The demon shouted in a horrible guttural language. Its empty, depthless eyes stared up into his own, and fear filled the creature's face as its struggles weakened. With a final, horrendous gasp, it shuddered and lay still.
For long moments, the Hunter could do nothing but listen to his frantic heartbeat and his labored breathing. When he finally tried to sit upright, he could move without pain. His head felt clear. Vigor raced through his veins, and though blood still stained the front of his tunic, only thick scar tissue remained where the wound in his neck had been.
The scent of lilies reached him, accompanied by the smell of iron and leather. Opening his eyes, he saw the form of Celicia lying on the floor. A pool of red spread beneath her, yet the way she glared at him told him she would live.
He knelt beside her. "You're hurt bad," he said, speaking in a calm, quiet voice, "but it's nothing a physicker can't deal with." He guessed the dagger had missed the major organs, and the wound, though painful, didn't appear to be fatal.
"Bastard!" Celicia snarled weakly. Blood-tinged spittle flecked her lips. "Kill me now and get it over with." Pain filled her face, but her eyes were clear as she stared up at him—the hatred in her expression plain.
"No," the Hunter replied. "Now hold still."
He ripped a length of cloth from the First's brightly-colored robes and pressed it to her side.
"Here, take this," he said, placing her hands on the cloth. "Apply pressure, and you should be able to stop the bleeding."
"What do you care?" Celicia snarled. "You killed everyone else, so why save me?"
The Beggar Priest's words flashed through the Hunter's mind. You are given over to a life of crime, the aging voice said, but that does not mean your heart is filled with evil. You will find there are many in your line of work that are simply there out of necessity, or because they know nothing else.
"All deserve death," the Hunter said, "but some deserve a second chance at life."
"So you save my life, and I fall into your arms?" she asked, anger lending strength to her voice. "You think that because I'm a woman I will be grateful for your assistance?"
"No," the Hunter replied, "this has nothing to do with your being a woman."
"So what then?" Celicia demanded. "Why save me and none of the others?"
"I owe you my life. Twice now."
She fell silent at this.
"It was you who brought me to the Beggar Priests, wasn't it?" He remembered her scent that night as he lay on the cobblestones of Upper Voramis.
She said nothing, and he took her silence as confirmation.
"I don't know why you did it," the Hunter said, "but I owe you my life for that. And for helping me stop the First."
"You owe me nothing for that!" Celicia snarled. "The whorespawn tried to kill me, and I simply repaid him in kind."
"Fair enough."
Turning his back on Celicia, he ripped more of the First's robes for bandages. She winced when he wrapped the cloth around her midsection, but made no protest.
When he had finished, he climbed to his feet. "Consider my debt repaid, Celicia. If that is even your name."
Turning away from her, he collected his weapons from the cavern floor. Soulhunger's voice remained silent in his mind. He winced as he touched the iron blades, but the pain faded once he slipped them into their sheaths on his back. The weight of his sword comforted him.
As he reached for the First's blade, it whispered to him, enticing him to wield it, offering to serve him. With an effort, he shoved the voice to the back of his mind. Unwilling to touch the sword, he wrapped it in the First's robe before tucking it into his belt.
"So what now?" Celicia called out. The Hunter turned to see her struggling into a sitting position. "You just walk away, and life goes on?"
"Yes," said the Hunter with a shrug.
"And you expect me to let you go? What will stop me from hunting you down in vengeance for what you have done tonight?"
"The Bloody Hand is no more. Their reign of terror has come to an end. What you do with yourself is of no concern to me. Hunt me down and I will not hesitate to kill you."
Celicia tried to keep her expression neutral, but fear flashed in her eyes. She flinched beneath the menace in the Hunter's voice, and finally looked away. Her eyes rested on the First's twisted body.
"You killed him," she asked, "yet he said you're one of them. Is that true?"
"Yes and no," he replied. "Their blood may run through my veins, but that doesn't make me like them. I am only half-demon; the other half is as human as you are."
"You're a murderer. You deserve to die."
The Hunter nodded. "Perhaps, but I have been given a second chance. Now, you have been given one as well. Do with it what you will."
"And you're just going to leave me here to die?" she snarled at him.
"The bleeding has stopped. You will live."
"Will I? You've destroyed everything I worked hard to build, so what do you expect me to do now? Work at The Arms of Heaven?"
The Hunter shrugged. "If you must." Anger flashed in Celicia's eyes. "I will never—!"
"I don't care what you do," the Hunter said, cutting off her words. "But know that if you ever harm an innocent, I will finish what was started here tonight."
Celicia looked as though she had just been slapped. "What he did," she said, her eyes flicking toward the First's corpse, "it was inhuman." She shuddered.
A vision of Farida's lifeless body flashed before the Hunter's eyes, and his face darkened at the memory.
Celicia must have seen the anger in his face, for she held up a weak hand. "I had nothing to do with it," she said, "I swear!"
Silence fell between them as the Hunter studied her face.
"I believe you," he said at last, "and that is the only reason that you still live. He took that little girl from me. He took all of them from me." He swallowed hard and dashed away a tear. "I killed him because of what he did, but that doesn't mean you have to die."
She remained silent.
"You're not like the others that surrounded you, are you? You have no real desire to kill me. You never wanted to kill."
He stared into her eyes, but she avoided his gaze.
"You feel the weight of guilt for every life you have taken, don't you?" She said nothing. "You may have forgotten who you once were, but buried somewhere deep, it is still there. You still know right from wrong, and that is why you live."
He knelt beside her. "Look at me, Celicia."
Slowly, she turned her face toward him.
"Tell me," he said quietly, "what do you see when you look into my eyes?"
Celicia looked into his eyes. "Darkness," she gasped, recoiling in horror. "Emptiness."
"I am forced to live with this evil every day, but you are not. You don't have to hide who you are. Fear and shame need not rule your life. Go, live your life the way it was meant to be, and leave behind this disguise you wear."
Uncertainty, hesitation, doubt, and fear collided in her expression, but he could see his words taking effect.
"Here lies the Fourth of the Bloody Hand," he intoned, "killed alongside her men. From this tunnel emerges a new woman, one who will choose her own path in life."
The Hunter slowly stood, every muscle and bone protesting. Blood stained his face and his clothes hung ripped on his frame, but his heart felt somehow light, unburdened.
He extended his hand to her, and she took it. Her hand was soft and warm in his, yet her grip was strong. "You are free, Celicia."
"And you?" she asked in a quiet voice. "Are you free, Hunter?" Her face had seemed to change as well. Where she once stared at him with naked hatred, now there was something akin to pity in her eyes.
"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I was born to be the Hunter. It is who I am and will always be."
"Can you not choose a different path?"
He shook his head. "I wish I could, but it is not meant to be. I have tried to ignore the voice in my h
ead telling me to bring death, but in the end, that demon within will always triumph."
Celicia reached out to place a gentle hand on his cheek. "You say you have seen the real me, Hunter, but I have seen into your heart this night as well. You claim to be less than human, but your actions prove that you are more than just a man. You cared for those people, that little girl, even though the rest of the world treated them as castaways and scum. That is not the action of a monster."
He tried to think of something to say, but no words came out.
“There may be more to you than you believe, if only you will search for it,” Celicia said. “The Hunter is the assassin, but there is a man beneath. You decide who that man is. Demon, killer, protector, or something else—the choice is yours.” Her eyes darkened. “Sometimes, we need a reminder that we choose the paths we take. We must bear the burdens of our actions and decisions.”
The Hunter raised an eyebrow. “A criminal and a philosopher?”
She snorted. “Facing death at the hands of a demon tends to make one…reflective.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
Her eyes took in his features, and a smile played at the corners of her lips. "I have to say, I like this face much better than the one you wore that night in The Iron Arms. Why do you wear the disguises, Hunter?"
He fought for an answer. "To protect my identity from those who would seek retribution."
"That may be," Celicia said, thoughtful, "but have you ever considered that they only serve to hide you from the world around you?"
He had no reply to this.
"If you truly are immortal, as the rumors say," the woman continued, "could those masks not be your way of keeping the world out? A shield against pain? If no one ever sees the real you, there is no risk of anyone growing close. With no one to care for, there is no risk of loss."
A lump grew in the Hunter's throat.
"What a lonely existence it must be to have no one to share your life with." There was sorrow in Celicia's words. "I can relate to that, Hunter, for I, too, have worn a mask all these years. Thanks to you, I am free of mine. Perhaps you should seek freedom from yours as well."
She placed her other hand on his cheek, pulling his face close to hers. "Don't hide from the world, Hunter. Find someone to share your world with and you will never need to fear being alone again."
A single tear trickled down his cheek, and she smiled up at him.
"Perhaps there is more to you than you suspect," she continued. "Perhaps you were meant to be something more than just an assassin-for-hire. Search your soul, and you may find your true purpose. Find the man beneath the mask."
She pulled him forward, pressing her lips to his. A thrill coursed through his body, a sensation he had never experienced with Lady Damuria or the other women he had taken to his bed.
When Celicia finally released him, she gave him a weak grin. "Farewell, Hunter. May the gods smile on you wherever you go."
With a nod of farewell, the Hunter turned and strode toward the end of the tunnel.
No! protested the voice in his head. We must feed. You cannot let her get away.
Silence, he thundered inwardly. I know what you are, Demon, and you will no longer control me.
He turned. "One question," he said, fighting to swallow the lump in his throat.
Celicia stared up at him, arching an eyebrow in response.
"What is your real name?"
Smiling, she responded in a quiet voice. "Kiara. My name is Kiara."
With a nod, he turned and walked into the darkness of the Serenii tunnels. A single torch flickered on the floor behind him, casting eerie shadows on the walls within its small circle of illumination. Celicia lay within its circle of light, a small figure blending with the darkness.
The Hunter's heart thundered in the silence of the empty passages. Yet it didn't beat with fear or rage. He was alone, but for the first time in his memory, the Hunter no longer felt lonely.
Epilogue
The first rays of morning sunlight peeked over the eastern horizon, illuminating the beautiful terrain surrounding the city. The sounds of commerce had yet to rise to the heavens, and Voramis remained silent and peaceful. His body ached from the exertion of climbing, and fire still raced through the scars on his back and chest, yet he felt an odd sense of peace. Soulhunger pounded in his mind, but its voice had grown quiet since feeding on the demon's lifeblood.
From his perch atop the Palace of Justice, the tallest building in Voramis, the Hunter looked down on the sprawling metropolis below. A cool dawn breeze blew across the Hunter's face, and he reveled in the morning's chill. The wind carried the scents of the city to him. The fragrance of flowers and Snowblossom trees from the Maiden's Fields. The odor of incense from the Temple District. The smell of filth from the Beggar's Quarter. The aroma of the myriad goods sold in the Merchant's Quarter.
My city, he thought.
He had lived in Voramis for nearly half a century and had come to call it home. Now, he realized he had merely forced himself to believe he had a place in the city.
The desire to kill is overwhelming, and yielding to it helps to silence that aching emptiness for a time. But no matter how many lives I take, I can never dull the pain of that yawning abyss within.
He thought of Lady Damuria, and the countless others like her with whom he had shared a bed. They had helped to drown out the murderous voices in his head, providing a temporary distraction. Yet, as he remembered the feelings of disdain, he knew in truth it was disgust for himself that had overwhelmed him.
Farida's smiling face flashed through his mind, causing his heart to ache. Sorrow flooded him, and tears fell from his eyes. Instead of brushing them away, however, he let them flow. They burst from him in great heaving sobs, and he wept into the dawn.
For a short time, she had filled that hole in her own way. What little of the Hunter she did see, she had never rejected. When he was with her, he had felt somehow…complete.
The pain diminished, but the hollow feeling remained. She will always be a part of me, but I have to let her go.
Her face faded, blown away by the gentle breeze.
Goodbye, Farida. You are gone, but never forgotten.
For long moments he remained motionless, his mind an empty void. He closed his eyes, letting his senses bask in the new morning.
Voramis had been cleansed. The Bloody Hand was no more, the Dark Heresy a thing of the past.
So now what? What does my future hold?
He stared out over the city where he had lived for so many years, but saw only an unfamiliar jungle of buildings and streets. Something beyond the horizon beckoned to him, a pull he could not resist.
Voramis is no longer my home; of that much I am certain.
It had ceased being his home the moment Farida died. He needed to find answers, but something told him he would not find them in Voramis.
He needed to know more about who he was—what he was. He needed answers about the creature within him. He had escaped death, but still the demon raged in his mind. Soulhunger added its voice to the tumult in his head.
The events of the night flashed before his eyes. He had taken dozens of lives, and now he saw their faces, felt the pain of their deaths etched into his body. He recalled the temptation of death. How he had longed for the cessation of pain. It would have been so easy to give up, and yet he had chosen to live.
The demon's words played through his mind. "Embrace who you are," the creature had said.
I am the last of my kind, the last Bucelarii, but I refuse to accept the “destiny” the First spoke of.
The Hunter knelt and unwrapped the clothbound bundle he had carried here. The First's accursed sword stared up at him, whispering in his mind.
Wield me, it told him, and I will give you power beyond your wildest dreams. You will conquer the world, and together we—
The voice intensified the moment his fingers closed around its hilt, and it filled him with revu
lsion. He held it out at arm's length as he walked toward the center of the roof, unwilling to let it any nearer his body than necessary.
Wait! The blade's tone turned begging. You cannot cast me off. I am—
You are nothing, the Hunter thought, steeling his mind and shutting out the sword's pleas. You are the last relic of a civilization long past. You are a curse, one I will put an end to now.
He placed the blade on the tiles of the roof, covering it with the blanket.
No one will ever find you. As long as you remain here, the world will be safe.
Rising to his feet, the Hunter turned and, without a backward glance, strode away. The action felt paramount to turning his back on his kind, but he was at peace with his decision.
As he neared the edge of the rooftop, he was seized by an overwhelming urge to throw Soulhunger from the roof of the Palace. He wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the dagger, to be free of the whispers that incited him to kill. Yet something stopped his hand. He could not part with the blade, for it was his only link to his past. He somehow knew it would play an important role in discovering the truth.
I may have been created to serve Kharna, he thought, but I will be the blade of the Destroyer no longer. I will fight it with every breath! By the gods, I swear I will find a way to undo what my actions have set in motion.
"Gods damn you, Destroyer," the Hunter cursed aloud. He raised his arms high, his voice growling into the quiet dawn. "I will be a pawn in your game no longer!"
Without warning, a bolt of lightning shot from the cloudless sky. Crackling tendrils of power surged toward the Hunter, striking his upraised arms in twin concussions. Agony ripped through him. Every fiber of his being sizzled with the energy coursing in his veins, and he screamed. For a heartbeat, he seemed to hang in the air, floating, weightless.
Then he stood once more on the rooftop, his arms raised to the heavens. The sky remained clear, the morning breeze gentle and cool.
What in the Watcher's name was that? The memory of suffering remained, but no pain coursed through him. Had it even truly happened?
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