In all the year's Harken had been a Slayer, he never imagined the summer heat would be the thing to kill him. After surviving the Iron War, the innumerable attempts on his life, and the handful of horses that had thrown him from the saddle, it would be the weather to do him in. At least he didn't need to worry about leaving a good looking corpse behind.

Though tanned skin was fashionable in the metropolitan capital of Vycount, it did little for Harken's appearance. His flesh had turned to leather under the sun and made him appear feral and decrepit. The gray hairs in his beard didn't help either. What would his wife and daughter think of him, looking like a grizzled old goat when he finally returned home? Harken smiled to himself and let the thought drift from his mind.

The journey to Irgencourt had taken longer than expected. By the third day, he'd emptied his wine-skin trying to ration whatever water remained. In the end, he'd given the rest to his horse, knowing that if it died, he'd be dead soon after. Now, being the fifth day, both were close to keeling over.

The summer heat had lapped up every last drop of moisture in the land. The once babbling streams of old now yielded nothing more but cracked earth and stones. The tops of trees wilted like the balding pates of old men. Even the sky was as parched as the brown grasses covering the hillsides, and what the heat didn't take, the War of Thrones certainly had. The former villages and Crossroad inns that once pockmarked the Merchant's Road were now nothing more than charred ruins, picked clean by the passing King's armies.

Even worse was that it had not been necessary to ride so hard to Irgencourt. The tattoos that stretched from cheek to cheek across Harken's face had compelled him to go, pointing him in the direction like a compass in his mind and burning at his thoughts if he strayed. Whoever had made the Pact was serious about getting it done.

With his back to the setting sun, Harken watched his shadow gallop across the twilight bathed land until the rider disappeared into the horizon, and Irgencourt appeared in the distance. Harken stopped his horse at the crest of a hill and breathed a sigh of relief. The tugging had finally begun to subside now that the village was in sight.

Irgencourt was a quaint little place that sat farther south from the Merchant's Road, untouched by Reavers and Marauders haunting the byway. Small, thatch-roofed houses sat in tight clusters under curls of smoke that eked from protruding chimneys. Surrounding the village was a multitude of farmland brimming with wilted crops, and farther west was a forest stretching on for miles.

The smell of cooked food wafted past Harken, and his stomach tightened in response. Five days without a proper meal could do that to you. He hitched his horse to ride forward, hoping someone in the village would be kind enough to spare him a meal.

***

"We have no want for the likes of you, devil." An old woman barked before slamming the door in Harken's face. He tried again at the next house and was given a similar answer. Other villagers glared at him from a distance or hid when he passed. Harken had half a mind to just give up and ride on to the next town, yet the very thought made his tattoos flare with irritation. Someone in the village had made the Pact, and it was now Harken's job to figure out who. Leaving was no longer an option. The tattoos had made their final verdict.

His search eventually led him to a horseshoe-shaped building sitting along the edge of a rolling hill. The property was squat and rundown, with a sign barely hanging onto its chains. Faded letters read The Mote in the Valley over a rough etching of the inn by a river. Harken looked around. There wasn't a river in sight.

Muted sounds of conversation drifted from the tavern's door along with the delicious smell of baked bread and roasted potatoes that made Harken's stomach groan. He reached for his coin purse and frowned at the empty feeling inside. Perhaps the innkeeper would be merciful enough to at least let him have a drink.

He tied his horse to a water trough, and the beast happily began guzzling away. Though the water was filthy with mud and grass floating on the surface, Harken was almost tempted to dunk his head in for a drink. Almost. He stepped inside the building before he could have a change of heart.

The interior of the tavern fared little better than its exterior. The walls were cracked and moldy, the floor littered with dirt and straw. Rows of tables and benches sat scattered haphazardly around the main hall. Most of the tables were packed with people eating, drinking, and conversing. A few looked up at Harken, giving him stares of disapproval. Harken ignored them.

He walked towards the barman, who was busy wiping down a spill on the counter, the remains of a broken earthenware mug beside him.

More eyes looked up from their meals to glare at Harken. Others pushed back their chairs and left, not wishing to stay in the same building as someone such as him, as if he were more an unsightly stain on the floor than a man. The very thought made his blood boil with anger, but he quickly pushed the feeling down. Causing trouble was the least of his concerns when he could barely stand from hunger and thirst.

The barman gave Harken a stern look as he approached, sizing him up from top to bottom. His gaze lingered at the sword strapped to his back, then his tattoos, before finally resting on the mace slung to his side.

"What can I do you for, stranger?" The barman asked.

"Looking for something to eat," Harken glanced at the wooden casks sitting on a nearby shelf. "And a beer to wash it down."

"Bowl a stew costs three copper dwans. Beer'll cost you one." The barman squatted down and placed a fresh mug on the counter.

"Don't have any coin, but I'm willing to work for it." Harken stared down at the mug, imagining it filled to the brim with a cold beer that had a nice foamy head to it.

"Sorry," The word was uttered in a sharp, flat response. "No work here for the likes of you." The mug was taken away, and the vision of the beer faded with.

Harken decided to press a little harder. "Interesting, because I was under the impression someone did have work for me." He leaned in closer. "I know a Pact was made here."

The barman froze, his eyes as wide as full moons before he composed himself. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said before turning away to polish the casks behind him.

"I think that you do," Harken said.

The barman did not reply, his attention focused elsewhere. Harken felt his anger bubble up once more, this time harder to quell.

"You heard him," someone said, slapping a hand on Harken's shoulder. "No one ain't got work for your kind here, old man. Why don't you piss off before somebody gets hurt?"

"My kind?" Harken turned to the man speaking to him. Standing a few inches taller, the man's lanky frame made him look like a skeleton wrapped in rough-spun clothes. He jabbed a finger into Harken's chest, his breath reeking of sour beer.

"You criminals keep pouring out of Therea like some kind of damned plague. What, were the dungeons already full, or was the noose not good enough for you?" the man continued to goad Harken.

"I bet he pissed himself when they caught him," another man said from a nearby table. "Begged for the Judge's brand instead of facing the king's justice. Therea was always full of cowards."

The anger Harken tried to smother flared at that remark. It took everything he had to bite back a retort.

"Oh? Got nothing more to say? Maybe you're smarter than the other tattooed freaks." The reedy man turned his head towards the crowd. "At least, smart enough to keep your trap shut when you know what's best." The tavern erupted with laughter.

Before Harken had a chance to compose himself, the reedy man whipped back and punched him square in the gut.

Searing pain shot through Harken's body as he doubled over gasping for breath. He tried not to gag as his stomach wrenched, saliva pooling in his mouth.

"That's enough, Everett!" the barman barked. "I told you to stop causing trouble around here. If you want to fight, take it outside!"

"Trouble? No, no trouble here. Ain't that right?" Everett pushed Harken against the counter, smiling with drunken bravado. "Everyone knows his kind can't hurt us. Remember when the first Slayer came into town? Got too aggressive with the miller's wife, and his head popped like a grape. Shame she died but goes to show just how little they can do to us. Weak little mongrels, cowed by the brand."

Harken turned away from Everett and grabbed the counter to pull himself up. The barman looked at him with concern before realizing that he didn't appear hurt. In fact, he was smiling.

"That's where you're wrong." Harken swiped the mug from the barman's hand and broke it over Everett's head. Blood splashed against the counter. Everett screamed, and Harken was upon him. He smashed his forehead into Everett's nose, kicked the drunk's feet out from under him, and threw him against the countertop. Steel flashed from Harken's boot. Everyone froze at the knife he held against Everett's cheek.

After a moment of stunned silence, someone from the crowd mustered the courage to speak. "Why...why ain't you dead? The other Slayers said they can't hurt the innocent."

"Then maybe you should learn not to assume things," Harken growled. He could hear Everett whimper as his blood pooled onto the countertop.

"How do you define innocence? How do you measure it? Weigh it? Can you answer that question, Everett?" Harken asked.

"I...I..." Everett began, but he was quickly hushed by the Slayer.

"You can't," Harken continued. "Not really. I learned that lesson quickly, so I wouldn't have people like you thinking they had something over me." Harken pressed the knife a little harder against Everett's cheek until a sliver of blood appeared. "I wonder, do you think you're innocent enough that cutting off your ear could kill me?"

"By the stars, no!" Everett cried, too afraid to move lest he lost more than just his ear. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothin'!"

Before Harken had a chance to reply, the tavern door swung open, and a voice boomed out. "Enough."

The word echoed in Harken's head like a crack of thunder, and in an instant, the anger within him dissipated, replaced with an odd sense of shame. He released Everett and sheathed the knife back into his boot. The drunk fell in a heap to the ground and quickly scrambled away.

An old man stood at the door, his hunched frame supported by a gnarled cane in his hands. Despite the distance between them, Harken could feel the old man's presence as if he were right in front of him. His tattoos began to itch.

"Your knowledge of the Laws are quite impressive. Harken, was it?" The old man wheezed as he shuffled past the door into the tavern. Harken merely nodded in reply.

"Elder Benson, I didn't know you would be stopping by." The barman's voice quavered. He began wiping away the bloodstain on the countertop. The Elder paid him no mind as he sized Harken up before smiling.

"I had a feeling someone was going to drop by today. Something in the air, maybe. A certain charge. You know how those summer winds like to bring in travelers. Five years and counting, I'd say." Elder Benson gave a knowing smile towards the barman before he turned his attention back to Harken.

"I know why you are here, Slayer, and I know you know as well. But..." Elder Benson stopped to look at Everett cowering in the corner. "I can't have you attacking the locals."

Despite the Elder's calm demeanor, Harken could feel a power roiling around them. It tugged and prodded at his tattoos like a cat playing with its food, feeling out the crime he had committed. Eventually, it pulled away as if satisfied, and the Elder smiled even deeper. "Come, Slayer. We have much to discuss."

***

Elder Benson's home was a small yet cozy place of only one room with only a few furnishings scattered lazily about. A bed stuffed with straw sat in one corner flanked by a crooked end table. The walls were lined with shelves brimming with jars and bundles of herbs that filled the room with a sweet and musky smell, leaving Harken light-headed. The only nice thing about the home was the handcrafted and well-used fireplace sitting in the back.

Harken was directed to sit at a nearby table as the Elder lit candles scattered about the room. A bowl of potato stew and a mug of water were laid out before him. He sipped on the water first, letting the cold drink quench his thirst until he had drained the cup dry.

Next, he took his time with the stew, ladling the meaty broth gingerly into his mouth to savor every bite, making sure not to dribble onto the tablecloth. The gnawing hunger began to dissipate, and the warmth in his gut began to replace the cold life given to him by the water. Stars, how he had missed the feeling of a good meal.

The Elder sat down and smiled from the other end of the table, watching him eat. Harken lifted the bowl, scraped the last morsel into his mouth, and placed it back down.

"I know what you are, Axiomancer," Harken stated before wiping his mouth. Elder Benson smirked at the remark, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

"Ah, but it has been a while since I've heard that name. I've been called a Shapeshifter, a Sorcerer, even a Truth Changer as of late," Elder Benson leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table. "You're a clever man for figuring me out."

"It wasn't hard. I felt you rooting around inside my head back at the tavern. Made my tattoos itch. If you wanted to know my crime, you could have asked."

Elder Benson nodded, his smile now less than pleasant, "Indeed, but then how would I have known that the ghost of Therea would be the one to wander into my humble village. I'm amazed the Judges even let you take the Pact. Regicide is a very hefty crime to pay."

"More than you will ever know," Harken replied bitterly. "And I've paid ten years for it already, but we did not come here to discuss my problems. We came here to discuss yours." Harken pointed at Elder Benson. "You're the one who made the Pact. You're the only one with enough power to pull me here from so far away."

"That is correct."

"Then tell me why."

The Elder turned to look out the window, his demeanor suddenly grim. Outside, Harken could see the silhouette of the forest under the full moon. A strong wind had whipped the canopy into a frenzy. Rays of moonlight faded in and out of the shifting leaves like spirits dancing in the dark.

Despite its serenity, Harken couldn't help but feel a tad unnerved. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and paranoia began to gnaw away at him. Something was out there, he sensed, watching him intently.

"It all started five years ago," the Elder began, pulling Harken away from his thoughts. "Our huntsman, Morr was his name, disappeared in the forest one day. A search party went out looking for him, and they too never returned. At first, we suspected the wolves had taken them. That is until we found Morr hanging dead from a tree a few days later."

"What condition was the body in?" Harken asked.

"Like he had been beaten to a bloody pulp and left to die, all wrapped up in ivy. Neck twisted. Legs snapped, but the body was surprisingly intact. No teeth marks, no missing limbs."

Wolves couldn't have done that, Harken thought. Morr's body must have been left as a warning, but by what he did not know. "What did you do afterward?"

"The only thing I knew was right. I forbade anyone from entering the forest, but it didn't stop the brave, or the foolish, or the desperate from sneaking away at night, thinking they could drive out whatever haunted our woods." The Elder grabbed the table cloth, pulled it away, scattering the bowl and mug onto the ground. In the center of the table was a pentagram painted in dried blood.

Four of the five points on the star had symbols painted next to them. Some were shapes of various sizes, one little more than a thumbprint.

"I decided that a Pact was necessary." The Elder said grimly.

Harken's stomach dropped at the sheer size of the Pact's summoning rune. He ran a hand over the four symbols, the blood used to paint them flaking away easily to his touch. Each of them had belonged to a Slayer once. The rune made his tattoos flare up with a heat so intense it was like staring into the eye of Oro himself.

"You bastard," Harken muttered in disbelief, "You lured these Slayers to their deaths."

"Is that not the purpose of a Slayer?" the Elder hissed. "To fight and die for their retribution? What has the world lost but four men who were nothing more than rapists, murderers, and charlatans? It is an even greater shame that I have to stoop to such methods to protect my people. The nobles in Vycount are too busy with their petty war to help me, and the Cabal has seen fit to ignore my cries for help. If you wish to find someone to blame, find it in the hearts and minds of the Therean Judges who created this awful Pact in the first place."

Harken looked up, his mind ablaze with all the things he wanted to say, but realized deep down the Elder was right. The Slayers that had been drawn into this awful Pact were all criminals, just like him. The men too cowardly to accept the noose and so deserved a coward's fate.

"I'm sorry, Slayer," the Elder stared down at the Pact, his eyes glossing over each individual symbol, "That I have brought you here to die."

"I have no intention of dying in your rotten village."

"So, you will attempt to kill this creature?"

"I will."

"Then make your commitment and let us be done with this dark business."

Harken pulled the knife from his boot. He held his thumb to the light and sliced the blade into his flesh. Bright, red blood welled from the cut. When enough had gathered, he wiped his thumb into the last remaining point in the star, painting an inverted triangle onto the wood.

"I make this Pact today in atonement for my crimes. I commit to killing the creature in the forest in exchange for a step closer to freedom. Only in death will I break my vow." The words were spoken quickly. After saying them for so long, it was as natural as breathing. How funny, Harken thought. How sad.

The pentagram began to glow until the dull rust transformed into hot white as the Pact grew in power. Harken's tattoos began to itch furiously as the energy washed over him, binding him to his oath. The familiar numbness crept up his toes all the way to his head, poking and prodding his face as it searched for a rune to claim. The sensation began to dissipate as the Pact settled for a fat, cross-shaped star on his left cheek. Slowly, the light faded away until only the candlelight remained. The Elder stared at Harken expectantly.

"It is done. The Pact has been made," Harken rose from his chair, wanting nothing more than to never look at the symbols again. "I will need a place to sleep. I doubt there will be room left in your tavern after what happened."

"I have a hayloft. You can stay there for the night."

The loft was in a small barn near Elder Benson's home. Harken climbed up the ladder and tested the sturdiness of the wooden beams before settling in. The warped planks groaned under his weight but gave no sign of collapsing.

He placed his weapons to the side, shimmied out of his leather jerkin, and pulled his boots off, letting his wrapped feet breathe in the summer air. The hay was fresh and warm, yet Harken still found himself unable to sleep despite its comfort. Every time he tried to settle in, his thoughts drifted back to the Pact.

There was something in that forest, of that he had no doubt. The presence he sensed before had put him on edge, even more so than the Elder's desperation and his damned pentagram. Whatever it was, it had killed four Slayers already and the foolish many who thought themselves brave enough to face such a creature.

He would need to be prepared if he was going to figure out what was haunting Irgencourt's woods. The Elder had called it a beast, but no animal Harken had heard of left a fresh, uneaten corpse dangling from a tree. A thought dawned on him. Perhaps it wasn't an animal at all. He knew of only one way to find out. Harken sank into the hay and, with some difficulty, drifted off to sleep.

***

The dream was cold. The warmth of the hay was gone now, replaced with a chill Harken was all too familiar with. The old, moldy stone walls of Therea's dungeon stretched on for eternity in all directions. Lit torches flickered in sconces along the walls, and an acrid, damp smell permeated the air. Harken tried not to gag. He would need to act quickly before the dream tricked him into believing it was all real.

He placed his hand on a stone wall and willed it to change. He visualized a great oak being felled in a forest. The smell of summer tickled his nose, and the sounds of hammers and saws echoed in his ears. With some difficulty, the wall began to bend to his will, rippling like water over glass. Slowly, the gray stones shifted into themselves before turning entirely into wood. Harken smiled with satisfaction and took a step back to admire his work. The dream was his to control now.

With a wave of his hand, a door appeared before him, and Harken stepped through. He picked up a burnt-out torch from a nearby sconce and blew into it, making the fire erupt with new life, driving away the cold darkness around him.

Harken sensed a familiar presence down the endless corridor. The creature was here, somewhere, but in what direction he could not tell. He walked down the newly created hallway, passing by empty cells and torture rooms that had once housed the most wicked men in Therea. Their screams used to fill the halls for hours at a time as they begged for their lives. The silence was almost apprehensive now.

After a few minutes, Harken stopped. At the end of the hall was a door. A door he had not made. It was fashioned out of solid oak and barred with heavy iron slats. A small window was grated shut in the center, a sliver of light still poking out. It looked convincingly enough like a door, but that was the problem with dreams. Everything was malleable.

He threw the torch into a nearby brazier and gave the door a push. It wouldn't budge. Tugging on the handle did nothing as well. There was no keyhole to speak of either. For all intents and purposes, the door did not want to be opened.

Frustration began to eat away at Harken's patience. If the way in wasn't going to present itself, then he would create his own. He took a step back and kicked at the door. The wood groaned and slid half an inch. He kicked again, driving his foot into the latch with all his might. Harken gasped as the door surprisingly flew open, and bright, blinding light flooded the hallway, swallowing him up entirely.

When the light subsided, Harken found himself standing in a forest. Great Oaks, Pines, and Solder trees towered over him as far as the eye could see. Bushes and wildflowers dusted the landscape, blooming in the bright summer sky. A butterfly flitted by him and landed on his outstretched hand for a moment before flying away. Harken stood there, amazed at the sudden change in scenery.

At first, he thought himself alone in such a paradise, but then he sensed something else in the forest too. A shadow slinked between the trees. Standing on two legs, the shadow was twice as tall as a man with eyes like two pinpricks of moonlight. Two great horns protruded from its bovine shaped head, curving outwards and ending at sharpened points. And it was heading straight towards him.

Harken froze in his tracks as the Shadow stopped twenty feet away from him. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest and wouldn't doubt if the creature heard as well. The shadow lifted its head, sniffing at the air before settling its gaze on him. And then, without warning, it erupted into a bone-chilling roar and charged him. There was only one thing to do.

Harken turned tail and ran. After what he'd seen, there was no mistaking what haunted Irgencourt's woods now. A Krole. By the twelve constellations, how he hated Kroles.

Krole's were ornery, territorial spirits attracted to the axiom that pooled in forests and glens. Morr, the huntsman, must have stumbled upon the heart tree that the spirit inhabited, leading him to his early grave. Harken had no desire to follow him.

The Krole bellowed once more, sending chills up his spine, but that only inspired him to run faster. Fighting the spirit in its dream would have been an absolute folly. The only acceptable solution Harken could think of was to return to his own dream and wake up. However, he needed to find the door first.

The ground shook as the Krole tore through the forest to reach Harken. He hopped over bushes and zigzagged between trees, but the spirit would not let up. Anything that impeded its path was either trampled underfoot or smashed into kindling.

Harken began to panic. Where had the door gone too? He couldn't run forever, and if he died in the dream, he'd be leaving a perfectly good body to waste away in the Elder's barn. Not exactly the best way to go, he thought.

A glint to his left suddenly caught Harken's eye. The door was standing on a hill in a nearby clearing. A spark of hope ignited in his heart, renewing his vigor. The way out had presented itself; all he needed to do now was to reach it.

Harken dropped to one knee and leaped towards the door, just as the Krole hurled itself at where he had been moments before. The impact shook the earth, catching Harken off balance. He tripped, rolled, and pulled himself back up, ducking just in time as an arm the size of a log came swinging past his head.

Harken pumped his legs, pushing with all his might. He breached the clearing and scrambled up the hill, grabbing hold of the door just as the Krole emerged from the trees. It stopped suddenly and watched, its gaze dead set on his own. It didn't take a smart man to know what the spirit's intent was. Stay out. Thoughts of the huntsman's fate came to Harken's mind. He wasn't going to end up like Morr, at least not tonight.

With a great heave, Harken opened the door, leaped inside, and slammed it shut. Silence and stone stood to greet him. It was time to wake up now. He had been in the dream for far too long. His body would suffer for it.

He quickly crossed the hall, terror welling up inside of him as he waved his hand, another door forming instantly in the stone wall. It appeared similar to the others in the dungeon, except for a metal plate hammered in the center. The name Judge Kallim was inscribed on the plate, written in the ancient Therean language of Gothic Chromantra. The same language that was branded into Harken's flesh.

He hesitated before the door. Despite nearly a decade since his branding, the memory still haunted him. The heavy sound of truncheons striking his body as they beat him. The smell of his flesh cooking after they strapped him to a table and branded him with their accursed magic. Judge Kallim's sickening glee as he stabbed Harken over and over with that burning needle until he finally blacked out from the pain. Now the memory was an invisible scar in his mind and the exit to his dreams. He just needed the courage to open the door.

A great rumbling drew his attention away. Dust spilled down the hall as a large form pushed its way forward. It was the Krole.

Harken felt his mind seize. The damned thing had barreled its way into his dream. A new fear overtook him, and he grabbed the door with both hands and flung it open. He leaped forward and ran deeper into the bowels of the dungeon. The wailing missing from before was now alive all around him.

Voices begged and screamed amidst the sounds of pummeled flesh and broken bones. Emaciated men reached from cell bars, babbling either in terror or in madness. Harken kept running. He ran until the Krole's heavy footsteps faded away until the sounds of screaming men faded away until only the darkness remained.

***

Harken awoke drenched in sweat. His head was pounding, and his mouth was thick with the familiar taste of blood. His stomach fared even worse. It took every last ounce of Harken's willpower not to vomit up his dinner. Coming back from an awakened dream was never a pleasant experience, but he had pushed himself too hard this time.

Off in the distance, the sounds of thunder rumbled outside the barn. Strange, given that Harken had not seen any dark clouds forming on the horizon, but heat storms were known to appear suddenly and without warning. He settled back into the hay, waiting for the flash of lightning to herald the coming boom, but the lightning never came, and the thunder only grew louder. Suddenly, a howl split the night, sending a chill up Harken's spine. A very familiar chill.

The barn door burst open. "Harken!" Elder Benson croaked as he hobbled inside. "Get down here, Slayer! Something is attacking the village!"

Harken pulled his clothes on quickly as he searched for his weapons under the hay, cursing at his foolishness. Entering the Krole's dream had been a mistake. Now it was angry and on the warpath straight towards him.

"Get out of sight and don't come out until I tell you," Harken ordered the Elder. The old man looked about in a panic before settling on a nearby stack of hay bales to hide behind. Harken went to a knee, taking in deep, quiet breaths to calm his nerves. If he was going to get the upper hand on the Krole, he would at least need to keep his sword hand steady.

Harken's breath hitched in his throat as heavy footsteps approached the barn. A large shadow loomed in front of the open door, growing larger still as the spirit trundled inside. Within the gaps of the hay loft's floor, Harken caught a glimpse of the Krole.

It was bigger than anything he had ever seen; the spirit lumbered on two mighty oaks for legs. Its body was draped in moss and held together by wriggling vines, extending down the log sized arms that had almost taken his head off in the dream. Most notable of all was the auroch skull fashioned as its head, the bone-white horns still spattered with old gore.

Despite his best efforts, Harken couldn't keep his hands from trembling at the sight of the Krole. In his youth, he would've felt excited to face such a creature, but now with the prime of his life well behind him, all that excitement was nothing more than a bitter memory.

Harken worried his trembling would alert the creature. Luckily, the Krole had not noticed him. Not yet, at least. It jerked its head from side to side, sniffing the air with a hungry eagerness as it lumbered into clear view. Harken tightened his grip on his sword. Just one more step, and it would be in the perfect spot for him to strike.

The Krole twitched suddenly and smashed a nearby stack of crates, bellowing in agitation. A gasp erupted from the hay bales, and the spirit perked its head towards the direction of the noise. Harken cursed under his breath. That stars-damned Elder had given himself away.

There was no time for hesitation now, Harken realized. If the Elder was killed, then the Pact could never be fulfilled. With his sword raised high, Harken roared and jumped off the loft. The Krole turned to him, its surprising bellow cut short as Harken brought the blade down with a sickening crack, slicing through the left horn and wedging deep into the skull. The two plummeted together in a thunderous crash.

The Krole thrashed on its back as Harken scrambled to stay upright, holding onto the sword for dear life. He reached for his mace, working the stubborn clasp blindly as he fended off the spirit's attempts to throw him off. In a desperate moment, he took his eyes off the Krole and paid the price when an arm sized log smashed into his head.

He lost his grip on the sword and tumbled down onto the ground. His head rang, stars danced in his vision, and he'd bitten his tongue in the fall. He stumbled to pick himself back up, gripping the mace in his hands to keep them from shaking. The Krole clawed its way back onto its feet and let out a wild roar that made his thoughts burn like wildfire. With one mighty yank, the Krole ripped the sword embedded in its skull and tossed it aside.

It was going about as well as expected, though Harken. He'd hurt the damn thing, and it had hurt him in return. They were even, but he'd survived this long and had no intention of dying just yet.

He stared down the Krole, fearfully awaiting its next move. The Krole, in turn, watched him intently, keeping a safe distance. It didn't attack blindly. It was smart. As if its very essence was that of a predator made manifest by the forest. And he was going to kill it. Stars willing, he would kill this damn thing, just to spite the gods a little longer.

Harken raised his mace and charged at the Krole. Before he had a chance to strike, the spirit turned on its heels and ran, smashing past the barn doors as it barreled out into the night. Harken watched on in shock. The damned thing had run away just as he had done in its dream. He tried to put away his mace but found his hands shaking too hard for him to undo the clasp.

"It's okay, you can come out now. The Krole is gone." Harken called out.

"The what?" Elder Benson asked, poking his head out from behind the hay bale.

Harken realized he would have a lot of explaining to do.

***

Harken sat beside the Elder's fireplace as the old man paced about the room. A fresh fire was roaring with life around a small cauldron with a spigot protruding at the end. On the table was the Krole's severed horn.

"Of all the bastards and jackanapes that have come into this village, you are by far either the most clever idiot I have ever met or a damned good liar." The Elder had not liked the explanation Harken had given him about the Krole nor the Slayer's ability to control dreams, and with good reason too. An Axiomancer such as Elder Benson had probably spent a lifetime understanding how his abilities worked. Powers that could challenge the very laws of nature. For Harken, he had no such power. His ability to control dreams was just a hobby taught to him by one of the Reavers during the war, now re-purposed to fit his hunting spirit needs.

"Believe whatever you want, the fact is the Krole ran back to the forest to nurse its wounds. I likely have a day at most before that thing comes back with a vengeance." Harken said.

"You call this, whatever it is, a Krole. You've faced something like this before?"

"Nine years ago, before I knew what the hell I was doing. The last one was a lot smaller than the one we're dealing with, but it still nearly gored me to death regardless." Harken pulled up his tunic to reveal the knotted scar that ran from his lower abdomen to his back. How he had not died from his wounds, he still couldn't understand.

Harken lifted the lid of the cauldron and peered inside. The contents were bubbling nicely. He opened a satchel he had taken from his pack and pulled out a large ball of wax. Quickly, he chucked it into the cauldron and snapped the lid shut.

The Elder stopped pacing to watch. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"Cooking something up for my next encounter with the Krole. It's an old Willibian recipe I picked up called Allysian Fire. Burns when exposed to air, and it won't stop even when doused in water." Harken pulled out a glass jar with a cork stopper and placed it beside him.

"Are you from Williby?"

"No, I'm Therean, just like those damned Judges you hate so much." Harken chuckled. "But I spent some time there during the Iron War."

The Elder gave him a quizzical look and took a seat in a nearby chair. "You were a soldier?"

"I served with the Therean Reavers under Captain Howel. We were behind enemy lines for most of the war, destroying anything of worth in Williby until they tried to siege Therea's capital. Stars, I remember when we heard the news. We never ran so fast before in our lives." Harken produced a handful of whittled sticks and some twine from his satchel.

"I remember the last stand," Elder Benson nodded. "I stood on Therea's ramparts trying to keep Williby's soldiers from crossing the breach into the city."

"The Reavers were there too," Harken said. "And so were the Chevaliers, the Knights of Callad, The Chosen. Practically everyone was there." Harken remembered them all so well. They were rowdy, foolish, and arrogant people at times, but they were brave men through and through. They died fighting like real soldiers, unlike him.

"We all knew what would happen if we failed." He continued. "We proved a kingdom was built upon the sacrifices of good men."

"And you and I became heroes. National icons representing the best Therea had to offer." The Elder mused.

"Practically paragons."

"Then why did you do it?" Elder Benson erupted from his chair, his voice now piercing with accusation. "Why did you kill King Jerond's son? Why did you kill the Prince? You could have lived comfortably off of your soldier's pension for the rest of your days. Why did you just..." The Elder paused, at a loss for words. "Why did you just squander it?"

There was a long silence between them. Elder Benson sat back down. Harken turned his attention to the sticks in his hand, forming them into a triangular ward wrapped together in twine to create a heptagram in the center.

"Don't ignore me." The Elder growled.

"Do you have a family, Elder?" Harken turned to ask.

The Elder paused, surprised by Harken's question. "Once."

"As did I. After the war ended, I found myself with too much time on my hands. Reaving work was over, and I was out of a job. I wandered a bit until I found myself in Oxland. That's where I met Anna."

Harken paused, his eyes searching for the right words next. "She pulled me back from a very dark point in my life. She gave me love, laughter, and eventually, a daughter. The apple of my eye, she was."

Harken smiled at nothing. "I wanted to live a peaceful life, honestly," He began to say. "I wanted to spend the rest of my days never wanting to hold a sword again. And then the prince took them from me. He snuffed out the last remaining light I had in my life. The only price I thought fair was his own." Bitter memories danced in the fire, and yet Harken had no tears left to shed for them.

"Now, I pay the price every day for what I did. I used to be a hero, and now I'm scum. I go to bed hungry most nights. I haven't felt the warmth of a real bed in years. I honestly can't remember the last time a woman touched me."

He turned to the Elder. "I expected death after what I did. I had nothing left, and then I was given a choice by those Judges you hate so much." Harken stood up, his voice thick and sour.

"Take the Slayer's Pact or die by the noose. And when I gave them my answer, they strapped me to a table and branded these Stars-damned tattoos onto me!"

The Elder sat there in silence. When he tried to speak, his words merely sputtered out.

"I wanted to die," Harken continued. "And those bastards gave me a way out. I don't know whether it was terror or spite or both, but here I am now," Harken sat back down by the fireplace and puffed his cheeks. "Cooking Allysian Fire in a Truth Changers fireplace. I certainly never expected myself doing this twenty years ago."

There was another long silence. Harken took the glass jar and fixed it to the cauldron's spigot. With a twist of the handle, a syrupy, amber liquid began to pour out. When the bottle was nearly full, he shut the handle, grabbed the stopper, and in one quick motion, sealed the jar before placing it gingerly into his satchel.

"What would you do if you earned your freedom?" The Elder asked.

"I would go home," Harken replied.

"Where is home?"

"Oxland. It was small and quaint, but I liked it there."

The Elder nodded. "What did you have there?"

"I had a daughter. I had a wife. I had a good job sharpening axes and shoeing oxen after the war was over. It was a good life."

"Aye, and then you threw it all away."

"I did. And I'll live through it. I won't be a Slayer forever. One day I'll be free," Harken smiled, though he felt no joy. "And I'll be one step closer, come tomorrow."

***

Despite the clear morning sky come the next day, the forest was pitch black. Thick tendrils of ivy had risen from the ground around the trees, slithering through the branches and swallowing up the light. The forest had taken on a feral appearance. Yet, there was something else that felt unsettling to Harken. It wasn't until he had crossed the forest's edge that the realization finally dawned on him.

The place was eerily silent. There was no bird song, no insect noise, and no signs of life. Only the occasional breeze and the crunch of his boots in the dirt broke the stillness. Instinctively, he reached for the jar clasped to his side, gliding a finger across the lip and neck. Now was not the time for fear, he thought. Now was the time to act.

He pulled the heptagram shaped ward from his pack and held it out. At first, nothing happened until a green glow emanated from its center. Very steadily, the axiom, the very essence of life itself, collected into the ward until an orb the size of Harken's fist formed before him.

"Show me the way," he whispered. The orb began to glide along the strings before settling on the edge of the heptagram facing north, pointing deeper into the forest.

The farther Harken walked, the more corrupted the forest became. Ivy, as thick as his thumb, choked everything in his way, forcing him to cut down swaths in his path. The air became colder, and his labored breath came out in hazy clouds. He was getting close now.

The choking ivy eventually parted to reveal a small clearing. In the center stood a mighty, white oak completely entrapped within the vines. The soil around the tree was dark and barren, with massive roots erupting from the ground in all directions. At the base of the tree, piled in heaps, were the corpses of those the Krole had killed. Some clutched swords and wore the tattered remains of leather and chain mail, while others were dressed in simple clothes.

Harken's tattoos began to itch fiercely as he gazed upon the tree. The Krole's heart most likely lay within, anchoring the spirit in the physical world as it suckled away at the axiom in the forest, as a tick would steal the blood of its host.

Harken knelt beside the tree and staked the ward into the ground. The glow began to spread to the seven tips of the heptagram. Hopefully, the Krole would sense the ward and take the bait.

A sudden flutter of wings alerted Harken to look up. A group of crows sat perched amongst the white oak's branches. They watched him with an intense curiosity, their eyes following his every move. He stepped back from the ward as more and more of the bloody things began to congregate before him until the tree was more bird than branch.

The crows erupted in shrieking, splitting the silence of the forest. They flew into the air in big, black masses and fell upon Harken. He drew his sword, cutting into the mob, but the more he swung, the angrier they became. They dived from all directions and pecked at anything exposed. A beak tore into his ear. A talon sliced across his forehead, dripping blood into his eyes.

The crows were relentless in their attack, picking him apart piece by piece. The Krole must have possessed the crows, sending them to kill him instead, too afraid to face him. The thought was almost ironic to Harken, but the irony was not going to save him. If the Krole wasn't going to come out, then he would force it out.

Harken ran through a clearing in the crow's assault towards the white oak. He yanked the jar from his pouch and chucked it. The jar sailed through the air and broke upon the tree. For a moment, nothing happened, and then the Allysian Fire ignited.

Hot, white flames erupted in all directions and began to consume the vines surrounding the tree. The crows shrieked at the sudden burst of light and flew away from Harken in a panic. Some dropped dead to the ground while others scattered in all directions until only the sound of the burning tree remained.

The fire crackled nicely and warmed the bitter cold in Harken's bones. He wiped away the blood on his forehead and gulped in a few breaths of air. Eerie silence shrouded the clearing once more until a fresh wave of pain erupted from Harken's tattoos. From behind the burning oak stood the Krole, watching him from the flames.

"Come on, then!" Harken yelled, pointing his sword at the spirit. "No more games! No more running! Just you and me!"

The Krole stepped slowly towards him, the vines across its body writhing with agitation. Harken could practically feel the anger and fear coming from the spirit. It had lived as the apex predator of the forest for five years, killing any who dared enter its domain. Never before had it faced a contentious bastard like Harken. He couldn't help but smile at the thought.

In a flash, the Krole was upon him. It swung an arm, bellowing like a charging bull. Harken raised his sword just in time to block before he was thrown from the impact. He skidded off the dirt and rolled back up, stepping back from another swing mere inches from taking his head off his shoulders. Steel smashed against wood as Slayer and spirit traded blows.

Pain erupted up Harken's arms as they clashed, the blade doing little more than nick away at the Krole's massive body. He would tire out before long at the rate he was going, and then the Krole would add his corpse to the collection. He needed to try something else.

Keeping his body low, Harken sprang towards the Krole, driving the point of his blade forward. The Krole kicked out, missing Harken by inches as he pirouetted around the spirit and hacked into its leg. The Krole buckled and fell to a knee. Harken swung again, this time slicing into a clump of vines at its flank, revealing a hole in the body.

The Krole bellowed like an enraged auroch and turned, backhanding Harken. He skipped like a stone across the ground, smashing into the corpses at the base of the burning white oak.

Harken gasped for breath and pulled himself up. The damned thing was tossing him around like a sack doll to be toyed with. His arms hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt. He took a step forward and nearly stumbled back to the ground, the fatigue finally settling in. First, the dream, then the barn, and now this? It was all becoming too much to bear for his aging body.

The Krole watched him eagerly, flexing its fingers in anticipation. In the firelight, it looked even more grotesque. The auroch skull was cracked and chipped in places and leaned precariously in the direction of its intact horn. Its arms were scoured in cuts from unsuccessful strikes. Truly, it was a demon of the forest.

If only he hadn't wasted the Allysian Fire on the tree. It would have consumed the Krole's body in an instant. He needed to think of something and fast.

The Krole stood up to its full height and let out a prideful roar, the hole Harken had created in its flank yawning open. A thought suddenly came to him, a dangerous one born of desperation. Sheathing his sword, Harken unclasped the mace at his side.

He scraped the head of the mace with the still burning oil that coated the oak. The mace burned brightly and dripped liquid fire onto the ground. The heat stung at his hands, but he had no time to worry about that. If his plan was going to work, he couldn't hesitate. It was now or never.

Harken charged towards the Krole, the mace streaking like a star in the darkness. The Krole swung in a panic, surprised by his sudden ferocity, but Harken was faster. The mace arced, smashing through the Krole's fingers and lodging deep into its open wound.

The Krole burst into flames like fresh kindling to a spark. It thrashed violently, throwing Harken to the ground as it raked at the mace. The fire began to spread, vines bursting into charred clumps as the Krole was consumed from within. Its legs splintered and cracked, the weight too much to bear as the Krole crumpled into a charred heap.

Harken pulled himself up and limped towards the spirit. He grabbed the mace and ripped it out of the Krole, the head still glowing hot. With the last of his strength, he raised the mace and brought it down upon the Krole's head with a sickening crack.

The Krole bucked under the blow and then fell limp. Harken sank to his knees, letting the mace slip from his fingers as he fell onto his back in the cold dirt. Past the canopy, the first few rays of sunlight began to poke through the wilting ivy. Thank his lucky stars, he thought.

It was over.

***

The skull made a loud thunk as it was placed on Elder Benson's table. The man studied it wide-eyed before looking up at Harken.

"This is the Krole?" He asked.

"What remains of it. I burned the body and the Heartwood tree it was inhabiting, too. It won't be coming back anytime soon."

"Good. Good." Twice already, the Elder was at a loss for words.

Harken took the knife from his boot and placed it on the table. "Now, it's time for you to fulfill your end of the Pact."

"So, it would seem." The Elder nodded. "To be honest, I didn't believe you would make it back, Slayer. You're a cut above the rest." The Elder took the knife and swiped it across his thumb. Once he had welled enough blood, he stamped it into the center of the pentagram.

The pentagram and Harken's tattoo began to glow in unison. Instead of pain, however, the power washed over him like a soothing breeze. The cross-shaped star slowly peeled off his left cheek, revealing the scarred flesh underneath. It floated in the air for a moment before disintegrating into nothing. The glow from the pentagram faded away once more. The Pact had been fulfilled.

"Will you be staying for a while?" the Elder asked. "I'm sure the people of Irgencourt will be much more grateful to you once news gets around of your accomplishment."

"I cannot, unfortunately." Harken wiped the blood off his knife and slid it back into his boot. "The Slayer's journey ever goes on." He turned to leave.

"Wait, before you go." The Elder pressed a small, jingling pouch into Harken's hand. "Here's a little something for your trouble," he said. "If you find a place that will have you, use this. A good man should never forget the comforts of a bed."

Harken stared at the pouch for a moment before pocketing it. A strange sense of warmth washed over him. Perhaps it was joy. Perhaps it was relief. He felt compelled to say something but ultimately nodded and left.

His horse was waiting for him patiently back at the tavern's stables. The barman was standing close by, spearing fresh hay into the feeding trough.

"Leaving, are you?" he asked. Harken nodded. "A shame, really. I liked what you did to Everett. Bastard needed a good walloping."

Harken nodded again and saddled his horse. To his surprise, the barman held out his hand. Harken shook it, the grip firm and warm.

"Thank you, Slayer. For everything. I hope one day you walk a free man in this world."

"You're welcome." Harken managed to say before he hitched his horse to ride. However, after a few steps, he pulled on the reins and turned back to the barman. "And thank you."

Harken left the village of Irgencourt as the sun neared its zenith in the sky. A cold wind was blowing, whispering sweet melodies in his ears. For a moment, the blistering heat of yesterday felt like nothing more than a bad memory. He closed his eyes and gave a ragged sigh. Time would only tell when the next Pact came.

END