Chapter Text
The Spectre of Death had spared the druid.
The guard’s body lay collapsed at the druid’s feet. His blanched face, twisted in a wide-eyed grimace, landed separately in the grass with a wet smack. The Spectre’s blow had sliced through his neck, ripping his head clean from his body.
The Spectre’s greatsword was still in his hand, the edge of its blade catching ambient light from the barracks. The druid could barely make out the Spectre’s features. His longcoat was as heavy and dark as a winter night. The straps binding his tall boots together clinked loudly as he stepped around the pools of blood with comfortable ease.
All of the druid’s calculations added up to him being the Spectre’s next target. He pushed himself up, his fingernails digging into the shoddy wooden wall behind him. His legs refused to unbuckle, dragging him back down into the mud.
The rest of the guards hadn’t been alerted. The barracks remained silent. No help would be coming. Nothing stood between him and Death.
The Spectre didn’t raise his greatsword to attack a second time. Instead, he looked over the edge of his jacket. His face only matched the myths in one detail— the Spectre was pale. Instead of a skull or macabre features, he looked young, with gentle features and clear eyes the same colour as a spring morning. He smiled back at the druid, a kindness that contrasted with the corpse under his feet.
If the druid had any premonition of the events that would follow, he would have found their meeting refreshingly mundane.