The Dullahan sat on the cold stone ground of the ruins, the jagged edges digging into his flesh as blood seeped from the gaping wounds across his torso. His insides were spilling out, the grotesque sight a reminder of his current situation. His colossal axe lay beside him, its blade dulled by the blood and dirt from the recent confrontation.
Ventren gripped the handle with all the strength he could muster, finding the cold metal to be the only comfort in this moment of despair. It was a pitiful replacement for the warmth and loyalty he thought he had found in his friends, who had just turned on him, leaving him to die in the desolate remains of this once-grand fortress.
His horse lay dead beside him, its neck severed cleanly and his body crisp from the fires casted upon the steed by the assailants. They had known exactly how to hurt him the most, how to strip away everything that mattered. He had named his steed Vesper, a loyal beast that had carried him through countless battles.
Now, Ventren's own headless state seemed a cruel mockery of his faithful companion's fate. With a heavy heart, he placed the horse's skull atop his own neck stump, a makeshift helmet to honour his fallen friend.
It was a bitter irony that the only creature that had shown him true loyalty in the end was not humanoid—but beast.
Amidst the flashes of pain and anger, the image of Irina surfaced in his mind. Her pink hair, always a bright beacon in their party, now felt like a reminder of his stupidity. Irina, the cleric healer, with her petite frame and gentle hands, had been the one to tend to his wounds, whispering words of comfort while her magic worked to mend his flesh.
How often had he sought solace in those hands, believing her to be his one and only?
She had been his lover—or so he had thought.
The truth, however, had been a blade sharper than any axe, slicing through his heart. Irina had betrayed him, just like the others.
Stavros Cross, the self-proclaimed leader of the Blind Stars party, had led the charge. His voice, usually a coarse command, had been laced with venom as he ordered Ventren's demise. Stavros, with his brigandine armour and mercenary's heart, had always been about power and control.
"What a fool I was…"
He spoke to himself.
Ventren had overlooked Stavros's ambition, trusting the man's pragmatism as a guiding force. He now realised that pragmatism had made him disposable. Then there was Richard Green, the archer with a sharp eye and sharper tongue.
Ventren had never imagined he would find himself on the other side of Richard's arrows. It had been the arrows that first struck him down, the cold metal piercing his flesh between his armpits.
Rain poured down from the sky, drenching the crumbling walls of the ruins and mixing with the blood on the ground. The water felt like tiny daggers stabbing into Ventren's exposed wounds, seeping into his system, mingling with the blood that pumped weakly from his veins.
He could feel the life draining out of him with each passing second, the cold seeped into his bones, as if the ruins themselves were reclaiming his body. The rainwater washed over his skin, turning his wounds into streamlets that flowed away, disappearing into the cracks of the stones beneath him.
His vision blurred, the outlines of the ruins fading into a haze of grey and shadow. As consciousness slipped away, Ventren's grip on his axe tightened. He refused to let go—he was not done yet. Betrayed and broken, he held onto the only piece of himself that remained, vowing silently to his dead horse and to himself. If he survived this night, he would make Irina, Stavros, Richard, and anyone else who had betrayed him pay for their treachery.
The rain continued to pour, a mourn echoed through the ruins, as Ventren, the Dullahan, lay on the brink of death, his vengeance the only thing keeping his spirit tethered to the world.