“Snier, I’m opening it.”

“Wait—”

Of all my knee-jerk reactions that have surprised, I found myself pushing Werlyle aside to slide the lid myself. As my dagger’s blade and fingers felt the stone separating, I held an image of Rinlot’s somehow golden-brown skin next to mine, how grateful it was to be saved, and how forever in my debt it would pleasantly remain.

The stone was heavy, and I eased off to regain my strength. Taking in a breath, I looked up at the night sky. The gargoyles atop the corbels loomed down as they always did. Maybe it was just the darkness, the whirling of the leaves, or my severely jostled nerves, but they all seemed different. More perched rather than placed, as if waiting for some command unknowable to us to take flight. A little one I’d never noticed before, looking more like an imp from a bad fairytale, seemed to have eyes that moved.

The lid gave with a sucking sound. Through a sliver of blackness, fingers stretched out and into the open air.

Werlyle flailed back, shrieking and cursing. I possessed neither the ability nor the inclination to look back at him. The skin was brown, but to a leather. Fingers, their tips worn to the bone, appeared to be searching for something.

I had expected this abomination to toss the stone lid next, send it down in pieces, and emerge to wreak whatever havoc its unfathomable torment would see fit. Instead, the fingers vanished back into the sarcophagus. Without the pure stone to muffle them, all that emitted were sobs and moans of the lowest despair. There was rage possibly, but a rage of the rat in the trap, back broken.

The terror possessing me froze my ability to run. Aghast—the thought of me sleeping, while out the window tossed and turned this afflicted carcass. He—it—felt pain, or at least perceivably so from the noises he made. Rinlot, or whatever he was now, was unable to emerge from a confinement that even I was able to pry. Pity blocked my throat when I contemplated if an intelligence, some residue from his time among the living, lingered, him knowing full well what treachery put him there. Whatever emotion I may have felt next was destroyed as lightning struck the bailey.

—

When I awoke, the world swayed and pulsated as I found myself getting back on my feet. A pat-down gave me reason to believe the lightning hadn’t struck me. With a wobble, I regained my senses.

I couldn’t have been out long. The wagon was tearing out of the bailey, heading for wherever a pair of scared mules would decide.

That hideous hand had once more emerged from the open space, this time grabbing at thin air. My run for the wagon only sent me back to the ground. Rolling from my stomach and clutching my shin, I turned to see that the crate Werlyle dropped had bested me. Rain peppered my face as I stood once more.