He drags his broken foot across the dirt clutching his abdomen. Shooting pain fires across every nerve. His breath hitches, the seaside town around him is a blur, and it takes every ounce of energy to move forward. Gritting his teeth, he inhales hoping to relieve the pain or at least distract his brain from it. Already the smoke from the kingdom proper is drifting over the mountains to the quaint seaport.

The curious few stands in their doorways watching the grey plumes tumble over the rock faces. Try as he might, but his throbbing brain won’t allow him to remember how he got over the natural barrier. Horse? Carriage? Did he walk? Warm liquid dribbles from between his fingers. There’s no way he traversed the rocky paths with a wound this deep. Was he alone? Or was he abandoned, the last few hours are a blur, slipping through his grasp the moment he tries to remember.

There’s an old woman hacking a phlegmy cough from her stoop, whispering about Zander’s destruction of the capitol. He’s cursed us, she mumbles as he passes. Soon she exchanges the sentiment with anyone in ear shot. But he’s already into the next alley, away from prying eyes. The gossip and concern follow him, their anxiety and questions nip at his heels.

The dogs of war are never satisfied until the enemy is destroyed. They’ll keep searching for him, lurking in the shadows until he meets his maker. But Alona will need to wait, he isn’t ready to go quietly into the night. And the apothecary sign swings over head.

His skin stings like hundreds of papercuts but he reaches for the door he needs. Rapping the painted surface with his bloody knuckles; its his last chance. He struggles to gulp the seaside air. His body is betraying him, giving into the agony. He can’t let mortality win, not after everything he suffered tonight. His plans failed, his men slain, and his beloved—no, the whore— ruined everything. Good riddance.

She is where she belongs: dead along with the rest of the rich bastards. They didn’t need to work from the bottom; they’re born at the top. They get everything and he was almost one of them. He almost buried the pauper past of a son of a wretched miner. But she ruined it, pushing him from the pedestal he earned through determination. Knocking him to the gutter like a stray dog. Not anymore, he smirks, she got what she deserved.

“Who’s there?” grunts a man from behind the door.

“Remo…” he’s careful not to speak his name aloud. Soon the world will know the crimes he committed. His believers will praise his name until the end of days. His enemies will curse it. But tonight, he must remain a ghost; friend, or foe, he isn’t welcomed in Alexanderia anymore. The door pulls open and he shuffles inside as his head throbs and his vision blurs. Firm hands escort him to a small back room.

“You lost a lot of blood,” the spindly apothecary says, laying him on the table. His nose protrudes from a bushy grey moustache. “Stay still, this is worse than you said it’ll be.” The candlelight reflects on his shiny balding head as he moves about the room collecting his instruments.

“But you can fix me,” Remo grunts through gritted teeth. Pain floods his body; it feels like his organs are twisting around each other. It’s too much, he feels the threads of his existence fraying at the ends. The apothecary, a nameless man, is part of the crusade. The direction was simple, if the plan went wrong, he is the man to see. His shop, with the peeling paint, will get the fallen out. This apothecary is his last hope.

“You need a surgeon,”

“You’re the surgeon now!”

“I hope this was all worth it,” he shakes his head pulling a small bottle from the shelf. He pours a reddish-brown liquid into a small bowl. “Drink this, it’ll help with the pain.”

The liquid burns as it slides down his throat; the spicy hot taste mixing with sickly sweet brandy is unlike anything he tasted before. Stronger than the home remedies his mother made to fight a toothache or stomach cramp. Cold scissors slice through his pant leg but as the blades reach his thigh all sensation dulls. His mind floats somewhere beyond the pain to a kingdom beside the sea. Closing his heavy eyelids, the lush green forest is splayed before him.

His beloved, smiling on a crisp white blanket, sits amongst the flowers as the waves kiss the sand behind her. He’s loved her for years, in secret, but today he gathers her delicate gloved hands in his whispering the words his heart has hidden for so long. A tear drips tragically from her sapphire eyes. Her pink lips tremble as she explains there’s another, who owns her, and she is unable to escape his clutches. The clouds meld into the apothecary’s face as the sky twists into the ceiling of his room.

Blood sprays into the air; raining on the old man’s glasses as another set of hands restrain Remo on the table. The room shifts from side to side and he hears an animalistic scream which summons him to the forest. The trees twist into flames and smoke as a ghastly monster of a man rips through the branches sending the wildlife fleeing into the fire. He wears the tattered royal robes and prepares for battle over his beloved. He plucks her from the blanket. Remo rushes to save her but his other hand squashes him into the mud. In the end, the monster tramples off into the blackened smoke and carries her away. When Remo awakens his limbs and chest are bandaged. He survived the night.

But the battle isn’t over.

He brushes the memory from his mind. He’s accustomed to its reappearance, especially on quiet nights as this. His mind wanders to that moment, the one where his new life began. But beginnings can’t truly begin unless there’s a death. The fact he hasn’t killed this memory yet, means he’s left with unfinished business. The wine from his goblet licks his lips. The hot stale air hits his face as he steps onto the balcony. The cathedral bells are silent, and the people scurry to their homes like rats avoiding a flood.

The stars refuse to shimmer casting Bellavere under a faithless shadow; as if the Gods abandoned them. Neither water nor wine quells his parch mouth, but this is nothing compared to what the vagabonds fear at nightfall. The lords have the audacity to blame him for the missing beggars. It’s a charade on their part, they aren’t fooling anyone; no one cares for panhandlers.

He spies a ragged farmer hurrying through the deserted street towards the cathedral. A crashing echoes in an alley and a smile stretches across his lips; the chase begins. A low growl hums as he reaches the church steps, tripping on the top step he fumbles to the entrance where he pounds on the heavy wooden door.

“Open up! Sanctuary! Please, sanctuary!” The lock opens with a heavy clank and a nun peeks from behind the door. He leans towards the balcony railing to hear the conversation, but their voices are too low. The farmer’s palms reach to her, but she shakes her head and closes the door in his face. He slams his fists against the wood; the thumps echo through the night air and the door swings open revealing the heavy-set priest challenging him.

“Do you not know the hour?” he bellows. The priest crosses his arms as the man pleads.

“No!” he slams his fist against the doorframe, “You turn me away and I'm as good as dead! Please, I can pay.” He fumbles in his pocket; presenting a quaint country charm, “this leather— it’s old but good quality, the stone’s expensive— it’s worth— a piece of floor on the porch?”

“We told you already, you aren’t welcomed here!” He grabs the man’s shoulder and forces him to the street, “may the gods light your path.” The farmer hugs himself and stares at the charm; a low growl hums in the distance.

Remo abandons the farmer to his fate and enters his quarters where a pile of envelopes waits on the table. He tosses the incriminating correspondences into the blazing fire. The meticulous letters confirm Alexanderia’s heir returned to succeed her father and a ball is planned in her honour. According to the irate queen, she’s responsible for the death and missing soldiers from Lunar Forest. Losses are expected. The edges of the papers crisp and curl before crumbling into ash.

…he asks for information regarding Diamond. A reconnaissance mission planned…

…unlike there, these priests can not be bought…

…he handed a request to prepare the army. Request lost and never delivered…

…the brat is a nuisance… ensure she is incapacitated…

The informant’s only ensign, a simple emblem of a crow’s head with a wing in flight, meld into the yellow and vermillion flames. As the ink transforms to ashes, he’s at peace knowing he alone knows the name behind the symbol. With the chiming of the clock comes the awareness of another presence in the room. She sits on the edge of his bed, instead of her loving gaze, he faces her questioning indignation.

“Withhold the criticism, my dear, I have no choice,” dropping another page into the waiting flames, “if I do not take the precautions necessary to ensure our success, then that pampered woman will ruin everything I created.” Her annoyance fumes behind her straight posture and delicately folded hands. “I assure you, my sweet, it is best,” he faces the fire; incapable of witnessing her judgement. “I suffered too much to leave business unfinished. I promised to protect you and once this is done, no one will hurt us again.” Instead of love flickering in her crystal eyes, something more hurtful burns; pity. Her disapproval is acceptable (even her hate) but her pity is repugnant. “HOW DARE YOU?” he tosses anything within grasp into the fire. “Do you believe you are superior to me?” Knocking over the chair, “I SAVED YOU! Yes, saved! He didn’t deserve you; he would’ve destroyed you. I alone recognised who you are— what you can become. I SAVED YOU FROM THE LIFE HE WANTED FOR YOU!”

She crosses the room with anger flashing in her eyes and fingers stretching for his neck. His throat tightens as he backs away; unable to turn from her cold dangerous expression. His trembling legs trip over a chair, he falls, and smashes his face into the carpet. Hellfire burns his brain; he jams his palms into his eyes to push the screaming demons from his head.

She stands over him, engulfed in flames until her figure melts into a shadow draped in a crimson cloak and ascends to the ceiling. His fingers claw at his itching flesh. Hundreds of insects crawl and trickle over his body; millions of tiny legs overtaking him in waves. He beats them away with every smash of his head against the worn carpet. He continues until his head pounds and his vision blurs. But when he opens his eyes, the woman and creatures are gone.

Clutching his aching head, he staggers to his feet, stumbling to the dressing table in a cold sweat. His shaking hands grasp the familiar bottle with the peeling apothecary label; ignoring the directions he gulps the bittersweet liquid. Discarding the laudanum, he staggers to bed and slips into a deep slumber.

Outside his window, sharp claws crawl over the cobblestone street. A low rolling growl snakes through the narrow passageways. A predator lurks, a tongue tastes the air, and a tail whips behind it. Those who found safety for the night will be spared. The homes, even a basic structure will keep it out. But its those who don’t have lodgings, who sleep under steps or lamplights, who are at risk. Any soul outside is a target, a meal for something so hungry. As Remo sleeps, the creatures hunt. And tomorrow the people of Bellavere will awake to a new horror.