Kaelen did not think. Had he thought, he would have died.
When the hulking shadow of Gravekeeper Groth fell upon him, Kaelen's mind was blank, but his spinal cord had already made its decision. He threw his body to the side, into the wet heaps of corpses.
Immediately after, the rusted hook descended exactly where he had stood. CRACK.
Metal tore through bone and rotten flesh, embedding itself into the ground. A splash of black mud washed over Kaelen's face.
As Groth strained to wrench his hook free, Kaelen tried to stand. But Grief... that cursed sword was as heavy as a ship's anchor mired in a swamp. Kaelen gripped the hilt with both hands, straining to lift it as he ground his teeth. His biceps trembled, and the black veins in his neck bulged as if they might tear through his skin.
Hhh...
His breath was ragged. He could not swing this blade. He could only drag it.
Groth freed the hook and turned with a mechanical growl. The single peephole in his mask was locked onto Kaelen. The creature was in no hurry. Its victim was cornered, lacking even the strength to lift the massive steel in his hands.
The Keeper swung the sack of corpses in his left hand toward Kaelen.
Kaelen tried to shield himself with the sword, but he was too late. The bag—filled with shards of bone and metal—slammed into his chest.
The impact was like the descent of a sledgehammer.
Kaelen was sent flying backward. His back struck the metal wall behind him with a sickening thud. The air was driven from his lungs. The taste that filled his mouth was that familiar metallic aroma: Blood. Dark, thick blood trickled from his lips.
His ribs... they were not broken, but they ached. The bruise on his chest began to darken instantly. The wound did not bleed; it was petrifying. As his skin hardened into a grey crust, his nerve endings burned as if set ablaze.
The whisper in his mind crackled.
...run...
The voice was afraid.
Kaelen straightened himself against the wall. The tip of Grief was buried in the mud. His right eye was growing dark. His field of vision narrowed, focusing only on Groth's grey aura.
The entity in his mind felt his pain as its own. As the ache in Kaelen's chest intensified, that frail voice inside his head drew a trembling breath. It was as if they were sewn together by an invisible, inflamed network of nerves.
Groth approached again. This time, he swung the hook horizontally, intending to cleave Kaelen in two.
Kaelen recognized this movement. Deep within his mind, behind a locked door, a memory flickered. Horizontal swing. Center of gravity forward. Balance weak.
Reflexes were faster than muscular strength. Instead of trying to lift the sword, Kaelen cast his weight upon it and dropped to the ground. His legs had refused to carry him, but this weakness saved his life.
The hook whistled through the air just inches above his head. The wind stirred his hair, and the scent of rust filled his nostrils.
And in that moment, Groth was vulnerable.
Kaelen did not swing the sword. He lacked the power. Instead, he coiled his entire body like a spring and lunged forward, thrusting the tip of the blade into Groth's kneecap, toward that rusted metal joint.
It was not a sword stroke; it was a desperate spear thrust.
Grief's point pierced the rusted armor and the rotten flesh beneath. Metal scraped against metal. A hideous screech erupted.
But that was not what truly mattered.
The moment the blade touched flesh, Kaelen's right arm went numb. Grief shuddered like a parasite. The faint runes on the blade pulsed with a violet light for a single heartbeat. Kaelen felt a cold, murky fluid flowing from Groth toward him. It was not energy; it was a fragment of a decayed life. A foul influx that nauseated him, like drinking sewer water.
Groth bellowed. His knees buckled, and his massive frame collapsed toward Kaelen.
Kaelen let go of the sword and threw himself aside. Groth fell face-first into the mud. But it was not over. The creature still moved, clawing at the ground with his hook, trying to right himself.
Kaelen gripped the hilt of Grief once more. The sword was... slightly lighter now. As if that small sip from moments ago had taken a fraction of the metal's weight.
As Groth tried to turn, Kaelen dragged the sword and walked toward the creature's mask. His arms were still trembling, but this time not from fear—it was the alien adrenaline in his veins.
He raised the sword with both hands, like the blade of a guillotine. Gravity would handle the rest.
Hraaa!
Exhaling in a rasping grunt, he brought the sword down.
Grief descended upon Groth's neck, into the narrow gap of flesh between the mask and the torso armor. It did not cut. It crushed. The sound of bone snapping mingled with a wet explosion. Dark, thick blood sprayed out, washing over the runes on Grief.
It was then that the physical relief Kaelen expected did not come. The moment the steel met flesh, the world shattered.
Colors exploded. The grey ruins, the acidic rain, and the stench of rot vanished instantly. They were replaced by a sorrowful hill turned crimson by a setting sun, and the rustle of dry grass.
Breathless, Kaelen looked at his own hands. These were not his grey, dead hands. They were strong, human hands—calloused, sun-scorched, with dirt beneath the fingernails. He was holding a heavy shovel.
At the edge of a pit lay a small body wrapped in white linen. A young girl. Her face was peaceful, but pale as marble. The purple blotches encircling her neck... the plague.
Kaelen's—no, Groth's—chest tightened. He felt a void as if his heart had been ripped out.
Forgive me... The man's voice trembled. This was not the guttural monster's voice from before; it was the voice of a broken father. I could not protect you, Liora. The walls were not enough. The medicines were not enough.
The man drove the shovel into the earth. With every scoop of soil, a piece of his soul tore away. As the sun set, the shadows lengthened. The man knelt by the grave. He clawed at the dirt with his fingernails, as if he could pull her back out.
I will not leave, he whispered to the earth. Tears fell onto the parched soil. I will not leave you alone in that cold darkness. I will wait. I will wait until death reunites us.
Then, a shadow fell over him. A tall, robed figure that darkened even the sunset. Its face was invisible; there was only a dark void.
Do you wish to wait? said the voice. It was sweet as honey but poisonous. I can give you eternity, gravedigger. An eternity that never sleeps, never departs.
Groth did not raise his head. He did not take his eyes off that fresh mound. His soul was already dead; his body was a mere detail.
Give it to me, the man said to the void. Whatever it takes.
The shadow grew, swallowing the man, and...
THUMP.
Kaelen was thrown back with a scream that tore at his lungs.
When his back hit the wet mud, the warmth of the sunny hill was gone, replaced by the freezing chill of the sewers. But the fire within... it would not die.
NO!
He clutched his head, digging his fingers into his scalp. Groth's regret, that devastating longing for his daughter, and the weight of a watch that had lasted for eternity poured into Kaelen's mind like pitch.
This was not a victory. Kaelen had not killed a monster; he had liberated a grieving father who stood guard over his daughter's grave.
His stomach churned. He was racked by dry heaves. As tears streamed from his eyes, he looked at the thing he had just killed. That massive heap of flesh no longer looked terrifying. It only looked... tired.
Kaelen was shaking. He was on the verge of madness. His mind was breaking under the weight of a mourning that did not belong to him. He had no memory of his own, but now he possessed someone else's worst nightmare.
Just as he was being pulled into that dark whirlpool, the voice came.
...Kaelen...
The whisper was not fearful this time. It pushed through the chaos in his mind, not with a mother's tenderness, but with the harshness of a survivalist.
...That is not you. He is gone. You are here. Breathe.
Kaelen drew a deep breath as if he were drowning. The rusted air filling his lungs pulled him back to reality.
...Get up. You saved him. His watch is over. You ended his pain. Now, get up.
The voice did not lighten the unbearable pressure in his mind, but it transformed it into a load that could be carried. His face covered in tears and mud, Kaelen rose unsteadily, leaning on the hilt of Grief for support.
His right eye was still darkening, but the sword... the sword now sat more firmly in his hand. The metal had been fed with blood; the soul, with grief.
He looked at Groth's massive corpse one last time.
Your watch is over, he whispered in his raspy voice. Go to your daughter.
The rain intensified. The hyena-like sounds coming from the metal pipes above were drawing closer. He had no time to mourn, but he had found the strength to shoulder the grief.
Kaelen ground his teeth as he pulled Groth's massive leather boots onto his feet. The boots were still warm. They smelled of sweat and dried blood. He threw the cloak over his shoulders. The leather was heavy, and the scent of death embedded in it stung his throat.
Let's go, he whispered to himself.
But the momentary surge of energy from killing Groth receded like a tidal wave. Grief was sated, but it had not repaired the physical damage to Kaelen's body. The cracks in his ribs, the acidic mud burning his skin, and the fever caused by those black veins in his neck... they all attacked at once.
He took a step. The world tilted. On the second step, his knees buckled.
The whisper in his mind panicked.
...no... do not sleep... get up... it is not safe here...
But Kaelen's will succumbed to his biology. His vision went black. The last things he saw were shapes resembling grey, pale trees beyond the sewer exit.
Then the darkness took him into its heartless arms.