Page 178 of Vasmora

Dravien snorted and settled himself on the wool cloak beneath him. The two remained quiet, Kazhimyr lost in thoughts as he stared up at the glowering clouds overhead.

“What did you long to be before the world put its hooks in you?” Dravien asked.

Kazhimyr hesitated to answer such a pointless and silly question. What did it matter, after all? But pondering the question reminded him that even he had started out with honorable intentions. Not thieving, or killing for coin. He’d once longed for purpose and honor. “A soldier. I wanted to fight for my home and my king. To be considered noble.”

“You’d have made a good soldier.”

He might’ve. “I’ve failed everyone. My friends. My king.”

“You’ve not failed me once.”

“Give me time.” Tears stung the rims of his eyes, but he blinked them away and cleared his throat. “What did you long to be?” he asked, desperate for distraction.

“Free. I never dreamed of anything but wandering this world. Every corner of it. From the mountaintops to the ocean’s depths.”

“That sounds nice.”

From his periphery, he saw Dravien turn toward him. “We could go. You and me.”

“Brilliant. I’ll spread plague to every corner of this godless world.” Kazhimyr shook his head. “There is only one fate for me.”

“You’re wrong. It’s still salvageable.”

Kazhimyr snorted. “The world? Or me?”

“Both.”

“We’ll see about that, Elvyniran.”

The two remained quiet for a while, until Dravien’s quiet snores drifted across the flame. Kazhimyr stared up at the starless sky, the moons nothing more than muted crescents behind an ominous veil. A bimillennial moon was only a few short days away, when both moons would cross and align with Vespera, the brightest star in the sky. The effect produced what looked like an eyeball staring down from space. Said to be the eye of Magekae, serving as witness, an event that only happened once every two thousand years. Miraculous things were known to happen during a bimillennial moon, though Kazhimyr wondered if the world would even notice miracles, given the state of things.

He drew the dagger from beside him, the edge of it stained black.

Do it. He dared himself. You fucking coward. Do it!

Setting the knife to his own throat, he closed his eyes.

Maybe a small part of the world would heal.

The blade bit into his skin, the hot sting a warning of the pain. The moment he pulled to drag it across, his bones cracked and bent. Kazhimyr dropped the blade, slapping a hand over his mouth to mute the cry of pain that tore from his throat. He held up his hand, his stomach twisting at the sight of his oddly bent fingers, completely mangled, the bones clearly broken in half. Shallow breaths stuttered out of him as they jerked back into place, as if of their own will, and he winced at the excruciating agony, his fingers thick and throbbing, tingling.

His eyes grew heavy, breaths slower. Blackness crawled in from the edge of his vision, swallowing him.

“Kill him,” that wretched voice from before commanded, and Kazhimyr chuckled.

“He’s already dead,” Kazhimyr said in a dismissive tone, but when he opened his eyes, his feet moved as if something were commanding him.

And Kazhimyr couldn’t stop himself.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

MAEVYTH

Lothare lay across the wooden table in the healer’s cabin, his eyes rolled back, while trembles wracked his body and bubbles formed at the corners of his mouth. The poison had progressed quickly in the time it’d taken to carry him inside, leaving his prognosis uncertain.

Standing alongside the table, the healer swirled a red liquid in a small flask, pausing to examine it. Her long, yellow nails left me wondering if she used them to stir her tea, like Agatha used to. Behind her loomed a tall, burly man she’d introduced as her husband, who stood with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed on Lothare. He’d apparently urged his wife to send us away when we first arrived.

Seemingly satisfied with the mixture, she shoved one of her nails between Lothare’s lips, widening his jaw, and poured the fluids into his mouth.