《Rainfall》


 Prologue

    Once, there roamed Gods upon the Earth''s face; before man had established his dominance so thoroughly by means of magic and science, long before great cities reached into the skies and burrowed deep into the ground.


    Each was once a mortal, as is their custom, chosen by their predecessor to inhabit the position of guardian, of supervisor, and of deity.


    They held such tradition as an act of mercy for themselves, for each was originally human, and the human mind was not meant to hold thousands upon thousands of years worth of memories, emotions and experiences.


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    Who elevated the first mortals to that almighty position? It is unknown, a fact lost to the sands of time, merely a grain of sand in a desert of histories.


    Millennia passed, empires rose and fell, technology grew and the magical disciplines propelled civilisation through ages at an ever growing pace. Thus, with time, the races of Earth forgot their reliance on Gods. Adoration and reverence fell victim to ego and desire, the great histories of the Immortals turned to dust.


    Still, the Gods existed.

 Chapter 1 - The Wastrel

    Tremendous grey clouds hung over the city of Grenforth, rain hammered down onto its cobblestone streets, cascading over slate roofs and running down into narrow alleyways.


    A dark stone townhouse spilled warm red light and noise into the cold, wet street that it stood on. As whoops, cheers and laughter escaped its doors and windows, pedestrians stole glances into the decadence amid their hurried steps.


    In a private room at the very top of the house, a man lay with his head on a whore''s lap. She stroked his hair gently, occasionally stopping to twirl the wavy black strands that hung down the sides of his forehead.


    "What''s the matter with you? Anyone would think you didn''t enjoy yourself." She looked down at him with a raised eyebrow.


    "No," he reached a hand up and stroked her cheek, "I always enjoy our time together, it''s just - word of my being here has no doubt reached my father already. And you know what happens after that."


    "Oh, Art. Be patient with him, please?"


    Alicia stood up, gently moving his head out of her lap. She walked across the room, her long red hair dangled down past her wide, swaying hips as she smiled back at him. She sat down at a dressing table, facing the man on the bed. Alicia had sharp features, a sleek jawline and a nose with a slight upturn, thick eyebrows and piercing green eyes.


    "I don''t want to," Art sighed, "he knows exactly how to piss me off, it''s like... I don''t know. He just knows somehow."


    "You can''t run from your responsibilities forever, you know. Your father could never give the title to your sister, and if you put it off much longer he''ll be forced to pass you over for your brother."


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    He swung his legs off the bed and lurched upright, letting out a dramatic sigh.


    "Don''t you fucking start with me too!" he snapped, pulling his shirt over his head. "As if I need it from you when already hear it from the rest of the Duchy."


    Art looked at the golden cased clock on the wall as he struggled with his boots. He knew his father would no doubt be waiting for him to return, ready to lecture him about duty and reputation, and how he had none of the latter.


    Hopping down the stairs and weaving through the other patrons, Art brushed past more working girls. He smiled and kissed a few on the cheek, promising to return soon and spend more of that noble coin he always had.


    The heavy front door swung wide as he booted it open, smacking against the handrail with a dull thud. He scanned the moody, rain soaked street both ways before looking ahead and locking eyes with someone whom he did not want to see.


    ''Fuck.'' He muttered aloud.


    A rough looking man lent against a sleek black carriage with his arms crossed, he had a shaved head with a rough look about him. Art recognised him immediately as the captain of his fathers household guard. The man stared at him across the street, waiting for his mark to cross and greet him.


    "Mi''Lord, your father has requested your presence."


    "Oh for god''s sake, Milton. Tell the bastard it can wait ''til morning, it''s long past sunset and I need sleep." He tried to brush the man off with a wave of his hand as he spoke, then turned to walk away.


    "The request was... very firm, Mi''Lord. I am not to take no for an answer."


    The man took a step to the side and opened the carriage door, as if he already knew the outcome of the conversation. Sure enough, Art let out another dramatic sigh and climbed in. Milton slammed the door shut behind him and poked his head through the window.


    "Perhaps if you were to spend less time amongst whores and degenerates, you might find more time for sleep... Mi''Lord."


    Art stared at him, his frustration at the Captain''s indigence was clearly written in his eyes. Before he could say anything though, Milton had already slammed the shutters down over the window and climbed into the drivers seat.

 Chapter 2 - Crime and Punishment (1)

    Footsteps rang out on the cold stone flooring of the castles hallway. Art stormed ahead of his escort, making his way to the hall where his father would undoubtedly be sat in his throne waiting for him.


    Two knights stood at the end of the corridor guarding the enormous wooden double doors to the hall. Their armour was black Mauritanian alloy, a common choice among the armed forces due to its strength and light weight.


    Each piece was adorned with white inlay around its edges, then etched with intricate swirling patterns across its width. The chest plate served as an artistic centrepiece, featuring an awe inspiring artistic depiction of the symbol of the House Beaumont, the wild Ruzel Bat. Their dark armour was complimented by a pristine white cloak latched onto the front of the right shoulder, then fixed on the rear of the opposing shoulder.


    One of the knights stepped back and pushed against the door, slightly bowing as he went. Art shoved past him and stormed into the room.


    "What is it now, father?" He shouted, "Tell me, what was so urgent that you had me dragged across the city in the middle of the night?"


    Jorin Beaumont stared down at his son. One hand rested on the arm of his throne, the other gripped the hilt of his sword, its point drove into the grey stone floor. His expression was un-moving, he did not break eye contact, there was not a hint of anger on his face. Anyone would think that Jorin did not care in the slightest for his sons existence, that was how he had always been though - forever the stoic figure.


    "Kneel." Jorin''s voice rang out against the walls of the hall, its sound only slightly dampened by the pristine white banners scattered about.


    Art stared up at his father, contempt adorned the lines of his face. Still, he did not move.


    The Duke of the Beaumont duchy cast a glance at his guard Captain, then gave a slight nod of his head. The captain moved a step closer to Art and stamped down on the back of his calf.


    "Fuck, Milton!"


    Art let out a groan as he fell down onto the untouched leg. He looked up at his father from the ground. The Duke had made sure the entirety of his court was present in the hall for this spectacle. Every minor noble stared at him as his eyes scanned the room, still grimacing from the pain.


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    "I have had enough - more than enough, in fact - of your behaviour." The words slid off his tongue with icy indifference.


    "Father-"


    "You will address me as ''My Lord''."


    Realisation crept across the younger mans face as he grasped the impending words. Art had never expected this day to come. He had hoped for it, certainly, but not once did he think his father had the resolve to do it.


    "Did you think you could continue this way forever? That you could deny me and have your pockets continue to fatten whilst you drink and whore away your years? Well, let me give you one final gift, boy. Life waits for no one, not even a Beaumont. You have run from me for long enough."


    Art stared up at the Duke of House Beaumont, his jaw clenched with anger, yet he said nothing.


    "Hear these words, let them ring through every street in my domain. You are no longer a son of this house. From this day forth you are stripped of your title, all of its holdings and privileges..."


    Gasps resounded from the observers in the hall. Even some of the guard wore stunned expressions behind their helmets, the shock visible even from just their eyes. Art still stared up at his father, his face was only anger now, no sadness or tears.


    Jorin rose up from his throne. He cut a tremendous figure, his brown hair spattered with grey streaks, towering over the hall in his ceremonial armour, coated in the house colours and wielding his sword as a cane. He spoke again as he slowly walked down the steps.


    "By all rights, I make you one of the common folk."


    "You think my brother can inherit your title? Stupid old man. He would make an even more spectacular blunder of it than me." He restrained his voice as best as he could, he would not dream of giving his father the satisfaction of seeing his feelings overtake him.


    "His flaws are no fault of his own. Yours, however, are entirely self-induced." Jorin was right in front of Art now, only inches from his face.


    He stared into his sons eyes and smiled, "No matter though, I am a young man still, what is another decade or two to make another son?"


    "No fiery words for me? Nothing at all?" He held an expression of mock surprise as he spoke, "How amusing, you seem to have found restraint only when I no longer require it of you."


    "Well, no matter."


    He swung around and began walking back to his throne.


    "As is custom, any man stripped of his identity will bear the name Rain, you will take no other as long as you live, you will pass this name to your sons and them to theirs."


    "I will never forgive you for this, father."


    "Father? Are you deaf, boy? There is no son of mine here. Now, you are no one, this house will treat you as I would a stray dog. As such, your lack of status allows that I may command you like any other."


    He spoke quicker now, the urgency in his voice betrayed his desire to be done with this messy affair.


    "You will go to the Borderlands, perhaps they may find some worth in you."

 Chapter 3 - Crime and Punishment (2)

    Gasps and murmurs erupted around the hall once more. To serve in the Eastern Front was an absurd thing for a nobleman, a thing worse than exile. It was known to be the ''dumping ground'' for the population waste of the Empire. Its ranks were formed from peasants and petty criminals, always in need of more equipment, more bodies, and more supplies. Yet, they were never granted them.


    The anger had faded from Art''s face now. A tear rolled down his cheek as he spoke,


    "How long? For how long will you make me suffer?" He spoke the words softly, almost a whisper.


    "You will serve until I command you otherwise, or until death finds you, whichever comes first."


    Jorin brushed aside a strand of hair from his deep brown eyes, his mountainous physique dominated the room as he stood again. No one had expected this outcome, for a Duke to send his own firstborn son away, stripping him of his title and land, of all that made him who he is. It was unheard of.


    All eyes in the room gravitated to Duke Beaumont as they waited for his final words.


    Art stared up at his father, trying his best to remain composed after hearing of this new fate.


    How could he do this to him? To his own flesh and blood? The choice seemed to sudden, too abrupt and uncaring.


    ''It''s not possible that my mother agreed to this, where is she?'' He thought.


    "Let me say goodbye, at least. Please fathe-" He caught himself before continuing, "Please, Mi''Lord. My mother surely would not let me leave without it."


    Jorin lazily waved a hand toward Milton, who immediately grabbed Art by the shoulder and jerked him upright. He began hauling him back out of the throne room.


    "No! Please! Let me speak with her! At least let me say goodbye!" He shouted out to Jorin, desperately struggling back against Milton''s grip, who, in turn, slugged him in the stomach with a heavy gloved fist.


    The court remained silent. Their eyes all set on Jorin as the sound Art''s shouting faded through the corridors.


    *******


    Grenforth, the capitol of the Beaumont Duchy, was situated in the north-western most part of the country. It had once been considered the armpit of the empire, a distant rat-hole, too far from the Empire''s seat to be of any relevance.


    It''s gloomy, harsh climate was considered far too depressing for the fine tastes of the Imperial ruling class. Thus, Grenforth and the wider duchy were "bestowed" upon the most undesirable of the noble families - the Beaumont''s.


    That was when it all changed. With a newfound sense of motivation (courtesy of their sudden ownership of the territory) the fourth Beaumont patriarch, Braon, set out to transform the reputation of both his family and new his new home.


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    In only forty years, Braon turned the fortunes of Grenforth upward. He brought in peasant communities to search for valuables to mine amongst the mountains under which they lived. With the profits from that venture he founded schools of stone-masonry and set to work fortifying his new home, building homes and great structures among the steep foothills, establishing a port through which his people could fish and trade.


    He was by all accounts, a humble and loving man, dedicated to bettering life for people of his duchy. Thus, through his painstaking effort and excellent stewardship, the duchy found new life under the Beaumont''s. Grenforth became a prosperous trading hub, a seat to some of the finest artisans of the empire, and finally, it''s looming mountains became a proving ground for a feared fighting force, the Ravensguard.


    Nestled at the foot of the mountain line that marked the border between the empire and its neighbours, the city was under near constant cover of rain, cloud and storm. Facing out to the ocean in the west, it''s waterfront was an enormous bay sheltered from the constant assault of harsh tides by a crescent moon of sea defences, broken in the middle for the entry and exit of vessels.


    Jorin sat on a balcony extending from one of the castles many spires. He looked down at the bay, watching the docked vessels bob and sway with the lapping tide.


    His wife, Duchess Aisling, stood behind him. It was the morning after he had sent Art away without her knowledge.


    She did not take it well.


    To Aisling, Art had always been the favourite. This was something she would never say aloud, always claiming to love her children in ''different ways''. Nevertheless, it was clear for all to see with whom her dearest affections lay.


    "What is it? Don''t tell me you''ve come to grovel for the boy? You should know my mind is set. Besides, it cannot be undone, not for him at least."


    Jorin spoke with that same lazy tone, not even bothering to make eye contact with the mother of the boy he had just sent away, he carried on observing the miniature figures scurrying about the harbourside.


    "What kind of bastard summons everyone but his wife to court in the dead of night just to banish a boy? I did not know you had become this cruel." Aisling said, her voice tense with restraint.


    "He believed he could hide from his birthright, as if responsibility was for everyone but him. It was necessary."


    "Necessary! Hah! He is afraid, Jorin. He has always been afraid! You do nothing but lecture and loom over him with your expectations. Not once did you praise him, yet you stayed ready to criticise even the slightest misstep!"


    Jorin bolted up from his chair and turned to face his wife, he towered over her, moving forward as he spoke,


    "Praise! What could I possibly praise, woman? Another whore sneaked into the castle grounds, perhaps! Or another years worth of working wages squandered at the card tables?" He threw his hands out wide, challenging her to deny him.


    "Or maybe the constant embarrassment of a son who would not show his face at even the lowliest state dinner without being piss drunk, or simply absent altogether. No, I won''t do it."


    Aisling stared up at him. He had backed her into a corner as he spoke. A tear began to well up in her eye, yet she remained in control. Weakness was not something one could afford when dealing with the Duke, he was certain to sniff it out and exploit it.


    "The boy is as good as dead, I doubt he will even survive the journey, let alone the borderlands. You have another son, focus your attention on him. He might prove to be less of a disappointment, the bar is tremendously low already."


    "I will never forget this, Jorin. As long as I live, I will remember what you took from us."


    Jorin turned back toward the bay. Wind and rain battered his face as he stepped onto the balcony again.


    "Jorin,'' Aisling said, her voice exasperated, "he was your son."


    "I have another."

 Chapter 4 - The Long Road

    An inconspicuous wooden carriage creaked and groaned as it rolled along the packed dirt road. Inside sat a young man of 23 years. His eyes betrayed a sense of tiredness that only comes from too long spent on the road. His clothes, clearly expensive garments, made him stick out among the other occupants. They held signs of constant wear; dirt marred the cuffs and sweat stains clung on to the collar,


    Four more men surrounded him. All of them had been packed into the carriage like tinned fish, left to sweat and choke in the stagnant air together. Of the five, four were common born. Three had chosen to pursue life in the border guard in the hopes of a better existence.


    There, they had thought, a better life could be found. Free from the constant struggle for food and shelter, they would finally be able to survive through the gracious funding of the Imperial war chest.


    Would they have to risk their lives? Perhaps, but they believed in their hearts that doing so would be a rare occasion. Among those garrisons they would be fed, armed and trained, protected by one another and living a life of comparable ease.


    The fourth man, Bronn, was not of the same mind. He had an uneasy air about him, refusing to make conversation among the first three men. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed solely on the fifth and final man in the carriage; the one clad in expensive clothes, Art.


    All five had ''volunteered'' for duty in the Border Guard, at least officially they had. In truth, only those first three men had chosen to go.


    "Those are some fine robes, boy." Bronn said, breaking the silence, "they might fetch a nice penny yet."


    Art stared back at him and remained silent.


    "What''s the matter, boy? Did ya daddy tell you not ta speak with strangers? I can be nice..."


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    "..."


    Bronn, sat opposite from Art, leant forward. His nose was now only a few inches away from Art''s face in the cramped carriage.


    "Four whole days travelling together in this shite wagon, dragged behind that Milton cunt and not a peep outta you. You oughta be more nice to me, lad. We''re gonna be spending an awful lot more time together, ya know."


    A toothy grin spread across his face as he spoke, it seemed unnatural, as if his mouth was too big for his face and all his features had been jumbled together in some lazy fashion.


    The other three men stared at the interaction between Art and Bronn, their eyes flicking nervously back and forth between the two. Every time the latter broke the silence it felt like he was sucking the already limited air out of the carriage. His smile was... sickening.


    Finally, the silence was interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels squealing to a halt on the rough terrain, followed by Milton banging on the cabin wall.


    The sound of heavy footsteps crunching on frosted ground wrapped around from the drivers seat to the rear doors. As they were yanked open, blades of the days final sunlight shone into the carriage and caused the occupants to shield their unadjusted eyes.


    "Out! Come on you dogs, get out!" Milton shouted as he reached in and began dragging them into the light.


    As he slowly got used to the evening sun Art looked out at his surroundings. There was not much in sight other than a low, sprawling inn. It spread out in the forest clearing, sheltered from the harsh winds by an encirclement of enormous redwood trees.


    *Shit, I have no idea where I am.*


    A growing sense of anxiety filled his chest as he realised that he was the furthest he had ever been from home, and if he were to run now, he would likely not survive through the night.


    "We hold here tonight. My men need rest. As for you, find yourself a room with whatever coin you have. From tomorrow onward we''ll be sleeping under the stars." Milton bolted the carriage doors shut as he spoke, then walked away. Art and the men hurried after him as he started towards the inviting warmth of the inn.


    "You will settle yourselves and meet me in the bar, we have much to discuss of your futures in the guard. Oh, I should remind you now. All of you have so *graciously* pledged your lives to the protection of the Empire, so, should you choose to run now and abandon that duty... Well, my men and I will have no choice but to hang you for your treason."


    He stared into Art''s eyes as he said those final words.

 Chapter 5 - Black Bear Inn

    The Black Bear Inn was surprisingly busy for seemingly being in the middle of nowhere, though, which made it the only choice for as far as the eye could see in every direction. Furthermore, it was on the main route used to travel along the mountainous northern border of the empire.


    Nighttime had fallen. Warm firelight spilled out of the windows of the common room, accompanied by rich smells and deep laughter. Art had found himself a small table tucked into the corner of the room, perfectly situated to spy on all the comings and goings, especially of the men he had been travelling with.


    It was late now and Milton had already given his briefing of what they could expect from their future in the guard. Though, Art scoffed at the thought of even calling it that. It was more of an obvious attempt to spook them than anything else. He had filled it with ominous and foreboding bullshit like there being ''more to those lands than meets the eye'' or ''things that go bump in the night''.


    Art had expected no less, though. His father''s guard captain had taken every opportunity to gloat and find pleasure in the younger man''s current situation.


    He looked up from his drink at the sound of Bronn staggering his way toward a woman seated at the bar. The man had been incessantly irritating since the moment they arrived, trying to start fights with any man and bed any woman who was unfortunate enough to make eye contact.


    His newest target had propped herself up on the bar with a palm under her chin whilst the other swirled the wine in her cup. Art could not see her face as her hood was still drawn, an odd thing to do in a drinking room, he had thought. It was undoubtedly a woman though, her stature and figure gave her away along with the long black braid that trailed out from under that hood.


    Bronn kept up his pestering, eventually reaching to grab the woman''s arm when she turned him down and looked away. As he did so, a flash of silver flicked out from her sleeve and danced under the bastard''s chin for only a moment - almost too fast to see.


    Art could not make out what was said, yet it was obviously enough to finally deter the man from his advances as he slunk away back to his table.


    Strange. I know his strength. He could certainly outmatch me, let alone her.


    <hr>


    Sliding out of his seat, Art grabbed his mug of ale and pushed his way outside. He wrapped around to the back of the building to a spot tucked between the stables and the inn''s kitchen. Rummaging in his filthy coat, he pulled out a leather pouch, dug for the last of his tobacco and perched on a stump.


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    ''Fuck. Now how am I going to find more of you in this icy hellhole?'' He spoke to himself.


    "Nasty habit, that." A rough, slurred voice spoke from the shadows by the stable.


    Art jumped up, startled by the stranger''s presence.


    It did not last long. Bronn swaggered out of his shadowy hiding place and stumbled towards Art. He seemed to have found a wood axe somewhere among the stable gear, i, and itng in a lazy grip down by his side.


    "Silly thing for a young lad like yourself to go wandering about in the dark like this. Might find... trouble if you''re not careful." Bronn chuckled to himself.


    "..."


    "I know why you''re here, boy. Sent away by that father of yours, sniffed a little too much and fucked a few too many, didn''t you now?"


    Art felt a lump growing in his throat, nerves taking hold of him.


    "How?"


    "How what?"


    "How do you know?"


    "News travels fast out of the Duke''s castle, knew I had to get myself into that carriage nice and quick."


    "..."


    Bronn took a few steps toward Art, bringing them to an uncomfortable closeness.


    "Your father damn near destroyed me life, boy. Him and those mighty morals. Took me job over some... some damn serving whore getting roughed up a bit." His tone was low and urgent, obviously spurred on by the drink in his system.


    "So I thought, what better way to pay that old bastard back? And now we''re here. I think his grace might appreciate your head dropped at his doorstep, don''t you?"


    Art was panicking now, he knew the man infront of him had to be a realm above him. The age difference alone ensured that fact. There was no chance of him escaping this unharmed, not with his complete lack of experience. He was too afraid to even move, let alone fight back.


    Bronn took a step back and flashed a toothy grin, then swung his axe wide at Art''s throat.


    Time seemed to slow as the blow came in, inching closer and closer, all he could do was watch. Fear paralysed him, all the hours of training Jorin had forced him through at the castle were abandoned in a haze of nerves and confusion.


    Suddenly, a dark blur moved in the corner of his vision, just out of Bronn''s eyeline. It outpaced the axe swing with each millisecond, nearing closer and closer.


    Art caught a glimpse of another flash of silver as the blurry mass collided with Bronn at an incredible speed, hammering into him and carrying him off into the shadows. The impact had split some part of the mans body open, splattering thick dark blood all over Art''s face and throwing him back against the wall of the inn.


    He lay there in the frosted grass, staring out at the shadows. They held a thin veil over the figure of the mysterious blur that had saved him. It hunched over Bronn''s limp figure, its face close to his neck. Wet noises permeated the surrounding silence as the blur stayed knelt.


    Is it... drinking his blood? Oh gods, what kind of beast is it?


    The blur stood up. Satiated from its feast; it began moving toward him.


    Still on the floor from the earlier blow, Art scrambled backwards as he tried to find his footing. He kept stumbling.


    The mysterious creature slowly came into focused as it peeled out of the shadows. He saw its long black overcoat.


    The hood was drawn over its head. A long black braid trailed out from under it.

 Chapter 6 - Black Bear Inn (2)

    The woman with the black braid burst through the common room doors. She had one arm wrapped around Art, the other gripping his hand, which was stretched across her shoulders.


    "Is there a healer here? Anyone! There was a Cane Wolf attack, it already took the other one!" she shouted as all the eyes in the room fell on her.


    "Don''t just stand there, bring me a mage!"


    The room burst into action at her demands; chairs scraped and were knocked over as people rushed to gather around, and others charged out the back to try and ward off the ''wolf''.


    Milton shoved the onlookers aside and shouldered his way to where Art and the mysterious woman sat. He grabbed Art''s face roughly and stared into his eyes, frowning as he did so.


    "The blood isn''t his," she said cautiously, watching Milton examine him.


    "And how would you know? Did you see the beast attack him?"


    "It went for the bigger one first. Bronn, was it? I don''t know why, but it didn''t seem to want this one. That''s how I was able to get him away; the disgusting beast was too busy feasting on the other guy."


    She peeked at Art as Milton kept examining him.


    "Huh... well. The boy can consider himself the empire''s luckiest man. At least for tonight." He sighed as he leant back.


    "He''s fine. Nothing but a couple of bruises. There''s nought I can do about the shock, though."


    Milton stood up and looked at the woman.


    Something about her seems... off. She made such a commotion bringing him in, but there''s not a shred of genuine concern in those eyes. I''ll need to keep an eye on her tonight.


    "What''s your name, woman? I should know at least that if I''m to properly thank you for saving this weasel''s life."


    She stared up at him for a moment, as if contemplating whether to tell the truth. Finally, she smiled and answered.


    "Morrigan."


    She stuck out her hand and waited for him to shake it. Milton followed her lead, giving a cautious stare as he did so.


    "Just Morrigan? No surname?"


    "Just Morrigan."


    "Hmph, okay. Well met, Miss Morrigan. I''m Milton."


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    The pair held eye contact for a moment amid an awkward silence. Then, Milton slapped a hand against his thigh and stood up.


    "Right, I better get the boy to his room so he can rest. We have an early start tomorrow, you see. Perhaps you might encourage the rabble to be cautious this evening. No more wandering about in the dark, especially not alone."


    "Indulge me for a moment longer, Sir Milton."


    Morrigan gently placed a hand on Milton''s chest plate as he tried to move past her. Flustered, he stopped and took a step back.


    "I heard your men discussing this journey of yours. Where might you be headed that needs such an early departure?"


    "That''s not something I can disclose, certainly not to a stranger. If you''ll excuse me, Miss Morrigan, I really must be going," Milton said as he made another attempt to push past her.


    Morrigan grabbed him again, this time with surprising strength, then stared deep into his eyes.


    As soon as their eyes met, Milton felt time seem to slow immeasurably. He could not pull away.


    No, was it that he could not, or that he simply did not want to?


    She reached up and grabbed him by the chin, her deep blue eyes never breaking contact.


    "Tell me your destination."


    Milton felt a wave of compulsion wash over him. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced; he felt like a prisoner sequestered in some secluded, far-off corner of his own mind - forced to watch as he betrayed himself.


    He tried to resist, to put up a fight against the powerful waves that rolled around the inside of his skull. Finally, he gave in.


    "The Borderlands."


    "Tell me why."


    Milton pursed his lips, grunts of pain escaping as he tried his hardest to keep the information in. Morrigan simply refocused her gaze into his eyes; that was all it took for him to crumble again.


    "Ranger Group. Those boys with me are to be sworn into service there."


    "Hah! Them? That''s a death sentence. Not a single one is above D tier; they won''t last more than a week."


    Milton stayed silent. He wanted to push her away, to shout and fight her off as she kept caressing his face and gently bringing his eyes back to hers. But he couldn''t; he could not even make a sound now unless she permitted it.


    "Who are you, Milton? Tell me honestly now. A man of your strength is not the typical choice for escorting meat to the slaughterhouses."


    "My name truly is Milton. I am the captain of House Beaumont''s ducal guard..."


    Morrigan''s eyes widened as he went on; she truly had not expected that answer.


    "Of the House Beaumont? Go on..."


    "My men and I are escorting the son of the duke. Well, he''s the duke''s son by blood only. The boy was disowned and ordered to the Ranger Group."


    Her eyes widened with every new piece of information that spilled out of Milton''s mouth. He watched from that small corner of his mind, considering just how badly he would be punished when it came out that he had disclosed their orders to a complete stranger, let alone one with unheard-of abilities.


    "And where is this ''boy''?"


    Milton''s eyes flicked down toward where Art still lay unconscious.


    "Oh? What a pleasant surprise. I can see it now, he''s the spitting image of his father, still handsome even covered in dirt."


    She smiled and leant down to get a closer look at Art, then spoke again.


    "Leave now, Captain Milton. When you step out of this room, you will remember only that I showed great concern for your little lord."


    He moved toward the door, sweat beading on his brow as he panicked at his complete lack of control. If she could simply order him to forget, what else could she get away with?


    "Oh Milton, one more thing. You will wait for me tomorrow morning. In fact, you will be... ecstatic to see me, and I will ride in the wagon with, what was his name?"


    She nodded down at the man laying in front of her.


    "Arten."


    "Yes, me and Art will need our own wagon, I think. Go on now, Milton."

 Chapter 7 - The Emperor

    The capital city of the empire, Adaridge, stood as a testament to the might and grandeur of Emperor Cormac Llywelyn the Third. Situated in the rough center of the empire, Adaridge boasted river access that stretched from the city''s heart all the way to the coast, bringing wealth from all corners of the land.


    This wealth was mirrored in the city''s immense size and intricate design. Monstrous towers of stone, metal, and glass pierced the sky, densely packed together within the basin of hilly terrain. This compact living was home to the city''s poorest residents.


    Sky bridges connected many of these towers, which were adorned with neon mana crystals and lush green flora. The close-knit architecture was further interconnected by a weave of slim alleyways, almost all of which were adorned with small businesses run out of stalls or hole-in-the-wall spots.


    As Adaridge extended beyond the mouth of the valley, its tremendous towers gave way to hillside villas that wrapped around the shores of a pristine lake, climbing up the terrain like poison ivy.


    The emperor''s palace sat opposite this breathtaking scenery, secluded on its own side of the lake and surrounded by verdant private gardens cascading over the varied landscape. The palace, constructed primarily of stone and steel with occasional enormous glass panoramas, stood as an architectural marvel.


    At the foot of the castle lay a private dock, its marvelous craftsmanship encroaching onto the water, symbolizing the seamless blend of natural beauty and human ingenuity that defined Adaridge.


    Inside the palace, the grand hall echoed with the announcement, "Enter! Enter and behold your ruler, the glorious Emperor Cormac Llywelyn the Third!"


    The emperor nestled himself deep into his throne, overlooking the grand hall that lay before him. He had long given up on trying to shirk these current meetings regarding the troubles of his empire.


    Instead, he resigned himself to sitting through them, having nearly perfected the art of zoning out completely. Every day he was met with more and more issues, complaints, and such.


    The most recent of which were the rumors of trouble brewing in The Borderlands.


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    "Your Grace, I bring another message from the border guard. Captain Lonemoon has described it as... sensitive. Perhaps it would serve best to clear the room?" Roderick Trapp knelt as he announced the message, ever the reverent servant.


    The Emperor sighed and waved a hand toward the rest of his lingering court. Murmurs rose among disgruntled nobility, whispers and comments from those who believed themselves important enough to hear this valuable secret, yet would never speak such beliefs to their ruler.


    "Are you deaf? Or simply insolent? Out, you fools! Before I have my men drag you."


    The sound of shuffling footsteps rose up as they filtered out of the room.


    "Speak, Roderick. What exaggerations do you bring me today, my master of spies? No doubt Lonemoon has another contrived excuse to beg for coin and men. The man overreaches - "


    He sighed again and rolled his eyes, spitting the words with a heavy tinge of annoyance.


    " - merely six years into his role and he throws every petty issue back to his Emperor. Well, go on then, tell me!"


    "Captain Lonemoon has described the situation in the northeast as... escalating - " Roderick said.


    " - He claims his men are under near constant threat now, that the magical beasts usually present are growing ever stronger, some are even reaching A rank. Might I add, Your Grace, that is unheard of. Not since the Age of Darian, some four hundred years past."


    "Oh please, Roderick. He must think me a fool! And you an even bigger one, no doubt he knew you would jump at his lies. He will receive no assistance, as always."


    Cormac slumped back down into his throne. The weight of his boresome days pressed down on his shoulders once again.


    "Your Grace, there is much to be gained from believing him, and very little to be lost. He is nothing if not persistent, you must reconsider."


    Hints of exasperation seeped into his voice as Roderick spoke, clearly tired of his Emperor''s stubborn streak.


    "Silence, Roderick. You will not respond to this farce of a request, and I am certainly not going to send that bastard any assistance. Not even a copper piece. Do you hear me?"


    "..."


    "Well?" Cormac shouted down from his throne.


    "Understood, Your Grace. Pardon me."


    Roderick backed up half the length of the grandiose hall, then spun on his heel and moved to the exit.


    Just as he reached the ornate wooden doors, they burst open with a bang. The first princess of the empire, Lyla Llywelyn, stormed into the hall and pushed him out of her way.


    The emperor sat upright, his attention suddenly drawn back by her presence.


    "My dear, you know I am always so happy to see you, but now is simply not the ti-"


    She cut him off, shouting up at him as she stormed forward.


    "You allowed Duke Beaumont to disown Art? Not once in gods know how many years has a noble done such a thing and you let him dare to do it without even consulting you! Explain."

 Chapter 8 - The Princess

    Lyla Llywelyn, Princess of the Adarian Empire, shared much of her appearance with her father, Cormac. The imperial line was a mostly unbroken procession of golden-skinned, chestnut-haired individuals with dark brown eyes, and she was no exception.


    The imperial bloodline originated from the city of Dunmarra in the deep south, a tropical climate dominated by humid weather and harsh heat. The story of their migration and rise to power had been blurred and mangled over the hundreds of years since its occurrence. However, their origin remained clear to any who could see them.


    The princess stood before her father with her arms folded over her chest. Her small stature combined with her near-flawless appearance often made it difficult to appear intimidating, though she tried nonetheless.


    "Explain, Father."


    "The boy was simply causing his father too much trouble! Something you ought to bear in mind should you decide to keep behaving as you are..." he grumbled.


    "... and don''t forget that Duke Beaumont has shown utmost loyalty to the imperial house! His Ravensguard are among the most feared fighters on the continent, and yet he orders them to train our men, asking nothing in return! If I allow any man to break tradition, it is him."


    Lyla gawked at her father, struck with disbelief.


    "That''s it? All it takes to buy the emperor''s favour is a gesture or two? You cannot be serious."


    "Oh, silence, child, please."


    Lines began to appear across the emperor''s forehead as he grew exasperated with his daughter.


    "Once again, you fail to realise that it is simply bigger than you. Look past your history with the boy, for once. Do you not recall how he embarrassed us with his incessant rule-breaking, or his constant disregard and shirking of duty? Gods, Lyla, you still champion him even after what he did to you!"


    She stared at her father, appearing a little less confrontational now.


    "Have you nothing to say?"


    "..."


    "I thought so."


    Lyla stood before him, suddenly feeling incomparably small. She did not challenge her father often, especially not as she had just done.


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    Realisation started to kick in as she thought about how she would pay for this affront. That was the way her father, the emperor, chose to conduct his rule.


    He would often appear tolerant, allowing himself to be publicly criticised and seem the concerned ruler. Yet, behind closed doors, he would make every effort to ensure the misery of whoever dared to openly oppose him.


    There had once been a teacher of hers, a favourite instructor in the art of swordsmanship, Master Donn Corvus. He had been personally selected by her father and pulled from the empire''s intelligence directive, Ord na Folaithe.


    Not much was known about Corvus. He was twenty-four when the emperor chose him, only four years older than Lyla at the time. Their relationship quickly progressed beyond master and student. Both of them had been lonely in their own unique ways; as such, they found some relief in each other''s passion and company.


    Soon after, Cormac had brought the young instructor before Lyla, bound and gagged, then forced her to watch as he was brutally lashed.


    This was her punishment for resisting him.


    Cormac smiled at his daughter. His demeanour held a slight hint of anger, though he concealed it well.


    "My dear, I do hate it when you''re so unhappy with me. You know, I only do what I believe is best for you. You understand, don''t you?"


    She was ready to snap at him, to shout again and do her worst, then images of Corvus flashed through her mind. She thought of him on his knees, staring at her in silence as he bled.


    Her mind could not handle another punishment from her father.


    "Yes, Father. I do."


    "Wonderful."


    He flashed a wide, false smile.


    "Go now. Off with you, you are to resume your combat tutoring this afternoon, no? I expect you to raise your skill to the next rank by the year''s end."


    "Yes, Father."


    She replied in a meek voice before backing out of the room.


    Unbeknownst to her, far away in the northeast of the Adarian Empire, Art was well into his journey toward the Borderlands.


    Cormac, in a moment of what he often deemed to be great wisdom, had ordered Duke Beaumont to send advanced notice to the captain of the border that Art was to be sent there.


    He simply could not risk the boy running from his punishment and disappearing into the wild and unpredictable lands of the northern half of the empire. That would be a severe cog in the works of his plan.


    When the Duke had proposed such a thing to Cormac, he had done so with utmost reverence. It was as if he knew his request was so outlandish, so far beyond the customs of the empire that he must grovel with his ruler for permission.


    Of course, the emperor had feigned shock and disgust at such an idea, allowing him to make his case, then slowly coming around to the idea.


    Jorin had left that meeting believing that their agreement would remain a secret, a skeleton in the closet to never be spoken of again.


    Sure, it was possible for Art to shout and scream that he was a Beaumont, to beg for an audience with any who would listen. But the Adarian Empire was large, unfathomably large.


    Outside of the city of Grenforth, barely anyone had ever seen the faces of the Beaumonts. So, Jorin had believed his son would spend the remainder of his pitiful life begging to be believed, to be sent home.


    But Cormac had other plans. Jorin had set a precedent with his outlandish request.


    For one of the highest-ranked nobles to come before him, kneel and ask for permission to strip his son of everything.


    Jorin had set a precedent....

 Chapter 9 - Morrigan

    Art leaned against the low fence that surrounded the Black Bear Inn''s frontage, picking the dirt out from under his nails.


    His head was still throbbing from last night; he vaguely recalled a hooded woman coming to his rescue, then being dragged inside the inn to safety.


    Footsteps crunching on the ground drew his attention upwards. It was one of the other three surviving men from the travelling cohort.


    Art stared at him for a moment, realising he had no idea who this man was. They had spent days upon days together in that cramped, dirty wagon, chattering amongst themselves while Art simply wallowed in his self-pity.


    "Alright, lad? You had a nasty one last night, didn''t you? Heard it was a Cane Wolf that got Bronn, a big ''un at that. Marcus, by the way." He tapped himself on the chest.


    He spoke with a lazy, guttural accent. It was obvious that he had come from the poorest regions outside of Grenforth, his father¡¯s city.


    "..."


    "¡¯Ello? Anyone in there? Wolf must¡¯ve rung your bell real bad, aye?" The man let out a hearty laugh.


    "Sorry?" Art looked at him blankly.


    "The attack, last night."


    "I don''t really remember much; the whole thing was a blur. There was a woman though. I think she brought me inside."


    "Aye, a real proper lady, that one. Had half the common room dancing to her tune when she brought you in, calling for this and that. Lads are saying she saved your arse."


    Marcus gave a grave nod with that final comment, his tone suddenly serious.


    "What happened after she saved me? Did she just leave?"


    "You''ll want to be thanking her, I suppose? You can do it yourself; she''s headed over." He gestured behind Art to the door of the inn. Milton was standing by it, greeting the woman _very_ enthusiastically.


    Art caught their conversation as they drew closer...


    "...and of course, I thought it best to arrange a secondary carriage for you. We simply could not have you travelling with that group of filth." Milton made a wide gesture towards the transport he had arranged for her.


    It was a simple, plain sort of affair; another carriage of dark wood and sturdy construction. However, it was clear that he had ordered some poor soul to spend their night elevating it to a suitable condition. At least, what could be considered suitable in a place as secluded and wild as this.


    "It''s wonderful, Captain. I dread to think how much this cost you. You bought it from the innkeeper, no doubt?" She smiled up at him.


    Art kept listening as the woman smiled up at the captain. He seemed to be entranced by her eyes, his attention locked onto her in an almost _unnatural_ manner. He hung on to every word she said, his body language restless and... nervous?


    ¡®No,¡¯ he thought, ¡®that can''t be right, it''s too out of character for him.¡¯


    He turned to his left, ready to make a comment about Milton''s strange behaviour to Marcus, when he saw that the poor bastard had the exact same look on his face.


    If anything, it was even more severe than the captain''s.


    ¡®What the fuck...¡¯


    Art took another glance around him at the few men who were gathered around waiting for the order to move out and continue their journey. It was the same for everyone. Every single man held the same entranced look on his face, his body language reminiscent of some drunkard or fool.


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    ¡®What''s the matter with these fools? Surely they''re not _that_ starved for female attention...? Right?¡¯


    Suddenly, a feeling of cold dread washed over him. Something was wrong. He could not say exactly what, but it was clear to him that every man in the group was plagued with some kind of trance...


    And it seemed to be coming from the woman.


    <hr>


    The carriage swayed and groaned as the cohort pressed on through the uneven forest tracks. Its musty interior was dark and dingy, cut off from sunlight at the request of the mysterious woman who had joined their travelling party that morning.


    Inside the carriage, Art sat opposite the woman, his body rigid and tense. He was doing his best to appear entranced like all the other men in his group.


    She leaned against the wooden backboard with one leg propped up on the seat. Her casual, laid-back stance was in stark contrast to his.


    "Are you not going to thank me for last night?" She smirked at him.


    "..."


    "Well?"


    Her tone immediately became impatient as her face twisted into irritation.


    "... Thank you."


    "That''s much better," she said as the anger immediately vanished, replaced by a sweet smile.


    A mischievous look flashed across her face for a moment before disappearing.


    "I don''t think I ever introduced myself, did I?"


    "..."


    "Answer me."


    "No, no, you did not."


    Art tried his best to appear dazed, not to show any signs of difference from the other men. A bead of sweat began forming on his brow.


    "Well," she flashed another one of those fake, sweet smiles, "Call me Morrigan."


    She looked him up and down for a little while, eyeing his features and taking them all in. For a moment, something deeper flashed across her face. It seemed weird to Art, as if it was completely foreign to her. As if she was feeling the one emotion she could not fake, though he could not tell what it was.


    Suddenly, she lunged from her seat and pressed her face right up to his. Her hands were planted firmly either side of him on his seat, forcing him to stare straight at her.


    "Strange... You really do look just like him," she said as she delicately traced the contours of his face with a sharp fingernail.


    Art struggled against the urge to shove her off. He wanted to push her away and scream at her to leave him alone, but he could tell she would be furious. Every fibre of his being was brimming with discomfort and panic because of her.


    The way that she moved, the way she spoke, and the way that her face flashed between emotions so rapidly...


    It sent alarm bells ringing in his head too loud to ignore; it ran shivers down his spine that he felt in the very tips of his extremities.


    Everything about her told him that he should run, that he should hide somewhere dark and hope she could never find him. Yet, for some foreign reason, a voice in the back of his head constantly whispered to obey her, to heed her and do whatever he must for her pleasure.


    ¡®It has to be one of her skills, but what is it?¡¯ he thought.


    His mind raced through all the possibilities as he chided himself for not paying enough attention to the castle Meisters. If he could figure out the skill, maybe he could remember the method to counter it.


    ¡®No, even if I could figure it out it would be useless; she must be at least two ranks above me.¡¯


    The sound of her soft voice began to lull his focus away.


    Struggling, he pulled himself back to reality. She had pulled even closer now, close enough to feel her warm breath on his neck, causing goosebumps all over his body.


    Art glanced sideways at her face; she was focused entirely on his neck now.


    She slowly opened her mouth and ran her tongue across her top row of teeth. Her canines began to tear further out of her gums at a crawling pace.


    He watched on as they grew, his face twisting in horror and panic at the long, razor-sharp fangs that had formed in her mouth.


    Finally, the panic became too much.


    His eyes wide in fear, Art jerked back in his seat and booted her in the chest with what little force he could muster, then scrambled towards the rear door of the carriage.


    Morrigan crashed into the back wall, stunned momentarily. He should not have been able to even come close to overpowering her, yet she had let her guard down after convincing herself that he was harmless.


    His fingers fumbled against the latch, frantically trying to unfasten it and put some distance between the two of them.


    She jerked herself upright and lunged for him again.


    Just as they were about to collide, Art finally managed to free the latch and rolled out onto the ground behind the carriage. He desperately scrambled to find his footing, his boots failing to catch any grip on the hard frosted ground.


    He kept moving away; he no longer cared for whatever Milton could do to him, there was no threat he could have made to get him back into that carriage.


    Bright sunlight pierced through the forest canopy and onto the hard ground below. Art could hear what sounded like pained screams as he finally managed to get up and run.


    A few desperate strides later, he dared to look back, and the sight that met his eyes made his blood run cold.

 Chapter 10 - Into the Woods

    Harsh winds whipped through the densely packed forest, rustling the underbrush and howling through the terrain. Monstrous thunder cracks echoed overhead accompanied by blinding flashes of lightning.


    Rain pummelled the forest canopy mercilessly, its power occasionally creating gaps for dim slats of moonlight to burst through onto the sodden ground.


    Night had fallen. It had fallen quite some time ago. The days had grown shorter as the caravan quietly travelled toward its destination, rolling onward to bring fresh meat for the Rangers.


    At least it had been quiet until chaos broke loose. Most of it remained a blur to Art, everything happened so fast that didn¡¯t have a chance to think until his legs had carried him far, far into the wilderness.


    He was stationary now. Tucked into a small cave in one of the forest''s many odd nooks, he was finally still.


    The wet and the cold had soaked through his clothes hours ago, the storm had only begun just before darkness fell, and yet it took no less than a minute for him to be thoroughly drenched.


    Art huddled himself up against the back wall of his pitiful shelter, tucked his knees to his chest and made his best effort to conserve some heat.


    Weighed down by self-pity, he did something that he had not done in a very long time¡­


    Drawing a deep breath, he held out a hand in front of him, palm facing upward toward the cave roof, and summoned his runes.


    A swirl of luminescent mist began to materialise as he squeezed his eyes in concentration. It seemed to pull itself from nothingness, wrapping around his wrist and twirling through his fingertips.


    The eery tendrils slowly moved back down from his fingers, they twisted and wound themselves into the skin on his forearm. Finally stationary, the mist settled and seeped in. It was an arduous process, painful too.


    This was something Art had done only a handful of times throughout his adult life. Much to the anger of his father and the many tutors he had paid for, Art had been a near-complete failure at all things magical.


    Even something as simple as the rune summoning was an arduous and drawn-out process for him. There was a simple reason for that though. Every time a person summoned their runes, the process would become a little easier and a little less painful.


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    However, the initial difficulty of the summoning was determined by that person''s magical ability. This was not usually a problem as practically every person in the empire had a moderate ability level, even when untrained.


    That was where Art failed. He had almost zero innate magical ability and as such, had never bothered to push himself in practising even the simplest procedure of rune summoning.


    So he remained stagnant. Perpetually stuck on an island of self-pity, he had watched for years as the currents had flowed around him and carried those who were once his peers far off into the distance.


    He watched in desperation as the runes flickered in and out of existence and the pathetic misty strands struggled to materialise themselves further.


    Finally, they flickered out.


    He caught his head in his still-shaking hands and let out a sob.


    Fuck. I¡¯m going to die here. I am actually going to die, aren¡¯t I?


    The realisation came slowly at first, it had crept up on him as he ran through the forest with his life on the line. Escape had seemed plausible then, yet when stillness came, so did thought.


    It worsened with every extra moment he spent in that cave. Fear seeped in behind the thought¡­


    Where was the woman from the carriage? She must be pursuing him into the night, surely? Daylight had burned her, peeled her skin and sent her screaming back into the cover of the carriage. But daylight was gone, what if she could move just fine in the nighttime?


    Recollections of being trapped in that carriage surfaced, pinned against the wall by her with no way out.


    He thought of her teeth, how they had pierced through her gums so painfully slowly and grown into two jagged, horrible thorns. He remembered how they split the flesh in her mouth and dripped with her blood, yet she seemed so unfazed by the pain it should have caused her.


    The feeling of her breath on his neck, having nowhere to go and no one to help. In that moment Art realised just how helpless he truly was without the power of the Beaumont family behind him.


    There was no one coming to save him.


    He lifted his head and stared out of his hideaway into the moonlit forest.


    I¡­ I should be dead. Maybe I already am.


    An ear-splitting scream broke the silence of nighttime, indecipherable shouts echoed out in the distance. Art had never heard a man in the throes of death before, but the noise was unmistakable.


    Someone out there had been thrust into indescribable pain, then had their life snuffed out in but a moment more.


    Perhaps Morrigan had tired of her bewitched soldiers, or whatever spell she had put on them had started to wear off?


    Maybe she had simply chosen another throat to tear out while she hunted him down.


    Fear immediately coursed through him again. His muscles, underused from years of nothing but whoring and drinking were forced into action through nothing but adrenaline.


    He scrambled to his feet and started to stumble, then ran farther into the night. He wanted to run as far away from those hair-raising screams as possible.


    Art had never particularly had a reason to live, nor had he wanted to.


    Even now, there was no desire to be alive. Only the fear of dying.

 Chapter 11 - Hunted

    Chapter 11 ¨C Hunted


    The sound of heavy, panicked footfall made dull thuds on the forest floor. Thin foliage snapped and cracked under the barrage, roots and stumps caught on boot soles, echoing small rubbery snaps into the thin night air.


    The brush seemed to have grown thicker as Art ran. He was well and truly lost now. That was no longer something to be feared, it was an issue to be dealt with should he survive his real problem. He no longer wanted to be found.


    There was no soul in those woods who knew of him that would let him leave alive.


    Question after question ran through his head as he ran himself beyond exhaustion.


    Why was Morrigan so determined to end his life? She had saved it barely a week ago, but now she hunted him like an animal.


    Art knew he had to keep running no matter what questions or wild thoughts burst into his mind.


    The shouts and bellows he had first heard after that harrowing scream were still behind him, they grew closer with every minute that passed. Some echoed from either side in response to the others, calling and coordinating with cold voices.


    The fear was still real, more real than ever. There could be no respite for him in the seemingly everlasting nighttime as every breath drew visions of grotesque fangs leering over his neck.


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    His feet continued to thud against the hardened ground. Step after step, until suddenly the ground fell away.


    The near-pitch-black darkness and dim moonlight did an excellent job of obscuring the details of the terrain before him. Combined with a terror-fuelled sprint for his life, the poor visibility had let him cannonball straight into the open mouth of a cavern.


    The crack in the forest floor was settled into the side of a small hill, perhaps three or four meters in height. Art had scrambled over so many of them in the preceding hours that he had paid barely any thought to the subtle shadow where the ground should have been.


    Grunts and moans escaped his lips as he tumbled deep down underground, falling and rolling so far that what little visibility the moonlight offered was soon gone.


    Every thud and smack against the steep slope knocked the wind out of his lungs and left him gasping in mouthfuls of kicked-up sediment and dirt until finally, he settled to a stop at the very bottom.


    Even a moment of rest was too much. Morrigan and her enthralled men were still chasing his trail. They would undoubtedly come right over the spot where he had fallen, though, there was no guarantee that they would notice it. Perhaps they would be so rabid in their pursuit that they would simply breeze right over it.


    No, the risk is still too great. I have to keep moving.


    And so he did.


    Art clambered to his feet, letting out a gasp of pain as he finally noticed the injury had befallen his ankle during the harsh descent.


    He looked up at the slope.


    It was far too steep to climb even in good health, let alone his current state.


    He looked back to the shadowy passage that led deeper into the cavern, then made his choice.


    Gods, please don¡¯t let this be a dead end.

 Chapter 12 - Ancient

    The smell of stagnant water permeated the air of the dark cave passage. Intermittent water drips broke the eerie silence as Art walked further into the unknown.


    Mere minutes had passed since he had tumbled down underground. Now, the darkness amplified the fear he had already felt so intensely. Yet, after running for what seemed like an eternity, the eerie silence of the passage was almost a relief. It felt as though he had run more in the last eight hours than in the rest of his life, as if he had found more desire to survive than ever before.


    The combination of fear and determination was terrifyingly exhilarating.


    Despite the whirlwind of emotion in his mind, he kept going. There was no other option for him but to keep moving forward.


    Soon after, the passage began to widen. Its floor became smoother and less treacherous, as though someone had once taken great care of it. The walls started to smoothen too. Remnants of past footsteps became clearer the further he went. Jagged outcroppings on the walls soon became deeply rusted sconces holding the rotted stems of ancient torches, their flames long extinguished.


    Art ran his fingertips along the surfaces beside him as he walked. The stonework felt as though it had been done in haste. The finish was clearly man-made at this point, yet it did not have the same exquisite smoothness found on the walls of his father¡¯s castle.


    What exactly have I found? These lands are too harsh for life. Hells, I don¡¯t even know where I truly am.


    More questions flooded into his mind as bewilderment and curiosity pushed the fear to a quieter corner of his thoughts.


    Who had carved the passage? How long had it been since other boots had walked where he walked now?


    The thick spiderwebs and rotten torches gave hints to the great age of what he had stumbled upon. It had to have been here before his birth, perhaps even much longer. How long would it take before the signs of years passed became indecipherable?


    The thought excited him so much that he did not notice the enormous cavern it had opened out to until he nearly walked off one of its many sheer drops.


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    A tremendous space had opened up before him. Shafts of moonlight penetrated the hazy view, creeping in through man-made ports in the rocky ceiling. They cast soft beams across the cave, bouncing and reflecting off streams and pools of water.


    Art scanned the vast expanse with as much scrutiny as possible. His eyes had adjusted to the eerie lighting quickly after being in the near pitch-black tunnel for so long.


    Far into the distance, he could see something carved into the opposing wall of the cave. It was some form of entrance with towering pillars set into the rockface.


    A temple, perhaps? Strange.


    Thoughts of all the stories his mother used to tell him ran through his head. She had never mentioned any tales about temples hidden deep underground in these remote regions. In fact, she had never mentioned much of anything about these strange lands at all, and her knowledge of the empire had always seemed boundless.


    He replayed those memories over and over as he scrambled down the heavily eroded staircase carved from the passageway, then made his way across the uneven path toward the mysterious structure.


    Finally, he was close enough to see clearly. As he stood before the vast pillars, looking into the shadowy interior, his eyes ran over the strange stonework surrounding him.


    Figures of men and women were carved into the walls with painstaking detail, all of them draped in revealing layers of cloth. Some wore bodices or intricate bralettes with shoulder straps slipping down, while others were simply wrapped in what looked like bedsheets. The stonework was so well done that the fabrics even looked soft to the touch.


    Every carving was directed toward the shadowy temple entrance, enticing the discoverer to venture deeper with their outstretched arms and pointed fingers. The entire structure screamed allure and mystery.


    Art cast a glance behind him, back towards the passageway that had brought him to this strange place. The mystery and awe had briefly taken his mind away from the fact that he was being relentlessly pursued.


    She won¡¯t give up just because my trail went cold.


    He thought about what he would do if their places were switched. Morrigan wanted him dead, or worse, she wanted to control him. Why? He had no idea, but that didn¡¯t matter. At least, not right now.


    She¡¯ll backtrack until they can pick up the trail again. No doubt she¡¯ll figure it out and come down here after me.


    The thought made him shudder. He had felt a slight reprieve in the near pitch-black darkness, but it had only been a false relief. She was coming for him¡ªperhaps she would burst out of the passageway any second now...


    He turned back to the shadowy entrance of the temple, eyeing its intricate figurines as they beckoned and gestured for him to explore their secrets.


    I cannot go back, so I must go forward. A place like this must have more than one entrance... I hope. Please let it have more than one.


    Finally, with his mind made up, he turned back towards the temple and stepped into the darkness.

 Chapter 13 - The Temple

    It did not take long for Art¡¯s eyes to readjust to the darkness. Soon, he was able to discern the path ahead, leading him deeper into the temple carved into the rockface.


    He had expected the intricate stonework to diminish as the structure extended into the dense rock. On that assumption, he had been tremendously wrong.


    It had only grown more impressive. Despite his severely limited vision, the grand features of the hallways and ceilings were still apparent enough to astonish him.


    He could make out statues perched atop lintels high above, their silent, unchanging gestures guiding him forward. More outstretched arms and sultry poses lured him deeper, their allure both captivating and unnerving.


    Time seemed to dissolve as he ventured further into the temple until, at last, he arrived at an antechamber.


    The cold stone floor sloped away from him, revealing a vast space beyond. Art¡¯s eyes, now fully adjusted to the dimness, allowed him to discern much more detail.


    High archways stretched across the ceiling of the enormous rectangular chamber, supported by thick pillars adorned with elaborate engravings. Between each pillar sat great fireplaces, their wide hearths spilling onto the stone floor.


    Art imagined how the room might have once looked¡ªfilled with worshippers devoted to some strange deity, the fires roaring and casting a blazing orange glow that danced across the vast space.


    As his feet carried him further in, his gaze fell upon a single, magnificent statue.


    At the far end of the chamber, elevated on a platform of murky black marble, lay the tremendous figure of a woman.


    Art stopped, positioning himself at just the right distance to take her in fully.


    She was nearly eight feet long, sprawled across a stone chaise carved with such mastery that its surface seemed as though it would yield like plush cushions to a touch. Her left arm draped lazily over the end of the chaise, pointing absently into the distance. Her right hand rested over her face, obscuring all but a single eye and a sharply defined brow.


    So little of her face was visible, yet Art felt certain she was beautiful.


    And still, that was not what intrigued him most.


    Two gigantic wings unfurled from her back. At first glance, they appeared leathery, yet closer inspection revealed an impossible smoothness, as though they might feel like silk to the touch. Each wing ended in a razor-sharp tip.


    Art stared, rendered thoughtless by her presence. Of all the artistry he had encountered in this place, this single statue was the most exquisite.


    He lingered, gazing into her solitary, exposed eye. Its uncanny realism unsettled him, and finally, he broke the silence.


    ¡°What are you? An angel?¡±


    Silence.


    <em style="border: 0 solid rgba(227, 227, 227, 1); box-sizing: border-box">Gods, look at me. Talking to a bloody statue. As if I couldn¡¯t be any more unhinged. Right¡ªan exit. That¡¯s why I came here in the first place. At least give me a way out.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    His eyes darted around the room, seeking an exit. When he realised the only way out was the path he had entered, his heart began to race. With a resigned sigh, he sat on the marble platform, his back to the statue and his gaze fixed on the doorway.


    Morrigan could arrive at any moment. He had known that when he entered. She wouldn¡¯t chase shadows forever; eventually, she would double back, find the passage, then the cave, and finally, the temple.


    Right on cue, footsteps echoed from the darkened doorway before she emerged.


    ¡°Gods, I was beginning to think you might actually survive!¡± she quipped, her tone cheerful as she strode into the hall.


    Art stared at her, utterly speechless.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± she continued, ¡°once I pictured your father opening a box and your pretty little head rolling out... oh! I wanted you even more!¡±


    She stopped a mere few metres away, tilting her head as she raised her curved blade toward him.


    ¡°What? No more running? Giving up already?¡±


    He took a deep breath. ¡°I¡¯ve nowhere left to run.¡±


    Seated on the cold stone, Art looked up at her. He might have appeared imposing in another life¡ªa lone figure perched before an awe-inspiring sculpture, as if it were a throne. But his utter lack of combat ability betrayed him.


    His heart pounded as Morrigan resumed her advance. Fear and adrenaline sharpened his senses¡ªthe dim room grew brighter, her footsteps louder, the glint of her blade more dazzling.


    Her coattails, muddied from the chase through the forest, scraped against the stone floor. Art¡¯s attention narrowed to her every movement.


    Then, she was upon him. Barely a foot away, yet she didn¡¯t strike. Instead, she leaned closer. Memories of their encounter in the carriage rushed back to him¡ªher grotesque jaw unhinging, widening impossibly, revealing salivating fangs.


    She wanted to finish what she¡¯d started.


    Stories of brave warriors¡¯ deaths filled his mind. His father had always described them as fearless in the face of doom, but that seemed absurd.


    <em style="border: 0 solid rgba(227, 227, 227, 1); box-sizing: border-box">How could anyone not be afraid? There¡¯s too much left to do.


    The realisation hit him with crushing weight.


    <em style="border: 0 solid rgba(227, 227, 227, 1); box-sizing: border-box">This is how I die.


    The conclusion burned through him¡ªa life, albeit brief, lived improperly.


    <em style="border: 0 solid rgba(227, 227, 227, 1); box-sizing: border-box">Please, don¡¯t let this be how I die.


    Her warm breath ghosted against his neck, unbearable now. He flinched as her fangs grazed his skin, twisting his head left in a desperate attempt to prolong his life.


    His eyes, seeking escape from her visage, caught something they should not have. Inches away, descending toward his left shoulder, was a downturned stone hand.

 Chapter 14 - I Beg You

    There was no mistaking it, the statue had moved.


    Somehow, the gargantuan thing had extended a hand to him. Time moved slowly as the realisation set in, or perhaps it was that his mind moved much faster. Either way, his mind struggled with a hundred different explanations for how it was possible.


    The idea of a statue moving should have inspired fear in any rational man. But at that moment, Art was the furthest thing from rational. Instead, the implication that he was not entirely alone in the dark hall reignited some faint hope for salvation.


    As milliseconds slowly crept by, the urge to grasp that cold, stone hand washed over him. It became stronger and stronger¡ªan unexplainable desire to be rescued by the fingertips of the unknown deity of these halls.


    He thought, albeit briefly, that he must be truly insane now to think such a thing could save him.


    Until he heard her voice in his head.


    Reach for me. Take my hand if you desire life.


    The words echoed around his mind, gently brushing aside all other thoughts and emotions. Her voice was not what he had imagined when he first laid eyes on her. He had envisioned the soft, quiet tone of a woman so adored as to be enshrined in stone. Yet it was cold and powerful, commanding and alluring. Hers was the voice that could remove all objection and tame the wildest of hearts.


    Art fought against the sensation of her words eating into his brain. It felt wrong to be so overwhelmed by just a voice, yet he wanted to give in. Finally, he wrestled a coherent thought out of the mess.


    There must be a cost, right? What will you take from me?


    Her response came immediately, though she spoke reassuringly now.


    I take only what you can give. Reach for me, stranger. Time does not happily obey, and you have run out.


    Excruciating pain tore through his neck as Morrigan''s fangs finally pierced his flesh. Pure heat radiated from the wound as she began to drink his life away. Finally, as panic set in, he flailed a hand out towards the statue.


    They made contact, and for a moment, nothing changed. Panic set in. Then it hit him.


    The world went black for a moment, then came the pain. More pain, deep within his chest and radiating across every inch of his skin, the kind of pain that grows with every second. He felt as though he was being pulled in a thousand directions all at once, flung through infinite empty space at imperceptible speed.


    Then, suddenly, his vision was bright again. His body rolled and crashed against a rough, uneven surface. Whatever had happened to him, however he had been moved through space, it caused an ear-splitting crack that echoed out through his surroundings. The noise was deafening, bordering on painful.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    He lay still for a minute, then rolled over onto his side and heaved onto the ground. His body desperately wanted to vomit, but it could find nothing left in his stomach to bring up. Instead, he dry retched onto the hard earth, his eyes welling up with tears as he did so.


    Finally, the retching stopped, and the sensation began returning to his legs. Art struggled to his feet and looked around him.


    Oh... Oh no. Oh gods no.


    He looked around him again, only this time he scrutinised his surroundings harder.


    As the disorienting sensation of the warp faded, Art found himself in a mountainside clearing, standing on the precipice of a breathtaking landscape. The borderlands stretched out before him, a vast expanse of rolling mountains draped in a cloak of ancient forests. Towering trees, their trunks gnarled and twisted by centuries of untamed growth, reached skyward like the fingers of forgotten giants. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, mingling with an undercurrent of pure freshness¡ªthe kind that can only come from a place untouched by civilisation.


    The landscape felt alive. Shadows danced between the trees, taunting his vision with pockets of the unknown, hinting at the presence of beings that defied human understanding.


    He thought back to tales of a mysterious place his mother had whispered to him. Tucked under warm furs as a child, basking in the dim glow of candles, he had let her breathe wonders into his dreams with her stories of the borderlands. She spoke of it as a wondrous land, untouched by the greed and malice of men.


    As he looked out from his position, he understood the truth of her words. It truly was captivating. Though her stories had not been entirely peaceful, he could sense that side of the truth, too.


    ''It is a place of peril,'' she used to say, ''One should never be fooled by the beauty of the borderlands; there is a reason they remain unconquered.''


    Finally, he let himself breathe deeply. The realisation of where he had been sent had sunk in.


    It was clear that whatever that statue... No, that thing was, it had a twisted sense of humour.


    Gods, this has to be some kind of a fucking joke. Of all the places to send me, it just had to be the borderlands.


    In the space of just a few days, he had gone from being escorted to the borderlands by his father''s loyal dog, to running for his life from some horrendous blood-sucking creature, escaping by the mercy of some semi-living statue, only to end up in the exact place his father had condemned him to initially.


    In fact, he thought, this was considerably worse than what Jorin had planned for him. If his father''s plan had gone successfully, Art would have spent his days stuffed up in some dingy fort, being bossed around by a captain with a point to prove, or whatever it was they did up here.


    Now, he was clearly deep beyond the safety of those forts, surrounded by nothing but wilderness and clear skies.


    For the first time ever, he was well and truly alone.


    Oh Gods, when word of my escort not reaching the border gets home, mother will assume the worst. Jorin will probably crack a smile though, that fucking bastard.


    He sighed, his head swivelling around to take in the breathtaking scenery once more. Then, his mind circled back to his mother again. Thoughts of her warnings of this mysterious place rang out in his mind. All of the tales of great beasts and horrible monsters came rushing back.


    A deep sensation of uncertainty washed over him as he considered the implications of those tales...


    How much of it was simply to scare a small child into sleeping? How much of it was true?


    Just as he was allowing himself to spiral into uncertainty and panic, a sharp burning sensation began to emanate from his left forearm. It grew quickly; the staggering pain soon had him on his knees and clutching at his forearm. As the pain kept increasing, Art did his best to hold in a muffled scream.


    His eyes widened in shock as he watched an eerie luminescent mist pull itself from nothingness, except this time, he had not tried to summon it at all...

 Chapter 15 - New Beginning

    The runes swirled and twisted their way into existence, wrapping and twirling between his fingers and around his forearm as they grew more tangible. Each strand of the mist reached its desired position and began to seep into his skin, sinking in deeper and deeper as they formed into legible runes.


    These runes were different, though. Much more pronounced than what Art had always seen from other people when he was younger, while everybody was excitedly showing off how quickly they could bring the mist into existence.


    All of the empire''s citizens had the same method for summoning their runes, and as a result, the runes always appeared in the same style. Once settled into the skin, they took on a bright white inky appearance, then would fade away quickly once the person released their summoning magic.


    Art, however, was now looking down at his arm, covered in deep red runes.


    His eyes widened in panic. Not only was he not in control of... whatever it was that was happening to his body, but he also now had the issue of something no one had ever seen before: red runes.


    Finally, the pain subsided, leaving nothing but the runes behind. Still kneeling in the dirt, Art rubbed over them with his thumb. Nothing changed. Then, he hurriedly tried to perform the dismissal of the summoning magic he had never been able to properly use. Still, nothing changed.


    What the fuck? What is this?


    After examining them for a little while, it became clear that they were not the typical runes you would see when summoning. Not just in their colour, that much was obvious, but in their actual formation, too.


    These were different, vastly so. The runes that everybody else could call upon had served as the foundation for the empire''s standardised writing system. That decision had been made long before Art''s time, yet it had remained that way. Therefore, everyone could read not only their own but each other''s runes too.


    Looking down at his arm, Art could see no resemblance to those common, jagged-looking runes with sharp corners and straight lines.


    Instead, he saw an intricate mass of swirls and delicate patterns. It had an unsettling beauty to it, as if anyone that saw it would know it was out of place, and that something about it was... off, yet they too would be mesmerised.


    The strangest part of all this? He could understand them perfectly. This was some kind of language that he had never seen before, and he considered himself well-educated (despite evading his tutors far too often).


    Looking down at the runes, he started to read...


    [Name - Arthur Beaumont]


    [Rank - E]


    [Skills - Tear, Adoration, Void Seed]


    [Effect - Veil of the Other]


    [Geas - Eternity Awaits]


    What the fuck...


    Art stared down at his arm, eyes wide in shock. Not only were the runes new and foreign, but he actually had something there to read. Before, there had only been pathetic wisps of mist, symbolic of his utter failure to succeed in anything magical beyond confirming his own miserable rank (which was still exactly the same). Yet now he had more, not just a little bit more, but an excessive amount more than he should.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Trawling through his memories, he thought back on what his classmates bragged of. How many skills did they have at their lowest ranks? Two was good for an exceptional student; the wealthiest of the bunch could even have two more on top if their parents had sprung for extortionate tutoring.


    Perhaps they wanted a fire mage for a son, or a healer for a daughter, and simply exercised an option very few could, to just buy their way in.


    Jorin had tried that for Art, too. Though no amount of money ever fixed his total incompetence.


    Still, here he was, well into his twenties and suddenly gaining not one, but three skills.


    Incredible. But... What the hell is a Geas? And an effect? I''ve never even heard of that before...


    As soon as the thought formed, the runes swirled into action once again. The "Geas" title grew rapidly, pushing away the surrounding symbols and making room for a few lines of smaller ones below.


    Art ground his teeth in discomfort at the new sensation; it was akin to thousands of minuscule bugs scurrying around just underneath his skin. Not that he had ever felt such a thing, though that was where his mind went.


    Looking at the new runes, he started reading again...


    [Eternity Awaits]


    [Deep beneath the Earth, buried from sunlight and far from humanity, a deal was made. A life for a life, an escape from death with a price far higher.]


    He sighed at the description. The vagueness was disappointing, but not surprising. What else could he expect from a seemingly divine intervention that granted him such an enormous second chance?


    Ominous, nice. I''ll read into that later, I guess.


    Focusing back onto the other titles one by one, he shifted his attention and tried to replicate what he performed with [Geas].


    [Tear]


    [Should you call for it, the void will answer. Space will tear at your behest.]


    [Adoration]


    [?]


    [Void Seed]


    [Potential is ruled by space. Without space, how much will you grow?]


    He scrunched his face up, trying to make sense of the words on his arm. Whatever granted him these new runes, it seemed, had a penchant for being extremely unhelpful. How had they managed to say something and absolutely nothing at the same time?


    With a shake of his head, he moved on to the final title.


    [Veil of the Other]


    [The realm shudders under the weight of your ability. The supernatural will sense your power when in use, seeing the world darken, hearing the hum of the void.]


    Well, at least that one''s specific.


    Rubbing his eyes in frustration, he tried to piece it all together.


    So I have some kind of power, but these things won''t tell me what it is. That power is supposedly so terrifying that the realm can''t handle it? Whatever that means? And apparently I don''t even get a vague little riddle for Adoration. Fantastic.


    Of course, he was being a little dramatic. Art could discern a thing or two from the descriptions despite their irritating nature.


    For example, [Tear]. If he could tear space, surely he could move it around, or at least do something with it? There was enough of a description for him to guess he had some kind of movement ability. He (sort of) remembered covering spatial abilities in the few lectures he attended, but no textbook had ever mentioned something like this.


    Then came the next problem. If it was indeed a movement skill, how could he actually use it?


    Next, [Void Seed]. So presumably his potential had been increased? The description alluded to it being unlimited, but that should be impossible. No one in living memory had ever been so fortunate. Sure, there were legends of jaw-droppingly powerful warriors that had been passed across generations through countless retellings. But those were stories, this was real.


    The idea should have been exciting, yet that excitement was dwarfed by the certain belief that he would have to pay for this, somehow.


    Finally, [Veil of the Other]. What even counted as a "supernatural being"? Was it magical beasts? No, he thought, they existed as a part of the natural world. They had always been there, existing, causing problems. They were hardly supernatural.


    That meant only one thing. There were other things out there, unknown in their silence, mixed among humanity. Things like Morrigan, whatever she was. The image of her slick fangs and unhinged jaw flashed back through his brain.


    Yet Art knew he could worry about those things later, because it was finally getting dark again.


    This time, out in the vast terrain of the Borderlands, he had little choice but to hide...

 Chapter 16 - Survive

    As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness swept across the Borderlands with an unsettling swiftness. Any man would swear that time moved differently here.


    Art had spent the better part of an hour moving as quickly and quietly as he could through the forest, constantly feeling dwarfed by its sheer enormity.


    The towering, mangled trunks cast long shadows, each one twisting and contorting as the howling wind shunted the canopy high above.


    Sporadic noises burst through the silence, making him jump every time. At first, he thought he would adapt to them, perhaps not flinch at every sound, but he could not.


    His mind raced through the possibilities. None of the creatures he knew made sounds like these.


    Memories surfaced¡ªProfessor Margrave¡¯s Beasts and Beyond class, the lectures he had slept through. None of them had prepared him for this.


    He was definitely regretting his wilful negligence now. However, the thought that all the knowledge in the world would not help him here gnawed at him incessantly.


    Art looked up at the moon for a moment, once again thinking of the stories his mother used to tell him¡ªhow she would run her hands through his hair, twirling it around her fingertips and whisking him away from his nightmares.


    Deep down, he was beginning to understand that the beasts in those stories were not so imaginary after all. Out here in the wilderness, distant from any semblance of advanced society, he wondered how she had been so accurate in her depictions of this place.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    She must have been here before. There''s no other explanation. But people don¡¯t just go to the Borderlands¡ªwhat reason would a duchess have for travelling to the farthest corners of the wild?


    The thoughts continued as he fell into a rhythm of careful, methodical movements, trying his best to remain undetected by whatever he suspected to be out there.


    Tears welled up in his eyes, not just from fear, but from the thought of his mother¡¯s face twisted in grief upon hearing of his demise. No doubt Jorin would relish the news and flaunt it in her face. Just for a moment, he imagined Jorin sneering, whispering in her ear. You¡¯ll give me another.


    Before, I would have said he was not capable of such a thing. But now¡­ I don¡¯t know anymore.


    The tears faded quickly, replaced by something colder. The fear was still there, clawing at his chest, but beneath it, something sharper was taking root. A quiet, creeping certainty.


    Jorin would not win.


    On that night, far from any shred of humanity, Art made himself a promise. His voice was barely a whisper, lost to the wind.


    "I will kill him for this. No matter how long it takes me, I will drive a blade through his heart."


    He stopped moving. The weight of what he had just spoken settled onto his shoulders. The thought should have frightened him, but it did not.


    Once, he might have hesitated. Might have told himself he wasn¡¯t capable of such things. But hesitation had never saved him before.


    The forest pressed in around him, the wind shifting through the canopy like a low, knowing murmur. He stood there for a long moment, listening.


    The wind changed.


    Art stiffened as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Something was moving, no, charging. He didn''t know how he knew, just that it was coming, and that he had barely a second to react.


    He turned just as the trees behind him exploded apart. Something vast surged forward, sleek and dark, pulling the night in around it

 Chapter 17 - Survive (2)

    The treeline exploded with a sickening crack as the creature powered through it, sending splintering wooden shards the size of limbs through the air. The sheer shock of it sent Art tumbling to the ground, letting him narrowly avoid the first strike from the strange beast as he watched it twist through the air above him. It''s fur was the colour of a quiet night, a void that seemed to absorb the moonlight, leaving its true form difficult to discern. It was not just black, but rather, the absence of light. Space seemed to distort around the edges of it, leaving a gaping hole in the fabric of the night itself.


    No doubt, it could have stalked him indefinitely without him realising. The beast''s gaze, those unnervingly bright orbs in the abyss of its fur, held a chilling amusement¡ªhe knew he was seen as easy prey.


    Art scrambled to his feet, never taking his eyes off of his newfound opponent. The magical creature, eerily, did exactly the same.


    It had failed its first strike, now, it had turned into a waiting game.


    His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging him to flee. His legs trembled, ready to bolt, but his mind screamed at him to stay, knowing that a single wrong move could be his last.


    Yet that decision would be fatal. Reason battled a fierce clash with instinct with every passing second that he and the beast circled each other, as he stared into its rich copper eyes.


    Those eyes... They were glowing against the pitch blackness of the night, their light was unnaturally bright, so much so that it disturbed the predatory image cast by its fur. He could not look away from them no matter how badly he desired to. The longer he stared, the more he felt that foreign sensation of bile climbing up his throat.


    His breath hitched in his throat. He couldn''t tear his gaze from those eyes. A cold sweat slicked his palms, and his vision blurred. He was no longer in control; terror had taken over.


    At that moment, Art noticed something.


    The forest was silent.


    It had been silent from the moment he arrived, but this kind of silence was different. The wind stirred the leaves, a visible mockery of the unnatural silence that hung heavy in the air, amplifying the feeling that they were utterly alone.


    The Borderlands had not simply ceased its life cycle, it could not have.


    He could see the wind moving the trees and the foliage, there were certainly other creatures out there in the night, too.


    But the silence persisted, an oppressive void that swallowed all sound, as if the forest itself had been muted. It felt less like a lack of noise and more like a suppression of it, a tangible force radiating from the creature.


    Its shoulders hunched down again, lurking, settling in to enter the second round of the fight.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    No, this isn''t a fight. It''s playing with me...


    A wave of fear washed over him, renewed by the sensation of looking into the beasts eyes, instantly drying his mouth and sending a cold sweat trickling down his spine. It cocked its head to the side as if to ask him, ''Do you truly think you will survive this?''. As it did so, Art noticed something...


    It had a second set of eyes, the same rich yellowy copper as the first, set much further back on the sides of its skull. He had not seen them until now because they had not been opened.


    His mind raced, desperately searching for any scrap of knowledge, any weakness he could exploit. But the creature was a blank slate, an enigma.


    Nothing came.


    They circled one another again and again, he lost count of how many times he had tensed up, preparing for it to strike at only the slightest twitch of its muscles, yet it only watched him, edging closer and closer with each lap of the clearing.


    His legs weakened by the second. Until recently, fear was an entirely foreign emotion to him. In between his panicked thoughts of a gruesome impending death, memories of how he had felt back in Grenforth.


    Back then, he thought he feared what Jorin could do, how he could take away his wealth, and his comforts. How he could leave Art to face the world alone, with none of the backing and all the finer things saved for the imperial elite.


    Now, he realised, that was not fear, it never was. It was comfort.


    Even in the most uncertain moments in the Beaumont Duchy, he was wrapped so tightly in a protective layer of prestige and influence that nothing could truly have harmed him.


    Pathetic. I truly am. How did I let myself fall so far?


    True fear, he thought, had finally found him. Perhaps it was some kind of universal justice for the way he had allowed himself to become? Or maybe just sheer bad luck?


    The sound of crunching gravel under his boot snapped his full attention back to the creature as it gradually slowed its circling movements.


    They stood opposite each other now, perfectly still.


    Realising he did not have much longer until a decidedly gruesome end, he took a long, deep breath, inhaling all the scents of his environment.


    The air felt clean as it rushed down his throat, tinged with hints of wood and earth. He relished in the sensation of his lungs filling, watching the beast settle down onto its haunches again.


    Finally, it launched itself through the air. It''s enormous maw stretched wide, revealing long smooth fangs as it flew through the air.


    More and more thoughts rushed through his mind as it drew closer.


    After all this, he thought, only to die between another set of fangs.


    He did his best to turn from the attack, twisting and presenting his shoulder to the beast, hoping that he could buy himself just a little more time to figure something out if he could stomach the pain for a moment.


    As he turned, he looked out through the gaps in the treeline. His eyes landed on another towering, stony peak, dusted in the same grossly oversized trees.


    The thought of that distant peak, a beacon of safety, burned in his mind.


    Safe. If only I could be safe.


    Then, the world around him shattered. A deafening crack ripped through the air, tearing a jagged wound in the fabric of reality. For a heartbeat, a swirling vortex of nothingness hung in the air. He saw a fleeting image of a jagged cliff face, bathed in moonlight, followed by darkness. Then it snapped shut, swallowing him whole.


    The tear was gone, though it left its mark on the earth around it. Long, jagged cracks spiderwebbed across the hard-packed earth, radiating outwards from the small, crater-like divot where Art had stood. It was as if the very ground itself recoiled from the raw power that had torn him away.


    The beast landed in perfect silence, its massive paws barely disturbing the stillness of the clearing. Its head tilted slightly, it''s eyes narrowing in confusion. Then, a flicker of something darker, something predatory, ignited within their depths. It wasn''t a human expression, but something far more unsettling.