That dark shape that’s been following them ever since they left the abandoned village. Was it a product of his imagination and fears? Maybe a vision of the gods the boys were talking about or a test of faith sent by the dead one. He was bound to find out once and for all. The commander silently took his weapon and left the fire. The soldiers were relieved. In the absence of their general, they can loosen their tongues and maybe their fists, for even if they considered him insane, they still held respect for him.

“Could we get a night without listening to stories about your grandmother? She probably ate the wrong mushrooms in the forest if she thought she spoke to the gods.”

“Are you afraid of angering them? Is that it?”

“The last thing I’m afraid of is your gods, you inbred bastard.”

Veran wasn’t going to raise the alarm again. He would deal with this on his own. Keeping his eyes on the shape, he strode around laying men, campfires, and tents. Like a sailor pulled by a siren’s song, the general didn’t have eyes or ears for anything else. If he wasn’t so distracted, he would’ve heard the argument sparkling into a small fire and seen the hateful eyes pointed at each other.

But he didn’t. Leaving the light and warmth of the camp, he followed the silhouette. Despite his effort not to be seen, the watchful eyes of the men saw him slipping out of camp, the fog engulfing him. He caught sight of it for no more than a second at a time, just enough to know where to go. The mist swirled and danced around his feed, welcoming him. He walked slowly, hand on the hilt of the sword.

“If you don’t shut it, you’ll end up like your friend in the village.”

“Watch your mouth!”

“Or what?”

“Or tomorrow morning, they’ll hang me for slitting your throat.”

“Oh, are you a brave one? Ever thought your gods might’ve just decided to shut your friend’s mouth the other night?”

The exchange of pleasantries continued in the camp, far away from Veran’s ears. After a few minutes of stalking the figure, he reached a clearing. A small circular patch of land covered with moss where the mist had made space for him and his hooded companion. A few steps away, he saw the figure.

Short and hunched, dressed in a torn grey cloak, his face covered with a large hood that left only the bottom of his bearded jaw visible. But when the figure raised his head, Veran saw a frail old man with tired eyes, wrinkles slicing his face. Messy grey hair looking like hay appeared under his hood. He calmed his breathing, eased the grip on his sword, and loosened his shoulders. Just an old man.

“Good thing you prayed to your gods earlier. Hope they’re watching over your buddy.” - the dead god’s follower said back in the camp.

“Oh, you’ll see who they’re watching over!”

The boy swung at the other man, punched him in the jaw, and sent him flying to the ground. He climbed on top of him and started pummeling his head with his fists. The others jumped to separate them, but one of them struck the attacker in the back of the head. He wanted vengeance for his friend, but an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.