He didn't speak the answer aloud. He didn't need to. The moment he accepted, the world shifted. His head split with pain, sharp and immediate, like a blade driven behind the eyes. The wind outside rose to a shriek, rattling the windows and howling through the trees like a chorus of the damned. And in the corner of his vision, the flame of an oil lamp twisted unnaturally, sketching a number in the air.
Seven.
It lingered for a moment, then vanished. Did it mean something? A countdown? A warning? Rune didn't know. But he kept a mental note of it. In places like this, it may hold some sort of meaning.
"Good," said the man beside him. "I'm Glenn. Now follow me. I know you're hurt, but you've suffered worse, no?"
Rune didn't answer. He simply nodded and followed, his legs moving before his mind caught up.
The pavement path twisted unnaturally, as if the land itself was reluctant to let them pass. The trees leaned in like eavesdroppers. The moon was a pale smear behind clouds, casting everything in shades of ash. He was utterly out of his element - everything felt like a dream.
They arrived at a brick house—solid, respectable, even elegant compared to the rotting timber shacks that made up most of the town. The windows were shuttered. The door creaked open like a sigh.
Inside, Glenn's house was warm and well-furnished. Too warm. Too clean. It felt like a memory someone had tried to preserve in amber. The furniture was tasteful, the decor carefully arranged. Everything sat just so, as if no one truly lived there anymore.
It looked like it had once been a wholesome place. Shame, Rune thought.
Glenn laid Elena's body on a velvet-lined sofa. He knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face with trembling fingers. His eyes were glassy, but no tears came. Just silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Glenn lit the hearth. The fire crackled, but the warmth didn't reach him. Rune could see it in the way Glenn's shoulders remained hunched, his hands clenched. The cold in his heart was deeper than any winter.
"Sit," Glenn said, gesturing to the chair across from him.
Rune obeyed. The fire cast long shadows across the room, flickering like ghosts on the walls. He felt like an intruder in someone else's dream. Or nightmare.
He thought of the voice. Of the number. Of the way the world had shifted. Was this real? Or was he trapped in some fevered hallucination, a punishment for sins he hadn't yet confessed?
The silence stretched until it became unbearable.
"She was such a gentle girl," Glenn said at last. "Her innocence was lost in this world. She's so content with the smallest things. She'd be happy with a loaf of bread, not dreaming of even a jerky, not wanting fancy dresses. She found meaning in the simplest of things. And too naive to find fault in people."
He poured them both a glass of wine. His hands were steady, but his eyes were far away—somewhere beyond the walls of the house. "Just like her mother. Funny how good people, those deserving of life, die earlier than the bad apples. Stubborn weeds."
"I wanted more for her. She was smart and learned. She could've been a tutor to a young noble or become a scholar herself. She deserved more than this decrepit town."
He gestured to a bookshelf packed with tomes—histories, alchemical treatises, even a few strange grimoires. Rune didn't understand most of the collection, but it sure was intimidating - and to think a girl so young had devoured most of them.
"What happened?" Rune asked.
Glenn looked at him then—really looked at him. As if seeing him for the first time. As if realizing he wasn't just a fool.
"The Duke has influence and far-reaching connections. I thought bringing Elena as my assistant to his son's birthday celebration would open doors for her. I thought it would be better for her future."
He took a long drink. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"But I was wrong. That monster…he toyed with her. And then killed her. Wicked beyond measure."
Rune's throat tightened. He didn't need to ask who.
"The Duke?" he said.
"No. His son. Hilton." Glenn's voice cracked. "Wretched being. They said it was an accident as he was intoxicated. Got too excited and went too far. Only devils would go that far. If only I had known, I should have gone with her inside the chamber. There were several of them, young nobles. Both girls and boys. They promised to provide my sweet Elena with a fun time. But when the door opened, she had become a soulless husk."
He trailed off. Rune didn't press. He could ask questions like what did he do to stop them. But he never did. Certainly, the situation was complicated back then for Rune to hypothesize.
Glenn stood and walked to the sofa. He knelt beside Elena and pressed his forehead to hers. His shoulders shook, but still no tears came.
"The Duke's son must die," he said. "And you will help me."
Rune didn't oppose the idea. In truth, he would've done it for nothing. Whether young or old, man or woman, guilt was guilt—and all deserved to suffer the consequences. Vengeance made no distinctions. Debts had to be paid, one way or another.
His left hand curled into a fist, then slowly unclenched.
Killing wasn't foreign to him. In war, it had been a method—a grim necessity to achieve an end. He had been a soldier then, and in many ways, he still was. Only the commander had changed. And with him, the orders.
"So what do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Hilton's coming-of-age ceremony will be held a week from now. I was asked to prepare a cake. Gather what's listed on this."
Glenn tossed him a folded piece of parchment. Rune opened it and read:
3 cups black rye flour – harvested from fields where no birds sing
3 eggs of the dusk viper – their yolks shimmer with a faint green glow
1 pinch salt of the betrayed – harvested from the tears of those wrongfully executed
Rune stared at the list, baffled. The words made sense, but the items themselves were utterly foreign—ingredients drawn from a world that obeyed different rules. This wasn't his realm. That much was clear. He was no longer in the world he knew, but in a place shaped by fantasy, dreams, and something far older than reason.
He feigned comprehension. He'll unravel the mysteries and truths at his own pace.
"What gave you the impression I'd just do what you ask? We're strangers. I could go to the Duke right now and tell him everything," Rune asked. "Also, other people will be caught up in this, are you fine with that?"
Glenn smiled. It was not a kind smile.
"Because whether you live or die is up to me. As for your other question, I don't care."
Rune's stomach turned. He looked at the wine in his hand, trembling.
"The poison takes seven days," Glenn said. "You'll feel it soon. Burning when you piss. Water will taste like sand. Then the bleeding starts. From your eyes. Your ears. Your skin. You'll sweat blood until there's nothing left but a husk. It won't be quick."
"I appreciate the heads up," Rune said, helplessly.
"I'll give you the antidote when the ingredients are gathered. Plus, a bonus if all goes well. Or you can kill yourself now. So, will you gamble with his old man?"
Glenn extended his wine glass to Rune as if intent on clinking glasses.
Rune stared at him. Then, slowly, he smiled. It was the smile of a man who had danced with death and found the rhythm intoxicating.
"Do I really have a choice?" he said. "I'll help you, regardless. Like you said—I owe her one."
Their glasses clinked. The sound echoed through the room like a bell tolling for the dead.