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48 Amit Bobrov

Despair, injustice and the cold hand of vengeance can sway
even a noble man to do dark deeds. ‘Sacrifices must be made!’
Edmund told himself, as he choked the life out of Ingrid’s mother.
He watched, with a morbid appreciation no mortal man can
fathom, the final moments before life is forever extinguished.
He gazed into her eyes, and was saddened for only a moment.

For with her dying breath all Ingrid’s mother could think of was
her poor daughter, and the fate she’ll face with the eternal
absence of her mother. Ingrid was young; only a child. But
Edmund too, had children, and this woman’s last desperate
thought suddenly rekindled a feeling he had not felt since his
undeath. It was as if the roots of a delicate seed pierced a hard
and cold rock to find sustenance below — an ember of hope, a

spark of the noble man he once was, before falling to darkness.
“I’m home, Mama!” Said Ingrid as she opened the door. Her
eyes widened with terror as she saw her mother, lying lifeless
on the floor, her eyes open, gazing into nothing. Luckily, Ingrid
failed to register the looming shadow, which departed through
the window.
“Mama!” Ingrid screamed, and ran to her mother while
Edmund fled into the shadows of darkness. Yet, in his way, he
had shown her mercy.

Now the Undead Lord gazed at Ivar’s smithy and the children
there. He had come to know them: Ingrid, pretty and proud and
Adam, thin and angry. Edmund was always of a patient nature;
he had time, all the time in the world. He would study his prey