"I..." Janson gasped, a bubble of blood blooming on his lips. His eyes cleared, the fog of death parting to reveal the blade, then the stable boy. A final, defiant sneer twisted his face. "You... filth..."
Kael's knuckles turned white. Heat rushed up his neck, a thin ringing filling his ears.
"Shut up!" he screamed.
The blade came down.
Steel punched through the gap in the gorget and vanished into the throat. Kael tore it free, hot crimson spraying across his face.
He struck again. The knife skidded off bone, ripped through meat. Again—into the chest.
"Shut up! Shut up!"
Janson's body bucked beneath him, boots drumming weakly against the ice, but Kael pinned him down. The boy hacked at the Knight as if chopping wood, his swings growing stronger and more brutal with each strike.
"Die!" Kael shrieked, his voice cracking. "Just die!"
The blade rose and fell in a frenzied rhythm until a hot spray caught him mid-scream. It coated his tongue, heavy and thick. He gagged, swallowing the copper, choking on the metallic brine of another man's life.
A viscous, warm film glued his left eyelid shut. Desperate for sight, Kael clawed at his face, trying to clear the blindness, but the motion only smeared the blood. He was trying to wipe away a nightmare with hands dipped in the same horror.
"Kael!" Tom's voice pierced the haze, high and sharp. "He's dead! Kael, stop! He's dead!"
Kael raised the knife for another blow. His shoulder twitched—and nothing followed. His arm locked high in the air.
The screaming stopped, leaving only the jagged, tearing sound of his own breathing.
Kael gasped, sucking down freezing air, his chest heaving like a broken bellows. His heart hammered against his ribs—a bird trapped in a cage.
White steam spilled from his mouth, tainted by the iron smell of the corpse. His stomach twisted. He gagged, on the verge of vomiting.
A wash of heat filled his gut.
It hit him with the force of a physical blow—violent and sudden. It rushed through his veins, burning out the hysteria and incinerating the exhaustion.
The heaving of his chest ceased instantly. The shaking in his hands stilled. The nausea eased, the gagging urge slipping away.
The red haze lifted, and the grey world snapped into brutal, high-definition focus. Text seared into his retina, indifferent to the massacre underneath him.
[Aether +5]
Kael blinked. The text faded.
The warmth remained, slow and steady in his veins. The thought came—and was gone before it finished forming. Kael's head snapped up.
Tom was pressed against a pine tree, spine rigid. His gaze slid past the dead Knight to fix on Kael alone. He looked terrified.
Kael rose. He was light—buoyant. He wiped his brow, smearing sweat and blood together.
"He wouldn't die," Kael said. His voice was smooth; the weeping boy from seconds ago was gone. He surveyed the ruin of meat and iron, then turned his palms up, examining the red stain. "He's dead now."
He cut the purse strings at the Knight's belt and weighed the silver. Heavy.
Then, he reached for his own belt and pulled out his old skinning knife—crude, chipped iron. A peasant's tool.
He tossed it. The knife spun through the air and planted itself with a wet thud in the snow at Tom's feet.
Kael pivoted. "The ring," he ordered, jerking his chin toward the knife. "Take it."
Tom's eyes darted from the rusted blade to the dead man's hand, where the gold band glinted. He searched Kael's face for something familiar and found only a stranger smeared in red.
"Take it," Kael repeated. Just a command. "We earned it."
Tom crept forward, gagging, aversion wrenching his face away from the pulverized neck. He grasped the skinning knife, hands trembling. The finger was swollen and stiff with cold; the ring sat fast.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then knelt in the slush.
He grabbed the Knight's hand. The skinning knife was dull, so he had to saw. Skin parted, then meat, followed by the wet, grinding pop of cartilage.
Tom retched, dry and hard, but his hands kept working until the blade struck snow.
He yanked the gold band from the severed stump and scrambled back, shoving the ring into his pocket, breath coming in short puffs.
The wind died down for a heartbeat, leaving a heavy silence in the clearing. Kael stayed where he was, standing over the corpse, a faint sense that something was wrong creeping in.
Then, the silence broke.
Crump.
A sound from the treeline. Distinct. Deliberate. Snow crushing under heavy weight.
Kael stilled. The warmth in his blood cooled, replaced by a sharp prick of awareness.
Crump.
Closer this time. To the left. Human footsteps.
Tom stiffened. "Kael," he whispered, hissing through his teeth. He grabbed Kael's sleeve with sticky fingers, tugging hard. "Someone's coming. We have to go. Now."
"Too late."
Kael gripped the hilt, stepping between Tom and the sound.
Branches snapped as a boot breached the clearing—cracked leather and dried mud. An axe head followed, swinging low at the man's side. Dark and wet, something clung to the edge and let go, dripping into the snow.
Then the wind shifted. Sour sweat. Damp wool. Heavy earth and pig manure. The scent of rot choked the air.
A farmer emerged from the pines. His shoulders were slumped, his skin roughened by weather, a swollen nose running freely in the cold.
Get back. The command rose, shaping itself behind Kael's teeth, but the words died in his throat.
The farmer walked into the clearing. His dull eyes swept over the scene—the boys, the blood, the Knight sprawled in the slush—with the glassy indifference of a sleepwalker.
He stopped, wedged his axe handle into his armpit, and twisted, his face tightening as he worked an itch through layers of stiff wool.
Scritch. Scritch.
A low groan of relief escaped him. He withdrew the axe and studied the haft, picking away a strand of lint with a thick, calloused thumb.
Tom shifted back, ice cracking under his heel.
The farmer ignored the sound. "Wind's turned," he muttered to the air. "Dries the skin."
Only then did the man acknowledge them. His chin lifted. Dull, unmoored eyes dragged across Kael and Tom, the way a man glances at a post beside the road, before he sniffed and dropped his attention back to the blade.
"Seen a deer?"
Kael tried to answer, but his voice failed him. His focus narrowed to the axe head.
The blade shone wet. Thick, crimson fluid slid along the edge and dripped into the white. It stained the steel and crept down the wood, slicking the man's knuckles.
"Had one," the farmer continued, taking a step closer. The air smelled of copper and rot now. "Big buck. Slow. Wrapped in an iron shell."
He smiled—mild, neighborly—but his eyes remained empty holes.
"You boys see it pass? Or is that my game, bleeding in the snow?"