'Lovers', the fond memory of that old poem reverberated in Balthazar’s mind as he carefully removed each piece of worn garment from the peasant’s lifeless body among the bushes.

Their hearts as white and pure as the clouds in the heavens, his thoughts recited each verse as he stood naked in the middle of the night, basking in the pure light of the moon above.

"Perhaps the writer never saw the moon from this coast, or he would have chosen the white of the moon instead." So constant was his solitude that he got accustomed to having long, philosophical conversations with himself.

Next he garbed himself in the murdered mann’s attire, hiding his own clothes under the brush. He then wiped his bloodied dagger clean and hid it in one of his pockets. 'Cold as your desire', he thought as he planted each foot on the sand of Darkholm Duchy’s beach. After a moment’s hesitation he walked along the shore towards an old mann with a hunched back, who pulled a rake behind his slow, tired steps. In his wake, the white dust was kissed gently by the sea in an eternal tease. The peasant pulled the rake as he walked in the direction of the ominous, yet magnificent walls of Darkholde Keep, the windows on its distant spires dimly lit, as a reminder there was life within. The old mann turned to continue raking the pure white dust beneath his feet. So great was the curvature of his spine that he did not notice Balthazar’s presence until he saw him standing a few feet ahead.

“Salutem ex tenebrae” He quickly pronounced, having studied the customs of the blood quite extensively before his arrival. One misstep would destroy any possibility of success, and failure was something he had not known. “Salutem ex Tenebrae” the many wrinkles on the old face drew a smile, his long beard caressed the dust, seeming to meld with it.

“May I offer you any assistance?” the bearded mann questioned, not slowing his pace for even a single instant. “One of m’horses ran this way. You seen ‘im?” Balthazar’s stuttered at first, but was quick to imitate a peasant’s accent. “Hmmmm, no. Not really. Although, come to think of it, I have not paid too much attention. These old eyes are getting cloudy, relying on the light of the orb in the sky to guide my steps here and back home every night.”

'Every night they die, to come to life every morning…' the poem still sang inside his head, but yet he managed to stay focused. “Wonder if ‘im horse ran off to the castle gate” he pointed. The soft scraping sound of the rake was the old mann’s only reply. “I’m gonna be off now, In tenebris” “Where are you from? Where are you truly headed to?” the raking stopped to give way to the ancient worker’s words. “From ‘ere’, Darkholm, where else?” Balthazar chuckled. “Your accent is not from ‘here’.” “I’m just a peasant ‘ere” his words swiftly interjected. “And so am I” the aged mann smiled once again.

Strange, Balthazar realized. This mann claimed to be a peasant, but his speech was like that of… “…An educated person. Surprised, aren’t you? Well, don’t be. Let me teach you a little bit about us. I am but ‘just’ a peasant of the Royal Arch-Duchy. Our Crown ensures that every peasant becomes literate, so that no one, not even the royal family itself can communicate without our complete understanding. I was able to become a scholar, a peasant-scholar actually, something likely unknown in your land. Thanks to their sacrifice I am better able to feed my family. So, I choose to come every night, to rake the beach of Darkholm, as my way to say ‘thank you’ to my beloved Queen. Every night, before the break of dawn she walks this coast barefoot and finds a place to sit and give thanks to the darkness for our victory over all her enemies.”

A chain swiftly wrapped around the visitor’s neck, tight as the bonds that united the blood. Blood gushed from the mann’s neck as the blade of a silvered kusarigama sunk deep in its surface, pouring into the thirsty white grains underfoot. Balthazar’s knees touched the ground, his life ebbing with each pulse. His spasmodic hands clutching the sand. Behind him the cloaked figure of the Shadow of Darkholm stood, stepping aside to give way to the old mann, who resumed his raking. “A peasant? Ha, ha, with a low neckpiece but high neck tan lines, walking on our sacred shore with his own bare, pale, untanned feet? Oh you had to study much more before coming to the Blood Coast. Clutch at that sand with all your might, you see, as we are one you will be one with it soon enough. Allow me a last history lesson: Darkholm never had a beach, it has been built by our blood with the powdered bones of our enemies…dust, bone white dust of which you will soon form a part of.” 'And in the end all hearts stop...' was his last thought, as his own did.