The world was quiet again. Too quiet.
Ash drifted like gray snow, soft and endless. The air stank of blood and burnt flesh, but beneath it lingered something older — the scent of death itself, patient and watching.
Then he came.
Fake Sir John stepped through the haze, boots crunching over corpses. His armor was spotless, not a fleck of soot on it. That smile — the same one the real Sir John had worn when he first arrived in our village. Warm. Kind. Trustworthy.
Now it was wrong. Too perfect. Like a mask.
"Well," he said, smooth, easy, "it seems my companion was right to be cautious of you."
He tilted his head toward the dead envoy behind me, impaled and cooling. "But not cautious enough."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My throat was raw, my pulse unsteady from the fight. The cold power within me pulsed, restless — eager to move, to kill again.
He saw it. My command over the dead. "Do you even understand what's happening to you, boy? A power like that should have never been given to someone like you."
He smiled faintly, almost pitying. "But it would have been all right if you hadn't killed my companions, I might have asked you to join us."
"Do you think I would've joined you," I rasped, "after you slaughtered my family — my village?"
The smile didn't fade. "They were simply… in the way. Besides, they burned beautifully." His tone was casual, as if describing the weather.
I said nothing. The cold in my chest pulsed steady, waiting.
He mistook my silence for fear. "Tell me," he sneered, "which god pitied you? Or did you sell your soul to one of those twisted deities lurking in the dark?"
He smiled wider, teeth catching the firelight. "Either way, you should've stayed dead."
He drew his sword and leveled it at me. "Let's fix that."
Steel screamed against bone. One corpse fell in two, another headless. Every stroke was clean, practiced, merciless. I ran for the fallen blade that had killed the mage. My fingers closed around its hilt just in time to meet his next strike. The clash jolted through my arm — heavy, sharp.
The cuts didn't break my link to the dead, but they weakened it. Each ruined body was a thread I had to hold — a weight dragging me down.
He pressed harder, calm, relentless. No magic, no unnatural speed — just skill. More skill than every guard I'd ever faced combined. When the last corpse dropped, he turned his blade toward me.
The next heartbeat blurred. Steel flashed — I barely caught it. I raised my sword and met his blow. Sparks bit the dark.
Then another strike. And another. Each hit drove me back, boots sliding in the ash. It wasn't a duel. It was a hunt — a cat toying with prey already trapped. I was only alive because he wanted me to be.
My arms screamed my body covered in scars and slashes. My grip slipped. One blow nearly tore the sword from my hand. He drove me back, step by step, until my knees hit the dirt.
He didn't even look angry. Just focused. "You should've stayed in the fire," he said, lifting his sword high.
I raised mine out of reflex. Another clash rang sharp enough to rattle my bones. Another strike. And another. Each heavier than the last.
There was no miracle waiting for me. No god whispering in the smoke. Just pain, breath, and will — the only three things I had left.
The next blow split the earth beside my face. I rolled, swung low, slicing at his leg — enough to make him stumble. Not a wound. An inconvenience. But enough.
He froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, as I lifted my sword above him, ready to end it all in one strike. But I forgot — he was better. His hand caught the blade, stopping it cold, and before I could react, his sword drove through my side.
Pain hit like lightning. I staggered, the world tilting. He tore the blade free, blood flashing in the firelight. I fell to one knee, forcing air into my lungs, forcing calm into the chaos pounding my chest.
He stepped closer, voice almost gentle. "You did good, kid. Great, even — for someone who just picked up a sword." His grin twisted. "Lowlife or not, you've got skill."
Before he could speak again, I shouted — "Attack him!"
He turned, startled. Too late.
The corpses lunged — hands clawing, teeth snapping. One after another, they crashed into him. He cut them down, furious, desperate, but more kept coming.
I gripped my sword tighter, teeth clenched against the pain, and charged.
The steel found its mark — straight through his heart.
He froze — eyes wide, more shocked than hurt. Then the sword sank deeper, meeting the heartbeat that had driven him all this time.
Blood spilled between us, hot against the cold air.
He looked down at the blade, then at me. "You…"
The word broke apart on his tongue.
I pulled the sword free. He dropped to his knees, still reaching for his weapon, as if he couldn't accept it was over.
When he fell, the ash caught him like snow.
The village went silent again.
My body swayed, drained beyond pain. I looked down at him — the man who wore another's face, who burned my home — and felt nothing. No triumph. No rage. Just the weight of the air pressing against the hollow in my chest.
The darkness tried to swallow me. My body ached, my blood burned, and that cold pulse still beat inside my chest — slow and steady.
I hadn't won. I hadn't lost either. I'd just lived.
And that, somehow, felt heavier than death.
The dead had nothing but memories.
The living… we live in their ashes.