Epilogue

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Deep beneath the ground, by the fireplace, built by the hands of a hired craftsman, sat two women. The first, a slender beauty with thick golden hair, wrapped in a sheet, was nestled right by the fire with a sturdy comb and was now laboriously combing her luxurious mane. The other, more like a teenage girl, had her feet up in a massive leather armchair and was reading some kind of book. The darkness did not disturb her.

The carpets hung on the walls, worn in some places, covered the rough masonry of the stone walls and made the small dwelling cozy. A large bearskin lay on the floor, weapons hung in a dull glow, and the firelight reflected in the candlesticks polished to a shine. The room had two doors, or should I say two passages, which led to separate rooms, also furnished. The risen now had no need for money and provided themselves with as much comfort as they could. True, Hustin's bedroom was almost always empty: he spent most of his time in the castle, in the chambers of his mentor. The blessed Tairan was influential enough to bring the talented apprentice out from under the power of the spiders.

The security service watched over them tightly, but its capabilities were not limitless. It didn't get to Tarrasch and his family. The blacksmith's kinship with one of the risen could not be concealed at all, but the spiders were persuaded that Hustin had no contact with his former family. Likewise, the risen defended the inn, although Varek had to hire three informants and report regularly to the guards. Celeste, however, sincerely thought they got off easy - originally Kardeh was going to appoint a new manager. He agreed only in a fit of good mood after the first task was completed by the new subordinates. Successfully completed.

To be fair, they rarely killed. More often they stole or planted documents, eavesdropped on secret conversations, sometimes intimidated people during interrogations. The presence of a ghoul loosened tongues faster than the skill of the most fierce executioner. Relationships with colleagues were bad: aware of their essence, the living stayed away from dangerous predatory monsters. Only a strong person can ignore instilled with childhood attitudes and prohibitions, suppress instinctive animal fear, and in the mass of safeguards special emotional qualities were not different. They were smart, well educated, and trained, but nothing more.

Celesta considered the most unpleasant part of the service to be the duty to destroy, or, as they now said, to put to rest the insane relatives. The baron rightly believed that it was easier for his subordinates to deal with the newly risen undead than with humans: even trained groups of fighters were in serious danger when they hunted the undead. For the most part, they were, but Celesta dreaded the moment when she would face not an insane bloodsucker, but an ex-human like herself, a man who simply wanted to survive. Whether Kardeh would allow such a man to be spared, she did not know.

"Remember when you intended to go home?" Medea put the comb aside suddenly. The next night she was going to pay a visit to an official who had caught Kardeh's interest, and so she wanted to look like a living ideal. How the woman would get the information she needed was of no concern to the Baron, he needed the result. He would even turn a blind eye if the rebel slightly feeds his lover - as long as he did not notice anything. Medea had long asserted that blood, seasoned with passion, had a special power.

"That's strange. Why did you bring that up?"

"I just thought you'd been quiet about your past for a long time."

"Maybe because the alien who wanted to escape is long gone, dissolved," Celesta shrugged. "There's no longer a man named Andrew, only vague memories of him. Seriously, I consulted the mages in the castle. Careful - a word there, a question there. They can't help, they don't have the necessary knowledge."

"Is that so?" Medea moved closer to her friend, cautiously asked: "What if they knew a way? Would you have left?"

The deceptively fragile risen woman tore herself away from the book. She looked around the room. She closed her eyes and remembered the fury of the hunt and the taste of blood on her lips, the drying constant hunger, the filth and stench of unwashed bodies, the pain of the touch of silver weapons, and the terror in people's eyes. The minute-by-minute struggle with the approaching madness, when the will alone makes you see not food but reasonable individuals as living. The days in the sewers, the squeamishness of the spider officers, the hatred of the victims. She shifted her gaze to Medea clutched at her feet and answered firmly: "No!"

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