Page 93 of Oracle of Ruin

Did Ophelus create it because he remembers Irene reading those stories to me when I was a child? I doubt he actually listened when we spent time together, but that only leaves a more horrifying realization.

The magic pulled the creature from the pages. The king shoots power any which way, and the darkness chooses its form on its own. Was the Ricor pulled from those fairy tales, or were those stories written about a time that already came to pass? None of our history books note any monstrous entities aside from the Kijova, even the banned books that are stored in Irene’s study.

I lift my hand and spread my fingers far apart, as if trying to grasp the falling embers as they are blocked from the sky by a tide of crimson. Red sap drips from the leaves and their stems, a blood rain perpetually misting the forest.

A sticky, scarlet glob plinks against my cheek, just narrowly missing my eye. My fingers ghost the sap, feeling the way it clings to my flesh. There have been many stories about the Bone Wood, all to keep enemies from entering the kingdom if the mountains failed.

Quickly, a thick fog rolls in, smothering the fire and tangling with my hair. I bolt upright, my joints popping and muscles groaning with each motion. My hand finds the dagger at my hip. I palm the weapon for a second in debate before flipping it into my grip. The thick gray mist coats only the ground, rising up to about my knees. It rolls in waves, like the white caps on a lake on a windy day.

I shuffle my feet in the dark, kicking out slightly until I find Derrín’s sleeping form. I dig the toe of my boot into his ribs and he shoots up with a yelp.

“Fog?”

“Fog doesn’t move like this.”

Realization dawns in his eyes before I finish my words. He reaches for Rowan’s sword and shoves his back against mine.

If stories are coming to life, then the last place we want to be is in the Bone Wood.

“You don’t think—”

Derrín is unable to finish his thought when the first of my fears crashes through the brush, its elongated fangs snapping and talons poised to rip out our throats.

The Infected are just one of the many nightmare-inducing horrors the poets wrote about residing in the Bone Wood. Unlike the Ricor, they are human in shape, and unlike the Kijova, they are not born of dark magic, despite once being human.

No, they are born of an original clan that lost their way attempting to invade Krycolis. Trapped for eternity in the Bone Wood, they had no choice but to turn on each other. The gods, enraged by this sacrifice of humanity, deemed that any who ate human flesh would be cursed with eternal bloodthirstiness and rage, doomed to forever wander the Bone Wood, tormented by the sight of blood-like sap and bones, but never any real flesh.

And as luck would have it, Ophelus brought them to life too.

I sink my blade to the hilt in the soft of its jaw, recoiling at the sickening squelch as I drag the blade back out through the rough skin. The Infected drops to the ground, dead. The same oily, black blood that the Ricor had pools under its head. At least these are easy to kill, if you can get past their human appearance. I whirl and slam my dagger between the fangs of another Infected, its mouth only mere millimeters from my neck. Too close—they’re getting too close. I spare a glance over my shoulder to check on the mechanic, only to find Derrín using Rowan’s sword to block attacks, but he pauses whenever he attempts to strike.

“Derrín,” I call over their unholy screeches, “they’re not people.”

“But they were!”

“They’re not and haven’t been for thousands of years, and they’re going to kill you if you don’t kill them first.”

The mercenary raises his arms as if to strike, but freezes on the spot, leaving a vulnerability in his form. An Infected spots his belly, now unguarded, and dives fangs-first towards it.

I whirl before him, ramming my dagger through the back of his skull. Oily, black blood splatters over my hand, my face, and the intricately carved hilt. I tug on the blade. It won’t move. Hissing fills my ears and flaming pain shoots through my leg as an Infected’s claws rake through it. I flinch in time, sparing myself from any muscle damage, but the wound bleeds furiously, drawing the attention of all the monsters.

“Fucking… fuck,” I hiss between breaths. “Derrín, give me your sword and get my dagger.”

Derrín’s eyes go wide at the sight of my gold blood mingling with the snow, mixed with the black. His throat constricts and his mouth drops open in a soft “o.” “You’re hurt.”

“Yes, and we are going to die, so give it to me.”

Numbly, he passes me the sword, and not a second too late, I lop the head off of an Infected careening towards us. I swing the blade in wide arcs, casting fatal blows upon the depraved beasts two at a time.

A cool and familiar metal handle is pressed into my hand, though slick with greasy blood. Derrín stays huddled behind me as I fight now with both dagger and sword, stabbing my opponents when they come too close and slashing long range when I have the time. I work in a circular motion, protecting Derrín, as well as myself.

We continue on like one of the training exercises back in the palace. After Rowan abandoned me on the ballroom balcony, I made the knights train with me, taking on three or four at a time. Those knights were skilled, and while they initially did not wish to harm their princess, they soon lost such qualms as I tore through their ranks. The Infected are bloodthirsty and fueled by unending rage, but they are clumsy and blinded by their strengths. Their shrieks of rage are music in the wind as I deliver blow after blow, kill after kill.

However their rage fuels them, mine is only draining my already run-ragged body, not to mention the insatiable nagging of dark magic at the base of my skull. It squeezes my senses, blurs my vision, slows my heart rate. Something sweet and distinctly iron drips down the cleft beneath my nose and onto my lips.

The trees begin to spin. One more—there’s just one more infected. Then Derrín is safe.

I sink to my knees as the last of the monsters leaps.

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