The thick mists rolled in from the neighboring seacoast; the winds chimed languidly.  

The sinuous road that followed the coastline of the Red Dragon Sea, its waves a unique, imposing scarlet as dim moonspots tickled the boundaries of the dense cage of fog, though never quite penetrating. Ravels of white wildflowers stalked the perimeters of the well-traveled trail and swayed delicately in tandem with the chilled night air. A snorting steed and heavy hoofprints trudged along as the extravagant wagon juddered awkwardly when it ran afoul of an offensive pebble; the well-stocked cargo in the hold clanking noisily. The well-dressed merchant complained under his breath as spectacled eyes squinted to spy past the impenetrable murk; the hills tolling a distant, whispery elegy, causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise; his brain incomprehensibly alert, perspiration foregathering at the edge of a thick brow. 

The mount whinnied alarmingly as the cart dragged to a sharp stop and nearly threw the salesman out of his perch as a result. He whipped down, shouted and bullied the beast, but it dug its hooves into the dirt and obstinately refused to budge. Something chattering in the fog. The merchant climbed out to probe further when a narrowed gaze traced the distinct outlines of— fellow human beings. He called, and the mist did not answer. A windy dirge accompanied by a chorus of whistling breezes. He rested a hand at his hipline to count on the short blade he kept therein. Reckless thieves with the doubtless intention to loot his corpse but alas, he has journeyed these roads since he was old enough to learn the mercantile ways from his father and knew how to safely protect his keep from any such would-be villainy. Age notwithstanding, he was assuredly no pushover.  

Another unnoticed warning. Stock-still tableaus of revenants mired in shadow. The diaphanous lament must have been penned, no doubt, to honor their funeral. But he would not realize that they were already dead. He tentatively unsheathed his shortsword and entered the suffocating gloom. He reached for the shoulder of the closest figure, forcibly prying their casket open, threatening to slide his dagger through unbreathing ribs, though the blood had long since dried. An animalistic groan; a higher tune, piercing the wilderness like the shrill cry of a predator.  

Daring firelight discovered shrouded features, ashen complexions and deteriorated jawbone, sunken sockets and peeling tears of half-bitten flesh, clothes sliced asunder. A shout of dismay jumped up his throat as the salesman instantaneously backed off, surrendering his lantern as shattered glass screeched and shaky hands unconfidently brandished his counterattack.  

The wind howled. The dead marched. 

Avid screams cut through the tranquility of the gloaming; a rancorous concerto for two.  

… 

“... Ser Reinhard, this is...”  

“... Another attack,” the Mage-Knight concluded, stomach sloshing as he attempted to cool his rising bile and took a reassured breath, interviewing the scene of the crime through an unclouded, unbiased lens under the clear morning sun. The wagon had been totaled, lopsided where it had skirted off the main path and snapped through the coarse fencing that cordoned off the surrounding hills, its cargo unloaded, disseminated but neither ravaged nor purloined.  

The remains of a bound horse, unable to break out of its bindings in time before it was ravished, maggots taking to the rest of its fat meat where it lay on its side, diced open and disemboweled, sloppily pooling and twisting glops of entrails; its long legs snapped sideways, fractured bone peeking through the cracks. Its courier was in even worse condition when they uncovered his body amid the devastating wreckage: an affluent man ensembled in the finest linens savaged beyond a state of plausible recognition like he had been targeted and promptly torn to bits and pieces by a voracious cannibal. The corpse had been rented nearly in twain, violated, and dismantled well beyond death; its jugular slashed gaping, eyes chewed out, clawed-open cavities meticulously hollowed out. Reinhard placed a gauntleted hand over his mouth as the noxious stench of death settled deeply in his lungs. 

“... I believe that it is safe to conclude that this was not the work of common hoodlums,” he reported thereafter as he pointedly turned away from the bloodshed for the sake of his decaying sanity. “The loot wasn’t stolen, and I recognize the emblem chiseled into the side of the cart,” he trudged over to the sideways cart, taking in the hummingbird-like insignia that had been finely carved into the dark wood. “... This is an associate of Saintridge’s most prolific merchant’s assembly. Their wagons come premade with protective wards to counteract fiends, so while it seems like the most obvious answer... I have my doubts.”  

“Here are the dossiers we collected from the wreckage, sir,” his subordinate returned with an envelope that had narrowly managed to elude devastation, and Reinhard unsealed it and briefly reviewed its contents.  

“... Just as I suspected. This was not only a simple grunt, but a well-established figurehead who is recognized by the Witch Embassage. While indiscernible now, he has been making trips between here and Saintridge for the past few decades... he is wise in the way of navigating these coasts,” Reinhard returned the notes to his underling and studied the destruction again as frustration fanned a fire in his breast, which itched to fester and consume him entirely, but he steadied his hand against the sheathed hilt of the sword at his hipbone and recounted his breaths. “... Sergeant, tell me again... what was the odd phenomenon that the farmer who lives in the hills west of here cited when he reported the incident?”  

“They alleged that they had heard what sounded like an ocarina, ser.”  

“An ocarina. That leaves only one option, then... damn it all,” the Mage-Knight fiercely shook his head and distracted his eye by confiding in the rich crimson waters that hissed along the crags. “... That bastard... he managed to drag another innocent soul into his maddening little charade right under our noses... and the captain expects us to simply sit around and twiddle our thumbs? Bluefield is an integral waypoint that all witches must eventually pass through in order to reach the New Capital; if there continue to be casualties, our integrity as the Honor Guard will be called into question by the Witch Embassage... and the suffering will never be able to achieve their righteous justice.”  

“But Ser Reinhard,” his underling interjected as a gloved hand settled on a pristine ivory pauldron. “... Failure to heed the captain’s words will result in immediate expulsion and your sword will be requisitioned. I need not remind you of our commandments, do I?”  

Reinhard retreated from his coworker, scarcely stifling his surging rage. “And if I say that we need to reevaluate our so-called commandments, will you report me to the captain? I assure you; I know well enough that my hereditarian ties to the Honor Guard will not protect me should I ever defer to misconduct. But there is nothing in the rulebook that insists that I must disrespect my personal beliefs... even if it must mean that I am to hang up my sword once and for all, I am not going to stand aside while people are dying when I know that there is something I can do...  

... Even if it invalidates everything I stand for as a knight, I will not rest until I have destroyed this monstrosity with my own hands.”