Or so I thought.
The Stalkers were gone, their charred remains reduced to ash and scattered across the scorched ground. The village fell silent once more, the oppressive hum of growls and snarls replaced by an eerie stillness. I should've felt relief. I should've allowed myself a moment to breathe.
But I didn't.
The air was still thick, too thick, pressing down on me like an invisible weight. The stench of decay and burned fur clung to the humid breeze, but it wasn't just that. There was something else—something heavier, darker, lingering at the edge of my senses.
I gripped my staff tighter, the wood warm beneath my fingers as I turned slowly, scanning the ruins. The hum of magic still tingled faintly in the air around me, a whisper at the back of my mind that I'd learned to trust.
No. This wasn't over.
The villagers of Frostmere might have been caught off guard, but they weren't helpless. They'd survived in the shadow of danger before, facing wolves, wild beasts, and even the Stalker Roderick and I had killed a year ago.
Six Stalkers alone couldn't have done this.
They were vicious, yes. Smart, yes. Deadly in numbers, absolutely. But not enough to reduce an entire village to this level of ruin. Not enough to slaughter every man, woman, and child without so much as a single survivor.
Something else was here.
Something stronger.
I made my way back to the square, the weight in the air pressing down on me harder with every step. The ruins around me looked worse under the midday sun, the cracks and bloodstains more vivid, the silence more oppressive.
And then I saw him.
I'd noticed a figure earlier, just at the edge of my vision when I first entered the village. At the time, I thought it was just another ruined shadow, one of the many lifeless shapes scattered across Frostmere. But now, standing in the square, I saw it clearly.
He stood at the center, back to me, hunched slightly, his head tilted to one side as if he were studying something on the ground. His robes, or what was left of them, clung to his bony frame in tatters, and the faint shimmer of dark magic pulsed faintly around him like a shadow given life.
I tightened my grip on my staff, the glow of my shield spell flickering faintly. "Guess you're the one responsible for this mess," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than him.
As if hearing me, the figure straightened, his movements sharp and jerky, like a puppet pulled upright by its strings. He didn't turn right away, but the faint crackle of energy that ran along his frame sent a chill down my spine.
When he finally turned, I felt my stomach drop.
His face was pale, gaunt, and stretched thin over a skeletal structure that looked barely human. Veins of dark energy pulsed under his skin, glowing faintly like magma trapped beneath the surface. And his eyes—black pits with flickering red cores—locked onto me with a gleam that was equal parts amusement and malice.
"Well, well," he said, his voice sharp and sing-song, like the kind of lullaby you wouldn't want sung to you at night. "A visitor. How delightful."
I tightened my grip on my staff, the air around me crackling faintly as I prepared myself for whatever this thing was. "Let me guess," I said, my voice steady despite the growing tension in my chest. "You're the one who turned Frostmere into your personal art exhibit."
The man—or whatever he was—grinned, his sharp teeth catching the light. "Oh, my dear, you flatter me," he said, spreading his arms as if presenting himself to an adoring crowd. "Though 'art exhibit' is a bit crude. I prefer to think of it as... a masterpiece."
His voice was light and mocking, but there was a dangerous edge to it, like a razor hidden under velvet.
"I have to say," he continued, his grin widening as he began to take slow, deliberate steps toward me. "I wasn't expecting anyone to visit my little creation so soon. But you..." He stopped, tilting his head as his eyes raked over me. "Oh, you're special, aren't you?"
"Special enough to end this," I shot back, lifting my staff slightly. The glow of my shield brightened in response, a flicker of light against the encroaching darkness.
He laughed, a sharp, shrill sound that sent goosebumps racing up my arms. "End this? Oh, no, no, no. We've only just begun."
As he lifted his staff, the runes etched into its surface flared to life, glowing a sickly crimson. The air around him crackled with raw, chaotic energy, the kind that made my teeth ache just standing near it.
As the runes on his staff flared, and the crackling energy began to surge outward, I didn't raise my staff in response. Instead, I raised a hand, palm out, the universal sign of can we not do this?
"Look," I said, keeping my tone steady but firm. "Before you start whatever this is—" I waved vaguely at the sparking energy surrounding him, "—can we talk about not doing this?"
He paused, the crackling magic at the tip of his staff faltering slightly. His expression twisted into something almost childlike, a mixture of confusion and curiosity. "Not... doing this?" he echoed, tilting his head like a curious bird.
"Yeah," I said, crossing my arms. "This whole 'villain monologue, then try to kill me' thing? I'm not really in the mood today."
For a moment, he just stared at me, his face blank. Then, suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed, sharp and shrill, the kind of sound that made me wonder if I'd made a mistake.
"Oh, delightful!" he crowed, wiping at an imaginary tear as his shoulders shook with glee. "Not in the mood, she says! You stroll into my masterpiece, my creation, and you're not in the mood! Oh, you're marvelous."
"I do try," I said dryly, tapping my staff against the ground for emphasis. "But seriously, I'm just passing through. I don't need to know your name, your tragic backstory, or why you decided Frostmere needed a remodeling. You can just... go back to whatever you were doing before I got here."
His laughter stopped abruptly, his face twisting into something darker. "Go back?" he snarled, his voice low and venomous. The energy around him pulsed, the crimson runes on his staff glowing brighter. "Do you have any idea who you're speaking to, you arrogant little mage?"
"Not really," I admitted, giving him a shrug. "But feel free to enlighten me. Quickly, if you don't mind."
He sneered, his sharp teeth bared as he straightened, holding his staff with both hands like a scepter. "I am Malric," he said, his voice rising into a theatrical crescendo. "Malric the Maddened! Herald of the abyss, the chosen of the masters of the void, the architect of this masterpiece you so rudely stumbled upon!"
I raised an eyebrow. "Malric the Maddened, huh? Let me guess—you picked that name yourself."
His mood shifted again in an instant, the sneer replaced by a delighted grin. "Oh, you are clever," he said, his tone almost playful now. "Clever, and oh-so-bold. But I expected no less from someone like you."
"Someone like me?"
He gestured toward me with his staff, the motion exaggerated and theatrical. "The mark, of course," he said, his grin widening. "You carry their mark, plain as day. Oh, don't look so modest—I know what it means. To kill one of them and survive? My dear, that is an accomplishment worth applause."
The weight of his words hit me like a stone, but I kept my expression carefully neutral. "You know about the mark?"
"Know about it?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. "I've spent years groveling for even a fraction of the attention it brings. And you, you," he jabbed his staff toward me, "you just stumble into it! By accident, no less! It's infuriating, really."
I didn't answer right away, my grip on my staff tightening. His mood shifted again, his face softening into something almost wistful.
"But oh," he said softly, his crimson-black eyes gleaming. "It is beautiful. To be marked by them, to be hunted by them... You don't know what a gift you've been given."
"A gift," I echoed flatly, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, that's exactly how I'd describe it."
He laughed again, shrill and wild, his staff sparking with chaotic energy. "Oh, I like you," he said, his grin stretching unnaturally wide. "I like you so much, in fact, that I almost don't want to kill you."
"Almost," I muttered, raising my staff slightly.
"Yes," he said, his grin turning razor-sharp. "But alas, my masters demand it. And who am I to deny them such a treat?"
His staff flared to life, the crimson runes glowing like molten lava as the air around him seemed to shatter with power.
"Your master?" I asked, keeping my staff steady but letting my tone dip with curiosity. The air around him shimmered with raw energy, but I forced myself to stay calm. This man is deranged, but deranged doesn't mean useless. If he truly had a deal with the demons, then he might know more about them. And the more I knew, the better my chances when they inevitably came for me.
"Oh, my master," Malric said, his voice turning reverent, almost dreamy, as he twirled his staff. "The one who opened my eyes, who lifted me from the filth of mediocrity and showed me what true power could be." He laughed softly, a sound that sent a chill through me. "Would you like to meet him?"
I didn't answer, but the slight tightening of my grip must have been answer enough.
Malric slammed his staff into the ground, the runes glowing brighter as a sudden wind whipped through the square. The midday sun dimmed, the sky above twisting and darkening unnaturally, as though someone had snuffed it out like a candle.
Storm clouds churned above, lightning crackling through their dark depths, and a low rumble of thunder vibrated through the air.
From behind Malric, a black fog began to pool and rise, swirling like smoke but moving with a deliberate, almost predatory intent. The edges of the fog coiled and twisted, forming shapes—teeth, eyes, shifting too fast for me to focus on.
Then the fog began to solidify, the vague shapes merging into something horrifyingly familiar.
A face.
My chest tightened as recognition hit me like a hammer. It was the man I'd seen yesterday, the one with the golden eyes and the unnervingly perfect smile. The one who'd brought Katsuro's head to my doorstep like it was a delivery parcel.
"Behold!" Malric cried, his arms raised as he knelt before the figure, his voice trembling with fervor. "Lucian, the Pride Demon, the master of ambition, and the one who graced me with purpose!"
The face in the fog twisted into a smile, the golden eyes burning brighter as they fixed on me.
"Thalia," the fog-formed figure purred, its voice unmistakably the same as before. "We meet again, so soon. And here I thought you'd be smarter than to linger."
I swallowed hard, my grip on my staff tightening further. My shield flickered faintly in response to the rising energy around me.
"Your master?" I repeated, my voice steadier than I felt. "What kind of deal did you make, Malric? Sell your soul for a few parlor tricks?"
Malric's laughter broke through the storm, wild and shrill. "Oh, my dear, it's so much more than that! My soul was a small price to pay for power like this! For the chance to stand above the wretched, to wield magic that makes the greatest mages weep in envy!"
"By killing everyone in this village?" I shot back, anger flaring in my chest.
"Sacrifices must be made!" Malric snapped, his grin twisting into a snarl. "Weakness must be purged! Frostmere was a canvas, and I—" he gestured to himself with a flourish— "I am its artist!"
"An artist with a patron," I said, nodding toward the looming fog behind him. "So, tell me, Malric, how much of this is really yours? And how much is just borrowed from him?"
Lucian's face in the fog didn't flinch, his golden eyes narrowing with amusement. "You're as sharp as they say, Thalia. It's no wonder the mark chose you."
The mark. Always the damned mark.
I kept my eyes locked on Lucian's face, forcing myself to stay composed. "So, you're what, his little puppet?"
Malric snarled, slamming his staff again as the runes crackled with crimson energy. "I am no puppet!" he screeched. "I am a conduit of his will! A chosen one!"
But then, something shifted in the air.
I caught it—a flicker in Lucian's expression, his face within the swirling fog darkening ever so slightly. It wasn't obvious, but it was there: irritation. Annoyance.
I couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at the corner of my lips, though I kept quiet. Watching.
Lucian's golden eyes narrowed, his voice losing its smooth veneer as it cut through the charged air. "You are not the chosen one," he said, his tone sharp and final, like a blade slicing clean through the tension.
Malric froze, the manic energy in his body faltering as his head jerked toward the fog. For a brief, fleeting moment, his face twisted with confusion, and then something deeper—sadness.
"But… my master—" he began, his voice trembling.
Lucian's golden eyes flared, silencing him instantly. "Kill her," Lucian commanded, his tone as cold as it was lethal, "and you will become the chosen one."
The fog swirled violently, its edges curling and pulling inward until it vanished completely, leaving nothing but the heavy, crackling air in its wake.
The square was silent again.
Malric stood motionless, his shoulders heaving as he clutched his staff, the crimson runes flickering like dying embers.
Then he turned to me.
His expression had shifted. Gone was the brief flicker of vulnerability, replaced with a wild, searing rage that burned hotter than before. His eyes were wide, his lips curling into a snarl that bared his sharp, jagged teeth.
"I'll show him," Malric hissed, his voice low and venomous. "I'll show him I'm worthy."
The runes on his staff flared again, brighter than ever, and the air around him crackled with dark energy as he raised it high.
And then, of course, he pointed it directly at me.
"Well, I tried," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than anything. With a sharp twist of my staff, I cast the spell that had been hovering in the back of my mind.
"Naga."
The air around me dropped sharply, the moisture in it crystallizing as a swirling storm of frost burst into existence. From the freezing mist emerged the serpentine form of a dragon, its body made entirely of gleaming ice, coiled protectively around me. Its translucent scales shimmered in the dim light, refracting rainbows of color with every shift.
The dragon floated silently, its massive form curling in a slow, deliberate motion, encasing me within its spiral. Its eyes—piercing, glowing blue orbs—locked onto Malric, unblinking, predatory, and filled with cold intelligence.
Malric's expression shifted from rage to something else entirely—surprise, perhaps even a flicker of doubt—but it was gone in an instant. He snarled, raising his staff high.
"Let's see how long you last, then!" he bellowed, the runes along his staff flaring again.
With a violent burst of motion, he aimed the staff at me, and from its jagged tip shot a black orb of pure dark magic. It streaked toward me like a bolt of lightning, crackling with chaotic energy.
It hit my shield dead-on, the impact rippling across the surface of the protective barrier. I felt the force of it vibrate through my bones, but the shield held firm.
Malric didn't stop.
He fired another, then another, his staff spewing dark orbs in a relentless barrage. Some I managed to sidestep, the orbs tearing into the ground behind me with sharp, explosive cracks. Others hit their mark, slamming into my shield and sending tremors through the icy Naga encircling me.
But I didn't falter.
I planted my feet firmly on the scorched ground, keeping my focus sharp as the ice dragon adjusted its position, weaving tighter around me to absorb the brunt of the attack.
Malric's laughter rang out again, shrill and manic, as he sent another volley of orbs my way. "What's the matter?" he sneered. "Hiding behind your pretty little pet? Or are you afraid of me?"
"Afraid of you?" I couldn't help but laugh, the sound dry and sharp. "You're throwing tantrums like a child who found a new toy and doesn't know how to use it."
That struck a nerve. His face twisted in fury as he slammed his staff into the ground, sending another pulse of magic toward me. The ice dragon around me snarled in response, its massive head snapping toward him like a predator ready to pounce.
But I didn't flinch.
From the moment I'd seen him, I'd known. I could sense it—the size of his mana pool, the jagged, frantic way his energy moved. His power might have been flashy, dangerous, sure—but it was nowhere near mine.
We weren't even in the same league.
That's why I wasn't afraid of him. Not even a little.
I made a small, sharp noise from the corner of my mouth—a quick, wordless signal—and the ice dragon reacted instantly.
With a deep, resonant growl, the dragon launched itself forward, its massive, serpentine body cutting through the air like a blade. Malric's eyes widened, the arrogance and fury on his face twisting into sudden panic. He raised his staff, but it was too late.
The dragon coiled around him in a blur of motion, its icy length constricting him from head to toe. The grip was tight—mercilessly tight—and I could already see the frost spreading across his robes and skin, glinting in the dim light.
Malric thrashed wildly, his staff emitting weak, sputtering bursts of dark magic that fizzled out before they could reach me. "You bitch!" he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "Do you think this will stop me? Do you think—"
The dragon tightened its grip.
His words cut off in a strangled gasp as the ice dug deeper, creeping along his arms and legs, freezing him in place. Frost bloomed across his gaunt face, his breath coming in sharp, visible puffs as the temperature plummeted.
I stayed where I was, my staff steady in my hands as I watched him struggle.
Malric cursed and screamed, spitting venom at me with every gasp of air he could manage. His voice cracked under the strain, the arrogance replaced with desperation. He clawed at the icy coils with his skeletal hands, but the more he fought, the tighter the dragon's grip became.
It was a death spell—a rare one, and for good reason. I didn't use it lightly. But as I stood there, watching the man who had turned an entire village into a graveyard, I couldn't bring myself to feel guilty.
This was the first time I'd used it on a human.
But to be fair, I'd never met a human so vile that they'd kill an entire village just for fun, just to prove their worth to some demonic master.
Among others, Malric had earned this.
"You can stop fighting now," I said, my tone flat, almost clinical. "It's not going to make a difference. The more you struggle, the tighter it gets. The tighter it gets..." I trailed off, tilting my head slightly, "...well, I think you can figure that out."
Malric let out a rasping, guttural snarl, his movements growing weaker as the ice spread further, creeping up his neck. His wild eyes locked on mine, hatred burning in them like a dying flame.
"You think... this makes you better than me?" he spat, his voice barely audible through the frost forming on his lips.
"No," I replied simply. "But it makes you stopped."
The dragon let out a final, low growl as its icy body solidified completely, encasing Malric in a crystalline prison. His staff fell from his frozen fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground.
I exhaled slowly, the magic in my staff dimming as the ice dragon completed its work.
Justice was a rare thing in this world. But sometimes, just sometimes, it was absolute.
And honestly, delivering it feels nice.
To be continued...