Narrator: Flint

  The night road is its own specific brand of purgatory. The wheels of our wagon rang out straining at every pothole, and that rhythm was better than any lullaby. As long as it rang, the axle was whole, the wagon was alive, and we were still moving through the darkness instead of rotting in the middle of the wastes, waiting for someone to slit our throats.

  I sat on the driver's bench beside Faurgar. Sleep pulled at my eyelids with sticky paws. I was nodding off, mechanically twirling an old copper coin between my fingers. Sleep would creep up close, exuding a stifling warmth, then retreat cowardly every time the cart jolted over the stones.

  I lost eventually—dozing off for the space of half a breath. And in that same instant, my left shoulder burned.

  It didn't feel like an oil burn. The pain was foul, icy—as if a shard of glowing ice had been shoved under my skin, right into the muscle. Through the fabric of my shirt, I saw a blue silhouette emerge on my shoulder—the face of a snarling wolf. The mark pulsed, searing away the last embers of warmth from the inside out.

  They found us, drifted lazily through my mind. They found us right inside my head.

  A foreign voice flooded my brain like freezing water:

  "You’re treading on my road, pup. My name is Lieutenant Vicandrius. The Black Wolf himself gave me leave to hunt here."

  I wanted to scream, but my jaws were locked in a spasm. And then, I felt Krauser inside me stop snarling. He simply… lunged forward. Usually, he waited for a fight, waited for the moment to rend flesh, but now he struck at the very core of my will. It wasn't an act of violence; it was a rescue. I felt my shoulders straighten and my face freeze into an immovable mask. Krauser had taken the wheel.

  I didn't open my eyes, but my voice… gods, it wasn't my voice anymore. It grew deeper, drier, and acquired those frightening, cutting notes that usually gave me goosebumps.

  "Lieutenant?" Krauser gave a short, dry chuckle through my lips. The words fell like heavy stones into a well. "You’re overreaching, 'officer' of the graveyard watch. You were given the right to bark at caravans, not to bite those whom the Master expects for dinner."

  Silence reigned in my head for a moment. Vicandrius clearly hadn't expected the "pup" to answer with such glacial confidence.

  "Who are you to speak to me in such a tone?!" the voice in my brain shrieked, breaking into a rasp. "The road is mine! Everything that crawls upon it is my meat!"

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  Krauser (through my hands) didn't even flinch. The coin in my fingers went still.

  "Your meat is currently sitting in the bushes, shivering from the cold," Krauser snapped. "Listen to me carefully, you little cur. If you don't remove your blue mark from this hide right now, I will personally explain to your 'Wolf' why his servant began interfering with serious guests. Guess whose corpse will be decorating this road tomorrow morning, Vicandrius: the one carrying the Key, or the one who proved too stupid to tell prey from a messenger?"

  The blue glow on my shoulder trembled. I felt Vicandrius wrestling with fear. Krauser didn't know him personally, but he smelled the scent of his magic—cheap, obedient, and cowardly. He struck at the very essence: the lieutenant feared his master more than us.

  "...Pass," the voice finally spat, and there was so much impotent malice in it that my teeth ached. "But beyond the city line, there will be no mercy from me."

  "We can't afford your mercy anyway," Krauser shot back. "Vanish."

  The blue light extinguished instantly, leaving behind only raw skin and the smell of ozone. I exhaled sharply, and control returned to me as suddenly as it had left. I snapped my eyes open, gasping at the night air. A cold film of sweat broke out on my temples.

  "Alive?" Faurgar asked quietly.

  He didn't even turn his head; his hands held the reins with the same steady grip, but I felt his gaze slide over my face for a second when I "checked out." Faurgar hadn't missed a moment. He saw the change in my breathing, the tension in my neck, and heard a voice emerge from my throat that belonged to a being far more ancient and sinister than a ginger Hadozi.

  "Think so," I muttered, wiping my forehead with a sleeve. "Some lieutenant came to introduce himself. Said he’s the boss here. Tried to crack my skull open with his mark."

  "You weren't speaking like yourself, Flint," Faurgar noted calmly. His tone wasn't accusatory; it was analytical. As if he were noting a new, troubling shade on his palette. "Your pulse slowed, and your voice became… steel. You knew exactly where to press to make him retreat."

  I froze. Hiding anything from Faurgar was like trying to hide the sun with a sieve.

  "No," I looked him straight in the eyes. "I don't know him. And my… 'friend' inside doesn't know him either. But he knows his kind. Cowards who hide behind loud titles and their masters' names."

  Faurgar gave a short nod, processing the information. He didn't ask unnecessary questions; he didn't pry into who Krauser was. He simply accepted it as a fact, adding a new detail to his internal map of dangers.

  "How did you fight him off?"

  "With audacity and the Black Wolf’s name," I shrugged, wincing at the pain. "Told him we were 'one of them.' The lieutenant believed it. But he’ll be back once we’re past his 'territory.'"

  "Good," Faurgar replied. "It seems we have an ally inside you who knows how to bluff with the names of dead men and living tyrants. That’s useful. As long as it’s useful, Flint, I’ll keep quiet."

  I nodded, feeling an invisible thread of a pact stretch between us. Now he knew my secret, and I knew he’d be watching me. There was a strange relief in that.

  The wagon rolled on, deepening into the night. The road swallowed the remains of our conversation. Only the wheels crunched through the wet mud, as if repeating in time with my heart: "We’ll make it, we’ll make it…"

  And inside me, Krauser retreated back into the shadows, leaving behind only the bitter taste of metal in my mouth and the cold realization that I would never be alone again. Even in my own head.

  The Pragmatism of Shadow. I really enjoyed writing Faurgar’s reaction here. A typical "Good" character would be horrified that their friend is possessed by a ruthless killer. But Faurgar is a "Function." He doesn't care if Flint is a hero or a monster, as long as that monster is useful to the mission.

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