Edmund's face was grim, each step burning his lungs.
He tried to shake the fatigue weighing down his limbs.
Open flesh blossomed across his chest, blood spurting at a regular rhythm as he clutched at his breastplate to stem the flow.
Blood and sweat burned his eyes, but he kept his head turned away from the reeking corpses of the Undying broken about him.
Their deformed bodies lay inert, but the words of the beast he'd killed repeated in his mind.
"So...passes the last...light of...a dying...world."
The words followed him around like ghosts, less a threat to him than a prophecy, leaving him uneasy.
He stretched his fangs, hauling himself up on legs that howled in protest with every muscle fibre.
He crept toward Malachai's pile of dust and tattered clothes, trembling, one foot after the other.
A part of him wished to believe that killing Malachai would stop the spread of the plague, that somehow it would be enough to save the people.
But he knew, in his bones, that his journey was only the beginning.
When he turned to survey the field, a rustling from the bushes froze him.
A deep rumble, guttural, broke the silence, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Slowly, he turned, gripping his greatsword with renewed focus.
Yet there, instead of another monster, emerged from the gloom a wolf, coat silver, shimmering in the moonlight.
It was a quiet look of animal intelligence, watching him, knowing him, almost human.
It cocked its head, then disappeared again into the woods, leaving Edmund gasping with relief.
There he watched the wolf depart, something about its appearance filling him with wonder.
Sucking his hysteria into his gullet, he clutched his shoulder, pain ripping from his wounds.
He forced himself forward, one step at a time, because he needed to reach the village across the hill before the sun came up.
His body was failing, his blood was flowing away, and his strength was ebbing with each heartbeat, but he persisted.
The journey was grueling.
Every step sent splinters of pain through his battered body, he clenched his jaw and persevered.
In the distance, he could see a faint glow—the light in the village flickering as the sun hid slowly.
Hope, like a buoy, lifted his heart, and he broke into a run, enduring the pain with each stride.
When he eventually came into the village, a chilling silence hung in the air.
At one time, this had been a lively spot, the sounds of laughter and the voices of children bouncing between the houses.
Now, it was quiet, dark, and abandoned.
Edmund heard the lingering fear, the panic that had driven the villagers to flee, leaving nothing.
As they neared the village square, a tall figure loomed out of the shadows behind him, hooded and black.
Edmund's hand twitched to his greatsword, but he hesitated when the figure raised a lantern and cast its light upon a face within the hood.
"Edmund,"
said Bertrand, his voice heavy with relief and worry.
Lines of exhaustion etched his face, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes as he took in Edmund's battered form.
"What happened to you?"
Bertrand's eyes skimmed the blood-splattered armour, growing increasingly worried.
Without a word more, he began to prop up Edmund, seizing his arm to keep him on his feet.
"Here, let me help you,"
Bertrand insisted, guiding him carefully toward a nearby house that still stood intact.
His eyes swam as they approached the door, his energy draining away.
Bertrand got the door open just as Edmund fainted, collapsing into Bertrand's arms.
"Edmund!"
Bertrand wailed, holding him up as they staggered under the shelter of the house.
Days passed in darkness.
He did not open his eyes again until three days later, when he blinked at the pale wash of light through the window.
As his vision cleared, he took in his surroundings—he was lying in a bed, his body covered in bandages.
In the air, the light, herbal smell of herbs.
Bertrand sits beside him, watching with a combination of relief and exhaustion.
He placed a cup of tea on a bed table.
"This will help with your recovery. Your wounds are still fresh, so take it slow,"
he said, his voice gentle firm.
Edmund also reached out for the tea, the movement making him think of injuries.
He sipped at it slowly, enjoying its warmth as it coursed through him, soothing his raspy throat.
He looked down at his body, wrapped and enervated, all too poignantly conscious of how far he was from being able to pick up his sword at that point.
"What happened to the people?" Edmund's voice was rough and weary. "Are you alone? Where are the other villagers?"
A shadow crossed Bertrand's face.
"They're gone, Edmund. They cleared out as soon as they'd heard of the pestilence. I did what I could—warned everyone to leave while there was still time. I left the city myself and tried to reach as many villages as I could, telling them to go. ".
Edmund nodded slowly, struggling to absorb the weights.
He'd listened to the devastation, but Bertrand's words made it real.
The plague's reach was relentless, villages lives uprooted.
Not even the most courageous had remained, homes to the Unliving's terrors.
"I'm surprised you stayed, Bertrand,"
Edmund said quietly.
"Not many would, especially with the Undying so close."
Bertrand gave a faint, weary smile.
"Faith doesn't allow for hesitation, Edmund. 'There isn't all the work in this world done, although it is usually in the dark.
His gaze softened.
'Besides, someone needs to remain, to assist whatever remains.
A wave of thankfulness and regret swept through Edmund's body.
Bertrand wasn't just a friend, wasn't just a priest.
They had grown up together; though Bertrand wore the robes of the priesthood, he was like a brother.
Bertrand was one of Edmund's last links to the world before it all went down.
"What happened to the church before you left the city?"
Bertrand's expression darkened, his eyes hardening.
"They knew about the plague long before they told anyone. They kept it secret, just in case of panic, they figured if people got wind of it there would be riots and stuff. Instead of helping, they secluded themselves."
His voice held a bitter edge.
Edmund felt anger in Bertrand's words. The church, the institution that was supposed to protect, had abandoned the people to their fate.
'Once I knew the truth, I did what I could. I got the information out to the clans, the guilds—anyone who could prepare. Yet, for this pestilence, for the famished beasts it brings little can be done. Finally, I had to run away as well, not daring to glance back. ".
Edmund nodded in silent understanding.
The plague was not just disease, it was a black hunger, something that consumed not just death, but everything.
Entire towns have vanished in days.
But the church, burrowing into its stone, had chosen security, even as the world came unstuck.
He took a breath, as though trying to steady himself against the weight of what he'd learned.
"And what about the plague itself?"
he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Bertrand's face grew grim, his shoulders slumping.
"It spreads faster than anything we could have expected. Whole villages emptied, in the space of days, cities drowning in those who've changed. The plague… it doesn't just kill. It consumes. And then, well…"
He stumbled, but Edmund didn't need to hear the rest.
"But,"
Bertrand continued, a flicker of hope lifting his face,
"there's a rumor. A sanctuary in the north. They say the monks of the Shadowed Vale know something about the origins of the curse—the plague. Maybe there's something there that could help."
The word 'hope' sounded strange in Edmund's mouth, almost ridiculous after what he'd experienced.
But as Bertrand spoke, he couldn't help wishing he could believe. And if there was any kernel of truth to the rumour, it might just tip the scales.
"Then I have to go,"
Edmund said, setting the cup aside. The words felt solid, unshakable, and the weight of the decision settled over him like armor.
Bertrand shook his head slowly, his face etched with concern.
"You'll go when you're ready, Edmund. Your body may heal, but the wounds go deeper. You carry burdens beyond these scars."
Edmund wanted to argue, to insist he was ready, but Bertrand's words hit close to the truth.
He had lost too much, witnessed too many funerals. Deep down, he knew he wasn't ready. He'd never be complete, but he couldn't sit around.
"Just rest for now Edmund."
Bertrand said, rising to his feet.
"Remember—rest is part of the journey, too."
As the door clicked shut behind Bertrand, Edmund's mind drifted back to the one wolf he'd seen in the forest, its silver coat flashing in the moonlight.
It had been unafraid, facing him with eyes that seemed to understand.
He asked himself if it too, like him, was fishing in the dark.
After hours of sleep, he felt lighter, but his injuries still throbbed.
Slowly, he dressed.
Edmund touched his scarred armour, his fingers tracing deep furrows and the unmistakable trail of claws on the metal.
It was clear that it couldn't protect him any longer—it was a miracle it had held up at all.
With a sigh, he scratched his head, wondering how he'd face whatever lay ahead with no proper armor.
Bertrand stalked up, with lighter armour, leather and metalwork glimmering in the dimness.
"This should help,"
Bertrand said, offering it to Edmund.
"I found it in the blacksmith's workshop. Be his, or at least some village member's. ".
Edmund accepted the armour and ran his hand over the thinner plating, admiring its solidity and suppleness. It wasn't like his own, but it would do.
"I saw what shape your armor was in,"
Bertrand added.
"I had to find you something usable. Those claw marks… Edmund, what did you fight? It looked like you faced a monster."
Edmund's face darkened. He swallowed, as though forcing himself to relive it.
"I fought something beyond anything I've seen. One of the Apostles, they claimed, acolyte of some dark god. I don't know all the details, but I think this creature—and maybe the plague itself—was made intentionally, like someone's experiment went horribly wrong. When I confronted him, he resembled an Undying, only larger and more powerful. His speed… I barely kept up. It's a miracle I'm alive."
A shiver ran through him as he remembered the fight—the Apostle's twisted, monstrous form, its piercing eyes filled with rage and something even darker. That night had nearly been his last.
Bertrand listened, his face furrowing with the weight of the story.
"An Apostle… of a dark god? That means sorcery—or maybe some dark alchemy."
He looked anxious, thoughtful, chewing over this new, troubling piece of information.
'If somebody, something, is causing these beasties and this pestilence, then this is not a mere curse. Well, I'll research more, see what I can. But you—you need to go north. Find out if the monks of Shadowed Vale know anything more. ".
"There's no time to waste,"
'I would,' Edmund said, looping the satchel over his hip, nodding his thanks to Bertrand.
Bertrand's firm hand rested on Edmund's shoulder, his eyes aflame toward the sea.
"Go with the gods, Edmund. And remember—you carry the light of those who came before. ".
Edmund took the nod, feeling the weight of the gift and the confidence Bertrand placed in him.
He pulled on the light armour, Greatsword hanging over his shoulder, snapping the last buckles.
Looking once more at Bertrand, he turned away, went out, his attention already to the northern highway.