Elias felt the knife sink into the man’s flesh—down to the bone. 

A second later, he had to rip the dagger out and dodge out of the way as a sword was swung at him. He heard steel cut through wind and rain, so close he could almost feel the air shift just above his head. Elias stumbled as he put some distance between him and his three attackers. When he looked at them, their faces were just as blank as before—their eyes just as empty. 

The wound where his knife had struck one of the men bled not a single drop. 

“Well, that’s just great,” Elias muttered to himself, wondering just what he was supposed to do. After all, how could he kill what was already dead? 

Elias stepped back, the ground turning into slick mud beneath his boots as the slight drizzle became a downpour that soaked through his clothes. There was, of course, not a sign of discomfort on his attackers’ faces. It was oddly unsettling to face an opponent so empty of any emotion—fear, hesitation or even excitement in the face of battle. The men slowly surrounding Elias were blank slates. 

Is this what it’s like? Elias thought while his eyes flitted around to each of the men. Is this what it means to be raised from the dead?

He gritted his teeth at the unwelcome thought. Not the sort of thing he wanted to dwell on while facing three armed opponents who were seemingly immortal. As if to prove this, one of the men lunged at him, movements smoother than one would expect of a corpse. 

Elias raised his dagger, the blade of the sword was deflected at the last minute by his own weapon. He spun away, the momentum of the attack carrying the man forward. Elias didn’t have time to worry about him as another sword was thrust his way, so close he felt it snag on his cloak as he moved aside. 

There was a scuffing sound behind him that had him all but throwing himself off to the side. He rolled on the rain soaked dirt and stopped just in time to block a downwards swing of a sword. The weight of the weapon and the strength behind it bore down on Elias, pushing down until he could feel the blade settle on his shoulder. 

Behind the dead man, Elias could make out the other two, one wrenching his sword out of the other’s shoulder—the result of Elias dodging out of the way. Even the deep cut nearly severing the dead man’s arm wasn’t enough to stop them. More and more, Elias was starting to lose hope that he would be able to defeat them.

Especially as the sword slowly inching down upon him finally sank into his shoulder. He grit his teeth at the spike of pain. The other two approached, swords held in ice cold hands. 

Elias supposed he should have felt fear in that moment—most would have. But not him. He felt a deep anger at his situation. One he wouldn’t be in if he’d not been foolish enough to trust Ethelred. More than anything though, Elias felt determined. 

He had to live. Ethelred needed to pay for all the trouble he’d caused. 

With a sound that carried all the rage he held towards the necromancer, Elias pushed against the sword, throat hoarse as the dead man stumbled back. The sword slipped from his grip. Elias shot towards it, taking it in hand and raising the weapon—the weight of it strange in his grip. He swung, steel sinking into flesh, cutting through bone and muscle until all that the blade met was air. 

A head rolled onto the ground. The body remained standing. 

For a moment, Elias could simply stare at the grotesque sight. Then, the headless body lurched forward, hand reaching for Elias, and—for a moment—he almost thought he was caught in some absurd nightmare. 

He felt fingertips brush against his throat before they were pulled back. 

A voice rang through the area, both the wind and rain failing to drown it out. Strange words met Elias’ ears, a language that was unfamiliar to him spoken in a familiar voice. He watched the dead men freeze in place, threads of silver sigils winding around them as a cloaked figure approached down the path. 

Elias watched the cloaked figure approach, the grip on the sword tightening. At least, until he caught a glimpse of the face beneath the hood of the cloak. Snow white hair hanging over dark eyes. Bandages peeked past the black fabric of a shirt collar. It was the necromancer.

The grip Elias had on the sword loosened as he watched the necromancer reach one of the dead men. A pale hand emerged from within the folds of the cloak, bandages visibly winding up from the thin wrist. His lips moved, words Elias couldn’t grasp the meaning of slipping out effortlessly. 

An instant later, an object flew out from within the folds of each of the corpses’ clothing, speeding towards the necromancer who grasped them in his hand. All at once, the silvery glow of the magic faded and—with a dull sound that was far too loud in the midst of the empty road—they dropped to the ground.

Elias stared at the bodies that remained. Then, he looked up at the necromancer with what he knew to be surprise mingling with relief. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could really think about it. 

“You’re welcome,” was what the necromancer said, voice utterly unimpressed. He slowly made his way over to Elias. “Really, it was no trouble coming all the way out here to save your pitiful life.” 

Maybe it was the unflinching rudeness in the face of such a chaotic situation, or maybe it was just the adrenaline flowing out of his body—either way, Elias was snapped out of his shock. He took in the necromancer standing before him, cloaked and with a bag slung across his body, and came to a conclusion that immediately broke the daze he was still in. 

“Did you change your mind about joining me?” 

The question seemed to take the necromancer by surprise, his eyes widening for an instant before his expression darkened. He directed a glare towards Elias that might have made a lesser man drop dead. Elias just grinned, forgetting about everything else for a moment. 

“I sensed something amiss and thought it might be Ethelred,” the necromancer said, making it very clear he wasn’t there for Elias’ sake. Which, honestly, was to be expected. 

“Did you mean to kill him?” Or at least, try to kill him, Elias amended in his mind. 

“I’d hoped he might just end things once and for all.” That response dampened Elias’ spirits. He knew he shouldn’t have expected any different. The necromancer didn’t seem particularly concerned over his own life. “I should have known it was just one of his tricks,” the necromancer muttered, looking around at the bodies strewn about. 

“That’s some trick. Nearly took my head,” Elias said, reaching up to his shoulder and wincing as his hand settled on his wound. He was surprised to find it quite warm in spite of the chill that was settling over him—no doubt due to the rain. 

“You were cut?” the necromancer asked, eyebrows knitting together as his gaze landed on the wound in Elias’ shoulder. 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said the thief with a crooked grin. “Now, about you tagging along—”

“I’m not traveling with you,” the necromancer cut in, eyes narrowing before they were once again diverted to the wound on Elias’ shoulder. “Besides, it seems you’ll be meeting your end sooner than I. Very unexpected.” 

That gave Elias pause. 

“What do you mean?” Elias noted there was a note of panic in his tone. 

“Ethelred no doubt used poison on his puppets’ blades. I can smell it from here.” The necromancer looked pointedly at the sword still in Elias’ grasp. “I expect you’ll be feeling the effects soon.” He tilted his head then, as if looking at a particularly interesting experiment. 

“You’re lying.” Elias wouldn’t put it past the necromancer. 

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not. I’d offer you an antidote, but as you said, it’s nothing you can’t handle.” There was an undercurrent of glee in those words and a gleam in the necromancer’s dark gaze that sent a chill down Elias’ spine.

Or maybe he was right about the poison taking effect. 

Whatever the case, Elias felt his strength waning, his grip on the sword growing slack enough for the weapon to drop to the ground. He swayed on his feet, vision blurring as if the rain had washed over the colors of the world until they bled and blended together. In the middle of it all, there was a constant spot of black—like a drop of ink—that could only be the necromancer. 

Elias fell, barely registering the pain of landing on the ground or the discomfort of the raindrops steadily falling onto his face. A dull sort of pain spread from his shoulder, thrumming like a second heartbeat—a burning heat that increased with every second. 

He’s right, he thought even as his mind grew foggy. I’m going to die. 

Elias might have felt fear, had things been different. Instead, all he felt was regret at having left so much unfinished. 

The last thing he was aware of was a cool touch, soothing as it washed over him—and one more phrase before he lost consciousness. 

“You really are pitiful.”

The world fell away and Elias was almost relieved.