Once outside Skole's stone house, Aldor and the two guards dragged the two boys through the mining camp to the hidden gate in the south wall. Though Max tried to struggle, his limbs were kept rigid by Aldor's magic, stiff like a corpse. He couldn't even move his eyes to the left or right, so powerful was the mage's spell. All he saw was the dark, hard packed dirt moving past a few inches from his nose.

If anyone had seen them during the rough journey, Max wasn’t aware of it. And even if any of the guards stationed atop the walls had noticed (even in darkness, the group probably was hard to miss), they would've recognized Aldor immediately and known better than to stick their noses where they weren’t welcome. No doubt, they'd turn around and pretend like they didn't see a thing. Later, the incident would probably circle throughout the guardhouse, punctured with the shaking of heads and laughter at the boys' obvious stupidity. But in a few days, the whole thing would be forgotten, along with Max and Alby.

The grim reality of their situation quickly became apparent. Max knew there'd be nobody coming to save them.

At the gate, the group paused, and Max found himself dropped roughly to the ground. Though he was unable to turn his head, he heard the soft thump of Alby’s body falling beside him.

Aldor’s thin, haughty voice cut the silence. “Look at me," he said. "Are you two drunk?”

The question confused Max. Why was the wizard asking about his possible inebriation minutes before he was to be put to death? It didn’t make any sense, and Max couldn't move a muscle, so much as roll over and look at his captor. But after a few murmurs and shuffling of feet from the guards, he realized Aldor hadn’t been talking to him.

“Uhhhh…” mumbled one guard.

“Jus’ a little,” said the other, in a voice that sounded like a boulder rolling down a hill.

“I expect that from Grayle. But you, Chilton?”

“Sorry boss,” said the second guard, which Max deduced was Chilton. “Was playin’ cards. Didn’t expect all this.”

The wizard snorted. “Nobody did. I was in the middle of an important experiment, myself. I’d like to get back to it. Can I trust you dimwits to take care of this issue quietly, without my supervision?”

“Heh. Not our first time. We knows what to do.”

“Then I won’t need to remind you the consequences of... fucking it up?”

“Uh-uh.” One of the guards' feet shifted nervously. Max didn't know whose.

“Good. Then get to it. Make sure you loot the body of the blond-haired one for Proprietor Skole’s things, and bring them to my tower after you’re finished. We found him rummaging around the proprietor's bedroom.”

“Got it boss.”

As the wizard’s soft footsteps retreated, Max was again hauled up by the back of his shirt.

However, this time he was lifted higher. Then, Chilton’s hot breath was against his ear.

“You cost me a good hand of cards, rat,” said the guard, reeking of peanuts and alcohol. “You’re gonna pay fer that.” The man then addressed his companion. “C’mon Grayle. Time to give these sacks of shit what they deserves.”

Grayle guffawed stupidly, and the sound of rusted iron hinges rent the hush of night.

Moments later, Max was yanked forward again, his boots jostling over the rough ground. Though he tried to fill his spinning head with hope, with a plan, there was a voice in the back of his mind, louder than all the rest—for it knew. It knew that each step was bringing him closer and closer to his death.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

“Stop,” said Chilton, several minutes later. He dropped Max to the ground. “This is far enough.”

The two guards had dragged the boys out of the small iron gate, away from the palisade walls and down the sloping green towards the dark maw of the Valterre forest. The closer to woodland edge they got, the wilder the grass, and before long the guards were having difficulty pulling Max and Alby through the thick, thigh-high foliage. The cool grass whipped pass Max's face, but he found he was at least able to close his eyelids now to avoid being pricked by the thin blades. Above him, the guards' breathing had become strained and heavy.

“But Aldor said ter bring ‘em all the way into the woods,” said Grayle, between deep inhales. “So we ain’t seen.”

“Look around, dummy.” Chilton motioned towards Brix, the settlement’s walls now a thin line in the distance. Without torchlight, everything tended to blend together in dark hues of blue and black. “You think anyone is gonna see from there?”

“Whatever.” Grayle shrugged and unceremoniously let Alby fall to the ground, who shifted and groaned. It seemed the wizard’s spell was finally beginning to wane. “Ain’t my call.”

Max tested his own limbs. Indeed, he found he was able to move his fingers and toes ever so slightly. His arms and legs were still heavy, like being stuck in thick mud, but at least he no longer felt like a stiff statue of flesh. It was enough to roll over onto his back. At this particular moment, any progress was good. If he could just stall the guards a little longer…

“Looks like Aldor's handiwork is beginnin’ to wear off,” said Chilton.

“Yep. So which one you wanna do first?”

Chilton withdrew his club from the loop in his belt and pointed it at Alby. “Him.”

No! Max wanted to scream. Not yet! Wait!

He began struggling against the weakening magical bindings, but all he could do was roll side to side. The spell was still too strong. He tried to speak, but could form no words. It must've looked pitiful.

“Mmmpfh, mmstp! Nnnh!” was all Max could utter. His tongue wouldn't cooperate, his mouth felt stuffed with cotton.

“What’s that?” said Chilton. “Speak up, boy! Didn’t your mama ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”

Grayle guffawed. “Yeah, you ain’t makin’ no sense!”

With a meaty hand, the guard had lifted up Alby’s scrawny frame by the back of his tunic. He held him upright, like a giant, limp puppet. In the darkness, Max couldn’t make out Alby’s expression, but he saw the boy’s boots feebly scraping on the ground, trying to find footing.

“Well, if you’ve got nothin’ to say, there’s no use delayin’ the inevitable!”

Without so much as a warning, Chilton brought his club down upon Alby’s head with a sickening crunch.

It happened so quickly that, at first, Max barely registered what had just happened. Even Grayle inhaled sharply, so unexpected was the blow. Still, the fat guard held Alby steadily, as the boy’s head lolled side to side.

Above Alby’s bloodied head, his health bar had appeared, rapidly depleting, casting a pale glow over its surroundings. In the dim blue light, Max could see the pain taking over his friend’s face, the confusion and shock furrowing his brow.

“No!” Max screamed, finally managing to form an intelligible word.

Summoning all of his strength and willpower, he tried to stand, throwing everything he had at the invisible bindings woven around him. Alby’s not dead yet. His health bar had fallen below 15%, but there it held steady. If Max could just get him to a bed, he’d heal up overnight, good as new…

Max managed to bring himself to his knees, before a heavy boot connected with his gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back to the ground. Pain blossomed where the blow struck, and Max’s own health bar appeared above his head, losing a sliver of health. He coughed feebly.

“Stay down!” barked Chilton. “Before the next one finds your face.” The guard turned back towards Alby’s wobbling form. He raised his club once more. “Guess you’re a two-hitter.”

Again, Max struggled to his knees. He needed to do something! Needed to… needed to do what? What could he do? He had no ability, no skills, no power to affect anything… but maybe if he could just get to his feet, if he could just—

The club came down again, savagely.

This time, Max looked up to see his friend’s health bar approaching zero. In that short span of time, Alby managed one last look around. His eyes met Max, showing… pain, yes, but there was something else there too. Disbelief. Denial. Just before the light left his eyes completely, another emotion overtook the boy's young features.

Fear.

Alby wasn't prepared for this. Neither of them had fully thought through the consequences of failure. It almost didn't feel real.

I’m sorry, Max mouthed, sobbing. It’s my fault, I’m so sorry! If he hadn’t been so obsessed with making more coin, if he had thought his plan through better, if he had just kept his stupid mouth shut and not involved anyone, least of all his closest friend in this world…

Alby’s health bar zeroed. A final breath left the bloodied and beaten boy, before a death timer appeared above his body.

Max slumped. There was basically nothing he could do now. Even though the death timer lasted an hour, during which a player could be resurrected, he didn't have any way of reviving his friend. Only high-level magic users had resurrection abilities, and potions were outrageously expensive. There was no way either of these guards could afford one.

“Finally! I thought one good smack would’ve done it,” said Chilton. He laughed. “You rats sure have thick skulls.”

The big guard pushed aside his companion and came to stand over the dead boy. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of remorse in his dark eyes. Indeed, as Chilton twirled his club and scratched the rough beard across his chin, in the moonlight he looked… pleased.

“Any minute now,” he said.

As the seconds ticked by, something began to push up from the center of Alby’s crumbled body. A brown cloth lootbag appeared, cinched around the top with a piece of yellow thread.

“Oh ho! There we go.” Chilton grabbed the bag with glee. He tapped it to bring up a semi-transparent window in the air, then scrolled down the list with his grubby finger, looking for items to move into his own inventory. “Damn rats,” he grumbled, “besides the proprietor's stuff, there’s hardly anything in here. Only some ragged clothes and vittles. Barely any coin, neither!”

The guard took the money and Skole's possessions, before dropping the lootbag back on to the ground without a second thought. The seconds of Alby's death timer continued to tick by, but at this point, Max had almost fully resigned himself to his fate. Chilton had already begun wiping the blood off his club, so Max expected to be hauled up next.

Instead, Chilton turned towards his companion and tugged his belt.

“I got to take a leak behind those trees. Been holdin' it since the guardhouse. Make sure he don’t get away.”

“'Kay.”

“And don’t do anything stupid! Wait till I get back.”

As Grayle grunted in affirmation, Chilton slipped his club back through his belt loop and began trudging towards the treeline. Grayle watched his dark figure fade into the darkness of the treeline thirty feet away.

The next thing Max knew, the fat guard was pulling him up by the front of his shirt.

“Chilton thinks he gets to have all the fun,” said Grayle. He spat on the ground. “Well he ain’t the boss of me!” The ugly man grinned, his mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. “He gets one, I get one. Fair is fair, eh rat?"

Even though the wizard’s spell had all but worn off by now, Max allowed himself to be held there. Witnessing his friend being clubbed to death in front of his eyes took all the fight out of him. He was just a simple miner, after all. He could try to fight back, but compared to Grayle, his level was much too low. Like a child punching an ogre, he’d hardly make a scratch.

Grayle was dull as rocks, but even he knew this. It didn’t take a genius to understand power imbalance.

“Hold still now. If I hit you just right, it’ll only take one swing. Critical like. You won’t feel a thing. Otherwise—" he jerked his head towards Alby’s limp form on the ground behind him. “You don’t wanna go out like that, do ya? Owie!" The man laughed, genuinely amused by the murder.

Resigned to his fate now, Max felt like closing his eyes. A peace began to overcome him, a lightness of being that accompanies surrender. That feeling grew and grew, and it would've washed over him completely... if not for a faint voice in the depths of Max's awareness, quiet and indistinct. Wasn't he angry at this unbeatable circumstance? it seemed to ask. Max never had a chance, in either world. Where was his fury at the unfairness of it all?

That voice, where was it coming from? Another one of Aldor's tricks?

Max glanced around, but saw nothing but darkness and Grayle's ugly mug, still twisted into a grin.

Holding Max up with one effortless arm, the guard pulled out his club and lined it up with the side of the boy’s head.

“Alright then,” he said, squinting with one eye to judge the distance.

Max winced, but not because he bracing for the incoming blow. The voice in his head had grown louder. With each passing second, it continued to increase in intensity. At first it was merely a buzzing sound, but now it thundered like a rushing torrent, repeating its command over and over and over again, consuming him from the inside:

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

“Any last words, rat?” said Grayle. He brought the club back and wound up his arm.

Suddenly, between the incessant command booming inside his skull, Max felt something solid materialize in his hand. In his confusion and alarm, Max found himself unable to open his eyes.

What was it? A handle of some kind?

A scream began coiling in his lungs, primal, furious. It tore its way up his throat, and the moment it found its release, Max lost control, like some foreign host now possessed his body. All the while that voice raged, pounding painfully within his skull.

KILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKIL—

Then, as soon as it had began, it was over. The voice was gone.

Max sensed his body returning to him, the feeling of his limbs, his ragged breath. It seemed he was still alive. He slowly opened his eyes, followed the line of his arm… There, at the end in his trembling hand, was a dagger, slick with blood—

And not his own.

Grayle, meanwhile, was no longer grinning.

The cruel man had let go of Max completely, clutched both hands around his neck. Blood spilled from between his fingers like a red spring. The health bar above his head was falling, quickly, close to zero now.

The wide-eyed guard gave one last gurgle, before crumpling to the ground, dead.