He stared out the window one last time, bracing himself for a task almost certain to bring his end. Midnight had come—with a chill that hinted at death's embrace.
Arming himself with the blades laid sharp on the table, Casmir sensed Harod's approach from behind.
"I wish to come with you, hunter," the old druid said solemnly. "I had wanted to go with the others before you. But I fear I'd be of no use now. My powers have grown weak."
Casmir held his reply, unsheathing his short blade to inspect its edge. "You would only be a distraction," he said curtly, returning the blade to its scabbard.
"I admire your courage, hunter," the lord admitted. "You've seen much battle, but I warn you—do not underestimate this beast."
Casmir said nothing, fixing his gaze on his weapons as he strapped them in place. He needed no reminder. This was no ordinary foe. It had already claimed two saints—men not easily killed by just any monster.
Harod stepped closer, the weight of uncertainty heavy in his voice. "Tell me the truth, saint. If you kill the beast and the spell does indeed cage the darkness in her... might it yet devour her soul again?"
"You should know that," Casmir replied, still facing away. "You're the druid."
"Even druids become unsure," Harod murmured.
Casmir had already asked himself the same. He knew well—the darkness could be tamed, not destroyed, for to do that would be to kill the elven princess. The girl must live, to find her, to find yaena. It could be sealed, suppressed... yet how long such a seal might last, no one could say.
A silver necklace was key. Pure silver—the kind he carried—was a weakness shared by most creatures of dark origin. And this one was no exception.
"Evil is evil," he said at last. "There's no stopping it. Only resistance."
Then he turned to Harod, the faintest flicker of sympathy on his otherwise unreadable face.
"I'll do all I can for the girl. But I can't make any promises."
Harod nodded, clinging to the hope that maybe—just maybe—this time would be different. Maybe this man could save the princess. He was a master of death, a killer of beasts... but was that enough?
Casmir interrupted his thoughts. His tongue bore no falsehood. "Here's what might happen," he said, stepping close. "Before sunrise, my severed carcass may be spread across this castle just like the others, and the girl will remain possessed."
He paused. "Or maybe—just maybe—we both come out alive. With the beast slain, and the girl freed."
"I'm grateful, hunter," Harod began.
"Don't thank me yet." Casmir's voice was sharp. "There's one more thing. A strong chance remains that the darkness will be too great to contain. If that happens, I will protect myself. At all costs. Last thing I need is her calling forth another beast once I've slain the first."
"Killing her is not an option, Casmir," Harod said, his voice suddenly hard.
"So you say" Casmir agreed. "But you must prepare for that possibility."
Harod turned away, disheartened. Threats would do no good here. "If I thought you incapable, I wouldn't have summoned you."
"Even hunters become unsure," Casmir replied, echoing the druid's earlier words.
They stood in silence for a long moment, exchanging the kind of look only men familiar with death could understand.
The lord, though grim of bearing, was not without sense. He saw the hunter's plight plain. The girl would need be slain—else risk she call forth yet another horror. And should he face a second beast, weary and bloodied from the first, death would find him swift and sure.
Harod finally broke it. "I understand. If it comes to that... do what must be done. But I beg you—don't let it end in her death. She doesn't deserve to die for a curse she never asked for."
Casmir nodded faintly. "I'll do what I can. Just be ready if I can't."
He turned, collecting his sword and strapping it across his back. One last glance at the lord—then he made for the door.
"Good luck, hunter," Harod offered.
Casmir gave no reply. For luck meant nothing.
---
He approached the building from the side, slipping into the ruined castle through a narrow bar gate, its iron spine twisted with rust and old blood. The silence of night held for a breath—then broke.
A terrible, quivering scream tore through the stillness like a blade across raw flesh. It was not the cry of just any vile beast's throat, but something louder, older, wrong—so fierce it seemed to shake the very bones of the earth.
A murder of crows erupted from the nearby towers in a storm of black wings and panic, shrieking in frightened disarray, their flight stirred by the malice in that voice. Even Casmir—battle-hardened, scarred by blade exchange no songs would remember—felt a shiver twist through his spine.
That sound… it wasn't like anything he had faced before.
Such power.
Such monstrosity.
His instincts—those old, trusted shadows of survival—whispered with quiet urgency to turn back.
But he did not. Death may raise its face, but a saint never lowers his eyes. And he had not—not once. Not yet.
He drew a slow breath, clenched his fists to still the tremor, and lowered his stance, right hand hovering near the sword strapped across his back. His steps were deliberate, near silent, guided not by sight, but by the tension in the air and the blood-deep sense of something watching.
Yet even with his sharpened senses, he couldn't follow it.
The creature was too swift. Too silent. Too wrong.
Above, the moon hung swollen and pale, casting its cold light across the stonework. He could see in darkness, if need be, but the moon spared him the effort of conjuring his own illumination. He would need that strength—soon.
He passed beneath a shattered archway into the courtyard, where death had long pitched its tent. The stench of decay hung thick, clinging to the walls like ivy. Mangled flesh, twisted limbs, shattered skulls—bodies both ancient and freshly slain littered the stones, their blood soaking into the earth like a curse.
No crows dared feed here.
He moved past a ruined fountain, its waters still and dark as oil, the basin choked with leaves and bone fragments long forgotten. Then he stopped.
Something caught his eye.
Something impossibly out of place.
A patch of color where none should be. Amid the ash and ruin, a flowerbed—untouched, almost sacred in its stillness. Blue roses, in full bloom.
Disbelief clawed at him. In a place drenched in death, where rot ruled and nothing grew, they stood unbowed.
And not just any blue.
That blue.
The color of her opulent eye—the only bloom he'd ever seen her cherish.
His hand, unbidden, reached out. His fingers brushed a petal, soft as memory.
And in that instant, her face returned to him—
Yaena.
A woman long gone beyond his reach. Yet never truly absent. She came to him in dreams, in echoes.
Her smile. Her touch. The way she would say his name like it meant something more than just a title.
"How many years had slipped through time's fingers? Seven-score winters… or nearly eight?"
Too long.
He closed his eyes, just for a heartbeat. Let himself feel the ache of her absence.
And then he cursed—softly, bitterly. For remembering. For still being the kind of man who could.
But the past gave him no mercy.
With a thunderous slam, the great hall doors flew open behind him, iron hinges screaming in protest. A high, piercing shriek split the air like lightning—raw, wretched, merciless.
Casmir spun.
His right hand shot up and back, fingers curling tight around the familiar leather of his sword hilt.
From the darkness, it came.
The nightmare.
It slithered through shadow—tall, lean, impossibly twisted. Its jaws stretched far too wide, filled with ragged teeth stained in old blood. Limbs that bent the wrong way, claws dragging sparks from stone. Grey skin clung to bone like wet parchment. Its eyes were not eyes—just endless black pits, deeper than night.
Its feet landed like hammers, each step a promise of death.
And then it roared—a sound somewhere between a scream and a growl, echoing through the ruins like a curse made flesh. The walls trembled. Stone cracked. The very air seemed to split apart.
And for the first time in many long years...
Casmir felt the cold breath of death upon his neck.