Elara bristled. Their village was in ruins, their people injured, and Vergil was playing riddles? "We need answers, Vergil," she snapped. "Not cryptic pronouncements."
Vergil's gaze flickered to her, then back to Darius. A flicker of something, perhaps annoyance, passed through his features before he spoke. "Very well. Here's what I need. During the next attack…" he paused, letting the weight of his words settle, "I need to be closer. Much closer. Before sunrise."
Darius' gaze narrowed to a dangerous slit. Vergil's absence, his sudden reappearance, and now this bizarre request – it all painted a suspicious picture. "Closer to what?" he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion. "And what exactly do you need to do before sunrise?"
Vergil leaned back in his chair, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "That, my friends," he said, his voice dripping with a chilling nonchalance, "is something you'll just have to trust me on."
A tense silence descended upon the room, heavy with the unspoken accusation. Darius leaned forward, his weathered face etched with suspicion. "How do I know you haven't already seen one up close?" he asked. Darius' voice, usually strong and commanding, now held a barely contained anger.
Vergil met his gaze unflinchingly. The amusement had vanished, replaced by an icy neutrality. He neither confirmed nor denied Darius' accusation. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as each man sized up the other. Was Vergil a savior, a silent observer of the night's carnage, or something more sinister? The question unanswered, was a growing seed of doubt in Darius' heart.
Vergil pushed himself to his feet, a subtle dismissal in the movement. "The injured wait," he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. The statement was true, the village was littered with the wounded, but it also felt like a convenient deflection. It was clear Vergil wasn't interested in further conversation, his agenda remaining a tightly guarded secret.
As Vergil brushed past them, a faint scent of something foreign, a metallic tang, clung to his cloak. Elara caught a glimpse of a dark stain – a stain that could have been blood, or something altogether different.
The door thudded shut behind Vergil, leaving Darius and Elara adrift in a sea of unspoken accusations. Darius replayed Vergil's words in his mind like a scratched record, each repetition a deeper gouge in his trust.
Yet, a sliver of logic, cold and sharp, pierced through the heat of his anger. They had won the night, but the war was far from over. If Vergil, for all his veiled motives and enigmatic past, held a key to understanding the creatures, a way to exploit a weakness or devise a better defense - could Darius afford to dismiss it?
He turned to Elara, her youthful face etched with the same worry lines that creased his own. "Look," he growled, the words rough with the weight of his decision, "If he can truly learn something from getting close, something that could help us fight them… then perhaps…" his voice trailed off, a reluctant concession.
Elara understood. They didn't trust him, not an inch. But survival demanded hard choices, and Vergil might just be the only advantage they had. It was a gamble, a dangerous wager with an unknown variable, but in the face of the encroaching darkness, it was a risk they had to take.
~
Vergil knelt beside an elderly woman, her frail body trembling with the chill of autumn. He held out a small vial, its contents shimmering with an ethereal glow. "Drink," he commanded.
The woman, her eyes filled with a flicker of hope, took the vial and raised it to her lips. As she drank, a warmth spread through her body, chasing away the chill that had settled in her bones. Her eyes widened in surprise as the pain in her joints began to subside.
Vergil watched her, his expression detached yet curious. He had concocted the potion using rare herbs and alchemical techniques, a powerful elixir capable of healing even the most debilitating ailments.
Vergil nodded curtly to her expressed gratitude as he turned away, his mind already racing. The potion had worked, a testament to his skill as an alchemist. But he felt no pride. He needed power, more control. The Halo of Merit, the twisted system that bound him, was the key to his freedom.
He thought of the creature he had managed to capture that night. The enemy's display of power echoed in his mind. The way they'd snatched back their twisted creatures – a feat accomplished with the snap of unseen fingers – reeked of practiced skill.
A memory, bitter and unwelcome, surfaced. Back in the days before he'd become the force he was now, a force to be reckoned with, his control over creatures had been a chaotic tango. Every move was a gamble, fraught with the risk of losing control. Attacks were meticulously planned, the beasts hidden like morbid marionettes days in advance, only to be painstakingly recovered after the bloody ballet reached its crescendo. Shame and frustration laced with a prickle of something else – hunger.
These enemies, though seemingly callow novices, operated with a chilling efficiency that made his past efforts look like a child's scribbles beside a master's canvas. The creatures materialized and vanished at will, a chilling proficiency that far outstripped that of a fledgling summoner.
A cold sweat beaded on his skin despite the cool morning air. He'd misjudged them. That much is clear. These foes could be far more dangerous – predators wielding creatures forged in a crucible of darkness far deeper than anything he'd encountered before.
Another enigma gnawed at him, a puzzle with a missing piece. Warp magic, the enemy's preferred method of transportation, was the missing element. Summoning and banishing creatures with a snap – the feat should have required a near-astronomical reserve of mana, a feat beyond the reach of most.
His brow furrowed, etching lines of deep concentration into his face. Understanding the mechanics of this seemingly effortless display became an all-consuming obsession. He needed to get close. He needed to examine one of those creatures firsthand, to crack open its corrupted shell and pry loose the secrets hidden within. Only then could he hope to gain an edge, formulate a countermeasure against the darkness that threatened to engulf the village. But getting close meant navigating a treacherous web of suspicion, a web he himself had helped spin.
The late morning sun cast long, accusing shadows across the hastily reinforced village walls. Vergil stood at their edge, watching the tireless labor with a gaze that flickered between duty and a hunger he couldn't quite mask. Each thud of the repair hammers resonated like a drumbeat in his chest, a morbid call to arms. He craved the enemy's return, but for his selfish purpose.
His walk through the village was a muted affair. Faces lined with worry and gratitude offered him hesitant nods of recognition. He, after all, was one of the figures that brought hope.
Pushing open the makeshift door of Elara's office, he found the young leader and Darius, her stoic warrior, locked in a tense discussion. A phrase drifted across the room: "...but keep him on a tight leash." Vergil understood.
A tense agreement had been brokered. He'd be allowed near the creatures during the next attack, but under constant, watchful scrutiny.
A ghost of a smile, a fleeting glimpse, played on his lips. This wasn't ideal, but it was an opportunity, a chance to reclaim the power he craved, the power that once was at the tip of his fingers. He'd case after this power even if it meant unleashing a darkness far greater than anything they'd ever faced.
"Now shall we begin?" he inquired, his voice a low rumble laced with an urgency he couldn't quite disguise.
Darius, his brow creased with suspicion that mirrored Elara's, echoed her confusion. "Begin what?!" he barked.
Feigning surprise at their blank stares, Vergil threw his hands up in theatrical exasperation. "Making plans, damn it!" A beat of silence, then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "When is the next attack?"
Elara, caught between the two men, offered the grim answer.
"Two weeks,"