On shaky legs, Zeke pushed himself to his feet. His bones creaked and his knees crackled under his meager weight, but for the first time in a long time, he refused to let himself feel the pain. Instead, he recovered a smidgen of the resolve that had once made him so unique and used it to ignore the fiery agony that came with every movement. With that buoying him, he arduously slipped his feet into the slippers at the foot of his bed, then prepared for the death-defying descent before him.

  He looked down the staircase, and it looked like an insurmountable obstacle. Less than fifteen feet, and yet, it represented a wall he knew he could not climb. If he didn’t see the demon perched on the banister, he might have turned back. But the way it looked at him, its head cocked as it studied his every movement – that lit a fire beneath him that he could neither deny nor ignore.

  Zeke took that first step.

  And his leg very nearly buckled beneath the weight of his action. He grabbed at the banister, moving far more quickly than normal. He felt the brush of a cloth robe just before his arthritic hands clasped the wooden railing. That was sufficient to steady him, though only barely.

  He took another step.

  That was far too much, and his knee buckled. He slipped forward, and the only thing keeping him from tumbling down the stairs and breaking every bone in his body was the angle at which he fell. Whether it was fortune or a remnant of the skill he’d once taken for granted, he managed to angle his descent into the railing. His chest slammed into it, and he wasn’t certain if the cracking sound was from the wood or his sternum.

  Probably the latter, given the pain. He shunted that to the back of his mind as well. If there was one thing he’d grown accustomed to over the past fifteen years, it was living with pain. He used that skill to great effect as he hooked his arms over the banister. The polished wood dug into his armpits, and for the longest time, he simply hung there, panting.

  His legs didn’t want to work. Indeed, just trying to get them under him caused massive seizures in the muscles. They shook uncontrollably, cramping so thoroughly that it brought tears to his red-rimmed eyes.

  It took quite a while for the seizures to cease. Maybe fifteen minutes. But Zeke wasn’t worried about falling. He didn’t care about the pain, either. Instead, he was terrified that the delay would keep him from discovering the truth.

  My love.

  That was what his brother had called Zora. Zeke had heard it, clear as day. There was no denying it.

  He knew the truth. He could see it well enough. However, there was some degree of morbid curiosity that told him to get confirmation. That stoked a fire in his chest and forced him to move.

  Once his legs stopped twitching, he descended the staircase. It went slowly, with him keeping his arms hooked over the banister. He knew he likely looked ridiculous, but he’d long since moved past the effects of humiliation. He knew he was a wretch. He’d lived with it for so long that he simply accepted it as reality.

  Wretch he may have been, but he was a determined wretch.

  Finally, he reached the bottom of the stairs, and he felt like he’d just conquered a powerful foe. He could scarcely remember his old life as a warrior, but he could only imagine that winning a battle must have felt similar to what he experienced at that triumphant moment.

  However, he knew that, while he’d won a battle – a minor one at that – he still had a long war ahead of him. So, it was with renewed resolve that he stepped forward. His legs felt only slightly steadier on even ground than they had on the stairs, but that was just enough to facilitate his passage. Like that, he staggered across the entryway, and his hand found the door handle.

  His breath came in ragged gasps while his heart beat out of his thin chest. But he’d made it. Now, he only needed to open the door and continue his journey. With a mighty pull – for him, at least – he yanked the door open. The movement very nearly upended him, but his maintained grip allowed him to keep his feet.

  He stepped outside.

  The wind bit through his meager clothing, reminding him that he hadn’t truly dressed. It didn’t matter. He was on a mission. This time, his enemy was the stoop. It loomed before him, a grim reminder of just how far he’d fallen. A single step that could end his mission before it ever truly began.

  He stepped down, his movement careful and slow. There was no railing. If he lost his balance, he would fall. And in his current state, there was no chance he would rise again of his own accord.

  Zeke refused to meet that fate.

  Willing strength to his legs, he forced his muscles to cooperate. And then, finally, he completed the step. Just like that, he’d made it to the sidewalk. Only then did he realize that he had no idea where he was going.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  But that wasn’t true.

  The moment he’d heard that dreadful conversation, he’d known where he would find answers. And fortunately, it wasn’t that far away. Only a few blocks.

  He staggered down the sidewalk. A woman asked if he needed help, but Zeke ignored her. The demons were there as well. A couple were perched on a nearby fence – like a pair of macabre birds – while a few stood in the pitiful gardens lining the street. The area truly was decrepit. Another sign of his fall from grace.

  The hero of the city. A once powerful warrior and one of the richest people to have ever lived. Reduced to living in a veritable slum on the wrong side of town. It should have been scandalous.

  But in his state, he’d simply accepted it as his rightful place. A decrepit, broken man belonged in such a neighborhood.

  He forced himself to concentrate. The cracked and broken sidewalk demanded his attention. One wrong step, and he would fall. Refusing to allow that to happen, he focused on the task at hand.

  The only advantage of that part of town was that passersby were both rare and largely disinterested. Aside from that one nosy woman, he was left to his own devices. It said something about their lives that the sight of a man in his nightshirt and slippers walking down the sidewalk wasn’t cause for alarm.

  But that was how it was.

  Zeke continued on with horrible slowness, his every step scraping across the ground as his stink filled the air. That had been the most difficult thing to accustom himself to. It wasn’t an overt scent, but to anyone who recognized it, it would spell one fate – death. He was dying, rotting from the inside out, and he smelled appropriately.

  It was almost enough to make him sick, but Zeke knew that would derail his mission. So, he swallowed his rising bile and staggered along.

  The changing surroundings were the first hint he was getting close. The houses seemed like they were on the edge of familiarity. He’d seen them before. Zeke was certain of it. But still, he only recognized bits and pieces in his memory. Snippets of the walks he’d once shared with Zora.

  Back before he became too weak to truly leave the manor.

  Those days were both easier and far more difficult. He was stronger then, but he was also less accustomed to his weakness, so it weighed on him much more severely. Now, he was used to it – for better or worse.

  Probably worse.

  Suddenly, he arrived at his destination.

  The manor’s windows glowed bright in the darkness. Inviting. Warm. Guilty.

  Zeke stepped forward, glad that, in such a secure city, guards were unnecessary. There was no one to bar his way. He didn’t enter through the front door. The steps leading to it were too steep, and besides, he had no intention of announcing his presence.

  So, he went off the path.

  Fortunately, the lawn was well manicured and flat. He practically skated across it, his pain and weakness temporarily banished by adrenaline. It wouldn’t last. Zeke knew that down to his core, so he made as much haste as he could. Soon enough, he’d circled the mansion, barely noticing its tasteful design or large windows. Instead, he made his way to the servant’s entrance.

  There were no domestics about. A curious thing, considering that Zora had claimed it had been sold. It was clearly occupied, but without servants to see to the owners’ needs. Odd. Or it would have been, if it weren’t for the suspicions already well established in Zeke’s mind.

  He found the back door, then tried the knob. It was blessedly unlocked. Whoever was inside cared little for security. But then again, Zeke couldn’t blame them. No one in their right mind would resort to thievery.

  Even as that thought crossed his mind, Zeke paused.

  Why was that the case? He thought he should know, but he couldn’t put his finger on the source of his certainty.

  He shook his head. None of that mattered. He was so close to completing his mission – to winning the war – that he could taste it. He stepped inside, the warm air buffeting his papery skin and rustling what few lonely strings of hair he had left.

  The kitchen.

  He remembered trying to cook for Zora. Back then, it had been mandated by one of the therapists. They said it would calm him. All it did was make things worse. He looked around, taking in the polished counters and hanging pots and pans. Familiarity once again blossomed within him. Those were his pots. His pans. He remembered using them.

  And that didn’t make sense.

  If the manor had been sold – as Zora had told him – then they should have been replaced by the new owners. Furniture might be part of the deal, but pots and pans would not. Neither would the dishes in the sink be included. Zeke recognized those as well, which all but confirmed his suspicions.

  And in all the worst ways.

  He pushed those thoughts away. He couldn’t dwell on the horrible details. No – he wanted answers. So, without even bothering to close the door behind him, he shuffled across the tiles. Often his memory failed him. He could scarcely remember what he’d eaten for breakfast, much less the events of years before.

  However, the layout of that manor was seared into his mind. He knew it like the back of his age-spotted hand. Because of that irrefutable memory, he had no issues traversing the manor.

  Well, none but the ones made apparent by his failing body.

  The effects of his long trek had taken hold, and he was more than merely exhausted. His heart felt like it was going to explode, and his legs were like jelly. Yet, Zeke could not stop. He was moving on sheer momentum and running on pure adrenaline. Even that was barely sufficient, and more than once, he staggered against one of the walls, narrowly avoiding collapsing altogether.

  He felt drunk.

  He felt feverish.

  And through it all, he saw those damned demons. One stood at the end of the hall, while another had followed him from outside. Their silver masks reflected the world, but they distorted everything.

  Zeke shook his head.

  He couldn’t let those creatures distract him. He refused. Instead, he pushed on, finding his way into the den. That was when he heard it.

  The unmistakable sound of passion. The slap of flesh against flesh. The feminine cries of pleasure and the deep grunts of satisfaction.

  Zeke was drawn to it. He was repelled by it. He couldn’t stop his feet from dragging him forward. Even as his stomach twisted into knots, and the knowledge of what he’d find at the end of his hunt curdled his thoughts, he continued on.

  The steps were no barrier. He climbed them like he was fifteen years younger. Tears dragged a path down his sagging cheeks as the cries grew louder. And then, he reached the top of the steps.

  He turned.

  The door was open. Their sin was laid bare.

  His brother. Zora.

  Zeke vomited, then collapsed, unconsciousness and grief overwhelming him.