Chapter 11 — The Price of Power

  When the demon’s heart was torn from its chest and devoured by Drake with greedy hunger, the battlefield seemed to freeze for a single moment—even the wind died, and the women’s screams cut off as though someone had slit their throats.

  In that same instant the curse fell from them.

  Their bodies stopped lunging at the soldiers. Knives and cws dropped from limp hands. Several women simply colpsed to their knees in the mud, covering their faces with trembling palms, shaking from head to foot.

  But their cries did not cease.

  Now they were different—human, living, raw.

  The women wept, sobbed, and cursed the soldiers standing around them with still-warm, blood-slick bdes.

  “Murderers!”

  “You killed them!”

  “Why?! Why?!”

  Some soldiers kept swinging by inertia—the killer’s instinct did not switch off instantly.

  One of them swung with a shout and severed the head of a woman who had only just come to her senses and was trying to crawl away, clutching at the grass with shaking fingers.

  Only a second ter did he realize what he had done.

  The sword fell from his hands.

  He stared at the body, at the blood, at the severed head lying in the grass with an expression of horror frozen on its face—eyes wide open, mouth locked in a silent scream.

  “N-no…” he rasped.

  His knees buckled.

  He colpsed to the ground and screamed—not like a man, but like a child, raw and throat-tearing.

  Kane stood in the middle of the field and silently surveyed the sughter.

  Of his hundred men, barely twenty remained on their feet.

  The rest y around him.

  Some dead—with entrails ripped out, limbs torn off, faces frozen in agony.

  Some still breathed, but not for long—gasping, coughing blood, trying to crawl, leaving red trails behind them.

  Kane exhaled heavily.

  The squad would need replenishing.

  In the nearest city, Kalin’s prisons should be overflowing by now—there would always be a dozen or two sturdy bastards willing to sell their souls for a bowl of gruel and a chance not to rot in chains.

  If lucky, he could get six dozen.

  Lohan would train them in two weeks—teach them to hold a sword, not fear blood, and die prettily.

  The first battle…

  And half of them would die anyway—torn apart, burned alive, beheaded.

  Kane froze for a second.

  Since when had people become mere expendable material to him?

  When had that happened?

  When had he started thinking of them as meat for war—as firewood for the fire, burning fast and leaving no trace?

  The thought was cut off by a shout.

  “KANE! TROUBLE!”

  Lohan was running toward him full tilt—face pale, eyes wide.

  “Quick! To Drake!”

  Kane broke into a run.

  What he saw made him stop dead.

  Drake’s body was arching in convulsions.

  His bones snapped under the skin—with a sickening, wet crunch, as though dry branches were breaking inside living flesh. Muscles writhed like living snakes, bulging the skin to tearing, then contracting again, leaving bck bruises and welts.

  The boy’s skin darkened—turned gray-bck, covered in swollen sores and pulsing veins, as though some parasitic darkness was growing inside him.

  He was suffocating.

  Gasping.

  As though his body was trying to tear itself apart from within—bones protruding, ripping muscle, skin splitting, oozing bck blood.

  Corin stood beside him.

  Sword in hand.

  His hand trembled.

  That was unlike Corin—he never hesitated.

  “We need to end his suffering…” he said quietly, voice hoarse.

  He took a step forward.

  “STAND DOWN!”

  Kane’s voice thundered like a strike.

  Corin froze.

  Kane stared at the boy’s torment.

  And suddenly something long buried rose inside him.

  Conscience.

  It felt filthy.

  Dirty.

  As though he himself had swallowed a piece of that same darkness.

  “He can’t die like this…” Kane said quietly.

  “Not after everything he’s been through.”

  The soldiers around began to mutter—first whispers, then louder.

  “He ate that demon!”

  “He’s not human anymore!”

  “KILL HIM!”

  Kane spun around.

  His eyes bzed with fury—the old, bestial kind.

  “SHUT YOUR MOUTHS!”

  Silence smmed across the field like a sp.

  “Since when do you filthy scum get to decide anything here?!”

  The soldiers fell silent.

  They all knew—Kane did not consider them people.

  To him they were tools.

  And if necessary, he really could kill them all.

  Very quickly.

  Very painfully.

  Kane slowly shifted his gaze to Lohan.

  “Lohan.”

  “Take these bastards.”

  “Get the surviving women to Kazbur.”

  He paused—heavy, like a hammer blow.

  “And talk to Kalin about reinforcements.”

  He had already turned to go, but stopped.

  And added quietly.

  Very quietly.

  “Fuck… may the Almighty forbid any of you touches even one of those women.”

  He looked at the soldiers.

  And they remembered.

  The torture pits.

  The screams.

  How Kane punished—slowly, methodically, with cold fury.

  “His death will be very long.”

  And agonizing.

  Every eye immediately dropped.

  The desire to “let off steam” vanished instantly.

  Fear proved stronger than lust.

  Kane approached Drake.

  Despite the grotesque state of the boy, he carefully lifted him in his arms—like a child.

  Drake was burning hot.

  As though his body was on fire from within with bck fme.

  Kane carried him to the horse.

  Lohan stood motionless.

  A heaviness grew in his chest—heavy as stone.

  He had grown used to this boy.

  To his named brother.

  But duty pulled him the other way.

  He had to carry out the order.

  Corin walked up and quietly cpped him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry.”

  Lohan didn’t answer.

  “This boy is destined for a special path.”

  Corin looked toward Kane’s retreating figure.

  “Our story with him is ending.”

  Lohan stared after them in silence.

  Kane was already galloping down the road, holding Drake on the saddle.

  Memories flooded his mind.

  The first real battle.

  The first sparring where Drake beat him.

  That was when Lohan first truly felt proud of him.

  The first time he brought him a girl from a vilge and ughed at his red face.

  The first time Drake saved him…

  Catching an arrow with his hand.

  Lohan shook his head sharply.

  “Yeah…”

  He exhaled heavily.

  “I think a great future awaits him.”

  He looked at the road—where the rider had already vanished.

  “I hope he doesn’t forget old friends.”

  With those words a little calm returned to his soul.

  But a little more darkness settled in his young heart.

  Meanwhile Kane galloped toward the forest.

  That very forest.

  Where no sane person would ever go.

  The trees there were bck—as though charred from within, bark cracked, bck ichor oozing from the fissures like blood.

  The air grew colder with every step—breath came out in white plumes, horse foam froze on its muzzle.

  The horse snorted nervously, eyes rolling in terror.

  But Kane did not stop.

  The darkness thickened around him.

  Vision narrowed.

  As though the forest itself was watching him—with thousands of invisible eyes.

  Kane reined in on a small clearing.

  The grass here was bck and wet—as though soaked in blood.

  He slowly raised his head.

  “It’s me… Kane.”

  Silence.

  Then he said louder.

  “Great Witch!”

  He pressed Drake tighter to himself.

  The boy’s body arched again in convulsions—bones cracking, skin tearing, bck blood oozing from wounds.

  “Please…”

  For the first time in many years Kane spoke that word.

  “Help this boy.”

  He lowered his head.

  “As you once helped me.”

  And the forest…

  Answered.

  The darkness between the trees began to move—slowly, fluidly, alive.

  From it stepped a figure.

  Tall.

  Gaunt.

  In a bck cloak woven from shadows.

  Face hidden under the hood—only eyes visible: two white embers in bottomless emptiness.

  The Witch.