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  Victor stayed by the well far longer than any mortal should. When he pulled Helena’s body from the well, her skin already carried the stillness of death—yet he held her as though warmth might return if he wished hard enough. Days passed. Then weeks. Eventually, all that remained in his arms was bone wrapped in disintegrating cloth. And yet he stayed, kneeling in the dark cavern like a ruined statue, unable to let go.

  The voice in the well—cold, ancient, patient—never spoke again.

  When at last Victor rose, something inside him had already died, and something else—older, crawling—had taken its place.

  The walk back to Aurum was slow, a sleepwalker’s drift. When he entered the throne hall, King Leroy did not recognize the figure approaching him: hair loose, clothes torn, eyes hollow as winter.

  “Victor?” the King whispered, rising. “Where is—”

  The insects answered for him.

  They poured from Victor’s sleeves, from his collar, from between his teeth—centipedes, beetles, tiny winged things that moved like a single dark tide. They swarmed over the King before he could scream. Leroy collapsed while clawing at his own face, his voice muffled beneath the clicking, writhing mass.

  The maid who saw it ran from the hall shrieking.

  By the time help arrived, nothing remained of the King but bones shining in the torchlight.

  And Victor—no, Barang, as the hushed rumors soon called him—was gone.

  He walked without direction, a pilgrim of ruin.

  He tried to die. Oh, how he tried.

  He leapt from cliffs so tall the wind screamed around him.

  He let wolves tear into his flesh, let their claws rake bone.

  He stood in burning brush and watched flames lick his skin.

  None of it held.

  None of it stayed.

  Every dawn he woke beside the dead that had tried to kill him.

  Barang wandered north, farther and farther, until night skies unfamiliar to him stretched wide. When the stars were bright enough, he imagined Helena among them—laughing, cradling the child they had once dreamed of. At times he would see them clearly, like silhouettes dancing on hilltops, until the dream shattered and left him more hollow than before.

  Occasionally he screamed into the void, begging the voice in the well to answer.

  It never did.

  Months later he stumbled into a northern city whose sigil—a snarling tiger head on a black shield—hung from every archway. It was peaceful. Children laughed in the streets. Vendors called out prices. For a moment, Barang felt as though he had stepped into a painting of a life he was never meant to have.

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  But peace is fragile.

  One afternoon in the market, a group of armored guards encircled a woman clutching fruit and stale bread—nothing more. When she refused to hand it over, a lance struck her ribs. A boot slammed into her stomach. Another hit her temple. Barang stepped forward, offering to pay, but a guard shoved him back and pressed a lance to his throat.

  He watched as they kicked the woman one last time—so hard her arms went limp, fruit bouncing across the dust.

  Something inside him broke.

  The guards had turned away when Barang reached her body. She was limp. Warm, but empty.

  A sound escaped his throat—not a scream, not a sob, but something cracked and feral.

  He moved.

  The dagger in his hand slit the first guard’s neck before the man could draw breath. Blood sprayed. A lance stabbed into Barang’s shoulder, but he pushed himself deeper onto the blade, grabbed the guard by the collar, and exhaled.

  Centipedes poured from his mouth.

  They streamed down the guard’s face, burrowed into his eyes, crawled beneath his armor. The man convulsed, choking on his own pleas, while the crowd watched in silent terror.

  More guards arrived. They stabbed him—swords, lances, daggers—but nothing slowed him. With every body he touched, insects swarmed, devouring flesh like a living curse.

  Then only one figure remained.

  He wore the same armor as the guards, but everything else about him was wrong: slender frame, stone-gray skin, ears long and sharp, a broken horn curving from his forehead. He grinned as though amused by the carnage.

  He carried a short, sickle-shaped blade—a karit—and moved with predatory lightness.

  Barang attacked first. Steel clashed. Sparks spat. The elf twisted away with acrobatic grace, landing on the balls of his feet as if dancing.

  “What are you?” Barang snarled.

  “I am a nobody,” the figure replied with an irritating grin.

  They collided again—karit against dagger, breath against breath. Barang feinted low, attempting to sweep the elf’s legs, but his opponent leapt back, once, twice, thrice, impossibly nimble.

  Barang threw his dagger. The elf deflected it—

  —but Barang was already there, inches from his chest.

  Steel kissed flesh. A thin line of blood trailed down the elf’s neck as the karit pressed to Barang’s throat.

  Both froze.

  The elf’s voice softened—not kinder, but older. “I am Mundi. An elf.”

  Barang said nothing, reading him with the slow vigilance of a predator.

  Mundi leaned in, sniffing the air, expression curling. “I can smell you. Rot and sorrow. Disgusting.” Then, as if bored with the insult: “I’ve been there. Purpose hollowed out. Life without meaning.”

  He lowered the karit a little.

  “Until one day I decided: to hell with it all.”

  Barang’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

  “A chance,” Mundi said, grin fading into something colder. “To give you purpose. Something to chase. Something to fear you back.”

  Barang hesitated—then nodded once. “Speak.”

  Mundi lifted his chin, eyes alight with the spark of old, dangerous knowledge.

  “There is a kingdom called Irin—my home. They wield the Will of the Phoenix. A power that can revive any being. A power only a dragon can rival. One day, the Reborn will rise. And you…”

  His grin returned, sharper.

  “You may claim it. Or be devoured by it. Only druid blood has the right to challenge the dragon.”

  Barang scoffed. “Nonsense.”

  Mundi leaned close, whispering like a serpent curling around a candle flame.

  “It’s real. And I want them to feel horror. The kind you carry. The kind you spread.”

  He tapped Barang’s chest, right where the heart should be.

  “Walk with me, Barang. I can show you how to make the world suffer.”