Now To Pay The Price

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The crimson blade slid free, its red pulsating glow washing over the battlefield.

Flint simply stared for a moment.

“…”

The sword was simply otherworldly. An impossibly deep crimson ran from its guard to its very tip, as though the blade itself had been forged from living blood. Thin lines of light drifted beneath its surface before fading away again.

Warmth spread through his hand as the burning pain from the bite melted away. The tension left his muscles one ache at a time, his breathing steadied, and even the sword’s impossible weight simply… vanished.

It felt as though he’d carried it for his entire life.

Flint blinked.

“…What…”

His feet moved of their own accord, one stepping forward as the other turned sideways into a stance he had never learned, yet one that somehow felt as natural as breathing.

The robed figure watched him in silence.

“…So.”

For the first time, its hollow voice rumbled from its skeletal throat.

“Somebody else found it first.”

Flint barely heard him. His eyes never left the blade.

It felt…

Familiar. Like greeting someone he’d forgotten long ago.

The first undead lunged, but Flint didn’t think before acting. He simply did. The crimson blade swept through the air in a single effortless arc, and the corpse froze mid-step as a thin line spread across its chest before its body quietly crumbled into black ash.

Flint froze.

“…I…”

He looked at the sword in disbelief.

“…I didn’t…”

He hadn’t even struck its head. Then how…

Again his body moved before his mind could catch up. One step became a twist, the twist a slash, and before Flint even understood what had happened another corpse dissolved into ash… then another… then another.

His body flowed from one strike into another as though the sword had already decided where it wished to go, leaving him to do little more than follow along.

The robed figure stopped, its hollow gaze settling on the crimson blade as the crystal atop its staff flared. A dozen undead surged forward at once, but Flint stepped into them instead of away, weaving between grasping hands as every parry became a slash and every slash another corpse collapsing into ash.

“What… what is happening?”

The defenders of the village stared in awe for a moment, as crimson light swept across the battlefield like a ribbon dancing in the air. By the time Flint came to a stop, the dead behind him had already begun collapsing into nothing.

He turned to the sound of the robed figure’s voice.

“It’s truly as terrifying as they say.”

It cautiously watched Flint’s every move. Its bony fingers tightened around the staff.

“You…”

Its voice was no longer calm.

“…Where did you find it?”

Flint opened his mouth.

“I don’t—”

The answer never came. His body surged forward, the world dissolving into a blur as the distance between them vanished. The robed figure reacted at once, the crystal atop its staff erupting with crimson fire.

But it was already too late.

Flint’s blade had already passed. It carved a clean line across the staff, slicing it in half. In one motion Flint returned the slash, carving a diagonal line across the skeletal figure. The leader of the undead remained standing as a crimson line slowly appeared across its chest.

For the first time, the hollow sockets beneath its hood widened.

“…No.”

Its body began to crack. Thin lines of crimson spread across its ancient bones before the robes finally collapsed into a heap of ash.

Flint stared at the place where the creature had stood, his grip tightening around the Bloodblade.

“I…”

His voice trembled.

“…How did I do that?”

The undead had been dealt with, most of their bodies already reduced to ash and dust.

It is done.

The voice returned, its cadence staying the same. Always the same.

Now to pay the price.

“What… price?”

Flint whispered.

“We have survived!” Old man Trafford cheered. Some children cheered back, while others still remained shaken.

“WE DID IT!”

“THEY’RE GONE!”

Spears slipped from weary hands, Lori broke into laughter, and Isla's shimmering barrier finally dissolved as she caught her breath.

A child cried out in delight breaking into a dash toward Flint.

“Hero Flint!”

The kid stopped midway, hesitantly skidding to a halt. Because Berthram didn’t smile. He didn’t cheer nor celebrate.

He hadn’t even sheathed his sword. Not yet.

“Flint.” He said, standing across from him.

Flint looked down at his hands. The pain in his arm had ceased. He rolled up his sleeve to see…

His forearm was clean. No bite, no blood.

It had healed…? But how?

Flint smiled regardless. That meant… he could keep on living.

“Elder!” Flint smiled, “I think we won!”

He laughed a little.

“And look!” He lifted his arm,“I got bit by one of them but the wound… is gone!”

Isla held her breath. She was about to smile before—

“I don’t know what happened but—“

“I’m sorry, kid.”

The Elder took a step forward and lunged without another warning. Elder Berthram’s old sword met the pristine red blade with a resounding noise of steel against steel.

Flint didn’t even want to guard. He just did.

“Elder! What are you—“

The Elder pushed him back and swung again.

“It’s the only way, Flint.”

Flint parried the blow.

“The only way for what?!” Flint hissed, desperately trying to will his body to stop defending, “Elder stop!”

“What are you doing?!” Isla stepped forward, panic creeping into her voice.

“Stop it, you two! We won!”

The villagers were getting restless. Flint was getting restless.

The only calm one was the elder, chaining attack after attack against the wielder of the crimson sword.

“Elder—“

Berthram’s blade slipped across the glowing blade. Flint twisted his hip and countered. The blade plunged into the Elder’s chest.

The village gasped.

Flint froze, holding the hilt with both hands, his face inches away from the Elder’s.

What have I… what have I done?

Berthram’s face wasn’t pained. Nor disappointed. He just looked straight into Flint’s tear stricken eyes.

“It’s okay, kid.”

“N-Nothing’s okay!” Flint exclaimed, “ I— you— I didn’t want to—“

He didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t know how he moved that way. He didn’t know why his arms aimed the deadly weapon right into the Elder’s heart.

“Calm down.” The Elder voiced, through the little strength he had left, “This blade is what drew the undead here. This blade is—“

“Stop talking! You’re gonna be alright!“

“Listen!” The elder coughed, “You need to take the blade and leave. Leave this place before more come.”

“What are you—” Flint couldn’t get his thoughts straight, “what is this thing?!”

"Don't ask what it is." Berthram coughed, closing the edge sunken to his chest between his palm, "Just remember what it costs."

What it… costs?

The Elder slipped from the blade, falling flat on his back.

“Elder!” Flint’s eyes blurred with tears, “Isla can patch you up she—“

The Elder grinned weakly, “Never forget… Every time the blade is drawn… it demands a sacrifice. A human sacrifice.”

“What…”

Flint’s voice trailed off. Was that why the elder attacked him? Was that why the blade fought back? Was that why the Elder now was–

Now to pay the price.

Those words echoed once more in his head. Isla rushed past everyone, reaching the two of them in seconds.

Berthram’s breathing had grown shallow as he looked toward Isla. The young mage was on her knees beside him, trembling hands glowing with pale blue light.

“Don’t worry Elder, I can help!”

She pressed both hands against the wound.

“It’ll close… it has to…”

The light grew brighter for a second, as Isla furrowed her brows.

Nothing happened.

Isla poured even more mana into the spell, but… the blood wouldn’t stop.

Her voice began to crack, her face twisting in strain and agony. Berthram slowly reached up and rested a frail hand over hers. The healing light faded.

“…Don’t waste your strength.”

Tears streamed freely down Isla’s face.

“No! I can still save you!”

Berthram’s gaze drifted past her, landing on Flint. The boy still stood where he’d been, both hands wrapped around the blade as though he no longer knew how to let go.

“…Flint.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His eyes hadn’t left the Elder for a second. All he could see was red.

Berthram smiled—the same gentle expression he’d worn that morning, the same smile he’d given Flint when he promised him the old crimson coat.

Then he looked back at Isla, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“…Don’t let him bear it alone.”

Isla blinked through her tears.

“What?”

“Remember… the rule.”

His breathing faltered.

“When you go out… always take someone with you.”

A small smile crossed his lips. His hand slipped from hers, landing softly against the earth.

Silence filled the village.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Flint’s lips trembled.

“…Elder?”

There was no response.

“…Berthram?”

Nothing. He took one slow step forward before his knees buckled, dropping to the dirt.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice barely existed.

“I’m sorry…”

He reached toward the Elder only to stop halfway. His hand shook too violently to continue.

“I didn’t mean…”

His breathing became uneven.

“I didn’t…”

He looked at his own hands still holding firmly onto the crimson sword as his fingers loosened.

The Bloodblade slipped from his grasp, striking the ground beside him with a dull clang.

Trafford quietly knelt beside Berthram, closing the Elder’s eyes with gentle hands. The old smith remained there for a long while.

Trafford's gaze drifted across the square, lingering on the mothers drawing their children closer and the guards lowering their eyes, until it became painfully clear that nobody knew what to say.

Only after a long, reluctant pause did he lift his eyes to Flint, a deep, painful sorrow hiding beneath them.

“Flint… please.”

Trafford’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“…Leave.”

“Eh?”

Nobody said anything. Nobody objected. Nobody agreed. The man lowered his head. The guards looked away. The children clung silently to their mothers.

No one could bring themselves to meet Flint’s eyes. He desperately looked around, for someone, anyone, to take his side.

But no one did. How could they after all?

Flint understood all too well.

It wasn’t because they blamed him… but because every time they would look at him…

They would see Berthram and his final moments.

Flint slowly climbed to his feet, giving a single nod. He bent down, picked up the blade and placed it back on its sheath.

"...Trafford, please." Isla's voice trembled as she looked toward the old smith, pleading with him despite already knowing the decision had been made.

The old man lowered his head.

With no one to stop him, Flint began walking. Isla stretched out her hand, but it never reached him.

No one watched where he went. Every pair of eyes remained fixed on the Elder.

Flint walked without knowing where to look. Every familiar path through the village suddenly felt foreign, as though the place he’d called home his entire life had already begun forgetting him.

He reached his cabin, that rundown home he always had to fix. He packed in silence, taking only the few things that still felt like his. As his gaze travelled over his old bed…

He saw it. The crimson coat he admired. The same one Berthram promised him once he became a hero. Neatly folded, simply sitting there waiting.

Berthram must have left it there.

“But… why?”

He wasn’t a hero. Not even close. He might even be the exact opposite.

He didn’t deserve it.

But… it was the only thing that could remind him of the Elder.

He didn't deserve it.

His hand hovered over the folded coat.

It wasn't a hero's coat anymore. It was Berthram's last gift.

With trembling hands, he slipped it over his shoulders. For a second he thought of leaving that blade behind. But he already knew he couldn’t.

Your blood is bound now.

He had to carry it with him no matter how much he hated it. He couldn’t even recall how he knew such a thing. His eyes drifted toward the corner of the cabin, where another axe rested. Flint walked over, resting a hand against it for a long moment before fastening it to his belt.

He wasn’t a swordsman, after all.

More will come.

“Right…”

Flint shouldered his sack and made it back to the gates, walking through the village one last time. The villagers didn’t wave goodbye. They probably couldn’t bring themselves to.

Their watchful eyes simply observed him.

At the edge of the gates, a lone figure stood. Her tears had barely dried but… her hands gripped her own bag tightly, a quarterstaff strapped to its side.

For a moment Flint replayed the exact same moment from this morning. Isla standing there, in front of the gates.

This time however, was different.

“What… are you doing?” Flint asked, as she stood between him and the forest.

Isla didn’t budge.

“I’m coming with you.”

Flint didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to leave her behind but…

Did he even deserve her company?

He gritted his teeth.

“…You saw what I did.”

“That wasn’t you.” Isla said, “That wasn’t Flint.”

Her voice was resolute. Final. For all her caring nature, her eyes burned with an intensity unlike anything Flint’s ever seen.

“I’m coming. The Elder gave me one final job.”

“Even so I…”

“I won’t let you bear it alone.”

Flint swallowed his words. For a moment his feet seemed rooted to the ground. But then, they moved. He simply walked, as Isla slipped beside him.

He couldn’t argue any further. He didn’t have the strength to.

They glanced over their shoulders one last time, as they saw the villagers silently looking at their retreating forms. The children clung to their mothers. Some cried… others simply looked confused.

For a moment he almost waved, like he always did. But this time wasn’t like all the others.

This… this wasn’t how Flint had imagined the day he’d leave the village.

Not with such regret. Not with this much pain. Not with a cursed sword strapped to his hip and a coat he didn’t earn.