Excruciating pain pierced his body as flesh was rent apart and stitched back together by threads of magic. He felt his body being remade even as his spirit arrived to inhabit it, its physical traits being altered from what it had been to what suited his nature. The process was short but harrowing; none of his senses worked except to experience the agony of being reborn, he could not move nor breathe, and he did not know where he was or why he was there.
Then air rushed in to fill his freshly formed lungs and he felt his weight come to rest on a pair of strong legs. As if waking up abruptly from a deep slumber, the world came crashing down on his senses all at once, momentarily overwhelming him: the smell of fresh blood; the sound of frantic, shouting voices; the warmth of a late summer evening.
His vision came last as the complex organs that were his eyes settled into their new shape. He found himself in what appeared to be a small room of the kind that were typically found in Rodorian inns, adequate yet sparsely furnished. At his feet lay a piece of parchment with the telltale scorch-marks of a cheaply written incantation, still smoking from its contents being destroyed by the magic channeled through it. And ahead of him, perhaps two meters from where he stood, was a broken door hanging off its top hinge, swung open to reveal two armor-clad men.
The men stared at him with eyes wide in fear and uncertainty. One held an arming sword in his hand while the other wielded a short spear, both of which were stained with blood.
But even more telling was the crest on the tabards they wore over their armor: the full-body profile of a drake, wings outstretched, tail coiled and talons primed to strike.
A cold, sharp sense of dread came over him. Crusaders...
His attention shifted to the floor at the feet of these men, where he saw a trail of familiar red liquid leading toward where he stood, and he belatedly realized that he was standing in a small puddle of blood. There was no one else in the room with him besides these crusaders; the one who had summoned him was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?” he asked, panic making his voice high-pitched and desperate. To be summoned to the Corerealm was already rare for most divines, but to be summoned to Rodoria specifically and without feeling any magical compulsion to obey his summoner? It had to be her. It had to. So why was she not here?
The armed men looked at each other nervously, then one of them turned his head and shouted over his shoulder: “We need help up here! The damned creature summoned an angel!”
Creature? He heard and felt his heartbeat in his ears and it felt as though the ground was tipping under his feet. He unnecessarily looked down at his hands, visually confirming that they were indeed his hands, complete with dark maroon skin and pale, hooked claws at the tip of each finger. This was a full summoning; he was not inhabiting some inanimate material, a corpse nor possessing the living body of another. A life had been sacrificed to bring him here and create a suitable body for him. Someone had died, and their body had supplied the raw materials to shape his vessel.
Again he looked at the blood on the ground. Looked at his hands. Looked at the crusaders, at their bloodied weapons. And with an intense feeling of revulsion, he knew.
He clutched his chest with both hands and let out a long, heartrendingly despondent wail as he felt his mind reeling with the conclusion he had tried so hard to not reach. The two crusaders took a step back, understandably cautious and fearful in the face of a literally otherworldly immortal, yet stayed in the doorway, blocking his only means of escape.
They called her a “creature”, he thought, his gaze drawn once more to their freshly used weapons. Members of the Crusader's Guild. Minions of Kevalorn the Holy. Humans who blame the Withering on the other sapients. Who hate them.
The chill of fear turned to white-hot rage in an instant, and the hate he felt for himself paled before what he felt for these people. To these disgusting mundane beings, who tormented and killed each other for such stupid reasons.
He drew in a deep breath before roaring at them, his voice now deep and booming with the blazing intensity of his wrath: “What did you do?!”
The spear-wielder lunged at him, aiming to plunge his weapon into the chest of his quarry. The angel flung his left arm out to meet the attack, his fury so intense that he did not even feel it piercing his forearm and getting stuck in his flesh, while his right hand thrust forward and seized the crusader's head by the face.
The attacker let go of his spear and instead clutched the fingers palming his skull, trying desperately to escape while crying out for help.
Hearing this only fanned the flames of the angel's ire. No one helped her.
He had only been in Reniam for a few seconds and had not had time to channel much divine energy from his native realm yet, but at this point he directed every shred of power at his disposal into his hand, into the crusader's head. He poured all his hatred into him, letting it fuel his desire to destroy.
The crusader's calls for aid turned to screams of agony as black smoke began pouring from between the angel's fingers. Skin sizzled, hair burned and blood boiled until the screams ceased and the man's body went limp in his grasp.
As his fingers uncurled, the released crusader collapsed nervelessly onto the floor, his still-smoking face a bloody mess.
He turned his attention to the other crusader, and any courage that might have survived seeing his comrade brutally executed left the man as he felt the angel's loathing focus on him. The human turned on his heel and fled, though his footfalls were soon joined by what sounded like numerous others.
It was likely the right course of action to retreat and regroup before facing someone who had demonstrated the ability to kill with magic like that, of course. It was what any sane person would do after witnessing an ally murdered with such brutal efficiency.
At least that is what anyone unfamiliar with Angels of Deceit would think.
The angel grasped the spear that was still embedded in his arm with his right hand and pulled it out in a quick motion. Immediately he felt his flesh begin to knit itself back together to undo the damage it had sustained, just as he felt the energy he had just expended being replenished and exceeded. Though his divine power had been depleted, it now flowed through him and into the area around him, waiting to be given purpose through his wrath. Little sparks of electricity wove paths of light between his fingers; streaks of swirling flame crawled up his arms; the very air vibrated against his skin.
They had given the angel the one thing they could not afford to give it: time. Expending what little power he had had left him practically defenseless, but each passing second made him more powerful, more dangerous.
His stomach churned with revulsion at the thought that his flesh was her flesh, that his life had been bought with her life. These people, this world, had driven her to sacrifice herself to bring him here. After everything she had been through, despite all her beautiful hopes and dreams, she was gone. And he was here instead.
An ominous, vicious growl rumbled in his chest. He would make sure that this world remembered her, no matter what. He would use the body she gifted him to leave a scar upon this realm that would be felt for centuries to come.

“I will save you!” Jaelnec declared loudly, raising his sword high into the air and striking his interpretation of a theatrically heroic pose. His announcement was met with enthusiastic cheers from his troops, all of whom raised their own weapons and tried to copy him the best they could, before charging fearlessly toward the enemy.
Jaelnec was the last to break his pose and start running by several seconds, but even so he still easily overtook his comrades and arrived into the fray as the first. He twirled his sword three times in an extravagant flourish before holding it high once again, making sure to very clearly telegraph that he was about to perform a vertical cleave, before releasing his strike.
The opponent blocked the attack with ease and Jaelnec recoiled with a yelp, only for the enemy force to surge toward him and start to rain blows upon him.
Any thoughts of presenting himself with unnecessary extravagance and showmanship vanished from his mind as he felt his senses and instincts sharpen, his body almost moving on its own now that he was faced with five attackers all at once. He maneuvered swiftly and precisely, taking a step back to move out of range of a weapon that barely missed his narrow, slender waist while at the same time flicking his sword to the right, parrying a blow at his flank. He moved his left leg out of the way as one targeted his knee, spun in place and quickly deflected another two swings from his right.
Even as attacks seemed to come from every direction at once, Jaelnec knew to sense them and react. The eyes on his youthful face – uniform black, with no visible iris or sclera – had even wider peripheral vision than those of the people he fought, and he had spent most of his life honing his awareness of not only that, but of all his senses. He saw blurred movement at the far edge of his field of vision, heard a foot hit the dirt and someone breathing in sharply, and he knew to dodge the wild lunge that came at him.
His left hand moved to brush a few strands of shoulder-length blond hair out of his face, ruffled as it had gotten from his rapid movements, only for it to habitually move to grasp and hold onto the wide brim of his hat. He pulled it down a little to better shade his light-sensitive eyes from the setting sun and felt the comforting weight of the steel helmet hidden inside it shift slightly on his head.
But even with his superior speed and skill compared to his adversaries, guarding against five different attackers was not something he could sustain indefinitely. He spun to parry an attack from behind while blocking another with the iron bracer on his forearm, only to feel himself get struck on his left hip. The pain was insignificant and there was no damage, fortunately, as the weapon merely bounced off while rattling the riveted chain links of his hauberk.
It also helped that his attacker was only half his own size, was wielding a wooden stick and did not actually intend to hurt him. At least Jaelnec hoped the children did not want to hurt him; he was certainly trying his best to keep them safe while they were having fun. That was why he was wielding a blunt wooden sword rather than the sharp one of steel currently sheathed on his hip.
Truth be told Jaelnec had completely lost track of the supposed premise of this little play-battle of theirs, partly because it was barely coherent and partly because it seemed to change at random intervals at the whims of the children. Luckily the why of it mattered little to the children and even less to him; as long as he managed to distract them for a few minutes and maybe even put smiles on their faces, the children could attack him with sticks as much as they wanted.
Several minutes of lighthearted clashing of weapons followed, during which the tides of battle turned constantly and unpredictably. It all culminated in the sudden yet inevitable betrayal of the children on Jaelnec's side, leading to the twenty-five-year-old being assailed by no less than nine adversaries between the ages of six and twelve. He endured for several seconds until his smaller opponents decided to overcome his armor by employing superior tactics, discarding their sticks and grappling him instead.
“Nooo!” he wailed melodramatically, allowing the children to restrain his arms and legs only to then struggle in vain to stay on his feet as their combined weight forced him to the ground.
They all laughed, and for a moment even Jaelnec forgot about the rest of the world. Right then and there, in the mud and dirt and with the painful, blinding sun in his sensitive eyes, everything was good.
Then a woman's voice called them to assemble for their evening meal, and the illusion was broken. The sound of children's laughter stilled quickly, their smiles faltered, and a grief much too heavy for such young people replaced the happiness in their eyes.
The children extricated themselves and demurely went to the middle-aged woman awaiting them by the open door to an old barn, beyond which was an improvised fireplace with a steaming cauldron hanging over the flames. Another five adults of varying ages sat around the fire, staring into the flames with distant expressions. A man raised a bottle with murky liquid to his mouth and swallowed several times.
Jaelnec stood and brushed off his clothes to the best of his ability, looking at the children sadly as they went past the oxen and wagons that had carried them here, into what would be the shelter for the night.
Rather than going inside, Jaelnec instead headed off to the side of the barn, toward a fallen tree that served as the seat of the man who watched him from there. A man clad in a long black coat, with a face ravaged by both battle and age, covered in scars and with a large patch over his right eye. It was difficult to discern what the remaining left eye was looking at, since it was the same uniform black as Jaelnec's own, marking him as a fellow nightwalker.
Though he looked old, grizzled and even somewhat ragged, as anyone would who wore such disfigurements rather than pay to have them restored with magic, his equipment was anything but. Bracers of wrought iron adorned his forearms, greaves of steel protected his legs, matched with a pair of steel gauntlets and a helmet sitting next to him on the trunk. But all of that paled next to the shimmer from within the open front of the coat that shifted from gold to purple as Jaelnec moved as the pale sunlight played in the scales of his cuirass. After all, who but someone extremely wealthy could possibly afford to don such a large piece of gear made from a supermetal?
“Disgraceful,” Freagon greeted him, his voice as worn and harsh as his looks. His expression remained neutral, in part because the old warrior's ruined face had lost its elasticity and restricted how expressive it could be, partly because Freagon was just a very stoic man. “It made no historical sense at all, and the fighting was pathetic.”
“It was just a game, sir,” the younger nightwalker said apologetically, coming to a stop in front of his older kinsman.
“A game loosely based in reality. King Roland the Ambitious was a real man, as is Delian Gilmah, but she was born decades after he died. The two of them never met, let alone fought each other.”
“I know, sir,” Jaelnec assured him, “but I doubt the children would've liked pausing their game for a history lesson.”
Freagon produced a noncommittal grunt that made it unclear whether he accepted this explanation. “And fighting isn't about fun, it's about survival. You should always be learning.”
“I know, sir.”
“Do you?” It was a rhetorical question; Jaelnec had had this conversation with his master many times dating back to when Jaelnec had been but ten years old, when he had joined the old knight fifteen years ago. “Prove it. What did you do wrong?”
Jaelnec only had to think for a second before answering: “I led a charge into the enemy rather than moving in orderly formation with my comrades. I allowed myself to be surrounded rather than maneuvering to keep all opponents to one side. I ignored every opening where I could have counterattacked and eliminated an opponent. When my allies turned against me and it became clear that I was outnumbered, I kept fighting in the open rather than retreating to a chokepoint.”
Freagon just stared at him. “And?”
This time he hesitated and could feel himself panic a little, trying desperately to spot what else he could possibly have done that would qualify as a mistake to his master.
The pause was enough for the old nightwalker's eye to narrow disapprovingly. “Why are we here?”
The boy blinked confusedly. “We're going to Borstown to meet the baroness –”
“Why are we here?” Freagon asked again, putting extra emphasis on the word “here” and pointing a finger at the ground at his feet.
Finally Jaelnec began to grasp what his master meant. “We were paid to escort these people safely to Borstown, since we were going there anyway.”
The one-eyed man simply stared at him. “What was happening around you while you played with the children?”
“Happening?” Jaelnec hesitated just a moment while he went through his mental map of the area. “You were sitting here, watching... One of the men was feeding the cattle and horses... and everyone else was in the barn, cooking or resting?”
Freagon produced another ambiguous grunt. “A deer peeked out of the trees to the south, then left again, two minutes ago.”
Jaelnec clenched his jaw and felt his heart sink. Obviously it did not actually matter whether he had seen some harmless deer showing up briefly; neither of them had enough of a fascination with random wildlife to feel passionately about that one way or another. But the fact that anything could have showed up at all without him noticing was the point Freagon was making. It was a deer this time, but what if it had been something dangerous instead? Someone armed with a bow or crossbow? Or worse, someone capable of wielding destructive magic?
A shudder went through him at the thought. A hostile mage could have wiped out him and all the civilians in his care... or worse. There was almost nothing more terrifying than an unobserved wielder of magic with harmful intent.
“I'm sorry, sir,” he immediately apologized with a deep bow. “I'll try to be more vigilant in the future.”
Freagon's head cocked slightly while his eye continued boring into his apprentice. “You'll try?”
“I will be more vigilant in the future, sir,” he corrected himself.
Freagon stood from his seat, his posture straight and firm, and started walking along the outskirts of the farm. He gestured for Jaelnec to accompany him.
They moved around the area in silence, simply watching and listening as they went. As pleasant as the sounds of birdsong and the enthusiastic voices of happy children were, Jaelnec pushed them aside to instead focus on trying to detect everything at once.
It had not always been like this, of course; just ten years ago Rodoria had been one of the safest nations on the continent, having enjoyed nearly two centuries of peace where their armies could focus on the security of the people. It had been a place where monsters mostly kept to the wilderness and were swiftly exterminated when discovered, and where outlaws barely dared stray too far from the shadows. Back then, the idea of being suddenly killed in a random act of violence would have been almost unthinkable.
The primary cause for the change was obvious even just during this short patrol, as it took them past the old burned-out pyre outside the farm, amidst the untended fields and trees heavy with ripe fruit. Pyres like this one could be found all over the kingdom, as well as in the lands of their southern neighbors, Wegam Fermos, and each evening the smoke of more could be seen rising into the sky. Though unrecognizable now, all of them knew that the bodies burned here had almost certainly been claimed by the Withering.
No one knew much about the Withering, despite vast efforts to research it. It was a plague that was supposedly magical in nature, but no one knew where it came from or how it spread. Random people would just get gray spots on their skin at random times, at which point it was time to make arrangements. All you had to look forward to was five or six days of escalating agony until you inevitably succumbed and died. Healing magic, even the divine kind, could only delay the end.
In just eleven years, the Withering had claimed two and a half million sapients just in Rodoria. It was the reason so many farms and villages that had once been prosperous were now abandoned and desolate as this one.
“Sir, I know you don't like me questioning your decisions,” Jaelnec asked as they passed the remains of the pyre, “but we've been traveling for nearly a week now just to get to Borstown, and –”
“You're right. I don't like you questioning my decisions, boy,” Freagon muttered, and the ominous edge in his voice silenced the apprentice instantly. They walked for another several seconds before the knight brought up the topic again himself: “You've seen the flyers, yes? Heard the rumors?”
“Of course, sir,” Jaelnec confirmed eagerly. How could he not have? For over a month, it seemed as though every town they visited was teeming with gossip about it, and every main road and gathering spot in them had one of the leaflets nailed to the message board. The story seemed to be that Baroness Vela Bor was getting old and lacked an heir to her considerable wealth, so she had put out summons for any and all fledgling adventurers of Rodoria to visit. She promised free food and lodgings at the very least, and to pledge her support to those she found to be fit to become the heroes of the next generation.
It was a quite popular story, as stories involving adventures and heroics usually were in Rodoria. Perhaps it was due to the kingdom being founded by Roland the Ambitious and his companions, all of whom were adventurers and heroes before they became rulers, but Rodoria had always had always been particularly fond of such stories and vocations.
“So why do you think we are going there?”
Jaelnec bit his lip nervously, but could not help but have his thoughts turn immediately to his own empty coin-purse and how little he knew his master had as well. “You are hardly a fledgling adventurer, sir, so... my best guess would be that you intend to use me to get money out of the baroness?”
The knight grunted ambiguously, making it unclear whether he was offended by the guess. “Adventurers from all over Rodoria are going to be flocking to Borstown, boy. We are going there to meet them.”
They walked another several seconds in silence before Jaelnec could no longer contain his curiosity: “Why?”
“To meet them.”
“No other reason?”
“Not currently, no,” Freagon said, a subtle, ominous note entering his voice that Jaelnec, as someone who knew his master very well, knew meant that his patience was running thin. “I will decide if I want to do anything with the acquaintance once I've made it, boy. I have no interest in naive sons of farmers taking up a hatchet or a pitchfork and calling themselves adventurers.”
Swallowing nervously, the apprentice figured it would likely be wise for him to allow the subject to be diverted. “I suppose lots of people would jump at the chance to meet a baroness, even if it turns out they don't get a single rodlin.”
“It's not just that she's a baroness,” Freagon grumbled. “Vela Bor is famous.”
Jaelnec's eyes widened. “She is?”
The knight nodded his head. “She is the last surviving member of the group of adventurers called the Melody of Freedom. They're from before your time, boy, but they were once known as great heroes in Rodoria. The barony of Borstown was a reward for one of their achievements.”
Slowly nodding his head, Jaelnec asked: “So she probably has more than just money, right, sir?”
“Definitely. Vela Bor has inherited all the resources of her companions, including their equipment.”
“I guess there might be serious adventurers showing up, then. Maybe real heroes, like you, sir!”
“Not just those. Don't dismiss your intuition, boy. You first guessed that we were going to swindle her; others will have had that idea. And some will have even less restraint.”

The two of them arrived back at their little camp at the outskirts of the farm, and Jaelnec went immediately to give his horse a few pats and kind words. It was a brown mare with white markings on the face, neck and flanks, and she had been with him for nearly twelve years now. She was good, strong and arguably his best friend, so he had no regrets that he had named her Sabicia after his mother.
Freagon did not so much as spare a glance to his mottled gray gelding, but went straight to where they had deposited their saddlebags for the night. The grizzled old nightwalker had never named his horse, even though it had been with him for longer than Jaelnec had, but Jaelnec called it Xilos.
The knight moved his own bag aside to get to Jaelnec's much bigger and heavier bag, and immediately retrieved a wooden practice sword that was almost identical to the one his apprentice had used earlier.
Knowing his master's intention, Jaelnec grit his teeth and gripped his own wooden sword more tightly.
“How is your will today, boy? Are you ready to prove that you aren't a complete waste of time?”
Jaelnec did not outwardly react to the taunt besides raising his weapon and assuming a defensive stance. Sparring with his master like this was something he had done every day since he became his apprentice, and he was used to the harsh words. Rather than getting stuck on those less important parts his mind started frantically analyzing his opponent, absorbing every last conceivable detail about his stance, movements, facial expression and breathing in an effort to anticipate and counter his moves.
Rather than assuming any specific and battle-ready stance, however, Freagon just crossed the several meters separating them in a burst of incredibly fast motion and transitioned instantly into a one-handed strike aimed at Jaelnec's left arm. It was all one continuous, coordinated maneuver that, while conceptually simple, was so swift and fluid that it immediately put Jaelnec on his back foot and struggling to respond.
Even so Jaelnec's instincts saved him where his conscious mind failed, and he managed to shift and rotate his body while angling his own sword to block. There was a loud crack of wood on wood and a twinge of pain as he absorbed the impact, but it was far from as bad as it could have been. Freagon was not attacking with all of his strength to crush through the defense, just as Jaelnec knew his master would not have done so in a real fight. You did not need immense strength to injure and kill with a sharp weapon, after all... at least not against a human-like opponent.
Freagon pressed forward slightly into a light bind, restricting Jaelnec from counterattacking, but also slid his blade toward the tip while pushing. Jaelnec repositioned his guard to counter the shift, only for Freagon to abruptly speed up, slide his blade entirely off Jaelnec's, move to a two-handed grip and thrusting at the center of Jaelnec's abdomen, right above the navel.
Jaelnec stepped side as quickly as possible, but still felt the blade lightly scrape against his hauberk. The young nightwalker winced even though he barely felt it; though it was too peripheral to have been likely to hurt him in a real fight, he also knew it was too close for comfort. Had he been any slower it could have been a fatal blow, depending on whether his armor saved him or not.
As Jaelnec expected Freagon instantly transitioned his missed thrust into a swing, aiming toward Jaelnec's armpit. He had to twist his body, take a step back and let go of his sword with his right hand to manage to catch the attack, only to continue his retreat, switch back to a two-handed grip and raise his sword just in time to block a lightning-fast swipe at the left side of his head. Freagon feigned pulling back and aiming low, but then pushed forward and performed a reverse-edge follow up against the right side of his head that Jaelnec once again only barely caught. All while Jaelnec continuously backed away but also gradually moved to his left, as he was instinctively aware of that he was being corralled toward the wooden log Freagon had been sitting on earlier and tried to avoid the tripping hazard.
It's impossible, the knight's apprentice reminded himself. Even if I'm almost able to match him in terms of physical strength and speed, he's completely controlling the battle. I can defend myself, but only barely...
But then Freagon stepped forward and simultaneously slashed with his sword and kicked at Jaelnec's shin, and he realized that this was the opening he had been waiting for. Rather than trying to evade Jaelnec put all his weight on his front-foot to resist the kick, blocked the swing and this time he forced a bind, catching Freagon's sword in the nook between Jaelnec's blade and crossguard and pushing forward to force Freagon to guard.
Rather than just kick at Jaelnec's leg, however, Freagon aimed it so that his foot hooked exactly behind Jaelnec's calf. Jaelnec was too distracted by trying to create an opening to realize his mistake and, while he was pushing forward with all his weight on his front-foot, had no time to react when Freagon pulled Jaelnec's foot forward and completely broke his stance. Trying to catch himself on his other foot and regain his balance was made impossible by Freagon pressing into the bind Jaelnec had just created.
Before Jaelnec knew it he was falling backward, but even as his perspective moved to looking into the sky and he felt gravity shift around him, he kept trying to think of a way to recover. How was Freagon going to finish him off? How was he going to defend himself? How could he get back on his feet?
He hit the ground hard but refused to let it daze him, instead going immediately to roll to the side, expecting a thrust as the coup de grâce since guarding against that from this position would be borderline impossible. He only heard Freagon's wooden blade hit the ground next to him, confirming his suspicion, but was also too slow to catch the follow-up as the blade instantly swung sideways. He tried to block, but during his roll he could not actually see the attack; he had to guess.
But regardless of whether he guessed correctly or not, the blow was too swift for Jaelnec to defend himself from. He felt a hard, painful whack on his left shoulder, and knew it was over even before feeling the edge of the wooden sword pressing into his throat.

Freagon withdrew his practice sword, turned and went back to their backs to put it away. “No improvement. As usual.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” the younger nightwalker groaned as he got back on his feet, rubbing his sore shoulder.
“Don't be sorry, be better. I do want us to make a good impression on the baroness and any adventurers she has with her, so I'd rather that you refrained from stumbling around like a blind foal. Stay back and let me do any talking and fighting as usual, but if you are called upon to actually do anything, be prepared to show some competence for once.”
Jaelnec gritted his teeth in frustration, but knew better than to talk back at his master. The curved scar across his face, going from below his right cheekbone, across his lips and down to his chin, was a constant reminder of never to do that.
“I'll take the first watch tonight, so you make sure to eat and get some rest. Stay close to me and keep your sword-hand free when we get there tomorrow, because saving the baroness is the best way for people to prove themselves, including us. We'll just have to wait for the inevitable disaster she invited to her doorstep.”