Jeema was rather frustrated at Renard's disposition on the matter. A person that felt the need to manipulate the memories of others never has the most benign intentions or means. While she wasn't sure what kind of method whatever changeling was using to masquerade as a once dead individual, there were many other ways to force someone to remove their glamour.

She looked at "Henry" mingling among his friends, laughing and eating and drinking. She knew that this person was fake, he had to be. The person they knew as Henry had been dead for over a year. She saw him die right before her eyes. She knew of no spell to bring back the dead to as pristine of a creature as the one that stood amongst her friends.

Despicable! She internally remarked as she critically watched the creature talk the same way as their friend. Her fellow heroes that had been hesitant to engage with him at the beginning had begun to make bridges with this creature, talking about almost any inane topic an adolescent would come up with. The addition of people normally outside their friend group made the topic choices chaotic and unpredictable.

She felt a hand firmly squeeze her shoulder. She turned to look at a man bearing down his intense disapproval at her. Renard's green eyes put an intense pressure on her that made her feel hesitant to do anything out of the ordinary. The crow on his shoulder too bore down its sight upon her. It judged her and found her wanting.

"Don't do anything unwise to my son, dear girl," he warned. "Just enjoy the miracle that he's somehow alive."

Renard removed his hand from her shoulder and began moving towards the main group. He joined upon the merriment going on around Henry. It seemed that they've put their guards down after being surrounded by harmless civilians and booze. Foolish, for danger lurks closer this time than anywhere else.

She cut through the crowd and went straight for Henry who had been stuffing himself with pie in the past hour. He surrounded himself with his closest friends, Angar, Aspen, Lennard, and Grins. She could see that they're being hesitant with him, but their vigilance with this strange creature was fading with every second. Even with her back turned, she knew that Renard was glaring daggers at her.

She tapped the shoulder of Aspen. "What are you doing?" She asked her.

"I'm sorry, but he's so much like Henry. It's hard to differentiate him from the real thing," Aspen whispered back.

"Distance yourself. It could be a charm," she told her.

Jeema marched to in front of Henry. His mirthful face dissolved as she grabbed him harshly by the collar and pushed him to the floor. He fell on his butt on the floor and looked at her deep front very confusedly. She bore down her cold gaze upon this imposter.

Everyone's gazes turned to their direction when they heard the soft thud of flesh hit the floor. Henry had lost hold of his crutch and now its clatters upon the floor. Renard shot up from his seat, shocked to see the girl resort to something close to violence. He gave her a silent snarl that told her to stop whatever she was doing, but she did not relent.

"What the heck, Jeema?" Angar remarked. He gestured at the down creature.

"This is not Henry, Angar," Jeema coldly stated. She told him solid facts.

"Wha- what?" Henry gasped.

She was going to add more, but she was interrupted when Renard pulled her. He forced their eyes to meet and made his disapproval abundantly clear, but it could do little to move her. She had set ways, and she had the facts root her in place against the gale of lies.

"What do you think you're doing, girl?" He growled.

She pushed away his arms from her shoulders. She glared at him. Had he let his grief over his son prefer the fantasy of his continued life over the truth? He should seek acceptance of the loss. This mockery of his memory made by that despicable creature was no replacement to the truth.

"Henry's dead, Renard! Deal with it! He can't be here!" She told him with the full fervor of her spirit.

"Take that back!" Commanded Renard. He pushed the young woman, but he failed to make her fall to the floor "Henry's here and whole. He's alive!" He announced the full weight of his belief. Zeal dripped from the words he uttered.

The visiting villagers who only came for the food were now lost to the argument burning in their midst. They could only watch the chaos of words unfold before their eyes.

"Henry's dead," she repeated. Those words simply incensed Renard further. "That is the truth. I saw him turn to ash right before my eyes!"

"He's alive! He stands among us hale and whole! He is among us. Henry Greymight, my son is alive," he insisted, but it was no use. The doubt had been planted, and now it was germinating in the minds that witness this event.

"Henry is dead, and I will repeat this fact ad infinitum, but I believe that you cannot be moved. You're simply delusional," she replied. She drew her sword from her scabbard. It was a beautifully crafted sword that gleamed silver in the light and had a bronze guard decorated with golden stars.

In turn, Renard snatched a sword from one of the heroes that stood nearest to him. It had a similar design to the Jeema wielded. She only looked impassively as he held it like a fool who had never wielded or trained with a sword. As expected of a farmer, the weapon shook in his hands. He gritted his teeth as he squeezed the hilt in his hand.

She seemed not at all worried at the foe that now stood before her. Her confidence would be confirmed when before he could take a single swing the sword in his hands smoked and sizzled. He dropped the weapon onto the floor, scuffing his carefully waxed floor. He beheld his hands and saw that had been burned by the weapon's magic. He could see the imprint of the sword's hilt burned into the flesh of his palm.

"Only the righteous heroes of the truth can wield the heroic swords. You are clearly not, and as such its magic forbids you from and even punishes you for trying to wield it," she explained. She lowered her sword.

She looked onto the sad face of the man now examining his wounded hand. He was pitiful. "You should let go of this fantasy. Henry is dead."

Renard turned to her, and his face distorted into an expression of rage. He roared and jumped the woman. There was little the others could do to stop him from colliding into Jeema. Jeema widened her eyes from this display. She had expected him to give up, but he seemed to have an endless font of determination to defend the fantasy.

He wrestled her, shouting "Henry is alive," over and over as he tried to force them to accept it. He tried to bruise her through her armor, but he also injured himself as much on it. He reached for her weapon and threw it as far as he could. It flew through the air, implanting itself upon a far wall.

Jeema, on the other hand, retaliated with "Henry is dead." They wrestled on the floor, causing great disorder down there.

The other visitors tried to break the two up, but they were simply too strong to easily restrain. Renard was totally incensed. His whole being was drenched with wrath from every word that escaped this detestable girl. His fury granted him with greater power to resist the restrainers. He had to be forced to the ground with multiple people on his back to stop him from pummeling girl to chunks. He had lost a tooth or two from fight. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose, and his body had been riddled with discolored spots from the bruises he received.

Jeema was much simpler to restrain. She hadn't become as wrathful as Renard had. Only three folk were needed to keep her from creeping any closer to Renard's ears and whisper the awful truth over and over. Blood dripped from the wounds he had inflicted, especially the bite he dealt on her shoulder.

Their arguments had not yet even passed. Even in their bound positions, they continued hurling words denying and affirming the death of Renard's child.

Of course, Henry was there to witness their scuffle. While he could appreciate his father defending his continued life, he couldn't help but feel the words escaping Jeema's mouth more hurtful than they should be. While both of them uttered their words with absolute confidence and sincerity, one of them had a much more profound effect upon his psyche.

He looked into his hands, and he could see his father's words ring true. He examined their composition and found it real and living. This put greater credence to his father's words, yet the tearful look in Renard's eyes had cast doubt into that conclusion. Why would his father bear tears if Jeema wielded no truthful edge? Renard knew of the truth but refused to believe it.

His heart pounded in his ears, thumping like a foreboding bass drum. His hands shook as he looked at them so intensely that his focus pierced through his flesh. He wanted for the truth of his flesh to bare itself to his mind. The veil was broken, and his corporeal form flickered. His flesh and bones turned translucent right before his eyes. He could see Friend Crow looking at him with concerned eyes.

"Don't," it softly chirped.

He grabbed his crutch and helped himself up. The tapping of the crutch onto the wooden floor attracted the attention of everyone. Their eyes widened as they saw the ghastly form of Henry. The colors of skin and garments had been bleached out into a ghostly grey.

He wanted to cry. His eyes became wet with tears. He opened his mouth and asked, "Father, is it true that I'm dead?"

Renard suddenly gained the strength to overpower the four people dogpiling on him. He barreled across the room and embraced the crying child. "No no, you're not. You're alive..."

He wept on the back of his dying child. "You're Henry Chandler Greymight, son of Renard Greymight from Crein and Rachel Woods Chandler. You were born on the outskirts of the village of Kelry on the third day of the fifth month...," he enumerated the facts to Henry. He named his every hobby, every skill, every friend, and every attribute. He whispered them into Henry's ears reminding him of what makes him him. But despite his valiant effort, he couldn't stop him from fading completely from existence.

Right in his grasp, Henry's form disintegrated, turning to ash and dust. His crutch, Second Chance, clattered on the floor as its holder became deceased. Renard was left kneeling on the floor on the pile of ashes that had once been his living son. Tears fell liberally from his eyes as he wept at the loss of his son.

Jeema approached the man. She went to console him of his loss. She put her hand on his shoulder, but as her palm touched him, he suddenly shot up from his kneeling position. He turned and grabbed her by her wrists. She tried to pull away, but his grasp was too strong.

"You..." Renard spoke. His voice shook with the wrath that boiled in his heart. Hot venom dripped from his fangs as he glared straight into Jeema's eyes. "You killed him."

Jeema struggled some more to pull her hand, but his grip felt immovable. She shook her head at his declaration. "He's already dead long before today," she rebuked.

A dark oppressive aura emanated from his form. The visitors shrank away from his menacing presence, but the heroes stood defiant. They drew his swords as the person they knew as Renard physically transformed. The man hulked out before them; his once lean limbs thickened with muscle. His hands twisted, being replaced by a monstrous hand armed with silver claws. His face extended forming a snout, and sharp carnivorous dentition furnished his now elongated mouth. He looked at them with beastly green eyes as grey fur sprouted all over his body. He snarled, expressing openly his great rage and displeasure.

It seemed like the demon had possessed Renard, feeding on his grief over the death of his child. It had turned him into a monster, a baleful werewolf to devour them. The visiting neighbors absconded from the scene, but the heroes bravely remained to fight the menace that had appeared before them.

Aspen rushed to Jeema's aid, swinging her sword to slice the monster's hand gripping on her friend. Her strike had missed its hand as it let go just as it was about to hit. She pulled friend away from the dangerous creature. Jeema readied her sword for the upcoming fight.

The monster pointed one of its clawed fingers at them. "He was alive before today," it answered with a voice deeper and bassier than Renard's. "You will pay for what you've done!"

The monster held out its hand and announced, "Frontier! Come to me!" Suddenly, threads of golden light appeared out of nowhere and began weaving a shape atop its palm. It was nova of light that blinded them. When their vision had returned, the light in its hand had hardened and solidified into a golden halberd. It twirled this polearm expertly in its hand.

The monster took one step forward and swung the weapon in its hand. It swept across many heroes that had dared to step too close to it. Their shields shattered against its monstrous sweep. Their swords couldn't properly parry the head-heavy arm. The monstrous might carried behind the sweep threw some of their number into the wooden walls behind them.

Those that stood safely out of reach were astonished by the power borne by the monster before. A number of their allies had been thrown into the walls. Their bodies crumpled against the force, but thanks to their heroic constitution, only sported bruises.

Sweat dripped across Jeema's face as she analyzed the beast in their midst. It was more powerful than the wild monster that occasionally jumps out of the forests. Worse, rather than a monster born from fear of wild animals, they faced a monster born from fellow humans. It held the weapon in its hand with great mastery and finesse. It gazed upon them with detached eyes.

With such a wide-reaching arm, they couldn't win against this monster in the confined quarters of Renard's home. They must engage it in wide open outside where they can take advantage of differing angles. "We need to take the fight outside," she told her comrades, and they agreed. They can't properly fight this monster in such claustrophobic circumstances.

But the monster wanted to press its advantage for as long as possible. It can't let them take the battle outside where their advantages reign supreme. As the heroes took steps out the door, the monster held out its left hand. Golden light surrounded it like a glove. It kneeled and forcefully pounded its glowing hand upon the wooden floor.

The yellow light flowed through the fibers of the wood, traveling a straight line towards all possible exits. It spread to the frames of all the doors and windows out the room. Fueled by its magic, plants quickly grew to block the exits with their woody bulk. They blocked all passages, even those that led deeper into the house. Now the heroes stood trapped within the room with the monster.

The heroes had to split up or else its wide sweeps would hit multiple of them at once. They couldn't move close enough to inflict wounds upon the werewolf's body. The planks beneath their feet had suffered deep fissures from the weapons striking.

They had to resort to spells to inflict damage from afar. Martin Gleeson had cast a spell that turned the floor to slippery ice but to their surprise, the monster's traction wasn't affected one bit. It trod upon the frozen floor as though it was dry coarse ground. It even managed to give a forceful kick that threw fragments of ice like sand.

Aspen Everin chanted her short cantrip. A bolt of fire flew from her hands from every verse of magic she uttered. The monster nimbly dodged her projectiles. The bolts flew over its head and struck the far wall, setting afire to the wooden building.

The monster seemed alarmed at this development, and so were the heroes. The monster moved much more quickly and recklessly. It swung much more quickly and unpredictably. This disoriented the heroes who were getting comfortable with its attack patterns. One by one, the heroes were struck, thrown and immobilized, laying by the walls, bleeding and bruised. Some even fell unconscious.

Soon, Jeema was the only one left standing against the monster. She was running swiftly around the monster. It turned ponderously to meet her gaze. Its face was warped by an angry frown.

Then she found her chance. She closed on the monster, readying her sword to strike. The monster's back was wide open, unarmored and vulnerable. Even just one bleeding wound, that was all she wanted and she would be brought to hope.

Then, as unexpected as a disaster, the monster turned lightning quick. It was now facing her. Its arm was mid-swing, whistling as it cut through the air. She was sent off course. She went sliding towards a wall where laid crumpled in pain. Moving was a chore that brought her pain just from trying. The strike had dislocated her shoulder and disabled her good fighting arm. Her sword was thrown far from her.

She laid there helpless by the wall. The house around her was burning. The flames eating through the wood crackled in their meal. The monster strode up to her, holding its awesome golden halberd. Disapproval and displeasure dripped from fangs in its mouth. It glared its menacing green eyes down at her as its stout form loomed over her.

"The deaths of your friends will be left unknown to the greater world," the monster began. "But you, I have something special prepared for you. I will wrap up your, gather your ashes and parade it all over the nation. Everyone will learn of your death. In the same vein of the legend that made you live, I will use it to make you forever die!"

It raised its halberd, readying chop the helpless heroine. "Die!"

Jeema closed her eyes, fearful of the axe about to fall, but it never did. Instead of her skull being split open by the implement, she was hit with nothing. Nothing happened. Every sound that was ringing in her surroundings was suddenly silenced by a mysterious force.

She opened her eyes and she found herself alone in the room. The monster or her comrades weren't in the room. She was alone in what appeared to be Renard's living room.

That wasn't the only oddity. The world was bleached and grey, all its colors sapped away. The flames that gnawed upon the wood were frozen, and instead of red, they were a ghostly teal. The air was deathly still and silent, it was as if not a single life was breathing.

The only thing that popped out in the oddity of the situation was the cuckoo clock on the other wall. Unlike everything else in the room, it was still moving like it wasn't affected by the freezing effect. Its pendulum was swinging with its usual regularity as though there wasn't any oddity.

The seconds were passing on the clock. A minute or two passed as she looked upon the odd clock, and then it hit twelve, and the clock chimed to welcome the new hour. The clock's chalet door opened, letting exit the creature that lived within.