He would have hesitated, but the agony from his burnt flesh made him pop the cork and down the vial.

Feren gagged on the taste as the orange liquid went down. Then he began convulsing.

Infection and skin regrew. His veins burned. He screamed—and then the sickness began to recede.

Feren felt his skin knitting. He felt his temperature spike, drop—

He lay on his back. Breathing. The back of his head rested in the stream as the world swam around him.

Pale trees of ash and dark leaves hung overhead. The [Necromancer] lay there—then he curled up with a sob caught in his chest.

It hurt. He was alive! It hurt.

I will kill them. First them. First them—then the bounty. Sixty thousand gold pieces would buy him artifacts. Spellbooks. He’d flee to Izril, or Chandrar, or even Baleros. Study. Then he’d come back and raze a kingdom.

Just like Az’kerash. Just like his mentor, long dead. Feren pushed himself up.

Gewilena would be avenged, if it had to take half a century or more. And for that, a [Lord] and his family had to die. The [Princess] didn’t matter.

First, though. First…he decided he’d sleep here. He could barely move after healing. So Feren just lay there, next to the stream. He had food in his bag of holding. Water. He chewed numbly on some plain rations baked into a bar. The kind of thing adventurers ate.

Nothing tasted right, anyways. Nothing felt the same. It had been nearly a decade, now. A decade of making cabals that died as soon as the [Knights] came. Hunting down [Merchants]. Killing idiots for gold.

Levelling up. Until someone asked him to commit his greatest atrocity yet. It had almost worked.

“Damn that [Princess]. Damn that—”

Feren panted. His mind buzzed. For a second he thought he was still sick—then he growled. He felt the push at his head and raised a finger.

“[Message]. I’m alive. You sent me to kill the wrong person, you idiots. You never told me a [Princess]

was on the road to Noelictus!”

He nearly screamed at the sky. But the magic linking him with the other party carried his words across.

Feren nearly shouted.

“Check? No one uses that road! We saw a carriage and—”

He nearly shouted again. Then listened. Feren was sweating.

“Over? Nothing’s over. I am still alive. The others are dead. You have the payment? Then wait. I will complete my task. I am merely set back a month. Two, at most. The [Lord] and [Lady] of Afiele die.”

An uncertain reply. Which flunky was he speaking to? The [Necromancer] sneered.

“I have more levels than the rest of my minions did all together. I will accomplish it. What does it matter to you? You waste no gold. But if—when I succeed—be prepared to pay me. First Afiele, then anyone else on your little list.”