The night was still.
A man walked along the road between the hills. His steps were slow, movements lazy, like his body hadn't gotten the memo that it was supposed to care. A cloak draped over his shoulders, a heavy bag strapped to his back. His hair stuck out like someone had jammed a broom into his skull. He passed a cart with blood on the sideboards, a gutted corpse under a tree, bones sunk deep into the dirt. He didn't look.
On the horizon — a village. A few houses, a mangled fence, faint firelight. No name. With each step, the sounds grew clearer: laughter, screaming, the screech of a woman's voice cut off by a man's.
Three at the gate. One sleeping, one chewing on something, one staring at a woman tied to a wagon. Nearby — stakes with severed heads, all men. A dog lay under one, gnawing on something. No one paid attention.
The figure approached. One of the guards looked up, started to say something — didn't finish. The first dropped, choking. The second slumped, throat opened. The third gurgled and fell, still trying to understand what had happened.
The man kept walking. Never slowed.
In the yard near the center, a bench. On it — a corpse. Male. Belly split open, skin pale, lips blue. Something moved inside.
Beside him, a man in a tattered robe. Carefully brushing the corpse's hair. Slow strokes. The bristles rasped through the matted strands. A spider crawled from the open gut, climbed over the ribs, disappeared behind the shoulder. The man nodded, pleased.
"There we go, there we go, handsome. Gonna make you a prince," he muttered, and kept brushing.
Under a canopy to the left, another man. A severed head sat on a stool beside him — long beard, sticky and filthy. The talker kept glancing at it between gulps of laughter like he was deep in conversation.
"Come on, she came over to me. Don't start with that," he said, snorting like he'd just heard a punchline. "You old bitch, you kill me!"
Then he stopped. Listened. Frowned. Looked into the head's eyes, then leaned back on the barrel behind him.
"What, sulking now? Come on. Don't be like that. We're friends, right? Right?!"
No answer. He grabbed the jaw, pulled it down, forced the mouth open.
"There we go. Much better. I knew you had a sense of humor."
The spider crawled out again, moved up the robe, settled on the shoulder. The robed man froze. Didn't look. Just… stopped. Fingers clenched around the brush. Slowly, he turned his head.
There was a figure at the gate. The man in the cloak, with the bag. The firelight caught his face. Along his cheek — from neck to temple — ran a tattoo: a peacock's tail, curled in spirals like a wound meant to be worn.
Spider-boy didn't understand what he was seeing — not at first. When it clicked, his mouth opened, but no words came. Whatever phrase had been forming fell apart inside him. He started to rise — then stopped. Sat back down. Slowly. Carefully. Looked away. The brush still in his hand. Spiders crawling, ignored.
The joker froze too. Then leaned in toward his head and whispered:
"He's here. Don't look. Just don't."
The Peacock stopped by the fire. Looked over the corpse, the spiders, the stool, the two freaks locked in place. Tilted his head — just slightly — like studying a display.
"Cozy. Just like the royal apothecary's place. Only cleaner."
The spiders in the corpse's hair twitched. Neither of the seated men lifted their gaze.
The Peacock drew in a breath through his nose, like sampling wine. Winced faintly.
"Where's Serek?"
Spider-boy gave a short nod, deeper into the village. Never raised his head.
The Peacock didn't even look. Just turned and walked — like he already knew the way. Passed them slow, silent, barely touching the ground. The bag on his back swayed. The spiders froze. The laughing one stopped breathing.
He stepped into the house. The air hit him — smoke, sour sweat, roasted meat. Inside: dim, but the fire in the corner gave enough light.
"…and then he was gone…" someone was whining. "My goblins just took my shield and ran! Vanished! Where do you even look?! They're tiny like roaches. Could've gone under the floor. Or the forest. Or up someone's ass."
"No time to chase your goblins. We need to keep moving."
"But it's an artifact!"
"Then go without it."
Three of them. One — rail-thin, fish-eyed, arms down to his knees, sitting on the floor yanking his own hair. Another — dressed like a roadside shrine: rags, charms, paint on his face, chains and trinkets stitched onto his cloak at random. Behind him — a throne of severed hands. He wasn't sitting in it. Just standing nearby. The third — sat straight. The leader.
When the figure entered, conversation stopped. Fish-eyes froze mid-word. Trinket-man stopped twitching his fingers. Even the leader, who'd spotted him first, didn't rise — but gripped his sword.
"Charming place… And this little wonder here."
The Peacock glanced toward the throne of hands — but that wasn't what caught his eye. He locked onto the man beside it. The glitter. The rings, chains, the patchwork cloak flashing in the firelight. He stood so the light hit just right. Probably on purpose.
"Fantastic fashion sense…"
"Peacock… What are you doing here?" Serek said, reaching for his cup. His hand trembled slightly when the Peacock's eyes slid over it.
"Serek."
The Peacock tilted his head, like looking over an old pet.
"Hmm… Still breathing, I see. Odd. Usually the king's lapdogs are in pieces by now. But you — you're like a head cold. Not fatal, not useful, just… there. Irritating."
Serek didn't answer right away. He drank, slowly. Put the cup down. His hand stopped shaking, but curled into a fist.
The Peacock went on:
"So I drag myself through this piss-reeking pit, and you don't even offer a chair. Hospitality here is…"
He didn't finish. Just shrugged the bag off his shoulder. It hit the floor with a dull thump. One of Trinket-boy's necklaces gave a faint jingle.
"For you. From him."
Serek didn't move. Just glanced at the bag. Then back to the Peacock. His face didn't twitch, but the muscle in his neck bulged.
"What is it?"
"Not a pie. Not clothes — though you could use some." The Peacock paused, then added lazily, "A little gift. Something you'll want to feel with your own hands…"
He casually picked up a sealed bottle of wine.
"…and preferably not here. Try the southern outpost."
Silence. One of the lackeys flinched, half a step forward — Peacock's gaze landed on him. He stepped right back.
Serek still said nothing. Then leaned forward, picked up the bag, opened it.
Inside — several small cylinders wrapped in cloth. Blackened metal. Threaded ends. He lifted one, weighed it in his hand like judging how hard it would blow.
"Does it work?"
"Better than your men," the Peacock replied, twisting the cork loose. The wine hissed.
Serek set the cylinder back into the bag, closed it, sat down. A beat of silence.
"Who?"
"A mutual friend decided he got clever. Tried going around. Without us. Boss doesn't forgive that."
Serek gave a slow nod. Lips pressed tight, but he said nothing.
The Peacock took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Same as always after that. Torch a couple villages, slice a garrison, scatter the toys near the southern gates. Let Borey run in circles. He's getting old — exercise will do him good."
"Edric Foss…" Serek muttered. "And he—"
"Eliminate. Him. His family. Especially his guard captains." The Peacock said it flat, like ticking off a grocery list.
Serek stared into the fire. His cheek twitched.
"He supplied us. People, weapons, routes. Without him, half the lines stall."
"Not your concern anymore." The Peacock took another sip, sat casually on the edge of the table like it was his own house. "You're not here to debate the sentence. That's not your role. You're the hand. Try to remember that."
Silence settled in again. No one moved. Even the fire seemed to dim.
"A smarter man already planned it out for you. Kill the family. Push inward. The nobles in the central region can't fight for shit. Leave a hundred here — let them make noise. Everyone else — south. Without their captains, that zone's yours in a week. After that — center."
Orders given, the Peacock turned.
"Don't drag your feet, Serek. Pawns rot fast."
Step.
Reality twisted. Like the frame buckled for half a second.
And then he was gone. No flash. No sound. Just absence.
A moment later, he was at the gate. Walked onward, calm. No dust, no footsteps.
As if he hadn't walked at all.
***
P.S. Next chapter tomorrow.