Herald of death

Ethan edges the second-floor window of the room where the ill man rests. Sylas timidly knocks on the door and opens it. "I… I cannot find peace tonight," Sylas begins, his voice quivering with feigned distress. "The raid… it haunts me. … I've been praying, but the fear won't leave me. Can you… could you offer me a blessing outside, under the sky? I feel suffocated within these walls."

The priest sets down a book, nodding gravely. "Of course. If the open air may ease your spirit," he says, guiding Sylas toward the stairs with a hand on his shoulder.

'Well, that worked. It was a bit obvious, but I guess the priest wouldn't expect Sylas to deceive him,' Ethan thinks. He slides his combat knife into the separation of the windows, lifting the hook. 'Silent steps,' he thinks as he enters.

He closes the windows behind him. A single candle that flickers on a bedside table lights the room. The sick man lays motionless, his breathing shallow and labored. His armor rests in a corner.

Ethan approaches cautiously. He checks the man's eyes, which are dilated and unresponsive. 'The soldier didn't mention puking; it shouldn't be something he ingested,' Ethan thinks. He carefully inspects the man's skin, searching for any signs or marks. His pallor appears more prominent on his neck, left arm, and left leg. He has numerous scars, but all of them are long healed. 'That one looks like a small gunshot entry wound, weird,' Ethan notes.

He turns his attention to the man's belongings. He rifles through a small bag along his armor. His fingers find a few empty vials and pieces of paper. His gaze falls on the man's armor. Deep gashes from what could only be large claws slice through the breastplate. Fangs punctured the shoulder guards.

Ethan traces his finger along the jagged lines. This armor is thicker than any worn by medieval knights, and the breastplate alone weighs upward of thirty kilos. 'Whatever did that was really strong,' Ethan thinks. He turns his gaze back to the man. 'He wouldn't have worn that armor for long. Those are not old scars; he drank a potion to heal himself,' he guesses.

Ethan returns to the man, triggering predator's sight to peer into his body. He searches for a foreign body under the gunshot wound. He hears chewing noises coming from under the man's skin. His stomach tightens at the guttural sound.

Under the dim light of the flickering candle, he notices a slight bulge on the man's neck, near the healed wound. Grimacing, Ethan unsheathes his combat knife, its blade glinting briefly in the candlelight. He presses the flat side of the blade against the man's skin, trying to gauge the size of whatever lurks underneath.

The creature inside reacts violently, shifting with such vigor that the man's neck twitches. A muffled, squelching sound emanates as the creature moves, causing undulation in the skin. Ethan's disgust mounts, but he suppresses it, focusing on his task.

"Easy there," Ethan mutters, more to himself than to the creature. He makes a small incision above the bulge. The skin parts with a pop. The smell that escapes the new wound is foul – a pungent odor of decay and infection. It overwhelms Ethan's amplified senses, filling his lungs with pain.

From the incision, the head of a monstrous insect appears. It's covered in a slick, dark purple carapace, its multiple eyes gleaming dully in the light. The creature's mandibles click together, oozing a dark, viscous fluid that drips onto the man's skin.

Using his knife, Ethan pries the creature further out. It resists, its many legs scrambling against the open air. Finally, with the sound of a bottle's cork, the insect pops out of the man's neck. It writhes violently on the blade, its mandibles snapping repeatedly.

The creature launches itself at Ethan, attaching to his left forearm with a sickening crunch. Its sharp mandibles dig into his skin. Ethan gasps in pain, his face contorting as he tries to grasp the writhing insect. The creature's carapace is slick and covered in fluid. It snaps viciously, cutting into Ethan's forearm and drawing blood that drips on the floor. A burning sensation radiates up Ethan's arm.

Ethan grasps his knife tightly with his right hand. He drives the blade directly through his own skin to stab the creature. The insect lets out a high-pitched screech as the blade splits its body. Ethan pushes the knife further, cutting the creature in two and opening his skin. He grabs the remnants of the insect, prying several times to ensure that none of it remains inside. He wraps his bleeding arm with a piece of gauze, stopping the blood flow.

He stares at the two halves of the creature lying on the floor. Disgust and pain wash over him in waves. "I fucking hate insects," he mutters.

Using predator's sight, Ethan detects two more insects squirming inside the ill man's body, one in his left arm and another in his leg. They writhe under his skin, screeching as they move. The man awakens with a violent gasp, his body contorting in agony. He thrashes wildly, his eyes wide with terror and confusion. With frenzied movements, he swings his arms through the air, as if wielding an invisible sword, aiming disjointed strikes at Ethan. Just as abruptly as he had awoken, the man's movements cease. He collapses back onto the bed, his breaths shuddering to a halt and his heart falling silent within moments.

Ethan hears the tenant of the next room waking up. "Did you hear something?" he asks another man sleeping in the same room. Ethan stores the remnants of the creature in an empty potion vial and places a rug on his blood. He reopens the window to exit the room, using his knife to close the rudimentary lock behind him.

Ethan approaches Sylas, who is sitting on a tree stump, his features clouded with worry and sadness. As soon as he sees Ethan’s bandaged forearm, stained with seeping blood, Sylas’s expression turns even graver.

Ethan sighs heavily, his voice calm as he begins to explain. "There's no helping him now; he's gone," he states. "Those creatures were inside him. I managed to extract one, but the other killed him soon after I removed it." He holds up the vial containing the insect's remains as proof.

Sylas flinches at the sight, his voice filled with urgency. "We should tell the priests; they need to know as soon as possible."

Ethan shakes his head, dismissing the idea. "There's no need. They will understand once they examine his dead body," he counters, his tone firm. He shows his bandaged forearm. "If you have to deal with one, be careful. I had to pluck this one from my own flesh; they'll resist any attempts to extract them."

Sylas's brow furrows in consternation. "But what if they remain undetected? The ignorance of their presence among our people, even for a single day, could lead to many more deaths," he voices with concern.

'Making myself more notorious is too dangerous,' Ethan ruminates in his mind. "Listen, should they fail to uncover their existence, I will warn them after we reach the capital," he reassures.

Sylas's gaze flickers with uncertainty, subdued by Ethan's commanding presence. After a moment's pause, he acquiesces. "Very well," he concedes, resignation coloring his words. He leaves Ethan alone, returning to the tavern.

'Why am I including him so easily in my actions?' Ethan wonders internally as he watches Sylas disappear. Sylas's demeanor, honesty, and cunning resonate with Ethan. It is reminiscent of a young man he once mentored.

He recalls the day of training Reaper One, a child soldier found in the remains of a mercenary camp. Ethan sees the same mixture of vulnerability and determination in both of them.