Sir Gareth gently pulled on the reins of his horse, Ladybell, to halt her trot. His golden chain mail rattled as he dismounted. Before him spread the tiny village of Meadowtint, and already he sensed a worsening of the blight since his last visit. Nearly every home was in a state of neglect. Curtains frayed. Doors hung from uneven hinges. When the people approached, they had an emaciated look to their flesh and bones.

  “Gareth!” a young man shouted, the first to notice his arrival. Gareth came to Meadowtint rarely, for it was several hours’ ride from his home in Greenborough. He was certain he’d met the boy before but could not recall his name for a proper response.

  “Hello there,” Gareth said. “I pray matters have not worsened since I received Baron Hulh’s letter?”

  The boy’s already pale skin whitened further. Gareth pretended not to notice the black on his tongue when he spoke.

  “They have, sir. The demon returned in the time it took you to arrive.”

  Gareth’s hand fell to the sword belted to his waist. “Any casualties?”

  The boy winced. “Yes.”

  Gareth hid his worries. They needed confidence, and sympathy. He put a hand on the adolescent’s shoulder as more people of Meadowtint approached.

  “Do not fear,” he said. “Even in the outermost reaches of the world, Vaan watches over us and grants us his blessing.”

  “I’ll stable Ladybell for you,” a young girl said, rushing up to him. Gareth smiled at her.

  “That’s very kind of you,” he said, offering her the reins. “If you have any snacks for her, she would much appreciate them. Just don’t spoil her.”

  The girl, a freckled little thing maybe ten years old, beamed at him.

  “Of course, sir,” she said. No black on her tongue, full color in her irises. Gareth prayed the youth might be spared.

  Ladybell taken care of, Gareth scanned the crowd.

  “Where is Elder Malek?”

  “I am here, still kicking by the grace of Vaan,” a bearded man said, pushing through the crowd. His yellow shirt and brown trousers hung from his bony limbs. “Come with me, Sir Gareth. I would show you the bodies.”

  They went first to a ramshackle home at the edge of town, just shy of the beautiful flowing field of wheat. Gareth stepped inside and winced as the floorboards groaned from the weight of his armor. Dust covered every surface. It felt like no one had been taking care of the interior for weeks, if not months.

  The body lay on the floor of the kitchen. It was an older man, his face mutilated beyond recognition. A dozen flies buzzed about, swarming his exposed skin and open mouth. Gareth’s stomach sank at the sight.

  “How did he die?” he asked, careful to keep his voice calm.

  “A monster beat him to death with a stone,” Malek said. He pointed. “Body’s still there. We were afraid to touch it.”

  Gareth picked up the stone, the rusty color of the dried blood a stark contrast to the graying floorboards. He tried to imagine the brutality, or perhaps desperation, that would cause a man to murder another with such a crude, simple tool.

  “Poor Iver had done nothing wrong,” Malek said. “Just living his life when that demon climbed in through the window and murdered him.”

  Gareth scanned the room, and he noted that nearly all the drawers and shelves were open and their insides disordered.

  “He was looking for something,” Gareth thought aloud. “But what, I wonder?”

  Malek scratched his leathery cheek. Unlike most everyone in Meadowtint, he still had sunbaked-tan skin.

  “Didn’t think to check,” he said. “The stories I heard as a child, they said demons are a resourceful lot and steal without hesitation. But what did he think poor Iver would have worth taking?”

  Gareth dropped the rock to the floorboards.

  “If I were to guess, a weapon,” he said, and gestured to the body. “We’ll dig a grave for him and pray for Vaan’s blessing. Were there any other casualties?”

  The mixture of anger and sorrow in Malek’s dull brown eyes told Gareth the answer before the man even spoke.

  “Two more,” he said, and gestured for him to follow. He talked as they exited and curled around the side of the home.

  “Happened late yesterday. One of our own, Julie’s her name, spotted the demon as he was climbing out Iver’s window and called out a warning to the village. We readied our weapons and hurried to defend our homes, but…but some of the youngsters, they didn’t listen. They didn’t wait until we were all gathered.”

  Gareth slowed to a halt upon arriving at the scene. This was worse somehow, the blood upon the ground more vibrant and plentiful beneath the gaze of the two suns. A pair of bodies lay side by side, together in death.

  “Clara and Gerard Carpenter,” Malek said. “Iver’s son and his wife. They had a kid of their own, too, a kind lad named Matthew. I’ve taken him into my home, for now.”

  Gareth knelt to examine the bodies. No blunt trauma here. Instead, their corpses sported clear signs of being slashed and stabbed. Clara’s forehead was cracked open, a slit across her brow. Her eyes were open, and they stared lifelessly at the blue sky. A fly buzzed around her mouth and then settled upon the black iris. Gareth shooed it away.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “The demon armed himself,” he said, turning his attention to her husband, Gerard. “A knife, perhaps?”

  “A sickle,” Malek explained. “He wielded it when we killed him the second time.”

  Gareth clenched his jaw shut to prevent saying things he might regret. He had never fought a demon before, but during his instruction into knighthood, he had learned about them from his master, Lord Frey. Demons were often weak and feeble when they were first born, but their supposed immortality meant that they had the ability to become unstoppable monsters. They needed to be murdered quickly, and consistently, until their will was broken and their desire to walk the lands of Yensere extinguished like a candle in a storm.

  For this demon to die so easily on the first day, and yet murder three villagers on the second, was a horrifying development with foreboding consequences.

  “It’s been a long ride,” he said, standing and stretching. The motion pushed the lowest ridge of his shield, strapped to his back, uncomfortably against his spine. “Might we rest a moment at your house?”

  “Of course,” Malek said, and guided him there. It was the largest home in the village and was well kept, unlike many of the others, its curtains washed and its floor cleanly swept. A young kid sat at the kitchen table, a sheet of thick yellow paper in front of him. Matthew, Gareth assumed. The boy held a stick of charcoal, his fingers stained from using it to write.

  “Go on and play for a bit outside,” Malek said. “We adults need to talk.”

  Matthew politely nodded and hurried outside, though not before staring up at Gareth with big, teary eyes. Gareth’s heart squeezed in his chest. He couldn’t imagine the nightmares that boy would face knowing how his parents met their end. But there were still more pressing matters than a demon in their midst.

  “I would hear of Meadowtint.” Gareth’s voice lowered. “How fares the blight?”

  Malek rested his elbows on the table, clasped his hands as if in prayer, and then pressed his forehead against his fists. He stared at the table, peering into nowhere.

  “I try,” he said softly. “I do, sir, I do, but it’s like pissing into the wind. I’d say half the village has it bad, and the other half, they’re just waiting their turn. I help feed the worst cases, but it all feels pointless. They seem so…hollow. So lost and gone. The people I knew, my friends, my loved ones…they aren’t in there anymore. They’ve been replaced by slow, sluggish, forgetful impostors. It makes it so hard to trust in Vaan’s light to save us.”

  Each word was a burning coal heaped atop Gareth’s head. When Gareth achieved knighthood, Lord Frey Astarda had assigned him to work alongside Baron Hulh to govern and protect Greenborough and her surrounding villages. These were his people to care for, yet he came to the far west reaches of Vestor so rarely. Here they were, suffering, needing a glimmer of hope, and yet it took a demon’s murders to bring Gareth riding.

  “Do not despair,” he said, putting his hand atop Malek’s clenched fists. “The god who conquered time can conquer all of Yensere’s trials, if only we keep our faith in him.”

  Malek lowered his fists. He was crying, albeit silently, maintaining control, with just the twin trails of tears down his cheeks to betray him.

  “You’re a good man, Gareth.”

  “Careful now, elder. It’s a sin against Vaan to tell lies.”

  Their laughter was broken by a sudden, piercing scream. A single word, but enough to startle Gareth to his feet and drop his hand for his sword.

  “Demon!”

  He sprinted out the door, his long white cloak billowing behind him. Villagers rushed to their homes for weapons, and he dashed past them, his legs churning. Every second mattered. The scream came from the western edge of the village, the demon having once again emerged from the field of wheat. As Gareth neared, he slowed, the sight shocking in its brutality.

  What appeared to be a young man with short brown hair stood before a rocking chair underneath an awning. He wore clothes similar to those of Meadowtint’s villagers, only his shirt was startlingly white, or at least the parts of it that weren’t stained with blood were. He carried a sickle, and its edge was wet from murdering the woman in the rocking chair.

  Fury burned hot in Gareth’s chest. Julie. The demon had sought out and murdered Julie as retribution for spotting him after last night’s murders. The vindictiveness of it added an edge to Gareth’s voice as he addressed the demon. He hadn’t just killed her. He’d hacked her head clean off her shoulders.

  “Murderer of another realm,” Gareth said, drawing his sword and pointing it. He kept his shield in reserve, feeling no need for it. “I am Sir Gareth Anoc, knight of Greenborough. Hear my name, and look upon my face, for I will be the slayer of all your lives, from now until the dark sun sets.”

  The demon turned, his head tilting to one side. He looked so…normal, so like everyone else, but there was no denying the sense of wrongness that emanated from his presence. Just looking at him felt like jamming a tiny needle into the back of Gareth’s neck. He was separate from Yensere. Different. Obscene.

  “Nick,” said the demon. “Just Nick.”

  And then he charged straight at Gareth, despite wielding only a rusty sickle and lacking any armor compared to Gareth’s finely constructed chain mail. The confidence was unnerving, but Gareth refused to let it shake him. He planted his feet and let the demon close the distance.

  Nick lifted his sickle just before his arrival. A clumsy swing. Brutish. Simple. Gareth stepped into the attack, his sword sweeping upward. Upon striking the sickle, he easily smashed it harmlessly away. His shoulder, meanwhile, collided with the demon’s chest, bashing him several feet backward. The demon let out a cough, the wind knocked out of him.

  Gareth gave him no reprieve. He pulled his sword back and extended a gloved hand with the palm facing outward. He didn’t just need to kill the demon; he had to break his spirit. Words of prayer flashed through his mind, and he called upon the blessings of the god-king.

  “Be still, and know your fate,” he said as golden light flashed from his fingers. The light washed over Nick, burning into his skin. His movements slowed. His eyes widened. His every step was lethargic, time itself betraying him so that it moved at a snail’s pace. His sickle, swiping in mid-swing, was child’s play to dodge.

  Gareth pressed his sword to the demon’s neck. The magic would last only a few seconds, but it would be enough.

  “There is no hope here,” he told Nick. “Only death.”

  One press, and he rammed the sword straight through the demon’s throat. His intention was to bury it all the way up to the hilt, but he never had the chance. As the sword ripped open his windpipe and snapped the bones of his neck, his entire body turned translucent and then burst apart like vapor. Nothing remained of him in the aftermath.

  It was that strange disappearance, first witnessed after his death in the nearby Rattling Creek, that confirmed his status as a demon to the villagers and caused Elder Malek to write a letter to Baron Hulh pleading for aid. Gareth sheathed his weapon and looked to the rocking chair. No blood from the demon, not even a drop to wipe off his blade, but so much to clean from the murdered old woman.

  Murmurs behind him. The rest of the village, arriving. They were staring, confused, frightened, and upset. Another dead loved one, and after Gareth’s arrival. They might now doubt the safety he offered. He turned to them, and he let them stare into his blue eyes and see his resolve, his determination to save them from this nightmare.

  “Tonight, we dig graves for four souls,” he said. He lifted his left hand and summoned the magic of his god. Light shone from it, mastery of time at his command, as it was for all lords and knights sworn in service to the Alder Kingdom. Within that holy glow, he made his vow, one he would hold until the setting of the dark sun.

  “But I swear to you, tonight’s is the last grave you will dig. Let the demon come. Let him fight. Let him die, people of Meadowtint. Let him die, die, and die again until naught is left of his mind but dust and ruin, and you suffer his presence no longer.”