Author's note: It's on to book 3, there might be some issues that need to be hammered out but I do hope you enjoy it.
The train station was full of hurried commotion, the choking fumes so thick that a metallic tang settled on one’s tongue. Countless goods were loaded into waiting train wagons that rivaled buildings in size. The noise was deafening, a constant chorus of footsteps, leaking steam, and barked orders. The ancient gears of Nov Yanosk, the last true city of man, had begun to turn. A once impressive machine coughed to life with the creaks of crumbling gears, a machine readying itself for war.
In the sea of movement, two officers flanked a hunched figure far taller than them. The military personnel cast worried glances at the person between them, if he could even be called that.
Wretch, Collector of Wounds.
A Blessed Fireling on the verge of his third ascension, a weapon of flesh brought forth in the city’s time of need. He was draped in a black veil that ran down to his feet, obscuring his body. Still, the contours betrayed that something strange moved beneath the thin cloth. Standing sixteen feet tall with a hunched back, his feet peeked out from under the bottom seam, those of a wolf, and with each step, chains rattled.
Civilians and soldiers alike cast uneasy glances as the trio made their way to a waiting train. They whispered to each other, keeping their voices low, but to Wretch’s sensitive ears, they might as well have screamed.
“The General’s dogs. They’re bringing forth even those monsters.” “What are they?” “Criminals, murderers. Returning their debt in the only way they can.”
In silence, the trio boarded the train and walked along the carpeted floor that tickled his naked, inhuman feet. The officers paused by the sixth cabin.
“All right, this is as far as we go,” one said, casting a nervous glance at him before gesturing for him to enter. “Stay here until further command from me or another officer.”
Wretch didn’t respond, lumbering inside, still covered in the black cloth. The door shut, and the officers hurried away. Their conversation was clear to his ears even through the buzz of the station and the door that separated them.
“Saint almighty, is that the former hunter who saved all those people in Sternthal?”
His colleague clicked his tongue.
“Don’t worry. The General himself assures us they can’t hurt us. The Gulschaks, however…” “Now let’s get the next one. The sooner we get them out of here, the better.”
Wretch sat down, the seat creaking under his weight. Patiently, he waited, gazing through the veil at the dirt-cluttered window. The time in isolation made even the slightest movement interesting. The hauling of goods and personnel onto the trains was a true spectacle.
Soon, he heard three pairs of footsteps approach. One of them was accompanied by rattling chains. Another of the General’s dogs, or so they seemed to be called.
The cabin door creaked open, and he cast a glance over his shoulder.
A small figure stood there, draped in a veil much like his own, stained pale feet visible beneath the hem. One officer guided the figure into the cabin, and after a string of orders, they left again. The moment the door closed, the figure ripped the veil from their head.
Short, curly hair framed a face with a wicked smile and large, excited eyes that revealed no clear gender. Dressed in only an unmarked and ill-fitting army uniform, like the one he’d been given. The figure looked no older than eighteen or nineteen, with the appearance of someone caught midway through an uncertain puberty.
“Oh, hey there, friend,” the figure said in a pitch too high for a man and too low for a woman. “A little beast, perhaps? Have we met?”
Wretch didn’t answer, turning his gaze back to the dirty window.
The figure slouched heavily onto the opposite seat, placing their feet on the narrow table between them.
“Not much of a talker, are we? Or has the General pulled a mute from the depths of the slums to fight his battles?”
The figure leaned closer, trailing their gaze over his veiled form.
“I was stuck in that dark hole for a year, maybe two. It gets lonely, even with those whispers,” they said with a tilted smile. “So tell me something. Tell me anything at all.”
The person waited for a reaction, but Wretch offered none. His cabin mate drummed impatiently with slender fingers against the wooden panels, then sighed.
“Well… us Blessed can talk in more ways than one,” the figure said with a smile that reached their ears as their pupils lit with fire.
A name washed over the room, filled with killing intent.
Fingers, the Between.
Wretch’s head snapped from the window to the person before him, the veil fluttering with the motion.
From beneath the cloth, two grotesque, hairy claws gripped the table, marring its surface. He rose to his full height, pulling the veil from his head.
A twitch passed through the other at the sight of him. Broad shoulders and long arms, his hunched back barely contained in the ill-fitting uniform. His face was a mix of wolf and human, with pointed ears and a mane of fur falling down his sides. His two eyes, red and slit like a beast’s, bored into the other Blessed.
“You…” Wretch growled through sharp teeth. “You don’t know who you’re playing with.”
Wretch, Collector of Wounds, returned the killing intent.
Fingers gave a whistle. “My, my, aren’t you a cute little thing, with intent as coarse as gravel. What are you?”
Wretch leaned closer, sniffing the air inches from the other, his tongue brushing over sharp teeth.
“A will to hurt. A revenant waiting only for war.”
Fingers burst into laughter, throwing themselves back into the seat as the killing intent vanished like smoke.
“How poetic! Thank the Saint’s mighty bosom and the spires above, you can talk,” Fingers said with a pleased exhale. “So where did they pull you from? Your intent scratches like uncut nails.”
“I used to be a hunter,” Wretch said slowly, sitting down again but never looking away.
Fingers perked up at his words.
“Oh, a hunter with the power of a beast. Alas, it all ended in tragedy. Did you eat your crew?”
Wretch scoffed.
“I killed a clerk at the bureau. Fought a Blaze. You?”
Fingers lit up with glee, perhaps even ecstasy.
“Oh, little me? Funny you’d ask. I stole some things, nothing remarkable.”
Wretch was quiet for a moment.
“I reckon it wasn’t coin?”
Fingers gave him a mischievous glance, their gaze trailing down to his monstrous hands as they smirked.
“Fingers.”
Wretch only nodded.
Fingers’ brow furrowed.
“That’s it? I thought that deserved a stronger reaction.”
Wretch turned back to the window, letting his gaze drift across the passing faces outside. The lack of reaction seemed to irritate the other Fireling deeply.
“You have a nice name too,” Fingers said, lying across the seats, dirty feet staining the leather. “Mr. Wretch, are you a broken little monster?”
Wretch parted his lips to deny it, but a tightening in his chest told him it would be a lie, or at least something he considered one. The first of the vows he had made to Frederic of Many Oaths.
Do not lie.
“Damn this General’s curse,” he muttered. At least he was not forced to answer.
Fingers nodded approvingly.
“It makes sense, though. If they didn’t keep us in check, the two of us would be up to mischief in no time.”
Wretch shook his head as a whistle sounded from the front of the train, signaling five minutes to departure.
“No. This is where I want to be.”
That made his cabin mate squint at him in disbelief. It could not have been a lie. If he had uttered one, his heart would have disintegrated under the vows they had both sworn.
Fingers began to sputter something unintelligible, clearly unsatisfied, but a tremor ran through the cabin. Heavy footsteps approached, accompanied by angry shouts.
The cabin door slammed open.
A creature stood there, surrounded by shouting officers. A massive man, taller than the interior allowed. The next of the General’s dogs bent his head. An amalgamation of mismatched flesh formed his bulky frame. His left ear was long and furred like a cat’s, his eyes were different colors, and a crooked tusk curled from his jaw. His skin was just as uneven, patched with scales, fur, and bare flesh, all barely contained by a poorly buttoned uniform. Two hands as large as pans clutched what remained of a black veil.
An officer who barely reached his sternum barked at him.
“Keep your greedy paws off the rations, you oaf. Your heart’s going to give out before you even see a Gulschak.”
The man looked down at him with mismatched eyes.
“Waddles doesn’t have paws, mister,” he said, confused.
The young officer who had escorted Wretch spoke sharply.
“Sit down and don’t leave the cabin before we arrive in Voska. That’s an order.”
Waddles looked around, then clutched his chest and lumbered inside.
“General tricked me. Promised people to eat. But I only see two.”
“Don’t hurt them, you brute,” the officer snapped, glancing at Fingers and Wretch. “Saint almighty, the war can’t come soon enough for the three of you. Now behave.”
The door slammed shut.
For a moment, Wretch felt the urge to hurt rise within him. Even the thought made pressure coil around his heart. The second vow.
Follow the orders of any Nov Yanosk officer.
Waddles stood still for a moment, then winced and sat down heavily, making the cabin groan. Fingers was beside him in an instant, inspecting his hands with delight.
“Well, aren’t you a sight to behold. One can only imagine what these hands have done. I’m Fingers. What’s your true name?”
The brute looked confused.
“Waddles is Empty Desire. Flame says so in here,” he said, tapping his temple. “You have a Flame too?”
Wretch studied him. The chaotic mixture of forms lacked purpose, unlike his own, but still showed many stolen shapes. Even with his limited intellect, the brute must have had some talent.
“You,” Wretch said. “You have a Blessing called Flesh Stealer, don’t you?”
Waddles smiled like a child and fixed his gaze on Wretch’s rat-like tail.
“Yes. You look like big cat. If I eat you, I get tail too.”
Wretch tilted his head. He had seen creatures that regenerated like him, but never someone who could steal forms at such a cost.
“And the other Blessing?”
Waddles thought for a long time. Wretch and Fingers exchanged a glance.
“Finding Blessed,” Waddles said finally. “But can’t use it. Eaten too many. Changed too much.”
Wretch narrowed his eyes. If the brute’s flame was that diminished, the whispers should have been unbearable.
As if reading his thoughts, Waddles spoke again.
“Many voices say things. Important things. But Waddles doesn’t understand.”
Fingers burst into laughter.
“Too dumb to go mad. What a prodigy.”
So these were the General’s dogs. A lunatic and a killer with the mind of a child. Perhaps that was for the best. He was not afraid of these two dying.
With a final whistle, the train began to move.
Wretch left his home with no intention of returning.
He gave the memory of the Richters one last glance. The twins’ laughter, the mischievous cat, Astrid the gentle healer, and Elenya who left no one behind. Finally, a grave beneath a sunlit spire, a photograph resting among flowers.
The warmth of that place now only brought pain. With a final thought, he buried it deep, carving a lesson into his core.
To lose was worse than to have, and he would make sure to never have anything again.
Wretch watched the chaos of the station fade into the slums, then into the wilds beyond. His mind wandered, as it often did on trains. There was an urge to run free in the wilderness, but that meant breaking the third vow.
Retreat only when instructed, or when facing a Blessed of higher rank.
That left only one vow. The fourth, and the one he intended to keep.
Do your utmost in the war effort.
He was content to fight for Nov Yanosk. He would honor the buried memories in that way. Besides, he had been promised enemies. Grendel, the Professor, and others who had hurt the person he once was.
None of it mattered.
In the grand game, his role was simple.
Four vows in return for a chance to hurt until he was ground to dust. A bargain he had made without hesitation.