Night had fallen as the knight passed the ruined kingdom. His dead army met him halfway. Now they followed him, and he followed the Question.
Night and day could only be measured by the depth of the dark that smothered this land. It had become nearly absolute. The blazing light of his sword cut a narrow path through it.
Exhaustion crept into the knight, but a settling numbness held it at bay. Since he’d began marching with his army, there had been no sign of curses.
He yawned.
“You need rest,” the Question remarked, not turning to look at him.
“Yes.”
“Then rest.”
“Rest?” the knight asked, “In this place?”
“You have an army.”
“And if a curse slips past them?” he asked. “Will you keep me from harm?”
Silence. Then, “Perhaps.”
The knight shook his head. “Whether or not my suffering is to your liking?”
The Question turned its head, just short of looking at the knight. It said nothing.
Ahead and to the left, the knight made out a structure—a black silhouette of what appeared to be a mostly intact keep.
“Do you see?” the Question said, pointing.
The knight narrowed his eyes. Far beyond the keep, a gap in the clouds revealed stars.
“A kingdom,” the knight said. “Is that our destination?”
“No,” the Question replied, “but close.”
“Then we might take the night in the keep.”
“If you so desire.”
A soft wind pressed at the knight’s back as they approached. He imagined what might have taken residence there, and how terrible it might be.
It didn’t matter.
He had already faced the worst this waste had to offer. There was nothing more it could take from him.
The wind stopped, then changed directions.
“Do you know of this keep?” the knight asked.
“I know its face,” the Question said. “But nothing more.”
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The wind rolled to a stop, then came again at his back. Warm. Damp. Carrying the faint smell of stone and old smoke.
His army drifted forward under the pressure. He resisted, step by step.
The wind ceased. Then pushed again, this time from the opposite direction. His army shifted with it, floating back.
The knight frowned. Winds did not usually smell like breath.
The keep loomed.
Its silhouette teased detail but revealed none. The knight felt its attention settle on him—not predatory, but penetrating.
The sensation was familiar. Cursed things had always regarded him this way. Not as prey, but as something worth measuring.
The wind died.
Then it reversed all at once.
“I sense we are not alo—” the knight began, before the force seized him and his army and hurled them forward.
They rolled across the ground, striking roots and stone as shadows tore past. Amid the spin, the knight glimpsed warm light in the shape of a door.
It swelled rapidly—
Then stopped.
The wind died as if cut short.
The knight tumbled to rest among corpses beneath candlelight.
He was on his feet at once, sword raised.
Worn red carpet ran the length of a black stone floor. The walls rose high and curved inward, converging at a distant point. Candelabras burned, wax never falling. The light was warm, but the air was not.
As he stepped forward, several flames leaned toward him, stretching thin before settling back into place.
Only a quarter of his army lay with him. The vestibule was vast and vaulted, its stone black, its mortar red. It was soft beneath his boot, just enough to give. When he lifted his foot, it slowly returned to shape.
The room was otherwise bare.
Opposite the door stretched a single corridor—long, sloping downward beyond sight.
From it rose the scent of food.
His stomach tightened. His body relaxed. Bread, meat, sauces, spice—warmth coiling up from below and hollowing him out.
He ignored it. Hunger was not the danger here.
He turned toward the door and his army parted.
The door was wood, stained red to match the mortar that splintered into the surrounding stone. There was no handle.
He pressed against it. Then struck it with his shoulder.
It did not move.
He stepped back and gestured. His army drifted forward, compressing against the door.
At first he thought it was giving way. Then he heard the sound properly.
Not wood.
Bone.
He raised a hand.
They stopped and parted.
The knight sat at the center of the room and rested his sword across his knees. He closed his eyes to think. When sleep crept too near, he opened them again.
He looked at the door.
At his sword.
At the door again.
He stood.
His shoulders slumped as he crossed the carpet, the sword’s tip dragging behind him. Before the door, he raised the blade and struck.
The sword passed through easily.
The door did not open.
It bled.
Dark fluid seeped from the wound and ran downward along the grain, purposeful in its path.
The room shuddered, then steadied—like something restraining a reflex.
The knight stepped back. His army tightened around him.
The vaulted walls groaned. Stone pressed inward—subtle at first, enough that he felt it before he saw it.
A moan rose from the corridor, followed by a long exhale of air.
The pressure increased. The ceiling lowered by inches.
Enough to be understood.
The knight looked once more at the wounded door—sealed, alive—then down the corridor where warmth and scent rose to meet him.
“Forward,” he said, turning from the door and accepting the path offered instead.
The pressure released at once.
The corridor widened. Its downward slope leveled as he moved deeper.
The knight emerged into a vast dining hall.
A long table stretched beyond the reach of his sword’s light, set beneath unmoving chandeliers. A red carpet ran its length—and vanished into a black pit before him.
Three figures sat at the table, feasting.
The sound filled the hall yet carried no echo.
At the far end, one figure sat motionless.
Watching.
The knight stepped inside.
His army followed.
