The last of the undead falls. I throw a silent prayer to the Goddess, whose blood runs through my veins, imploring her to ease these poor bastards into the afterlife.
I flick my sword, removing the dirt from the blade, and quickly sheath it.
Then I cross the square and arrive at the imposing double doors.
I push. Unsurprisingly, they’re unlocked.
There’s a great creak as the timber door swings inward, admitting me to the entrance foyer of Deignar Castle.
And inside, I meet another horde.
Hundreds, if not thousands of them. A sea of decaying, animated bodies lurching toward me.
Horror and revulsion well up inside me, threatening to spill over. I quickly convert them to anger. Anger fuels my destructive force.
I start to hack through the bodies as if I were a butcher, caring less about technique and more about efficiency. Thank the goddess for this dhampir body of mine. If I were anyone else, I’d be dead by now.
They really want to see what it takes, don’t they? To slow me down?
I cut a swathe through the horde, earning my share of stabs, cuts, and nicks in the process. My body heals quickly, but my armor isn’t infallible. I choose the leather armor because it affords me greater freedom of movement, and I value speed over protection. But even chainmail and plate-armor can be penetrated by a sharp enough blade.
And the edge of my sword is starting to get dull. I need another blade.
A hulking undead rushes me, his massive war-axe raised. I take his head off in an instant. The axe falls, clattering loudly on the stone floor. I sheath my sword and pick it up. There’s another body nearby, with a similar sized axe lying close to its outstretched arm.
I take both.
Before my transformation, I would have struggled to wield these heavy weapons.
Now, they’re perfectly weighted; comfortable.
I spin and slice an undead corpse in two. Then another, and another. My attack becomes a gruesome dance; it’s easier to spin and whirl than to cut straight through. The blades are sharp and carry wicked momentum.
Better.
Much better.
Eventually, I clear the room, leaving a pile of mangled bodies in my wake.
I don’t look back. I feel sick to my stomach. So many dead men; so many of them freshly dead, too. How did the Talavarras gain so many bodies in such a short amount of time.
Are they killing them?
Did all these men die for the sole purpose of becoming fodder for me? Are these people really so threatened by the mere fact of my existence?
I’m sick.
Sick and furious.
Rage eats at my insides, making me a little bit insane.
Kaithar was right. I never should have relinquished my claim to the throne. If I hadn’t been so blind to it, maybe I could have stopped this rot before it even started.
I know what Finley would say; that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, that I can’t hold myself responsible for the actions of others.
I go up a curving flight of stairs, encountering even more undead attackers. There isn’t a single living body amongst them, but from a strategic perspective, it makes perfect sense, because I would kill living men far more easily than dead ones.
I have a rough idea of the layout. I’ll turn this place over in search of them—and most importantly, Finley’s mother. I’ve visited this castle before, on official business. A banquet was held in my honor, hosted by Duke Rhaegar Talavarra himself.
The duke was pleasant on the surface, following imperial protocol to the letter, but sometimes the mask would slip, and I’d see his resentment.
I didn’t pay it much heed at the time. A lot of people resented me, and still do.
It comes with the territory, I suppose.
I speed down another corridor then turn a corner, where I come face to face with a squadron of men.
Not undead, but men.
They’re in full plate-armor, their faces hidden behind curved helms, their breastplates adorned with the twin serpent insignia of House Talavarra.
I stop, lowering my twin war-axes.
I stare at them.
They stare back; unspeaking, unmoving, as if they’ve encountered a ghost.
“Bloody hells,” one of them curses. “He’s here already.”
“Fucking monster.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I count at least a dozen soldiers. Some of them have crossbows.
One is raising his, firing it straight at me.
His aim is good. The bolt would have hit me right in the heart if I hadn’t plucked it right out of the air.
I throw the steel bolt to the floor.
The sniper swears.
“I’d rather not kill you,” I say quietly as I approach.
The soldiers don’t move. They simply stare at me, frozen and silent. I don’t know what I must look like to them; covered in the stench and filth of the undead, my armor torn and shredded, a pair of massive war-axes in my hands.
My body is strong—I feel like I could go on fighting for an eternity—but the thirst is starting to creep up on me again.
I can smell their blood. It isn’t tantalizing like Finley’s, but I know it will make me strong.
The primal part of me is overcome with a sudden urge to feed.
Blades are drawn. The men advance, but there’s hesitation in their steps.
Unlike the undead, mortal men are influenced by fear.
“I’ll give you one chance,” I inform them. “Stand aside, and you won’t be killed.”
But they refuse to move.
I sigh. “Why are you doing this? You have to know that what’s come to pass here is an abomination.”
“Evil to fight evil,” one of the men replies, a tremor in his voice. “We can’t allow one such as you to take all the power in this empire. Your kind don’t die. It’s wrong. Better to have one of our own ruling us. Not a blood-drinking monster.”
And you think that one who resorts to Death Magic would be any better?
“You don’t even know me,” I growl, stalking toward the speaker. He lifts his sword and rushes me.
I dance around his swift attack. Dropping my axes, I grab his sword-wrist and squeeze hard, crushing his armor and his bones. I pull him close and tear off his helm.
He’s just a young man, with dark curls and a neatly trimmed beard. His ears are adorned with several golden hoops—in the way of the Padran people.
His pulse beats wildly in his neck. He thrashes and writhes, but I easily overpower him, holding him still as I sink my fangs into his neck.
I drink. Quickly, efficiently. It’s nothing more than sustenance at this point.
Nothing like the sacred bliss I experience when Finley offers herself to me.
This is forced.
I’d rather not, but I have no choice. I can’t afford to become weak here.
Recognizing that he can’t fight, he goes limp in my grasp. I wrap my arm around his neck, cutting off his air until he goes unconscious.
I let him go, and he slumps to the ground.
I leave him there and advance up on the remaining soldiers. “If you attack, you’ll die. Then what do you think will happen? Your lord will turn you into monsters like the ones I destroyed downstairs. You’ll become undead fiends, and then I’ll have to kill you again.”