Author's Note
Same as the other one-shots, this story requires knowledge of the Upheaval world to understand.
The Last Shadows
The Last Shadows
The painting was just a few inches shy of six feet tall, half that in width. Atop an outcropping of snow-covered rock, Fair Luna, as the thunder-foots saw her anyway, stretched her majestic wings towards a star-studded night sky. Her fur was midnight-blue, almost black, making her silver shoes all the more striking. The moon, with enough detail to make a wolven’s throat itch, dominated the background, outlining her figure with a breathtaking silver glow. Beneath the outcropping were snow-covered firs, their tops aligning against the moon like dark fangs.
Kilrok thought it was absolutely beautiful. Too beautiful to have been made by the thunder-foots. Certainly too beautiful to be kept by them. This portrait was destined for one place only; the sacred halls of King Fenrir’s fortress-palace. He read the small markings at the corner of the painting: Star Silver. It would be a glorious day should a raiding party find this thunder-foot artist and drag him back to Wolvengard. He can spend the rest of his life making works for the king.
“A lovely piece, isn't it?” Sekiskrei asked as she walked over to stand next to Kilrok. He gave her a brief glance and a grunt to acknowledge her presence. Sekiskrei was not the oldest of this pack’s shamans, but she already had the strut reserved for a lead female. Her teacher, Raskra, would not have long left.
“Lovely enough for our king to claim it,” Kilrok said. He grinned widely at Sekiskrei, making sure that she saw every fang. He was a proud berserker, more than twice her size. She may be the upcoming lead shaman, but he had only acquired the pack’s leadership a year ago. She had best be reminded as early as possible. “Old Legrok will never find anything better in his lifetime. His party has been telling tales of how the thunder-foots guarding the caravan all chose to die to protect it. If only all our raids could be as worthy!”
Sekiskrei did not share in the smile. Kilrok took it as a sign of respect. But there was more than just that he supposed. “A troublesome catch, to be sure,” she growled softly.
“You question the worth of this prize?” Kilrok growled. He turned on Sekiskrei, a front paw already raised.
Sekiskrei snorted. “Don’t be so eager to find an excuse to eat me, Kilrok,” she said. “At least, give me some time to raise an apprentice! This pack will suffer without a proper shaman. It is not the worth of the prize I doubt. It’s the amount of effort we have made to acquire it.”
“Old Legrok may rely more on cunning rather than his fangs these days,” Kilrok said. “But he is no liar! He said that it was a fierce battle, do you dispute him?”
“It was a hard fight without a doubt,” Sekiskrei said.
“Then what is this doubting I keep hearing in your voice?” Kilrok asked.
Sekiskrei’s voice dropped further, much to Kilrok’s annoyance. Now he had to strain to hear her or move closer. “Do you know the story of the Night of Long Howls?”
“Every pup is told that story,” Kilrok snarled.
“Over a hundred years ago, strange things happened deep in Equestria,” Sekiskrei said. Kilrok nearly rolled his eyes. By the king’s fangs, was she really going to tell stories? On her part, she didn't even seem to notice his contempt. “During an unusually long night, our king sensed that Fair Luna had departed to a faraway place, out of his reach. His howls filled Wolvengard even as morning rays found him. It was a dark and chaotic time in Wolvengard. The king demanded blood. It didn't matter from which of our enemies. He just wanted as much slaughter as possible. So many raids and invasions were launched. A good time to be wolven.”
“You had better tell me something I don’t know next, Sekiskrei,” Kilrok growled. “Keep treating me like a pup and I’ll eat you while wearing a bib.”
“Then tell me if you know how the thunder-foots reacted to that night, Kilrok,” Sekiskrei replied. “Every pup is only told the wolven side of it.”
Kilrok snorted. “Why should we care how the thunder-foots reacted?”
“I’ll tell you what was passed down to me by my teacher,” Sekiskrei said. “In the years after the Night of Long Howls, the thunder-foots’ reverence for Fair Luna waned. Their rondo ceased their songs, their parade put away their clothes. That is how the wolven knew that Fair Luna did not merely depart. She fell from grace.” It was her turn to grin and bare her fangs. “This is why we should care how the thunder-foots react. A hunter should know his prey if he wishes to remain the hunter.”
“What does this all have to do with a painting?” Kilrok asked.
Sekiskrei wrinkled her nose, as if having to bother elaborating was beneath her. She was looking more delicious with each passing second of this. “The thunder-foots have lost nearly all reverence for Fair Luna. They would not go around painting such a masterpiece on a whim. Do you understand, Kilrok? Great efforts were made to have this done and more were made to have it moved around. The thunder-foots that went through all that trouble will not just let this painting disappear into Wolvengard.”
“Bah!” Kilrok snapped. “The ones guarding it are already dead and it is already deep in Wolvengard, inside a well-defended fort and about to be taken into our king’s palace itself! You are worrying over nothing, Sekiskrei! What a waste of time!” He turned around and was about to leave the treasury when another wolven by the door caught his eye. “This better be important, Dulrak!”
Dulrak was the pack’s biggest berserker, even bigger than Kilrok. He wasn’t very bright, however, and lacked reflexes. If it ever entered his dull-witted head to issue a challenge, Kilrok would simply outmaneuver him and rip his throat out. “News, Kilrok,” he said. He was breathing hard as he spoke. “Old Legrok is dead.”
Kilrok could only stare for a while. Dead? How? Did his health finally fail? No, he may be Old Legrok, but he was strong and healthy enough to give the younger wolven a hard time catching up. Thunder-foots? Impossible. After their successful raid, Legrok and his pack had made gone to the Denrik Dens to celebrate and rest up. They were far away from FangBreaker. While the Equestrian Legion frequently sent out long-range scouts, it seldom led to raids or assassinations. That left one more thing. “So, some pup finally worked up the nerve and skill to take him down?” he remarked. “Who leads his pack now, then?”
“No one, Kilrok,” Dulrak said between pants. “His whole pack has been killed.” He swallowed hard. “They were murdered in their sleep!”
Kilrok snarled loudly. Even Sekiskrei let out a displeased growl. Murdered in their sleep? That was not the wolven way! It had to be thunder-foots then. The scale-tails…no, the scale-tails would never be so bold. A band of thunder-foots had what it took to penetrate deep into Wolvengard and attack a well-defended settlement? He licked his lips. He would like to meet them. They had the skill and audacity, even if they did kill as cowards.
“You are not telling us everything, Dulrak,” Sekiskrei said. “What else is there? Did anyone see who did it? What of the bodies?”
“Well…” Dulrak hesitated and glanced at Kilrok. The big brute wasn’t sure how much respect he should be showing someone who wasn’t yet the lead shaman, but was clearly on the path.
“Answer the question, Dulrak!” Kilrok snapped. “Is there something else?”
“They did not find the murderers,” Dulrak said. “But the bodies…well…the ears were missing.” He could barely squeak out that last bit.
“The what?” Kilrok asked.
“The ears!” Sekiskrei hissed. “As I had feared! We must prepare, Kilrok! Those thunder-foots will come here next!”
Kilrok’s eyes widened. They were in Alundrik! It was one thing to attack a defended settlement and another to go after a fortress. He took a step towards Sekiskrei. “How do you know that they’re thunder-foots?” he asked. “And what makes you think that a band of thunder-foots would be insane enough to attack us here?”
“Keep up the smugness, Kilrok, and you’ll be joining Old Legrok soon,” Sekiskrei snapped. She glanced back at the painting. Whatever admiration that was in her eyes earlier had been replaced with foreboding. “The ears.” Her voice was softer now. “They prove that the Legion is not behind this. Old Legrok provoked the servants of Fair Luna by taking this painting. They’ve punished the thief, now they want their precious relic back.”
“You just said that the followers of Fair Luna had been waning for more than a hundred years,” Kilrok said.
“These must be the final gasps,” Sekiskrei replied. “Don’t underestimate these last shadows of Fair Luna. They must be as vicious as any wolven to have stayed true to a cause their fellows have long abandoned.”
Kilrok licked his lips. “I’ll be dining well when they show up then,” he said. He closed the reinforced doors behind him as they all left the treasury, catching a glimpse of that painting one last time. For a moment, it felt as if Fair Luna was gazing at him. Waiting for something.
A day had passed since news of Legrok’s murder. Security had doubled in Alundrik. The king was arriving personally in a few more days to claim the painting. The honor and very lives of Kilrok and his pack depended on keeping the painting secure. Failure meant a quick trip to their wrathful king’s belly.
Kilrok stalked the upper ramparts and sniffed at the air. The special herbs in the breathing mask that Reskiskrei had distributed made it a bit more difficult to grasp at scents. He hated wearing the thing, as did most of the pack, but Rekiskrei had insisted that they prepare for the vile smoke that these thunder-foots might use. At least, it only functioned for his nose, leaving his jaws free. It should be good enough so long as he didn't gulp down any poison smoke. After a few more tries, he moved on. Not a single whiff of thunder-foot; the same as last night. He growled softly, causing the two smaller wolven with him to flinch and inch away. It was a tense vigil for tonight again. Sekiskrei’s ominous warnings and wild tales did not scare him, but he refused to be murdered in his sleep.
Curse these wretched thunder-foots. To be called “old” was a badge of honor among wolven pack leaders. It meant that one was strong and cunning enough to hold to one’s position despite challenges from subordinates. Legrok was certainly that. But “old” was also a warning. It meant time was growing short for a proper death. Any true wolven would shudder at the thought of dying during sleep or breaking one’s neck because old age had made it brittle. Old Legrok had been raiding very frequently these days. He had clearly lost faith in his cowed subordinates issuing a proper challenge as opposed to waiting for time to do their work. He had turned to the thunder-foots, hoping that Cursed Terrato’s Legion would have what it took. Instead, these miserable thunder-foots murdered him in his sleep. Disgusting.
The rest of his pack was just as uneasy. It was a new moon tonight. If these last shadows of Fair Luna were looking to sneak up on them, this would be the right time.
Even with the right conditions, attacking Alundrik was a foolhardy idea. This fortress was designed to hold the valuables obtained from various raids on Equestria. It may be small, but it was built on a great rock that rose from the center of a frozen lake. Its walls were high and constantly slippery with frost. That wouldn't deter flying thunder-foots, but the ice-razor winds that the fort’s shaman could call up and maintain in short notice, thanks to the specially built ritual site, would cut down any flying thunder-foot in a welter of bloody feathers. The wolven were not as gifted in magic as the thunder-foots. They had no special body part that shot out cowardly spells from afar. But some wolven, usually females, did have some gift in it and the wolven used those gifts when they could. Most wolven magic was slow in casting and effects, often tied down to locations that took a while to prepare. Certainly a far cry from the deadly spell-fire lines that the thunder-foots used. In terms of defending a fort, however, it would do.
To complete the defenses, multiple watch towers, all occupied by bolters, were also scattered around the fort. Alundrik could take on the Legion for a while if it had to.
“Kilrok!”
Sekiskrei stood near the stairs leading down to the lower ramparts.
“This isn’t the razor-wind site,” Kilrok growled. “Are you lost?”
“Raskra insists that she can handle any razor-wind ritual needed for tonight,” Sekiskrei replied. “She hasn't been comfortable with how I've been taking over her tasks recently.”
“Then eat her,” Kilrok said. “Why these little games?”
“I like my little games, warrior,” Sekiskrei said. “I’m pleased to see that you take my warnings seriously. This is a good start for our future efforts.” Kilrok could only snort. Shamans. “Fair Luna’s last shadows will not let this opportunity pass.” Sekiskrei grinned. “Their murder of Old Legrok will bite them back here. If they had let him live, we would be unaware that they exist. Their fanatical desire to punish the thief and leave signs has given us the edge.”
“Where are they, then?” Kilrok asked. “This night won’t last forever.”
“They are--!” Sekiskrei’s eyes widened. “The painting! My wards have been disturbed!”
It took a monumental amount of effort for Kilrok to keep his jaw from hanging open like a pup that had just seen his first fireball. The painting was in the deepest part of the treasury. There was no way…it had to be some idiot guard bumping into the thing that’s disturbed the wards! He was going to rip that wolven’s throat out if that was the case.
“Kilrok!” Sekiskrei was already near the bottom of the stairs. “Move or we all die!”
With a snarl, Kilrok bounded after the shaman. Oh, she was going to pay once this was all settled.
A few angry and urgent barks from Kilrok were all it took to rally every nearby defender towards him as he and Sekiskrei made for the treasury. It was an angry pack of wolven warriors that bounded down the hallway towards the treasury and the sight that greeted them only increased that anger. Along the sides of the double doors, the six guards Kilrok had stationed to stand watch were all down. Bellies on the floor, eyes closed, and jaws shut. Sleeping on the job! He’ll be mounting some heads on spikes by the morning at this rate!
As they closed in, however, some of the anger turned to horror. These wolven guards…they were dead. Their muscles were relaxed, their faces peaceful, but they weren’t breathing. These wolven were slain so swiftly and silently that they had gone long before they even knew they were under attack. Kilrok didn’t see any obvious wounds and he didn’t have time to check. He shoved the doors open, already fearing that he would find it empty.
It wasn't.
Kilrok lowered his stance, his claws scraping against the stone floor. He expected thunder-foots. These barely fit those expectations. Three…creatures were in the treasury. The painting, which had been secured in a triply locked and warded case, had been rolled up and strapped to the back of the one in the center. Kilrok hesitated in considering these things thunder-foots. They had the shape. Those were clearly hooves. Two had wings, while one had a horn. But that was as much thunder-foot as appearances allowed. They were covered in what looked like a smooth, black shell, like an insect of sorts. The ones with wings had long black spines attached to them. Their tails had long, coiling things around them that ended in wicked points. It was their faces though. Three soulless faces stared at the wolven. The eyes were blank and bug-like, frighteningly alien. There were no signs of a mouth, nose, or ears. Were these the last shadows of Fair Luna? What sort of monsters did Equestria’s fallen ruler have for servants?
“They have the painting!” Sekiskrei snarled. “Kill them!”
The shaman’s words snapped Kilrok out of his confusion. He turned on Sekiskrei and flicked a single claw at her, leaving a long mark down her right cheek. “My order to give, hag!” he snapped. He turned towards the others. “Kill those things!”
A few moments passed before the treasury filled with barks and snarls. In that time, Kilrok heard the horned thunder-foot speak to its companions. He knew enough of the thunder-foot language to speak it if he had to and he heard the distorted, metallic voice of their enemy enough to catch some words.
“My bungling…wards…will pay…go…”
Kilrok snarled and charged after the winged thunder-foot that carried the rolled-up painting. The thunder-foot answered by charging him, taking flight when they were a few feet away from colliding. Kilrok’s claw was an inch from the thunder-foot’s mask when it pivoted in mid-air, dodging at the very last second. He landed, claws scraping hard at the deception. He had thought for a second that this was going to be a frontal fight against these desperate thieves now that they were caught. They were still planning on escaping after all.
The second flying thunder-foot made for the open doors while the other wolven closed in. When the first three were close enough to swipe at it, it stopped to hover and face the group. With a single powerful flap of its wings, it sent a barrage of small, feather-shaped objects flying everywhere. The nearest wolven yelped and winced before pulling off what turned out to be pointed blades from their paws and shoulders. The thunder-foot had to land after that move, but quickly joined its companion in exiting the room.
The wolven were about to give chase when a dark blue glow enveloped both doors and slammed them shut. The horned thunder-foot leaped from across the room and landed in front of them.
“You think you can take us all on, thunder-foot?” Kilrok snarled. He spoke in wolven. It was likely that this thunder-foot knew enough of their language. They would have to be fools to infiltrate so deep without knowing what the locals were saying. “We’ll tear your limbs off and bash the skulls of your friends with them!”
“I will die tonight, wolven!” the thunder-foot said. Its horn continued to glow dark blue. The others hesitated as a thick, billowing mist started pouring out. The wolven could only be thankful that they had their breathers. As for that voice…the voice sounded nothing like anything alive that Kilrok knew. “But I will carve our message into your hides. You will fear the night…and her Blackmoon Blades!”
Blackmoon Blades. The name didn't mean anything to Kilrok. Perhaps that was what these last shadows referred to themselves. He had been in many raids against the thunder-foots, whether attacking their northern front or even skirting around for surprise raids on their western front. He had seen their legionnaires, and he had heard enough tales, but these Blackmoon Blades had never been mentioned. Perhaps that only made them even more dangerous.
One of the wolven, Velrok, jumped at the horned thunder-foot, only to be suspended in mid-air with magic. Sekiskrei stepped in, breaking the vile spell with one of her own. Kilrok licked his lips. This horned thunder-foot talked a good game, but it was counting on its magic too much.
Velrok grinned and leaped again. This time, no magic encircled him. The horned thunder-foot stepped back just enough for the lunge to miss. The brothers, Nagrak and Devrok, dove in after Velrok to make sure the job was finished. Every wolven in the room wanted a turn, but there was only so much space for an attack before they would inevitably start crashing into each other like fools.
For their trouble, all three met an explosion of movement. A veritable storm of whirling, blackened steel, from the short, sharpened edges attached to all of its hooves to the coiled stinger on its tail, struck them. With yelps of surprise, Velrok and the others fell back. They sported several minor cuts around their faces and front paws.
‘Good movement,’ Kilrok thought. ‘But even an untrained pup would not fall from those cuts.’ The pained growls from Velrok said otherwise. More came from those who had been struck by the flying blades earlier. ‘Foul poison on their weapons as well. There’s no expecting a decent death from these cowards.' At least none of his pack had the shame to whimper from the pain. That the others continued to close in was also heartening to see. Kilrok moved in to lead the charge. Poisonous, cowardly death or not, he refused to be caught at the back of his warriors against a formidable enemy.
The horned thunder-foot struck first, this time leaving a deep gash across the neck of one overeager wolven. No slow death by poison for this one. Nilrak was all but gone by the time he made a splash on the puddle of his own blood. A lucky break for him.
Sekiskrei had finally finished using her mixture of blood and paint to draw a ritual circle on the floor. After a while, the horned thunder-foot’s breath was coming out of its mask in thick, white clouds. The breath of their king constantly blowing from the reaches of Wolvengard was an everyday condition for the wolven, but the thunder-foots were not as hardy. Kilrok licked his lips. Even with warm clothing, the shivering will set in after a while. Given enough time to work with, Sekiskrei would freeze this thunder-foot until its blood burst from of its veins in large crystals.
Kilrok had no intention of giving Sekiskrei “enough time”. He and his warriors would deal with this filth. Besides, this horned thunder-foot was a decoy. While they wasted time here, the other two could be escaping. The enemy was already slowing down. He pushed Zudrak aside and went in for the kill. His claws came in fast and the thunder-foot was already sluggish. Blood splashed across the treasury floor. For the first time, it was the thunder-foot’s. The savory smell wafted past Kilrok’s nostrils and towards the others. While the thunder-foot’s blood slowly froze, theirs started to boil.
Despite his constant wincing and the twitch in his left eye, Velrok pushed forward with a swipe of his own, gashing the thunder-foot with the very tips of his claws. The wolven howled and closed in. To the thunder-foot’s credit, it neither panicked nor groveled. Cowardly the methods may be, but the user appeared to have some spine. The magic from its horn faltered, but its blades continued to lash out. Velrok looked eager, but the pain of his poisoned wounds brought him to his knees. “It’s burning!” he howled.
“It’s that smoke,” Sekiskrei called from behind them. “That is not a vile poison meant to be breathed in, Kilrok! It will enter your cuts and slay you from the inside!”
‘Of course,’ Kilrok thought. ‘It wouldn't be so stupid as to use a poison for breathing when it already saw our breathing masks.’ He had enough of this thunder-foot. Admiration for its last stand aside, they had thieves to catch. He stepped in again, growling at the others to stand aside. He had lost too much of his pack already.
A swipe towards Kilrok’s neck connected, but he growled and ignored it. The chill and blood loss had done its work. The blade struck his collar mostly. Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have had the power to penetrate his hide. He strode forward, not even bothering with fierce lunging, and plunged his claws into the thunder-foot’s sides, lifting it above his head with a snarl. Blood oozed out of the wounds, trickling down Kilrok’s forelegs and dripping on his face and waiting tongue.
“F-forgive…” the horned thunder-foot gasped. His mask, already damaged from previous strikes by the others, fell off. Some of Kilrok’s triumph faded. This was an old thunder-foot he was dealing with. Perhaps, even older than Legrok. A thick, snowy-white mustache hid most of its upper lip, the tips soaked with the blood that was trickling from its mouth. The lines around its face were heavy, like badly crumpled leather. This was beyond what could be considered “veteran warrior”. “Forgive me…moon…prin…” The sentence never finished. The old thunder-foot’s legs went limp and Kilrok hurled it to the side.
Why had they sent this relic for this important task? It may be his age that had caused him to trip up with Sekiskrei’s wards. Couldn't they afford to send their young ones? Or did they not even have those? The last shadows of Fair Luna indeed.
Kilrok pulled the doors open, nearly tearing them off in his impatience. They had taken too long here. He and Sekiskrei bounded ahead. To his dismay and fury, half of the wolven with him could not even follow, sickened by their injuries.
“That hag should still have the razor-wind ritual up!” Sekiskrei snarled. “Those two won’t escape by flying and the ground is treacherous and heavily guarded!”
“We’ll see!” Kilrok snapped. They quickly made it to the doors leading to the courtyard. At that point, both wolven skidded to a stop, their claws scraping hard against the stone.
Silence blanketed the courtyard. No howling storm of razor-wind, no fierce cries of proud wolven warriors taking on the thunder-foot cowards, no din of blades and claws. Instead, Kilrok stared at over a dozen dead wolven strewn across the courtyard, with just as many whimpering feebly and trying to nurse their wounds.
“Where are they?” Kilrok shouted.
“They separated when they got here, Kilrok,” Taskra, one of the bolters, said. “We tried to kill the one with the painting, but it flew off when the razor-winds stopped!”
“Two dozen bolters in the towers alone!” Kilrok snarled. “More along the walls! None of you managed to hit?”
“It flew so fast and the poisons--!”
Taskra did not get to say more. Kilrok clamped his jaws around her scrawny neck with such force that he nearly removed her head with the first bite. He savaged her briefly before throwing her aside, spitting out the incompetent blood. “Get trackers on its cowardly tail!” He shouted to the others. “Any wolven complaining about the poisons will die!”
While what remained of his pack scrambled, Kilrok turned towards Sekiskrei. She was was already looking to where the razor-wind ritual site was. “That hag must have died,” she said. “Doddering crone or not, she should at least be capable of holding that post until a poisoned blade found her neck. If I find her alive in there, I will eat her.”
“Pah!” Kilrok snapped. “You should have eaten her earlier! Then you would be at the ritual site and you might have defended it better! Your little games just cost you! Cost all of us!” Sekiskrei did not say anything to that.
Alundrik’s ritual site fared no better than its main courtyard. Several wolven corpses lay outside the small, dome-like structure. Unlike the rest of the fort, the ritual site was made of the hardened, ice-bound soil of Wolvengard to serve as a better conduit for rituals. The single wooden door creaked as a night breeze blew it back and forth. Kilrok shoved it aside, destroying the hinges in the process. Sekiskrei was right behind him.
The casting circle was barely recognizable with all the bloody smudges and streaks on and around it. The shelves on the walls had fallen. The jars of reagents they held, from the preserved guts various prey to the dried remains of the rare plants that grow in Wolvengard, were scattered and broken on the floors. The warriors that Kilrok sent to defend the place were all dead, Dulrak among them. The big berserker was on his side, mouth and eyes open. His spittle had turned into disgusting green foam that covered most of his lower jaw while his right foreleg was still twitching.
Sekiskrei had gone over to inspect the fallen body of Raskra. The pack’s lead shaman was surprisingly still alive although far too weakened to be of much use for the coming days. Kilrok could hear Raskra’s rasping attempts at saying something. Sekiskrei answered with a claw through the crone’s neck.
As for the thunder-foot that had caused all of this, its remains were propped up against the far wall. Its torso had been torn open. By Dulrak it seemed, given all the blood around the berserker’s claws. The mask was gone, but most of the face had gone with it. One of its forelegs had been torn off as well. Kilrok quickly found it in the jaws of another dead wolven.
“They separated when they saw the razor-winds,” Kilrok said. “One went after the ritual site while the other waited for a chance to flee. He stared at the dead thunder-foot. “This one must have known that it wasn't going to leave this place alive.”
“Perhaps,” Sekiskrei said. “It matters little. You know how unlikely that our trackers can catch up with that thunder-foot, especially with the deaths of its two comrades pushing it.”
Kilrok could only growl to confirm it. He watched as Sekiskrei began to sift through the scattered reagents. “What are you up to?” he asked.
“I have a potion that might help,” Sekiskrei said.
“Something to catch that thunder-foot yet?”
“No.” Sekiskrei picked up a still-whole satchel. “It has too much mobility, a head start, and that horned thunder-foot has likely warded all of them from any tracking spell. This potion makes one’s blood especially savory.” She glanced at Kilrok. “Our king will arrive soon and he will want to see the magnificent painting of his dear bride. If we have nothing to show him at that time, the least we can do is be delicious.”
Kilrok let out a snort. “Make sure there’s enough for both of us.”