Marcus stood still as the st soldier’s dying breath faded into the cold wind. The ctter of falling armor echoed one st time before silence returned to the mine, save for the soft groan of the dying and the crunch of his summons settling back into stillness.

  He looked at the bodies. Men who wore their strength like a right to rule over the weak, who crushed others under heel because no one could stop them. He felt no sorrow for their end.

  But then, a thought crept in—quiet and unwelcome.

  Am I not the same? He had power. He ended lives. He carved through others without remorse when he deemed it justified.

  What makes me different? he wondered.

  Maybe nothing. Maybe this, too, was selfishness—his way of pretending to be human in a world that twisted that meaning. Maybe helping these people wasn’t justice. Maybe it was just his way to feel something close to it.

  He turned his eyes toward the building where the sves now gathered at the door, watching. Their faces lit only by the flickering torches and the glow of mana still humming in the air. Not one spoke. Not one moved. Fear was there, yes—but behind it, something else. Caution. Wonder. Hope.

  Marcus stepped forward, his long cloak trailing behind him like a shadow grown from his feet. The sleeping girl—Shann—was still in his arms, her breath calm beneath the folds of the mana-cloak he had wrapped her in. He walked slow, unhurried, until he stood a few paces from the doorway.

  The sves didn’t move. Neither did he.

  They stared at one another, both unsure of what to do next. Of what would come. Of what he truly was to them.

  A monster?A savior?Or something else entirely?

  Marcus broke the silence first, his voice low and even, carrying just enough weight to reach them all.

  “What is it you wish for?”

  The sves flinched at the sound—less from fear and more from disbelief. They hadn’t expected the tall figure—half-shadow and still glowing faintly with mana—to speak their tongue. None of them answered at first, too stunned, too uncertain.

  Marcus continued, not moving.

  “If you wish, you are free. Leave. Go home, to where you came from.”

  A still hush followed, until one of the younger girls stepped forward, trembling. Her hands clenched into the rough fabric of her tattered tunic as she looked up at him, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  “I-It… it’s gone. Our home.” Her eyes glistened with tears that hadn’t fallen yet. “They came and plundered. Then burned it all. We… we have nowhere to return to.”

  Marcus held her gaze, then looked over the others—tired, gaunt faces marked by hunger and bor. Silent. Wounded.

  Right… svers. He thought bitterly. What else could I expect? Why buy sves when you can simply take them… burn what’s left, and move on?

  He sighed, quietly, the weight of it deep in his chest.

  “If so… what do you wish to do?” he asked again. “Remain here, and you’ll die. This pce isn’t meant for the living.”

  That was the truth. The nd was dry, the mine would colpse in time, and no support would come once the soldiers failed to return. He could give them freedom—but where would they run? He could save this group—but what of the next? And the next after that?

  Then one voice, small but steady, broke the stillness again.

  “Please… lord…”

  The same girl knelt, her knees hitting the cold dirt as her hands csped together.

  “We wish for nothing more than a haven. Somewhere… anywhere far from this nightmare.”

  She bowed low, forehead to the ground. Others followed. One by one, they knelt. Men, women, even the older children. Whispers turned to soft cries—pleas for a second chance.

  Marcus exhaled, long and slow.

  He already knew where to send them.

  “Gather what you can,” he said at st, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “And prepare to leave in a few days.”

  He turned slightly, gncing at the night sky above.

  “But be warned… The nd I bring you to will not be kind. You will need to work. To build. To survive. I offer no ease—only the chance to recim what was taken.”

  The sves bowed lower, some weeping now—not from fear, but from the faint ember of hope beginning to stir in their hearts.

  Marcus stepped forward, the weight of his presence parting the crowd of tired eyes. He lowered the sleeping girl gently into the arms of the one who had spoken earlier. Her hands trembled as she took the girl, but she held her firmly, protectively.

  “Take care of her,” Marcus said softly. “And see to those most in need. Use the soldiers’ supplies—food, water, whatever’s left. You’ll need your strength in the coming days.”

  He rose to his full height once more, his gaze sweeping over the huddled survivors.

  “Remain here for now. I still have matters to resolve… with the king of this nd.”

  Without another word, Marcus turned away, his long shadow stretching behind him as the torches flickered. He left a handful of his bone-white summons near the buildings—silent guardians that stood like statues, motionless but alert. The sves backed away from them at first, but soon realized the creatures meant no harm unless commanded.

  Marcus moved some distance away, beyond the view of the camp. There, in the pale moonlight, the ground was already stained with blood from the earlier sughter. The bodies of the fallen soldiers were scattered, broken and torn. His summons dragged the remaining ones—those still alive, barely clinging to breath—before him.

  With calm precision, Marcus began his grim work.

  One by one, the wounded men gasped, begged, or cursed—until their voices were stilled, their flesh molded into something else. Puppets. Bodies bent to his will, the soul stripped away, leaving only obedience behind.

  He noted the pattern as he worked: only those with a certain trace of mana in their bodies—or the capacity to channel it—could be turned into puppets that retained a degree of individuality and usefulness. The others? Their bones were harvested and reforged into more of his skeletal soldiers, soulless and tireless.

  The process took hours, the cold wind biting into his cloak as dawn threatened the edge of the sky. By the end of it, Marcus stood before a line of twenty puppets—cleaned, armored, clothed anew. They bore no resembnce to the ragged mess they’d been in life. Now, they looked like elite guards—silent, poised, deadly.

  Perfect for the next step.

  From the essence memories he’d absorbed, Marcus had gleaned one useful piece of information: in another day or so, a fresh batch of soldiers would arrive—escorts meant to pick up the next shipment of ore.

  He smiled thinly under his mask.

  “Then I’ll meet them… and save myself the trouble of hunting ter.”

  With a wave of his hand, the puppets turned, ready to march. Marcus followed shortly after.

  -^-^-^-^-^-^-^-

  Along the winding dirt road, about half a day’s ride from the city, a line of wagons trundled along, pulled by broad-shouldered, horse-like beasts. Dust kicked up with every step, and the sun hung zily in the sky above. Twenty soldiers rode alongside or walked near the wagons, weapons slung over their shoulders, eyes half-lidded with boredom.

  “Ugh… how boring,” one of them muttered, walking beside the lead wagon and dragging his feet through the dust.

  “Boring?” the driver replied with a grunt, holding tight to the reins. “Would you rather be dodging teeth and cws out in the wilds?”

  “Honestly? Yeah. At least there’s some thrill in it. You get coin for every beast or savage you kill.”

  “And maybe your bones fed to wolves, too. You forget what happened to the northern hunting squad?”

  The footman shrugged. “Bad luck.”

  The driver narrowed his eyes. “Bad luck? Only one made it back. You know what happened to him?”

  “No… Heard he got called in by the king or something.”

  “He did. Then he vanished. Word is, the God-chosen himself passed the sentence. No one’s seen him since.” The driver leaned closer. “Keep that tongue in your mouth if you value your breath. Too many sves gone into that pace and never came out.”

  Their conversation trailed off as movement caught their eye—smoke, curling just beyond a hill up ahead.

  Others noticed it too, lifting their heads and shielding their eyes from the sun.

  “Smoke?” the lead soldier called. “Pick up the pace!”

  The wagons sped up slightly, rattling over the rocks as they crested the hill.

  Below, the scene spread before them—a wreckage of shattered wagons, broken crates, and twisted bodies. The wind carried the metallic scent of blood.

  “Wh-What happened here?” one of them muttered, dismounting as the wagons rolled to a stop.

  “Another beast attack? This close to the city?”

  They climbed down and spread out cautiously. Weapons were drawn now. Eyes scanned every shadow.

  “Hey... this armor…” a soldier crouched beside one of the fallen.

  Another knelt beside him. “Yeah. Mine garrison colors.”

  “Check for survivors. And you—check the area for beast tracks. Last thing we need is something watching us from the trees.”

  The men obeyed, fanning out among the wreckage. A pair knelt beside one body, inspecting the damage.

  “…Strange,” one muttered, brow furrowing.

  “What?”

  “The armor’s… too clean.”

  He reached out and turned the corpse over. The weight shifted unnaturally, but his curiosity drowned out his caution. Then he looked up—right into the dark, gssy eyes of the man he thought was dead.

  The corpse blinked.

  “What the—?”

  A fsh of metal, a choked scream—blood sprayed across the dirt as a bde slid through the soldier’s throat. His partner stumbled back in horror, only to see more bodies around him beginning to twitch… rise… move.

  One by one, the fallen turned—eyes dead, movements sharp and quick. Knives and swords fshed as the puppets tore into the unsuspecting soldiers. No cries for help were heard—only wet gurgles and the tearing of flesh.

  It was over in moments. Less than a minute, and the road was silent once more.

  Only the puppets stood.

  At the edge of the wreckage, a tall shadow emerged—cloak fluttering behind him like a bck wing. Marcus stepped forward slowly, eyes half-lidded with disinterest as he looked upon the aftermath.

  He gave no words of praise, no comment of satisfaction.

  Only a gnce… and then silence.

  -^-^-^-^-^-^-

  The kingdom had fallen into a strange kind of quiet. Not peaceful—no. It was the kind of silence that crept along the walls and pressed against your ears, as if the nd itself was holding its breath. As night settled in, Marcus moved through the empty streets like a wraith, the flicker of torchlight barely touching the edge of his cloak.

  His puppets followed in the shadow of his steps.

  Before him loomed the pace—if it could even be called that. The walls surrounding it were tall and intimidating, better maintained than anything else in the city, likely reinforced by magic or sheer paranoia. Marcus ducked into the alley of an old smithy and raised one hand.

  One of his puppets emerged from the dark behind him, cloaked in worn cloth that helped it blend in.

  “You know what to do. Stay low. Move fast. Eyes first,” Marcus muttered.

  The puppet gave no reply—just a nod—and sprinted off.

  The puppet followed the outer wall, its movements sharp but quiet. Ten meters high and smooth stone, but it didn’t matter. The puppet’s enhanced muscles gave it power beyond a normal human. Two steps, a jump, and it soared over the wall like a beast on the hunt, nding silently on the other side.

  The grounds beyond were dim, lit only by flickering braziers. The guards that patrolled the area looked bored—some leaned on their spears, others chatting idly in corners. None of them noticed the cloaked figure slipping between hedges and buildings like a ghost.

  Marcus guided the puppet toward the rgest structure—a grand hall lined with decorative banners and gold-trimmed pilrs. Its opulence felt almost offensive, especially after seeing the half-starved people outside the pace gates.

  “Guess we know where the tax gold went,” Marcus muttered under his breath.

  As the puppet crept closer, the air began to feel heavier through the link. Marcus frowned. The mana in this pce—it was thick, but not in the way he expected. It wasn't raw power, but something... off. It pulsed strangely, like a rhythm that didn’t quite belong. Not evil, not corrupted—just twisted, in a way that felt unnatural to the core.

  The puppet passed several servants in the hallway—each one pale, hollow-eyed, and visibly trembling. They kept their heads down, not even gncing at the strange figure that passed them by. One girl dropped a tray as she passed a doorway, flinching like she expected a whip to follow the sound.

  “Someone’s keeping a tight leash,” Marcus muttered, more curious now than cautious.

  He pushed the puppet onward, deeper into the structure, until they reached a tall set of double doors at the far end of a wide corridor. Ornate gold trim curled along the frames. No guards in sight. Marcus felt the tension in the air spike again.

  The doors creaked open.

  Inside was a massive throne room, but it had clearly been repurposed. Long banquet tables had repced the regal furniture. Half-eaten ptters and spilled goblets cluttered every surface. The air reeked of wine, sweat, and something faintly metallic.

  At the end of the table, beneath flickering torchlight, sat the king.

  Marcus narrowed his eyes through the puppet’s vision. The man was grotesque—his frame bloated, his face red and oily with sweat. He tore into a sb of meat with both hands, slurping wine from a goblet filled with a strange, thick purple liquid. The crown on his head was crooked, more like a toy than a symbol of power.

  He didn’t even look up.

  Marcus moved the puppet slowly along the edge of the room, letting it pick up a bottle that had rolled to the floor. He studied the thick liquid inside. It shimmered oddly in the light, clinging to the gss with a strange viscosity. There was mana in it—that much was certain. But not like any spellcraft Marcus recognized. It was wild, muddied… tainted in a way that didn’t follow any logic he knew.

  He cast a gnce back at the king, who was now ughing to himself between gulps.

  “Drugged. Or worse,” Marcus said quietly. “If he’s ruling anything, it’s a pile of bones.”

  He could’ve struck now. But something about the scene made Marcus pause. This wasn’t the threat—not yet. Whatever influence had sunk its cws into this pce ran deeper.

  He turned the puppet around, guiding it through a smaller door behind the throne. Better to search the back rooms—find out who’s really holding the leash in this rotting pace.

  There was more to learn before he started pulling threads.

  ---------

  A sketch depiction of a statue of Khonsu and the sleeping girl as a worship statue.

  -drew by me-