The little castle of the old druid stood tall, nearly as majestic as a royal estate, its towers flanked by sentries at every angle. Armed men in chainmail watched keenly from the parapets and shadowed corners, alert, stiff with tension. It was a fortress veiled in magic and secrecy, not a place one entered lightly.
The red-haired saint was escorted down its torch-lit halls into a chamber of warm bronze. Shelves overflowing with ancient tomes lined the curved walls, and a fire burned fiercely in the hearth at the chamber's center, casting flickering shadows across the carved stone. There, seated uncomfortably on a high-backed chair of dark oak, was the man he had come searching for.
The lord's eyes were weary, rimmed red with sleeplessness, his jaw tight. He stared at the sorcerer with a troubled expression, the kind worn by men haunted by the ghosts of their own decisions. Four of his knights were dead—slain in a tavern brawl too violent for words. Though his pride suffered, he dared not raise it here.
"Leave us," he commanded his guards.
Once they were alone, He walked to the table to his right, pouring himself beer from a stone jug. "Please, Saint, sit."
Th saint lowered himself slowly into the seat across from the druid, resting his long, rune-etched sword across his thighs, his scarred palms resting atop it like a judge overseeing a trial.
"Beer?" Harod offered.
"Wine," he said flatly.
Harod clapped. A servant silently entered to fulfill the order.
"Was it necessary... killing my good men?" Harod asked, bitterness in his voice. "In Varthrak, to slay a knight is to defile our law. I could have you thrown in chains for that at the very least."
The saint chuckled, a low sound like a growl. "They weren't good men."
Harod bristled. The arrogance was almost unbearable, but so was the truth of the man's words. Even if he hated it, the man had slain them without drawing his sword—efficiently, brutally.
"You wrote to me with a job," the saint said, tossing a sealed parchment onto the table between them. "Speak. I don't have all night."
Harod sighed, tried to collect himself. "Of course. And do you have a name, Saint?"
"Casmir."
"No last name?" Harod asked.
The man said nothing.
"Typical of the Xandic Order," Harod murmured. "You saints rarely share more than necessary. But I've heard of you. The Red Saint. The monster's nightmare. Slayer of Morthrak and Scalvik with only but bare hands."
Casmir said nothing, nor did his expression flicker.
Harod tried again. "Is it true, then? That the church uses only children born beneath a full moon for their experiments?"
Again, silence.
"I see you're not much of a talker."
"I am no longer a saint of the church. I cannot answer questions of the order" Casmir said coldly. "Get to the point druid."
The servant returned with his wine, setting it down with trembling hands. Casmir drank without thanks.
Harod leaned forward. "Lets get to it then, shall we?" He said, more as a statement than a question. "The monsters first appearance five hundred years ago, and their first sight—Valthrak—is no secret to any man. The truth of their origin, however, is buried beneath centuries of lies."
He took another swig of beer.
"Many believe the monsters had always been almost us since the dawn of creation, quiet, asleep, and one day they began to wake"
"A story told long before the church's existence"
"Indeed saint, but far from it" Harod revealed. "It is well known the gifts of my kind, the powers we elven blood possess. The elements—earth, wind, water, fire—they're bound to our essence."
"I'm aware."
"It was this elemental affinity that inspired mages to develop magic. And the church..." he looked at Casmir, "...used it to create your kind—mutants immune to those very forces, yet able to wield them. Highly contradictory I do say so myself."
"Go on."
"Not all elven gifts are of nature. One was born with a gift of chaos. Princess Ysendra. Her power wasn't of this world but of something... darker. A realm beyond death. She is a bridge to a world that should only be a myth, a place where only darkness rule, monsters, some capable of speech-the worst kind." He paused, refilling his cup.
"When her powers awakened, she was only fifteen. The darkness took her—utterly. And with it, one of the seals at the Altar of Varthrak fractured. Beneath the castle, the altar split open... and through it, the terrors came. The beasts poured into our realm, unbidden and ravenous.
But I swear to you..."—he paused, eyes heavy with dread—"...this is only the beginning."
Casmir was unshaken. "If she's the source, then end the source. Why not just kill her?"
"You may be right saint. But reaching her is nearly impossible. No one has returned. Her own kin are dead. The castle is guarded by a beast none of which you have ever witnessed, her protector. I've maintained a magical barrier to delay the full collapse of the tower's seal, but my life is the anchor—and I grow weak."
"And only now do you seek help?" Casmir asked, unamused.
"I'm sure you do not take me for a fool, Saint. I have sent many. Wizards, druids, mercenaries. None have succeeded. Most die before reaching the castle's doors."
"None?"
"One mage did survive... in body. Her mind was lost. She lies catatonic. Eyes empty. She blinks. That is all."
Casmir sipped again. "And the church?"
"The church?...They claim order yet coins clink louder in their pockets than any prayer in their tongues" Harod looked displeased. "They sent saints. Four of them. Like you. Black hair, but the same eyes."
He leaned back, disturbed by the memory.
"They were confident. I was. Saints are known to kill dozens of monsters with ease. But this... is no ordinary monster."
Casmir waited. Patient.
"The first two—heads placed at the castle gates. Mouths open in eternal screams, eyes gouged out. Skulls scraped clean."
He drank again, his hands trembling slightly now.
"The other two. Nothing more was heard. But rumors say one escaped the den. Crawling. Missing Limbs."
"Have you tried?"
"Many times. Nearly died each attempt. Slipped between the veil of both castles. I was quicker than most, that is all. I can try no longer. If I fall now, the barrier will collapse entirely. Too great a risk."
"You believe I can succeed?."
"There is none else I can think of to see it done. You're my last hope. I need you to save the princess, to save us all. And then..." he hesitated, "...take her away. Far. Hide her. For they would come for her."
Casmir raised a brow. "I'm a killer. Not a guardian. Killing is all I'm good for."
"She's not safe here. Others would want her power once they know, once she awakens, to conquer, to rule, or for something even worse...Foreign cults will seek to harness her curse."
Casmir rose, uninterested. "I don't protect people." he walked towards the door.
"Name your price, you can have it, any desire within my power" Harod called after him. "Land? Women? Gold?"
"No."
"Please, Casmir. Do not walk away." And for the first time he called the saint by his name. "You don't have to protect her forever. Just enough to keep her from being used."
"How is that any different" he halted, tilting his head to where the lord stood.
"I cannot guard her, no one can. Even you may not be enough, but you are capable, Casmir. You can save her, and....protect her. I know it." he walked closer, placing his palm on the saint's shoulder.
"My answer remains" he told. "No"
"Rhenya," Harod said sudden, quietly.
The name struck him like a hammer. Casmir turned sharply.
"How do you know that name?"
"I am a druid. A touch is all I need. I saw her in your memory, and your future."
Casmir's eyes darkened. "You lie."
"I speak only truth. You wish to find her. Then save the princess. Take her with you. She is the key. Their fates are entwined. As long as the girl is safe, your lost one may yet be found."
"You know nothing of her."
"I know enough. If you walk away, you may never see her again. The princess will guide both your paths."
Casmir stared long and hard.
"Your kind see through lies," Harod whispered. "Do you see any in me?"
There was silence. Heavy, suffocating. The druid spoke truth, but could it truly be?
Then Casmir spoke, staring out the large window, into the night skies. His voice, barely audible as he whispered low.
"Rhenya...you're still alive."