The last steel-framed bed was folded and brought outside the room. The Academy would continue to serve its true function soon—once the remaining patients were moved to hospitals and clinics. Desk chairs would return to their rightful places, and victims of that night would have the chance to return as students. There was a thump: a book fell off one of the corner bookcases when Kirk accidentally hit it with the edge of the bed on his way out. He put down what he was lifting and picked up the book, flipping through its pages if anything was torn. It was written in an unfamiliar language, but he deduced it was a mathematics book, based on the abundance of symbols and numbers on most of its pages. He slid it back to the bookcase and straightened the rest of the contents disturbed when the shelf was struck.

  A truck awaited him outside the building. Kirk fell in line with other volunteers, each taking their turn securing the frames into the truck bed. He was the last to go; most worked in pairs, but maybe his bedframe was light enough for a single man to fold and tuck. The canvas door was zipped shut, and the engine chugged to life before it moved away from the academy grounds.

  “Well done, boys. That’s all for today.”

  A bearded man wearing a mining helmet stood in front of the group. His armband bore the symbol of the volunteer unit; the red lettering hinted at him being the group leader. Kirk watched the afternoon sun settle westward when someone said:

  “Looks like we have some time to ourselves. How about we grab some steins and liters?”

  “There’s a beer garden nearby.” Another worker chimed in. “Looks a little shabby, but the drinks are cold.”

  “It’s the drinks that matter,” the lead volunteer turned his attention to Kirk, saying, “You there, outsider. Join us! It’s all for a job well done.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Kirk went near the group that gathered around the Academy’s gates.

  ????

  Imperial malts were something else.

  Kirk found his memory exaggerating, for the last time he drank anything remotely resembling brews was at his father’s estate in Grenalium. There were exchanges of stories, where they hailed from, and how surprised they were seeing Luminberg in such a shape. If a disease could ravage a city overnight, what would happen if it broke beyond the walls and poured into the towns and villages? Kirk had to accept being a listener during his time with fellow volunteers. The group decided to leave when the sun was halfway to setting, and the Prettannic man chose to stay behind. Kirk also took advantage of buying a small keg for himself and three cups to go along with it.

  He found the shade of a large tree overlooking one of the city’s major bridges. Kirk listened to engine noises and shouted instructions as he relaxed. Soldiers directed traffic, with more trucks leaving the city than coming in. The scent of steam exhaust was weak, probably because the winds were blowing it too fast for his nose to pick up. That was when a ball of translucent, ethereal blue flame appeared beside him.

  “It’s been a while since Master Kiergaard found the time to be alone.” Macario’s manifested in a hollow voice. “Has it been years since you were anywhere close to a liquor barrel?”

  “Nutty punch, this thing has,” Kirk took another gulp. “It’s a rare opportunity to have ‘Imperial flavors’, I say.”

  “Now I fondly look back at the times I did this.” Macario hovered above the small keg. “It was hard carrying a barrel on your own at first until you gained bigger company.”

  “What were you before? A mercenary? A highwayman?”

  “I thought of delving into those… vocations, once upon a time.” This revenant’s uniform speech made it hard to figure out if Kirk’s words affected him in any way. “But growing strength through those lines of work… far from impressed based on the bandits and privateers I dealt with, looking back.”

  “If you’re not answering me directly, I’ll wait.” Kirk opened the tap and filled his cup with brew. “Anyway, what I want to talk about is her.”

  “Do you mean the clergywoman?”

  “The investigators. They said ‘Schild’. She is the key to my army.”

  “Didn’t you say before… about vengeance and reclaiming being pointless? It was with that boy.”

  “But I don’t think I can run away forever.” Kirk stopped emptying his cup halfway. “Her family. Their warriors were tournament regulars. I always remember their heavy swords and heavier strikes.”

  “When do you plan on telling her who you are?”

  “At least, not now,” Kirk answered. “She’s got too much to think about, and I’d not want to disturb her and go ‘say, Prayer Lady, when can I speak with your parents about campaigning in the Prettan?’. I dread the day I’d ruin myself with such… language.”

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  “There’s a reason I never went beyond being a knight.” Macario’s flame darkened. “Too much dancing with words.”

  “On the other hand, it’s high time I use this.”

  Whether it was from the shade of the tree or the sun setting to rest, Kirk’s hand turned pitch black. Threads of shadow, leaping, converging, and weaving; skin and sinews turning into a single blackness. He moved around what used to be his arm, now jagged ribbons of darkness. Macario, moving around, inspecting Kirk’s transformed body part, said:

  “I wondered why you did not use this against him, that knight. The fighter you tried match strength with.”

  “I don’t know what Euphemia’s light might do to me.” Kirk snorted and downed his cup. “Imagine that: bright light on the outside, but perfectly dark inside. I don’t want the prayer lady thinking I’m another enemy she had to deal with.”

  “A risky decision: the kind that courted death, if I may add.” Macario said, “But you wanted to win her trust. Understandable, though you might not be so lucky in the future.”

  “I know, and I’m not pushing The Fates to find out.” Kirk unraveled the shadows; his arm returned to normal. “But those two will see me use this power, and it can’t be helped. I’ll come up with a better explanation.”

  Someone else approached the tree and said:

  “Done with work? I am tired, and I want something cold to drink.”

  Rook found a large root to sit on; his gaze stuck between Kirk and the ethereal fireball, which hovered around him. He asked:

  “So what’s this scary, floating flame thing with you?”

  “This ‘what’... is my sword.”

  “This boy, he can see me,” Macario said, “Interesting to find other people…”

  “You bet I do. I can even hear you and your scary ghost voice.”

  “Tell you what.” Kirk took the second cup and filled it with liquor. “Drink this, and the ghostly voice disappears.”

  “You’re tricking me, but I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  Rook took the cold drink from Kirk’s hand. It was a blend of caramel, malt, and nut scents. He sniffed it twice, knowing the touch of alcohol against his nose lining. One gulp, two gulps. The boy swallowed everything immediately; his face twisted in a way one would when taking medicine. Rook said:

  “This is terrible! You drink this…?”

  “It rubs off on you.” Kirk almost snorted at the sight of the boy before grabbing another serving. “The more you drink it, the more likely you are to get used to it. When you get used to it, you’ll begin to understand how to have a proper tasting of it.”

  “You’re not making me drink any more of this bad stuff.” Rook’s face imitated a gagging reaction. “And the ghost didn’t go away. I knew you were a liar.”

  “That’s because you didn’t drink enough.” Almost as quickly as he breathed, Kirk emptied his cup and filled it again. “So, you figured out why you’re looking for 'that one'? The one you call 'Master'...”

  There were no words; Rook answered with a nod. The boy then said:

  “I’ll give hm… that master of mine, some mean words or two.” Rook’s attention turned to the thinning lines of trucks that entered and left the city bridge. “Master was wrong about magic people. Master was also wrong about people in robes.”

  “That’s quite the talking-to you have in mind.” Kirk stretched his legs, watching the sky turn from blue to orange. “Do you think you can face your master and go all-out?”

  “Yeah. I think I should.” Rook said, “But I have a lot of other questions to fill Master’s ears with.”

  “You’re at least going for it with your mind made up.”

  “What about you? Why do you have a ghost for… a… ah… You said it’s your weapon, but it also acts like a friend or something?”

  “Long story, but it’s a family thing with us from Windstorm.” Kirk was in no hurry to drink the next cup. “We’re bound to help each other…”

  “Allow me, Master Kiergaard.” Macario, having enough of waiting on the two, spoke. “I am bound to serve him as my master. I would not want to bore you with elaborations.”

  “Sounds fair. I get the idea, I think.” Rook followed the passing of a brightly lit truck. “So you don’t have a monster army at your beck and call, you don’t have monster pets either, but you have a ghost. That turns into a sword. Still doesn’t make you any less bad, ghost-keeper.”

  “Please don’t make that a nickname.” Kirk shot a glance of concern at Rook. “You don’t want our Prayer Lady, the benefactor, show actual concern about this.”

  Rook snickered in triumphant retaliation for giving him a taste of the vile concoction. The breeze whistled by, robbing both of them of the ability to speak. The wind rolled on, and Kirk spoke:

  “You know, Rook, I’ve been thinking about it.” Kirk sipped his cup. “That point you made with the Pray- Euphemia’s family ‘owning an army’.”

  “What about it?”

  “I want to speak to her about it. No, I’ll speak to her parents.” Kirk said, “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

  “I can tell her if you’re chickening out or what it is you’re feeling.”

  “No, don’t do that.” Kirk gulped his drink in near-laughter. “She’ll think I’m not serious, and we’ll both get into deep trouble.”

  “Want me to do something about it?”

  “It’s not like it’s easy to ask someone to fight your war, or at least ask if they can lend you weapons to fight for it.” Kirk shook his head before turning around for a refill. “Why am I even talking to a boy about this…”

  “There’s no one else around. Me and your ghost buddy.”

  There was a crunch of leaves and a snapping of wilted twigs. Euphemia, one of the last to come out of the Academy’s campus, appeared beside them, saying:

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Hey. Just in time.”

  Rook grabbed the third cup from the keg and filled it. He handed her a drink, much to Kirk’s terror.

  “You should have some of this. It’s fun.” Rook, with a grin, was almost pushing the drink to the cleric.

  “This smell... It's malt liquor?” Euphemia held the cup of cold brew in her hands. “It could also be a kind of beer. You must forgive my unfamiliarity.”

  “You don’t have to drink that.” Kirk stood up, extending his hand in an attempt to dissuade the cleric.

  “It has been offered, and both of you were drinking this before I arrived.”

  It started with a sip, followed by a long drink of the contents. It took her time to swallow the liquor; she closed her eyes, trying her best not to cough, though short bursts escaped her lips. She opened her eyes to see a grinning Rook and a concerned Kirk before saying:

  “This blend is quite... peculiar. Much different from what I am used to.” Euphemia put the cup on top of the keg. “But I think I understand why people will like this kind of liquor.”

  “And now you witness the beginning of the fall.” Macario, now concealed but hovering above Kirk’s shoulder, said, “Take pride, Master Kiergaard.”