Adventure of Niklas Valburga

The square breathes fog and ash. The woman stands rigid by the well, one arm stretched toward the tavern. Its last window flickers like a dying eye.

The reliquary in Niklas’s grasp throbs once, hard and hungry. A cold pressure leans into his bones, urging him forward.

From the street beyond, another lantern gutters out. Somewhere inside the tavern, a chair scrapes across the floor, then stops.

The woman lowers her pointing hand and steps back, reverent and afraid, leaving the path to the tavern bare for Niklas.

Niklas drives his boot into the tavern door. The wood bursts inward on the second удар, and cold beer stink spills out with it.

Inside, a lone man jerks up from the bar. Niklas is on him in a blur, one hand clamping his throat while the other lays the ritual dagger against skin that goes white with terror.

The man claws at Niklas's wrist, but the hold does not break. He folds forward, dragged stumbling through the doorway toward the square.

The reliquary jerks hot in Niklas's grip. Behind them, chairs crash inside the tavern, and a swallowed voice shouts from the dark.

Niklas presses the ritual dagger deeper and lifts the man just enough to steal the last of his balance. The captive’s struggle goes slack, not dead yet, only emptied, while the reliquary in Niklas’s hand throbs like a second pulse.

Darkness pours from the square and wraps the man’s body as if it recognizes a summons. His eyes roll white, his jaw unhinges in a silent gasp, and a shape begins to press against his skin from the inside.

The man convulses once, then goes terrifyingly still. Niklas feels the moment the body stops resisting and starts receiving.

The tavern window gutters black, then flares weakly again. Inside, the swallowed voice cuts off mid-cry, and the square falls into a listening silence.

The man rises in Niklas’s grip like something recalled from a grave. Darkness knits over his skin, swallowing the last trace of struggle, and a cold aura leaks from him into the square.

Niklas lets the dagger lower as the captive finds his feet on his own. The reliquary in his palm beats once, sharp and pleased, while the tavern window gives a weak, nervous flicker.

The possessed man’s head twitches toward the square, then toward Niklas, his mouth parting on a breath that does not sound entirely human.

From inside the tavern, something scrapes hard against wood. The square waits in that sound, dark and listening, as if the next word will decide who opens first.