A pained scream shatters the silence of the empty playground. Blood coats the metal poles of the swing set, making the rusted surface slick and dark. The swings sway in the wind, shaking a steady rhythm of red drops into the dirt.
​Aegir hunches in the center of the clearing. He grips a jagged piece of metal wedged into his shoulder and, with a sharp gasp, rips it out. Blood spatters his silver hair, soaking the strands until they clump against his skin. Though tears of pain wet his eyes, he shows no sign of submission.
​Aegir grits his teeth and tightens his grip on his gauntlets, ready to fight through the agony. Two large feline beasts stand beside him. They hiss and bare their fangs at Hale, who watches them with amusement despite the blood dripping from a gaping wound in his abdomen.
​”Such a shame," Hale mocks. "Who would've thought? The two nasty felines you protected so much now bear the burden of protecting you.” He laughs, pointing his sharp fingers at the creatures. Once tiny kittens, Tibby and Tabby have become Kashas—mythical beasts capable of spitting fire and dragging souls to the underworld. To aid Aegir, they underwent a premature transformation.
​Aegir lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “It's a shame for you, too. You're all alone... miserable.” He emphasizes the last two words. ”You only try to kill me to turn your sadness into desperate pleasure. Pathetic.“ Aegir smiles, even as tears drip from his forest-green eyes.
​They have fought for nearly an hour, but Aegir notices Hale slowing down. While Hale tries to mock him, Aegir realizes he can land real damage by throwing that mockery back. He just needs to wear Hale down so he and the Kashas can escape.
​Hale’s eyes blaze with fury as his crimson aura surges. He leaps, and two large, grotesque hands spring from his back to strike at Aegir and the cats. Everything the hands touch explodes. ”Die! Let's see how The Raven likes your dead body delivered to his doorstep!”
​Aegir dives away. Two pink serpentine ribbons coil from his arms and slither toward the spectral hands, while the two cats attack with golden flames. The ribbons wrap around the hands, siphoning mana as if they are thirsty. Hale clicks his tongue, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. He summons two swords and charges. He swings, but Aegir catches the blades with a loud clang against his metal claws.
​”Aren't you tired, old man?” Aegir smiles with fake kindness, using the same tone Hale once used on him. The long, bleeding cut on Aegir's cheek stings, a constant reminder of Hale's earlier strike.
​Hale fumes. He swore he could have killed this pest an hour ago. He remembers dragging Aegir by the hair while the boy begged for his life, but Aegir flipped the situation like a true cat. Every chance he gets, Aegir steals Hale’s mana and uses it against him. With every theft, the injuries Anthony previously dealt to Hale worsen, burning like internal fire.
​Now, the two Kashas shield Aegir from the "Thousand Blade Dance." Just as Hale thought he would finally see the cat impaled and dead, his victory slips away again. 
He hates how Aegir defies death. At first, he wanted to kill Aegir only to hurt Anthony, but now, he wants Aegir dead simply for his own satisfaction.
He just needs to land an attack to him again and again until he loses his limbs and could no longer save himself.  
A grin splits Hale’s face. His grotesque spectral hands vanish into thin air. In their place, his crimson mana flares, summoning a massive metal door dripping with fresh blood from its intricate carvings. As the door creaks open, low groans echo from the darkness within.
​Dozens of bloody swords emerge, their hilts fashioned from raw flesh and bone. Each blade trembles with a horrific consciousness of its own. Their wails grow so deafening that Aegir covers his ears, watching the nightmare unfold from a distance.
​Aegir realizes these swords were once people—souls Hale murdered and enslaved for his cause. He hears their protests and their desperate pleas for help; each blade bleeds as if crying iron tears.
​Fury darkens Aegir’s eyes as a heavy weight settles in his chest. A surge of rage and sorrow fills his heart. He craves to punish Hale, but he knows the truth: even though he successfully siphons Hale's mana, his own wounds will eventually wear him down. Once he falters, Hale will not hesitate to end his life.
​He cannot die. Not here. Not by these hands.
​Hale laughs, savoring Aegir’s horror. He raises his hand, commanding the blades to swarm. Unlike the "Thousand Blade Dance," this technique consumes a massive amount of mana, rendering the blades indestructible until the trapped souls exhaust their energy.
The mana is worth its kill. He'll sacrifice their souls to his Lord's awakening...days from now and The Raven could only choose death. 
​Aegir and the Kashas struggle to subdue them, but Hale has souls to spare. He intends to hurl them at his victims until they can no longer defend themselves, waiting for the perfect opening to kill them all at once.
“Now, die!”
​The blades pivot toward Aegir and his cats. They brace for the impact, but the attack never comes. Instead, a pale, clawed hand bursts through Hale’s abdomen from behind. Hale’s eyes bulge; he never saw it coming. 
He hadn't sensed a single soul nearby.
​Blood sprays from his mouth. For a fleeting second, he feels the ghostly presence of his late wife before it vanishes. The hand wrenches itself back out of his gut. As Hale stumbles, his gaze locks onto his attacker.
​His body goes rigid. It’s the man he thought he had killed. He wasn't supposed to be alive! 
​In a blur, the stranger vanishes and reappears at Aegir’s side. His crimson eyes gleam with a dark satisfaction, his fangs visible through a sharp grin. “Hey, need a hand? You can’t die yet—Issaiah would be pissed, you know?”
​Aegir’s eyes well up as he recognizes the man. He looks deathly pale now, but he still sports the same messy black hair and narrow, piercing eyes.
​“So, you’re finally awake? That’s a relief,” Aegir says, his voice softening.
​Saint nods, flicking the blood from his hand with a look of pure disgust. “Yeah, it’s a relief you’re still breathing, too. This creep’s blood reeks!”
​Hale clutches his wound, spitting blood as he glares at the pair. It feels like a cruel joke of fate—standing before him are the man he already murdered and the one he was just about to finish off.
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