A squire stood just inside the armory. He fidgeted as the knight approached. The knight nodded to the boy and walked past with no other acknowledgement.

  “Good day, Sir-”

  Before the squire could finish, the knight raised a hand. When he lowered, he spoke plainly, “I’ll need your strongest short sword, and your lightest shield.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  As the squire shuffled off, the knight stood and regarded the armory as one might a childhood home. Only now did he realize it was larger than he remembered and filled with more weapons than any army could reasonably need. Torchlit highlights danced along the gleaming steel, filling the room with a hypnotic shimmer. He recalled the last day he’d been here.

  “Were you an ordinary man, I’d have killed you twice over,” Sir Draven said with a chuckle.

  “Were I an ordinary man, I’d have fought with greater care,” the knight replied.

  The two of them laughed as they removed their light plate. Once the armor was racked, the room settled into a contented silence, and the two sat on the bench furthest from the door and drank cool water that sent a ripple of relief through their battle-worn bodies.

  “I’ve a question,” Sir Draven whispered, glancing around the armory before continuing.

  “Ask it,” the knight replied.

  Sir Draven leaned in, “How does your paramour fare?”

  The knight smiled and let himself fall back on the bench. The iron chandelier burned above him. A sigh escaped.

  “It’s been how many years now?” Sir Draven asked. “And she is still your paramour?”

  “Yes. Two years a week prior.”

  “When, pray tell, will you approach the king? She cannot remain your secret forever. She is to be married at some point.”

  The knight sat up, his smile slipping. “What have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard tell of a prince in Emberhold who has taken interest,” Sir Draven said. “He is still much too young to choose for certain. I’d guess a few years’ time before she’d wed to another.”

  The knight exhaled and replied, “Then I have a few years to prove my worth,” adding, with a small smile, “And hundreds more to prove my love.”

  Sir Draven answered with a subdued smile of his own.

  “And what of you, my dearest friend?” the knight asked. “Surely some fair maiden has caught your eye. Time will only take from us. Given the women who swoon at your presence, I would see you give one your heart before time—or curses—come to claim it.”

  “Your sword and shield, Sir.” The squire came as an unwelcome interloper on a moment long past. The knight looked down as the boy knelt and bowed his head.

  “Many thanks,” the knight said, taking the steel offered to him.

  Gaze averted, the squire spoke. “Might I ask a question of you?”

  The knight nodded. “Yes. But do stand.”

  The squire rose, reluctant in his movements.

  “Out with it, then,” the knight said.

  “I know of your curse,” the squire said, voice trembling, “but... do you feel pain?”

  “I do,” the knight replied.

  “Then... may I ask why you don’t bring more armor, Sir?”

  “Have you been outside these walls, young squire?”

  The squire shook his head, fear flickering across his wide eyes.

  “This sword and shield,” the knight explained, regarding each in turn, “They are as effective against curses as sticks and stones against a man. Enough.” He swept his shield in a gesture toward the armory. “Armor may as well be parchment. I’ll survive what comes without it. It would serve only as dead weight.”

  The squire nodded as if he understood, though his eyes betrayed him.

  “Tell me,” the knight said, “does Alaric still tend the kitchen?”

  “Alaric runs the kitchen, Sir,” the squire replied.

  The knight gave the boy’s shoulder a hearty squeeze, then turned to go.

  The royal kitchen moved with the beautiful chaos of a storm. Voices boomed out like thunder, and erupting flames flashed like lightning. Alaric stood at its center, guiding it like some culinary god.

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  “Alaric, have you any bread to spare an old friend?” the knight called out.

  Alaric spun toward him in one sudden twist. For a heartbeat he looked angry—then joy overtook him. His face split into a grin, his eyes glistening. He opened his arms wide, and the knight did the same. They embraced, laughing like men who weren’t sure they’d ever get the chance again.

  “I feared I’d never see you again, old friend,” Alaric said, pulling back and grabbing the knight by his shoulders. “And how old you’ve gotten.”

  “Old? Me?” the knight slipped free of his grasp with dramatic offense. “If I’m old, good sir, then you’re cooking with one foot in the dirt.”

  “That may be,” Alaric replied, slapping his round belly, which jiggled in response, “But this deadman’s at least got meat on his old bones.”

  “Indeed—meatier than I remember,” the knight said with a chuckle.

  For a moment they simply stood there, looking one another in the eyes, memories flickering between them like fireflies. The knight broke the silence.

  “As much as I would love to reminisce—preferably over a pint of ale—I’ve come to ask for food for the journey ahead.”

  Alaric’s smile faltered. A worried look crossed his face. He nodded and walked to a nearby table where a leather satchel sat waiting. He picked it up and handed it over.

  “The king has already tasked me so,” he said softly. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes but refused to fall. “Come back safe, yes? I know something as simple as a curse won’t do you in, but I worry one might keep you stranded in the waste. I’ll be at Ram’s Horn waiting for you. It's still standing just outside the castle gates. I'll be the large, older gentleman with two pints. When you return—one’s yours.”

  “Just the one? After facing such great peril?” the knight teased.

  “Fine—both,” Alaric laughed.

  “Thank you, Alaric,” the knight said, weight in his voice unmistakable. “You’re a true friend.”

  Alaric pulled him into another embrace. “Just live. It’s what you’re good at.”

  “I will,” the knight said.

  They released one another, shook hands, and parted ways.

  “Who told you lot to stop cooking?” The knight heard Alaric roar at the staff as he left. “If the king’s taking a head, know it won’t be mine!”

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  The carriage bounced along the dirt road as it rolled toward the outer gate. The driver was a stocky, older man whose smile hadn’t faltered once since the knight climbed aboard. He certainly did not look like a man about to ride straight into the accursed waste.

  Through the iron bars, the knight felt the cursed miasma beckoning—clawing at the walls, clawing at him. The blue flame lanterns burned behind sigil-stained glass, holding the darkness at bay. On either side of the passage, mages knelt with clasped hands and bowed heads, muttering enchantments the knight could never decipher.

  “By the king’s orders, his royal search party,” the driver said.

  A guardsman looked them over. “Hardly a search party fit for a princess.”

  “This here’s the cursed knight,” the driver replied, “I’m to deliver him to the scar on Fel Wood Pass.”

  “Yes, of course, I didn’t recognize him,” the guardsman said. “It’s been years.”

  “Eight,” the knight replied, impatience seeping into his tone. He didn’t recognize the guardsman either.

  “Right. Open the gate!”

  The guardsman bowed, then stepped back.

  The mages rose, ceaseless in their chanting, and moved to the gate’s center. They knelt again, dragging their hands through the dirt, leaving behind sigils like those of the lanterns as they worked their way back to their respective posts. Then, in perfect unison, each mage placed a hand into a blue flame lantern and withdrew a piece of the fire as though cradling a wounded creature. Whispering into the flames, they slammed them into the earth in one sudden motion. Azure light raced through the sigils like burning serpents.

  The darkness outside recoiled and the gate groaned open.

  The driver wasted no time. He snapped the reins, urging the reluctant horses forward. The gate slammed behind them. As the light of the burning sigils flickered out, curses crept back up the wall and curled along the edge of the road. Daylight vanished, snuffed out by the eternal night. Darkness engulfed them like an insatiable beast.

  “It’s a short ride to the scar,” the driver said, keeping his smile as he guided the horses on.

  From the edge of his vision, among the twisted shadows, the knight spotted a figure. A tall silhouette in a wide robe. Flecks of pale light drifted from it, tracking them. As they passed, the form shifted. Its wide robe revealing itself to be large wings. Four of them, stretching up before the creature launched itself skyward and vanished into the swirling clouds.

  The knight brought his attention back to the road. Lantern after lantern flickered past, blue flames guiding them. Meager lights in a rotten world. The driver hummed a tune, still wearing his maddeningly serene smile.

  “You seem content to be riding through this wretched place,” the knight said.

  “Not content to be riding through —just content to be,” the driver replied.

  “A philosopher, then?” the knight asked.

  The driver laughed, “Hardly. Especially if you’re asking the missus. No, I figure there’s enough darkness in the world. I’m lucky to have a safe place to live out my days.”

  “Indeed,” the knight said. “What was that tune? I don’t recall it, though it’s possible I’ve forgotten.”

  “Oh, it’s a poem I’ve given a melody. I sing it to my little ones. Care for a listen?”

  “If we have the time.”

  “We have,” the driver said, and began to sing:

  Endless, the dark, for dead is the sun.

  So, summon the strength to fight or to run.

  Danger abounds; it lurks in the night.

  So if you can’t run, then brave you must fight.

  Swift be the feet and strong be the breath

  For all those who run from a most certain death.

  But if we must fight, then fight by my side.

  And leave not an inch for this evil to hide.

  “And your children enjoy this?” the knight asked.

  The driver let out a boisterous laugh and replied, “That they do. The missus? Not so much. She says it’s too dark. But to me, it’s about hope. Which is all we’ve got, really.”

  “I can attest to that,” the knight said.

  They rode in silence for a time—the driver humming, the knight watching the cursed land slither beyond the road. Twice, the winged figure dipped below the cover of cloud —each time a different size. He couldn’t say for certain how large it really was, but it appeared to be stalking him. His hand fell instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

  The carriage rolled to a stop. The knight straightened.

  Before them, the pass ended abruptly. The cursed land had swallowed the road. Several lanterns on either side were missing. Four mages knelt: two coaxing new lanterns to life, the other two holding the scar’s corruption at bay. Far beyond them, through the darkness and across the scar, more mages toiled in the same grim fashion.

  “This is it,” the driver said.

  The knight stepped down, sword at his hip, shield in hand. “Thank you, kindly philosopher,” he said with a smile. “And may your journey home be a boring one.”

  “I’d wish the same for you,” the driver said, “but I doubt boring is easy to find among so many curses.”

  The knight bowed, then turned to face the edge of the road. With a heavy breath, he stepped into the blight-strangled world.

  “Oh! Good Sir Knight?” the driver called as he turned his carriage around.

  The knight looked back.

  “Leave not an inch!”

  The knight watched as the cloying dark swallowed the carriage whole. Those brief moments of joy he’d found rode with it. Back behind the walls, where such moments belong.

  There was no place for joy here.