Plunging into an abyss, the void clung to Andras like a living thing—thick, suffocating, and strangely warm. It pulsed around him as if breathing. His weight pulled him down faster, and with a final desperate lurch, he tore through a sticky, black web that ripped apart in long, sinewy strands. The sensation was like breaking through wet silk.
He landed hard on his side with a muffled thud. For a moment, all was still.
As he pushed himself up, he found himself on the smooth marble floor of a vast library, stretching endlessly in all directions.
The silence was profound—not empty, but full, like the quiet inside a cathedral. Light streamed in through tall, ornate windows, catching in the dust particles that danced in slow motion. Golden beams spilled over mahogany shelves and ancient books. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper, ink, and something floral—a faint note of white poppies, drifting softly through the still air like a memory.
Andras exhaled, grounding himself. The silence, though calm, held a tension—like a held breath.
As his eyes adjusted, his gaze caught on a small figure far down one of the aisles. The head of a little girl.
She was seated cross-legged on the floor, nose buried in a thick tome. Her eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed in concentration. A slight blush tinged the tips of her ears, as though she were blushing at the book itself.
Andras wasn't sure why he kept watching. He wasn't curious. No—something in him stirred. A strange, aching familiarity.
The color of her hair was odd—at first, it seemed burgundy, then brunette, then bark-brown streaked with strands of ginger. It shifted subtly, as if the light couldn't decide on the truth.
A sudden voice cracked through the silence like thunder:
"Eirene."
The name carried the weight of judgment—strict and divine, as though a god had spoken it aloud.
Both Andras and the girl froze.
The air seemed to compress. Andras instinctively took slow, backward steps as a figure emerged from the shelves—a silhouette, tall and severe, the air around him subtly bending with his presence.
The man's hair was onyx black, impossibly dark, and his posture unnervingly rigid. His stride was purposeful, each step echoing faintly like a clock ticking louder than it should.
Andras felt a tremor run through his chest. He could hear his own breath—too loud, too shallow.
When the girl looked up, Andras's eyes burned. It wasn't light—it was pain. As though something ancient and unforgiving had looked back through her eyes.
He shut them tight, hissing under his breath.
Disoriented, he stumbled backward, colliding with a tall bookshelf. A cascade of books spilled down in eerie precision—not chaos, but something arranged.
One of the books opened mid-fall, its pages fluttering like wings. A glow pulsed from the parchment.
Andras's hand brushed it. The pull was instant.
He gasped as the book's pages became a vortex, sucking him in—first his arm, then shoulder, chest—like sinking into warm ink.
Just before his face vanished into the paper, he saw the man again.
He had moved impossibly fast. He was there—right there—with one pale hand outstretched.
And though his features were blurred, Andras could feel the man's glare pierce through the distortion. It wasn't hatred—it was judgment, cold and absolute.
***
Deep within the forests of Ailva, where the air shimmered with something unseen, brave adventurers often found themselves halted—not by thorns or beasts, but by an invisible barrier. The kind that pressed against the skin and whispered warnings to the soul.
The undergrowth rustled. From between the moss-covered trunks emerged a group of young men, barefoot or in worn sandals, their feet wrapped in strips of cloth and hide. Their breath steamed in the cold morning air, and their tunics were threadbare, patched from prior scrapes.
They were armed, though poorly—a mismatch of dull shortswords, pitchforks sharpened to a point, and a few bows slung across backs, their quivers clinking lightly with scavenged arrows.
One of them paused, pointing toward a break in the clearing. "Brothers... do mine eyes deceive me, or is that a horse?"
Their eyes followed the gesture.
Standing just ahead, in a shaft of sunlight, was a regal steed. Its black coat shimmered like polished obsidian, and it bore a saddle of fine leather, engraved with gold-threaded runes. The reins swayed lazily, untouched by wind.
Then—thwip! An arrow sliced through the air, grazing the space just behind the horse's flank.
"What in the gods' names are you doing?!" someone hissed, the sound sharp and panicked.
"I meant to bring it down, of course! What else would I do?" came the foolish reply from a wiry boy, bow still drawn, his smirk faltering under glares.
A murmur of bickering erupted among the group. Words exchanged. A shove. Tension rising like a coil pulled tight.
But one among them had broken away. A boy strikingly different, perhaps no older than the others, but cast in a strange light. His hair was the color of wild honey, catching glints of gold where the sun touched it. His skin was rough with the sun and wind, yet unnaturally pale—as if lit from beneath.
He stared at the horse.
Not with fear, but with reverence.
The steed hadn't flinched. Not at the arrow, not at the voices. It stood calmly, like it had already foreseen everything.
The boy took slow steps forward, hand outstretched. Awe flickered in his wide eyes, and confidence shimmered on his lips. His fingers were inches from the stallion's head when—
"Florianus!"
The voice was thunder in human form.
The stallion reared, hooves slicing the air in a violent arc. It let out a shrill, piercing neigh that echoed through the forest like a war cry.
Florianus froze. His body stiffened, unable to move, unable to understand the danger looming over him.
And then—
Blood.
A sudden eruption. A splatter against the grass.
The group fell into stunned silence.
Mouths hung open. Eyes widened. One boy tried to speak, but all he could do was stammer: "F–F–Florianus...!"
The world responded before they could.
A wave of pressure burst outward. A pulse like the heartbeat of an angry god. The boys were flung into the air like ragdolls, limbs twisting, bodies crashing into trees and stones.
The stallion, tied tightly to a tree, shuddered but remained upright—its eyes glowing faintly with something not of this world.
Blood dripped—slow, fresh, and carmine—forming thin rivers in the dirt.
From around the clearing, the barrier shimmered into view, now cracking like glass. One enchantment broke, then another. Each fracture released a blast of invisible force, slamming the boys again and again against bark, earth, and rock.
Their screams turned to guttural yelps, and then to groans, until only the sound of twisting bone and wet gasps remained.
Faces blurred, swollen with bruises, skin peeled back from lacerations. They were no longer recognizable—bodies twisted, limbs bent in impossible ways, like broken marionettes discarded in the mud.
Blood painted the trees. It seeped into roots. Soaked into the hungry forest floor.
As if the heavens themselves had awakened to a disturbance in the world below, thunder cracked across the sky—a deep, guttural roar that rolled through the clouds like the growl of a waking beast.
The once-muted gray of the overcast sky shifted rapidly into darkness, and without warning, the rain began.
Not a drizzle, but a torrent.
Thick sheets of water crashed through the forest canopy, drumming against the leaves and earth with wild intensity. Trees bent under the weight, and animals scurried for cover, their instincts stirred by a deeper fear than mere weather.
Above the trees, the air trembled. Waves of unseen force—pressure pulses, rhythmic and terrible—spread outwards in ever-widening rings.
Thousands of enchantments, ancient and layered, began to fracture. One by one, they shattered like brittle glass, their hidden symbols bleeding away into the ether. Runes carved into stones crumbled to dust. Protective wards flared briefly before snuffing out.
Each rupture sent a shockwave, rattling the very bones of the forest.
The ground shuddered, and the once-vibrant landscape began to wither.
Leaves dulled from green to gray. The bark of trees turned brittle, and flowers curled in on themselves as though recoiling in fear. Birds that had filled the canopy with song just hours ago were now silent—fled or fallen.
Nearby, the river—which once ran clear and cold over smooth stones—began to change.
Rain hammered its surface, churning the water into froth. The color darkened, first to a muddy brown, then to something darker—red streaks coiling like ink in water.
Blood, washed from the earth, from the wounds inflicted moments ago, now tainted the stream.
***
Andras' tunic clung to him in tattered shreds, making him resemble a vagabond more than a warrior. Fresh wounds streaked across his arms and chest, mingling with the grime of battle. Sweat, dirt, and the sickly black goo from slain hellspawn painted his skin in grotesque war paint. Even his face wasn't spared—blood and ichor splattered across his cheekbones and brow like an artist's careless brush strokes.
The air still buzzed with residual magic, but something had changed. He could no longer rely on the innate light of his bloodline—the creatures had grown wise, their grotesque forms no longer recoiling at the glow. So he shifted tactics. Mana flowed from him like a clear creek, twisting and pulsing at the gesture of his fingers.
With sharp, practiced motions, he wove the liquid into spears. The water compressed, hardened to a point, and shot forth, skewering the advancing beasts. His enchantments layered upon one another—waves of effort and will. One spell summoned a shimmering bubble that engulfed several monsters, slowly constricting with mounting pressure until bones cracked and limbs snapped.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Another whisper of movement from his hand, and a whirlpool spiraled into existence, dragging crawling creeps into its furious maw. A crashing wave followed, clearing the stragglers like debris on a flooded plain.
Then came the sword. Light answered his silent plea. It flared at his fingertips and bled down into shape—a radiant blade that hummed with divine wrath. With swift, brutal precision, he lunged. Heads rolled. Bodies slumped. His blade carved light into the darkness.
As the silence settled and the last body fell, Andras exhaled—more irritation than relief.
"By the gods, how many tunics must I rend before this cursed land releases me?" he muttered, inspecting the torn fabric. Threads of light crept through the rips, weaving the garment back together stitch by glowing stitch.
Then—something shifted.
A faint crackling filled the air. The hairs on the back of his neck stood upright. His head snapped to the left, instinct guiding him before thought could catch up. The air tore open with a hiss, and the familiar pull of a dimensional rift yanked at him.
He didn't stumble this time. He landed smoothly, knees bent, one hand instinctively ready to cast—only to find a quiet stillness awaiting him.
A fountain sat nearby, eerily serene. Water trickled peacefully from its moss-covered tiers, a stark contrast to the battlefield he'd just left. He hesitated, eyeing it with suspicion. The last fountain had not gone well. Just the memory of the creature's twisted face emerging from those depths made his gut clench. He backed away.
He stepped forward again—but the texture beneath his boots was wrong. No crunch of gravel. No cold bite of stone. Just…nothing.
He glanced down.
"What sorcery is this?" He lifted one foot and set it down again. Still nothing. "Am I adrift in the air?"
His brow furrowed. He reached out to steady himself against a tall hedge, but his hand passed through the foliage like smoke. He stumbled forward, barely catching his balance.
A long sigh escaped him, half tired, half bitter. "What specters await me now? Shall it be the shades of the dead?"
"Deimos!"
The name cracked through the air like a whip. Andras froze.
He turned toward the voice, straightening his slouched posture. It was a woman—young, familiar—but her face remained maddeningly blurred. No matter how he squinted or shifted, it would not come into focus.
Then his gaze shifted.
To the man.
His breath caught. Chest tightening, he stared as if witnessing a memory he'd locked away.
A void-black bubble began to form around the area where the two figures stood, casting everything inside in a strange, oppressive gloom. From a distance, they appeared to be arguing. Andras couldn't hear the words, but the tension, the hand gestures, the pain in their movements—it was like watching a scene from a romance tragedy.
Oh, but what unfolded before him was no scene fit for innocent eyes. This was not a tale meant for hearthside retellings or children's theatre—it was something far darker.
Andras hovered silently above the garden, weightless and unseen, cursed to be a witness. At first, it was only an argument—raised voices, harsh gestures, the sort of tension that frays the air before a storm. But then, the atmosphere shifted. The woman's stola was pulled aside, the elegant fabric falling away, pooling like silk at her waist. The collar slipped from one shoulder, baring her skin to the moonlight. Her protests dulled into silence.
The man—Deimos, if Andras still trusted his eyes—grew coarse and brutal in movement. His toga hung in disarray, twisted and half-fallen, revealing more of his body than decorum would allow. The garden, once still and dreamlike, became an unwilling witness to violation.
Andras turned his face away, jaw clenched, eyes shut tightly as though darkness might spare him the truth. Even from his elevated place above the hedge and path, he could feel the sickness creep into his bones. The scene below gnawed at his composure.
His hand reached out, instinctively, to intervene—but it passed through the vine-laced archway as if through fog. Again, the illusion mocked him. In these trials—if that's what they were—he could observe, but not act. Touch nothing. Alter nothing. A ghost among figments, cursed with power and helplessness in equal measure.
"What can I do?" he muttered bitterly to the empty sky. "These illusions deny my reach… I cannot sully what is not real."
But even as he said the words, a hollow ache took root in his chest. It wasn't pain from the magic. It wasn't confusion from the spectacle. It was guilt. Cold, creeping, patient guilt—like a beast that waits beneath the floorboards.
He shut his eyes tighter. Not to block out what he saw, but what he felt.