It was a dark and stormy night. All similar tales had to start with such a night, especially one set within a place such as Glast Heim, the castle of forgotten dreams of conquest, and eternal night.

In the courtyard, strong gales beat against the skeletons of withered mastela trees; the rainwater which seeped into the cracks of the dry earth also did nothing to nourish the ground, but added to the oddly fresh stench of death. Statues and dried brambles of what could have been magnificent landscaping further emphasized the loss of whatever it had been, ages ago.

Glast Heim was a magnificent castle, albeit a dead one.

The Sniper skipped backwards, her sights never leaving the knight sauntering towards her. The curtain of rainfall obscured her vision, but she knew who he was. “You bastard!” she cried out in the midst of the roar of heavy rainfall, rainwater mingling with the streaks of blood streaming from the side of her face and trickling to the front of her threadbare Sniper’s jacket, dyeing the fabric pink.

She cocked another Arrow of Counter Evil, the bowstring giving another thin twang as she stretched it to its limits. Her eyes narrowed at her opponent, looking at him with her True Sight as she aimed at him. “I warned you. Don’t come any closer!”

“Don’t talk to strangers, remember?” he purred, fingering the obscure edge of his weapon. He may have been several meters away from her, and his figure was hidden by the darkness, but there was no mistaking the person who could project such evil arrogance.

“How can I not talk to you when you took on my husband’s form?” said Selrotta furiously.

Hesper Silberhof laughed. “It's not so hard acting like him, Rottie-kins!” he bellowed as he effortlessly hefted the weightlessness of the ethereal blade. He charged at her, his wraithlike sword singing the shrill hymn of death. “If I can’t have your sister, I will have you!”

Selrotta’s eyes widened, her pale face suddenly flushing deep red. “What the hell did you do to Venris?!” she cried. “Chopper!” On cue, she let go of her bowstring, and her falcon dashed towards the one-armed knight. The blessed arrow closed the far distance between Selrotta and Hesper in sonic speed, flying side by side with her shadowy falcon.

The falcon buried its talons on the knight’s bare shoulder, holding him in place to keep the arrow’s aim true, and true it was. It pierced his heart—or where his heart should be, at least—a burst of golden light exploding upon impact.

Hesper howled in pain as he dropped to the ground, motionless. The ghostly blade fell to the ground not with the clatter like most metallic swords would, but with the utter absence of any sound.

“Gotcha,” the Sniper muttered as she slumped to the ground, her adrenaline diminished. One of her hands clutched her side where his sword had caught her earlier, and blood steadily flowed through it. “Oh gods, Ven,” she groaned, cross at herself. “Why did I fall into such a trap?”

Her falcon perched on her shoulder, trying its best to coo with his gravelly voice.

“Thank you Chopper,” murmured Selrotta weakly, bent over with dull pain, “you were great.”

The relief washing over her did not last long. “I hope you did…not…think…that I’m finished?” she heard Hesper’s voice pant in sheer pain.

Gasping and wincing in hurt at the same time, she looked up to see the deranged knight propping himself up with his sword.

“That hurt,” he said with maddened relish as he pulled out the glowing arrow from his heart. “They really make good arrows these days, hmm?” He sounded like a patronizing school teacher. “Imagine, holy arrows for the dead. Good, good.”

The flash of lightning illuminated the lifeless courtyard, and revealed the skull on what should have been the knight’s face.

She only had a few seconds to scream out loud, before he closed in on her. Only the dead and the rain heard her cries.

It was a dark and stormy night. All similar tales had to start with such a night, but this one had something most did not.

This one bore the promise of hope.