Chapter Text
Another hour passed in Candulhallow’s funeral ornament shop. Nothing ever changed: confused customers came in to ask about cremations, to buy coffins, or to gaze at embalmed bodies, treated with an almost artistic meticulousness. Every stitch was precise, every gesture calculated. The air was filled with the scent of burnt flesh and the crackle of bones, wrapped in a gloomy atmosphere. Everything was a façade: beneath that house of old planks: “We treat your dead with kindness and sympathy", something far more sinister lurked.
It was there that he began to meet Orin, a relative of unclear relation: technically Kafta was her great-uncle, although they were barely a year apart. Kafta was fifteen, she was fourteen. Their closeness made them inseparable. He called her “little sister,” a nickname Orin initially hated, but over time she accepted it through gritted teeth.
Both stood out among Bhaal’s disciples. Orin was erratic, theatrical, turning dissection into a spectacle. Her cuts were precise yet chaotic, as if her own laughter sliced through the knife’s edge. Kafta, on the other hand, displayed meticulous brutality: each incision measured, each organ repositioned to give the illusion of life. Where Orin fascinated, he terrified. Among all, they were seen as prodigies, not only for the cursed blood they shared but also for the talents that inheritance seemed to amplify.
The records of Bhaal’s offspring witnessed their early atrocities: Kafta received his own butler after killing his caretakers in cold blood at just six years old, Scleritas Fel qualified the success as “this is what happens when you want to fit in when you were born to be something better”. Orin surpassed even that, strangling her mother, Helena, when she was barely six months old.
Despite his popularity within the cult, the dracognito had few friends, he, as a prince, as a child of a royal future, felt nothing, he was unaware of his greatness and his high destiny. Almost every night, he would slip away to the tavern The Blushing Mermaid. No Bhaalist knew, not even his butler. Escaping Scleritas Fel was easy once his butcher’s work at the morgue was done. Those moments were his only respite, his private space.
On the surface, he soaked in the nocturnal ecstasy of a city unrecognizable under the stars. He wasn’t an expert in music, but he could easily tell a good bard from a mediocre one. He almost always remained a spectator, careful not to stand out, especially being underage. And when the sun seemed to rise, it was time to return to daily life.
During his shift at the funeral home, there were often dead hours when not a soul appeared. Kafta sought a way to pass the time, something different from his routine. Luckily, the night before returning “home,” he usually encountered fifth-rate, drunken musicians—easy targets, their sweaty skin glistening in candlelight, a perfect canvas for Bhaal’s cruel brush. His body would stain a hot, dark red under the moonlight; he could feel the hunger feeding, a fury deep in his stomach, like the fluttering of a butterfly. A smile formed on his lips. Then, before leaving, he noticed a violin where a human hand used to be; he took it as a keepsake, which soon became a new pastime. It was strange to use his hands for anything other than dismembering something still moving, dedicating hours to learning to read symbols not meant to further Bhaal. Scleritas noticed but let it pass; it didn’t interfere with the young Bhaalist’s duties.
“Put that down already,” Orin murmured, staring at nothing in particular. The day was slower than ever. It was the first hour of the morning; they had to attend the funeral home. Even as advanced apprentices in the hierarchy, this didn’t exempt them from basic chores like managing the family business.
“There’s nothing else to do; I think it’s more fun than trying to reassemble that elf,” Kafta said without lifting his fingers from the four strings of the violin.
Orin’s silence confirmed his point; she wasn’t interested at all. She played with her blonde hair and looked at Kafta. “Our grandfather Saverock is starting to think you’re sneaking out—you’re not subtle, always leaving a trail of blood wherever you go.”
Kafta paused. “You can still cover for me if you turn into m—”
“It’s not about that. Do you know what could happen if they notice you’re missing?”
“Orin, I’m fully aware of—”
“No! You’re not. They demand excellence. Father will not be pleased,” Orin said, looking him in the eyes, both of them the same height. “We’re just a few years from completing our training. Soon we’ll enter the presentation as active members of Bhaal; you cannot decide where Father’s dagger ends up.”
Kafta put the violin aside, looked at Orin, and huffed reluctantly. “I’m following my intuition. A little self-indulgence doesn’t hurt.” He knew the girl wanted something in return; massacres without ritual purpose were practically forbidden for now. There was no need to expose the cult unless Bhaal ordered it. This was the perfect chance for leverage.
Orin smirked mockingly. “Grandfather will know about this unless you do something for me.”
“What do you want now?” He feigned annoyance. Kafta noticed a gleam in her eyes, something stirring inside, like a simultaneous call for disaster.
“Let’s go to the cemetery tonight. I have an idea.”
Both teenagers moved through alleyways, in cahoots with the darkness of the night. At this hour, there was no one in the cemetery, not even a sentinel. Entering was easy; they climbed over the rusty grates, careful not to fall into any half-dug graves. Moonlight bathed the tombstones in deadly gray hues.
“Let’s go to the center of the cemetery,” Orin guided.
Kafta could form some small ideas about what the younger one was planning. It was adorable to see his sister repeating his old habits.
“Let’s resurrect something… or rather, the entire place,” Orin gestured with her fingers, a little prank that could easily be pulled off by anyone with basic knowledge of necromancy and, of course, the means to acquire a scroll to raise the dead.
Kafta smiled; it wasn’t the first time they had terrorized the slums with necromantic spells. Orin offered him a scroll, and they split up to achieve a higher summoning range. Easily, the cemetery could encompass 120 corpses.
The invocation was simple. They spoke the words in unison, and suddenly a silence enveloped them—nothing happened. Orin seemed bewildered; she turned to Kafta with an expression of confusion that made the dracognito smirk.
“You got ripped off with those scrolls, silly,” he teased his sister.
Orin checked her scroll, almost looking embarrassed. “No way!”
Then a creak in the ground startled both teens. It was as if thunder had struck a nearby tombstone. Suddenly, foul-smelling figures emerged from the muddy, dark earth of the graveyard, one after another.
Orin was delighted, as if opening a gift, and Kafta accompanied her with a low chuckle. The cemetery had awakened.
The noise didn’t go unnoticed by the neighborhood. They noticed the nearby house lights suddenly turning on, and dogs began to bark—a sign that it was time to disappear. Soon, the Flaming Fist would arrive in seconds.
Kafta was the first to run, climbing the rusty grate with feline agility. Orin followed, but then he heard a shriek from his sister.
“Hey!”
Kafta was already meters ahead when he turned, unsure whether to leave her to her fate or take a few more seconds to imprint the moment in his mind. The girl was stuck—her red dress caught on the metalwork. Luckily, it hadn’t caught just above the grate. Kafta stepped back, grabbed the red fabric, and pulled it.
“Be careful! It’s my favorite dress!”
“Who thinks it’s a good idea to wear that?!”
“Have you even looked in a mirror?!”
The teens bickered, easing some of the tension, but inside Kafta’s stomach knotted with anxiety. It wasn’t the guards he feared—it was his father’s punishment. He tried to free his sister carefully, so as not to damage her precious garment, when he heard armor clanging one after another—a march signaling that the Flaming Fist was only meters away. Once freed, he grabbed her arm and continued running.
“Hey, kids!”
Kafta and Orin turned into an alley in a desperate attempt to lose them. The night no longer offered shelter, and the sun was rising. Kafta couldn’t run fast enough holding Orin’s hand; he felt tension drop into his stomach when she screamed. A guard managed to grab her by the braids; she let go of his hand to hold her own hair. Kafta stopped abruptly and, without thinking twice, struck the man in the face.
The man fell to the ground, covering his nose with both hands, cursing. Kafta looked at Orin.
“Run!”
The girl didn’t hesitate and fled. The dracognito followed her, but at the end of the alley, he collided head-on with a boy his age, almost as tall as him. Kafta fell to the ground, his lip numb and bleeding. The other boy groaned in pain, holding his chin; there was blood on his hand, and his eyes met Kafta’s. The disheveled-looking boy was about to say something—probably to insult him and claim damages—when the same guard from before grabbed Kafta by the arm and pinned him against the wall, knocking the air from his lungs.
“Stay still, little pest. That was you, wasn’t it? I don’t even need to ask—why are you running?” Kafta felt his body go slack, frozen, his face pressed against the filthy, urine-scented wall. He was about to offer an excuse, but his mind went blank. His consolation was that at least Orin was already far away.
“He’s working with me. He came to investigate the strange noise we all heard,” intervened the raccoon-like boy, still holding his bleeding chin.
The guard laughed and looked at him. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“You can ask my parents—they’re just around the corner. We work at a shoe shop.” Kafta was surprised by the naturalness of his lie, the confidence in his speech, his eyes honest in the gaze of any unsuspecting person. He almost believed it himself.
The guard seemed to hesitate, loosening his grip. He looked at Kafta and let go. “We’ll keep searching.”
Once alone, Kafta didn’t know whether to thank the stranger when he was interrupted.
“I don’t like the guards. I can’t stand them,” he said, bitter and sharp.
“That… looks like it’s going to need some stitches.” Kafta looked at his chin. It was a wound nearly an inch long, seeming deep and sharp. He wanted to press his fingers against it and hear him scream. “Maybe I can fix it—it will leave a scar.” He felt the temptation, his hands moved instinctively, but his thoughts were pushed aside by the reaction of the other teen.
“What? I don’t have time for that; this needs real medical attention.” The Bhaalist felt the boy’s gaze on his clothes as his attention shifted to the silver ring on his left hand.
“Maybe this can fix it?” He half-smiled and showed the silver piece. It was just another accessory—he wouldn’t mind giving it to the stranger; after all, it had gotten the guard off his back.
The black-haired boy took the ring, inspected it for a few seconds, and seemed to smile a little. “I think this covers the damage.” He quickly slipped the ring into his pocket.
Kafta nodded, feeling the warmth of the sun on his scales—a reminder of where he wasn’t supposed to be. He didn’t say goodbye; there was no time. He hurried back to the funeral home.
Months passed after the incident. There were no major reprisals, aside from dealing with the morgue’s organic waste until they were monitored at night for at least two weeks. The Flaming Fist worked tirelessly for days, trying to return each undead creature to its grave. There was a bit of panic over the strange circumstances in which some local musicians were found—nothing truly remarkable.
Scleritas Fel, for his part, had become more attentive to the young Bhaalist’s education. The phrase, “When the time comes, may our lord see you with favor,” became increasingly repetitive. He was only a few years away from a true revelation: no more errands from Scleritas Fel, no more intermediaries; finally, he would have direct contact with his father for the first time in his life. This caused a tingling in his skin, a knot in his throat, and his stomach churned with nerves and anticipation. Orin was aware; they were about to ascend another step. However, in a display of testing her own courage and her confidence in gaining an early revelation, she decided to end the life of her butler, taking for granted her own approach to Bhaal. He adored his sister but doubted she had what it took—not when it came to their father.
Weeks before his eighteenth birthday, there was a solemn ceremony of introduction to the bhaalist society. The temple walls, once crimson and rusted with blood, were adorned with flowers and viscera, almost as if they had stuffed the walls with ground flesh—a grotesque spectacle, much like what occurred within. At his bare feet lay a pool of blood. The scent of oxidation entered his nostrils, a sweet aroma of death. The sparse, orange torchlight made it feel as though he stood before a coagulating abyss, barely able to see his reflection. He stepped forward through the fluids, among expectant faces awaiting their next representative, the future of the cult: fresh, young blood. He was seen as the purest work of the god of assassination, Bhaal made mortal, Bhaal walking the earth once more.
It wasn’t an initiation because it concluded a part of his life; it wasn’t entirely the end because he was becoming something more. A transmutation, a metamorphosis—he was losing something in exchange for a reward so great it chilled his bones. The beast he had nurtured for so long finally responded as it should to the lord of assassination’s invitation, giving free rein to his cravings. Like a dopamine injection to his brain, the blood reached his waist. He closed his eyes and let his sharpened instincts guide him, submerging his head into the lake of darkness. Then, for the first time, he felt warmth—a numbing pressure in his muscles. The cold abandoned his bones. Total silence, expectant. He floated within his own mind, and he recognized it, an overwhelming familiarity, a feeling of belonging that shook him. His breath quickened, along with his heart.
“Blood of my blood, every little tingle that crosses your mind, every involuntary thought, is an extension of me, a conduit of chaos. Draw your dagger and let my will fall upon those fools, that they may see the beauty of assassination. Guide them under my yoke, that they may find solace under the mercy of unbridled cruelty, pure indulgence. Become desire itself”
He was no ordinary member of Bhaal’s forces; he was a young man with a promising future.
“In his domains, the sun never hides.” Dripping irony, these were the words the devotees had long awaited: their prince of assassination was maturing. All were witnesses, observing as the beast finally left behind soft prey and became a man.
Back in his quarters, on his bed lay his new uniform—fine fabrics bearing a symbol that distinguished him from the other members. An intense scent of blood hung in the air. He barely turned when he felt a sharp jab in his back.
“A lovely gift from father.” In her spoiled-princess voice, he sensed something more. She held the dagger casually, looking at him with empty eyes. “I wonder what he will say to me.” She handed the dagger to the elder; it wasn’t ceremonial, only etched with some engravings and an undulating shape.
Her presence was an invasion of his privacy; his blood boiled as she sat on his bed.
“Patience is a virtue, even among killers.”
She didn’t like the comment.
“Enjoy yourself among the ranks, revel as a peacock, my blood. I still have a year to perfect your flaws.”
He was gradually growing tired of his sister’s irreverence. There was nothing he could do—not for now. Still, her defiance pleased him in a way; he knew she wasn’t a sycophant, spat venom like a viper, never hesitated before speaking her mind. That she had survived until now was a mystery even to him. “Fortunately, I won’t have to deal with your distractions for a year. Think about that.”
The pale girl’s face fell; it registered in her subconscious. Her expression twisted in displeasure, but she wouldn’t be trampled so easily. Soon she adopted the elder’s tone and look.
“Your taste for eccentricities will betray you; obey, and they will hunt you for your nature.”
The dark urge lost his serene demeanor for a fraction of a second, then questioned in another nanosecond whether Orin knew she had just hit the mark. He did not belong in the world he had strived to enter for the past three years, nor in its society. He was not like the other well-off citizens of the Upper City; he knew he was worse than that corrupt scum. Yet he did not deny his blood, nor was he ashamed of his origin. In fact, he was proud, though it was not something he could shout aloud if he wanted to continue his artistic career.
“There is no artist without a certain twist of darkness inside”, he replied calmly.
“Play the double life. Let’s see where it leads you.”
The dragonborn didn’t take her words to heart. He knew his sister spoke from envy and the passion that coursed through her veins. His recent success as a Bhaalist and as a bard was a source of jealousy, though it could very well be a premonition.