An excerpt from Stories by the Fire, written by Chronicler Dara.

The Fox Clan tells a tale of an Eridian hero. A tale told by an old traveler, grizzled and wise, who’d gone from one end of Teras to the other. This is one of his many stories, one recited to Fern, a young Fox warrior, during her journey to Erid.

Be warned, however, this is not a love story, nor a tale of adventure and bravery, but a tale of sorrow, fear, and a fate worse than death.

Myrna hailed from a small town in the great nation of Erid, prosperous, one would say, in more ways than one. Her beginnings were simple and, as the daughter of a local blacksmith, she didn’t have great expectations on advancing her station in life. In all honesty, she preferred the comfort of her books and the soft touch of furs—gifted by her mother, a trader—against her skin. Her favorite foods included nothing more than a plate of cheese and select meats from the butcher. She led a simple life, altogether uneventful, until that fateful day.

You see, one fine morning, her father was asked by a mysterious client to produce a sword using a metal sourced from an unknown place. Her father was quiet, reserved, and did fine work with the resources at his disposal, so he didn’t ask questions. He completed the job for the client in short order, but that’s when it all went wrong.

Myrna liked to watch her father conduct business, peeking in from time to time to see what he was doing and who he was talking to. Listening to his conversations was always interesting, because she would learn something new every time. When she snuck over to watch her father talk to his strange client, she saw him being held at sword-point.

Their conversation went like this.

The client said, “You really did such good work. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” A sad, yet sinister, smile crossed his face. “But, no one can know of this project of yours. So, unfortunately, I will have to take care of the loose ends.”

“P-please,” her father begged. “I have a daughter. I won’t tell anyone else, I swear on the gods. Take anything you want—any of my pieces, equipment, gold, a-anything. Just spare me.”

The client seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, good sir. I have orders from my superiors, and I must follow them, lest I face the consequences.”

As the man raised his sword, ready to strike down her father without a second thought, no remorse in his cold, dead eyes, something happened. It was so fast, she had almost missed it, only reacting to the man’s sword-hand lying on the floor, detached from the rest of his body, and another sword—not his—embedded in the wall behind him.

Only in the seconds after, when a stranger rushed into the smithy, did she piece together the puzzle. The stranger, a tall, powerful woman, had thrown her sword from outside, slicing the client’s hand clean off. The woman spared no time, tackling the client and beating his face into a pulp.

Soon, the guards outside—the client’s lackeys—flooded the room, but the woman took them all on at once, yanking her sword from the wall and slicing through them like they were hunks of fresh meat.

Myrna stared in awe as the woman cut down her foes with a precision that she hadn’t even imagined from all the stories she had read. In that moment, the spark inside her ignited, burgeoning into a brilliant flame that would set the course of the rest of her life.

And that’s how Myrna, the Right Hand of Justice, came to be. We all know the tales of her bravery, her good deeds, and the shining example she set for others, but what we don’t know is what happened to her after the war, after the heroics, and after the nation’s focus shifted to other matters—trade, profit, allianceship. After spending years on the battlefield, returning to a normal life was harder than one might think.

Ever since her adventures as a hero, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her, whispering to her in the dead of night and telling her to commit terrible deeds. She kept that feeling locked away in the dark corners of her mind, but the thoughts resurfaced from time to time. She kept seeing the faces of those she had killed, the faces of those she had failed to save, and the faces of those she had loved, but lost. The faces would show up when she was eating a meal, in the reflection of her wash bowl in the morning, in the puddles on a rainy day.

Eventually, these dreadful thoughts grew louder, and the faces grew angrier. They would tell her she was no hero, that she never was. That when she’d die, they’d find her, and torture her soul for the rest of her afterlife. They would never let her go, and she’d be doomed to a painful existence, one worse than death, they said.

After hearing the voices for so long, with no recourse, she started believing them. But how could that be? She was favored by the gods themselves, and they’d handpicked her out of so many others to carry their banner. So, she thought of a solution, one that involved a considerable amount of risk. Her patron god, whom we know as Odingr, resided somewhere in the upper realms, but as his favored, she could contact him through one of his shrines deep in the mountains. It was foolhardy, but she had nothing left to lose—no parents, no siblings, no lovers.

She went on an arduous journey, braving impossibly cold weather, and ascended to The King’s Shrine. She called upon his great power and implored him to grant just one request.

Truly believing the voices were real, and truly believing they sought to ruin her if she ever left this plane, she asked Odingr this:

Let me never shed my mortal coil. Let me stay in this realm for eternity, and never face death.

Her line of thinking could be deemed somewhat logical. If she never died, she would not have to spend the rest of her afterlife being tortured by those she failed—that is, of course, if the voices were real, and if what they said was true, but we will never know for sure. Every hero has a flaw, some fatal, and her fear of death was her flaw. Though, the fatal aspect remains to be seen, because she did get her wish, after all.

While most gods granted boons to their favored, Odingr was more selective, for lack of a better word. With this very special request, he considered it, perhaps for more than a moment. But then he granted it—except not in the way Myrna had imagined.

Immortality is hard to come by, and the reason is unknown. We do not see immortal creatures roam this plane, well, other than the revenants of Helanthe, and perhaps the draugar, in a way, but they do not possess control of their faculties, so they are not a true example. Both require death before being granted a final reprieve, but Myrna’s case was different. No living thing has been seen to possess a lifespan compared to that of the gods. It could be that the constraints of this realm are too strong, not allowing anyone to bend the rules—not even the gods themselves when they manifest into human bodies to walk among us. With a mortal frame, comes mortal consequences.

But Odingr found a way around it. He said something like this.

If it is immortality you want, then you shall have it.

At that moment, Myrna felt herself changing, her limbs elongating, her once soft skin becoming rough, peeling off and turning grey. Her nails turned to claws, and her form changed to that of a hunched, terrifying beast that could tower over a house.

Only monsters could break the limits of their bodies, and so he made her into one. She may have found immortality, but it came at the price of her humanity. And the voices never left. They stayed, mocking her, goading her to end her life—but she couldn’t.

And Odingr had a flaw of his own. He was too proud—he couldn’t accept a monster like her, even if he had been responsible for her creation. He wasn’t like Helanthe, fawning over her immortal, dead, playthings. So, he took his favor away, and Myrna could no longer commune with him, no matter how hard she tried, or what mountain she climbed.

And thus, she met a fate worse than death, just as the voices had predicted.