Willem was sleeping, feverish dreams swallowing his thoughts. He saw the Vysians again, only this time they were all kneeling before him. Rope bound their arms, their heads downcast and slumped. There was a voice counting down, every number like a punch to the gut. When it reached one, the Vysians suddenly bolted up, turning to run as far away from him as they possibly could. A sudden enthusiasm filled his heart, a sensation of euphoria coursing through him at the sight of all this prey fleeing before him. His heartbeat pounding so hard it seemed to split in number, he took off after him.

There was no sensation of running—rather, it felt as if he were gliding over the ground. No feet, no arms, he lunged after the first with a gleeful hunger. Ves’shen was the first to die, and he tore into the man’s flesh greedily. It broke under his teeth, melting away as he greedily slurped up more and more until there was only bones left. Ves’shen had screamed desperately, yelling at the others to run. Run? Aye, he hoped that they would run. “Run…” he commanded them, and they obeyed with tearful wails.

Next was Nis’shan whose face was stricken at the death of his son. Willem descended upon him as well, crippling the legs first so that the Vysian fell forward and struck his head upon the ground. Blood trickled down his face, but Willem wanted to savor the kill. He burrowed into Nis’shan’s stomach, tearing into the soft belly. It was like a sweet nectar, a savory flesh that melted on the tongue. More, he thought dimly as he dug deeper. I need more.

Nis’shan had been rendered into nothing but scattered remains, yet still he needed more. Again and again he hunted down the rest. They ran as hard as they could, but their arms were restrained and their bodies were weak. They had tried to hide, but they could not hide their scents, could not hide the smell of their blood. They had tried to flee, but their foolish legs were not faster than the wind, were not faster than a shadow. And when the last one had fallen, he found himself needing even more still. His gaze swept throughout the land, his hunger demanding more.

More, he insisted, the thought maddening. That single word echoed in his mind, repeated over and over until it was an irresistible cadence. Moremoremoremore it thumped in his head, driving away all other thoughts until he practically collapsed on the ground in agony. I need more. And then he saw another figure on the horizon, and the thought of slaking this thirst nearly drove him to hysteria.

He flew forward, flew forwards towards that strangely familiar image. It was himself, he noted as he dug into the shoulder. These are my fingers, he noted as he ripped them off one by one. This is my heart, he noted as tore the thing out with a ragged lurch. This is my blood, he noted as he watched it spray through the air like some majestic fountain. These are my screams, he noted as that glorious choir resonated in his ears. His heart was thumping as he killed himself, as he gorged on his own remains. And yet at the end, he still needed more.

Yet as his gaze once more swept around him, he saw nothing. There was nothing around, nothing to sate this hunger. His screams of frustration and agony turned to the heavens, a hideous amalgamation of the death throes from hundreds of victims. They blended together into a horrendous cacophony that churned the hearts of any onlooker. I need more—I need more. His hunger consumed him as he burrowed into the sand, trying to find anything that might satisfy him. Yet the grains of sand slipped out of his grasp, fell through his teeth. He could only scream, scream for more.

There was a tugging sensation in the back of his mind, and the change prompted a sudden euphoria to run through him. More food? The thought was beautiful, to the point where he thought he might weep. Hurriedly he followed the urging, soaring across the land at the speed of a shadow. So eager was he that he hardly took note of his surroundings, the journey entirely instinctual until he found himself in some great hall. There was a single coffin inside, the cover thrown open and lain against the wall. Inside was a single withered corpse, mummified and dried of any fluid whatsoever.

Yet strangely, the insides of the coffin could not be seen. It was as if the man was resting on a cloud of black, surrounded by some mist that shrouded his features. That mist seemed to be made out of a thousand specks of black, swarming around him. Brothers, he thought, and he lunged into the cloud to join his kin. His own swarm dispersed throughout the larger, until he was part of the greater whole. It was then that the corpse’s eyes opened, revealing black pupils that filled the entire sockets.

An intruder in my tomb, he whispered with a voice like sand. A hero? Or a fool? His gaze turned until he was gazing straight at him, and then the boy suddenly remembered exactly who he was. A sudden fear ran through him as he saw the corpse’s mouth stretch into a faint smile. So you have seen my servants. You have felt the bite of my skal’va. Go on, then. Go tell the others.

It rose up out of its tomb, sweeping a single gnarled hand out wide. Willem saw his vision fly out until he was like a hawk, until he was like a god, peering over the land. He saw the whole of this place, that the mortals called Malifor. He saw it shrouded in black, skal’va lurking in every shadow. They spread out from the corpse’s tomb in the center of the land, spreading out until they broke against the warded stones of the Gates. This entire land was his, was already claimed by this living corpse. An incredible fear filled Willem as he saw, as he felt the power that this corpse wielded.

See now that I have won this land. Where Sin failed the god’s will, I have succeeded. Go and warn your people—make them rally and fight, that I might crush them at the height of their pathetic power. My skal’va will descend upon your lands like a plague, and your country too will hear the voice of Atal.

Willem felt a hand grab him by the throat, some incredible grip that seemed to seize him and drag him. Go then, intruder in the tomb of Faith. Go and tell the others. Spread the word of my god. With that, the corpse laid back inside his coffin once more, and Willem felt himself being hurled through the air, flung so hard that his vision turned black and his heartbeat seemed to stop.

He woke with a shuddering gasp, his heart pounding so hard, he thought that it might burst out of his chest. His shoulders heaved as he drew in short gasps, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. His chest was covered in sweat, his clothing peeled away from him. Cloth wrappings bound his torso and arms, his body aching with pain from even the slightest of movements.

“He’s awake!” a sudden voice called out, and Willem turned sharply only to wince as a red-hot lance of fire shot up his back. A soldier strode over quickly, holding a wet rag. Pressing the cloth gently to Willem’s forehead, he asked, “How do you feel? You had a fever for a while, but it seems to have broken.”

Willem coughed, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. “Who—who are you?” he managed to get out, the cold cloth soothing against his skin.

The soldier sat down beside him with a smile. “I’m First Shield Kat. The scary one over there’s First Sword Norus.” He gestured to another man seemingly asleep against the wall, but when he was mentioned a single eye cracked open with a glare. “We’re part of Lord Florell’s army, although we seem to all that’s left of our team.”

Willem laid back, his head beginning to spin and his breath growing short. Slowly, he raised a tentative arm to take the cloth from Kat and press it against his forehead. “Where...am I?” he gasped, the thought difficult to manage with the storm that raged in his thumping head. He seemed to be in almost a dungeon of some sorts, surrounded by stones with dim torches on the walls. Yet these men seemed to be legion from the east—what were they doing here?

Kat seemed to smirk, his head tilting up. “We’re in the Gates right now, right on the border with Malifor. We were sent to try and win over the garrison here, but when we arrived they were all dead, so here we are.” He cocked his head suddenly, as if just thinking of a question. “Why do you ask? Didn’t you know which waygate you were going to, at the very least?”

“Way—waygate?” Willem coughed violently, the movement sending spasms of pain through his body, and Kat hurriedly fetched some water. “Drink slowly.” he told Willem, handing over a small stone cup.

“The waygate.” Kat replied as Willem drank. “You know, the gate that you used to come here, with the magic and the smoke and all that. Didn’t you know where you would be going?”

Willem could only shake his head. Clearly, this soldier thought far higher of him than truth allowed. It made sense—Kat thought Willem to be a channeler, some incredible user of magic that could conjure storms and fire on command. Oh what a disappointment, he thought with a twinge of a smile. “I was being—being chased. I had to get out, so I must have opened the gate in my panic. I just—wanted a way out, and the magic...came out.” he muttered, gesturing with his hands helplessly.

“Still, you could use the waygate.” he replied enthusiastically. “That means you could end us back! You—you’re a channeler after all.” Kat smiled for a moment before frowning thoughtfully. “But you said that you were hunted? By a black cloud?” he asked nervously, eyes flickering to the stones around them. “Almost like a—a swarm of insects?” he asked. A sudden shock went through Willem’s heart, a cold realization that they were here as well.

“You know? A—about the skal’va?” That was what the corpse had called them, right? He had called them his servants, in the dream. Had it merely been a dream? Everything had been so lifelike. Their faces when they had died, their screams… He struggled to turn his thoughts away.

The soldier shook his head sadly. “They must have killed the garrison here. We came with eleven men; now there’s just the two of us. The rest were killed by—by these skal’va.” His eyes were downcast as he mulled thoughtfully. Suddenly, his gaze flickered up to meet Willem’s. “They did quite a number on you as well. We saw you when you came out the waygate.”

Kat gestured to the bandages on Willem’s chest. “We tried our best to patch you up, but we’re no healers. This was the best we could find here.” He sat back carefully, almost refusing to meet Willem’s eyes. “You were covered in wounds—I’d never seen anything like it. It was like—like pieces had been torn from your body, all over. I tried to clean you up, but it’ll take a while to heal.”

Willem opened his mouth to speak, but Kat suddenly shook his head. “There’s more.” he continued. “Your legs, they were a mess. Your foot was a crow-cursed mess. They’d gotten your toes to the bone. And your other one was festering; the skin was black.”

Willem did not quite understand what Kat was trying to say. He struggled to sit up, looking down at his leg slowly. When he finally made out what he was seeing, his breath caught in his throat. Hesitatingly, he tried to twitch his foot, only for phantom pains to shoot through him like a stabbing dagger. His gaze could not move, his eyes fixed on what he was seeing.

Kat finally looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes filled with a quiet guilt.

“We...had to amputate.”