That night, whether they were sleeping tightly or gazing at the mesmerizing red moon, the people of Gaunnes suddenly felt a nasty wave of darkness sweep through them. It brought them to a cold sweat and unknown visceral fear. Many could not recognize the feeling, and fewer wanted to find out. Babies started crying, children saw nightmares, adults felt anxious and some became manic. All animals fled from the dukedom. Orel saw it up close. The skies opened by four giant rays of red light that erupted from the ground like volcanoes, only to curve back toward the center point. The red energy felt prickling against the skin yet cold like death. Up close it was not a single explosion but hundreds and hundreds of people turning into husks as their bodies dried and souls burned. Orel, or anyone for that matter, would not know it yet, but over twelve thousand lives had been snuffed out like candles. Soldiers nearest to the ritual were brought to their knees by sheer despair. Some even passed out from shock. Far worse was that it was no accident. All went as planned.

Orel saw the incident firsthand, unaffected by the ritual yet still feeling restless and utterly devastated. The amount of death and suffering brought him to his knees. The city-wide carnage was gone in a moment, leaving only a lingering feeling of dread.

“Dear God, what was that?“James could hardly keep himself up. He turned to the telepath, who had curled up to a ball and murmured nonsense.

“What is it, officer?” James shook him.

“It's here. No, I don't want to. We're doomed.” Folkland muttered.

His mind was torn like tissue paper, crumbled, and thrown into the wind.

“Snap out of it! We need to inform the Duke!” James tugged the telepath up.

“I can’t. The noise won’t stop. We’re going to die.”

“What noise?”

James stopped as he heard a distant rumbling. The distant sound of galloping overthrew the whistling wind. James turned to look at the sky and saw the omen of death. A ghostly pack of hunters on horseback riding on the clouds over the village. They loomed like a mirage over the town, hopping from cloud to cloud. They wore armor and clothes, corroded by time like themselves. With weapons drawn, the hunt master led the charge. A faceless hunter adorning a hood, it led the troops to collect damned souls lost in the woods.

“The wild hunt.” James' jaw dropped.

They descended to the village, rummaging through the streets like a stampede, yelling ghostly moans while their countless hunting dogs barked on all doors. While they took all lives that tried but did not escape, their dogs dragged the ones trapped inside the houses.

“They came to gather the souls of the dead,” Diarmuid said.

“Is everyone dead?” Orel asked, watching the houses.

“I am afraid so."

The wild hunt finished their business and charged to the forest. The huntmaster stopped when nearing the fog. The other ghouls stopped behind it, waiting for orders. The huntmaster stood in silence as if realized something.

“What is it doing?” James asked.

With the cape on its back fluttering like a flag, the huntmaster turned to look in their general direction. James stared back at it, looking at the dark figure under the hood. Its eyes gleamed in the moonlight, where James could see a small glimpse of the face for a moment. It was far more horrid than he could ever describe, a look of utter apathy towards life and with no sympathy left to give to those who walk the earth. Its moon-silver gaze penetrated James to his very soul.

James looked away as he could not bare it any longer. The huntmaster took out his sword and raised it high above his head. James stood back, prepared to fight. The huntmaster swung his sword down with the strength of a hurricane. After all, it held the power of the howling autumn wind. James shut his eyes, yet found himself fine. Instead, the huntmaster cut the mist before him. The fog parted, disappearing without a trace. The huntmaster turned his horse to face the forest and rode off, his undead party following behind. Their sounds echoed through the woods, finally subsiding and vanishing with them like a lingering trail of smoke.

James felt a sigh of relief, only for his radio to pick up once again.

“Major, do you copy?” Jessie asked.

“This is Major Periwinkle, reading loud and clear.” James took out the radio. “Over.”

“Thank heavens; you finally picked up,” Jessie was ready to jump with joy. “We’ve been trying to contact you, but your telepath stopped answering our messages. Over.”

“The mist is now gone, so let us continue with radio. Ramsay, what is your status? Over.”

“We are fine, but the situation has not gone well. There has been complete radio silence. Over.”

“We need to inform the head of command immediately. The situation is code red. Over.”

“What happened?” Jessie asked carefully.

“We have yet to confirm it, but it seems the town was hit with a high-level ritual, maybe even pact magic. I am afraid there are no survivors. Over.”

“What? Do you mean every squad?"

“I will not repeat myself. We saw the wild hunt descent to the village afterward.” James looked back at the forest. “What is the situation with the other companies? Over.”

“No information so far. You have been the only one to pick up, sir."

“The situation is frankly out of our control. We need to call reinforcements. I am not even sure what that spell triggered. Over.” James bit his fingers.

“Are there any other survivors? At all?”

“As far as I know, it is only me, Cumhaill, and one of the duke's parties. Also, please keep up with proper radio language. Over."

“You found the party?... Over.”

“Only one member and the butler. There seem to be a few still missing. Over."

“Are you sure all of the platoons were wiped? Over.”

“The third and fourth platoons were caught in the blast. I am not sure about the second platoon, but they have not contacted me. Over.”

“Alright, sir. I will inform the Duke and HQ. Over.”

“Good. Other vehicles can pass now enter. I will try and search for survivors and contact Lieutenant Aberdeen. Over.”

“Copy that. Is there anything else? Over.”

“No, over and out.”

“So, what does everything look like?” Lionel turned in his chair.

Jessie could not look him in the eye. The pressure felt worse than down on the depths of the seafloor. She had to tell the worst news she had ever delivered. Her mind searched for ways to form these things into words that were neither dismissive nor cold-hearted.

“Sir, it is my displeasure to tell you that a deadly terrorist attack struck the town of Bertim.” Jessie bowed. "I am afraid the other villages have met with the same fate."

“By Bors’ beard.” Lionel crouched. “Were there truly no survivors?”

“The wild hunt reaped the town.”

“So that’s how it is...” Lionel made a deep sigh. “I want all attention on civilian rescue.” Lionel stood up. “Leave no stone unturned, no bush unchecked. There must be survivors, must be.”

“The mist is gone. Police and vehicles can now pass.” Jessie added.

“Good, we need law enforcement right away.”

“I will inform them immediately.” Gotthold stepped forward.

“Excuse me, sir. I need to inform the HQ about the situation.” Jessie changed the channel on the radio. “This is First platoon lieutenant Ramsay of the Frogfoot. Come in, HQ. Over.”

“This is HQ, reading loud and clear. Over.”

“I transmit a message from Major Periwinkle. A major terrorist attack has occurred in Bertim. Code red. Minimal survivors. The mist has cleared, and rescue operations can begin. Over.”

“Copy that, Frogfoot. Have you received information from other regiments? Over.”

“Negative. All other channels and telepaths have fallen to complete radio silence. Over.”

“That does not sound good. What is the status of your platoons? Over.”

“Platoons two, three, and four are PKIA. Over.” Jessie tried to keep herself together.

“Copy. Inform major Periwinkle to expect reinforcements from the first division. Keep trying to form contact with other regiments. If the situation is as dire as Major Periwinkle described, sir Claudin should immediately announce a state of emergency. Over.”

“Acknowledged. Over."

“Keep this channel ready for further instructions. I will inform the high command of the situation. Out.”

“Roger. Out.” Jessie put the radio out.

“Sir, HQ proposed that you should announce a state of emergency.” Jessie turned to Lionel.

“I cannot do that immediately.” Lionel searched his drawers. “It seems that we are all a bit lost in this.” He took out a bottle.

“Are you sure it’s a good time to be drinking, sir?” Jessie noticed.

“Good as ever.” Lionel drank. “Feel free to take a glass."

“Thank you, your highness, but I don’t drink at work.” Jessie was not feeling it.

“Then you haven’t been in politics, missy.” Lionel laughed.

“Sir, we need you in condition to make a speech later.” Gotthold reminded.

“Oh, I’ll be in shape, alright.” Lionel emptied his glass. “Say, do you feel bad for your comrades?” He asked Jessie.

“...Yes, but this is not the time to cry.” Jessie held her tears.

Lionel swirled the honey-yellow liqueur in the glass. “Do not mistake what I am doing now as drinking away my problems. Misery is like this liqueur. You may bottle it up and keep it away, but it's better to take it in. You might get a headache, but it's still better than letting it gather with dust. And much like a drink, it's better when shared.”

“That was...weirdly beautiful." Jessie had to wipe her eye.

“That's what being a leader is all about. Like a good whiskey, their smoothness can mellow the hearts of the masses or cause a riot. Whichever you desire.”

“Is that why you were chosen as the Duke instead of your brothers?”

“Oh, how would I like it to be that simple.” Lionel looked at his reflection in the glass. It had been long since he shared a glass with his brothers, not that they wanted to anymore. “ But, you are on the right track. The best thing you can have besides power is charisma. Your throne and crown are but decorations in the eyes of the commoner. They won't respect you if you can't use them right. That's why they're down there and I sit here." Lionel watched down below to the city.

“And that's a bit dark, to be honest with you, your highness."

“Don’t bother thinking too hard about it. These are our headaches.” Lionel smiled. “But they do come with great benefits.”

Two figures, or rather one carrying the other, ran through the woods. Norman spotted a police roadblock that only allowed government and police cars to pass.

“See? If we had continued with the car, the police would have stopped us there.” He pointed while being carried.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ándras puffed. “You know, you could run too.”

“I couldn’t keep up with you, and besides, this allows me to use Specter on both of us.”

“You’re still heavy.”

Without his magic, Ándras had to manage with his strength alone.

“Keep going. We’re nearly there.”

“Easy for you to say.” Ándras hopped over a bush.

“There, that’s a good hill.” Norman looked ahead. “Wait, is there someone there?”

Ándras stopped and let Norman stand up. He carefully glanced forward from the cover of some bushes. Someone odd stood on the edge of the cliff, clothed not to reveal anything. Suddenly, the figure glanced back. The man wore a white mask with horns and scales like a demon. Underneath it shone two yellow eyes like sapphires, jumping sharply from corner to corner like a flea stuck in a jar. Norman felt a chill down his spine from the last time he came face to face with similar eyes.

“Who goes there?” The man asked.

Norman froze. The man stared directly in their direction. Just to make sure, he activated Incognito and shared it between him and Ándras.

Ándras was about to jump at the masked man, but Norman stopped him. He sensed great danger lurking behind the grotesque mask, something he did not dare to challenge. The yellow points slowly dragged away from them, fixated on the scenery once more. the man's bony hand gripped his hood, turning it around. The cloth spun like a top, rolling in on itself until all but a gust of wind was left. Norman waited for several moments until he was sure that the man was gone. He rose carefully from the bushes and undid his spell.

“What the hell was that?” Ándras asked.

“I’m not sure. It seems that this place draws quite a lot of attention.” Norman brushed off some leaves.

“I know a cultist when I see one.” Ándras grimaced.

“Well, he did seem lost from the nearest costume party.” Norman thought. “But what are they doing here?”

“Come on, Norman.” Ándras scoffed.

“What?”

“Villages and cultists go hand in hand like bread and butter. Haven't you watched any horror films?”

“I’m surprised you have.”

“Oh, they’re great! I like the thrill and mystery.” Andras tapped his hands excitedly. “I could recommend some.”

“No, thank you, I rather watch documentaries.”

“Ugh, why are you always such a sourpuss?”

“What?” Norman raised his voice.

“I fall asleep during those." Ándras crossed his hands.

“You just can’t appreciate the story and narration.” Norman shrugged with a smile.

“I get the history ones; you can’t turn back time, but why watch the animals on a screen when you can see them in the wild?”

“And why would I watch ninety minutes of a mediocre gorefest instead?”

Andras gasped. “How can you say that?”

“So that we can agree to disagree and move on.”

“I will remember this.” Ándras stared. “...On movie night.”

“Wait a minute.” Norman realized. “Perhaps there is something in this town.”

“Like, cultists?” Ándras raised his bushy eyebrow.

“Besides them.”

Ándras took a look at the desolate down below. With only a glance he stepped back, holding his head.

"What's wrong?"

"It reminds me of my nightmare. I couldn't do anything about it. I just watched when it-" Ándras clutched his hands.

Norman had never seen Andras so afraid, or rather, afraid at all. He might have been anxious to try and fit into the modern world, but he never stood back when he needed to protect others. It was his nature to be the stoic big brother that could always lend a hand for whatever trouble you might have. He would always be honest and straightforward, or that was the believable front he made for others. There always seemed to be something lingering behind his back, covered in a thin veil of optimism.

"It saddens me to say I didn't follow in my mother's footsteps to become a psychiatrist, so I can't really help you here."

"yeah, maybe I shouldn't worry about it." Ándras scratched his neck.

"No, no no. If my mother was ever right about something, it was that bottling your troubles away helps no one."

“It doesn’t seem to bother you.” Ándras crossed his arms.

“I try my best, but you should understand how hard it is."

“How about this? You have to tell Orel everything after we get home and then I will tell everything I know."

“You’re turning our promise around?”

“It’s a good revenge, isn’t it?” Ándras grinned.

"Fine, I promise."

“Then, where should I start?"

"Do you know what happened to you?"

"No, I still don't know much about anything before waking up." Ándras shook his head.

"Then, start there. Why were you in there?"

"Because...Well, I can only come to one conclusion."

"Okay." Norman found Ándras dodging the question a bit odd.

"I was there to...end myself."

Norman had to take a moment. “Andras, You wanted to kill yourself?” He had to ask again.

“I can't explain it, but I have this hollow feeling in my chest. It keeps growing and maybe I couldn't take it anymore."

“That’s..."

“It's like I'm missing something. Like I have lost things I can never get back. They’re all gone in my memories, but the pain is still there.”

“So that's why you asked me to steal your magic before." Norman thought back to the woods.

Andras stood in silence. “...Yes.”

“Do you still want to do it?"

“Don’t think of it in a bad way. It has been fun, but I don't want to lose more people.”

"Ándras..." Norman wanted to hug him, but couldn't bring himself to do it.

“I guess you wouldn’t.” Andras sighed.

“But what about finding out what happened?" Norman thought desperately for reasons for him to keep going.

“I want to find out but it feels that it will just hurt more."

“You were supposed to be the cheery one. What will Orel do when he gets hurt like you? I know it seems stupid but I'm not good at cheering people on when they're down. I can't even keep myself going."

"I..."

Ándras couldn't look Norman in the eye. As much as he wanted wished to help, he felt too lost for it.

“Honestly, you and Orel are one of the only good friends I've made. I don't want to lose you either, nor does Orel."

“That’s the point. In the end, I will be left alone, again." Ándras dropped his head.

"But we still want to use that time with you." Norman grabbed Ándras by his shoulders. "We're just getting started, so let's create so many memories that you'll treasure them until the end of time! That's something Orel would say, wouldn't he?" Norman smiled with a warm, wide grin.

“Yeah, he would," Ándras stepped back. "Sorry, I got something in my eye."

“Come on. You’re a big man.” Norman turned his head to rub his eyes as well.

The two turned around to toughen themselves up. This was no time for tears and heart-to-heart. There was no time to waste. The two shook hands with a firm grip and went ahead to continue with the situation.

The center of the ritual was in the deepest and darkest depths of Gaunnes, where no one was around. Four robed figures spun out of their capes like candy wrappers. The four bowed to the center with the utmost respect. The disciplines gathered, awaiting their lord, whose last piece rested underneath their feet.

"Let us join hands, brothers." One of the robed men said.

"Oh, great high king." They chanted together. "Hear our voice, the voice of your people. From the blood of those who opposed you, shall you will be born anew. Through our hands, you will be released. From our souls, we call you. Come to us now under the blood-soaked moon."

The ground crumbled beneath them, and a dark spirit escaped the cracks. The men stepped back with respect. the darkness condensed and took form, revealing slender hands, feet, and waves of gray hair. He wore a dark surcoat with white edges made of beast’s hide. A ghastly figure commanding respect stood under the grey silk robe wrapped in belts and buttons. The man’s pale skin gave depth to shadows under his nose, while his sharp golden-red eyes seemed like a vision of hellfire.

“Master, you have returned!” They cheered.

A rough dried-out voice answered, speaking in tongues that rolled the tongue around like a bee's wings.

“You brought me back from death as I instructed." He said in a foreign language. "Truly, by my blood, you become me. Only that it was you who were sacrificed."

The man cleared his throat. He had not spoken in a while, nor had a physical body at all. His face was less than satisfied, feeling the wrinkles on his face. A voice deeper than the sea echoed through his mouth like the sound of a war horn, menacing yet charismatic.

“Your magnificence is still the grandest, our lord." One of the men bowed.

“Your words are wretched.” The Lord said with disdain. "Still, you must be the current cardinals. It surprises me to see only so few have survived."

“Excuse me, my lord. A great time has passed since your time. Your speech is foreign to us.”

The Lord saw the men offer their right hands.

“I see, you present me with your rings. This shall be your reward for my resurrection." He closed his eyes.

Suddenly the men cried out in pain. The bumps in their index finger burst out, revealing a ring of bone. It grew the face of a dragon, just as it had been before. The ring was, after all, a small part of their lord, hidden away after his death.

"We should be able to converse now." The Lord opened his eyes.

“Ohhh! Lord, we are forever grateful!” The men cried with joy.

“Ooh, lord! We can finally understand!”

The garnished lord did not bother about the men's cheering. Instead, he looked around, sensing his surroundings. They felt at times similar, yet wildly different. One of the changes truly caught his attention.

“I sense magic in these woods. Has the forest been enchanted?”

“Yes, my lord. Bors of the roundtable was blessed with this forest.”

“Bors...” The Lord turned toward the cultist with hate in his eyes. “Who rules this land now?”

“Duke Lionel Claudin. He claims to be his descendant.” The cultist fought his fear to tell him.

“Then I shall declare my coming with his defeat.”

“But my Lord perhaps you should-” One of the men stepped forth.

The Lord turned his head with a violent grimace. His red eyes pierced through the man’s white mask, frightening him beyond human sanity. Without further warning, the lord gripped him by his throat.

"Soulcraft." He chanted.

The white robes of the apostle rummaged and fluttered like a bag full of cats. The man screamed for help, but the others backed away. Whatever horrors were happening underneath the cloth was too much for their imagination.

"The convergence of body and soul is within my grasp. Feel its power. In my hands, the concept of your very soul is but clay and I am the sculptor."

After a moment, the lord let the man go, dropping him like a bag of garbage. Miraculously, the man was still alive. With the support of his horrific hands, he lifted himself enough to kneel while coughing blood and groaning relentlessly. His face was no longer there nor did he could ever face his lord that way. Only by putting back his mask could he be even mistaken for a human.

“Let those scars be a lesson for you.” The lord cleaned his hand. “My word is the truth. Do you have any further audacity to suggest I am wrong?” He pointed down at the man.

“...No, my master.” The ghoulish one kneeled.

“Then guide me to the Duke’s castle.” The Lord turned away from him.

“W-when shall we go, my lord?” Another asked.

“Now.”

“As you wish, lord Vortigern.” The men used their capes to fly.

Under the red moonlight, three obscure figures made a beeline to Ridredukedach. Observing their flight, a pair of morbid wings sprouted from Vortigern’s back. It took him no time to catch up to them, even though they flew faster than birds. Even though countless lives were already lost, the night was still young. There was still plenty of time for blood to be spilled under the red moon and the lord was not afraid to do so.