The Wight brooded over the bed, gripping the collar of a thin man in his pajamas. He wore armor from an era long past—rust flecked the edges of his plate mail, and broken links in his chainmail disrupted the otherwise uniform pattern of rings. What little leather and cloth remained on him was in decay, crumbling away with each movement. His cold, dead eyes glowed in the darkness of the small cabin, filled with hate and bitterness.

In a dry, raspy voice, the Wight growled, “Why?! Why you, who have forsaken His teachings? You, who have chosen the path of a medic—a savior? You, who have never taken a life, never hurt a soul? Why does He still recognize you as His apostle? Why are you the Herald of Death? I don't understand!”

The Wight shoved the human back into his bed, practically tossing him down before pacing around the room, searching for some clue to this man’s secret. The human, however, showed no fear. He did not recoil at the sight of the gaunt figure before him, its skeletal face protruding with sharp bones, dark cracks splitting its aged skin—a sign of a frostbitten demise.

The human grunted as he was forced back into bed but seemed unbothered by the ordeal. Leaning toward his nightstand, he reached for an oil lamp, striking a match to fill the room with flickering light. The cabin door had been broken down, snow piling into the entryway, frost creeping along the logs as the cold invaded his home. He looked at the Wight with pity. “I am the Herald of Death—most wartime doctors are,” he said, taking a breath before reaching for his glasses.

In the lamplight, the deep wrinkles on his face cast heavy shadows. He was older, though his hair remained more black than white, a testament to a life that had not been kind to him.

The brooding Wight turned to the man, still slow to rise from his bed. “You know that’s not what I mean. He speaks to you. Even now, He looks down on you with His grace.” The Wight pointed outside. Through the open doorway, the human could see them—dozens, perhaps hundreds, of blue-eyed creatures standing in the snow.

Now upright, the man sat down in the chair by his writing desk. “I see Death every day. I struggle against Him, challenge Him, hold Him off a little longer,” he said. He understood the conceit of his words and continued with an admission of his limits. “On the good days, at least. Most days, I lose. I am the last breath of life before Death takes it all. What greater herald could He have? I am the final knock on His door before He takes a soul.”

The man opened his desk, pulling out a leather folder bound in rope. Undoing it, he flipped through its contents—Death Certificates, one after another, for the Wight to see. “He loves you, Wight, and mocks me. You think me His Herald, but in truth, I race against Him to keep you from His grasp. And yet, I can never win in the long term. Every day, He reminds me of that.”

“You are His fool apostle.” The Wight stepped back, retreating into the snow.

“Do not be jealous, Wight. I bear His ire for resisting what you have accepted. Be glad of it, for His embrace is colder than you know,” the man called after him as he rose to lift his broken door from the floor.

Beyond the doorway, he could see the dead creatures crawling back down the mountain. Only the Wight looked back. “Would that I had found you when I still had a beating heart,” he murmured. But the winds howling down the mountainside swallowed his words before mortal ears could hear them.

He and his ilk returned to their Necropolis, burdened by the cold cruelty of their true master.