That night, whether they were sleeping tightly or gazing at the mesmerizing red moon, the people of Gaunnes suddenly felt a nasty wave of darkness sweep through them, bringing them to a cold sweat and unknown visceral fear. Many could not recognize the feeling, but some felt nostalgic yet horrified when they stared down at death. Babies started crying, children saw nightmares, adults felt anxious no matter their circumstances, and all animals fled away from the source. Some could see the skies open by giant rays of red light erupting from the ground like volcanoes, only to curve back to be swallowed by a small point elsewhere. The bright vermillion color was both alluring and coated in danger. As if seeing a colossal explosion, the spectacle bloomed fear in the onlookers. Those unfortunate inside those rays at the time found themselves dead before they knew it, stripped from their flesh and their souls stolen. Observers would not know it yet, but over twelve thousand lives had been snuffed out like candles with a sudden puff with those lights. Soldiers nearest to the ritual were brought to knees by the sheer despair. Some even passed out from shock. Once the brotherhood completed the ceremony, their dark magic would unite the pieces of their late master, stored away countless years ago. Hatred fueled them through millennia as humble yet loyal subjects of their lord. Generations went by, protecting the hidden locations, offering sacrifices, and planning the resurrection. The time had come, a blood moon where they would finally provide the last and most excellent offering to bring the great master to this world. May the kingdom come, one that the heavens first decided, stolen from them, and now taken back.

Orel saw the incident firsthand, standing safely away from the ritual but still feeling restless and utterly devastated. He still remembered the clash between Andras and Isao, but it could not compete with what he was witnessing at that moment. A city-wide carnage was gone in a moment, leaving only a lingering feeling of dread.

“Dear God, what was that?“James asked.

He turned to the telepath, who had curled up to a ball and murmured nonsense.

“What is it, officer?”

“They’re all gone—every squad. I want to go home. I can’t do this.” Folkland moaned.

He had just heard all of the other telepaths simultaneously screaming for help until falling silent. His mind was torn like tissue paper, crumbled, and thrown into the wind like trash.

“Snap out of it! We need to inform the Duke!” James tugged the telepath up.

“I can’t. The noise won’t stop. We’re going to die.”

“What noise?”

James stopped as he heard a distant rumbling. The wind howled louder until he could hear galloping. James turned to look at the sky and saw an omen of death. A ghostly pack of hunters on horseback riding on the clouds over the village. They loomed like a mirage over the town, hopping from cloud to cloud. They wore armor and ragged clothes like they had risen from a battle they had lost, only to continue for eternity. With weapons drawn, the hunt master led the charge. A faceless hunter adorning a hood, it spared none that came in its way until the gods punished him to lead lost souls to the afterlife forever. They are attracted to people lost in the woods at night but take any opportunity they get. If you run into the wild hunt, you must choose death or join them.

“The wild hunt.” James realized.

They descended to the village, rummaging through the streets like a stampede, yelling ghostly moans while their countless hunting dogs barked on all doors. While they took all lives that tried but did not escape, their dogs dragged the ones trapped inside the houses.

“They came to gather the souls of the dead.”

“But, does that mean everyone is dead?” Orel asked.

“I am afraid so. The huntmaster must have sensed the disaster.”

“Why didn’t they warn us?”

“Understanding the paranormal is an impossible task. You must be grateful that they came to collect those poor souls.”

The wild hunt finished their business and charged to the forest. What James did not expect was the huntmaster stopping when nearing the fog. He rode a wild horse that none could tame, and now it was the leading horse, the only one worthy enough to lead the hunt. The other ghouls stopped behind it, waiting for orders. The huntmaster stood in silence, which was odd, as the wild hunt was not supposed to stop at any point.

“What is it doing?” James asked.

With the cape on its back fluttering like a flag, the huntmaster turned to look in their general direction. James stared back at it, looking at the dark figure under the hood. Its eyes gleamed in the moonlight, where James could see a small glimpse of the face for a moment. It was far more horrid than he could ever describe, a look of utter apathy towards life and with no sympathy left to give to those who walk the earth. Its moon-silver gaze penetrated James to his very soul as if judging him. James looked away, respecting the specter and hoping it would not target him. The huntmaster took out his sword and raised it high above his head. James stood back, ready to face any threat thrown at him. The wild hunt is one of the fiercest phenomena, as not even seasoned mages dare to face it. The huntmaster swung his sword down like lighting with the strength of a hurricane. After all, it held the power of the howling autumn wind. James was not ready for it, but fortunately, It did not swing at him. The fog parted, disappearing without a trace, and the town was now free with it. The huntmaster turned his horse to face the forest and rode off, his undead party following behind. Their sounds echoed through the woods, finally subsiding and vanishing with them like a lingering trail of smoke.

James felt a sigh of relief, only for his radio to pick up once again.

“Major, do you copy?” The radio asked.

“This is Major Periwinkle, reading loud and clear.” James took out the radio. “Over.”

“Thank heavens; you finally picked up,” Jessie was ready to jump with joy. “We’ve been trying to contact you, but your telepath stopped answering our messages. Over.”

“The mist jammed radio until recently. Ramsay, what is your status? Over.”

“We are fine, but the situation has not gone well. There has been complete radio silence. Over.”

“We need to inform the head of command immediately. The situation is code red. Over.”

“What happened? Could you please elaborate on that? Over.”

“We have not confirmed it, but it seems that all residents have perished along with three of our platoons. We lost contact with them after the terrorists activated a grand, no, epic spell as a part of a ritual we discovered. Over.”

“What? Do you mean every squad? Over.”

“I will not repeat myself. We witnessed the wild hunt afterward over the village.” James looked back at the forest. “What is the situation with the other companies? Over.”

“No information so far. You have been the only one to pick up, sir. Over.”

“This situation is out of our control. We need to call reinforcements. I am not even sure what that spell triggered. Our only telepath is out of commission as well. Over.” James bit his fingers.

“Are there any other survivors? Over.”

“As far as I know, Captain Cumhaill and a member of the Duke’s party are alive as well. Over.”

“You found the party? Over.”

“Only one member and the butler. Over.”

“Are you sure all of the platoons were wiped? Over.”

“The third and fourth platoons were caught in the blast. I am not sure about the second platoon, but they have not contacted me. Over.”

“Alright, sir. I will inform the Duke and HQ. Over.”

“Good. The mist has parted here so that average vehicles can pass. I will try and search for survivors and contact Lieutenant Aberdeen. Over.”

“Copy that. Is there anything else? Over.”

“No, over and out.”

“So, what does everything look like?” Lionel turned in his chair.

Jessie could not look him in the eye. The pressure felt worse than down on the depths of the seafloor. She had to tell information that held more importance than anything she could have ever said. Her mind searched for ways to form these things into words that were neither dismissive nor cold-hearted.

“Sir, it is my displeasure to tell you that a deadly terrorist attack struck the town of Bertim.” Jessie bowed.

“By Bors’ beard.” Lionel crouched. “How will I ever make this up for them?”

“What about the other towns?” He asked.

“I’m sorry, sir, we do not know.”

“Were there truly no survivors?”

“The wild hunt reaped the town.”

“So that’s how it is...”

“Some of our forces and the party you deployed remain.”

“I want all attention on civilian rescue.” Lionel stood up. “Leave no stone unturned, no bush unchecked. There must be survivors, must be.”

“The mist is gone. Police and vehicles can now pass.”

“Good, we need law enforcement right away.”

“I will inform them immediately.” Gotthold stepped forward.

“Excuse me, sir. I need to inform the HQ about the situation.” Jessie changed the channel on the radio.

“This is First platoon lieutenant Ramsay of the Frogfoot. Come in, HQ. Over.”

“This is HQ, reading loud and clear. Over.”

“I transmit a message from Major Periwinkle. A major terrorist attack has occurred in Bertim. Code red. The mist has cleared, and rescue operations can begin. Over.”

“Copy that, Frogfoot. Have you received information from other regiments? Over.”

“Negative. All other channels and telepaths have fallen to complete radio silence. Over.”

“That does not sound good. What is the status of your platoons? Over.”

“Platoons two, three, and four are PKIA. Over.” Jessie tried to keep herself together.

“Copy. Inform major Periwinkle to expect reinforcements from the first division. Keep trying to form contact with other regiments. If the situation is as dire as Major Periwinkle described, sir Claudin should immediately announce a state of emergency. Over.”

“Acknowledged. Over.”

“Keep this channel ready for further instructions. I will inform the high command of the situation. Out.”

“Roger. Out.” Jessie put the radio out.

“Sir, HQ proposed that you should announce a state of emergency.” Jessie turned to Lionel.

“I cannot do that immediately.” Lionel sighed. “It seems that we are all a bit lost in this.” He took out a bottle.

“Are you sure it’s a good time to be drinking, sir?” Jessie noticed.

“Good as ever.” Lionel drank. “You are free to take a glass.”

“I don’t drink at work.” Jessie detested the thought.

“Then you haven’t been in politics, missy.” Lionel laughed.

“Sir, we need you in condition to make a speech later.”

“Oh, I’ll be in shape, alright.” Lionel emptied his glass. “Don’t you feel bad for your comrades?”

“...Yes, but this is not the time to cry.”

Lionel swirled the honey-yellow liqueur he poured.

“Do not mistake that I drink away my sorrows. I take in these hard times like this drink, and soon they are not but memories.”

“Those are beautiful words, sir.”

“That is the power of a leader. Like a good whiskey, their smoothness can mellow the hearts of the masses or cause a riot. Whichever they desire.”

“Is that why you were chosen as the Duke instead of your brothers?”

“It’s not that simple. From birth, we compete against each other. Every single thing we do, from networking to studies, is to better our chances to claim the title.” Lionel looked at his reflection in the glass. “Though, as I said, there’s something more powerful than that. The greatest weapon you can ever hope for in politics is charisma. Your throne and crown are but decorations in the eyes of the commoner. That is why I am here, and they are but pawns in my hand.”

“That’s... quite frightening, to be honest.”

“Don’t bother thinking too hard about it. These things are reserved as our headaches only.”

Lionel smiled. “But they do come with great benefits.”

Two figures, or rather one carrying the other, ran through the woods. Norman spotted a police roadblock that seemed only to allow cars to leave unless they were government vehicles on their way to the village.

“See? If we had continued with the car, the police would have stopped us there.” Norman pointed.

“Yeah, yeah.” Andras puffed. “You know, you could run too.”

“I couldn’t keep up with you, and besides, this allows me to use unseen aid on both of us.”

“You’re still heavy.”

“Keep going. We’re nearly there.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“There, that’s a good hill.” Norman looked ahead. “Wait, is there someone there?”

Andras stopped and let Norman stand up. He carefully glanced forward from the cover of some bushes. Someone odd stood on the edge of the cliff, clothed not to reveal anything but the silent figure. Suddenly, it glanced back. The man wore a red mask with horns and scales like a demon. Underneath it shone two yellow eyes like sapphires, jumping sharply from corner to corner like a flea stuck in a jar. Norman felt a chill as those seeking dots made him remember the last time he had to hide. It would be more than a terrible coincidence if he were to be spotted again.

“Who goes there?” The man asked.

Norman froze. The man stared directly in their direction.

“It shouldn’t be possible...” Norman thought.

Andras was about to jump at the masked man, but Norman stopped him. He sensed great danger lurking behind the grotesque mask, something he did not dare to challenge. The yellow points slowly dragged away from them, fixated on the scenery once more. Its bony hand gripped the hood and cape, turning it around. The cloth spun like a top, rolling in on itself until all but a gust of wind was left. Norman waited for several moments until he was sure that the man was gone. He rose carefully from the bushes and undid his spell.

“What the hell was that?” Andras asked.

“I’m not sure. It seems that this place draws quite a lot of attention.”

“I know a cultist when I see one.” Andras grimaced.

“Well, he did seem lost from the nearest costume party.” Norman thought. “But what are they doing here?”

“Come on, Norman.” Andras scoffed.

“What?” For once, Norman was falling behind.

“Villages and cultists go hand in hand like bread and butter. They’re the perfect thing to infect and silently use for rituals.”

“You sure seem comfortable with all that knowledge. Where might you have learned it?”

“It’s simple logic.” Andras shrugged. “What else is there to it? Haven’t you watched any horror films?”

“I’m surprised you have.”

“Oh, they’re great! I like the thrill and mystery.” Andras tapped his hands excitedly. “I could recommend some.”

“No, thank you, I rather watch documentaries.”

“Why are you such a sourpuss?”

“What?” Norman raised his voice.

“I fall asleep during those!”

“You just can’t appreciate the story and narration.” Norman shrugged with a smile.

“I get the history ones; you can’t turn back time, but why watch the animals on a screen when you can see them in the wild?”

“And why would I watch ninety minutes of a mediocre gorefest instead?”

Andras gasped. “How can you say that?”

“So that we can agree to disagree and move on.”

“I will remember this.” Andras stared. “...On movie night.”

“Wait a minute.” Norman realized. “Perhaps there is something in this town.”

“Like, cultists?”

“Besides them. Maybe there is something here that attracted all these dark things. Didn’t you hear me explain it on the boat?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Of course...” Norman sighed.

“No, no, I’ve got some things that I’ve been thinking about.”

“like what?”

“I had another dream, no, a nightmare. It hurts to just think about it. We were there, but I couldn’t help but halt. There was this thing-a huge threat. It was the most horrid thing I’ve ever seen in any life. I couldn’t look at it in the eyes. I couldn’t do anything.” Andras felt his hands clutch.

Norman had never seen Andras so afraid, or rather, afraid at all. He might be anxious to try and fit into the modern world, but he never stood back when he needed to protect others. It was his nature to be the stoic big brother that could always lend a hand for whatever trouble you might have. He would always be honest and straightforward, or that was the believable front he made for others. Only Andras’ dreams could ever make him afraid of anything, and that thing was himself. Whatever he might have been before, it made him shiver, cry, and, most importantly, fear. It was what always lingered on his back, covered in a thin veil of optimism.

“Though my mother is a therapist, I’m not. There’s just too much for me to dig through there.” Norman shrugged.

“Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Norman stopped to look at Andras.

“Are you going to run from it?” Norman asked.

“What?”

“I said if you are going to run from it.” Norman stared deep in his eyes. “If my mother was ever right about something, it’s that it doesn’t work.”

Norman felt like looking at the past version of himself, like a mirror that showed the things you were most ashamed of.

“It doesn’t seem to bother you.” Andras crossed his arms.

It talked back with words even he had a hard time answering, even for how long they had been ringing inside his head. Norman couldn’t escape them, not now, perhaps never.

“I try my best, but you should understand how hard it is."

“If you promise to tell Orel what you’ve told me next time you see him, I’ll tell you everything, right here, right now.”

“You’re turning our promise around?”

“It’s a good revenge, isn’t it?”

“Well, I promise.”

“Then, I’ll tell you what I know.” Andras released his arms. “Sit down. This might take a while.”

“I don’t know the full picture, but I know the important bits. I should let you know, Norman."

Andras took a long pause and drew a deep breath.

"I was supposed to die where you found me.”

Norman was out of words. His heart twisted with pain.

“Andras, You wanted to kill yourself?”

“My anger, I lost everyone I ever loved because of it. Yet, I hunger for battle. I am such a horrible person.”

“That’s...Tragic.”

“I’ve lost things I can never get back. My memories, my tribe, even the woman I loved. They’re all gone in my memories, but the pain is still there.”

“So that’s the reason you want me to steal your magic.” Norman realized.

Andras stood in silence.

“...Yes.”

“You still want to end yourself?”

“Don’t think it in a bad way. I just don’t want to lose anything. It has been fun, but I don’t belong here.”

“Andras...” Norman stepped back.“I could never bring myself to do that.”

“I guess you wouldn’t.” Andras sighed.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Norman tried to turn Andras’ opinion around. “Maybe you could try and find what happened.”

“I don’t know. It feels a bit hopeless by this point.”

“Tell that to Orel. He won’t stop even if you do.”

“He’s still young and his life ahead of him. My life is in the past, where I can’t return.”

“What’s this sorry-ass talk I am hearing? Where is the stoic Andras we know?”

“Stop it.” Andras turned his head.

“What will happen to him if you can’t be there to laugh and take it easy? He need you, Andras. We need you. Not just your strength, but you. We're there for you.”

Andras couldn't still look Norman in the eye. As much as he wanted to change, it seemed utterly hopeless.

“We are a team. We help each other, and you have helped us all this way. When the time comes, we will help you.”

“I haven't helped a bit."

“I would be dead if you weren’t with us in Alanland. We wouldn’t have made it this far without you. Don’t you remember the times we’ve shared? Was it all for nothing?”

“That’s the point. I cherish our friendship, but in the end, I will bring it to ruin.”

“Even if you did, we’d still bring you back. If not me, then Orel. He would go to the ends of the earth for the people he cares for.”

“I got something in my eye.” Andras turned away. “...Thank you, Norman.”

“Come on. You’re a big man.” Norman rubbed his own eyes.

Each man turned around to toughen themselves up. This was no time for tears and heart to heart. There was no time to waste. The two shook hands with a firm grip and went ahead to continue with the situation.

“We need to find Orel.” Norman reminded.

“Where do you think he is?”

“I’m not sure if we should ask the cops down there.”

“But we’re a party from the Duke, and we have a solid reason to be here.” Andras said.

“True, we have quite literally been lost here.”

“Maybe they can tell if something is happening here.”

“Oh, something definitely is happening.” Norman looked down to the carnage.

The center of the ritual was in the deepest and darkest depts of Gaunnes, where no one was around. Four robed figures spun out of their capes like candy wrappers. The four bowed to the center with the utmost respect. The disciplines gathered, awaiting their lord, whose last piece rested underneath their feet. The ground crumbled beneath them, and a dark spirit escaped the cracks. It condensed and took form, revealing hands, feet, and a flock of gray hair. It appeared to be wearing a dark surcoat with the white edges made from a white beast’s hide. A ghastly figure commanding respect stood under the grey silk robe with gold buttons and belts. The man’s pale skin gave depth to shadows under his nose, while his golden-red eyes seemed like a vision of hellfire.

“Master, you have returned!” One of the robed men cheered.

A rough dried-out voice answered, speaking in tongues that rolled the tongue around like a bee's wings.

“ic pro fredan lef. (I have come back from the dead.)."

The man cleared his throat. He had not spoken in a while, nor had a physical body at all. His face was less than satisfied, feeling the wrinkles on his brow did not feel well, as even true resurrection is not perfect. A voice deeper than the sea echoed through his mouth like the sound of a war horn, menacing yet charismatic.

“Your magnificence is still the grandest. None in this land will dare to face you.”

“Duer facail uamhasach fuaimean. (Your words are wretched.).”

“Excuse me, my lord. A great time has passed since your time. Your speech is foreign to us.”

“mi-fhortanach. An fhàinne seo gabhail ris. (How unfortunate. Accept this gift.).”

Several rings were in each of the cultist’s hands, leaving almost no finger bare. The lord could instantly recognize their use and why they were there. He also sensed that most that the men wore were magical somehow. All of that was child’s play for someone like him, like reading a picture book. Of course, this wouldn’t be as easy without eyes like his.

“Seo bu chòir ur n-inntinn fosgail. (This should open your minds.).” The titled lord closed his eyes.

A new ring appeared around each of their fingers. It was a brass dragon eating its tail, bearing sapphire eyes. The ring tightened until it would not come off even if they tried. What it did, the lord kept a secret for now. One of their benefits soon came into effect, but not for the men.

“Ohhh! Lord, we are forever grateful!” The men cried.

“So this is what our speech is like today.” The lord felt his tongue moving strangely.

“Ooh, lord! We can finally understand!”

“This speech feels tainted, but one must adapt.”

The garnished man looked around. He was not as surprised as he knew where he was but what the place had become. Everything he sensed was different from when he had lived, confusing even beings like himself.

“I sense magic in these woods. Has the forest been enchanted?”

“Yes, lord. Bors of the roundtable was blessed with this forest.”

“Bors...” The man turned. “Who rules this land now?”

“It is Duke Lionel Claudin. A descendant of that damned knight.”

“Then I shall declare my coming with his defeat.”

“But my Lord is that such a good idea-”

The man turned his head with a violent grimace. His red eyes pierced through the man’s mask, frightening the man beyond human sanity.

“onbærnan. (Burn.)” The lord chanted.

The red apostle lit in dark flames before he could drop in mental anguish, burning away intensively. He screamed for help, but the others backed away. His skin burned out, the clothes melted and stuck on him, and Soon, nothing remained of him but the blackened remains and the red mask. The remaining ones kneeled back in silence.

“Wæcnan. (Heal.).”

They watched in terror as the lord lifted his hand. Green particles scattered around him and drifted towards the charred remains. Blinding light erupted from the remains, constructing it back piece by piece. The man coughed blood and groaned relentlessly. His face was left deformed and burned, a freak of nature that should never set a foot outside. Only by putting back his mask could he be mistaken for a human.

“Let those scars be a lesson for you.” The man looked down from his pillar of power. “Heed my words! How dare you question my words! Next time I will leave you like the trash you are!”

“...Yes, my master.” The ghoulish one kneeled.

“Guide me to the Duke’s castle.”

“W-when shall we go, my lord?” Another asked.

“Now.”

“As you wish, lord Vortigern.” The men used their capes to fly.

Under the red moonlight, three obscure figures made a beeline to Ridredukedach. A pair of morbid wings sprouted from Vortigern’s back. He took flight almost immediately, catching up to them. They flew through the air at speeds that would mistake them for small planes.