The scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh herbs drying by the hearth. The flickering light of a single candle illuminated the small room, casting soft shadows over the wooden table where Emery sat, legs swinging idly beneath him. His mother knelt nearby, her hands pressed together in quiet prayer, lips moving silently..
"Why do you do that every night, Mama?" young Emery asked, his voice breaking the serene stillness.
She smiled, her eyes soft as she looked at him. "Because it's how we thank Him for what we have. And how we ask for guidance."
"But do you think He listens?"
His mother tilted her head thoughtfully. "Even if we don't always see it, He has His way of showing us the path."
Emery nodded, though his young mind struggled to grasp the weight of her words. "And... if someone does something bad, does He make them stop?"
"No, Emery," she said softly. "He doesn't make them stop."
Emery's brows knitted in confusion,
"The world may seem unfair now, but that's not the end of it."she said gently, her voice steady and full of quiet assurance.
Emery frowned, the idea unsettling. "But why wouldn't they listen if He tells them what's right?"
His father's deep voice answered from the corner. "Because people are stubborn," he said, not unkindly. "Sometimes they let their pride, anger, or greed drown out His voice."
"Then why doesn't He just talk louder?"
His father chuckled softly. "Because His voice isn't meant to shout. It's meant to guide, like the wind pushing a leaf downstream. Quiet, but constant."
Emery stared at the candle's flame, his mind wrestling with thoughts too big for his years. "I would listen," he said finally, his voice small but firm. "I wouldn't let anything drown Him out."
The faint light of dawn crept over the ashen ruins of the barn, painting the scene in hues of gray and gold. Wisps of morning mist curled lazily around the charred remains, shrouding the area in an eerie stillness. The ground was cold and damp beneath Emery's bare skin as he stirred awake, his body trembling from the chill of the early hour.
He blinked against the pale light filtering through the haze, disoriented. The scent of burnt wood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the dewy freshness of the brume. Slowly, Emery propped himself up on one elbow, his breath catching as his gaze swept over the devastation around him.
Ashes. Everywhere. The barn had been reduced to a skeletal frame, blackened and brittle. Yet, miraculously, he was untouched. His skin bore no signs of the inferno that had consumed him just hours ago. He raised a hand, staring at it as if expecting to find perhaps proof that he was alive at all.
No burns. Nothing.
His pulse quickened as he struggled to piece together what had happened. The fire. The mob. The suffocating heat. Then darkness. And now...this.
Pushing himself to his feet, Emery's legs wobbled. He glanced around cautiously. But there was no one. Only silence and the faint rustle of the wind through the barren countryside.
From a nearby copse of trees, Batin watched. His lips parted slightly, eyes wide with a mix of relief and awe. "So it's true," he murmured under his breath.
If I'm to bring him to the royal court, I'll have to put him back to sleep first.
He withdrew the pen, its dark ink gleaming faintly in the dim light. Batin pressed the nib to the parchment, writing Emery's name with deliberate precision.
He finished inscribing the condition, his hand trembling slightly as he set the pen down. Seconds crawled by, each one stretching longer than the last.
Thirty seconds.
Forty five.
Fifty.
…
Still nothing.
Doubt began to creep into his mind.
"Why isn't it working?" he muttered,
His voice tinged with rising panic.
Batin's frustration gave way to grim determination. "If the pen won't do it," he muttered under his breath, "then I'll have to handle this myself."
Emery, having stirred moments earlier, rose to his feet naked, his body untouched by the flames but dusted with a thin layer of ash. Batin moved silently through the mist, his footsteps muffled by the soft earth.
The Death Dealer felt a presence closing in.
Without warning, he spun around. Batin lunged, and the two collided in a tangle of limbs. Emery's instincts took over as they grappled in the ashen dirt, each man vying for control. The scuffle was brutal and short-lived; Emery's lean, wiry frame belied a strength born of desperation.
Pinning Batin to the ground, Emery straddled his back, forcing the older man's arms behind him. "Enough!" he barked, his voice low and threatening.
Batin writhed beneath him, his face pressed into the soot.
"Do you want to die here, or will you listen?" said Emery, before glancing around nervously, his paranoia flaring.
"Let me go!" Batin growled. Emery's hands deftly searched through Batin's clothing until his fingers closed around the pen, swiftly pulling it free.
"Where are they?"
"I came alone!" Batin choked out, his voice muffled by the dirt.
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because without me, you'd be dead!" Batin said, finally stopping his struggles against Emery's hold.
The words hit Emery like a slap. His memory was hazy, fragmented by the trauma of the fire, but he recalled the jeering mob, the oppressive heat, and the suffocating weight of despair. Beyond that, nothing.
"When the fire died down, and the crowd dispersed..." said Batin, a knowing grin spreading across his face.
The flames raged, consuming everything. Emery's screams were drowned out by the roar of the inferno and the jeers of the crowd. Batin stood at the edge of the chaos, his hand trembling.
Then it happened. The pen began to move, the ink carving words into his flesh. "If the condition provided beside the name cometh to pass, the man shall rise again and come back to life."
Batin stared at the inscription, his mind racing.
He wondered why the pen would remind him of a rule he already knew—why now, at this desperate moment, it chose to reveal it again.
Maybe could it be that…
He had seconds to act. Ignoring the pain, he scrawled Emery's name onto his arm, followed by a hastily chosen condition.
Emery stared at Batin, his expression unreadable.
"You...saved me?"
"Not for your benefit," Batin admitted, his face pressed against the cold earth as Emery kept him pinned firmly to the ground. "The king ordered us to bring you back alive."
"THEN WHERE ARE THE OTHERS ?!!" shouts Emery.
"They left !! … Thinking you're dead. They don't know about the pen."
"So," Emery said slowly, his tone icy, "you're the only one who knows I'm still alive. And the only one, besides me, who knows about the pen ?"
Batin paused.
"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now."
Sweat beaded on Batin's brow. He swallowed hard, searching for a way out.
I can't kill him... I have to find a way to use him somehow
Emery's eyes darted around, scanning his surroundings as his mind raced. Then, as if struck by a sudden revelation, a plan began to take shape.
"I'll let you live—under one condition." said Emery.
"What is it?" Batin asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Your name. Give me your real name."
Batin stiffened. "No chance!"
Emery remained sient, raising the pen and inscribing a condition. He showed it to Batin: "When I am delivered to the royal court."
"I've left the space for the name blank," Emery explained. "You'll write it yourself."
Batin hesitated. "I see… But what's to stop you from taking my lifeless body and tossing it into the ocean?"
"You won't write your name now," Emery replied, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "You'll do it in broad daylight, right at the gates of the palace. That way, it'll be impossible for me to move your body without drawing the attention of the guards and the authorities."
Batin fell silent, the gears in his mind turning as he mulled over the proposition.
"There's one more thing," Emery added, his tone growing sharp. "You'll relinquish ownership of the pen once we're at the gates. That way, you'll lose any memory tied to it."
"Why not just kill me?" Batin asked, his frustration seeping through his words. "Why go to all this trouble?"
"You said it yourself—I owe you my life," Emery said, his grin widening. "Even though I know you didn't do it for my benefit."
Batin didn't respond, his silence hanging in the air.
"Now, let's move," Emery ordered, rising to his feet. "We've got a long journey ahead of us." His voice hardened as he added, "And don't even think about trying anything."
Batin gave a reluctant nod.
"I won't hesitate to incapacitate you if you leave me no choice."
The bustling capital lay thick under a pale morning haze as Emery stood near the palace gates. In his hand, a single finger, slick with fresh blood, gleamed in the muted light. He placed it into one of his leather pouches, sealing it tight with a grim satisfaction.
"I think this should do," he muttered, voice low and steady.
Inside the opulent hall of the royal court, Batin was hauled forward, still groggy and disoriented from whatever had brought him back to life. As consciousness sharpened, his gaze fell to his left hand — the index finger was gone, the wound raw and bleeding, throbbing with a sharp, unyielding pain.
Around him, a ring of guards clad in polished armor tightened their formation, their spears towering like a forest of iron. The space around Batin was constricted, carefully controlled — no chance for a desperate attack or sudden flight.
The heavy doors creaked closed behind the last of the attendants, and the king's stern voice cut through the court's tense silence.
"Do you have aught to say, Batin?"
"Who has done this to me?!" he spat, struggling against the grip of the guards. "Get away! Get away from me!" His frantic thrashing drowned out the question entirely.
The king's sharp eyes never wavered. "Bring him to the witch hunter at once. Use whatever means are needed to extract every last whisper of knowledge about this Death Dealer."
I had expected some message, a token, a sign — yet nothing.
Batin's memories began to come back, slow and painful. "The Death Dealer?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "The witch hunter killed the Death Dealer father!"
Gerold, the king's chancellor standing close by, frowned deeply. "He killed him?" said the king.
"Yes! I tried to stop them — I swear I did! But they would not heed!" Batin's voice rose, desperate and anguished, as he thrashed against the guards anew. Tears welled in his eyes as he wailed, "Father! There is no hope for Alyssa! She's dead! The condition can never be fulfilled again! Father! Father! Haaaahhh!" His cries echoed off the cold stone walls as the guards dragged him roughly into the dim corridors beyond the court.
Outside the city walls, far above the commotion, Emery rested on a thick branch of an ancient tree, the sprawling capital laid out beneath him like a chessboard. The morning stillness was shattered as a sudden jolt stirred him awake. His pouch — the one containing the bloody finger — trembled slightly in his grasp, tugging toward a direction.
Emery's lips curled into a sharp grin. He rose, eyes alight with fierce purpose.
"Time to hunt the witch hunter."