Dacre waited for his eithrals to retreat for the second time before he began his approach to Avalon Bluff. His pets returned to their resting place underground, and he walked across the lush valley, full of hope.
The gas rose, limning the town in green. Green like the mountains, like the emeralds he wore on his fingers. Green like Enva’s eyes, which he still saw some nights when he slept below.
The mortals had done a fine task of creating this weapon for him. And he decided he wouldn’t burn this town, because he had other plans in mind.
With a graceful flick of his fingers, his motioned for his soldiers to rush ahead to scavenge. Sometimes they were good at picking the right ones. But other times, they chose poorly, and he was left with scraps of a being.
The secret was this: the will had to still be present in the spirit. It usually shined brightest right before death. Mortals ran either cold or hot, their souls like ice or fire. He had discovered long ago that ice served him best, but every now and then, fire would surprise him.
Dacre chose to take a long walk around the town. The wind was beginning to blow the gas to the wayside, and he followed its path to a golden field. He felt the staggering, gasping soul before he saw it. This one was made of ice—a cold, deep spirit like the northern sea.
It drew him closer. His feet made no sound, left no impression as they walked over the earth, seeking this dying mortal.
At last, Dacre found it.
A young man with raven dark hair was crawling through the grass. Dacre stood over him, measuring what remained. The mortal had a minute and thirteen seconds left before his lungs filled with blood and he expired. There were also wounds on his right leg.
Dacre was in a good mood that day. Or else he might have let the ice in this one melt away.
“My lord?”
Dacre turned to see Val, the strongest of his servants, standing in his shadow.
“My lord, we have almost secured the town. But a few of the lorries have escaped.”
The news should have angered Dacre, and Val was prepared for it, cringing when the god stared at him.
“So be it,” Dacre said, glancing back at the gasping mortal on the ground. Blood was dripping from his chin as he raised his head, eyes closed. He sensed Dacre’s presence. “This one.”
“Yes, what of this one, my lord?”
Dacre was quiet, watching the man crawl. What was he seeking? Why didn’t he just lie down and die? His soul was so anguished, nearly rent in half. It made Dacre wince.
But he could heal those wounds. He was a merciful god, after all. The god of healing. This mortal, once mended, would do very well in his army. Because Dacre suddenly realized with delight … this was no soldier, but a correspondent. And Dacre had never had one of those before.
“Take him below.”
Val bowed before he drew a ring in the ground, encircling the mortal. A quick way to open a portal, to pass below.
Satisfied, Dacre set his eyes eastward, on the path that would lead him to Enva.
