Part 1/2

A/N: Chapters 5 and 6 will be split into two parts.

The sickly grey sky hung like a tattered veil over the vast realm, shrouding the vibrant green embers of the sun that flickered and danced behind its thick, gloomy layers. Wisps of dark clouds lazily drifted across the horizon, casting fleeting shadows upon the landscape below, where the colours of life seemed to dwindle in the absence of sunlight. Something within him began to stir the more he looked at the sky, almost as if the sky had been wounded deeply, especially with the discoloration of the sun.

He recalled the sun bathing the realm in golden light, where life thrived and the rivers ran free. Now, before him, for the past hour, he witnessed nothing but a wasteland where the same piles, thick stench of iron, charred remains, and smoke coaxed the air, choking the sky of precious air. 

The trees, once vibrant and lush, now stood as skeletal remains, stripped of their leaves and cloaked in a sallow brown, their gnarled branches reaching out like crooked fingers in a silent plea for life from the gods. The grass, once a vibrant carpet of green underfoot, had surrendered to the dull, lifeless tones of gray, trampled and wilted, a forgotten remnant of a world that had once basked in the sun's warmth. In this barren realm, hope flickered weakly, lost amidst the swirling gloom, replaced by a heavy yearning for the beauty that had been, now only a distant memory tinged with longing and sorrow.

The wooden wheels of the cart creak through the barren village of Silverstone while the sickly green sun begins to set behind the rolling hills. Before them, a dozen small, dilapidated houses were scattered across the barren landscape, their once-vibrant roofs now faded and their wood weathered. The foundations, a blend of crumbling stone and splintered wood, were barely holding up the fragile structures. Weeds crept through the cracks between the stones, reclaiming the earth while the remnants of once-thriving crops rotted around the village. Passing over a stone-like bridge that curved over the passing river, Lysandre's celestial gaze flickers to the large wheel of a mill rotating in the water with each passing second. Pulling his hood up, he kept his head low, refusing to attract unwanted attention.

A church stood at the heart of the village with a bell tower that remained lifeless. Bodies litter the street; their forms webbed in the same infectious wounds as he saw on the monk, reminding him of the plague sweeping across the land, doing death's bidding. The air reeked with a familiar stench of death and sickness, causing Nash to pull the loose fabric of her cloak over her nose. Smoke hung in the air and wisped over chimneys into the sky. Distant mournful wails of those who lost their loved ones, their cries echoing in the background as they venture further into the village. A few survivors wander aimlessly, their eyes sunken in, reminding Lysandre how fragile mortals are and how deadly the pestilence's wrath is. Others lie motionless, too far gone to even stir. The once-thriving village of Silverstone had been reduced to nothing but a hellish nightmare, reminding Lysandre of how much the realm crumbled within a year. He couldn't imagine what the realm would look like in the next five.

"Merlin's beard. . ." Nash mumbles, her tone laced with shock.

Lysandre's gaze snaps to one of the corpses, half-buried in the muddy ground, an ugly gash running from his shoulder down to his hip, the dark, wet earth below mixing sharply with the glistening crimson. Flies buzz incessantly, a dark cloud swirling around the lifeless figure, their erratic movements a bitter reminder of how cruel death can be. His brows furrow in concern, and with a swift motion, he leaps off the cart, feeling the cold, sticky mud cling to his leather boots as he lands with a splash.

"Ey, where are you going?!" Nash exclaims, turning her head back.

"My attention is required elsewhere! I'll seek you out later." He waves his hand dismissively, kneeling down next to the body, caring less about the mud on his boots

Tilting his head slightly, his gaze glides from the laceration to the corpse's expression, eyes wide and full of pain. Something didn't sit right with Lysandre, the way the cut sank deep into his flesh, where bone poked out. Each layer of skin ripped apart cleanly, splitting the flesh from its tapestry. He knew it was too clean for a mere mortal blade to make, leaving the matter in question.

Closing his eyes, he hovers his hand over the temple, swaying back and forth as he searches for answers in the dark. He feels the green threads dance beneath his fingertips as he searches deeper. Suddenly, the threads tug at his consciousness, and a blinding light through his eyelids sends his soul spiralling forward.

As consciousness seizes control of the beholder's mind, his vision remains blurry and disoriented. Standing in the same spot in the village, jarring screams echo all around as chaos blooms. The ground beneath the man's feet shakes as thunderous hooves pound against the dirt below. The haunting wails of a horse pierce the heart of the night, reverberating through the cool, crisp air. Swiftly, a gleaming blade slices through the atmosphere, glinting briefly like a shooting star before disappearing into the shadows. With his heart hammering in his ears, he felt the hot, searing pain slice his chest, each throb echoing like a warning bell. The agony spread like wildfire, flames licking at his skin, dragging him from the depths of memory and thrusting him back into harsh reality. He shot his eyes open, the brightness blinding as he gasped for air, attempting to regain his composure. Glancing down at his chest, where his hand now lingered.

It all felt too real: fear, pain, helplessness—everything he had lost long ago—were experienced in one's final moments. Even for a few seconds, feeling such raw emotions in a mortal body reminded him of his last moments of life. The fear that choked him from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat at the thought of his kin paying the price for his crimes. The pain threatened to consume him, with the flames licking at his skin as he grew tired and weak. The helplessness that seeped through his veins at the thought that he couldn't do a damn thing. And at the top of everything, one thing stood out to him.

No one believed in his innocence.

Sucking in another greedy breath, he rose from his crouched position, feeling a pair of eyes burning holes into the side of his head. A flicker of movement danced in his peripheral vision.

His gaze snaps sideways, narrowing his focus, but the shadowy figure he had glimpsed was gone from the corner of the home, leaving behind an unsettling feeling that someone or something was watching him.

Exhaling slowly, he turned his heel and slammed the doors on his thoughts. He knew that some things were better left buried than explored, yet an unsettling thought lingered in the back of his mind, gnawing at his curiosity.

It wasn't merely the sickness that siphoned the villagers' souls; something far more nefarious lurked in the shadows. Cold fingers pierced through the fog of his thoughts, twisting and writhing like serpents. A low grunt slipped from his lips as he suddenly froze, his eyelids clamped shut in a desperate bid to block out the turmoil. His heart thudded in his ears, a relentless war drum reverberating as if he were submerged in an ocean of dread. Shadows danced around him, whispering secrets of despair, prompting his trembling hand to rise and grasp the side of his skull as if trying to hold his sanity in place.

"Lysandre. . ." A voice echoes through his mind painfully.

He sucked in a sharp, painful gasp, feeling icy fingers constrict around his parched lungs. The pressure urged him to fold over slowly, his body responding to the silent command as dread seeped into his bones. Gripping his skull tightly, fighting to stay grounded, his gut started to twist tightly as ink slid from the inner part of his nostril, trickling down his cupid's bow.

"Your crime is intolerable, pathetic." A piercing laugh echoes through his head, causing his ears to ring.

"Get. . ." he sucks in a sharp breath, "out. . ." recoiling his spine as his mind fought to stay in control. His heart thudded loudly in his ears, each beat echoing like a war drum, while waves of anxiety coiled in his mind, tightening like a vice and sending sharp pangs of discomfort through him.

"Lysandre?"

As if the war inside his head died down, he peeled open his heavy eyelids; his gaze collided with the Nash standing before him. Her brow furrowed, her mouth slightly agape, a flicker of worry dancing in her eyes as she studied him closely. Through his stoic composure, which she had observed throughout this entire trip, she believed he lacked the fundamental emotions present in every being. However, the pain in his eyes suggested otherwise.

"Are you okay?" Nash questions, cocking a brow as she folds her arms across her chest.

"It's nothing," Lysandre replies dismissively, running the back of his hand over the ink of his blood, smearing it on his pale skin before running his gloved hand over it again.

Nash narrows her gaze, staring at him quietly before shrugging off his comment.

"Well, now that you're done sulking," Nash retorts, pointing her thumb over her shoulder.

"I put away the horses, the cart. We're settled at the tavern if you care to join," she explains, watching Lysandre regain his composure.

"I suppose I could spare a moment," he admits, feeling his tongue scraping against the roof of his mouth, a parched sensation that gnawed at him. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his taste buds lay dormant, forgotten. Memories of the last drink or bite slipped through his mind like sand through his fingers, something foreign to him within the last year.

Lysanre trailed a few steps behind, his jaded gaze darting around the dimly lit streets, absorbing the forsaken scene around him. As she walked ahead, the wooden clatter of the tavern sign above and the distant chatter of patrons filled the air. Shadows flickered in the corners of his vision, and a chill crept down his spine as he struggled to shake off the feeling of being watched.

He stared blankly into the distance, shadows of troubling memories swirling in his mind. A chill crept down his spine as he questioned his sanity, the edges of his reality growing dim. He wondered if something truly had been tormenting him earlier, or if it was just his own thoughts. Yet, an unsettling sensation simmered beneath the surface, as if something sinister was lurking just out of sight.

His gaze flicked to the side, landing on a piece of yellowed, worn paper nailed into the post beside the door. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the detailed sketch of his face, a headline in bold reading 'wanted dead or alive' emblazoned above. Letting his shoulders fall, hot irritation slid through his veins, evident in the tension of his thin lips as he extended a gloved hand forward and swiftly snatched the paper from the wall and shoved it into his pocket next to the scroll. He barely registered the substantial bounty on his head, more absorbed in the enigmatic mystery of who might have seen him, aside from Nash and those bandits on the road.

Could there have been someone he had overlooked?

Just when he thought he had managed to erase the stains of his past deeds, the weight of his recklessness settled in—he would need to be more careful from here on out if he wanted to clear his name.

As he steps in front of the tavern, he gazes upward at the old, creaking sign that sways softly in the breeze. Its faded paint on the letters gave him a hint of countless storms that had been in the mix. A turtle, worn by the elements, clings to the weathered wood of the sign, its features dulled and faded.

"The Tipsy Turtle," he murmurs, his eyes skimming along the faded words.

Pulling his hood forward, he stepped into the tavern, the heavy scent of aged wood and lingering spirits enveloping him like a familiar embrace as he followed closely behind Nash. The flickering candlelight danced and shimmered, casting delicate shadows that played along the rough-hewn beams overhead while the old floorboards beneath his boots groaned softly with each deliberate step. The air was thick with an intoxicating blend of stale liquor and the mouthwatering aroma of freshly cooked meals, inviting and repulsive all at once.

Scattered throughout the dimly lit room, tables bore witness to a handful of patrons, a few souls nursing their drinks, lost in thought, while whispers wove into the tavern's tapestry of sounds. In the far corner, an old wooden counter stood, its surface polished by years of service, whilst the wall behind it groaned under the weight of countless bottles and kegs, each holding its own story of nights well spent and its tales whispered amongst the tavern. Soft melodic tunes floated gently through the air, with the soothing notes of a lute, the tender strains of a fiddle, and the delicate whispers of a flute intertwining harmoniously.

Lysandre kept his head low, avoiding the gaze of anyone who might bring unwanted attention to him. He knew every kind of soul crept through there eventually, including the ones who lie, cheat, steal, and slaughter.

His steps come to a halt in front of a worn table, its wooden surface scarred by years of use. With a faint creak, he drags a wooden chair away from the table, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. Finally settling into the chair, Lysandre's gaze flickers to Nash sitting across from him. He watches her pull a coin pouch from her belt before standing again.

"Fancy anything?" she questions, throwing her thumb over her shoulder to the bar.

"Dragon's tear," he replies, leaning his elbows gently onto the table, recalling the special drink.

With a nod, he watches Nash hurry off to the bar, leaving him in silence. He knew that when she came back, she would want to hear his proposition and understand his motives for saving the realm from impending darkness, even though it was on the brink of collapse. Cursing quietly under his breath, he knew it was an awful idea to claim to be Magniadas's Champion, knowing he could never live up to the standards with bloody accusations staining his name. He knew that at some point, he would have to come clean with Nash, although he wasn't ready to open up about his resurrection and the accusations, realizing it could lead to harsher consequences.

All he wanted was to solve the mystery leading up to his death and reclaim his honour for his name and all of his kin, all those who suffered under his name.

As he slowly closed the doors to his thoughts, his gaze flickered from the face of the table to a man sitting quietly in a lonely corner of the room. His tricorn hat cast shadows over his face, while a dark scarf covered his nose and the lower part of his face. His steely gaze locks with Lysandre's, almost as if he sees right through him, giving him an uneasy feeling that churns in his gut. Glancing away, the man held a white cloth, polishing a silver pistol that glimmered under the dim candlelight.

Something about the weapon stood as a foreboding warning, shrouded in a deadly veil of mystery.

As for the next bullet would be waiting for him.

Word count: 2609