Heart and Crown chapter 2

Draven Shadowmend ... man or monster?

Draven Shadowmend by K.M. Carroll

Draven

He was lost in the darkness.

Wandering, formless and alone, burning yet always cold. He screamed and raged and beat at the air. He ran and crawled and tore at the darkness. Where am I? How did I get here?

Endless darkness. Endless torment. Endless hunger and thirst. He tore up the earth and tried to eat it. He drowned himself in foul water. Nothing quenched his anguish.

Sometimes he only drifted, hanging in windless darkness. There he cried out for rescue, begging for light, begging for mercy, begging for oblivion. Why must he exist in this state? What had he done? His self was lost, left behind in a flash of fire and pain.

Then he was running, burning, crawling, tearing, screaming. It never ended. Either the torment or the wandering with no respite from either.

After untold ages, something changed. Lines thinner than cobwebs fell about him, enmeshing him, drawing him in. He screamed and struggled, but the lines could not be broken. They hummed with magic, burned with determination, called with authority. He was dragged out of the darkness, back into the world of light.

“Draven Shadowmend, awaken.”

Oxygen filled his lungs. Pain rippled through his body. The air escaped his dry lips in a groan and he tried to open his eyes. Before him were only moving blurs. He tried to blink away the sand blinding him. Another breath, in, then out, bringing another groan from him. It was better than the endless drifting, but he had not expected there to be such pain. Energy trickled into him with each breath.

“Draven, do you hear me?”

His next breath emerged in an affirmative sound. Pain pricked his fingertips and toes, metal instruments sending lightning bolts of energy through his body. He flinched away from it and sat up, lashing out with one arm. “Stop!”

People flinched and gasped around him. He sat there, blinking and squinting, arms curled protectively over his bare chest, willing his eyesight to return. He made out people standing around him, but could not see details yet.

“He’s sitting up.”

“He should be immobile! His body–”

“Look at the readings–”

“That’s impossible–”

Close by, a friendly voice said, "Sit still, breathe, that's the way."

Energy continued to flow into his body, easing the pain, strengthening his heartbeat. Each breath brought with it steadiness and clarity. He coughed once and rubbed his eyes. When he looked around again, he saw the people around him wore white labcoats. One of them wore some kind of metal frame attached to his back. Light crackled from the ends of this frame. Draven stared at him in dread he didn’t understand.

By and by he noticed a tiny robot floating almost at his ear. It had a tiny green eye-light in a box-shaped frame, and it floated without any means of support. He cringed from it, too.

"Now, now," said the robot in a cheerful male voice. "I'm here to help you. Breathe." Its eye brightened and a beam of light traced across Draven. Everywhere the light touched left a warm, tingling feeling behind, as if it encouraged blood flow.

“Draven Shadowmend,” said one of the people in a tone of authority, “do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Draven. “Is that really my name?” He blinked around at the lab coat people, trying to clear his vision.

The people exchanged looks, then the leader said firmly, “Yes, that is your name.”

Draven didn’t think so. It seemed ridiculous somehow. But when he looked into his mind for a reason, he found nothing. His mind was empty and blank, with only fading impressions of drifting through darkness, burning and lost.

“What happened to me?” he blurted. “Why did you call me out of the dark?”

Again that unnerved look passed between the people. The leader cleared his throat. “We have called you back to fight for your people.”

“My people,” Draven muttered, raising a hand to his forehead. “Who are my people?” His head was shaved. His fingers found only stubble.

“Us,” said the leader. “We are your people, and you will battle the darkwraiths for us.”

“Why … why can’t I remember anything?” Draven said.

“You’ve been dead a long time,” said the leader. “But through the power of technology, we’ve called you back.”

“Dead,” Draven whispered. “I was dead. But … but why did I drift for so long? How long have I been dead?”

“That’s not important,” said the leader. “Can you stand?”

Draven slid off the bed and stood beside it, the energy still flowing into him with each breath, with each beat of his heart. The floor chilled his bare feet, and lights glowed blue down there, hurting his eyes. A strong, chemical smell stung his nose, and his elbow struck a metal pole that stood beside the bed. The skimpy wrapping that had clothed him slid off and cold air struck his body. He grabbed it and pulled it back up, shivering. “Where are my clothes?”

“Come with me,” said the leader. “We’ll dress and equip you.” Enough of the man’s face had come into focus that Draven saw him cast his people a wide-eyed look of astonishment and fear. He was a thin, hook-nosed man with a heavy brow, like a bird of prey. Draven disliked him at first sight.

Now that his vision was growing clearer, Draven studied the assembled group, especially the man with the metal rack on his back. This time he distinguished individual faces. Labcoats, scrubs, people wearing face masks and gloves. Many of them held instruments, as if ready to use them if he collapsed. But he stood on his two feet, drawing in strength with every breath, so they only stared at him in speechless silence. In the blue light from the floor, they all looked unreal and monstrous. The man with the metal rack, in particular, had a sort of madness about him, and the rack crackled with white bolts of electricity.

The leader laid a hand on his arm and led him away from the bed and the burning blue light. Draven walked unsteadily, wobbling as he found his balance. The cold of the room bit into his bare skin like blunted fangs, and his feet rapidly grew numb. They entered a room with boxes of clothing and armor. The leader handed him a pair of shorts first, which Draven awkwardly pulled on. Then a set of pants, then a shirt. Over that went a heavy armored vest, then a belt hung with a sort of leather skirt, then leather boots to the knee with metal plates set into them. Draven struggled with some of the buckles on the armor, the dexterity of his fingers not yet returned. The leader helped him in a hesitant way, his hands trembling. The little green-eyed robot had followed them and hung in the air nearby, watching. The leader gave it nervous looks.

“Who are you?” Draven asked the leader, once he was dressed and feeling much warmer.

“I am Lord Adolphus,” said the leader. “You were my p-project.” He stumbled over the word as if Draven had suddenly become a much bigger problem than merely a project.

“You didn’t think you could do it,” said Draven, looking closely at that hawk-nose, those shadowed eyes, and at the man’s nervous movements. "I wasn't supposed to wake up, was I?"

Lord Adolphus ignored this question. He straightened and lifted his chin, as if expecting Draven to bow at his feet. “You will serve me now. As my hand revived you, so you owe me service.”

“Do I?” said Draven. The man’s attitude annoyed him, especially since he’d just awakened and had been told nearly nothing. “You had a whole team with you. Do I serve them, too?”

Lord Adolphus cleared his throat. “N-no, only me." He glared at the robot. "Why are you still here?"

"Draven needs me," said the robot cheerfully.

Lord Adolphus snatched at the robot, but it deftly avoided his hand and flew up near the ceiling, out of reach.

"I don't think so," said the robot. "He needs me. You don't."

Lord Adolphus trained his glare on Draven. "That thing couldn't talk until you awakened. It must have something to do with you."

"What is it?" Draven asked, looking up at the glowing green eye.

"It's only a field stabilizer," Lord Adolphus growled. "Mages use them, and they don't think for themselves."

"Exactly," said the robot from overhead. "I stabilize magic fields, and you know whose field is unstable? Draven's. If you don't want him to keel over and fall to bits, you'd better keep me with him."

"But how are you thinking for yourself?" Lord Adolphus demanded.

"Hmm, I'm not sure.” The robot twirled its box-shaped body around the eye in the center. "Too much magic, probably."

Lord Adolphus muttered something under his breath about hidden updates and defective versions. Then he turned to the racks of gear as if nothing had happened. Taking down a couple of heavy gloves with gauntlets and a small shield, he said, "I’m equipping you with a buckler and a beamsword. They have been found to be effective weapons against the darkwraiths.”

“Darkwraiths, what are darkwraiths?” Draven said, sliding his arm into the buckler’s straps and tightening them. 

“Terrible ghosts that burn,” said Lord Adolphus. “They infest Catalonia through the Rift and constantly attack our settlements. They kill without sense, slaying anything in their mad paths. Our warriors and mages are hard pressed, and you will be expected to join them.”

The beamsaber gauntlet was much thicker and heavier than the other, with smooth metal paneling and a heavy battery pack. Draven thrust his arm into the beamsaber gauntlet and tightened it. He lifted it and worked the controls inside the glove by reflex. A brilliant blue energy sword slid out of the end of his gauntlet, over his hand, to the length of about two feet. He gazed at it critically, then extinguished it again. The beamsword was fine, and yet it wasn’t. He knew it and yet he didn’t. 

“Why isn’t it longer?” he blurted.

Lord Adolphus had been turning away to open the door. Now he jumped and turned back. The look on his face said that he knew exactly why Draven had asked the question. But all he said was, “Two feet is standard beamsword length.” Then he opened the door and gestured for Draven to exit.

Draven did so, clad now in leather and metal, comfortable as if he had always worn such heavy gear. His body rejoiced in the weight of the metal breastplate and the feel of boots on his feet. Still the energy entered him with every breath. It made him strong and alert, feeding him, carrying him along. The robot flew at his shoulder as if it belonged there. 

The other people–doctors?--waited for them outside. When Draven emerged clad in armor and carrying weapons, everyone clapped. He stared at them a moment in confusion. The blue light had gone, and everyone had removed their face masks, revealing them as men and women who all smiled at him, despite the wariness in their eyes. He wanted to ask them questions, but Lord Adolphus beckoned, so Draven followed him. They moved down a hallway, through a large room filled with machines, and down another hall. None of it was familiar. He felt oddly as if he was still adrift in the dark, but now the dark was his own ignorance. What was Catalonia? A city? A country? What were darkwraiths and why were they attacking? Did he really owe Lord Adolphus his life? Who could answer any of these questions? Maybe the robot could, if he could sneak away with it for a while.

They arrived at a heavy wooden door banded with steel. Four guards in armor like Draven’s stood in front of it, gripping spears and wearing their own beamsabers. All of them looked sweaty and nervous, but even more so as Draven approached.

“It’s him,” said one, pointing at Draven. “By Algol, it’s him.”

“Shut up,” said Lord Adolphus. “This is Draven Shadowmend, and he’s going to practice slaying darkwraiths.”

“Better him than me,” said one of the guards as they stood well back. 

Adolphus unlocked the door and opened it wide enough for Draven to slip through. He did so and found himself standing outdoors in daylight. It was a cloudy, windy day. The ground before Draven’s feet sloped downward, a cobblestone path curving away down the hill and out of sight. He inhaled the cold wind and felt fresh energy enter his body, making him want to run and jump and fight. He tried to look beyond the hill and path, but his eyes had not fully adjusted yet, and the distance was blurry. He turned and looked at the building he had just left, but had the same problem. It was a wall made of gray stone, with buttresses on either side, but he could not see far enough to tell what kind of building it was.

"Decent weather," observed the robot, which had come with him. It spun its cube shell one way, then the other, as if processing. "Keep breathing, nice deep breaths. Have to work the magic into you. Oh, and I'm detecting wraiths down there in the trees. You might want to activate that beam sword."

"Darkwraiths?" said Draven, carefully drawing a deep breath. "Am I in danger?"

"Oh, probably," said the robot. "I've never been in a combat situation, so I'm going to hide back here and shout advice." It zipped behind Draven and jammed itself down the back of his breastplate.

"I've never been in a combat situation, either," Draven pointed out, activating his beam sword. Something was moving out in the haze, and he quickly raised his buckler and dropped into a fighting stance.

"I guess we'll learn together," said the robot. "Here they come! Void readings at max!"

A black, burning thing appeared out of the haze. It shot toward them, zigzagging up the hill, the air smoking where it touched it. It was human-shaped, but the burning blackness of it obscured all other features. As it zipped nearer and nearer, it gave a terrible scream, but not the sound a living throat could make. It sounded like a door that needed oil, or the brakes on a large vehicle – a metallic, mechanical sound.

Draven slashed at the wraith, protecting himself with the buckler by instinct. The thing struck his buckler with burning claws, moving faster than the eye could follow. But Draven was strong and energy coursed through him. He parried and slashed at the thing, faster and faster as his muscles adjusted to the wraith’s speed. 

"Aim for the neck!" the robot shouted. "Cut off the head!"

Draven slashed the head off. The wraith spiraled away and vanished as if being sucked through a hole in the air. He gaped at the spot where it had been. "That was easy! Is it always that easy?"

"Their minds tie them to reality," said the robot. "Here comes more, shield up!"

Other darkwraiths zigzagged up the hill, attracted by the screams of the first. Draven grinned and lifted his buckler. "Come and get it, freaks!"

Then they were on him, tearing at his limbs, his chest, his face. Claws screeched off his buckler and breastplate, claws slashed open his face. Burning pain and hot blood. Screams quickly ended as his beamsaber cut through the heads of the darkwraiths. He wiped blood from his cheek with his wrist and found the cut had already closed. 

"You're welcome," said the robot, as pleased as if it had just presented Draven with a beautifully wrapped gift.

"You can heal me?" Draven panted, swinging at more darkwraiths.

"Seems I can," said the robot. "Go on, get hurt some more, I want to see how much I can heal."

The darkwraiths came in an endless stream, hundreds of them, pouring in faster and faster. Draven stood his ground before the door and killed them, tens, dozens, hundreds. Any time he thought he ought to grow tired, he breathed in the cold wind and found his strength renewed. He fought as the sun slipped from the sky and the clouds slowly cleared. Always the robot at his back healed him, encouraged him, and offered helpful observations.

Then the wraith attacks stopped. He stood there, sword and buckler raised, waiting, but no more wraiths appeared. The hillside was empty, and only a few smoking crumbs on the ground showed where they had been.

Over the course of the fight, his eyesight had cleared and his body had grown stronger, perhaps due to the robot's work on him. Now he stood and caught his breath, gazing down the hill. A dark wall of forest began there, the treetops gilded gold in the sun's last glow. Beyond that was a glittering expanse of water – the sea? In the clear violet of the evening sky, the clouds had parted to reveal a planet in the sky, a misty orb that occupied half the horizon. He stared up at it in wonder. The sun lit its side in a long crescent, highlighting colorful bands in brown and blue. It was familiar as his own hands and as alien as his empty memory. His heart thrilled at the sight: the forest, the sea, the sky with its planet. It spoke to him of life, adventure, and great deeds not yet done.

The robot flew to his left shoulder, where it floated in silence, admiring the view with him.

"What is it?" asked Draven softly. "What is it all called?"

"Our world is a moon called Catalonia," said the robot. "The planet up there is Algol, our gas giant."

"Algol," Draven breathed, gazing up at it in wonder. "What does it do?"

"Supports life on Catalonia, for one thing," said the robot. "It has a magnetic field that brings out extra abilities in humans. That's the field I'm stabilizing right now. At short range, of course."

"Would I really die without you?" Draven asked, looking at the cube robot and its green eye.

"Oh yes," it said cheerfully. "I don't know how they did it, but they built a whole unstable field into your body. You're sucking in massive amounts of energy at all times, and your body would fly apart into atoms if I wasn't holding you together."

"You were there when they were resurrecting me," Draven pointed out. "You should know what they did."

"I actually didn't awaken until you did," the robot admitted, somehow managing to give him a bashful look. "I have data in my memory, but it doesn't tell me much more than that. I'm new, you see. Never been activated until they brought me to stabilize you."

"How do you know about Algol and Catalonia, then?" Draven asked.

"Ha, you caught me," the robot said. "I've been downloading data off the local nets since I woke up. Libraries on everything. I know so many useless facts, like the top ten exports of Cleaves or the migration patterns of dryptotitans."

"I don't know what any of that is," Draven said.

"I know!" crowed the robot. "I'm learning so I can tell you things. And right now, it's getting dark, so you should go back inside. They should let you in if you knock."

Draven turned back to the building. He could see now that it was a castle built of gray stone, with battlements rising overhead and towers in the distance. He had exited a small outer door set deep between two buttresses. He walked up and knocked three times.

The castle door opened a crack and a guard peeled out. "They're gone," he said. "Shadowmend, are you injured?"

"No, I don't think so," said Draven, touching some of the cuts the robot had closed.

The guard gaped at him. "You're all over blood! Come back in! Do you see any wraiths?"

"I killed a lot of them," said Draven. "No more are coming."

"Get inside, quick."

Draven entered the castle again, glancing up to make sure the robot accompanied him. The guards shrank from them. One of them led him back through the hallways, past the room of machinery, back to the place where Draven had awakened.

He halted on the room's threshold. It was empty of people now, but full of other things. A single bed stood in the center of the room. Painted on the floor around it was a ring of arcane magical signs, probably the source of the burning blue light he’d seen when he awakened. Machines with needles and knives loomed over the bed like waiting vultures. Hoses hung from other machines, recently coiled up. It smelled sharply of antiseptics, and beneath that, the rotten odor of death. He had awakened in that bed, blind to the machines and needles.

I was dead. But now I live. How?

One of the doctors in a white lab coat appeared out of a side room and hurried to him. "You survived! How many wraiths did you kill?"

"I don't know," said Draven. 

"Two hundred and thirty-nine," said the robot in buoyant pride. "I kept count. He's been out there the whole afternoon without backup."

The doctor produced damp cloths and wiped the blood from Draven's face, but there were no wounds beneath it. "Healed," the doctor murmured. "All completely healed." He shot a questioning look at the robot.

"Yep, that was me," said the robot, bouncing in midair. "The more I study him, the better I can work with him."

"Is he the reason you call me Shadowmend?" said Draven.

"There are many reasons," said the doctor, his gaze sliding away from both Draven and the robot. "You will learn them in time." He threw away the soiled cloth. "Now, are you hungry?"

"Very," said Draven. "I haven't eaten since I awakened."

"This way, then," said the doctor. "The nurses will take care of you. Follow their instructions, or food will kill you before you take two bites."

Draven thought this was terribly unfair, but he followed the doctor down several passages to a room full of delicious smells. Other people were eating platefuls of delectable-looking food he didn't recognize, but he wanted it. Instead, he was given a small bottle of fruit juice and a mug of broth and was commanded to drink them slowly.

This he did, seated near the counter where cooks dispensed food to newcomers. Everyone wore the clothing of medical staff. Everyone looked at him askance, and no one spoke to him or sat near him. He drank his dinner with only the robot for company.

The juice and broth made his stomach cramp terribly at first. He sat still for some time, wondering if he was about to be sick. But presently the cramps faded, and he tried another small sip. More cramps, but lesser. He kept at it, his appetite driving him.

"Well, you haven't keeled over yet," the robot observed. The little green eye watched him closely. "The food is doing funny things to your magic field. Pushing it up then down, like you're in battle again. I don't think your body is capable of digestion right now."

As Draven finally finished his mug of soup, a nurse hurried up and examined him. He listened to Draven's heart and stomach with a stethoscope, then checked his blood pressure.

"I think you're managing all right," said the nurse at last. "Your stomach is shrunken to the size of an infant's, but it seems to be coming back to life with the rest of you."

"How … how was I revived?" Draven asked quietly. "If I was truly dead, how was I brought back?"

The nurse shook his head. "Don't ask me, sir. I wasn't allowed in the ritual room, and frankly, I didn't want to be."

"Ritual room," Draven muttered, thinking of the arcane signs on the floor around the bed. "Am I a product of black magic?"

"I wouldn't know, sir," said the nurse, rolling up his blood pressure hose. He strode away. 

Draven sat there, full of juice and broth, but his heart was empty. Since he had awakened, he had been told many facts without context. Everyone seemed to think that he understood more than he did, and everyone cringed from him. What had happened to him to make people so afraid?

The robot spun his shell, as if trying to attract his attention.

"What?" Draven said.

"I'm here," said the robot. "I can answer questions."

"Tell me who I was before I died," said Draven.

The robot bobbed up in midair, hung there for a second, then sank back down. "I don't actually know. A lot of people have died to wraiths in the past year, and I mean a lot. Maybe you were one of them."

"Did they use black magic to raise me?" said Draven.

"Depends on what black magic is," said the robot cheerily. "My records show that they used the chakra-based manipulation of the magnetic field. You saw the guy with the wing array, right? That was a mage. I don't know how they imbued you with the unstable field, but it was all your average, garden-variety magic. Nothing black about it."

Draven nodded and tried to feel a little better about this. "Do lots of people get resurrected?"

"Nope, just you," said the robot. "Although now you're a success, they might try to bring back other people."

Draven looked at his hands and thought of the way he'd dispatched the wraiths with ease, even though everyone around him was terrified of them. They had called him back from the void, poured him into his body, and sent him out to fight with no idea why.

The light illuminated marks on the backs of his hands. Draven looked closer. They looked like faded tattoos. He followed their wavy lines down to his hands, where they circled his knuckles and flowed to his fingertips. He pulled off his gauntlets for a better look. The tattoo on his right hand was even fainter. They traveled up his arms and over his shoulders, and maybe onto his back, but he'd need a mirror for that.

Here was a clue to his past, a clue they couldn't deny him. He had some kind of marking inked into his skin, maybe a message.

"Hey, robot," he said, holding out his hands. "What do these tattoos mean?"

The robot flew forward and swept its scanner across his hands. "Oh, Aurium tattoos!" he exclaimed. "Very prettily done, too. It looks like it broke down while you were dead, but there's enough there to use. Aurium lets you channel magic through your body. Not as much as the wings, of course, but enough to do small jobs."

"Was I a mage?" said Draven in surprise.

The robot rocked from side to side. "I doubt it. Different professions use different tattoo styles. Let me find a study on it and I'll get back to you."

Draven pulled his sleeves down to cover them, put his gauntlets back on, and rose to his feet. "Do I live somewhere?"

"You must have a room," said the robot. "Goodness knows you can't sleep in the medical wing."

Draven approached the nearest doctor, hoping he had been one of the ones who had been there when he awakened. "Excuse me, sir, might I have a room somewhere?"

The doctor waved him off. "Not my concern. Speak to the guards over there. They'll direct you."

Draven approached the two guards who stood at the door and repeated his question. The guards exchanged glances, then one said, "Come with me, Shadowmend. We'll find the household manager. He will assign you a room."

Draven followed the guard out of the mess hall and deeper into the castle, the robot flying at his shoulder in silence. It struck him as an uncomfortable place to live. The windows were narrow and too high to see out of, and the halls were bare, cold, and unadorned. They passed many doors, all of dark wood with heavy iron hinges, until they arrived at a small room with a man working at a desk. He glanced up at the guard, then his gaze fell upon Draven. The blood drained from his face and he leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over. "They did it! They raised him?"

"Apparently so," growled the guard. "Orders are to tell him nothing. He needs a room."

The manager righted his chair and sat down again, hands trembling as he shuffled through the papers in his desk. "A room, yes, of course. Why wouldn't he need a room? What … what is your name, sir?"

"Draven Shadowmend," he replied.

"Of course, of course." The manager's gaze darted to the guard, then down to his papers. "Here we are." He lifted a sheet with two long lists printed on it. "I assume he'll live in the barracks? Yes, barracks room eighteen is unoccupied. I'll fill out the requisite paperwork." He hesitated, cleared his throat, then said, "An honor to meet you … Draven Shadowmend."

Draven followed the guard in silence, back through more barren hallways. The stone walls and ceiling were broken only by the occasional lamp in a sconce, and the oppression of the place began to weigh on his mind.

Why do they all act that way when they see me? Everyone must have known me before I died. Was I a hero, or a monster? He looked at the tattoos on his hands again. They were already growing familiar, this link to his past life. He was almost fond of them, the way they formed ripples and waves across his hands and down his fingers.

The barracks was just as plain as the rest of the castle, but with a notice of shift assignments pinned to the wall. Off-duty guards lolled about in shirtsleeves, eating, drinking, talking, or polishing armor. All talk ceased when Draven entered the room. He stood for a moment, looking at them. He was taller than many of them, and his armor was different. He drew a deep breath, and the energy came with it. He forced a smile and found that it came easily. "Hello. I'm Draven Shadowmend."

"What's he doing here?" said one of the men, glaring at the guard who had escorted him. "He's a bloody revenant."

"He's been assigned room eighteen," snapped the guard.

At once the men all clamored that he was absolutely not sharing space with them, to get him out of there. They grabbed weapons and advanced on them. Draven began to clench his fist in his gauntlet to activate his beam sword, but hesitated. He could kill everyone in this room, but was that really the right thing to do? He raised his buckler, instead, and backed into the hall.

The guard escorting him took him back to the manager's office, grumbling under his breath. This time the manager, looking both frightened and harassed, assigned Draven a room upstairs. The guard took him up a flight of stairs, and here the castle put on a new face. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls. The floors were cleaner with occasional rugs, and the light sconces had pretty flourishes added. Servants moved about, and well-dressed people appeared here and there, talking, walking together, or standing in doorways to chat to those within.

Everyone who saw Draven fell silent and stared until he passed by. Whispers erupted in his wake. "That's him! Did you see him? They really did it!" Fingers pointed, faces lit with shock and dismay. Draven kept his head up and walked as if he heard nothing, but his heart clenched within him.

At last they halted and the guard unlocked a door. Inside was a small apartment with a living space and a bed in one corner. The fireplace was cold and empty, the furniture coated with dust, the bed grayish.

"Here you are, sir," said the guard, handing him the key. 

Draven looked around forlornly. "What do I do now?"

"I'm sure Lord Adolphus will be along to look at you," said the guard with a smirk. "His new prize pet and all."

"What's a revenant?" said Draven.

"It's what you are," said the guard. He departed, closing the door behind him.