Tlot. Tlot. Tlot. Tlot.

Forte gripped the sleeve fabric of his academy robes, staring out his carriage window absentmindedly. He had fallen ill—he’d been getting chills this entire week, and it was only getting worse by the day. In the distance, he saw that they were approaching the southern outpost town of Maldon. Maldon was two days by horseback from the southern gate of the free city of Adith.

The weather was getting progressively darker and gloomier as they approached the outskirts of the human realm. Dark clouds hung in the distance, and heavy winds swept the plains.

The horses stopped and whinnied upon arriving at the gate.

“Whoa there,” the coachman said, before looking over his shoulder to address the passenger. “We have arrived at Maldon outpost, Mister Mott. This is the furthest we can go in this weather.”

Forte nodded in acknowledgment, and stepped out onto the damp dirt road. Slung on his back was his gray longsword Blothe, and a small knapsack of supplies and preserved food, including some tinder, a few candlesticks, a canteen of water, and a small journal.

He entered the outpost town unceremoniously. There were still a fair amount of people remaining in the area, but it had seen busier days. The ever encroaching storm had driven many people inland, leaving only the tough and the stubborn in the outskirt towns. Forte could only imagine that it would be only a matter of weeks before the first monster attack, with the storm so close by.

“Slog leather armor here,” a merchant yelled. “Only the finest from the merchant guild!”

Forte glanced over and the stand. It was certainly not an official merchant guild stand, seeing as how there was no merchant guild insignia hanging above the peddler’s little stand. He noticed that the patchy leather armor the peddler was offering was half muddy yellow and half brown. The merchant must have sewed in inferior leathers with the yellow slog hide. A less experienced eye may not have caught the difference.

Forte felt cold, and hugged his robe close to his body. He would have to make his way through the wilderness alone, unless he could possibly stalk a game hunter caravan or a merchant caravan and use them as a measure of safety through the treacherous wilderness.

He tried reaching out to Nightmare. No response. It looked like he would be traveling alone. It was getting dark, so he found a room at the local inn and turned in for the night. The room was cheap compared to the capital—only two silver pieces for a modest bed with little to no furnishings besides a small painting of a river on the wall, and a chest at the foot of the bed. But it was cold in the room—unbearably cold. After tossing and turning for several hours and still being unable to sleep, he decided to take a walk.

Cold. So cold. So unbearably cold. Forte was slightly dizzy from illness as he stumbled down the quiet streets, passing the town and walking into the fields. To the right, he could barely make out a small hut in the moonlight. He stumbled towards the hut, wanting to seek out its warmth.

Before long, he stood face to face with the hut’s door. Inside were the gentle snores of what seemed like a sleeping family. Forte grasped the doorknob, fueled by a strange desire to see what was inside.

Infernus, he whispered under his breath. A black flame burst from his hand, consuming and cracking the doorknob, until it flaked away into a pile of ash. Somehow, every lick of the black flame made his hand feel weaker, and colder. He stepped inside. A large pot of warm stew sat over a small fire in the back. He counted the plates on the countertop. Four.

From where he was standing, there was a door to the left and a door to the right. He walked towards the door to the left, the wooden floor creaking as he stepped forward in his black robes. The gentle sound of snoring seeped from both rooms. His amulet burned into his chest, but his body still felt an unearthly chill.

He opened the door. Inside the room was a farmer and his wife sleeping beneath a heavy woolen blanket on a wooden bed. There was a book of prayers sitting on the night stand, and the last light of a nearly burned out candle stick was all that illuminated the room.

Forte felt excitement. He felt a feverish rush racing through his body, sending tingles through his arms and legs. He walked up to the farmer and clasped his hands against the man’s throat. The man woke up with a start, kicking and attempting to scream.

Seiza, Forte muttered.

The farmer convulsed violently, shuddering in his bed. The veins on Forte’s arms pulsed black, as blood drained directly from the farmer’s body into Forte’s own. He felt a sense of warmth as the blood seeped into his body, but the blood tasted bitter. How strange. For some reason, he could taste the blood exchange even though it was not making any physical contact with his mouth. The farmer’s essence coursed through his veins. It was rough, bitter, and unrefined. Disgusting.

“Aahhhh!!!!” the farmer’s wife screamed, having woken up.

“Silence!” Forte hissed, loosening his grip on the unconscious farmer’s neck. He wrestled with the woman, who was frantically trying to push him off, before grasping the struggling woman’s wrists. He pinned down her arms to the bed, his amulet glowing red hot in anticipation. The amulet was vibrating in place, almost in a melodic fashion.

“Seiza,” he said, and he began the extraction.

Warmth spilled into his body, and he breathed a labored sigh of relief as the chill was dispelled from his body. The woman’s blood had a sweeter, more subdued tone to it, compared to the farmer’s course and bitter blood. As the sweet blood coursed through his veins, a fiery energy swelled up and burned through his entire body. Mana overflowed from his veins, and a faint black wisp of vapor appeared as he exhaled through his mouth.

He felt alive.

He released the woman, who collapsed in a heap next to her husband. Curiously, both of them had survived the ordeal, and were breathing very gently. Feeling satisfied, Forte decided not to kill either of them. He doubted that they would be able to remember this night, after he had drained so much stamina and blood from their veins.

So this was Elmund Motley’s legacy, he thought to himself. The amulet of house Motley. The blackest of black magic. The blood price. The dark art of breaking through the limitations of a caster’s stamina, by burning one of the purest of all mana catalysts—blood. And not just any blood. Motley blood, which was thick in magical energy.

And now he was no longer limited to his own veins, either. Now he could use other people’s blood and fuse it with his own to pay the blood price. It would not be as efficient as pure Motley blood, but using it would slow the depletion of his own blood reserves. Magic fueled by blood sacrifice seemed to take on the properties of the blood used. And so higher quality blood would produce more destructive results. Using more refined blood would create more refined spells. And using course, bitter blood would result in rough magic.

And of course, using Motley blood would grant spells a tinge of unparalleled belligerence.

Now that he had had a taste of true power, he lusted for more. Enough power to crush the King and all his armies. Power to bring all the world to its knees at his beckoning.

“Dada?”

Forte’s eyes whipped back. A three year old girl dressed in a ragged sleeping shirt was at the doorway of the bedroom. She was clutching a small pillow.

“Mama?”

A strange wave of feeling hit Forte at the sight of the girl. For a moment, he vaguely felt her mother’s love.

He would be merciful tonight. He walked over to the girl, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Sleep tight, little one.”

At the sound of his magically infused voice, she collapsed into his arms. Forte picked her up and carried her over to the bed, laying her in between her parents. He walked out of the hut, closing the door gently behind him.

Tonn, he murmured, and a tendril of a plant emerged from the ground and snaked its way up the door, forming a new wooden doorknob. It seemed that the mother had an affinity for the earth element. Unlike him. Warmth permeated through his veins as he walked down the unlit path to the inn. He returned to his room, took a quick bath, and then collapsed onto his bed.

—

Forte prepared to leave early the next day. He called out telepathically to Nightmare in the morning, but again there was no answer. He was starting to get worried, and the sooner he could return to Avalon and reinforce his town against the orcs, the better.

At mid-day, he began his journey, stepping past the marked boundaries of the outpost town and into the wilderness, where the law of the jungle ruled. There were no caravans heading in or out of the outpost, and so he carried his things and set out on foot, carefully unsheathing Blothe. There were damp trees branches everywhere, which he hacked away. He pressed his senses carefully, trying to locate any sign of hostile life. There was nothing so far.

The first day opened without any problems. Forte collected some nuts and berries that he had read in the scroll A Game Hunter’s Guide to the Wilderness from the Academy's extensive library. Juniper berries were nutritious and easy to find, although he could only find a few nuts here and there. He hunted and roasted a hare for lunch, cooking and eating it at the top of a rocky outcrop so he could maintain a perimeter of visibility as he ate.

While he was not concentrating on finding a path and mapping out the area, Forte did some light swordsmanship drills and practiced magic manipulation during sword fighting. He discovered that it was incredibly difficult to cast spells while swinging a sword.

On the second day, Forte noticed several fresh orc tracks in the mud. He was getting close.