Annum 378 : 12M/28D

  A world of snow, but in a small clearing, life existed.

  The campfire cracked like bones snapping in frost. Ash drifted through the night air, mixing with snow, soot, and the stink of boiling leather. Tents sagged. Men muttered. Above, the stars were blinking out, one by one.

  Slothi sat motionless in the cold mud behind the supply tent, fingers numb around a rusted tin cup of broth he hadn't drunk. His breath came in shivers, not from the cold, but from the knowing—that the peaceful snowy nights were soon to end.

  A hand smacked the back of his head.

  "Drink it, runt," growled Sergeant Brax, the officer with teeth like knives and a laugh like a saw through bone. "Need strength for tomorrow. We're slaughtering the last of those Uiolan rebels, and you're hauling the heads." His shiny bald head, glistening with sweat, served as a testament to how he spoke his thoughts aloud. He was rude and ignorant, but he was strong and ranked highly in the army so the soldiers in the camp respected him.

  Slothi didn't look at him. Didn't move. Fourteen years he had been here... None of which were very pleasant years. He scowled and ignored Brax.

  Brax didn't like that.

  "What, you going mute now? Thinking too hard with that filthy Uolian hair, huh?"

  He grabbed a fistful of Slothi's long, dark green hair and yanked his head back hard. He grinned and his yellow teeth flashed in the firelight.

  "Look at this mess," he spat. "Sloppy, swamp-colored mop. It's going to make me belch. You got hair as green as those Uolian rebels! Your green eyes, I've seen many green eyes. Since I often kill those Uolian scum."

  Someone laughed nearby. Someone else muttered, "Green-eyed freak…"

  It was true, Slothi looked bizarre here, next to the pure-bred dark-haired Thesians. His green hair was a forest in the snow.

  Slothi didn't say anything. Didn't flinch. He just stared straight ahead while Brax shoved his face in the snow out of frustration.

  "Should've shaved your head and torn those eyes out when you got here. Then I wouldn't be so pissed by the sight of you. My people died to those cowards... The last thing I need is a constant reminder."

  Brax kicked his ribs hard enough to make him drop the tin, hot broth steaming in the snow. He laughed as he did so.

  "Oops."

  No one watched. No one cared. Slothi was property—Army Rat, born of nothing, sold young, beaten younger, his name a joke someone forgot to take back. Power was always near him, generals and powerful soldiers. But always out of reach, because he was not a prodigy in anything, other than misfortune.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Envy was always in his mind, as living caused him to be constantly reminded of his own weakness.

  "Brax..." Slothi gasped in pain. But Brax was already bored of him.

  Brax sauntered off, belching and scratching his gut, disappearing into his tent.

  Slothi stared down at the spilled broth, then at the ice-slick handle of the empty tin cup, and then—

  It whispered.

  A sound like breath on the back of his neck. A voice that wasn't a voice. It came from the shadows in the snow, from the dark between tents, from under the world.

  Would you kill for power?

  He turned his head slowly.

  There it was. Lying in the snow, half-buried and steaming, like it had fallen from the sky: A grimoire. Thick. Black as the sky. Covered in jagged red carvings that shifted when he blinked. No locks. No bindings. It shuddered in the wind, as if it was alive.

  Slothi crawled toward it like it was fire and warmth and everything he had never touched.

  "A grimoire?" His voice was innocent, in disbelief.

  Would you kill for power? It asked again.

  "There's-. No way... These things are rare. It could sell for-. What am I saying? It could be mine!"

  Would you kill for power? It asked again.

  He looked at Brax's tent.

  He didn't answer with words.

  He took the grimoire with him, the book's black leather was soft against his fingers.

  Inside the tent, Brax snored like a dying animal. His huge body resting in gluttony. Slothi slipped in, bare feet silent on the tarp. The grimoire hung from his fingers like it weighed nothing. The pages turned themselves, slow, hungry, interested.

  Slothi stood over Brax, the old man's throat exposed. He reached into his own pockets and pulled out a gleaming weapon, small yet terrifying.

  It was a hunting dagger, used for filleting fish whenever he was on cooking duty. It gleamed in the moonlight, in his right hand.

  "I would kill," Slothi whispered, but the intentness of his voice was juxtaposed by his shuddering, twitchy fingers.

  He pressed his palm against Brax's chest. All his fear was gone in that moment. His other hand shot down, and his breath hitched.

  The man's heart burst inside him like a grenade.

  The scream that followed was short. Wet. Slothi stood over the corpse, chest heaving, staring at the steam curling from Brax's nose and eyes.

  "Dead... I did it." Slothi panted in and out but soon began to hyperventilate.

  He had seen the dead, many times in his life. The army bred death, but now he was the cause. He was the weapon.

  Behind him, the grimoire snapped shut. A faint red glow pulsed from its cover—approval.

  The body twitched once, then went still.

  Slothi didn't flinch. He watched the life rise from Brax's cratered chest, eyes flat, jaw set.

  He had no time. If word got out, or even the sight got out, there would be trouble.

  He dragged the corpse out the back of the tent by the wrists, breath steaming in the cold night. Snow crunched under bare feet. No one saw him — most were drunk, asleep, or worse. He knew where to go.

  Behind the latrine pits, past the broken fencing, there was a hollow under a collapsed wagon — half-filled with frozen mud and piss-soaked hay. It had been there before they had set up camp here, and it was unlikely anyone would try to fix the mess.

  "Perfect."

  He shoved Brax's corpse beneath the wreckage, pulling a torn tarp over the mess. No dignity. No ceremony. The body slumped into the rot like it had always belonged there.

  Done.

  He stood, breathing heavy.

  And the grimoire opened.

  No hands touched it. It just unfolded in his grip, pages flipping themselves with a sound like dry leaves in fire.

  A new page glowed red. The ink curled and flowed into words, sharp as blades:

  ?Bastion of the Moment— A blood-sealed ward spell.

  — Creates a dome of total protection for 3 seconds.— Cannot be cast again until a life is taken.

  A sketch of the barrier shimmered on the page — jagged, angular, red as fresh arterial spray. Slothi stared at it.

  The page pulsed.

  Would you kill again, Slothi?

  He shuddered, but slowly his mouth twitched into a smirk.

  "For power..." Slothi looked at his bloodied hands.

  "I would do anything."