Mordecai lowers his cowl, letting the pale moonlight wash over his skull. Several feet away, Achillea sleeps deeply, armored once again.

They’d spent a whole day walking west after the fight with the orcs. Better to get as far from the road as possible. They’d made it a fair distance before they reached the base of a cliff and been forced to duck under an overhang when the rain started.

On the bright side, rain means no one will be coming after them. They can rest while they have the chance.

Before Achillea nodded off, they’d talked over their plans. She would still take him to Redburn, though now that he knew she was a werewolf (or rather, now that Achillea knew that he knew) she’d agreed there was no reason to rush to get there. In fact, it might be better to wait for the full moon to pass before crossing the border, since the Sunblades by this point are probably on alert for a werewolf in Redburn.

There was no mention of Achillea’s disgraced status. She hadn’t brought it up, and Mordecai figured she probably didn’t want to talk about it.

He hadn’t mentioned his new memories either.

What good would it do, anyway? ‘Hey Achillea, I just remembered what my killer looked like.’ ‘Oh yeah? You got a face to look for?’ ‘Well, no, just a skull. You wouldn’t happen to know any undead elves, would you?’ As if Achillea would know where the elven cities are. He doesn’t even know what kind of elf it was. That whole line of questioning seems less like a lead and more like a false hope.

Mordecai groans, standing up. The memory plus the fight with the orcs just dumped a whole load of new issues into his lap and it’s making him antsy. He doubts he would have been able to sleep if he could. Achillea’s wounds had healed by dawn, she’ll be fine for ten minutes while he goes for a walk.

The rain has stopped, but the trees still drip with moisture, causing the occasional droplet to land straight on his bare skull. Everything, including the air, is damp and still, yet the forest seems to breathe. It feels as though the world is asleep, too.

Mordecai cannot rest. He trudges between the trees, mud and debris squishing under his boots.

Who were the other people in his memory? He can’t remember the faces of the swordsman and crossbowman, but there is a sense of familiarity about them. Were they friends? Family? What were they doing there in that cave? What about the enemy hammerer? Why was he with the elf? Was he undead too?

False hope, he reminds himself. He can’t remember enough details to form a solid lead. There’d been nothing in the cave to indicate what his connection to the other two was. He’s just going to frustrate himself more thinking about it.

On the other hand, not thinking about the memory means thinking about the fight. About the orc he’d killed.

About how he doesn’t feel guilty about it, this time.

That was a worrying realization to come to. Mordecai knows, objectively, that what Achillea says about needing to fight to survive is true. No living creature would come at him with anything less than the intent to put him down, and if he doesn’t respond in kind his body will end up a useless pile of bones while his soul is sent to face Radur’s judgment.

Still, it might be because the orc was attacking Achillea, or maybe just because the woman was human like him and the orc wasn’t. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s…losing his humanity.

A swarm of insects rushing toward him. Shadow imps surging around him to get at the human fool enough to enter their territory. A skeletal face looking down on its latest kill. And Mordecai…

Mordecai doesn’t want to think about it.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and looks around himself. He must have walked further than he’d meant to; the moon is brushing the tops of the trees now.

During the trek that day, he’d practiced with his newfound sense. It’s more obvious when she’s in beast form, but even as an orc he can feel the faint presence of supernatural magic coming from her. He’s not sure if it’s something he’s always been able to do or if it’s just another weird perk of undeath. He concentrates, feeling out for that familiar energy.

Achillea’s presence is nowhere to be found. He must have gone too far. Oh well. He knows the way back anyway.

However, he does notice a closer presence, much much stronger than Achillea’s.

It couldn’t be her, could it? This new presence is as powerful as Achillea’s werewolf form, if not more so. If she woke up to find him missing, why would she need to transform to find him? And it’s coming from the opposite direction.

It might be a bad idea, but if supernatural beings have no need to attack each other then it might be safe to check out. Right?

Mordecai turns and walks toward the presence.