Year 399 before the Ascension of the Celestial Monarch
The winter cold in northern Ulheim penetrated every inch of these snowy lands.
"Shit is more pleasant than this godforsaken place," Richard grumbled as he felt the chilling, damp cold of the supernatural storms hovering over their heads.
The lands before him were desolate: a white desert where he could barely see more than a hand's breadth away, thanks to the heavy snow falling and hundreds of pale trees covered in an ashen coat that made it impossible to tell them apart in that bleak scenery.
"Then go eat shit. If you keep complaining, I'm sending you to dig latrines on the outer boundary," Morgan growled with an unflattering expression. Even though Richard likely had double the winters and springs of Morgan, the latter was not someone to be offended.
Preferring not to answer, Richard simply sharpened his gaze as the demonic mastiffs sniffed the damp, soft earth made sodden by the torrential rains in the forest. The Galloway clan was tasked, under the orders of the Tudigong, with patrolling the roads and forests and, when the occasion arose, pursuing fugitives.
And this was a rare occasion where the latter was their task.
Tracing the symbol of the Rune of Duality in the dirt, Garlanad ignored the duo's argument while watching the changes caused by the rain and the flow of mud around the marks he had created, as if reading a map. His features, hidden behind a leather and wool cloak, were invisible, save for the two pale dots that were his eyes.
"Geomancy," Richard grunted with a tone charged with resentment and even fear. As a simple mundane roaming the forests of Ulheim, he had never seen it in his ninety years of life, although he had heard many sinister and mysterious things regarding Dharmic sorcery. For that, he could not be blamed for his caution.
"What do you see?" asked Morgan.
Morgan ignored Richard, who by this point was approaching the dogs to see if they had tracked anything. As a true warrior in the service of the Tudigong, he really wasn't interested in engaging with a simple hunter. But Garlanad was much more mysterious than himself; even though he hadn't seen his face the entire journey, Morgan could feel the power of the runes in his own flesh and how his bones trembled in submission before the geomancer's pure blood.
"Death..." the hooded man grunted in a dry tone. He whispered those words with a strengthless voice, as if that breath had drained all his vitality.
"What do you mean, death? Beasts or even raiders don't dare enter this place. Those bastards have been running for three whole days and carry women and children. How are we going to find death?" Richard growled, confused and feeling somewhat insulted. Morgan, although he said nothing, echoed that statement with a nod.
"Not our death," said Garlanad in a calmer tone. "They are already corpses."
Doubt appeared in Richard and Morgan's minds at those words. Although they trusted their shadowy companion's gifts, they couldn't help but feel skepticism. A skepticism that would not last long.
Horses couldn't cross the forest due to the mud and the darkness of a moonless night. The trio's keen eyes allowed them to detect most dangers, but the ambient temperature kept dropping so much that they were forced to take blood pills to conserve heat.
And, as if dead gods were playing a sinister joke, as they consumed the pills, the smell of blood along with the barking of the dogs pulled them from their sepulchral silence.
Then they saw them: blood and corpses scattered across the ground in what had been a makeshift camp. Richard had seen dead bodies before, but never like these. These were not skeletal corpses devoured by beasts or bodies consumed by plague; this was a slaughter.
The bluish blood, with a slight violet hue due to their Fey lineage, revealed their noble ancestry, in addition to the dead runes, now lusterless, on the skin of the fallen.
"It's the first time I've seen dead nobles," Richard grunted in surprise, approaching one of the corpses cautiously, as if afraid of waking an absent spirit's wrath.
"And it will likely be the last," Morgan said in a harsh tone.
Even though Richard didn't like Morgan, he had no choice but to admit he was beneath him in terms of blood purity. The very runes covering his flesh barely extended across his arms and legs, while Morgan was a noble with two runes. He was a mortal with one.
"What is that?" he asked suddenly, realizing that amid the corpses, there were words carved into the wood of a tree. Unlike the Sanskrit runes Garlanad manifested, these were ordinary Faerie characters.
"When you are suffering, you will know that I have betrayed you," Garlanad whispered in a sinister tone as he read the words carved in blood. A shiver made his lips tremble.
"Why were we sent to find nobles? Even if we had found them, capturing them would be complicated," murmured Richard, trying to control his panic. He already perceived that he and Morgan were merely guides, and that their silent companion was the true executing arm.
"They were weakened. Besides, most are not combatants," murmured Garlanad as he approached one of the corpses.
It was a tall man even for a Fey; he likely stood a head taller than Morgan himself, who measured a little over two meters. Crimson runes covered the flesh of his chest and arms, still pulsing with a mysterious aura, as if it were the beat of a dying heart.
"Is he alive?" That phrase was more a question than a statement. Morgan tightened his grip on his battered blade. The runes covering the man's body were Yang, the reddish hue giving it away (red for men and blue for women).
The man had black hair and a square, strong face, but most of his abdomen was split open, gutted and organless, as if they had been extracted. Garlanad did not answer. He crouched in front of the corpse and removed his hood, allowing his face to get wet with the sleet falling in torrents.
"Who was he?" asked Richard unconsciously.
"A deserter," grunted Garlanad. "And a fool. But he was a good warrior; whoever killed him is not someone normal."
"Someone... rather than something. This is a butchery. What Fey would dare commit such atrocious acts?" Richard grunted, though deep down he already intuited the answer.
Garlanad frowned as his body tensed like an arrow in a bow. His gaze passed from the dead man toward the tree he was leaning against; leaves and bushes had been piled around hastily.
He approached slowly as if prepared for any unforeseen movement, and just when he was about to touch the body, the change occurred.
Richard felt something different in the atmosphere. The smell of death faded under the penetrating scent—and even the taste—of blood that expanded through the air along with a somber crimson light that clouded his sight.
Confused, he turned his head to the sky and saw horror manifested: the moon had risen, but it was not the pale moon of yellowish light, but a Red Moon, covered in scarlet clouds among which bursts of violet-black lightning exploded.
Blood. Only blood.
On the ground, red liquid began to replace the water, creating scabs on the earth covering the corpses. The dogs whimpered and tried to flee, abandoning their masters, but fear overcame them; they fell to the ground moaning pitifully while spitting white foam and convulsing amidst the filth and reddish snow.
"By the ancestors! What is happening?" murmured Morgan, terrified. Richard had already hidden under the shelter of a tree.
The only one who remained in place was Garlanad. Blood stained his grey cloak black, forming reddish scabs. He stood up and, to the duo's surprise, unsheathed his sword with a speed that escaped Morgan's senses. The blade, of meteoric iron, rejected the scarlet glow with its own bluish gleam, as if wanting to compete against the sinister forces of that nightmare.
Then, the blood-covered corpses began to tremble like bloody cocoons. From the broken scabs on the ground emerged a cadaverous hand. Morgan tried to run, but it was too late. The rain made him stumble while blood from the sky seeped into his orifices, melting his skin and flesh until his figure disappeared behind a red mist.
Richard could no longer see anything. He stood still behind a tree trunk, hugging his side as if he were a child, shivering from the cold of the abyss and the primal fear in his heart.
The clash of metal impacting against something solid resonated what seemed miles away, though he knew Garlanad was fighting just a few meters off. A second impact, closer, indicated that danger lurked in the fog. The third impact was an icy screech, like shattering glass, followed by an animal bellow of pain and struggle.
Then, silence. It was over.
Richard was still alive. His breathing calmed, and his grip on the blade loosened. He had survived. Sixty minutes passed in which he did not move. He had lived; not Morgan with his arrogance, nor Garlanad with his mysterious wisdom. He, Richard, a simple scout son of farmers.
Joy almost made him burst into laughter and tears, but he held back as he approached the site of the slaughter. The corpses had disappeared, turned into bloody puddles. He found no trace of his companions, but the rain had stopped, leaving a film of blood on the ground. The trees seemed like living beings with pulsing veins.
Among the remains, he saw Garlanad's sword floating atop a puddle of black blood. It was an exquisite piece. Before, he wouldn't have dared to covet it, but now it was his prize for getting out alive. He approached cautiously toward the pommel engraved with runes. His hand grasped the weapon tightly.
"Damn it, come out, damn piece of junk," he grunted, using leverage.
But an unnatural force pulled with the same power downwards. Terrified, he tried to let go, but he couldn't.
"No, no, no! Aaaah!"
A muffled scream came from his throat. He could see that protruding from his own hand was the tip of a spear that ended up piercing his own throat. Blood oozed from his mouth as he choked. The sword's attractive force dragged him toward the puddle.
Toward the rust. Toward the black. Toward death.
Toward Gnosis.