Claude tucked the box of letters in his bag and slipped into the darkness beyond his window, like a stone sinking into a bottomless pond. He did look back. If allowed himself even the smallest cursory glance at the old house, he'd stay there forever.

The garden, where he'd spent many days alongside Lylon, tilling the soil, pulling the weeds, stayed at his back as he dodged the light of the village torches. His bag, heavy with as much clothes and supplies as he could carry, threatened to drag him to the dirt, as though it had grown sentient and was urging him to stay.

Or at least not leave like this. Claude hadn't told Gwenore or Lylon of his plans. They'd try to stop him, tell him it was too dangerous, or he was too young to wander off on his own. But he had to go, and they wouldn't understand.

"Claude."

The blood drained from his face, sinking all the way down to his toes and taking its warmth with it. He stilled and listened to the night, hoping the voice calling out to him was somewhere deep in his mind and not there in the garden.

A metallic click. A hiss. And orange light fell over the grass at his feet. "Turn around."

He did, but kept his eyes on the ground. Lylon's shadow stretched over the grass like a hand reaching out to grab him, and hold him hostage in this little town 'til he died. Now he would never be able to leave.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" No malice laced his voice. If anything, he sounded tired, like years of exasperation had funnelled into his voice at that moment. "Come, sit with me." He turned and walked to the back porch, not looking to see if Claude followed.

Claude knew better than to disobey. While Lylon wasn't particularly stern, he exuded a silent authority. When he spoke, everyone else quieted down; his words were too important to be drowned out.

He hung the lantern from the porch rafters and settled down on the bench. They'd spent many days sitting side by side. Gwenore would bring them iced tea and Lylon would ask him about school, if he was "getting on well with the other kids."

Like he cared about any of that.

"You're going to look for her, aren't you?" Lylon asked.

Claude finally looked up at him, but his eyes were out on the garden. "How did you know?"

"You've been restless. Ever since that winter came two years ago, and a letter didn't come with it, you haven't been the same. You're here with us, but your eyes and your mind are always drifting beyond this little village." Lylon shook his head. "You barely talk to me or Gwenny. You're worrying her."

And it was his turn to stay silent. He didn't feel like he had to explain himself to Lylon. He was sixteen, a man, not a boy anymore.

"You know," Lylon continued, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "Some people believe the souls of loved ones stay connected, even across great distances. Perhaps her soul is crying, and you're hearing it."

The words fell over Claude like a rogue wave and swept away all his bitterness and indignation like a sinking ship. "I always had her words, now I don't. And it just feels... wrong. I just want to know if she's still out there. Then I'll come back, I promise. Please understand."

Lylon clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm not here to stop you, boy. But you're not going to leave without giving Gwenny a proper goodbye."

I never went back. Claude kicked a wayward stone out of the wagon's path. It wasn't because he didn't want to. The road to Divine City had been a rough, six-month hike. Some days walking until blisters rendered his feet sore and useless, and others hiking rides on the backs of merchant wagons. He'd written to them when he enrolled in the priesthood. But the letter came back to him, along with word that the region had been overrun by the netherborne.

Lehm, Tilay and the surrounding villages, stretching from the snow-dusted mountain ranges in the north to the Black Coast in the south, were flattened, and netherborne flocked to them like vultures to a dead corpse. He couldn't go there to look, even if he wanted to. The Priesthood held him with a tight fist, and he couldn't face the scourge alone.

But he'd promised, which wasn't a thing he did lightly, and that broken promise weighed on him, a great burden he'd have to carry with him for all his days, and whatever came after. He doubted he could face Lylon and Gwenore, even in the Eternal Gardens.

If only he could go back to that night, leave more graciously, spend a day with his adoptive parents in Tilay. Listen to Gwenore barter for what felt like hours with textile merchants, or wander off with Lylon to watch the woodworkers hew logs into tiny figurines. He wouldn't have stayed quiet and distant at dinner. He wouldn't have left in the dead of night. He wouldn't have left at all.

If only... Fate was too cruel to let mere mortals right their wrongs. Fix broken promises. And cruel enough not to warn him when tree roots reached into his path. His foot caught, and he tipped over, arms wheeling.

A strong hand caught him by the shoulder and steadied him. "Easy, Priest. You'll be of no use to us injured."

Claude straightened and cursed the hot embarrassment rising in his cheeks.

"You get lost in your own thoughts quite a bit, hm? Every time I look at you, you're always gazing off into the distance." Amadeus laced his hands atop his head and quirked a dark brow, but, for the umpteenth time, Claude refused to engage.

They'd been on the road for five days. Walking, camping, walking again. Across barren fields, through ruins of tiny villages, in and out of patchy forests. No blisters welled on his feet yet, but they felt as though someone had taken a branding iron to his instep. They'd reached another waypoint the previous night, out near a brackish lake still as glass. And he'd slept outside with the bison and the wind chimes.

"We've been on the road for days now. We're practically, almost... acquaintances," Amadeus said. "How about you ask me something?"

Claude clenched his jaw. While he didn't want to entertain this fool, questions had been lingering in the back of his mind since his brief stay in Avaly. "Why are you protecting an empire that used to kill your kind?"

"Dinner first, love. Then we can get to the heavy stuff. Fine. Fine," he said when Claude snorted at him. "I don't work for Jaredeth, actually. I work for the archives. Once Avaly was established as a haven, necromancers were sent there to keep the netherborne at bay."

"That doesn't..." He shook his head. Asking Amadeus was a mistake.

"It does answer your question. But not the question behind the question." Amadeus arched a brow, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a wicked curve topping off his smile. A face begging to be knocked sideways. "You know, the Divine City killed Jaredeth's father and almost killed him as well."

Claude blinked, and his thoughts of assault evaporated. Killed his father...? The priesthood was ruthless in their methods, but killing a monarch? "Then why was he killing necromancers? Or was that completely the Divine City's doing? Did he not know? How did he find out? Is that why Quintus burned down the Cathedral?"

"Ah, now the cogs are turning. I'm afraid I have nothing else to say on the matter, though. What I just told you is already more than my business. But I can tell you, I wouldn't be here were it not for Jaredeth. I owe him my life." He shrugged and disappeared behind the cart.

As their conversation ended, the silence rushed in, like water bursting through a broken dam. When they'd begun their trip that afternoon, there were animals about, skittering around out of sight.

Not now. Only the wagon's wheels and his footfalls filled the afternoon air. His shadow stretched long beside him, morphing and shifting with the shape of the trees, just as quiet as the forest.

Undine sat atop a bison, eyes ahead. Unlike her colleague, she only spoke when she had something worthwhile to say. And the last time they'd talked, that morning, she'd told him they would be sleeping in Viperstone. He wondered if she found the quiet as unnerving as he did. He wouldn't ask.

The silence was reminiscent of darker times. Times when sleeping at night was difficult and tomorrows were uncertain. Times of being roused from slumber by hellish screams and destruction that carried the scent of pot-pourri.

Pre-Octavia times.

In the months post-Octavia, he'd grown accustomed to the birds singing outside the Cathedral in the early mornings and the insects chirping around the pond in the late afternoon. Even as a Priest—someone well equipped to defend himself against the scourge—the netherborne made his sword hand shake. Especially after what had happened in Hedalda. Before then, he'd never seen a netherborne taller than the Cathedral.

The carriage stopped, and Undine jumped down from the bison's back. "Did you hear that?"

They asked him that often, and the answer was always no. They could hear a leaf twirling on the wind from a mile away with their necromancer ears. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the silence.

Amadeus came from the back, a bell tied around his wrist, a scowl curling his lips. "They shouldn't be this close to Viperstone unless they stopped ringing the bells." His eyes drifted over the trees. "That's a lot of netherborne."

Claude swallowed and drew his sword with a shaking hand. A heaviness settled in his limbs, as though his bones had turned to lead. A lot by a necromancer's standards far exceeded a lot by a priest's standards.

"Fifty metres and counting. They're moving erratically, so I can surprise them." Undine unsheathed a dagger of dark grey metal. It was bent near the middle and its blade broader to the top. She slashed the ropes tethering the bison to the cart. "Let the bison run if they get spooked. The supplies are top priority. You two stay and take out any stragglers."

"Understood." The strength behind Claude's voice masked the dread pooling in his throat, trickling into his lungs, suffocating him. As a Priest, he was forced to set his fears aside or pretend to at least. If the civilian population lost confidence in the Priesthood, then humanity was truly doomed. Or so the prefects told him.

But he knew better now. Humanities saviour wasn't sitting in the Ivory towers of the Divine City. She was walking the world armed with nothing but a flute and conviction. Perhaps he needed to channel a little of that conviction now. He'd never done well in the field, and never took out a netherborne bigger than he was.

"Easy, Priest." Amadeus said as he scanned the trees. "Stick close to me and you'll come out of this unscathed."

Claude breathed a laugh. The bastard almost sounded sincere, and while those words didn't stop the twisting in his gut, his sword hand stopped shaking. He would never say out loud, even with a blade to his throat, but Amadeus' presence was comforting.

Still, Undine would've been better.

Claude recited chants in his head, rhythmic ancient words that had been drilled into his memory until they came to him as naturally as his own name. The chaos didn't erupt from the trees like he expected—like it happened in Hedalda. He still hadn't heard whatever had given away the netherborne's presence to his company. Instead of a stampede, from the forest came the chime of a bell, followed by a cacophony of screeches. One bison cried out and charged off into the trees, while the other backed into the wagon.

And he found himself missing the silence that agitated him so. He pulled his shirt up over his nose to filter the scent of potpourri on the breeze. A crash shook the ground and a cloud of dust plumed above the canopy.

Rapid footfalls reached his ears long before the netherborne leapt from the bushes, ten at a time. They clung to the trees at the path's edge with four limbs twice as long as his, and cocked the bird-like heads like curious dogs. Ugly things, the lot of them.

The ancient chants spilled from Claude's lips long before two of them set their beady black eyes on him. A rhythmic pulse settled in his core, and radiated out to his fingers and toes like ripples on water. He needed to store up as much power as he could, in case this fight dragged on.

Meanwhile, the forest canopy blackened with netherborne, their shadows pooling together to block out the sun. An intimidation tactic. The netherborne liked to make themselves look bigger, or swarm in large numbers to overwhelm their prey.

And in that vein, he expected several to jump at him at once. But only one did. It pushed off from the tree, arms outstretched, teeth bared, and a string of saliva stretching from one fang to the next. Perhaps they were saving their numbers for Amadeus, the bigger threat.

The ripples of Claude's power grew into waves, crashing into his resolve, eroding it away. Just a little more. He waited until the netherborne's hot breath wafted over his face before he cut loose. Symbols spiralled outwards from his palm, quick as a blink, and formed a barrier that stretched from his face to his knees. The netherborne slammed into it like a battering ram.

Claude stumbled until his back hit the wagon, the shock severing his connection with his shield. The text dimmed and faded like stars at dawn. "Damn it."

The monster ducked lower to the ground and bared its teeth, raking its claw-tipped hands against the ground. It skittered left, then right, then leapt high over his head. He swore. His sword couldn't protect him from the full weight of a netherborne, but if he moved, it would crash into the wagon and maybe break some of the delicate contents.

A flurry of keening chimes reached his ears before the netherborne's claws met his head. The monster burst into a shower of delicate white petals.

"Priest, get in the back and shut the door now," Amadeus yelled from the front of the wagon.

Claude lunged for the door and a black shadow passed by his left side and slammed into the wagon. Had he not yanked his hand back at the last second, it would be filled with claw-sized holes. The crates of medicine rattled, and he clenched his jaw. They knew. They knew he was trying to protect it now. He had to do something... drastic.

He sliced his finger on his blade, and five netherborne rushed him from the tree line, spurred into a frenzy by the scent of his blood. He swore under his breath and headed them off into the woods. Frantic footfalls sent tremors up the soles of his boots.

"Priest! What are you doing?" Amadeus' words faded in his wake.

Hot breath tickled the back of his neck and he dove, the back-draft of claws passing over tickling his scalp. He carried his momentum into a roll and ducked behind a tree. For half a second, he caught his breath, started another chant. Then a claw punched through the tree trunk over his head, the black appendage studded with splinters.

The cracks of splitting wood reverberated through the forest as the tree toppled over. Its crash shook the ground and sent a plume of dust high into the canopy.

Claude slipped away from the splintered trunk, his sword in a sweat-slicked grip. He should've spent more time sparring with Pilar. The weapon felt unbalanced and unsure. His hands were made for creation, not cutting down unsightly beasts, damn it.

The other netherborne lunged closer, jumping from tree to tree like frogs, but the wood studded beast screeched at them and they sauntered back.

One on one? How honourable. Claude rolled the handle of his blade over his knuckles, a fancy flourish he'd picked up from Sicero. He circled the netherborne, his weight shifted to the balls of his feet.

The monster had no such grace or an understanding of foreplay in combat. It disregarded his circling and went straight for the kill, one gangly arm coming down to cleave him like an axe. He dashed to the side, and the blow landed in the space he'd just occupied, sending a cloud of dust and detritus up into the air. Those long arms gave it a reach twice as long as his. He ducked under the follow-up swing, released a string of glowing text into the air. It caught the beast around the wrist and he yanked it taught.

He chanted faster, the text's radiance growing to a blinding degree. The beast yanked its hand, but it severed at the text. Blood sprayed out from the stump left behind. Claude had Pilar to thank for that trick.

The monster sneered, drew its good arm all the way back, and swung it around like a whip. The blow connected with his blade, the shock akin to being struck by a war hammer. His arms went limp as wet noodles, and even with the chants spilling from his lips, he couldn't raise them to defend himself.

A follow-up blow caught him square in the gut, and his mind registered the sudden lack of ground beneath him before it acknowledged the pain clawing its way through his stomach. The canopy zoomed over him like a leafy cloud. Somewhere along the way, he lost his grip on his sword, but he didn't stop chanting. So long as you have breath, you can chant, the Prefects would tell him.

He crash-landed in a bush, the leaves giving under his weight and the branches and thorns clawing at him. And still he chanted. Even though the fall had robbed him of most of his air, and his head felt as though it was caught in the fist of a giant.

Claude rolled over, and the bush tore his clothes into strips and ribbons. He scrambled out of the underbrush like a deer escaping a hunter's trap and limped onto the path. The screeches of the netherborne followed him deeper into the woods. With the amount of blood welling from him, he wouldn't be able to hide.

A potpourri laced breeze washed over him and he stumbled into a tree. His mind screamed for him to run, his body screamed for him to lie down. He'd die either way. But he'd die fighting.

A netherborne sauntered into his line of sight, upright instead of on all fours, while the others whooped and screeched from the trees. Claude met its bloodshot eyes and continued his chants. He didn't need to win, only survive long enough for Amadeus to... rescue him, a sickening thought. And the bastard would never let him live it down.

The netherborne lunged for him, straight on this time, and he formed his barrier, willing it a few feet away from his body. The beast slammed into the text and pushed until that distance closed to a few inches. Claude chanted faster, but his will was too weak compared to brute strength and raw primal instincts. His back pressed harder into the tree and the thorns still clinging to it dug in deeper.

The beast braced a hand against the trunk above his head and pressed harder. Its claws pierced the barrier, little by little. Seconds turned into minutes, but the beast refused to relent. Its claws sunk into the soft flesh of Claude's palm, and blood welled from the wounds, spilled over like crimson waterfalls.

His chants briefly turned into a hiss as white hot lances of pain pierced him to the bone. The chants that followed came out in wheezing gasps, the glowing text dulled, and so did his resolve. If he prolonged this, he'd only serve to make his death more painful.

One last chant escaped him and he squeezed his eyes shut. He'd rather be cast into the ashen pits than have his last sight be a netherborne's ugly face. Instead, he thought of his mother, hoped that somewhere she could hear his soul crying. He wished he had a face to picture, or even a voice to reminisce on. All he had were words, and they weren't enough anymore.

Just as his hand fell limp, a bell chimed, and the pressure against his body was ripped away so fast, he slid down the trunk and bit his tongue when his rear hit the ground. His body curled in on itself like a dried up leaf, and he clenched his injured hand, holding it against his chest like a precious treasure.

"By the gods' gaze, Claude, what is wrong with you?" Amadeus screeched, as his boots appeared in Claude's line of sight. "I told you to get in the damn wagon."

Claude wanted to throttle the fool, but the burning pain in his hand, along with his throbbing ... everything robbed him of speech. He uncurled his fist and his heart sank. Roots radiated outwards from the cuts on his palm and plants breached his skin, sprouting leaves and tiny white flowers.

"Give it." Amadeus knelt in front of him. Petals stuck to his dark hair, and a gash marred his cheek, but he looked better than Claude felt.

The words passed through his ears, but didn't register in his mind. The pain clouded his awareness like smoke as he watched his hand turn into a plant.

Amadeus yanked his arm so hard he thought it might pop away from his shoulder like a wooden doll's. He clasped it between his own and inhaled deep as though he could take the blight into his own body. On exhale, he hummed a tune, slow and low and laced with a vibrato that made the air quiver.

The burning subsided into subtle warmth, but the stinging in the wound remained and with it, a bone-deep throb, like someone was hitting his hand with a hammer. Shrivelled leaves and roots fell away and pattered onto the forest floor.

"There," Amadeus said. When he opened his eyes, gone was the mischievous glint, the smug sparkle. His gaze was dull, unfocused, and his lips reduced to a slash. "You need to listen when I give you orders."

Claude inhaled, and it turned into a wheezing cough halfway through. "You called me Claude." His body ached, his vision blurred, but he wasn't passing up an opportunity to finally take a jab at Amadeus. Albeit a small one.

He shrugged a shoulder and stared at some point beyond Claude's head, a disappointing reaction. Or perhaps this was a mask, and inside he seethed like a storm ravaged sea. Impressive, since he remained still. Dappled with spots of sunlight and flower petals, with a single red slash across his cheek, he looked like a fine art study Sicero could prattle on about for hours.

And he's still holding my hand. Claude gazed down at it, then back up at Amadeus.

"Priest," he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to carry me." And he slumped forward against Claude, unmoving, and heavy.

Like a corpse.