"Will his death bring you peace?"

"His death would bring peace to the world."

"Will it now? Or is that a cloak to hide your malice?" She paused, then cried, "Nikolai! Nikolai!"

Nikolai stirred from his deep sleep, the shadows of his wrath fading like smoke in the wind. Calanthe's voice pierced the veil, calling him back to the living world. "Nikolai, awake," she urged softly, her care plain.

He fought against the bonds of slumber, and his sight grew clear. The great trees of the forest towered above, casting dark and changing shapes upon their camp. Far off, weary wayfarers moved, their voices blending with the sigh of leaves and the distant neighs of horses.

Among the voices, Nikolai felt a storm arising—an angry debate between the master trader, a stout man clad in a bright red silk robe that flowed around him, and some of the company. He could not catch their words, and he looked to Calanthe for aid. "What ails them?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

Calanthe's face grew grim as a storm-cloud as she told him the ill news. "Scouts have seen a mighty host gathering at the borders of Volantis," she said, her eyes wandering to the thorny thicket. "We are at a crossroads, hard pressed to choose between Stygia or..."

"The western road," Nikolai cut in, rising with the slowness of a winter bear awakened. "The westward way would add nine days to our journey, a gift we cannot spare."

"True. And yet they seem to favour it." Calanthe said, glancing at the travellers who nodded in agreement.

“Ho, Reaver, a change is at hand!” The master trader's shout rang out, drawing Nikolai's heed. Amidst the sounds of discontent among the travellers, he guessed the trader's mind.

"Westward we will not go," Nikolai said firmly, grasping his longsword that lay beside him.

"I heed you, Reaver, but Stygia is our only hope," the master trader said, his voice trembling with fear, meeting Nikolai's stern gaze. "And my men dread the thought."

"Your men. You have their trust. They will follow your lead."

"I must warn you of the perils of Stygia."

"You have crossed perilous lands before, Merchant. This is no different."

Sitting on an old tree trunk in her long dark hooded cloak, Calanthe's sharp eyes watched the scene, her dagger skilfully carving the wood in her hands. She saw the growing strife between Nikolai and the merchant, noting the iron will in Nikolai's posture. To ease the tension, she spoke, "I think Nikolai means that if we take the western road, our quest for Aelh'thelas will be but a vain hope."

Nikolai, his eyes fixed on the master trader, said, "Aye, and that means your purse will be empty of gold, good Merchant." His eyes narrowed, taking in the trader's face—a round face flushed with the lust of gold, his fingers twitching with the hope of wealth yet to be won. He knew every merchant's heart was gold; you show them gold, and they are caught in its shining snare, like a moth to flame.

The master trader nodded with a grim face and turned to his company, his small bell ringing like a knell of doom. "We have no choice but to cross Stygia to reach Volantis," he declared, "gather your gear, we depart at sundown."

A clamour of dismay rose from the travellers. "Have you lost your wits?" "We are doomed!" "You pay us not enough to face such peril!" They grumbled and groaned, loath to obey the trader's will. Nikolai stood beside Calanthe, who sat still, observing the scene with a weary eye. He knew he had to speak some words to sway the travellers, or they would forsake the road.

"Think of Volantis, my friends," he said, lifting his voice. "Think of the feast of Aelh'thelas. Think of the wine and the bread, the harp and the flute, the gold and the gems. Think of the maidens and youths, awaiting you in the houses and the lanes, ready to delight you in every way. Would you forgo all that?"

The travellers began to nod, their eyes shining with greed and lust. They still looked fearful, though. "But Stygia..." one of them said, voicing their common dread. "What of the terrors that dwell in the dark? The tales say that none who enter Stygia ever return alive."

"Behold, we have with us two of the Reavers, the dread warriors of the Elder Days," the trader spoke, pointing to Calanthe and Nikolai. "They shall guard us from all perils. They are the mightiest of their kind, taught by the ancient masters themselves. See how they stand fearless."

And so they did. Calanthe and Nikolai bore no signs of fear, only steadfastness. They were clad in long cloaks of black leather, concealing their arms and their wounds. Nikolai's hood shadowed his silver eyes and half his visage, lending him a dark and terrible look. Calanthe's red hair was plaited and hidden under her cloak, but some locks escaped and framed her fair face, brightening her green eyes.

The wayfarers, after much debate and barter, consented to follow the trader. They gathered their wains and packs, saddled their horses and mules, and made ready to depart on the hazardous journey. Nikolai went to his horse, a silver-white steed he named Aeyre, and loosed her from the stake. He gave her some corn and caressed her mane, murmuring gentle words. He pondered what awaited them in Stygia, and knew that some of them would not endure. But he cared not for their lives, only his own. His vengeance, his doom, as he named it.

"Have you devised a counsel?" Calanthe asked him, approaching his side.

"A counsel for what?" Nikolai answered, feigning ignorance.

"For the dangers we shall meet in Stygia. You know as well as I that it is not a land for the faint-hearted. There are things there that would make the boldest man quail."

Nikolai said naught, pretending not to heed her. He knew she spoke truly, but he would not confess it. He would not confess that he needed a counsel.

"You have no heed for them, do you?" Calanthe went on, gesturing to the wayfarers. "You have no heed whether they live or die. You have heed only for your vengeance."

She spoke truly about that, too. Nikolai had heed only for avenging his beloved, who had been slain by Thalador, the Ruthless, king of Drakonia. He had joined the White Reavers, a company of valiant warriors and slayers, to sharpen his skills and find his chance. He had borne the hard training, the fierce battles, the bloody deeds. He had learned to slay, to deceive, to endure. He had become the best of the best, the most dreaded and honoured of the Reavers. He had earned the name Nikolai the Aran'shir- meaning Silverheart in Elder speech, for his will, wisdom and his blade. He had one aim, one task, one reason to live. To slay King Thalador, the Ruthless.

But he also had heed for Calanthe, more than he would ever avow. She was the only one he trusted. She had been his friend, his mate. She had saved his life more times than he could reckon, and he had saved hers. She had been his light in the darkness, his warmth in the cold, his peace in the storm. She had been his contrary in many ways, but his match in all. She was the only thing that kept him sane, that kept him human.

But he could not tell her that. He could not show her his frailty, his vulnerability, his dread. He could not risk losing her, or losing his focus. He could not let anything distract him from his vengeance, his doom.

So he said naught, and mounted his horse. Calanthe sighed, and walked away. She looked disheartened, pained, wroth. Nikolai felt a twinge of guilt, but cast it aside. He had no time for feelings, no space for regrets. He had a mission to fulfil, a king to slay.

He led the way, followed by the master trader and the wayfarers. Calanthe rode behind him, keeping a distance. They left the forest behind, and headed for the mountains. The sun was sinking, casting a red gleam over the sky. The air was chill, the wind was fierce, the road was rough. They were entering Stygia, the land of shadows, the realm of death.

A day of sunless gloom wore on, and still with a growing shadow they journeyed on into the heart of Stygia. They had listened to many a tale and legend of the horror that dwelt in that land, of the fell beasts that stalked the night, of the doom that lay upon the rash and the unwary. Some said it was a land of old, where the elder powers yet held sway. Some said it was a land of woe, where the black arts yet lingered on. Some said it was a land of death, where naught lived or grew. But none knew in truth, for none who entered Stygia ever returned thence.

The way was silent, dark, and grim. None spoke, none laughed, none sang. All were watchful, wary, afraid. They had marked the tokens of Stygia's malice, the twisted trees, the barren stones, the bones and skulls. They had heard the noises of Stygia's peril, the howls and roars, the hisses and shrieks, the screams and cries. They had felt the dread of Stygia's evil, the cold and dark, the hurt and fear, the hate and despair.

The night was black and full of terrors. Something moved in the shadows of the twisted trees, something swift and silent, something they could not see. The horses sensed it first, snorting and rearing, throwing some of the riders to the ground. The fear was contagious, spreading like a plague among the travelers. The wind howled, extinguishing the torches they carried, leaving them in darkness. Only Nikolai and Calanthe, the White Reavers, could see through the gloom, their eyes shining like stars.

"Seven hells, I'm not dying here!" one of the cart drivers shouted, abandoning his reins and running back the way they came. He did not care where he was going, as long as it was away from the horror that lurked in the woods.

"Fool, stay where you are!" Calanthe yelled from her horse, knowing it was too late. She had seen enough of these creatures to know they hunted by sound and smell, and that running only made them more eager to chase.

Out of the shadows of the trees it sprang, swift as a black arrow, and seized the man that ran with iron claws. It was a fell creature, but one that bore a human form, with eyes and nails that glowed with red fire. Nikolai had but a fleeting glance of it ere it melted into the night, bearing its quarry with it. Only the cries of anguish they heard, cut off by a gurgling sound. Then a head, mangled and lifeless, came hurtling through the air and fell before their feet, as if the creature taunted them. The creature spoke in the Elder tongue from the dark, with a voice deep and harsh, the voice seemed to come from all sides, so swift was the creature's movement.

"Behold them, craven mortals.

Nikolai and Calanthe heard the Elder tongue and knew it, and they looked at each other and knew at once what manner of creature this was, a creature of the old days. He leaped from his horse, Aeyre, who stood still and proud, unlike the other horses that neighed and shied. He took up the head and scanned it, marking the jagged wounds on the throat, the bloodless flesh, the horror fixed on the face.

"The bite is dull, like a man's tooth."

"Quick, strong, blood-hungry man-like creature that speaks in the Elder tongue. Does it bring to mind aught?" Calanthe said from her horse, as if she had a guess of what creature this was, and waited for Nikolai to name it.

"Unthinkable." Nikolai answered with a face of disbelief, though he knew that all signs pointed to this doom.

"What is it?" The master trader asked in fear, his voice quavering and his breeches wet.

"Gol'nakshin... A Dark Reaver." Calanthe said sternly.

"Dark Reaver. One of your kin?"

"Naught like our kin. They were the first Reavers. They gave their souls to Vecna for might. Vecna betrayed them, cursed their souls and made them his tools of evil, their kin perished when the hellgates were shut and the dark power waned in the human realm in the great war." Calanthe told the master trader and the other travellers that hearkened with dread.

"They cloaked their lust for might in the guise of cleansing the world of monsters, only to become the monsters they hunted and slew. You can sate a creature's hunger, but never a man's greed!" Nikolai said with a scornful face as he cast down the head and rose to his feet, drawing his longsword.

Calanthe felt a chill of dread as the creature's howl pierced the night. It was a sound of hunger and malice, a sound that echoed in the dark forest of Stygia. She leaped from her steed and grasped her bow and arrows. She slung the quiver over her shoulder and searched the shadows, looking for any sign of movement. The creature was toying with them, she knew. It was feeding on their fear, drawing them deeper into its den.

"We must make it come to us," Nikolai said, his voice steady and clear.

"Are you mad?" Master cried, his face wan and wet. "You seek death, not glory. How do you mean to bring such a beast to us?"

"By the one thing it thirsts for... blood." Nikolai turned to Calanthe and gave her a grim smile. "I will lure the beast to me, while you lead them out of Stygia."

"How do you know it will not follow us still?" Calanthe asked, her eyes wide.

"Because none have more thirst for blood than the creatures who dwell in cold mirrors." Nikolai reached for his longsword and drew it. The blade shone in the faint light.

"So you would have the honour all to yourself now, aye?" Calanthe jested, trying to lighten the mood. She walked over to him and handed him one of her special daggers, wrought from obsidian. "Take this. It will serve you better than common steel."

"Thank you, old friend." Nikolai took the dagger and tucked it into his belt. "Be careful."

"You too." Calanthe mounted her steed and gestured to the others. "All of you, stay close and follow me."

Nikolai watched them go, then cut his hand with his sword. He let the blood drip on the ground, leaving a trail for the creature to follow. He walked in the opposite direction, deeper into the forest. He felt no fear, only resolve.

"Do you fear, Gol'nakshin?" he called out, his voice taunting. He knew the creature's name, for he had heard the tales of the dark reavers. They were ancient beings, older than the Hibernia itself, who fed on fear and blood. They could not be seen, but they could sense the emotions of their prey. They could also shape the shadows, creating phantoms and nightmares.

The creature answered with another howl, louder and nearer. It was wrathful, Nikolai could tell. It was not used to being challenged. It was used to being feared.

Nikolai smiled. He was not afraid.

He waited, his sword ready, his eyes keen. He heard the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs, the whisper of wind. He sensed the creature's presence, but he could not see it. It was invisible, but not invulnerable.

It sprang from the shadows, swifter than a thunderbolt. Nikolai barely had time to react. He dodged to the side, but not fast enough. The creature's claws tore his chest, drawing blood. Nikolai groaned in pain, but did not falter. He swung his sword at the air, hoping to hit something.

The creature was nimble, too. It avoided his blow and circled around him, looking for another opening. Nikolai felt its breath on his neck, cold and foul. He spun around, slashing with his sword and dagger. He felt the steel had no effect but the obsidian bit into flesh. He heard the creature hiss in pain.

But it was not enough. The creature was wounded, but not mortally. It was weakened, but not vanquished. It was hungry, and it craved Nikolai's blood.

It lunged at him again, aiming for his throat. Nikolai raised his arms to block, but the creature was too strong. It knocked him down, pinning him to the ground. It opened its mouth, revealing rotten blunt teeth. It moved closer, ready to bite.

Nikolai stared into its eyes, and saw nothing. No colour, no light, no life. Only darkness.

The creature sniffed him, once, twice, thrice. It paused, as if puzzled. It did not bite.

Nikolai was surprised, too. He did not comprehend what was happening. He did not know why the creature spared him.

The beast loomed over him, a black shadow in the night. It stared at Nikolai with a cold and curious gaze, as if seeing him for the first time. It made no move to attack or flee. It stood there, silent and still.

Nikolai lay on the frozen ground, his wounds burning and his breath ragged. He did not move. He did not speak. He watched, wondering and waiting.

"Thou reekest of it. The doom that awaits thee, the curse that marks thee. A child of the night, born of blood and fire. Thou hast the scent of death and horror. Thy life is more precious to us than thy death." The beast hissed in the ancient tongue, its eyes gleaming with hate and madness.

"You lie. Fiend." Nikolai said in Elder speech, his voice low and faint.

"Time will show, Spawn of darkness." the dark Reaver sneered, and then, with a sudden burst of speed, it vanished into the shadows of the forest, leaving Nikolai alone and bleeding.

Nikolai felt the words of the beast burn in his mind, like a brand. He could not comprehend how he could be a spawn of darkness, a pawn of some evil scheme. He feared, not the beast that had spared him, but himself, and what he might become.

"Nikolai! Nikolai!" A familiar voice broke through the gloom, followed by the sound of hoofs pounding on the earth. It was Calanthe.

"Calanthe." Nikolai whispered, but his voice was weak and thin, barely heard by any mortal ear. But Calanthe and Nikolai were not mortal. As white Reavers, they had keen senses to detect any sign of danger.

Calanthe saw Nikolai on the ground, twisted like a broken worm, his body covered with cuts and bruises. She jumped off her horse and ran to his side, her face full of concern.

"Aran'shir, you have slain a Gol'nakshin. The others will sing of your deed." She said with a smile.

"Are the wanderers safe?" Nikolai asked with a weak voice.

"Yes, they are. They are resting on the Johktar mountain, with the city of Volantis in sight."

"Good." Nikolai said with a faint smile. "I meant them no harm, you know. I cared for their lives."

"I know. I know. Come, let us leave this accursed place."