Night cloaked Grandin in shadow, the air heavy with the chill of autumn. On the cold pavement, Sama knelt, her sobs echoing through the silent street, each one a raw wound for her lost daughter, Belladonna. She wept for her child, taken too soon, her grief a tangible weight in the quiet town. Nasha, an elderly woman with kind eyes, rested a steady hand on Sama’s trembling shoulder, her touch a lifeline in the darkness.

  “She will come back to us,” Nasha said, her voice soft but firm, carrying the weight of a promise she’d made before. “They all come back to us.”

  As if summoned by her words, a figure appeared at the town’s gate. A young girl, about thirteen, shuffled toward them, her silhouette ghostly in the moonlight. Her clothes were caked in mud and grime, as if she’d clawed her way through the wilderness.

  “It’s her,” Sama whispered, her voice choked with hope. “It’s my Belladonna. She’s come back.” She surged forward, desperate to embrace her daughter, but Nasha held her back with surprising strength.

  “Now, now,” Nasha murmured, her eyes fixed on the girl, cautious yet tender. “Let’s get her inside and clean her up. She’s had a long journey.”

  Nestled in the western mountains near the northern border, Grandin seemed idyllic, its vibrant flowers blooming in every corner—a deceptive mask over the darkness creeping into its heart. The small, tight-knit community lived quietly, bound by familiarity, their lives woven into the rhythm of seasons and the scent of blossoms. Yet, whispers of the unnatural had begun to stir, tales of the dead returning to walk among the living. The town was led by a council of elders and a Guardian Marshall who served as sheriff, a man tasked with keeping peace in a place where peace was unraveling.

  In a small office, Harold, the town’s grizzled sheriff, lounged with his boots propped on a coffee table. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, shielding him from the weight of the world. His assistant, Borgo, hurried in, breathless.

  “Boss,” Borgo said, his voice edged with urgency. “Another unusual case. A child came back to her mother.”

  Harold didn’t move. “Another one, huh?” His tone was flat, as if the impossible had become routine.

  “Aren’t we going to investigate?” Borgo asked, his youthful face a mix of confusion and concern, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.

  Harold sighed, slowly tilting his hat up to reveal eyes hardened by years of seeing too much. “Is it a crime? Is anyone being hurt? Is the mother happy?”

  “No,” Borgo replied, shifting on his feet. “I don’t think so. The mother seemed… happy.”

  “Then we’re not wasting our time,” Harold said, his tone final. “Some things are better left buried, kid.”

  Borgo’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitching as if to argue. “But—”

  “No buts,” Harold interrupted, his voice a low growl, eyes narrowing under the brim of his hat. “Go help Lagan with his delivery. He’s got a sack of corn waiting.” He stood, grabbing his scabbard and longsword, and strode out without a backward glance.

  Borgo, a twenty-year-old orphan who had volunteered to assist Harold, felt a pang of frustration, his chest tight with the need to prove himself. He had always wanted to repay the town’s kindness, the people who had raised him when he was alone, but his boss seemed content to ignore the strange occurrences plaguing Grandin. With a heavy sigh, he did as he was told, his boots scuffing the dirt as he set off to find Lagan.

  He found Lagan near a stand of gnarled trees, but not as he expected. A shadowy figure loomed over a crumpled body, a massive, two-handed rock weapon gleaming wetly in the moonlight. Borgo’s mind froze, his breath catching in his throat. This was his first time witnessing a murder, and fear made his legs unsteady.

  “Lagan!” he screamed, trying to sound braver than he felt, his voice cracking. “What are you doing?”

  The figure looked up, its face obscured by the trees’ shadows, only the glint of eyes visible. “Ah, sorry about this guy,” he said, his voice calm, almost amused, as if he’d merely spilled a drink. “I made a little mess.”

  Borgo blinked, his heart pounding in his ears, and when he opened his eyes, the man was gone, vanished like a wisp of smoke.

  Shaking, Borgo stumbled to Lagan’s side. The man’s head was a gruesome, disfigured mess, blood pooling beneath him. But that wasn’t what horrified Borgo most. Lagan’s chest had split open, revealing a grotesque mouth lined with jagged teeth, pulsing as if alive. Borgo stumbled backward, his stomach churning, panic clawing at his mind.

  He had to find Harold.

  Unaware of the horror unfolding nearby, Emmet and Eanne wandered Grandin’s streets, the town’s vibrant flowers a deceptive mask over its unease. “These blooms are stunning,” Eanne said, plucking a few and slipping them into her pocket dimension with a flick of her wrist. Her fingers lingered on a petal, its beauty at odds with the town’s growing tension.

  “Yeah, Grandin’s known for them,” Emmet replied, idly spinning his Earth Totem between his fingers, its surface etched with faint runes. “I guess we should find a place to eat.”

  Eanne’s stomach growled loudly, and she grinned. “I hope they have meat. I’m starving!”

  Emmet’s stomach answered with a growl of its own, and they both laughed. “Let’s find a restaurant before we starve,” he said, his eyes scanning the quiet streets, sensing an undercurrent of wrongness beneath the town’s charm.

  Borgo, his mind reeling, his breath ragged from running, reached the town square. He spotted Harold, who was casually tipping his hat to a group of townsfolk, his easy smile a stark contrast to Borgo’s panic.

  “Sir… a crime…” Borgo gasped, doubling over, hands on his knees. “Lagan was killed by some guy. I’ve never seen him before, and… his body, it wasn’t human.”

  Harold’s easygoing demeanor vanished, his eyes sharpening. “What happened to Lagan?”

  “Please, follow me,” Borgo urged, leading Harold back to the gruesome scene, his heart still racing.

  Harold inspected the body, his face grim, lips pressed into a thin line. “Look at his chest,” Borgo said, pointing to the grotesque mouth, its teeth glinting in the dim light. “That’s not human. What is that?”

  “The man you saw, where is he?” Harold asked, his eyes scanning the shadowed trees, hand resting on his sword hilt.

  “He… he just disappeared when I blinked,” Borgo stammered. “I panicked. I was scared to look for him. I just ran to check on Lagan.”

  “Calm down, Borgo,” Harold said, his voice unusually gentle, though his eyes remained hard. “Go home. Get some rest. I’ll take care of this. Forget what you’ve seen here. You’re tired. I’ll handle everything.”

  Dejected, Borgo trudged home, the horrifying image of Lagan’s body seared into his mind. That’s when he saw him again—the man from the crime scene, standing under a lantern’s glow, talking to a young woman. It was Emmet and Eanne. Borgo’s hands shook as he fumbled for the sword at his waist, his palms slick with sweat.

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  Eanne noticed him first. “Emmet, that’s the guy who saw you back there,” she whispered, her voice low but curious. “Maybe we should ask him for directions. And a good place to eat.”

  Emmet studied Borgo’s frightened face. “He looks terrified,” he said, then his eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, how insensitive of me. He saw me kill someone. He probably thinks I’m a criminal. I should clear this up.”

  As Emmet approached, Borgo’s panic surged, his hand trembling on his sword hilt, unable to draw it.

  “Calm down, sir,” Emmet said, raising his hands, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’m not a criminal. Please relax, and I’ll explain everything. I won’t harm you.”

  “It had teeth… a mouth on its chest,” Borgo blurted, the words spilling out in a rush. “It wasn’t human. What was it?”

  Emmet relaxed, sensing Borgo’s genuine fear. “I’m Emmet, and this is my friend, Eanne. I’m a pilgrim from the north, visiting shrines of the forgotten gods. The man I killed was no man; it was a Bloodbound.”

  The word “Bloodbound” seemed to anchor Borgo, though his hands still trembled. “Those… monsters? My name’s Borgo. I’m the assistant to the town’s guardian. Bloodbounds… what are they?”

  “Borgo,” Emmet said, his tone warm, sensing an opportunity. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but my friend and I are looking for a place to stay and eat. Can you help us?”

  Borgo hesitated, glancing at a faded portrait of his adopted father on the wall, his heart torn. “I’ll cook for you,” he said, looking around at the curious stares of townsfolk. “Come to my house.” He led them away, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest that he’d found someone who might believe him.

  As they entered, Borgo quickly closed the door and drew the curtains, his movements frantic. Eanne looked around. “This is a big house for one man.”

  “It was left to me by my adopted father,” Borgo said, a touch of sadness in his voice as he glanced at the portrait again. “He passed away last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Emmet said, his voice soft with genuine empathy.

  “No worries,” Borgo replied, moving to the kitchen, his hands still unsteady. “I’ll cook for you. Make yourselves at home.”

  As he prepared the meal, Borgo’s nervous energy returned. He checked the windows, his eyes darting to the shadows. “The truth is… this town’s been acting strange lately. The people are different.” He looked at Emmet and Eanne, his eyes full of desperate hope. “Are you… some kind of hunters? You’re not Luminaries, are you? This town needs help. Something’s happening here.”

  “The food’s ready,” he said abruptly, changing the subject, his voice tight. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

  Emmet and Eanne shared a glance, a silent understanding passing between them before sitting at the table.

  Over the meal, Emmet took the lead. “We’re not exactly hunters. We’re pilgrims, but in a way, we hunt those kinds of things. Bloodbounds. They’re monsters that feed on people. Usually, where you find them, there’s a demonic altar where they offer sacrifices to grow stronger.”

  “I knew it!” Borgo exclaimed, his face lighting up with a mix of fear and vindication. “I’m not crazy!” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Dead people are coming back to life. No one in town seems to care or believe me. The other night, a daughter who died last week came back to her mother. A husband, a pharmacist… it keeps happening.”

  Emmet listened intently, his expression unreadable, his fingers tracing the edge of his plate. Eanne, chewing her food, added, “I don’t sense any demonic energy from an altar in this town, but I do sense more Bloodbounds.”

  Emmet turned to Borgo. “Will you help us hunt these monsters?”

  Borgo’s hopeful expression faded, replaced by profound sadness. He cast a longing glance at the portrait on the wall. “I… I don’t think we should hunt them. The people who lost their loved ones—they’re happy. I don’t want to ruin that.”

  His hands trembled as he set down his spoon, his eyes flickering to the shadowed doorway. His voice hardened, though it cracked with guilt. “This town raised me when I was alone. I can’t let you destroy their happiness.” He sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. His gaze was fixed on the doorway as he spoke. “I’m sorry… the food is poisoned.”

  Tears glistened in Borgo’s eyes. “The people here took care of me when I had no one. And my adopted father…” A figure emerged from the shadows—an old man, his face unnaturally pale, his eyes hollow. Borgo’s voice broke with a mixture of fear and devotion. “He came back, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Borgo sobbed. “You can’t leave. The poison will take effect in five minutes. Please, forgive me.”

  Eanne continued eating, completely unbothered, her fork clinking against the plate. Emmet paused mid-bite, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Poison, huh? Bold move.” He resumed eating, unfazed, as a glowing, fire-like orb, his Fire Totem, floated serenely behind his head. “It cleanses poisons and other ailments,” he explained, wiping his mouth.

  He stood, summoning another object—a sturdy rock-like staff etched with runes. His Earth Totem. He hurled it at the old man, the staff crushing his skull with a sickening crunch. The body fell, lifeless, revealing a grotesque mouth in its chest, its teeth snapping uselessly at the air.

  Borgo froze, his mind reeling, unable to process the violence. “This is what I use to kill Bloodbounds,” Emmet said, looking down at the corpse, his voice steady but not unkind.

  He turned to Borgo, his gaze unwavering. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll take care of the rest. I can’t let this town’s delusion continue. The dead belong in the grave. You said they came back days or weeks after being buried, right? Where’s the graveyard?”

  Borgo’s throat tightened, but an undeniable pull forced the truth from him. “It’s outside the town… to the north, past the local church.”

  Emmet nodded. “Thank you, Borgo. We must learn to move on from losing our loved ones. For the living, there is no greater honor than to carry on, to live and love, and to remember those we’ve lost. It’s how we truly honor their memory.”

  Emmet and Eanne stepped outside, only to find themselves surrounded. A crowd of townsfolk, armed with pitchforks, shovels, and swords, blocked their path. At the head was Harold, his face a mask of cold fury, his hand gripping his sword hilt.

  “You won’t leave this place, outsiders,” Harold said, his voice low, carrying a weight that suggested he knew more than he’d let on.

  Eanne leaned closer to Emmet, her voice a whisper. “They’re not all human, Emmet. Some are Bloodbounds in disguise. What do we do?”

  “This is troublesome,” Emmet said, summoning his totems, their glow casting eerie shadows. “I don’t want to kill any humans, but it looks like we’ll have to fight our way through.”

  He raised his voice, a powerful declaration echoing in the night. “Demons and humans! Listen up. This ends tonight. Those who wish to die, come forward. I don’t care who you are. If you choose to fight, I will ensure your demise.”

  He turned to Eanne, his expression softening. “I’m sorry.”

  Eanne nodded, understanding. “Try not to kill any humans, if you can.” She merged into Emmet’s body, her consciousness becoming part of his magical space, amplifying his senses.

  The fight erupted. Emmet moved like a storm, weaving through the crowd, his boots kicking up dust as pitchforks and swords slashed the air behind him. He targeted those who matched his speed—Bloodbounds, their human facades slipping to reveal glinting claws and blood-red tentacles. With a leap, he smashed his Earth Totem into one, its skull crunching, then darted forward, using his momentum as both weapon and shield.

  One by one, the monsters revealed their true forms—hideous creatures with writhing, blood-like tentacles, gruesome faces, and razor-sharp claws. Emmet smiled grimly. “Their transformation makes this easier.”

  He summoned his Fire Totem, which spat fireballs that seared the creatures, and his Earth Totem, which erupted spikes from the ground to impale them. He ran, clearing a path through the horde, his breath steady despite the chaos.

  He reached the graveyard, its tombstones looming like silent sentinels. “Eanne, locate the altar!” he commanded. She emerged from his body, her hands trembling as she stretched them toward the graveyard’s heart. Her eyes fluttered shut, sweat beading on her brow.

  Emmet stood guard, his totems a blur as he slaughtered any Bloodbound that came too close, their screeches echoing in the night. “Found it!” Eanne cried, pointing to a weeping angel statue, its stone face twisted with unnatural malice.

  Eanne drew a protective sigil on the ground, its lines glowing faintly, creating a barrier. Emmet leaped high, his two-handed Earth Totem glowing with earth and fire energy. He landed with a thunderous crash, smashing the statue into a million pieces, the air rippling with the release of demonic energy.

  Eanne returned to Emmet’s body as he finished off the remaining Bloodbounds, their bodies collapsing into lifeless husks. The fight ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving the graveyard silent.

  Emmet sank onto a grave, exhausted, his breath coming in heavy gasps. “Phew,” he said. “It’s done.”

  “What about the rest?” Eanne’s voice echoed in his mind.

  Emmet stood, wiping his Earth Totem clean. The graveyard was silent now, save for the distant sobs of townsfolk mourning their false dead. He glanced back at Grandin, its famed flowers now wilted and stained with the night’s violence—a true Graveyard of Flowers. “Let them rebuild,” he said softly. “They’ll have to face the truth now.”

  Eanne’s voice was quiet. “And Borgo?”

  Emmet’s jaw tightened. “He made his choice. It’s a sad thing, to cling to a beautiful lie. We can only help those who want to be saved.” He turned to leave, and the breeze stirred the graveyard, scattering petals like a final, sad requiem for the dead who would never return.

  Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles | Royal Road will be continuing that story next week. thanks