“Please”

“Where is he?”

“I-I don’t know”

“Lies.”

“Really I haven’t a clue-”

“Where is the prophet?”

“I DON’T KNOW-”

The blood splatters on the stone wall as the man is struck by my flanged mace. I wipe excess splatter from my face and put my helmet back on, the slits covering my eyes worsening my vision slightly.

I rest my hand on the man's chest, my palm touching the emblem woven into his tunic, “Take this offering as kindling” I mutter.

My hand begins to warm, the heat growing stronger and hotter until I can feel the flames beneath my palm. I remove my hand and arise as I watch the fire claim the corpse. I stare into the flames dancing in the wind and I can feel them staring back.

“Dylarin,”

My skin crawls as the voice beckons to me once more. Its tone is neither man nor woman but rather something ethereal. Yet I am comforted by the presence even as the flames whip in the wind and I can feel the heat through my armor.

The clothes burn and the flesh singes until the flame is gone and all that is left are the charcoal black bones crumbling to ash.