasn't just Human blood when I found you. I found patches of blue over you as well. So tell me, General, how you ended up there in the first place, and maybe I won't find a spoon to hit you over the head with."

At the mention of the blood, it all came rushing back to him. Slamming the Demon to the ground. Seeing, out of the corner of his eye, Danadrian and the female running towards the centre of the room. Then, magic. The power of the Void manifesting around them. Throwing himself with all his might at the Demon and its blade. And then-

Falling. Falling and rising. Weightlessness, right before weight returned, and I hit the ground. I remember stumbling around, looking for the Demons, before… darkness.

The anger burning in his core, the rage, began to reignite. Reignite as he saw Keleiva's body amidst the rubble. The rage met guilt and grief in a torrent. How could he ever forget? How could he ever deserve to forget? Not until the Demon was dead. Not until they were all dead.

"She was my brother's daughter… she was the last part of him I had." And now she was gone as well, and he was alone.

Retelling the events that had led him into those god-forsaken ruins was hard, harder still to hide the elements that didn't need to be said. Such as the voice and the Dark presence that had led him down the correct tunnels. Given her previous admission to aiding the female, he expected to look into her eyes and see cold judgment and condemnation. He had seen that before, in the faces of foreigners who didn't understand, who were either too far away or too ignorant to grasp what was at stake. And from those who found pity in the Demon's plight.

Instead, the witch simply sat and stared at him. He couldn't read anything behind those eyes, except when he told her how his niece had died.

"Soul Steel. A curse, a bane on whichever god orchestrated its creation. There will be no afterlife for her, no eternal rest or triumph in the halls of the dead. She will not see the True Chaos come to pass, as she so wished. She will reside in that accursed blade until the end of time, along with all the other innocent lives it has snuffed out."

When he looked up and into her eyes, he saw a fraction of his own anger reflected, though more as a tempered disapproval. "It is a tool through which great evil can be done. You curse the blade, when I would instead curse the wielder."

"A curse on the wielder would be too kind a fate. It deserves death. It deserves pain."

"He," she corrected. "To call him an 'it' robs him of his person. It was not an object nor a creature that ended your niece's life, but a man. A man."

His chest was burning with rage. He wanted to be out there; he wanted to find him. Damn his body, damn the consequences. He'd had him right, there.

Yulia cut him off before he could do anything, as if she could read his thoughts. He hoped she couldn't. "If you try and look for him now, you will die. Even if you survived long enough to find him, snuffing out your life as it currently is would be trivial."

"I had him. I watched him slip out of my fingers," he muttered.

"How did you end up topside anyway? By the sounds of it, you should have been a hundred metres beneath my feet."

"Void Magic, a teleportation spell. I remember…" He pinched his temples, trying to remember what he'd seen out the corner of his eye, whilst his focus had been solely on the Demon in front of him. "It misfired, either that or the Soul Steel caused a malfunction. We should have all been sent to the same place. The Demons. Danadrian. Me."

He heard her mutter quietly to herself, "Northern Magic. The Zhao Torag… huh, it seems I did not need you alone to intrigue me, dear boy."

His head snapped up. "You spoke to them, didn't you? If there's anyone who knows where he is, its that damn Demon woman. It must be his sister, a relation of his; they were together. If I can find them-"

"The two of them were alone." She raised a hand to cut him off. "And before you ask, yes, I am sure. Witches are quite thorough when it comes to these matters. And by the sounds of your own story, they hardly seem friendly. Were they not, by your own admission, at the end of each other's blades when you found them?"

"I-" What she said was true, but he didn't want to entertain it. "They're all the same, Demons. Every last one of them wants nothing more than to see Human blood spilt, to see the last of my race fall." He laughed ruefully, "They wouldn't even need to do anything, just wait us out." He laughed again, though it was growing softer.

"Hm." Yulia rose from her chair. "It would seem that you have expended all your energy. Rest, Demon Hunter General. There are no Demons left here for you to kill."

She turned away as his vision darkened, and he slipped back into slumber, heart still beating with red-hot fire.

. . .

His heart wasn't the only part of his body that felt like it was alight with fire. He vaguely remembered waking up and feeling like his entire body was on fire. His clothes would be sticking to him, and the bed transformed into a pool of sweat. Through those moments, the only thing he could recall was wet clothes being placed over his head, and the low murmurs of someone speaking, but he couldn't understand what it was they said.

When he finally regained consciousness again, he didn't know how much time had passed, only that it was getting darker outside, and he was able to move his arms without them feeling ready to snap off. His swords were placed on the bedside table beside him, alongside a cup of water.

He took it and slipped off the bed. Thankfully, his legs didn't collapse beneath him, and he was able to slowly move towards the door. It opened into a larger room, by cottage standards, filled with every manner of objects and greenery that a witch would need. Said witch was sitting beside the fireplace, reading a leatherbound book.

She looked up when he walked in. "I see you're on your feet again. It was touch and go for a while there; your body began rejecting my attempts to heal it."

He wandered over to a nearby window and peered out of it. "By your attempts, I assume you mean witchcraft. How is that even possible?"

"Even I don't know. Talradians… your physiology is strange, different, even. I've met others before, and it was always the same."

He turned back to her. "You said you are almost seventy. Were you around during the Destruction?"

She shook her head. "I only returned when the diaspora began. I was abroad before that."

"I remember it like it was yesterday." And he did, as much as part of him wished he couldn't. "The change horrified some and brought others to the brink of madness. Can you imagine what it's like?" He waved a hand in front of his face. "One day, you look like yourself, and a stranger is staring back at you. And that was before the illnesses set in."

She nodded slowly, never taking her eyes off him. "Even witches know of that. Some of us were there, trying to stop the spread."

He chuckled, "You clearly weren't successful enough. Hundreds of survivors died from the simplest of diseases, and neighbouring kingdoms began turning us away, out of fear we would spread it further. I would love to say that it got better as time passed, but the truth is that after a while those most at risk were already dead."

"All because of the Demons?"

"All because of them. Always because of them."

"How long do you intend to keep telling yourself that?"

I knew you wouldn't stay away for long, but that's all you have to say? You knew how it would end for her, didn't you?

"Naturally." "Death is the end of all things." "All mortals eventually enter Teratheer's embrace."

He didn't have time to argue with it.

"How long until I will be fit to leave?"

Yulia tapped her chin. "A day or two, and you could travel, albeit slowly. But I have a feeling that when you mean 'fit to leave', you mean fit to fight. You intend to track down your niece's killer."

"Till the ends of Andwelm and beyond if I must. With my entire Company at my back if I am able."

"I thought as much." She rested the book she was reading on her table again. "Two weeks. By then, you will have returned close enough to your full strength, as long as you eat well and rest often. You lost both blood and flesh aplenty."

Two weeks. That was ten days of waiting.

"And there is no way I could recover faster?"

She shook her head. "You may still have the energy and vigour of youth, but your body is old, Brakenus, a fact that even you would notice. As I've said before, you're lucky to be alive and walking at all. Even if you'd been teleported into the bed of a regular healer, Light or otherwise, they would have left you bedridden for months."

He took a deep breath and found an empty chair. "I can wait two weeks, if you can stomach my company."

"And why on Andwelm wouldn't I be able to?"

He pointed a finger at her. "You consort with and aid Demons." He pointed at himself. "I hunt and kill Demons. In a Demon Hunter's books, you are only one point better than the monsters themselves."

She crossed her arms. "Are you going to kill me then? Report me to your Company?"

"In my current state, I don't think I could even if I tried. I have never done battle with a witch before, and going by your reputations, I would rather I never have to."

"Well said. But I am merely a Witch of the Glen. You'd be in a much worse state if you had been found by, say, a Witch of the Brimstone."

"Are they more formidable in a war than you are?"

She shrugged. "A witch is a witch, but what we do with that power defines who we are. A Witch of the Glen and Witch of the Tides would treat you with similar courtesy, but you might find little forgiveness in a Witch of the Brimstone. For good or ill, their words are always backed by action."

"And yours are not?"

"Ha!" she snorted. "Now there's a refrain I'm used to. I heard it on every set of lips the last time I convened with a coven. Witches and apprentices alike thought I was slow and prone to inaction in my old age. They were all at least half my age at the time."

"The young after often brash and overzealous in their desire for action, but their youth affords them the luxury."

He sighed and looked himself over again. He felt somewhat naked without his armour on, he had grown used to the extra weight and had even begun regularly using Gravitational Magic to lessen the burden on him and let him move as fast as he used to.

"Brash and overzealous. Some words I might ascribe to you, General, and your pursuit of this Demon."

His body stiffened. There went the goodwill.

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

"He murdered her, he killed dozens of my men and women, and you would call my desire to see him pay for it overzealous?"

She sipped from a porcelain cup. "There are many who seek justice, to right the wrongs committed by evil men. That's not what I see in you, General. I see a man who wants revenge and will do anything, hurt anyone, to get it. Even himself."

I would. I will. That's what it means to be a Demon Hunter, to be Talradian now, to put your life on the line in the hopes that you take more of those bastard monsters down with you. The only thing he deserves is death.

"What honours her memory more? Another dead Demon beside her, or you, living, to carry on her memory?"

"There is no more memory to carry on," he spat. "The memory of my people dies with us, dies with me. I will honour her by ending the monster who cut her life short. That is my pledge, a Talradian's pledge, made in blood."

And let every last bone in my body give me the strength to do it, one last time. One more time.

. . .

Two weeks was a long time to stay put. When he was leading the Company of the Degormanus, they rarely stayed in one location for too long unless they had to, lest their presence upset or intimidate the local governors. Even if their cause was considered just and their presence a boon, even if there were Carathiliar and Moren amongst them, they were always considered a Talradian force, and as such were treated warily and kept at an arm's distance if they could.

So they existed in limbo, in a constant state of moving from one place to another. Some of them had homes and families, and they were allowed to visit whenever they were in the area and granted leave whenever it was possible.

But many of them, a majority even, had none of those things. The older Talradians, those who had lost all they once had either during the Destruction or to the constant march of time, those like him, they just continued marching from one place to another. Until time too, would eventually claw its way over to take them away.

That went a long way in saying that he wasn't used to being told he couldn't leave and had to rest for two whole weeks. He wasn't restless, because that would imply he had energy to spare. Sleep occupied much of his time, and when he wasn't sleeping, he was still lying around, not using his body for much except eating, drinking, and breathing.

At some point, it occurred to him that a cottage this small couldn't be housing any more beds this size, and he worried that his presence had robbed Yulia of it. Any misgivings he had towards the witch aside, she was already housing him, healing him, and feeding him, so taking her bed seemed one step too far. She wasn't exactly young.

When he'd brought it up to her, though, she'd just waved him away without looking up from her book.

"I'm old, General, not infirm; I can stomach a week or two in a chair or on the moss carpet; it's quite soft enough, I assure you. When you've lived as long as I have, you get used to time spent without much sleep. It gives me time for other things."

While he couldn't fault her reasoning and sensibilities, it did little to stem his own guilt, so after badgering her for hours, she finally agreed to let him wake up earlier and give her time to use the bed. He, in turn, would find something else to do or somewhere else to rest.

That 'somewhere else' fluctuated depending on the time of day, but most often he would find himself sitting on a log that had been carved into a bench.

The setting was peaceful. If he got there in the morning, he could watch birds waking up and escaping into the open air, listen to the rustling of the trees and scan the hillside for critters that were about. Once, he even thought he'd spotted a thnaidur, a type of large, double-headed avian creature, flying overhead, far above the treeline. It was the sort of tranquil, painless life that younger men would hope to earn, and older men would call a reward for a life well lived.

He didn't like it.

He may be old, but he didn't deserve this sort of peace as a reward, nor could he feel anything in the atmosphere except… tension. Anticipation. A temporary reprieve was by its very nature fleeting, and he had neither the reason nor the time to get used to this.

After three days, Yulia had deemed him fit enough to walk around indefinitely until night, but warned that overexerting his body would bring him to where he'd started. Taking those words to heart, he didn't immediately throw himself into complex training or exercise of his muscles. Besides, at this point in his life, he'd trained all his movements and skills until they were muscle memory for him, and a few days' break wouldn't erase that. Instead, he did something that required minimal effort but was no less important, as well as stimulating.

Breathing exercises.

Sitting in seclusion, cross-legged, and focusing on his breathing. Feeling the air flow through his body, down to his stomach, then back out his mouth again. And going through that sequence over and over and over again, whilst maintaining focus.

Keleiva had called it ridiculous when she was younger, and he'd first agreed to train her. No doubt she'd expected proper duelling, rigorous training, and other grand aspects of being a Demon Hunter. He'd chided her on her dismissal of the exercise but had let it slide, because she simply didn't understand the importance of it. It was only years later that she had.

Concentration. Commitment. Focusing on your breathing sounded easy, up until the first ten minutes passed and your mind began to wander. You might decide to sit there for half an hour, but start to buckle after only a few minutes. It required you to be there, in the present, with no room for wandering after distractions.

To join his band, those Demon Hunters who marched under his personal banner, you had to undergo a series of tests, one of which was breathing exercises. More often than not, that was where they struggled and fell apart.

He still remembered the first time Keleiva had come to him, face flush with pride and understanding, and told him she finally understood it.

His eyes snapped open, and he sighed. There it was again. He'd lost focus. Well, they weren't easy, and even he stumbled through them from time to time. A fact that so many seemed to forget when they brought it up.

He took a break from the breathing exercises and idly wondered what had become of those he'd taken with him into the dungeon ruins. They would no doubt find any of Keleiva's followers who had survived and see to it that the proper rites were in order for them. And her body…

He took a deep breath again.

…would be taken back to the surface, if they followed the path they'd marked correctly. And yet they would have no idea where he was, only that, by lack of a body, he wasn't dead.

Gods only know how long we were down there for. Alatanus would have led both our bands to Tandrias City by now. They might have even arrived. Which gives me less than two months to send word, before I am presumed dead."

It had taken him no time to ask the resident witch if she had a raven he could use to send a message. She'd waved him away quickly.

"No ravens, I can't stand the bloody birds. If I need a message sent, I'll wait for a traveller to pass by or make the journey myself. Or I send a witch's message, but naturally only other witches would understand it, or even recognise it."

So no messages for two weeks. No matter, he would send one as soon as he made it to the nearest town; apparently, there was a village not too far away. He'd also be able to get his bearings again and figure out where that Void spell had flung him to.

And call as many to arms as I can. The Demon will not escape our net if it's wide enough, there's only so far he can run.

He had descended into those ruins for the female, the one who called itself Alleria. No matter his reasoning, it meant she was easy bait. If it were located, then he would come, one way or another.

"Finding them would be a trivial matter for you, but you hesitate to use your full strength." "You said you would do anything." "This falls under anything."

"I preferred when you were silent. My mind is my own, and it has more than enough ghosts in it without you."

"You are deflecting." "You are evading the truth."

"Or maybe I just don't want to talk about it to you. Have you ever considered that?"

Despite everything, despite the guilt and pain he was going through, his one silver lining had been blessed silence in his own mind. The Dark… thing that'd bargained for an exit with him hadn't made his presence known since. He assumed that he had either been left behind in the dungeon, or… had made his escape alongside him.

The thought that he might have let loose some Dark force on the land was interrupted when someone cleared their throat behind him.

"Pardon me. Are you talking to yourself?"

Yulia was watching him with an arched eyebrow. He rose from the bench.

"I was just airing some things out. Don't tell me you have never had to reflect by yourself before?"

"I've never had to do it so loudly. There's food for you inside, if you're hungry. It's late already."

He'd barely realised that dusk had arrived, and mosquitoes had begun ravaging his arms. That happened a lot with Talradians, though the fact that it happened another three times was a sure sign that age was ever so slowly creeping up behind him. He'd only ever heard of children and the elderly mistaking the time of day, and he wasn't… he wouldn't call himself elderly.

Dinners varied, but more often than not included wild vegetables and bird meat, no doubt scavenged from the forest floor. One night, a week into his tenure in the valley, Yulia presented him with a meat stew, filled with almost every meat he had a name for. He might have even caught the gamey taste of bear.

"Quite the feast you've cooked up. Dare I ask where you came across such a varied supply of meats?"

She picked at her food with a wooden spoon. "Usually I tell my guests it was delivered, or I kept it hidden and secure for special occasions, but I doubt you'd believe I word of it, General."

"Not at all. Did you lay traps? If so, I must ask that you share their secret, because a simple rope or even an iron claw could not manifest this much so quickly."

She sighed, "You won't let this lie, will you?"

"I believe you've sparked my curiosity. Indulge me, won't you?"

He was mostly impressed by how she'd made it taste, not just passable, but downright flavourful. He doubted any of the cooks in his band could conjure up a meal to match, and only in the big cities might he find her equal. But the rapid appearance of this much food was a close second.

"Fine." Leaving her stew unattended, she rose and began fiddling around in a corner of the room. He heard drawers being pulled out and slammed shut again, until eventually she returned with a set of bolas in each hand.

He stared as she sat back down and placed them on the table, then dug back into her food without another word. He looked back up at her, then down at the bolas again.

"This is a poor joke, even for you."

"Calling a witch's truth a joke is a quick way to getting turned into a frog, General. I assure you, if it were a jest I would've told you."

Delicately, he picked the bola up with one hand. He sensed no mana around them, which a month ago he wouldn't have even bothered to check, but time spent in the dungeon taught him not to write this sort of thing off. It had also taught him that, even amongst objects, looks could be deceiving. And who said an old dog couldn't learn new tricks?

"They seem normal, no enhanced metal or strengthened rope. They aren't even mithril." He ran his hands over the weighted balls and found them about as ordinary as they came. "But that leaves the only alternative as…" He looked up again. Yulia was watching as she dug into her food, an unconcealed look of amusement flushing across her face. "Did I say something funny?"

"No," she swallowed. "But it is amusing to watch you struggle for an answer right in front of you. I'll even give you a hint: a didn't throw them."

He raised an eyebrow. "With all due respect, I think I would have figured that out." He put the bola back down. "Fine, I concede. Tell me how you used them."

She cracked another grin. "Certainly. It's quite simple, I leave them on the forest floor, and when an animal wanders over, they capture it. I check up on them once a day and dispatch whatever I find."

She continued eating her stew for a minute before she realised he hadn't said anything. She glanced back up. "What?"

"I'm going to need a more detailed explanation. You see, things might be different wherever you're from, but here, bolas don't have wills of their own and attack passing animals for our convenience."

Her left eye twitched, and she slammed her spoon down. "Where I'm- I am from Carathiliar, born and raised. I've walked these woods for decades. Do these mean nothing to you?" She pointed at the faint tattoos on the edge of her cheeks.

He put his hands up immediately and tried to calm her. "I didn't think- I'm sorry, it was only meant as an off-hand comment. It's just…"

"It's just that I don't look Carathiliarian. News flash, I remember that every time I look in the mirror." She crossed her arms, glancing around with a foul look. "I'm more Carathiliarian than some of the Carathiliar, but because my skin is bright, I automatically get stares. And you wonder why I don't bother leaving."

"I… have heard of people like you, if you don't mind me saying. I am guessing that one of your parents was from another kingdom. Moren?"

"Floraine." She began to deflate. "Father was a Florainian, came up here searching for adventure and riches, instead met my mother- you know the story. When I was born, I took after him. But when faced with the decision, they chose to continue raising me here."

"How was your childhood?"

"It was so long ago I can barely remember the details." She waved her hand around in what he thought to a deceptively casual manner. Her eyes were much harder. "Needless to say, I wasn't going to be leaping over trees to catch the ball like they were, and I got as many stares as you do now, General."

He avoided looking down at his own skin. "So if you took after your father, does that mean-"

"Not a mage, as I feel I've been repeating for days now. Taking after a Florainian doesn't mean you're guaranteed to be born with that ability, just more likely, and I guess I wasn't."

"So you became a witch instead."

It did explain a lot and answered the lingering questions he'd had about how a foreigner found themselves living as a hermit in the middle of the Kingdom of Carathiliar, notoriously unaccepting of outsiders, and how she came to possess their own tattoos, which he could scarcely remember seeing on a face that wasn't a shade of grey.

"How I became a witch is an entire other story, one that I'm not drunk enough to tell, but needless to say, since the covens that convene here are almost entirely made of Carathiliarian Humans, I got just as many strange looks there the first time I showed my face. As you can imagine, apprentices weren't exactly biting at my heels for a chance to learn from me."

"You never had an apprentice?" From what he knew about witches, they always had apprentices, to the point where the two words were often linked by those with no knowledge of either.

She hesitated for a second, then shook her head. "I… had one once, but that was a long time ago. I don't think I'll be teaching another in this life."

They sat in silence again as he picked at his food, which was getting colder by the second. Eventually, he looked up again and asked, "So the bolas. How do they work?"

She laughed and started going into a lot of detail, most of which he didn't fully understand.

. . .

On the second last day of his restoration, he watched Yulia enter the cottage the same way she usually did, not long after the crack of dawn. Unlike every other day, though, he wasn't lying in bed, and she exited shortly afterwards to look for him. She found him sitting with his back resting against a tree, carving at a rock with the tip of his sword.

It was difficult, and the blade was much larger and more cumbersome than I knife would have been, but after a few hours he'd eventually got the hang of it. When she found him, he had already constructed a small pile at his feet of six or seven stones.

"A Karatinian Shrine? You never mentioned that you were a devotee of the UnOrder."

"Because I'm not." He finished the rock he was working on and carefully added it to the edge of the pile. "Unlike most of my people, I have not turned to the Chaos God for guidance and purpose."

"The Goddess of the Moon, then? I knew that pockets of worship for her still existed until the Destruction."

He shook his head again. "Not her either. I give my allegiance to no god or great power. They weren't there when Talradius was slaughtered, nor did any extend their hand when the Demon God smote what remained of us." He paused in the middle of reaching for a new rock. Well, there was one… but the Watcher was no god.

"You worship no Gods..." She was giving him that look again, where she tried to piece together the story before he even told it. "Interesting. And yet here you are, constructing a shrine. Why?"

"As a Carathiliarian at heart, you would know why. It's a shrine to Creation. I am surprised you did not have one here already."

"It was always on my list of things to do," she admitted. She reached down and picked up one of the stones, carefully so as not to topple the entire pile. "A thnaidur?"

"It was Keleiva's favourite bird. The twin heads enamoured her when she was younger." He pointed out another one. "That one I just added has a blade on it, for her swordplay."

In the end, he pointed out each of the stones he'd painstakingly carved. A rock, a closed eye, a bottle of ale, a tiara.

When she saw the tiara, Yulia looked up at him again. "So, the rumours are true then."

"There are rumours?"

"A few on the wind, and if you know the right people to ask, as witches always do. I had thought the entire royal family would be top of the list of targets the Demon Lords would be heading to first."

"You would be right, and they were almost successful. Few noticed a boy fleeing the wreckage of the capital with a babe in his arms. And when they did, I had help and was out of their reach."

And with how many Demons he had laid low afterwards, they would definitely have regretted letting him escape. Almost enough to be satisfied that his life had been worth the struggle. Just one more… just one more and it would be enough.

"Keleiva?"

He nodded. "My brother's youngest daughter, barely a newborn. The Last Princess of Talradius, though only amongst the Company was she known as such, and not by my design either. I tried to snuff it out."

"Why?"

"They had no meaning anymore, besides putting a target on her back. For me, it was different." He flexed his hand and wiped dust off the white skin. "When I took up the charge as a Demon Hunter, I put a different target on my back. Now, at least, I am only known as the General, and only the old that remain remember the young boy-prince who once was."

He finished the final stone and dropped it on the pile. A tower rising above the clouds. A tower long ago smote to ash and ruin.

"The Tower of Leadrios, where she was born, was the tallest in the capital. Demon Lord Wrathius felled it himself."

He might have been rambling; he didn't even know how much sleep he'd got that night. Certainly not enough since he was supposed to be healing, but it felt right to do this now.

"You scorn the gods and their religions and yet engage in their rites of mourning. Some would call that hypocritical, you know?"

"Are you 'some'?"

She shook her head, so he continued. "I don't believe in them. I don't believe that the True Chaos will one day encompass the entire world, or that the sun will snuff itself out eventually, and the stars will be our only source of light. But Keleiva believed, and that's enough for it to be worth performing. Does the witch disagree?"

"The witch does not. Grief takes many forms, and it is good that you have chosen to take part in its cycle. Yulia Hyacinthia, however, knows that your desire for revenge will not have subsided an inch."

He gripped his palm. "I will not let any more lives be lost to that monster. I will not let any more Souls fall prey to his hands again."

"The final stage of your grief will come when you accept that she is gone, and following him will not change that, nor bring you the closure you desire."

"The final stage of my grief will come when he is dead at my feet." He was barely listening to her words anymore.

She sighed and walked away, as one last rock was crushed between his fingers.

. . .

On the morning of the tenth day, his last day of rest, he woke up early. Maybe it was because he did feel a lot healthier and energised after all this time, and his wounds were fully mended, or maybe it was just his mind wanting to think that was the case.

Regardless, he woke up and made his way into the room next door. Yulia wasn't there; no doubt she was out in the forest doing… whatever it was she did there. She left so early it might as well be considered night.

He was looking for something, something that had crossed his mind before, but he'd put it on the backend of it until now. Thankfully, it didn't take him long to find a pile of scrap that didn't fit in with the more organised objects littered around.

Said pile of scrap was, in fact, his armour. At least what was left of it. Pile of scrap was a better description.

Half of it was damaged beyond repair, the other damaged beyond recognition. Pushing his way through the heap and avoiding the jagged ends that would cut his hands, there were only a few parts he found that were still usable. His gloves were one, since the gauntlets had taken the brunt of the damage. The rest of it was beyond repair, and he didn't even have the remains of his helmet. His boots were also a no-go, and Yulia had been generous enough to gift him regular leather boots.

What he was really looking for, however, was his belt and the pouches he kept there. He wouldn't say he was frantic in his search for it, but he did end up pushing aside the metal fast enough that he cut his finger. Just a scratch, though.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it.

Still in one piece.

He reached into the pouch and retrieved the mirror. Still cracked. He might not have even noticed if it had been destroyed any further at this point.

Without thinking, the edges began to glow, and he sighed. Force of habit.

He looked into the reflection of a dead man once again. A familiar sight. This time, he thought he might be marching closer and closer to that destination.

If that is the case, then so be it. I assume you will be closed-mouthed as to whether that is the case or not?

No response? Fine. He strapped the belt around his waist and pocketed the mirror. He put the gloves on after emptying them or dust and retrieved his swords, which he'd placed beside the bed.

When he opened the bedroom door again, it was at the same time Yulia entered from the outside.

He opened his mouth to greet her, then paused. There was something different about her today. Nothing had changed in her appearance; she looked the same as always, but her expression was serious, the wrinkles on her face a bit more pronounced, and her eyes were looking at him, yet not seeing him at all.

"You're up already? Good, I was going to wake you now anyway." Her spectacles were on, which was another peculiarity; she usually didn't leave the cottage with them. She peered at him, then at his waist. "Right. I suppose so."

He frowned. Was she talking to herself again? "Is something wrong, Yulia? You seem… distant, more so than usual." He didn't want to ask her, but, "Is it witchcraft related?"

She met his eyes. There it was again, that strange, distant gaze. "I suppose it is. I wasn't prepared when I did it with the other two, so the effects were residual, barely coherent. Now, however…" she trailed off, then opened the door again. "Follow me, General."

She didn't wait for a response and disappeared outside. Left with no real options, he made his way to the door and followed after her.

She was standing a few metres beyond the doormat, placing something on the grass. When he approached, she stood up again, dirt still on her robes. He walked over to her to see what she'd been messing with.

It was a light blue crystal, no larger than his hand. And it was decidedly ordinary, without a trace of mana on it.

Then again, if this is witchcraft, there would be no need for it. And if it is witchcraft, I want no part in it without a proper explanation.

Actually, scratch that, I'd probably want no part in it with an explanation.

"What is this, Yulia?"

She raised her hands out. On her right was a pile of dust. In her left… an animal's eye.

"This is your future, Fatewarden."

She threw both at the crystal. They collided, and a whirlwind of sand exploded outwards, making him stumble back and cover his eyes. When he opened them, though, there was no sand in his eyes. What there was was a vortex.

A vortex of dust and cyan light. The world had vanished. The grass hand vanished. There was only him.

And the Witch of the Glen.

Her simple, patched robes and floppy hand were unbothered by the swirling winds of the vortex and the dust and sand that battered it. When she stepped forward, he caught an afterimage following her. The afterimage of a different figure, unbent by age, robes clean and full of vibrant colours, her head adorned by not simply a hat, but by a crown of paper and minds. A crown of knowledge.

The Witch of the Glen spoke. "Brakenus Ulvargen. General. Prince. Fatewarden."

He flinched at the last word and opened his mouth to reject it, but whatever words he could muster were overridden by the storm.

"You walk the path of blood. You walk the path of vengeance. You walk the path of Talradius."

The Witch of the Glen raised her hands.

"You walk the path of death."

The dust amassed and formed shapes between them. He saw himself cutting down Demons and being skewered by them in turn. Over and over again. Dozens of them, each barely different from the other.

"You walk this path willingly?"

His voice finally worked again, but he could barely hear it over the storming vortex.

"I do."

The Witch of the Glen tilted her head.

"Your actions have cost many their lives. Your actions will cost many their lives."

He saw the shapes of fallen Demons. Beside them, dying Talradians, Carathiliar, Moren. Demon Hunters.

"Fate can be blinded. And it was blinded once more when you should have fallen. You acknowledge this?"

The dust amassed into another tableau, this one of a moment that he still remembered clear as day.

The Watcher standing over him, blocking a blow meant for his head from a creature wreathed in fire.

"I acknowledge it," he whispered.

The Witch of the Glen's voice grew until it was as loud as the vortex itself, until it was the storm.

Last of Talradius, Last of the blood

To ruin once more shall go

Cerulean meets ruby, glass and amber

Death's hand swayed, Souls that shall not pass

Betrayal, death, mournful sorrow

Your eyes see more, beside the champion of three worlds

Fate watches through you

Hand of the Fated One.

The Witch of the Glen lowered her arms, every word she said now resting in his mind, whether he was willing to memorise them or not. It was taking every ounce of energy he had not to start shaking uncontrollably.

"Reality is often cruel." "Hers is a mind that would have made the greatest of Seers."

It was almost comforting to hear the forsaken voice in his head again. Except, it seemed closer now than before. Almost like he was hearing it through his ears.

"But such is the workings of Fate." "Even I cannot forestall or change them."

The Witch of the Glen's head slowly turned until she was looking past him. He spun around.

The dust vortex vanished, falling straight into the dirt. The light of the morning blasted his eyes, as did the sudden silence. It was over.

Yulia coughed and stumbled a bit before regaining her footing. "I've never enjoyed that, you know? It takes a lot of setup and a lot of energy for a few seconds at most."

He found that his jaw was still working. "What was that? You said you were a witch, but that was-"

"Witchcraft. You should no better than to doubt it, General. Before there were the Seers who learned how to harness Fate through the Goddess of Prophecy, there were witches."

"Why did you do that?"

She stepped forward and rubbed his shoulder. "Because you needed it. Because fate decided it should be so, and it is not our place to question or defy it."

Fate. What a cruel joke.

"I hate the idea that fate would play such a heavy hand against me."

She laughed, "And yet you yourself are neck-deep in its embrace."

"So, you don't know what any of that means, then?"

She tilted her head. "Some of it I do, others I do not. Either way matters little; a prophecy for you will have little concern for me. What it means… well, that is the question, isn't it?"

She seemed lightheaded, which wouldn't surprise him, so he helped her back to the cottage, where she promptly collapsed into a chair. When he asked her how long she'd been up for and how long she'd had to sleep, she just laughed and didn't give an answer.

The truth spoke for itself, because once she was able to stand again, she presented him with the other fruits of her labour. A backpack, filled with actual fruit, along with other food, bandages, a bottled tonic that he refused to touch, and enough supplies to last him a few more weeks on the road.

He was taken aback that she'd give him so much after taking care of and healing him for weeks. He tried to refuse it, but she was insistent.

"I spent two weeks healing you, so I'd rather you didn't collapse again the moment you leave."

"This is- I am in your debt, Yulia."

He bowed his head, which made her laugh for some reason.

"It would seem there's a lot of debt going around recently. I will hear nothing of it."

Despite his continued protests, she insisted on leading him to the nearby road she had spoken of. He wanted to ask her if this was the same road she had taken Danadrian and the Demon to but figured that she wouldn't give him a straight answer if he did.

"I'd recommend that you ask the first carter you come across for a lift. That will cut your trip in half if you're lucky. And I don't need to worry about you running afoul of any bandits or lowlifes."

"Probably not." He stepped onto the dirt path running through the forest and turned back to her. "Yulia Hyacinthia, you have my eternal gratitude. If ever there comes a time that you should wander far from your home, ask for me in Tandrias, and aid will come to you."

"I appreciate that." She touched her lips. "Maybe one day, when I am old and withered, I will take you up on that offer."

He bowed his head. "You are a testament to the strength and hospitality of the Carathiliar, Yulia."

She smiled. "Grace be with you, Brakenus, until your path should finally end."

He began walking down the dirt path, keeping an eye out for any footprints or tracks.

When he looked back at the forest, the Witch of the Glen had already vanished.

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