This was all wrong. There was only one that matched that description, but it was impossible! She was dead! He had…she made him…no, this was a trick! Someone was emulating her to get to him! But who?!

He stopped at the corner, huddling himself in it. He grabbed his horns and whined, unable to block the images that flooded his mind. The pulsating, fleshy mass of a golem that reached for the skies, three stories tall. The bodies…oh, the bodies. Kyrik stepping into the church, scythe out. Tears had flown down his face, unable to take his eyes off the one who stood before him.

The shriker was clad in skeletal armor, glowing with unnaturally pale light. Before her, a glimmering shard in the air. The dialogue was white noise. He could tell by his own voice that he was on the verge of breaking down like he did now.

Then, the shriker turned around to-

NO!

Kyrik got up and sliced at the wall, unintentionally summoning his scythe. The pale, shimmering blade cut through a few paintings effortlessly. He stared at it in horror, backing away as it hovered in the air.

It had been a long time since it last did this. The scythe had long since been a friend of his ever since he became a reaper. It seemed to have a life of its own in a way; it couldn’t talk to him, nor could it really communicate, but it always responded to stress. Sometimes it would hover over him, brightening the blade for when he stayed up at night.

Supposedly, the other side of him – the reaper side – had a consciousness of its own. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about it. He wished for another to come and explain these things to him. Jirmen could only tell and teach him so much. But no one came; no one ever did.

But seeing it appear drew vivid memories. Blood leaking onto his chest, Kyrik staring up at the face of his once mentor; Methir. Her face, twisted and corrupted as it was, stared at the scythe in horror as it protruded from her heart. The simple question of ‘why’ as she fell.

“Why is this happening?” Kyrik asked it. “Is…is this someone’s idea of a joke or is she…?”

It didn’t answer. Well, not in any traditional way. Instead, it spun itself around and pointed further down the hall.

“You know that it’s dangerous to have you out here, right?” Kyrik warned it. If inanimate objects could have emotions, he doubted it would care.

It wasn’t like he had much a lead anyway. Besides, as much as Azulia tolerated him, she would no doubt be angry at him damaging her belongings. The thought alone made him scamper away faster than he thought possible.

The scythe led him around a bend and down two corridors. It was about that time that he realized that the scythe was invisible to everyone but him. Otherwise everyone would either stare or flee. Perhaps attack, too. He pulled his cloak around himself tighter at the thought.

His scythe stopped at a door to his right. Kyrik almost didn’t realize it, walking ahead until it stopped him. Confused, he stood there for a moment before he understood why.

“No, I don’t think so.” Witherwing’s voice was very faint. Why was he up here? Wasn’t he supposed to be in the basement?

“The young master is unaware,” Witherwing went on. “I don’t think this is part of what we had in mind, but-yes, I am aware.”

Kyrik looked at the scythe quizzically. It was the only thing he could do. Who was the butler talking to?

“With all due respect, Lei is the worst to send after her.”

The shriker? So, he did know about it. He’d have to confront him later.

“Yourself?”

Another silence.

“I do not understand the importance of the necklace, but I trust your planning. But, I am sure you are aware of our other problem.”

Kyrik nearly smacked his head on the wall once he realized Witherwing was talking to Azulia. How did it take him so long to notice this?

But, if it was like last time, Witherwing should have noticed him by now – if he didn’t already. The best way to handle this was to step in after him instead of playing innocent. There was only so much he could rely on for that.

“Erm,” Kyrik stepped in.

Witherwing spun around so fast that Kyrik thought a gust of wind was going to knock him over. His golden eyes studied him – the only indication on his otherwise pleasant face that hinted at suspicion. Who he was talking to was not here, nor was any form of communication.

“Ah, didn’t notice you there.” Witherwing said. “How did your investigation go?”

“Well…someone has a sick sense of humor.” Kyrik looked down, shuffling his claws.

“Whatever do you mean?” Witherwing bent his head down to his level.

“A shriker with a blade of bone and pale, purple skin. Where have we heard this?”

Witherwing let out a short, sympathetic sigh. “That is cruel.”

“I don’t know who can be so heartless to do this,” tears began to well up in Kyrik’s eyes again. “But I’m going to find them.”

“And what will you do?” Witherwing inquired.

“I don’t know,” Kyrik admitted, fangs poking out through a snarl. “But they won’t like it.”