Rain poured down like a waterfall outside Matthaeus’ window, as he sat on a dresser next to it. The glassless arrow slit let in the heavy scent of the rain, which pounded the earth and turned the courtyards outside into mud slicks. Morning had come, yet the sky had hardly lightened, the dark clouds overhead scarcely letting through the faintest glow of sun.

There would be no leaving the keep today in this weather. Griff had come to his door early in the morning to inform him, then promptly left without saying much else.

A crack of light split the air, somewhere far in the distance. A few seconds later and the boom of thunder followed, shaking Matthaeus’ chest with the force of it.

He wondered if he’d seen storms like this sometime in the past, too.

There was little else in the keep for him to do, it seemed, with the weather this way. There would be no courtyard training with Reyland, and certainly no more rooftop stargazing. So he waited in his room, sitting atop the dresser he had dragged next to the window, and watched the rain beat down like an angry god lashing out against the earth.

His dagger laid across his lap, his hands absentmindedly playing with it. He’d slid it just an inch out of its sheath, touch a thumb to its razor edge gently, then put it away again. His hands traced over the plain, iron pommel the way he’d seen Reyland do a hundred times over, familiarising himself with every groove, every curve and edge.

It was beginning to feel like his now, not just a stranger’s. A curiosity still rose to the surface when he wondered how he’d gotten it, why he had this dagger that supposedly belonged to the Order. Had he found it? Had someone given it to him?

Just what happened, inside the Blight?

Find people, knights and soldiers… tell them what you saw! Warn them, warn everyone!

It was getting harder to remember the sound of the woman’s voice as time went on, but he struggled to remember more anyways. Just what had he seen? What was he meant to warn people of? His own lack of remembrance frustrated him.

He got up abruptly from the dresser, leaving the window and the rain behind. He threw on his boots, then his newest piece of clothing: a heavy riding cloak. It had been a gift from Lord Aubrey, a simple cloak of dark grey wool with a hood, which had been cut short to fit someone his height. It was meant to be a parting gift from the kindly lord for their departure, delivered by Griff when he had visited Matthaeus’ room this morning, and it was Matthaeus’ first time putting it on. It hung to his ankles, completely enveloping him front and back, held together with a simple iron clasp in the front.

Matthaeus left his room, descending to the courtyard quietly. As he left the back door of the keep into the same courtyard he had trained with Reyland in just yesterday he pulled the hood up over his head, stepping out into the frigid air and the rain. The cloak kept him dry even as the water beat down over his head and shoulders, and he strode across the courtyard alone.

The barrel of wooden training weapons lay just where he remembered it. He pulled a sword from the barrel, the same one as yesterday, pulling his hood back down once he was under the cover of the stable roof.

He looked around the courtyard nervously, unsure if anyone had seen him, or if anyone would be mad if they did. He hadn’t exactly been given permission to be out here, but he hadn’t been forbidden either… surely it was fine, then?

His cloak was now a bit heavy, having become damp in the brief walk across the courtyard. It weighed on him, but he pushed it to the side anyways as he gripped the wooden sword in both hands.

Had it been like this, that Reyland showed him to stand? He shuffled his feet, trying to remember, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in concentration. He tried a test swing, accidentally throwing himself off balance from the weight of the blade and having to catch himself as he almost fell forwards.

With a determined look on his face, he steadied himself, and tried again. Again and again, until the frustration was gone.

The air had turned cold now, and even while practising, he had to keep the cloak on to avoid shivering. He eyed the storm as he practised, noting how it seemed to be growing stronger as time went on. The rain was beating nearly sideways now, as howling gales of wind came down from the north. Thankfully the stable lined the wall of the keep itself, and the tall stone walls blocked the rain for him. He felt sorry for the guards that he could still see up on top of the wall and the towers.

Nearly half an hour went by, and Matthaeus still found himself frustrated. He just couldn’t pull his mind from the questions he had, and his strikes with the sword had become clumsy as he lost focus. It was then that an idea came to him.

He put away the wooden sword, and drew his dagger instead. The dull grey steel glinted back at him dangerously, reflecting off what little light there was in the storm. He imagined that the answers to every question he had were locked away in this blade, if only it could just speak to him.

Matthaeus raised the dagger, holding it somewhat loosely in his left hand, trying to mimic the exact posture and grip Reyland used for his shortsword. The dagger was much shorter than Reyland’s shortsword, but given Matthaeus’ size, it was only a tiny bit shorter in proportion to his body. The looser grip was uncomfortable, so different from how he normally held it in his right hand in a tight, hammer fisted grip, but he forced himself to keep it steady anyways.

The blade had a weighty, powerful feel, balanced somewhere between a thrusting dagger and a slashing weapon. In Matthaeus’ hand, it seemed to almost come alive, begging to be used.

He tried an experimental swing, careful and tentative. The blade sang through the air, the movement surprisingly effortless. Much easier than the thicker, heavier wooden blade. Something about this felt natural, felt right.

Matthaeus wracked his brain, trying to remember the way he’d seen Reyland fight. Against the wolves, or against the imaginary enemies he seemed to dance against in his training. The boy raised the dagger up into a forwards guard, closing his eyes to imagine more clearly what he had seen. His body shifted stance, adjusting closer to what he remembered.

His next few strikes felt much better. He could feel it now, how to twist and turn, using his torso for power even on the smallest cuts. The feeling brought a sense of satisfaction that he hadn’t felt all morning. With a deep breath he opened his eyes again, looking down at his dagger with determination.

If he couldn’t unravel the secrets of his dagger, he was at least going to learn how to use it. How to protect himself, so Arthur and Matilda wouldn’t have to worry about him. How to protect others, so he wouldn’t have to hide away in a basement ever again. How to fight, so he could be like the people that had saved him.

His amber eyes turned steely, concentration settling into every pore of his being. He took another test swing, then another, then lunged forwards in a short thrust. He froze, holding the dagger out fully extended, before drawing it back slowly and looking it over. It hadn’t changed visually, but he felt a sense of grim determination every time he looked upon it.

Next time something happened, he was going to be ready.

Torrential rain crashed down around a man in the black armour of the Order. He spurred his horse with a cry, his mare renewing her sprint through the muddy fields as he checked behind him with a panicked look in his eye.

“They’re gaining!” A woman cried behind him, trying to load a crossbow mid-gallop. “Jerrick, send-”

His own crossbow shot towards her, the bolt flying just a few feet past her head, cutting her sentence short with a surprised yelp.

The dark shape chasing them cried out, too, as the bolt pierced its hide.

“Hurry!” Jerrick yelled, spurring his horse once again.

The woman, pale as a sheet and soaked to the bone, gave a terrified nod. She kicked her own horse, racing past the man as he slowed to take his turn at the rear.

Dark figures flickered through the grasses and grains behind him, never appearing for more than a moment, never presenting a target. Not until they went for the kill. Every nerve in his body was strung, his eyes flicking from one opening to the next, every breath ragged.

“Shit, knew Arcaster was a goner,” he spat under his breath. “Should’ve left ‘em to rot.”

A formless, indescribable shape lunged at him from out of nowhere. Cursing loudly he swung his crossbow, releasing a bolt straight into it. The monstrous screech that followed sent a shiver down his spine, even as he immediately began loading the crossbow again.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he repeated. “These things ain’t normal, they just ain’t!”

“Quit your bitching, damnit!” A man yelled, dropping back to ride beside him. He fired his own crossbow instantly, followed by a growl and snarl of pain from somewhere in the bushes.

“Harry!” Jerrick yelled, recognizing the middle aged man next to him. “How’s the advance group? Are they clear yet?”

“Not yet, Leeman’s guiding them towards a cliffside, we should be able to lose them there! Or at least funnel them down to single file!”

“Won’t that put us into single file then, too?!”

“You got a better plan, then?!” Harry snarled back. “We need to reach the keep, and we won’t make it at this rate!”

Jerrick cursed loudly again.

“Just keep ‘em off our backs a while longer, we’re almost-”

Then, where Harry had been a moment before, there was nothing. A dark blur shot out from a bush and with a strangled yelp, Harry was simply gone.

“Shit!” Jerrick yelled, firing a bolt off into the field where the shape had gone. “Harry!”

Harry’s horse kept running, picking up speed without her rider. But as shapes began to come out of the field on all sides, the lone horse panicked. Braying loudly she split off from Jerrick and the few other Ordained guarding the rear, striking out in her own direction.

Something huge rose out of the field, its form hidden by the darkness of the storm and the endless rows of unharvested wheat. It was shaped something like a bear, but towered over the horse easily. A single swipe of the beast’s arm knocked the horse to the ground, and Jerrick had enough time to see the beast pick up the still struggling horse in its maw before he turned away with a shudder.

The beast had been looking right at him. He’d seen its purple eyes, glinting even through the rain and the darkness.

“This ain’t right, this aint bloody right,” Jerrick whispered in panic. “Fifteen bloody years Ordained, never seen a damn thing like this. Not a damn thing!”

He heard a woman scream from somewhere to his right. Another of his fellows gone, another lone horse running alongside him. He didn’t even have time to register who it had been.

Maybe if he lived to see this through, he’d find out.

“Yah, yah!” He yelled, kicking his heels deep into his horse. His crossbow was once again loaded and he began checking behind him desperately for signs of the beasts.

“On the left!” A man screamed from a ways beside him. He turned, watching the gaps in the wheat, until he saw it. Dark fur, a blurred form, quickly gaining on not him and those guarding the rear, but sneaking past them.

Towards the unprotected backs of the group in front of them. The riders who carried the entire village of Arcaster on horseback.

“Behind, behind!” Another voice yelled, as Jerrick loosed his crossbow. He cursed under his breath as the bolt missed by a wide margin, the beast darting forwards unnaturally fast right as he shot.

It leaped into the air and onto the back of the rider in front of it, dragging them off their horse, and the villager that rode on the horse in front of them, too.

Jerrick grit his teeth and went to reload, only for a cold shiver of panic to go down his spine. He felt around his quiver, slowly at first, then rapidly. At last he looked down, confirming what he already knew.

He was out of bolts.

“Someone!” Jerrick shouted, his voice an octave higher than it normally was. “Someone, come take my place, I’m ou-”

The sound of thunderous, beating wings came from behind him, and his shout ended in a strangled gulp. He had enough time to turn around, seeing a massive shadow above him with a horrifying clarity.

Wings that blocked out the sky. A serpentine tail. A lizard-like head at the end of a long, sinewy neck and glowing orange eyes, burning straight into him.

Then the shadow fell over him, and he was no more.