PROLOGUE

The hot, humid breath of the creature above him reeked of rot and ozone as foul smelling saliva dripped from bared, snarling teeth onto Cyrus's forehead. Part of him wanted to give up right there – to let the creature kill him on the spot because he'd never be truly clean again – but it was drowned out by the adrenaline and fear and sheer need to survive that pumped through his veins so intensely he felt numb. His arms shook violently against the weight of the beast bearing down on him, corrosive magic dripping from his fingers and down his forearms, blistering and searing his skin. The magic resistance built into his gloves was never intended to hold up for so long. The magic itself was suited for flesh, not the sturdy behemoth of a ribcage he was keeping at bay, but if Cyrus shifted his aim even for a moment those yellow, drool soaked teeth would tear out his throat.

He held the creature off with all his might; magic ate through the bones pressing down on his hands slowly but surely. His fingers were on fire. The breath of the creature was hot and fetid, eyes hungry and its jaw snapping in ravenous anger just inches from his face, and this could not be how Cyrus died, he wouldn’t, he—

Its jaws descended on him with a sickening crunch and he failed to hold back his scream – a heavy thud, muffled by the dense copse of trees surrounding it, cut off his wail of despair. The frantic fluttering of bird's wings could be heard from the canopy as they fled the sound.

Finally, the area was silent.

Very, very slowly, Cyrus pried open one of his eyes. He was... alive? A veritable mountain of mangy grey fur blocked his line of sight and his right arm was slick, wet, and buried in a hot, slimy cavity all the way to his elbow. His hand twitched as he felt the partially dissolved tissue of the beast's heart and lungs slip between his fingers, fragments of bone jutting against his wrist, and his eyes snapped open wide enough to burn.

. . .

When Cyrus came to his senses it was to his own harsh, rapid breathing and damp earth under his knees. At some point in his fugue he must have torn the velvet capelet from his shoulders and started mindlessly scrubbing his arm with it. The expensive fabric was soiled irreparably in his hope of forgetting how it felt to be elbow-deep in viscera – the phantom sensation of slick organs between his fingers sent shivers up his arm, like a thousand writhing grubs, and he knew he was asking the impossible.

Ah... He had liked the embroidery on that fabric, too.

It took all of his waning self control to halt his movements and set down the heavy velvet, taking a deep and shuddering breath to steel his nerves. The blood caked beneath his fingernails would flake off when it dried. He could find a stream and wash it properly, somewhere, surely. It was only blood, only bones, only innards, it was no different from preparing meat for dinner, he was fine, it was fine, he's fine—

Cyrus snapped his head to the side with a hiss, eyes roving over the path and the hulking beastly carcass in a frenzied bid for distraction, when his gaze came to rest on a crumpled form some fifty paces back. His heart sank. His traveling companion was motionless on his front, limbs askew, the pool of blood beneath him almost black in the limited pre-dawn light and seeping slowly into the packed earth. As much as Cyrus wished he could just look away – retreat back to the city and have his servants draw him as many hot, scented baths as they could until he forgot this whole affair – there was a terrible suspicion in the pit of his gut that he couldn’t afford to ignore.

Forcing himself to stand, Cyrus ignored the trembling weakness in his knees and braced himself against the earthen wall of the holloway, tree roots and soft moss a welcome touch against his palm. He gave the beast's corpse a wide berth as he shuffled past it and swallowed back the bile in his throat. The lingering taste of ozone and decay in the air was unsettling not only due to its unpleasantness but because it was so blatantly out of place – to his knowledge, this was meant to be a placid region. Not as controlled as the lands closer to the city but certainly not one where beasts of this calibre ran amok. Past the woods was farming country, not wildlands; the biggest threats farmers usually contended with were feral muninhives uprooting their crops and the occasional ash wolf, which was exactly why he'd chosen this destination in the first place.

The old man's body was in a truly sorry state when he slowed to a stop beside it. His dignified bearing was no longer visible, and neither was the subtle vitality that allowed the man to appear so capable despite the slight hunch in his spine and the deep wrinkles on his face. Instead he looked like something struck by lightning: face contorted into an expression of surprise, mouth open, hands splayed outward on the ground as if pleading for mercy. Or perhaps outstretched in a final effort to protect Cyrus from his own incompetence, but he'd died too quickly to fire off a spell. Cyrus stood before him, hands trembling and lips twisting, and let his eyes fall shut against the horrid sight. Regardless of whether the man was really who he suspected, he hadn't deserved to die like this.

Cyrus had seen dead bodies before, but those were elderly relatives at open casket funerals; embalmed and arranged in flowers, prepared for burial with their eyes closed like they were simply sleeping very, very still. It didn't compare even slightly to the visceral, heavy reality of the man slumped against the edge of the forest trail. His corpse was still oozing blood and who-knows-what from the violent gash on his abdomen, the scent of iron and dirt and ammonia clinging to the air, his eyes empty and unseeing and the residual heat of life seeping out quicker by the second.

The old man would have survived the encounter if it weren't for him. Cyrus knew this, intellectually and instinctively, because he wasn't meant to die there at all. But he had – in the most impossible, stupid accident, because Cyrus's own body had reacted on autopilot with none of the skill required to back it up. Arcs of black-violet lightning, the magic his body knew best, had ricocheted off the beast and stunned the old man instead... and a split second was all the creature had needed to disembowel him. Magical prowess meant nothing if you couldn't get out of the way in time. Cyrus wrenched his left hand towards his mouth and sank his teeth in to stifle the bubbling urge to laugh and scream.

The man's body had cooled completely by the time Cyrus managed to school his breathing and bring himself back from the edge of hysteria. He lowered his shaking arm and licked the blood from his teeth with a teary laugh, the taste of copper and the acrid sting of magical residue searing his sinuses.

"I'm sorry, old master. If it weren't for me..."

The murmur was almost lost in the dense forest that loomed over the holloway, and Cyrus took another deep breath to calm down. He slid the man's eyelids closed with trembling fingers. His next task might be easier, he thought, without those glassy grey eyes judging him for every movement. With focus he managed to summon a wavering ball of cold white light to add to the slowly encroaching light of dawn.

Such elegant hands were ill-matched with looting; kneeling on packed dirt and rifling through an old monk's pockets felt far too base for someone like him. It was the sort of dirty, hands-on work he knew he was supposed to stand above – he should have been able to pinpoint the necessary items with a keen gaze and pluck them from the body with languid, uncaring grace. Instead Cyrus had to investigate every pocket and fold of linen, resisting the urge to throw up whenever his eyes wandered a little too close to the man's gored abdomen. He was going to have to practice that level of detachment, he realised despairingly. The past week had really been one blow to his psyche after another.

A near empty coin purse, a sachet of potpourri, two potion vials, a cup-shaped brass pan with a long handle, a waterskin, and a rolled leather pouch. Cyrus knew the man had traveled light but it was hard to comprehend this level of frugality. There were no spices, let alone food rations; where Cyrus had eaten spice-crusted mouflon cheese, fatty cured meats, cakes and candied fruits as packed by the servants, the old monk had refused them, simply wandering off the trail every so often and returning carrying things Cyrus hadn't even known were edible. Certain fungi, berries and green shoots he had eaten raw without so much as washing them, and others he would submerge in that small brass pot and cook over a magical flame as they walked. A good way to exercise mana control, the old man had told him, if you were willing to put aside a few luxuries. Cyrus had strongly suspected he was being mocked.

The divines in this world obviously weren't listening to his whispered prayers, because when he gritted his teeth and unrolled the scuffed leather pouch a simple pendant fell out of it and landed by his knees on the path. It was unpolished, the original colour lost under years of tarnish, and affixed to a length of roughly woven cord. The pendant was shaped like a bird's head, long and thin, framed in a circular halo of lines to suggest a bright sun.

Cyrus picked it up – it was warm, even though the morning air was damp and cool, and he could feel his throat closing up in despair. It was the emblem of the Chalkydris line.

He'd just killed the Hero's mentor.

His eyes flicked over the oaks as he gazed upward, their branches outstretched in welcome to the morning light – if only the divines were as accommodating.

He dropped the pendant into his lap and drew his hood low over his eyes. The day was almost breaking, cool violet and a hint of pink peeking through the trees to the east as a final precursor to sunrise. Cyrus reached into his boot and unsheathed a long stiletto blade with a click. It wobbled dangerously in his grip as he brought the point to rest warily above the old man's body – between the fourth and fifth rib on the left, or- or was it the third and fourth...? For a moment he wondered deliriously if a small animal had wandered onto the path, before realising the meek whimpering in his ears was actually coming from him.

Drinking the heart's blood to gain someone's powers seemed much more badass when the original Count Cyrus had done it.