I frown at the crooked wooden door of the apothecary. A stirring in my belly distracts me from my reverie.
Many villages give me these same feelings of familiarity. Every time we enter a new one, I wonder, but I don’t allow myself to look too closely.
I don’t want to know.
I’ve been blissfully absent of the affliction of hope for many years. Though my heart beats, my mind is distant. My soul, an insignificant speck lost somewhere inside the maze of madness.
Memories forgotten. Desires absent.
“Fall out,” Ivar says casually. Maddox, Ronan, and I obey without hesitation.
We split up, each choosing a building to enter. I skip the apothecary and enter an unmarked building with a wooden front porch. The air is musty but cool enough to be a relief from the blistering sun. Wood creaks beneath my feet, blackened and weak. There are overturned stools and a faded sign that reads “Harrow Tavern.” I shake two barrels but find no weight to either.
I look through a few cupboards but find that anything left behind has been smashed or cracked and long since dried out.
There is nothing worth our time to scavenge here, except?—
A new scent catches my attention. I pause, anxiety and hunger squeezing my stomach at once.
Near the back door, there is a pile of thin, worn blankets. I stoop to examine the nest, wringing the warmth in my fingers.
One long deep breath, then I stand and leave the blankets behind and rejoin my squad in the street. Maddox carries a thick fur and jug of liquid. Mead, if we’re lucky.
Like me, Ronan is empty-handed.
We are not in need of supplies, but where there is something to covet, most Drak take them regardless.
Ivar huffs his disappointment at our empty hands.
Though technically our mission is scouting, and we will come back with information as intended—another town to cross off of our maps—Ivar is zealous. If there are no souls to reap, he is displeased.
Ivar nods, and we follow him up the hill, into the trees, away from the forgotten town while the crows caw overhead.
Soon, we will move south where more villages remain. We will find more unlucky souls to harvest soon.
My eyes flash toward a set of trees at the bottom of the hill beyond the cluster of buildings.
A stomping of hooves. The squeal of old wheels. And a low hush from human lips.
This time, Ivar stops. He’s heard it too.
Ivar is the hunter seeking prey.
I am the hound who obeys, in order to escape punishment. His prey is near. When his chin dips, I know he’s found it.
We are not sly hunters. We are not quiet or subtle.
When our target is declared, we invade, destroy, and take our spoils with ease.
He flies into the tree line with surprising swiftness for a man his size, and the rest of the squad follows with howls of rage and glee alike.
Ivar reaches them first, axe swinging wide and landing a horrific blow to the horse pulling their wagon. Blood splatters. The screech of the dying horse pierces my mind and sends in that wave of blissful numbness.
More blood is spilled, wood shatters, the wagon tips over, and bodies fly into the brush. The screams blend into the throbbing pulse in my mind.
Once again, there is only my place nestled in the darkness and my body mindlessly moving on someone else’s ambitions.
I hate every moment of this existence.
