Chapter 1: The Fugitive Priest of Decay
A fugitive fleeing.
A man sprinted across the blindingly white snowfield.
Three shadowy figures pursued him.
An arrow loosed from a bow pierced the fleeing man’s leg with precision. His body crumpled into the snow. After tumbling heavily, he scrambled to his feet and ran again, though his pace had clearly slowed.
The fugitive, now hobbled, was soon overtaken.
Ragil, the senior ranger of the Algor Kingdom, delivered a brutal kick to the fugitive’s back, marking the end of their days-long pursuit.
This fugitive had raced through the snow-cloaked northern forests for three days, barely sleeping, matching even the northern kingdom’s rangers in speed. He had the makings of a natural-born ranger.
Ragil drew the longsword from his hip as he stared down at the fallen man. A desolate metallic ring pierced the air.
The man was a fugitive who had stolen a sacred relic from the Holy Flame Church. Orders from above were clear: behead him and reclaim the relic. Though the relic itself held little value to the Holy Flame Church, the kingdom’s leaders were desperate to win their favor.
In the frozen north, the warmth of fire outweighed all else.
Sschk—
Steel sliced through flesh. Crimson blood sprayed across the pristine snow. With a stroke so flawless it would humble even an executioner, the fugitive’s head thudded to the ground. Ragil flicked blood from his blade and jerked his chin in command.
"Search him."
The rangers rifled through the corpse with practiced ease. The fugitive’s possessions were meager: a withered woman’s hand, a cerulean cup, and a handful of coins.
Ragil pocketed the cup and coins, then turned away without hesitation.
"The relic is recovered. We return."
"Yes, sir."
"Understood."
The rangers departed, retracing their tracks across the snowfield, abandoning the headless corpse behind.
As the rangers vanished and dusk crept over the land, a hand resting on the fugitive’s body twitched.
The withered woman’s hand crawled up the corpse, clawing its way to the collar. It seized the fabric and shook violently.
"Calm your fury, Mother of Decay."
The headless body rose slowly from the snow. It plucked the withered hand from its neck and tucked it into a pouch nestled within its chest.
"Death here was necessary."
The body lifted its own still-chattering head and pressed it against the severed neck. Moments later, the fugitive’s head fused seamlessly to his body—or rather, the Priest of Decay, Marnak, grinned widely.
"We’ve retrieved the relic’s sanctity. No sense dragging around useless baggage."
