“A Family Tradition”
By Hemming Sebastian Bane

Cold sweat soaked through Bertried’s nightshirt, his labored breathing threatened the flame of his candle. This… This had to be a mistake! He grabbed a clean quill and poured over the pedigrees once more. His father was Alberacht, son of Johann and Gretel. He grabbed his grandfather’s journal. First week read thus: “Water. Three beams. A mind. A soul.”

Each week onward was just as cryptic. But it was the last week that stood out. Bertried had read it a dozen times: “Greaves, second left from the door.” That had led him to an older journal hidden within the armor. It was old and an “S” was engraved into the inner cover. Sigmund. His great-grandfather. The pages were stained, but Bertried could still remember the words on the first page.

“To you who read this and know not our history, turn back now.”

The words were like a sharp icicle down his spine. But he was resolved. He double-checked the occult history book lent to him. The name was there clear as day. Sigmund the Sinner. But the townsfolk called him something else. The Grim Butcher. Grandfather Johann had dedicated his life to the restoration of the family name.
Bertried took a deep breath. If the Butcher’s Book gave him the answers, what was the harm in looking? He steeled himself and turned the page.

“In the ignoble past of our family, we stumbled through aristocracy with little grace,” the book read. “That was until we began our purpose.”

Bertried found himself reading aloud, his voice echoing throughout the study. He saw the fog of his breath in front of his face as he continued.

“We harvest pieces from those below us that powerful rituals might be retained. What’s one life for dozens? One exsanguination here, one rib stolen there is little harm when the ruin of Houses is on the line.”

So that was why the Houses were writing to him so urgently. To resume the work. To restore them. But Bertried was not his father nor his grandfather nor his great-grandfather. The journal landed among the fireplace’s embers.

I am a Monster
By chronicDreamer

I need to be faster.

But my body is a mess. Bone plate is erupting from under my skin, guarding my flesh from more injuries. Freshly generated muscle builds up pressure on my organs, keeping them from falling out through open wounds. The metal mail that makes up my limbs is jagged and warped, the only weapons I have left. I’ve already taken too much damage. There is no way to rely on my usual strategy.

Besides, Eadrom doesn’t like it when I sink knives into my thigh.

The alternative is finding something else of me I can mutilate.

I think about the stress.

Eadrom insisted we did this with others. It would be good for me. I can get more used to people. They would help. That it wouldn’t come to this. Me, alone, facing off against a threat too dangerous for us to handle. But here we are. I’m still the last one standing. Just me between us and death.

And they still look at me like that.

Limbs start creaking. Metal rips against metal. My body breaks itself, reshaping for speed. I start running closer to the ground on all fours, pushing off with my improvised claws. My spin extends out to a tail, keeping my balance. Fins made of bone and flesh sprout from my back.

The only thing keeping me from losing my mind is knowing that Eadrom doesn’t look at me the way they do.

Dashing in and out of cover, of view, most of my hits are landing now. Less is hitting me. It turns into a war of attrition, but I don’t know how long this will last.

Leaping into the air to avoid a heavy blow, my eyes meet my comrades’. I tell myself to just focus on Eadrom’s eyes, but his are closed.

All I see is fear. All they see is me. Something in my soul breaks.

It dies.

Everyone’s safe.

Eadrom is still down.

I move towards him.

They rearm themselves.

I keep moving.

They shout.

I don’t listen.

They die, too.

Birth of a Knight (Illusions of Heroes)
by Gerrit (Rattus)

The splintered wood of the chair was rough beneath him, the leather straps biting into his wrists angrily. He had long since realised that struggling only made it worse.

Light was almost a stranger in this room, the only source a shrouded glowstone on the wall in front of him. Its cloudy light was obscured by Zellus, standing between it and the chair.

“You have consistently impressed me, Areziah. It is time for you to reach your full potential.”

Zellus stood with a syringe loose between his fingers. He took a few steps forward, until he was mere inches away from Areziah.

“Do you know what this is?” Zellus held the syringe up in front of him, the liquid inside catching the faint light and reflecting in a multitude of colours.

Areziah shook his head.

“Dianaeum, ground into a fine powder and suspended in fluid.” Dianaeum, a mineral known for containing magical energy, used as an arcane focus. “With this, you will no longer need an external source.”

Zellus reached forward, until the tip of the syringe found Areziah’s arm. His skin offered only the slightest resistance, the needle hesitating for a second before it plunged into him.

As Areziah watched the plunger slowly be pushed down, he didn’t know what to expect. Would he feel it?

At first, he felt nothing. He watched as the fluid drained into him, until the empty syringe was withdrawn from his skin. A few more seconds, and still nothing came.

Then he felt it.

A dull pain in his chest, growing more intense with each second. Each heartbeat spread the pain further. Within a matter of minutes, his whole body screamed in agony, his muscles seizing.

The feeling in every inch of Areziah’s body made it clear that he had never truly known pain before. Not like this.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when the pain finally subsided. He was left breathless and exhausted, his head hung low.

“This is yours.”

Areziah opened his eyes as he felt something be set in his lap.

A black mask.

The Tree
By RVMPLSTLTSKN

Ninasa stood before the monstrous tree. She wasn’t sure if the wailing she heard was simply wind blowing through its handlike branches or if there were still living people in its upper reaches, unassimilated. It was made of flesh and stone, each nob in its trunk was once a knee or elbow or neck, each shattered twig a finger.

Flamecallers worked together as common folk—folk who wanted to live—carried charcoal to the tree’s base. Ninasa carried her own weight and approached the tree, her arthritis flaring at this altitude.

The charcoal puffed powder into her face as she dropped her bundle. She looked up to avoid the worst and saw a single, wet eye staring at her. The gaping mouth below it hissed. A phthisiac, one of the tree’s assimilants.

“I expected more,” she said.“I thought it might reach out and grab me.” It was an easy truth. The tree looked nothing like itself at a distance. Even with the stories of its horror, she wasn’t prepared for the mundanity of approaching it. It was a tree, a great towering tree made of human corpses, but just a tree. It swayed in strong winds and sometimes branches fell; these were returned to the tree by the phthisiacs.

“It has,” the phthisiac said.

“Not yet.”

“This is a sacred place.”

“Yes,” she knew it. “But even gods die. This place is not good for our children, so we do what we must.”

The more nimble of her companions were already ascending the tree, stone axes in hand, and the wailing was changing pitch, silencing.

“The tree plants seeds in everyone.”

“No one will live,” she whispered.

“Then join me, grandma. I don’t want to die alone.”

Ninasa looked up, into the branches, and saw one of her companions waiting. He nodded. Her knees ached as she climbed, but the phthisiac helped her. Ninasa found a place she wouldn’t fall and the phthisiac, a young woman by her form, rested against her, stony arms securing.

“Do it,” Ninasa said, eyes closed. Her companion’s ax bit deep and smoke billowed from below.