The Drunken Dragon wasn’t too different from most other inns and taverns that dotted the Merchant’s Road, or any other road in Dunyasik, for that matter. Outside of the tavern’s main hall, awash with a warming yellow glow from the candles and the large hanging candelabra, a storming rain sent droplets smattering against the windows that weren’t shielded by the thatched roofing. The smoke clung to the air so heavily that it left an acrid scent on the nose that masked the otherwise mawkish smell of the ale that soaked into the floor. Southern Dunyasik ale was temperamental to brew; the sugars didn’t break down properly from the barley in the southern region unless they were boiled at a specific temperature. Boil it at too high of a heat for too long? Burnt notes that also discolored the beer a sickly blackish brown. Don’t boil it at a hot enough heat? The sugar failed to break down from the barley and you were left with faintly bread-flavored water with dead yeast floating around it. That was, at least, what Sekant tried to pull in and remember from listening to the man who bleated in his ear.

  “And I own the biggest barley farm south of Pyk!” the man delighted with glee.

  Sekant stared absently ahead of him, not acknowledging the exclamation, and letting his mouth even slack open a bit.

  “I keep this place at a discounted price, of course,” he added cheekily, winking at the young barmaid. She visibly winced at the man, though he had already turned his attention away and back to Sekant.

  “Say, that hair of yours, all white and floppy, you must have some strange foreigner blood in you, eh? So what is it, you Tassian or something?”

  The bar maid wiped the bar, splashing some spilled foreign substance onto the unruly man, interjecting “does he look like he’s smaller than a woman, you idiot? The men of Tas Utul are barely over five feet and let their women do the fighting.”

  “Ah, so you’re a fighter, eh?” the man retorted drunkenly. The barmaid shook her head, smiling in disbelief that that was the man’s takeaway.

  “Go get back to your crew Ushak,” she threw a towel at him. The man took a deep inhale of the towel and she winced again, this time with some real disgust.

  As the man left, the barmaid nodded at Sekant, offering a kind, more reserved smile. She had auburn hair and freckles with green eyes, straight from the upper crust of Erenamune, and a rarity to see in these parts. The further south one went in Dunyasik, typically, the features of most women grew harsher, their hair darker with dark brown eyes. This girl, however, who couldn’t yet be in her twentieth year, showed a gentle side to the village. She must be a rare beauty in such a small town, Sekant thought to himself.

  Sekant paid no mind to the man having left, content to sip and sit for a moment. He had barely come down from putting his belongings aside in his room at the tavern’s inn upstairs when the man had accosted him. Instead, he went back to swilling the concoction the lovely barmaid had given him earlier: honey wine, juice from muddled queen berries, and fresh cream on top. “You sure do have a sweet tooth, sir,” the girl giggled to herself. She leaned back against the gargantuan oak wood barrel behind her, wiping out a pint as she eyed him. She all but practically bit her lip at him, glued to his face. Sekant could feel her gaze upon him, but he simply smiled and nodded, staring blankly still ahead of him. “Can I fetch you anything to eat, milord?” she offered, desperate to hear him speak.

  “Get another round of ales for the corner table, will you love? And quit flirting! These bastards don’t even leave a copper stamp to tip, so there’s no point cozying up to ‘em!” a man shouted from across the room the girl, snapping her attention for a moment. He looked desperate, sweat drenching his white apron and…formerly…white shirt. He had a dark mustache but little other hair, and Sekant could hear how raggedly he breathed from here. He clutched at his breast pocket of his buttoned shirt.

  “Yes, father!” she responded quickly but with strain. But the girl’s attention quickly turned back to Sekant, eyeing him eagerly.

  Sekant relented, nodding at her, “what might you have to offer at this fine establishment?”

  She stood up tall, pushing away from the barrel. “Freshly caught trout from this morning, hunter brought in a brace of bucks this morning, I could fetch the backstrap roast; we’ve been saving it for ourselves but…father wouldn’t mind, we’ll be too busy to sit down and eat proper anyways tonight, the Dragon gets hectic at the end of a harvest week” she held onto each word desperately, though Sekant looked skeptical at the descriptions. “Oh! And it ain’t spicy at all, milord. I know you said you can’t handle southern spices, but my father has the gout, and spiced meats would send him straight into the hells. I promise,” she put a hand to her breast, “you can trust me better than a skunk duck trusts a slow savern.”

  Sekant smiled wryly, gesturing for her to fetch it. She eagerly bounced away.

  “Fancy that, I thought I might be the one who was special enough to get a piece of that backstrap, eh lads?” a hoarse voice behind him shouted. Sekant’s eyes narrowed, and his face contorted, more so with confusion than with any other emotion. In fact, he felt so moved he couldn’t help but turn around. “Didn’t know little Reya was into sickly looking fellas, here I was hoping she was saving that maidenhead for a real man.” The man who said it was over twice the girl’s age, a scraggly and unkempt dark beard with dark hair, slick with a perpetual greasiness, falling to his shoulders.

  “So, you were referencing her backside when you called her a…a backstrap?” Sekant said, his face still contorted with discontent. The man only laughed heartily, slapping a shorter bald man next to him so hard that he spilled half of his stein.

  “Leave it, milord…please” Reya interjected quietly behind Sekant, who remained seated at the bar. She had returned with a large hunk of the roasted venison, still steaming on a pile of roasted duck fat potatoes and smothered in what smelled to be venison gravy.

  “That’s right, lad,” the man added. He took a large swig from his own mug of ale, foam cling to his mustache. “Don’t go getting offended on account of some tart you ain’t know, eh?”

  Sekant tilted his head slightly, pursing his lips in thought. After a moment, however, he stood up, prompting the four men gathered at the table to stand up. Sekant was six feet tall, his silvery hair falling messily around his head and across his nape. His eyes in the light could have appeared brown or a dark gray, but they stormed with a dazzling blue when the firelight crackled at the right angle. “I don’t know the girl, I don’t know you, and it’s not normally my business what someone I don’t know calls someone else I don’t know. I’m just offended you put in such effort into such a terrible joke.”

  The man straightened himself up after he put the mug down, emerging from his companion group and coming within a few feet of Sekant, wary of the hilt protruding from his back. He was the same height as Sekant, though he had nearly fifty pounds on him in weight. The weapon was clear in his vision though, and his eyes darted nervously to the blade.

  “I wouldn’t pull it out for a bar fight,” Sekant teased.

  “You really want to take on all of us for some barmaid?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The man was silent, confused by Sekant’s deadpan response.

  “We can take him out real quick,” one of the other men chimed in. He was tall and gangly, with an auburn hair that made Sekant question the true rarity of the gene in Dunyasik. “That blade’s gotta be worth something, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t pull it out for a bar fight, but I will take it out to kill you if you try to take it.”

  “Please, milo-” Reya began to interject, her voice beginning to grow desperate as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “He ain’t no lord, Reya!” the central man shouted, spitting in Sekant’s face as he did so.

  Sekant wiped the spittle from his face, no longer making the exaggerated mocking facial expressions of before, tired of trying to use derision as a means to deter the group. He adjusted his formal jerkin, something he decided to wear as he tried to make himself presentable whenever he stopped for the night. The black leather of the jerkin was form-fitting atop his black, short-sleeved tunic, though he preferred a far more loose-fitting ensemble on most occasions. He was not spindly, per se, but he did have a sinewy build to his body. He was clearly muscular, though he had the look of a man who also skipped a third of his prescribed meals. His skin, pallid and smooth, was antithetical when compared to the unruly fellow, who clearly worked the fields in the daytime. Perhaps he works on that large barley farm, he mused. But what he lacked in size, he made up for in reserved strength and quickness. He lowered his hands to his sides nonchalantly, though he tensed the muscle fibers in his arms in legs as he sensed the next few moments coming.

  “Aye, he ain’t no lord and he ain’t going to be able to do nothing about us taking that shiny sword off his back!” the fourth miscreant shouted. This man, dark-skinned with ice-white eyes, clearly of the Northern Continent, pushed forward, reaching to grab Sekant’s arm. He wasn’t quite as tall as Sekant, but his muscles were clearly defined beneath his burgundy tunic, despite its loose fit.

  A flash of movement, and the man was on the ground, unconscious and lying face-first in a pile of peanut shells collecting under the bar stools, knocked out cold. Sekant didn’t show any emotion or effort and moved so quickly that it appeared to the remaining agonists as if he hadn’t moved at all. The auburn-haired man stepped forward, Ushak the barley farmer, pausing to look at the body crumpled up under the bar, motionless. Sekant yawned, scratching aimlessly at his mop of hair. The gangly man reared back clumsily with his free hand to swing at Sekant, though he seemed more focused on not spilling his mug of ale. Sekant moved more slowly at this one, sidestepping as the man’s momentum carried him toppling over a stool, winding him as he slumped to the floor doubled over in pain. The bald companion, looking nervously at the bearded man, stepped forward hesitantly, with sweat beading upon his head profusely. With a shout, he launched himself with reckless abandonment at Sekant, who in turn also rushed forward, accelerating the man’s crashing fall into the bar.

  “Roz! Take it outside into the street or roll out in the barn like animals, the way you behave!” Reya’s father shouted, trying his best to stop the confrontation without stepping in too close. He clutched at his breast pocket again, his face awash with sweat and discolored.

  “We don’t have a problem here, Horol,” the bearded man responded as cooly as he could, though Sekant could feel the rising tension emanating from him. The man raised his hands to his side. “We don’t have a problem here, do we lad?” He grinned grimly, feigning good humor.

  Sekant looked at the disheveled clothes of the men he had strewn across various parts of the bar room floor and shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t had to throw a punch yet.” The expression on Roz’s soured, that wasn’t a smart choice on my part, Sekant relented. He gave a slight bow, gesturing as goodwill. It did not have the intended effect. Roz leapt at Sekant, a small carving blade flashing from his belt as he moved with all his force. Unfortunately, for Roz, he was not a fighter and his movements were brawny, but clumsy. Sekant sidestepped him, hoping to quickly let him fall into a pile with the other cronies, but instead the man righted himself, continuing to lunge, swiping now haphazardly with the blade.

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  “Roz!” Horol shouted, his hand clutching. The man’s face had gone completely red now.

  “Shut it, Horol, I’m gonna settle this right here and now, then I’ll be out of your hair for the night.”

  “You always blather on like this?” Sekant said, his voice showing no signs of strain.

  Roz dove at his upper legs in a grappling move, attempting to wrestle Sekant to the ground. Instead, Sekant stepped on top of Roz’s lowered shoulder, jumping straight onto the top of the bar counter, coming gracefully to a kneeling position, one hand reaching behind his back to the scabbard there, though he didn’t pull out the blade. He wouldn’t need to, not against a lot like this. Roz whirled around in a rage, snarling with anger to face Sekant, who kept kneeling, looking ready to take a seat. “Let’s just call it a ni-” Sekant started, before his jaw snapped shut at the sight in front of him.

  In an instant, a fist had run through Roz’s chest, so quickly and cleanly that hardly any blood even covered the skin of the hand.

  Sekant was stunned to silence, as blood squirted out of the wound on a delay, Roz brought to his knees as he held his hands out aimlessly to catch the blood as it spilled, staring at the bored hole in his chest. Reya screamed as her hands rose to her face in horror, though she did not faint or move. As he fell forward, the killer came into view: Horol, no longer sweating and ragged, stood taller, no longer clutching his chest but instead beaming with happiness. Now that he wasn’t running around like a wykan with his head cut off, Sekant found himself even more surprised by his actions now that he had a clean look at him. Horol was barely five feet five inches, his mustache and sparse hair were unkempt, and he looked as if he had dipped into the backstrap a little too much these days. The white apron and stained shirt showed little in the way of repair or washing, so he clearly was overworked and hadn’t the time to clean himself regularly. The force it would take to punch clean through a man’s chest was the sort of thing that Sekant could barely do, let alone what a man like Horol could do.

  “I was getting tired of hearing him blather on, weren’t you?” a voice resonated within the room. It had a deep thrum to it, like the sound of a beaten drum or a warbling three string.

  He was listening to that? Sekant thought, though he did his best to keep a calm expression, only moving his hand a fraction of an inch toward the blade as he spoke, “what can I say, I think that was a bit of a rough way to announce a final call. Did he have an unpaid tab?”

  “Don’t do that,” the voice said flatly, though it kept the bass in the voice at a frighteningly low level.

  “Crack jokes? My apologies, I have a habit of it.”

  “Don’t grab the sword, child,” the voice repeated, with more contempt in its voice this time.

  Sekant stiffened, freezing himself in place. Had that happened of his own accord? He wondered momentarily. Or did this creature have the presence to make him stop? Whatever this was, Horol seemed long gone.

  “Fa-…Father?” Reya asked pleadingly.

  “Quiet, child,” the voice spoke softly, Horol’s eyes darting over to the girl. “Your father is gone, though I have no need to kill you,” it added matter-of-factly.

  In the moment, Sekant sprang forward from the top of the counter from his crouched position, as if shot out of a fire lance. In a quick, downward strike, he swung the blade diagonally at Horol’s chest. The blow didn’t connect, however, as whatever possessed Horol’s mind and voice clearly had overtaken any physical control he might have had, grabbing Sekant by the wrist and kicking in a quick spin, launching him back over the bodies and the counter, crashing into the barrels of ale so hard he nearly knocked them over, though the corks popped out and ale flooded the floor.

  “Do you doubt my word, child?” Sekant could only grunt in response. “I told you; this man is dead. There is no point in holding back on his account.”

  Sekant slowly rose to his feet, his single blade-style sword pointed at the man. The blade was silver with a simple black cross guard, hexagonal in shape. It didn’t appear extremely valuable, and bandages were wrapped tightly, but haphazardly, around the handle, the end dangling in an ugly, unkempt fashion. “He seemed worth taking a chance on,” Sekant said faintly with a half-shrug. “I do my best to prote-” he was interrupted again, the creature lunging at him with frightening speed. It swung a backhanded fist at Sekant, who was forced to brace himself against the side of the blade to the blow. It threw him across the room, and he landed in a hallway near the stairs up to the inn.

  “My apologies, but I…hate…unnecessary things,” the demonic voice responded.

  “Is there something you like then? I’m fond of sweets and women with dark hair, myself,” Sekant said, rising again slowly, his eyes still on Horol. A pang of disappointment shot subtly across Reya’s face.

  The creature looked down, eying Horol’s fingernails and examining them. “I fear I have no time for such trivial thoughts. I simply am.” Then, without warning, Horol bent his own finger back sharply, breaking it so loudly the bones snapping could have been mistaken for a crack of thunder. He held out the hand to show Sekant, even showing it over to Reya, who whimpered noiselessly with horror. “You see, I am…curious. About you, child. About this world. This inn. These men. All the things that have gone on since I’ve been away. I am…old; very old, you see? But I’ve been dormant for too long.” He walked toward Sekant, who held up the blade at the ready. “This man took a token of my affection, quite literally, and horded it, held to it so tightly he might have given himself some sort of injury, had I not stepped in.” Horol’s corpse raised up with his disfigured hand and held up a coin. It was a gold coin, not unlike the higher denomination Dunyasi stamps strewn about the floor of the inn, which had now thoroughly been coated in a thin layer of ale that slowly soaked into the wood and various table rugs. The coin did have a distinct gash in it, cut right through the symbol of Amune’s eye that comprised one face of it. “To think, such idolatrous behavior had seeped in after giving you all time without me.”

  “Who…what are you?” Reya feebly made out.

  “That, my dear child, is a question that pains me to have to answer. Millennia ago, I wouldn’t have had to introduce myself, and the fact that I can’t even be recognized these days is a shame.” The creature seemed to be growing more human in its mannerisms with every moment that passed, though it was unclear why. “My goodness, I was once the most feared being in the world, and yet you…you lot have let the Light blind you for generations. But you’ve all grown so dark recently,” he paused a moment to look at Sekant, “I thought it the right time. To return.”

  Sekant stepped forward, revealing some blood from a glass shard stuck in the back of his shoulder, blade still raised. “That didn’t answer her question.”

  “I’ve had many names, Sekant,” the creature responded, amused.

  “How did you…” but Sekant stopped, shaking himself back to focus on reality.

  The creature eyed him with…curiosity. “You lot have called me ‘the Darkness,’ though that name is…wanting. Considering I have actual names. Just none you have heard of, apparently.”

  Reya let out a soft cry and felt backwards, leaning against one of the leaking barrels, its ale having run out completely and now just dripping out slowly.

  “Why have you come back then?” Sekant added, unamused.

  “For you of course!”

  “Me?”

  “Well, no, not you in particular. But you, the kind of men who let the Darkness fester inside them, yearning for some way to let it out. The kind who bring death and chaos to the world, leaving nothing but blood and bones behind. I’ve come for those who are ready for my return.” The possessed corpse stepped on the neck of one of the dizzied men and crunched through it, the balding man crying out faintly as he quickly died. Then, he reached down and snapped the neck of Roz, his auburn hair disheveled and his eyes closed already, with his bare hands. The final man, still conscious – if delirious, began to crawl to the side and the Darkness watched him crawl to safety, uninterested.

  Sekant stood watching, motionless, as Reya eyed him with fear and horror. How could such a quiet man be someone spoken of by the Darkness, by this creature who killed wantonly? But Sekant’s eyes fell, his head lowered, and the atmosphere of the room grew cold. He leapt forward, slicing upward diagonally from a relaxed position, his sword having lowered during the conversation. Horol’s body inconceivably slithered out of the way, flashing a toothy beer-stained grin as he pushed his large body away from the blade, slamming his fist down at Sekant’s wrist. The move pinned Sekant to the ground, and the Darkness, occupying Horol’s body, came face to face with Sekant. In the lamplight, Sekant could see that death had taken over Horol’s body and had been replaced. It showed no physical signs, but in Horol’s eyes he saw pits of endless black, cold and empty where a happy life may have once burned bright.

  “Are you prepared, young Sekant,” Horol’s possessed body said quietly, “for the Darkness that awaits your journey?”

  Sekant hesitated, then spoke too quietly for Reya to hear, “perhaps I am,” and shot up his free hand in a quick fist to the jaw, breaking it. He stood up, as Horol rubbed his jaw, though he gave no indication of being in pain. “But I’m not prepared to bring you along for the journey. You’re just big another mouth to feed, as far as I’m concerned, and at this point, you don’t seem frightening off as a god for me to care.”

  Horol’s possessed body shot with unnatural speed at him, snarling in contemptuous fury, but Sekant was prepared this time, slicing downward in a fluid motion as he sliced at Horol’s right hand. He connected, cutting it off at the wrist, letting the hand fall limply to the floor. Reya screamed a desperate moaning plea. Because the creature felt no pain, however, it kept attacking, swiping with its left hand instead. Its movements had become sloppier the more human it had become, and even though it still possessed unnatural speed, Sekant no longer felt in danger. He whirled back, swinging quickly at the head, muttering under his breath as he did so. The swing connected, silver blade slicing through flesh fluidly. It was clean decapitation, Horol’s body slumped to the floor at Sekant’s back as he sheathed the blade back into the scabbard. Reya’s screams turned to silence, as she doubled over at seeing her father’s body fall limply to the ale-soaked floor.

  Inky black smoke dribbled out of his body, pooling on the floor just hovered above the sticky floorboards. After a minute, the smoke collected and formed a figure. It was not quite shaped like a man but held itself at about Sekant’s height. What must have been considered the smoke creature’s face regarded Sekant quietly for a moment. Then, the resonating bass of the sinister voice from before that had possessed Horol spoke, the booming words now shook the room, like a maelstrom had erupted within the tavern as the ambient glow of the candles seemed to cloud with a storming cover: “Know this, Sekant Hazar, I will come for you again. In the darkest hour of the longest night, I will be there to bring this world back to its knees. No matter the path you take, you will choose me,” and the smoke ebbed. The room seemed to get brighter, as if lanterns were re-lit, and Sekant exhaled.

  After a moment to breathe, Sekant turned to Reya. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice just louder than a hoarse whisper. The girl was barely audible, her sobs muffled as she buried her face in her apron.

  Outside, the clouds had ceased their downpouring but still hung oppressively low, obscuring most of the mountain ranges in the distant south, with even the foothills being capped by them. As the amber glow of the candles washed back over the room, the destruction of the fight became plain to see. Chair legs had been snapped, the floor and its various rugs had been soaked through, and two of the four large oak barrels of ale had been emptied and destroyed. Thankfully, none of the candles that were still lit seemed in danger of alighting the floor, though Sekant moved swiftly to snuff out any that seemed close. The bald man had gotten himself up and run as the smoky figure had appeared, screaming for help like a madman in the distance.

  “What…what happened?” Reya finally asked after she watched Sekant extinguish the few remaining candles near the spilled ale.

  Sekant didn’t make a move to acknowledge her and continued to mosey around the tavern, righting some of the spilled mugs and chairs that could be stood back up. “It seems that danger has come to this place… I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll be leaving, come the morning.”

  “Wha- but where will you go? Why did this happen?”

  He shrugged aloofly, “I wish I knew,” he responded softly.

  “I don’t understand…why…why has the Darkness returned?”

  “Do you think I know?!” Sekant shouted, his emotions finally boiling up.

  She quieted, tears welling in her eyes again, but she persisted: “he seemed to know you! You’re not from around here, and right as you come in, all of this happened! My father…my father.”

  A deep sigh. He came over to the girl, slumped against the barrel behind the bar and knelt, hugging her. “I don’t know why this happened. But I will find out.” He let her go and eyed her. Fear still gripped her, and her eyes seemed to burn with a mix of fury and fright. He was an unknown, and her world had just come crashing down at his arrival. I can’t blame her for that.

  In that moment, the entrance door to the tavern burst in, a large man falling through backwards and landing on the ale-soaked floorboards a few feet from Sekant and Reya. “What the –” Sekant started.

  Before he could move closer to investigate the man, a smaller figure leaped through the doorway. A slender girl, dark curls bouncing as she flew toward the larger man, landed next to the man and, as she stood up, revealed she had impaled him with a large dagger! Upon closer inspection, the man’s shirt was ripped to shreds, and he was covered in scratches and blood. The girl’s hands were bloodied and she had a twig hanging from one of her curls. Sekant immediately sheltered Reya with his right hand as he reached back to his scabbard.

  “Lida!” Reya shouted. She shot up past Sekant’s hand and hugged the girl, sobbing.

  “Reya! Are you okay?” the new girl hugged Reya, bloodied hands and all. As the girls released each other, Lida eyed Sekant. “You’re not one of them, are you?”