“We will have to hurry, Oa’kul.” the king told him, growling as it led Willem through the network of crudely carved tunnels. Perhaps there was no threat to him in those peeled back lips, but Willem had been around the demon long enough to know that the gesture meant it felt aggravated. As for what it was aggravated by—well, that surely had to be the skal’va. Ever since bringing up the subject, he had found the king to have been possessed by a sudden urgency. There was an impatience to its every action, as if even the steps it was taking could not be occurring fast enough.

As for where they were going, Willem did not know. But he did know why, he reminded himself as he flexed his stunted fingers. His legs ached dully, throbbing with a certain detached pain that made him grateful for what was to happen. A new body he had been promised, and a new body he would be delivered. We can wait no longer, the king had declared, promising to give him his body now. There was no more time to waste; it needed to turn its attention south to Malifor and the skal’va immediately.

“What do you know of the skal’va?” Willem asked the king nervously as they walked, the cold air making him shiver ever slightly in the damp tunnels. He was curiously just what was it that had prompted such a strong reaction from the normally confident and collected demon. Even just now, bringing up the name made the demon twitch and jerk in reflex, a hot breath huffing out of its flared nostrils.

“Not skal’va,” it replied with a growl, “but I dealt with skal’ai. Not this swarm you speak of , but monstrous shadows like snakes. They would wrap around a man and swallow him whole.” the demon explained, a dark expression crossing its face in memory. “They were led by someone as well, a creature called Sin.” The name made the king blanch, as if in distaste. “We slew him in the Capital.”

“We?” Willem asked in surprise, confused. The king bared its fangs, as if he had touched upon a sensitive subject, and he danced back in pure reflex. He had grown comfortable around this beast, but he had almost let himself forget that it was far more bestial than any man, no matter how pure its intentions.

The demon tossed its head in irritation, running a black claw along its curved horn to send sparks flying into the air. “I had...a sister. She died fighting Sin.” Surprise filled Willem’s thoughts, but he dared not to press the matter any further, from the expression on the king’s face. They made the rest of the walk in silence, save for the scraping of their feet against the stone. This will be the last time I feel wood clacking whenever I take a step, he realized with a half-hearted bitterness, uncertain for a moment if this was truly what he wanted.

Yet he shook his head silently just as quickly as the notion came to him. How ridiculous, of course this is what I want—it’s what I’ve always wanted. Not a day had passed in Mea Vatal that he had not cursed his crippled body. And now he was given a chance to throw it all away; how could he possibly pass this up?

And all it would take would be your humanity, a small voice inside him reminded him. Yet the notion made anger flare up inside of him. Humanity? Had he found any humanity in those people of Mea Vatal? Had he found any humanity in their scornful gazes and their spiteful glares? Was there any humanity in their strikes and blows, in the alleyways and the cobbles? And if that was truly humanity, then it was certainly nothing worth keeping. Willem almost spat in contempt. Humanity. What a small comfort that notion had been when he had been sleping in the rain, his rags all soaked through and his body shivering in a desperate attempt not to freeze. How he had longed for a stronger body, that might brave the cold. But of course, at least this body of his was human.

No, there was nothing worth saving in his crippled body. And if he was to become some beast, some horrible abomination, then at least he would be strong. No longer would he flinch and recoil at some looming presence. No longer would he stumble and fall whenever he tried to run. No longer would his legs ache in some faint memory of lost limbs that never were. At least, he thought darkly to himself, no matter what happens, at the end of this I’ll either be whole or dead. Both are preferable to living another day in this crow-cursed body.

“Here.” the king growled, shaking him out of his thoughts as they strode into a large room. The floor was clear of moss, perhaps the only defining characteristic other than size in these luminescent tunnels. Its surface seemed regularly disturbed as well, the crackling presence of magic heavy and cloying in the air. So this is the place, Willem thought to himself dimly, the notion bringing on a sudden sensation of urgency and nervousness. No turning back now. Hclamped one hand down on his arm, that it might stop trembling, only to find the fingers shaking still.

Willem cursed himself for his incessant weakness, making his way to the center of the room. “What is to happen, then?” he asked, trying to stamp the tremors out of his voice. These would be his last moments in this body, for better or worse. He would not miss it.

“I will need to do two things at once, ideally. The first will be to take your spirit out of your body.” the king growled, popping its neck as it strode opposite to face Willem. “There is a tether binding it to the body, which must be cut. The vessel must be incapacitated, for me to pull out the soul.”

“Meaning?” Willem asked, not quite understanding. He was used to things he could see—swords and gold and other objects that he could grasp. But this, this talk of souls and tethers was foreign to him.

The king peeled its lips back into something resembling a smile. “Meaning that I will have to kill you.”

“A—ah.” he stammered out, the statement catching him off guard. “There will be more after, I hope?”

The king merely flicked one hand open to the side. “Well that’s the other part. I need to pull up some of the earth and shape it into a vessel. But I don’t know what would best suit you, to ensure the strongest bonding. If your spirit rejects the vessel, I can lose control of it, and you’ll fly off into the wind.”

“What happens then?” he asked, innocent curiosity in his tone.

“What happens to sand in a storm?” the king asked laconically. “It disperses. Gone. Which is why I need to take every chance to ensure that your spirit does not reject the body. The best way to do this is to send it into the vessel while it is still forming, so that the spirit can also influence the shape into something more comfortable.”

Willem swallowed hard. The more he heard, the more he felt his heart begin to race, until he finally struck a clenched fist against his chest and gritted his teeth. “Fine then, enough talk. Let’s get on with it, before I start thinking too hard.”

The king merely nodded. “As you wish. Look up at the ceiling.” it commanded. Confused, he did so to find nothing but damp moss and dripping water waiting for him. He had no way of anticipating the blow that came to him, the swift pain that struck his chest and made blood pool into his throat. His vision flashed black, the crippling pain sending him slack as his head fell forward. There had been a popping sound, a tearing pain that had lanced through him in that moment, and he saw the king pull back with a hand covered in crimson.

Wha—he thought dimly with a shaking hand, the limb unable to stop trembling even as he fell to his knees. There was a shattering sound as one of his false legs broke, not made for the awkward distribution of weight, but he cared not as the shards of wood buried themselves into his thigh. He could only gaze forward blankly as the king closed those eyes, the air swiftly filled with the crackling of magic.

Was that m—my heart? Yet he could not think any farther down that road, for his vision was swiftly crumbling black. Blood filled his throat and poured out of his nose, the metallic taste filling his tongue. He struggled to breathe, coughing frantically as bile and tears streamed down his face. So filthy, he could only think as his muscles went slack, piss joining blood in a growing puddle around him. Was this death then, so—so ungraceful? So humiliating?

He crumpled, face striking the stone as his vision turned black. One last shuddering gasp, and then his throat was filled with blood and mucus. It was a curious sensation then, as he felt a cord inside of him snapping. More and more of him was pulling outside, in that vaguely intangible feeling of departure. He could feel the cold air blowing against him, even as he struggled to keep himself together. It was like he was a snowflake in a storm, a raindrop amidst an ocean, trying to keep his own identity. Even the slightest unfelt current was enough to threaten to blow him apart. Was it not for he crackling warmth of magic holding him together, he surely would not have lasted for longer than a heartbeat.

He was being pulled, guided, and he could feel something calling out to him. It was an emptiness—a void in this packed, crowded world. It was a hollow space, like a shelter that promised safety, and he needed no further urging to bury himself underneath its warm surface. A vessel, some part of his primal self noted. It was a curious sensation, to be a spirit without a body, even for that briefest of moments. Merely mind and soul—was this what it felt like to be a ghost? Yet he had no more time for idle thoughts as he felt the earth and stone closing tight around him. It had been an exhilarating experience, like a slave throwing off the fetters for the first time. He had been free, free to fly through the sky. And yet that had been over almost as quickly as if had happened, the earth closing in around him and holding him tight in that prison of a body once more.

I am to shape this, then? What was it that he wanted? He himself did not even know, yet he supposed some part of him had already made up its mind. Without even thinking of it, without even having it come to mind, he could already feel the stone around him shaping. There had been a discomfort, like wearing clothes tailored for someone else. It had been a pain in his chest, an irritation in his shoulders. The space was painfully different, to the point that almost felt like brick trying to force itself into piping.

As more and more time passed, he could feel that discomfort slowly fade. The earth around him molded itself, the magic whizzing around like hustling workers, trimming and shaping the stone. He did not know how long it took, truly; he had no sensation of time. It could have been a week; it could have been an eternity. He could only feel his body being made around him—his birth, in a way. A new birth, a rebirth, he thought dimly as the last spark of magic slowly sank into his chest and fizzled out of existence.

A rebirth, he thought as he slowly opened his new eyes, that he might behold this world before him.