《2024 Secret Santa Anthology》


 Beyond the White Veil

    The snow was relentless.


    Each gust of wind felt like it carried a thousand needles, slicing through the layers of torn leather and threadbare wool I wore. My lips were cracked and frozen, every breath coming out in desperate, shallow gasps that misted the air in front of me. My hands, frostbitten and trembling, clutched the handle of a dimming lantern as if it were the only anchor keeping me tethered to life. The flame inside sputtered weakly, barely more than a flicker, but I couldn¡¯t let it go out. Not yet.


    The forest loomed around me, an endless expanse of skeletal trees wrapped in frost. Their branches stretched skyward like the fingers of the damned, clawing at the storm clouds above. Somewhere behind me, the baying of hounds broke through the howling wind¡ªa cruel reminder that I was not alone in these woods.


    They were still hunting me.


    I stumbled forward, my legs barely responding as I pushed through the knee-deep snow. My body screamed for rest, for warmth, for relief from the endless cold, but I knew better. Stopping meant death. I¡¯d seen it before¡ªfellow deserters who thought they could outlast the frost, their bodies turning to frozen statues before the sun rose.


    But I wasn¡¯t just running from the cold.


    The image of Captain Vassel¡¯s face was burned into my mind, his sneer twisting into something almost animalistic as he barked the order. ¡°Kill them. Every last one.¡±


    The village had been nothing more than a collection of wooden shacks buried under a layer of snow, its people gaunt but kind. They had offered us bread and water, unaware that their act of charity had sealed their fate. I couldn¡¯t do it. I couldn¡¯t raise my blade against women and children, against old men whose only crime was living too close to the wrong border. But the others? They obeyed. The screams had followed me long after I fled into the forest, and now the army hunted me as a traitor.


    Traitor.


    The word tasted bitter, even in the frozen wasteland of my mouth. But what else could I have done? The blood staining my comrades¡¯ swords had nothing to do with honor or loyalty¡ªit was madness, plain and simple. I¡¯d seen enough of war to know the difference.


    Another howl cut through the night, closer this time. The dogs were gaining on me, their handlers not far behind. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the crunch of my boots against the snow. I wouldn¡¯t survive another encounter. My ribs still ached from the last skirmish, where I¡¯d barely managed to fend off a pair of scouts. My sword had shattered on the first blow, leaving me with nothing but a broken hilt and a prayer.


    And yet, even now, part of me wondered if I deserved the hounds¡¯ fangs. If they tore me apart here, in the belly of the woods, would it balance the scales? Would it erase the guilt that gnawed at me like a starving rat?


    My knees buckled, and I fell hard into the snow. The lantern slipped from my grasp, its weak light casting jagged shadows across the forest floor. My breath hitched as I scrambled to retrieve it, cradling it against my chest like a dying ember. I couldn¡¯t stop. Not now.


    That was when I saw it.


    A light.


    It pierced through the storm like a blade, warm and golden, so starkly different from the cold, pale glow of the snow. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating¡ªjust another trick of the frost claiming my senses. But no, it was real. It swayed gently, as if carried by some unseen hand, and with it came a faint hum, low and resonant, like the first note of a song too beautiful for mortal ears.


    I forced myself to my feet, my body trembling with the effort. The light grew brighter as I stumbled toward it, the snow parting before me as though it too were drawn to its glow. My heart hammered in my chest, not with fear but with something else¡ªhope.


    The trees thinned as I approached, revealing a clearing bathed in golden light. At its center stood a creature unlike anything I had ever seen.


    A stag.


    Its coat was pure white, unmarred by dirt or shadow, and it shimmered as though it were made of frost and moonlight. Massive antlers crowned its head, each branch adorned with small lanterns that burned with the same golden light I had followed. They swayed gently, casting an otherworldly glow that turned the snow beneath them to gold.


    The stag turned its head toward me, and for a moment, I forgot the cold, the hounds, the army¡ªall of it. Its eyes, deep and endless, locked onto mine, and I felt something stir within me, a warmth that spread through my chest and into my frozen limbs. It wasn¡¯t just heat¡ªit was life. A force so ancient and so vast that I couldn¡¯t comprehend it.


    I fell to my knees, the lantern slipping from my grasp once more. The stag took a step forward, its hooves leaving no marks in the snow, and the hum I had heard earlier grew louder, filling the clearing with a resonance that seemed to vibrate in my very bones.


    ¡°Are you here to save me?¡± I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken.


    The stag didn¡¯t answer¡ªnot with words. Instead, it lowered its head, bringing the lanterns closer. Their light enveloped me, warm and blinding, and I felt my body relax, the pain and cold melting away like snow under the first rays of spring.


    But as the light consumed me, a voice¡ªnot my own¡ªechoed in my mind.


    ¡°Not to save you. To change you.¡±


    The light consumed everything.


    It was not the blinding, harsh light of a midday sun, nor the pale and distant glow of a winter moon. This was something alive¡ªwarm, golden, pulsing in time with a rhythm I could not place. It seemed to reach into me, finding every aching muscle, every broken bone, every frozen vein, and flooding it with something far greater than heat. It was renewal. Rebirth.


    I opened my eyes¡ªor thought I did. The world had shifted, stripped of its frost-bitten palette and remade in hues of amber and gold. The clearing was vast now, far larger than it had been before, the edges of the forest stretching out into infinity. The trees were crowned with crystalline ice that shimmered like glass, their trunks alive with veins of liquid light. Above me, the sky was not dark but deep and endless, swirling with constellations I had never seen before.


    And there, at the center of it all, stood the stag.


    It was even more magnificent now, its form sharper, more real than anything else in this strange dream. Its antlers seemed to stretch forever, their lanterns burning brighter than before. The hum that filled the air¡ªits voice, perhaps¡ªresonated with impossible clarity, vibrating through the ground, the air, and my very soul.


    I tried to speak, to ask what this place was, but my voice failed me. Instead, the stag stepped closer, its movements impossibly graceful, and lowered its head until its lanterns hung just above me. Their light flickered and swayed, casting shadows that seemed to dance across my skin.


    When the voice came, it was everywhere¡ªinside me, around me, as if the forest itself were speaking.


    ¡°You seek shelter.¡±


    The words were simple, but they carried the weight of ages. I nodded, unsure if the creature could even understand such a small gesture.


    ¡°Shelter is earned, not taken.¡±


    My heart sank. I had nothing left to offer, no strength, no weapons, no purpose. My hands hung limp at my sides, trembling from exhaustion. I tried to find the words to plead my case, but the stag¡¯s voice cut through my thoughts before I could form them.


    ¡°You fled, but you did not abandon your honor. You were hunted, but you did not hunt in return. You are broken, but not lost.¡±


    The stag tilted its head, and the lanterns¡¯ light grew softer, warmer. I felt the weight of its gaze, not judgmental but searching, peeling back the layers of who I was and laying them bare. Every scar, every regret, every failure¡ªI could feel it all rising to the surface, exposed under that unyielding golden light.


    For a moment, I thought I might break apart entirely.


    But then the light changed. It grew brighter, hotter, and the warmth that had filled me began to shift into something else. Power. It coursed through me, setting every nerve ablaze, making my body tremble and my vision blur. I gasped, clutching at the ground to steady myself, but the light only grew stronger, overwhelming me.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    And then, suddenly, it was gone.


    I opened my eyes to find the stag standing above me, its antlers still aglow. The clearing had returned to its original size, the infinite forest replaced by the familiar trees of the mortal world. But something was different. I could feel it in my chest, in my limbs, in the air around me.


    I was not the same.


    The stag¡¯s voice echoed once more, softer this time, almost gentle.


    ¡°You are marked now. Bound to this place, to its power. You will carry the light into the darkness, and the darkness will fear you. But this gift is not without its price.¡±


    I swallowed hard, my throat dry and raw. ¡°What price?¡±


    ¡°To carry the light is to shoulder its weight. To guide is to fight. You will return to the world, and you will face those who hunt you¡ªnot to flee, but to stand. Not to destroy, but to protect. Do you accept this?¡±


    I hesitated. The thought of turning back, of facing the soldiers who had cast me out, made my stomach twist. But the alternative was worse. To keep running, to hide in the shadows while the innocent suffered¡ªit was a fate I could not bear.


    ¡°I accept,¡± I said, my voice barely above a whisper.


    The stag stepped back, raising its head high. The hum returned, louder now, filling the clearing with its resonance. The lanterns on its antlers flared, and the light spilled over me once more, not as a flood but as a steady stream. It sank into my skin, my bones, leaving me warm and whole.


    When the light faded, the stag was gone.


    I stood alone in the clearing, the snow beneath my feet unbroken, as if no creature had ever stood there at all. But the warmth lingered, and when I looked down, I saw the faint glow of golden veins tracing their way up my arms, pulsating faintly like a heartbeat.


    I clenched my fists and took a deep breath. My body felt different¡ªstronger, steadier, alive in a way it hadn¡¯t been in years. I wasn¡¯t just surviving anymore. I was ready.


    The distant baying of hounds broke through the silence, sharper than before. They were close now, closer than I had thought. But this time, I didn¡¯t feel fear.


    I turned toward the sound, lantern in hand, and began to walk.


    The hounds¡¯ cries tore through the stillness like jagged blades, each howl carrying the promise of blood. I gripped the lantern tighter, its handle warm in my frostbitten hand. The golden glow within it pulsed faintly, responding to the rhythm of my heart, which now beat not with fear but with a steady, rising purpose.


    They were close. Too close.


    The first soldier emerged from the storm, his fur-lined cloak whipping in the wind, a short blade drawn in one hand and a leash in the other. The hound beside him growled low, its black eyes locking onto me. Behind him, more figures materialized from the white¡ªa phalanx of shadows, bristling with steel and venom.


    The hound surged forward, its powerful legs cutting through the snow as its jaws snapped open. My body moved before my mind could catch up, the lantern flaring as I raised it high. Light exploded outward, golden and fierce, slamming into the beast mid-leap. It howled in agony, its momentum twisting into a limp arc as its body slammed into the snow, steaming and twitching. The soldier holding its leash cursed and stumbled back, raising his blade as he shouted to the others.


    ¡°On him! Now!¡±


    They came like a wave, blades glinting, their shouts merging with the howling wind. I stepped forward to meet them, the lantern¡¯s glow searing through the storm. My breath hung in the air, mist mingling with the light as I swung the lantern in a wide arc. The golden glow flared, carving into the first soldier like molten iron through wax. He screamed, his body collapsing to the snow in a heap of charred flesh and broken steel.


    Another came at me from the side, his sword aiming low, but the stag¡¯s gift coursed through my veins, quickening my limbs and sharpening my senses. I ducked under the blade, spinning as I brought the lantern up in a sharp, deliberate motion. It connected with his jaw, shattering bone and teeth in a spray of blood. He crumpled, his scream cut short as the golden fire from the lantern¡¯s glow engulfed him.


    I turned to face the next soldier, but a sudden impact from behind drove me to my knees. The weight of a hound bore down on me, its claws raking across my back as its teeth sought my throat. Pain flared, hot and raw, but the light within me surged in response, forcing the beast back with a crackling burst of golden energy. It whimpered and fell away, its body writhing in the snow as the light consumed it.


    I rose unsteadily, the warmth within me now a roaring fire. Blood dripped from my wounds, staining the snow beneath me, but I felt no weakness¡ªonly the relentless drive to end this. The captain¡¯s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, as he stepped forward from the chaos.


    ¡°Enough of this sorcery!¡± he bellowed. His blade gleamed, its edge hungry for blood. ¡°Face me, coward, or die like the traitor you are!¡±


    I met his gaze, the lantern¡¯s light reflecting in his eyes. He didn¡¯t flinch. He was stronger than the others, colder, more resolute. But I could see the cracks in his armor¡ªthe doubt lurking beneath his bravado.


    ¡°You don¡¯t understand what you¡¯re fighting,¡± I said, my voice calm but edged with something sharper. ¡°Turn back. You don¡¯t have to die here.¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± He lunged, his blade arcing toward me with deadly precision.


    I stepped into his strike, the golden veins beneath my skin flaring to life. His sword bit into my arm, but the light surged through the wound, turning the pain into raw energy. I grabbed his wrist with my free hand, the heat of my touch searing through his gloves and burning his flesh. He screamed, dropping the sword as I wrenched him forward and drove the lantern into his chest.


    The light burst outward, swallowing him whole. His body convulsed, his armor melting away as the glow seared through him, leaving nothing but ash and molten steel in its wake.


    The remaining soldiers faltered, their courage snuffed out as quickly as their captain. Some dropped their weapons and ran, their retreating forms swallowed by the storm. Others simply fell to their knees, their eyes wide with terror as the snow around them turned red.


    I stood amidst the carnage, the lantern¡¯s glow dimming but steady. The warmth within me pulsed, slower now, like the fading echo of a battle cry. The snow was still, the storm abating, as if the forest itself had paused to bear witness.


    The golden veins beneath my skin flickered, then faded, leaving me alone with the silence and the bodies of the fallen.


    The forest was quiet now, its silence broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath my boots. The lantern swayed gently in my hand, its glow steady but subdued, as if it too was catching its breath after the storm. The warmth within me had settled into a calm rhythm, its pulse echoing faintly in the stillness of the woods.


    The bodies of the soldiers lay scattered behind me, their blood staining the snow in jagged, crimson patches. Their weapons lay abandoned, forgotten in the aftermath of violence. I had not stayed to bury them. The forest would take them, as it had taken so many before. It was not my task to mourn the dead¡ªnot yet.


    Ahead, the trees began to thin, their frost-covered branches giving way to the faint outline of the village I had once fled from. Smoke rose from its ruins, curling into the pale light of dawn. The air carried the scent of ash and charred wood, a bitter reminder of what had been taken.


    I stepped out of the woods.


    The first thing I saw was the church, its steeple blackened and broken, leaning precariously against the skeletal remains of its walls. The snow around it was trampled and stained, the aftermath of the slaughter still fresh. Beyond it, the village stretched out in a patchwork of destruction¡ªhouses reduced to ash, carts overturned and shattered, fields blanketed not in frost but in ruin.


    And yet, there was movement.


    Figures emerged from the shadows, their shapes faint and hesitant. Survivors. They were gaunt and hollow-eyed, their faces pale with hunger and fear. Some carried crude weapons¡ªsticks, rusted knives, farm tools¡ªwhile others clutched children to their chests, shielding them from the cold. Their eyes found me, and I felt their suspicion, their doubt, their quiet, desperate hope.


    I raised the lantern.


    Its light spilled across the village, soft and golden, banishing the shadows that clung to the ruins. The survivors flinched at first, their eyes wide with alarm, but as the glow touched them, something shifted. The fear in their expressions melted away, replaced by something fragile but unmistakable¡ªtrust.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to stay here,¡± I said, my voice steady but quiet. ¡°The king has abandoned you, but the forest has not. Come with me. There is a place for you¡ªa haven.¡±


    They didn¡¯t move at first. The weight of what I was asking hung heavy in the air, thicker than the smoke that lingered over the ruins. To leave meant abandoning what little they had left¡ªtheir homes, their past, the memories of the lives they¡¯d once lived. It meant stepping into the unknown, following a man they didn¡¯t know into the depths of a forest that had always been more predator than protector.


    But the light was patient. It wrapped around them, warming the frostbitten, soothing the weary, filling the broken spaces where despair had taken root. One by one, they began to step forward. A mother holding her child. An old man leaning on a cane. A boy clutching a dagger too large for his hands. They came, their faces pale but resolute, their movements hesitant but sure.


    The forest waited for them.


    We moved as a single line, the lantern¡¯s glow leading the way. The survivors walked in silence, their breaths rising in pale clouds, their footsteps muffled by the snow. The forest loomed around us, its trees tall and silent, but I felt no threat in their presence. The stag¡¯s warmth pulsed faintly in my chest, a steady guide through the twisting paths.


    As we walked, the village faded behind us, swallowed by the trees and the storm. I didn¡¯t look back. There was nothing for me there¡ªonly ashes and ghosts.


    The forest opened before us, its branches parting to reveal a clearing bathed in golden light. The survivors murmured softly, their eyes wide as they took in the sight. At the center of the clearing stood a massive oak, its roots stretching deep into the earth, its branches adorned with faintly glowing lanterns that swayed gently in the breeze.


    They gathered around it, their voices rising in quiet awe. Children ran to touch the roots, their laughter breaking the silence. The wounded sank to the ground, their faces softening as the warmth of the clearing enveloped them.


    I stood at the edge, watching as the light embraced them. For the first time in years, I felt something stir within me¡ªpeace.


    But it was fleeting. The warmth in my chest pulsed again, stronger now, insistent. The stag¡¯s gift was not just for shelter. It was a call to action, a fire that demanded more than quiet refuge. The king¡¯s shadow still loomed over these woods, and the villagers would not be safe until it was driven back.


    I turned away from the clearing, the lantern¡¯s light brightening as I stepped into the forest once more. The path stretched ahead, winding through the snow-dappled trees, leading toward the edge of the kingdom.


    The stag¡¯s hum echoed faintly in my ears, a reminder of what lay ahead.


    The villagers would be safe. I would ensure it. But first, the mad king would fall.


    ¡°This, I swear.¡±

 Nasty Expectations

    16/11/3140 PC


    Cerazon has done it. Everyone thought it was meant to be impossible. He turned himself into a lich, it is one thing to create undead thralls, if a bit icky, but to actually go and convert oneself into an undead, while powering the spell and keeping one''s ability to use magic is something new.


    The other mages in the Arken University are all twittering about his achievement, conquering mortality and all that, but none of them see the risks. How can we trust that which is not human to keep the interests of humanity at heart? We¡¯ve seen it time and time again in the eventual psychopathic state of thralls that have been kept around too long, why don¡¯t they too assume the same will happen to Cerazon?


    I of course desperately pray for his continued sanity, Cerazon is one of our strongest after all, the only ones able to stop him should he have a psychotic break are either in hiding or too old to remember half their spells without grimoire assistance. They¡¯d be easy pickings to an advanced cantrip.


    I feel in my heart that it is an inevitability.


    This diary will serve as the documentation of my efforts to prevent a rogue archmage from killing us all. If you are reading this then I have failed and you are the only hope for humanity.


    23/11/3140 PC


    It¡¯s been a week since my last entry and winter grows colder. In my worry I have scoured the silent kingdoms for zombies, so I could study the effects of necrotic energy on the soul. What I have found is groundbreaking, perhaps enough to put my name down in history in different circumstances.


    The necrotic energy was always known to taint souls, but where other mages assumed it was a type of decay, I have found something far worse, these souls do not get weaker, rather the necrotic energy seems to both twist and empower them. An easy thing to overlook as the effects appear to be gradual, but with far worse consequences.


    Archmages are assumed to be the natural peak of power, once one transcends the restriction allowing them to only wield magical energy, their potential always seems to exhaust, although there is a lot of variance in it, I was only half as powerful as Cerazon is now when at my peak.


    If this limit is suppressed by necrotic energy then Cerazon will have the potential to transcend beyond the abilities of any hero who might be able to stop him. This fact is terrifying, my only hope is that his willpower as an archmage is able to resist the effects of the energy for as long as possible.


    30/11/3140 PC


    I presented my findings at the monthly enclave to the council and¡­ I don¡¯t believe they took me seriously. In my haste to present my findings, I didn¡¯t write up the normal thousand page grimoire with peer assistance considering all possible uses and consequences of the matter I am studying. Why is our bureaucratic process of discovery so flawed? This discovery is urgent and requires immediate action and they didn¡¯t even attempt to validate my claims.


    Due to my lack of organization Cerazon took the lead in dismissing me and even went as far to assume my jealousy and offer to convert me into a lich as well. The audacity! In fact I do believe that he is already aware of this phenomenon and his entire dismissal was prepared in advance to keep the council on his side.


    Despite my advice, several of my older colleagues have taken up Cerazon¡¯s offer to undergo the procedure as well, no matter what I said, they were not swayed. I know what is going through their minds, the fear of the end after a life as long as ours, but that should be celebrated with a legacy, not drawn out by turning oneself into an ugly decaying husk.


    In my worry I have contacted several other magical councils overseas to relay my worries, I hope my local council can see in time that this is not a betrayal, rather an act of selflessness. Separation will not assist us when the liches go insane, hopefully they can notice their own minds changing and act upon it, but that is entirely dependent on their bravery, and mages as old as I, tend to be missing that trait as it isn¡¯t particularly favourable to one''s continued existence.


    7/12/3140 PC


    In my worries at the impending catastrophe I have resorted to something I always vowed to steer clear of in all my years: Human experimentation.


    My old apprentice, Argathon, got in contact with me after seeing my argument and we decided in the heat of a moment to collect the data we need so badly directly by using Cerazon¡¯s published work to convert a weak mage into a semi-lich (of course under the subjects ill guided agreement), and then accelerate the process of necrotic empowerment using a chamber of time. Argathon has spent years on the construction of this esoteric piece of magical equipment and despite all his efforts, it is still very weak, completely incapable of accelerating the time of an archmage. Luckily our test subject is nowhere near that level of power.


    After a day isolated in the chamber the subject managed to remove the protective enchantments himself, stop the device and proceeded to attempt to kill me and Argathon with worrying magical power. After restraining him we calculated that he had accrued a far more intense empowerment that he had any right to, he simply did not experience enough time in the chamber to be this strong.


    We reviewed our numbers for two days and at last Argathon reached a revelation I hadn''t considered. The rate of necrotic effect seems to be exponentially increasing. Even on my previous zombie test subjects this has reached a noticeable level. We cleared up our calculations and figured that the rate directly correlates to the time of the year. It was always noticed that necrotic energies intensify at the winter solstice to occasionally dangerous levels, allowing spirits to wake.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    But this has far worse ramifications, If we are right then the moment the winter solstice arrives Cerazon will have no ability to prevent his psychotic break. Archmages are connected directly to the energy flow of the world, the only way to stop him would be to kill him before that time arrives.


    And the winter solstice occurs in exactly two weeks.


    14/12/3140 PC


    Argathon and I momentarily separated, he went to attend the northern pre-solstice enclave and I went to the southern one. I would thank god for the powerful teleportation spells we used to cross the planet and back, but I invented these spells, god played no part.


    Anyway, we have managed to enlist ten other archmages to join us in attempting to slay Cerazon and despite reviewing and validating our research data, two of them still had the audacity to ask me for personal favours in repayment for their assistance. I gave them willingly; It''s been three thousand, one hundred and forty years since the last cataclysm and if we die here then a couple of favours won¡¯t matter. I hope this event doesn¡¯t reset the calendar date, although I realise I should hope instead that there are still people around to reset the calendar date should we fail.


    We departed my tower to seek out Cerazon for a final attempt at peacefully convincing him, with the full intent and preparations to immediately attempt to kill him should he disagree, but to our surprise we found neither heads nor tails of him. One of his apprentices who had also undergone the procedure confidently informed us that the target was currently in his tower, fully warded as he was converting more mages into liches and didn¡¯t want to be disturbed.


    We silently took care of the apprentice, but were stumped when we reached his tower, the wards he had set up are the the most advanced I¡¯ve ever seen, taking into account all of the latest developments in magical warding with a foundation so strong that the shield could last a fortnight of constant archmage bombardment before it¡¯s self repair functions broke down.


    We have taken the group decision to build a defensible fortification surrounding the tower, although we could break through the magical defences in time with our combined strength we would expend all our energy and have none left for fighting.


    21/12/3140 PC


    The solstice is upon us and despite our relief at the around thirty more archages that have come to assist our cause, our worst fears were confirmed today. Cerazon left the tower and stood on the other side of his warding shield for about an hour, all attempts to communicate with him broke down when he single handedly crushed one of the archmages who had gone to negotiate with him with an apprentice level cantrip. The other archmage he somehow managed to subdue, and then in front of the rest of us, unable to do anything to him behind his ward, converted the man into a lich.


    The process was far more grotesque than it needed to be, he even forcefully bound the mages soul to himself with a slavery contract and then commanded him to be unreactive while he flayed them, which isn¡¯t even part of the lich conversion process.


    In all my years I have only seen a few things of comparable atrocity, I even felt disgust for the first time in five hundred years, an emotion I thought I had lost the ability to experience when I used the spells that massively slowed my metabolism in exchange for greatly elongating my lifespan.


    I took the opportunity to study the heinous lich with a farsight spell, his eyes no longer retained their humanity, just a cold empty hunger that didn¡¯t even seem appeased by what he had just done. It was unsettling to say the least.


    He then started what looked like the process for deactivating his wards, but I fear that he is actually preparing to detonate them to escape. Luckily he can¡¯t teleport away as he will still be contained in our much larger ward, but that is a small relief, we have no idea how many other liches he has converted in his tower, for all we know there could be more of similar power levels to himself.


    I am signing off this entry to prepare for the worst, I hope I survive long enough to write the next.


    29/12/3140 PC


    I fear I may not have much time left, Cerazon won the last fight and I barely escaped the battle alive, I am missing an eye and a leg and anyone who could help me regrow these body parts I don¡¯t believe will be around much longer. Cerazon had managed to convert far more archmages than we had anticipated, and also had a colossal army of undead mortals that shouldn¡¯t have been able to affect the battle much, but due to sheer numbers could.


    The problem wasn¡¯t landing a killing blow, it was keeping the dead down. We underestimated their tenacity, especially Cerazon¡¯s, he had cast some sort of spell that transferred most of the damage done to him to his allies, allowing him to survive decapitation and a portion of his skull being shattered. No one is his match.


    Argathor, may his soul rest in peace was annihilated when Cerazon expended a third of his magic pool to create great beams of radiation that didn¡¯t affect the dead, but reduced the living to puddles of melted flesh.


    After sealing my wounds I have fortified my magic tower and begun working on possible counters to Cerazon. He has bound his army to himself meaning that he is the only one that needs to die to remove the whole threat of the undead, they will all fall like dominoes if he perishes. It would be nice if I could take advantage of this, but I am alone and that fact has made his army fanatical about his continued existence, so I don¡¯t like my chances.


    05/01/3141 PC


    The dead press themselves against my wards, annihilating themselves in the battle of attrition that I am slowly losing, my ward is not capable of withstanding the increasing levels of necrotic energy released from their destruction. It is only a matter of time until it fails, but I will not go out without a bang.


    Engraved in the cover of this book you may find a sigil, this is my last spell and masterpiece, surpassing some of my greatest teleportation spells in complexity. It eludes me how I was able to create such a thing in so little time, but I guess urgency is indeed the greatest motivator.


    You may activate this sigil with a drop of your blood and when you have done that the book will bind itself to your very being, if you ever touch a lich this book will erode the magical bindings that hold their soul to their being, allowing you to kill them with a touch regardless of how powerful they might be. Good luck.


    I have set my tower to detonate when the first undead reaches me, the explosion should be able to level a city, so I have no doubt about my impending doom, only regrets that I didn¡¯t invent this spell sooner and that I don¡¯t have the time to drink every last bottle from my wine cellar. This book will survive the explosion because I am sending it into the void behind space, it will find its way back to reality at some point, though I don¡¯t know where or when that will be.


    Kind regards,


    Armon the wise, advisor of the silent kings.

 Chasing Faerie Dragons

    The sun beat down on Tristan¡¯s back as he stomped across the soggy road. It had rained the night before and the entire region was soaked through. It made travel hellish, and all but the most stubborn traders would be waiting until the ground firmed up a bit. But not Tristan. This type of hard travel was what he had grown used to over the past decade.


    He trudged along the path, following the slight glimmer of sparkling starlight that extended from the lantern on his hip. The only guiding light to try and find the creature that had plagued his existence since he set off on his journey so long ago.


    Oh, he¡¯d almost caught it a few times. But each time, it slipped away, or he had struck an illusion it created, or he had experienced terrible luck and slipped on some ungodly substance strewn upon the ground. The quest was to kill the thing, but even a shoddy student like Tristan knew that a fairy dragon could only be killed by trapping it within a cage of iron and then slaying it. One that he had strapped to his back.


    Some dragonslayer I¡¯ve turned out to be, he thought. What would Dad think of this whole mess? Chasing the weakest of the dragon-kind for years and years? Bertram or Gisele would have killed it in their first encounter, I bet.


    Tristan paused as he felt the lantern on his hip vibrate. He began scanning the drowned farmland, searching for any sign of magical activity. There would always be a ¡®glimmer¡¯ of some type in the air to indicate the presence of magic, like a mirage in a desert. And while he had no magic of his own, Tristan¡¯s armor gave him defense against such powers. Despite being the worst of the three suits of armor his father had left to his children, it still was good enough to repel the lowest rank 1 spell.


    The lantern began to pull away from his hip slightly, indicating a very strong presence of magic¡­and a direction. Despite being the youngest of the family¡¯s heirs, and getting the crappiest equipment out of the lot, his mage-seeker lantern worked just like the rest of them. It might have had the smallest range of the lot, but it worked, nonetheless.


    Leaving the road, he began running across the field, tripping and falling a few times before hefting himself up out of the mud. He was not clumsy, and there was no good reason to fall. Fairy dragons were well-known for their trickery and practical jokes, and Tristan chalked his slipping up to that malevolent magic that had plagued him ever since he first encountered this creature.


    I¡¯m so close! he thought as he drew the weakest of the Anorox family¡¯s ancestral blades. It¡¯s gotta be around here somewhere. His weapon, just like the armor, was the third of three possible ones he could have inherited. Bertram received Dragon Render as the eldest child entitled to the strongest of their father¡¯s arms and armor. Gisele got Scale¡¯s Bane. And Tristan¡­well, he got the nameless backup sword.


    The crops that were knee-height had become taller and taller the further away he was from the road. He could no longer see that muddy trail, and his eyes were glued, transfixed on the shining trail of glimmering starlight. The pull on the lantern was stronger than he had ever seen. Which meant that either the lantern had spontaneously grown in its dowsing powers - which Tristan had never heard of happening ¨C or it was malfunctioning. Given his luck, it was probably the latter.


    He slowed his gait and walked more cautiously, zoning out as he focused solely on his hearing. He could hear the faint giggle of laughter somewhere in front of him. Too many crops to make a stealthy approach, he thought as he heard the crunch underfoot of a bit of corn that had seemingly fallen right in front of him. I could just rush it, but without vision that¡¯s tricky.


    The lantern kept pulling, and he took a sharp breath. All or nothing! He charged forward through the tall grass, letting out a battle cry. To his surprise and shock, he entered a clearing that glowed with magical energy. The whole environment was warbling and warping from the power¡¯s distortion.


    And in the center of the clearing was his prey. The fairy dragon he had been chasing all this time. It could be considered cute by some. A small, foxlike creature covered with armored scales that glimmered with the hues of the rainbow. Instead of ears, it had a pair of deer antlers that were a stark white color. Its wings were like that of a songbird; a crimson and blue that clashed with each other.


    ¡°Well, look who found me, again,¡± the feminine voice said arrogantly. ¡°Aren¡¯t you tired of chasing dragons?¡±


    Tristan did not engage in banter as he had before. He had made that mistake on his first encounter with the creature, and that had cost him his chance to injure the creature. Instead, he charged forward and chopped down with his sword.


    ¡°Hey, that is not nice!¡± the fairy dragon dashed sideways, dodging the blow. Tristan¡¯s lantern was spinning wildly on the small chain it was attached to, and the device exploded with an enormous crack from the sheer amount of magical energy present in the ambient environment. The shards pinged off Tristan¡¯s armor, but one of the bits of iron caught the fairy dragon in the wing. ¡°Ouch!¡±


    Tristan took advantage of that opening and slashed with a horizontal swing, catching the creature and shearing clean through its wing. It let out a scream of pain as it fell to the ground. Tristan immediately sheathed the sword, loosened the cage from his back, letting it fall to the ground, and tackled the creature.


    ¡°No! This is not fun anymore!¡± the fairy dragon shouted. ¡°I¡¯m going home!¡±


    ¡°No you don¡¯t!¡± Tristan shouted as he tried to wrestle the fairy dragon to the cage. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you and go home!¡±


    The world began to glow a cerulean blue, and Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, still holding tight to the fairy dragon as he wrangled it. The creature tried to claw and bite at him but found no purchase against his armor. Tristan was able to haul it to the cage behind him and shoved the fairy dragon into it before slamming the door shut.


    I¡­I got it! Tristan began to draw his sword to deliver the final blow, but the entire world turned white around him.


    ¡°Really? Regular iron? You idiot! You have to use enchanted iron! Did no one tell you that?¡±


    Damnit. Nothing in great-grandpa¡¯s dragonslayer manual said anything about enchanted iron!


    The world vanished and Tristan was in a black void. Still on some type of solid surface, nothing else existed except for him, the cage, and the fairy dragon. ¡°Nice going, jackass. You got us in between your home and my home!¡± The fairy dragon¡¯s wing grew back, and with a burst of magical energy, the cage turned into a bunch of flowers that cascaded down.


    ¡°How?¡± Tristan whispered.


    ¡°Because you¡¯re an idiot. Who wastes ten years of their life trying to kill a fairy dragon? Seriously! We don¡¯t hurt anyone!¡±


    Tristan felt rage boil up in him, ¡°I can¡¯t go back until you¡¯re dead!¡±


    The fairy dragon¡¯s face shifted and showed a dour expression, ¡°Well that¡¯s a s-t-u-p-i-d, stupid rule. Did I emphasize how stupid that is?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s because you stole the king¡¯s scepter!¡±


    The fairy dragon giggled, ¡°Oh, yeah. That was a fun prank!¡±


    Tristan growled and grabbed the thing, ¡°I want to go home!¡±


    ¡°So do I!¡±


    The world began to light up. Gradually shifting from black to grey, to a blinding white. ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Tristan asked.


    The fairy dragon replied with a giggle, ¡°Yes! We¡¯re going to the Fey Realm! Looks like my desire was stronger!¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    The world returned around Tristan. But it was not his world. The cornfield was gone. He wasn¡¯t in a small clearing. And the sky was not blue. It was a shifting display of multiple hues. Purple, green, the familiar blue, a deeper blue - and it changed colors in various places. ¡°The Fey Realm, numb-nuts. Do you not even know where we come from? And you call yourself a dragon slayer.¡±


    Tristan looked down at the creature in his hands, ¡°Take us back. Now.¡±


    ¡°Nope!¡± The creature giggled and laughed. To Tristan¡¯s shock, the flowers that were around him began to laugh along with the fairy dragon. ¡°You can¡¯t hurt me permanently without enchanted iron.¡±


    ¡°But I can still hurt you,¡± Tristan replied as he pinned the creature to the purple grass beneath them and drew his weapon. He saw the fear in the creature¡¯s eyes, ¡°You¡¯ve escaped me so many times.¡±


    ¡°Hey, look pal,¡± the voice was panicked and talking like a charlatan and swindler would - all fast and confusing words. ¡°I never would have elucidated upon where our destination was if not for the malicious intent that you hold in your mind. I can¡¯t take you home. Fairy dragons can only travel to and from the Fey Realm once every century.¡±


    Tristan let out a scream of frustration and stabbed the blade down into the grass beside the fairy dragon. ¡°Damnit!¡± he screamed. ¡°I just want to go home!¡± He felt so angry and filled with sorrow. Ten years of my life¡­chasing this thing! I just¡­I want to go back. He wanted so badly to be a renowned hero of the kingdom¡­but instead he was a laughing stock.


    And that cut him more than any blade could.


    The fairy dragon¡¯s voice was still fast-talking, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity. ¡°Go home to what? You¡¯re the youngest and least talented kid out of your whole family.¡±


    ¡°How do you know th-¡±


    ¡°Not to mention you got the crappy job of chasing down a fairy dragon! And all for what? Some stupid metal rod?¡± There was a glimmer of light next to the fairy, and the metal rod of the king fell to the ground next to them. ¡°It¡¯s just a hunk of steel! I thought it would have gems or something on it, but nooo.¡±


    Tristan kept the creature pinned by the neck but picked up the rod. Why the hell would the king be so pissed off at this being taken? It felt like a solid piece of metal. It had a bit of fancy scrollwork, but it didn¡¯t thrum in his hand like a magical item would. ¡°He sent me to kill you over this?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m saying! He sounds like a real jerk.¡±


    ¡°He is,¡± Tristan muttered. He put the scepter in a loop on his belt, then turned back to the fairy dragon. ¡°We¡¯re stuck here for the next hundred years?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right. Too bad you¡¯re not an elf, otherwise you might survive that long.¡±


    ¡°Half-elf,¡± Tristan said as he pulled his silver hair back just enough to show off the slightly elongated tips of his ears. ¡°On my mother¡¯s side.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Then this is your ancestral homeland.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, elves are fey creatures from the Fey Realm. Well, initially. They moved to the Mortal Realm a few thousand years ago.¡± The fairy dragon giggled, ¡°We used to be your best friends. But right now, you are not acting very friendly.¡±


    Tristan shook his head, ¡°Why should I be? I started chasing you down when I was eighteen. Ten years of life, lost out because you kept giving me the slip!¡±


    ¡°And it was a fun chase. Remember that time you cut off my tail and I barely got out of the window, and then you slipped on a bit of fruit rind of all things!¡± the fairy dragon giggled again, ¡°That was hilarious!¡±


    Tristan felt the anger building up in him further and further, reaching a boiling point, and he resisted the temptation to squeeze down on this creature¡¯s throat. ¡°It was humiliating! Do you know what I was called?¡±


    ¡°No, do tell.¡±


    ¡°Knight of ill fortune.¡± He grit his teeth as he growled out the name, remembering the times he had been jeered traveling through towns on his seemingly fruitless quest. ¡°Every time I tracked you down, every time I got close to you¡­you did something to screw it up! No one is that unlucky!¡±


    The fairy dragon had a confused look on its face, ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t remember the oil slick on the ground when I tracked you down to that smithy? Or the time my sword got caught in a fishing net hanging from the docks? Or the time that a housewife threw their nightsoil out on my head in that alley?!¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah! Those were funny! But that wasn¡¯t me, no sir.¡±


    ¡°Liar!¡±


    ¡°You can think that all you want.¡±


    Tristan kept his grip on the thing¡¯s throat, yanking it up with him as he stood. He did not want to talk with this thing anymore. I need to find shelter, a source of food, and clean water.


    He had no clue how long his lifespan would be. Half-elves were a mystery in that regard. Sometimes they took after the human side, sometimes the elven side. But he was the only one in his family, so he had nothing to compare against. The downside of being the only child of his father¡¯s second wife.


    ¡°Where can I find water?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have that here.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit.¡± Tristan began walking towards a thin, blue line in the distance. ¡°That¡¯s obviously a river,¡± he said as he began to turn his feet and descend the hill they had arrived upon. To his surprise, he did not slip or slide at all. His feet felt sure in their steps.


    In fact, the air seemed¡­cleaner, as well. Crisper, and as he focused on it, he could smell the sweet scent of cinnamon-baked apples like what they would have around the feast days. He paused in his descent and closed his eyes, hearing some soft instrument that seemed to dance just at the edge of his range of hearing. Even the air seemed to have a taste to it; something sweet.


    ¡°Oh, that is interesting. I was wondering if that would happen or not.¡± The fairy dragon¡¯s voice pulled Tristan out of his short reverie. ¡°You should find a mirror.¡±


    Tristan frowned, ¡°And why should I do that?¡±


    ¡°Well, normally people like to know when their body changes spontaneously.¡±


    Tristan felt panic, and drew his sword with his offhand, holding the blade up to his eye level. His normally brown eyes were a vibrant, glowing silver with luminescent, icy-blue irises. His ears had elongated past his hair just like his mother had. And his skin was more lustrous. ¡°What in the hells happened to me?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a half-elf, like I said,¡± The fairy dragon stated. ¡°Looks like the elf side is pretty strong compared to the human side. I¡¯d argue its fully pushed out the human blood. But I¡¯m not a doctor or anything like that!¡±


    Tristan sheathed his sword, ¡°Fine, I¡¯m more elf than human. That doesn¡¯t change anything about this situation. I still need water, food, shelter - and figure out some way to keep you locked up until this century passes.¡±


    The fairy dragon wriggled in his grip before giving out an exasperated sigh, ¡°You really don¡¯t get it, do you? You¡¯re in a place that no elf has visited since the last great exodus. Who cares about killing a fairy dragon for some stupid king¡¯s quest?¡±


    Tristan¡¯s curiosity was piqued, and even though he kept walking to the river, he very slightly loosened his grip. Great exodus? No one told me about that. I always thought that elves came from across the sea from a sunken continent ¨C that¡¯s what mom always told me. ¡°When was that?¡±


    ¡°Twelve-thousand years, give or take. No elf or half-elf has been here since!¡± The fairy dragon frowned slightly at that, ¡°And when The Matriarch finds out about you getting in here, I¡¯m going to be in big trouble!¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°The elves left because this realm was dying! Sucking up too much latent magical energy in the air. That¡¯s why your elf traits came out so quickly after just a few minutes. The Otherworld is literally suffusing you with magical power. A bunch of it gathering over ten-thousand years, plus some millennia.¡±


    Tristan felt a weird mix of emotions. Distrust because this thing had tricked him before, he was sure. A sense of believing in the creature because he had seen the physical changes with his eyes in the reflection of the blade. And also, an unease at being in a foreign realm. But hidden under all of that was confidence. Something that felt like a rustling wind in his soul, scattering the leaves of his emotions about in a tumultuous tempest. What this fairy dragon was saying sounded right. Resonated with him on a deeper level.


    ¡°All that unlucky stuff that kept happening to you? Might be because you were leaking magic into the environment without noticing.¡±


    ¡°Then why didn¡¯t my lantern respond to it?¡± Tristan asked.


    ¡°Beats me. Maybe it got used to your magical essence leaking all the time and just learned to ignore it?¡±


    Tristan reached the bottom of the hill and found to his surprise and odd delight that the ground was slightly springy. He bounced off of it and let out a brief laugh at the weird sensation of becoming a little lighter for a moment. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    ¡°Jumpshrubs,¡± the fairy dragon replied. ¡°Good for traveling fast. It grows in open spaces.¡± It sighed, ¡°Look, I don¡¯t like being manhandled now and again, but this ¡®grab me around the neck¡¯ thing is very uncomfortable. Mind letting me go?¡±


    Tristan looked down at the creature as he stopped his bounce-based travel across the plains, ¡°You¡¯re my only way to get back home in a century.¡±


    It groaned and wriggled, ¡°Why are you so stubborn! I can help you! Take you to visit The Matriarch. She¡¯d want you out of here as soon as possible, anyways! You¡¯re going to suck up all the ambient magic otherwise.¡±


    Tristan eyed it suspiciously. It hasn¡¯t lied to me yet as far as I know¡­but just to be sure. ¡°Tell me how to get there, and if you¡¯re telling the truth, I¡¯ll let you go.¡±


    ¡°Okay, good! Making progress. Oh, I never caught your name.¡±


    ¡°Tristan Anorox.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Felicity Glimmerwing.¡±


    ---


    A few hours passed in relative silence. Tristan felt his stomach rumbling, and when he mentioned it, Felicity pointed out a series of what looked like berry bushes. Always cautious, Tristan fed one to her, gathered more, and waited thirty minutes. When no negative effects were evident, he tried one himself.


    And it was delicious. The tastiest food he had ever experienced. The sweetest type of strawberry mixed with the tartness of a raspberry. But it was meaty, like an apple.


    ¡°It tastes so good because this is the food your ancestors ate. They were vegetarians.¡±


    Explains why meat never agreed with me, Tristan thought as he recalled many pain-filled nights after meals as his stomach rumbled and turned. Another reason why he was looked down upon by his siblings and the least favorite of his father¡¯s children. Nobles ate meat, and he tried to avoid it as much as possible. It had resulted in him being even more ostracized than he was already. Especially on court days where he would be among the other children of nobility. ¡°What else is special about elves in this place?¡±


    Felicity went into an hour-long filled explanation. Magic suffused the very essence of this realm, and therefore it was going into Tristan and infusing him down to his very soul. Since he was the only elf to visit in the past twelve millennia, he was getting a ton of this infused essence.


    ¡°When you return home,¡± she explained, ¡°Your magical essence, called mana, its capacity will rival the strongest of the most powerful mages. Heck, it might even let you rival those pesky gods that sometimes butt into this place. Until The Matriarch kicks them out.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s like a god?¡±


    ¡°Yeah! She¡¯s amazing!¡±


    Felicity kept explaining that this same essence filling the whole of this realm was also augmenting his speed, strength, ability to think rapidly, and reaction time - improving every aspect of his body and mind. And enhancing his longevity as a side-effect. The way she put it; elves normally lived a thousand years. But given the amount of raw magic going into him while he was here? He would live for ten thousand years, easily. Maybe more.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­a lot to take in,¡± Tristan replied. If she¡¯s telling the truth¡­I¡¯m going to live such a long life. He was only twenty-six years old, and most of that was spent learning how to fight dragons ¨C partly book learning, partly using giant puppets that his grandfather had designed to train against the beasts.


    ¡°Well, yeah. You¡¯re the only thing here that can take in all that magic energy. The Matriarch has a limit, but you ¡®natural¡¯ races ¨C you lot get to have an infinite capacity. Most people die before it gets too big, though.¡±


    ¡°Why do you fairy dragons leave, anyways? And where¡¯s¡­anything else? There are no other animals I¡¯ve seen. Or bugs.¡± It¡¯s been quiet except for us talking and my footfalls. Plus, the clattering of my gear.


    ¡°It¡¯s fun to get out and about. Living in a paradise can get boring, so traveling around in the Mortal Realm is like going on a vacation. Experiencing danger, possibly suffering injury? It¡¯s exciting!¡±


    Seems foolish, Tristan thought. If I lived in paradise I¡¯d never want to leave. ¡°What about other animals and bugs?¡±


    ¡°Only elves lived here with the fairy dragons. We were companions. And the strongest of us can shapeshift, becoming like your dragons in the Mortal Realm that originate from those Elemental Realms. Your ancestors used to ride us around.¡±


    The idea of flying on dragonback was something that had never occurred to Tristan because they were terrifying beasts. Monstrosities of sinew and claw, covered in scales that only the strongest magic or specially enchanted dragon-slaying weaponry could harm. But now that he thought about it, the image in his mind of flying around on a dragon, soaring through the skies¡­it filled him with exhilaration and longing.


    Which was quite strange, as he had trained his whole life to be a dragonslayer. Ever since he could hold a practice sword. The only times they weren¡¯t training was when they were studying, sleeping, or at court. Always as a family, even though Tristan knew that he was not really family. Bertram and Gisele never really accepted him as their brother. And even his father was distant.


    He sighed and kept bouncing along the odd mushroom-covered ground. It was second nature.


    And that struck him as quite odd.


    ---


    They eventually got across the plains and to the river that Tristan had spotted from afar. Only, it was not a river with water. Some blue, viscous fluid filled it. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s clearcool. Just take a sip.¡±


    Tristan once more thought better of blindly trusting Felicity, and dipped the creature¡¯s head down, ¡°You first.¡±


    ¡°Sure!¡± she began extending a long tongue that transformed into a funnel before his eyes, and then loudly slurped up the liquid. ¡°Ahh! Refreshing.¡±


    Tristan leaned down, cupped his hand, and scooped up some of the weird, jelly-like substance. Taking a slight lick of it, he felt a rush of energy, and his thirst was instantly quenched. It was cooling, like a subtle mint, and he gobbled it down.


    ¡°Just trust me, alright? You can trust me just fine.¡±


    Tristan wiped his mouth, ¡°Which direction?¡±


    ¡°Follow the river.¡± She sighed, ¡°Still planning on holding my neck this whole journey?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Until I talk to this matriarch.¡±


    ---


    Tristan began to see more of the flying fairy dragons in the skies above. They regarded him with curiosity, even flying by and chatting with Felicity, cracking jokes at her that her new friend was into ¡®rough stuff¡¯. The female fairy dragon responded with withering, witty remarks and repartee that made Tristan chuckle from how over-the-top the insults were.


    It was scathing, and even bordered on the edge of atrocious joking. He found himself giggling and laughing at some of the jokes, which in turn seemed to encourage more humorous statements from the various fairy dragons.


    A few hours passed, and the sky began to shift to warmer, darker tones of crimson and brown. ¡°Night is falling,¡± Felicity stated. ¡°Not that you need to sleep here. If you want to, though, the dreams are fantastic.¡±


    ¡°How much farther?¡±


    ¡°See that giant tree?¡±


    Tristan nodded and kept walking along the river. The whole time, he was asked questions by more fairy dragons of varying sizes. Anywhere from the size of a mouse to that of a large dog. Part of him wanted to answer everything they said, but another part said that they were dragons and should not be trusted. He ignored them and kept walking, and Felicity engaged in some banter with them as Tristan continued.


    Soon enough he reached the base of the tree. It was enormous, easily rising three hundred feet into the sky. There were knot holes all about, and the fairy dragons were congregating, laughing, making jokes, and using magic to create all manner of fantastic, artistic illusions. And he saw big fairy dragons. The size of horses. Dwarfing all of them, however, was one that looked just like Felicity; but it was the size of a small house.


    The creature eyed Tristan curiously and cracked a mischievous smile, ¡°Felicity, what did you bring home?¡±


    ¡°Half-elf.¡±


    ¡°And why did you do that?¡±


    ¡°He was hunting me!¡±


    The enormous fairy dragon lowered her head, and Tristan instinctively went for his sword. She laughed, and her voice was deep and matronly, ¡°Come now, you have no enchanted iron sword, there. It is made of substance meant to slay dragons from the Elemental Realms, not my realm. And half-elf? You look like a full one. Must have had the human side pushed out of the way for the superior blood of your true lineage.¡±


    ¡°Can you get me home?¡± Tristan asked what he assumed was The Matriarch.


    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to if you would let my daughter go. But we also have items to discuss, child of the Fey Realm.¡±


    Tristan immediately let Felicity loose, and she flapped up to one of the branches overhead, immediately gabbing with other fairy dragons and sharing about her heroic experience of fighting off his assault. Tristan ignored her chatter. ¡°There, I let her go.¡±


    The Matriarch raised her head slightly, ¡°I smell something on you. Something¡­familiar. What is your family name?¡±


    ¡°Anorox.¡±


    ¡°Father¡¯s side? Patriarchal society?¡±


    Tristan nodded. ¡°Yes. The father¡¯s name is passed down unless the mother¡¯s family is really prominent.¡±


    The Matriarch harrumphed and her face shifted from one of mischief to a serious demeanor. ¡°I assume that your mother did not come from prominence, then. Tell me your mother¡¯s family name - before she took her husband¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That one is Winterbloom.¡± The entire grove in front of the tree went silent. Every set of eyes stared at Tristan. ¡°Did I say something wrong?¡±


    The Matriarch bowed her head, as did every single fairy dragon. ¡°You do not know this,¡± she said solemnly, ¡°But the Winterbloom are the elvish emperors of old who created our species from magic and the essence of this realm itself¡­technically, this realm is yours. You might be a distant, far-off relative of the bloodline¡­but we are your servants.¡±


    Tristan felt his heart skip a few beats and his breath caught in his lungs. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It is our honor to welcome you home.¡±


    ¡°But¡­this isn¡¯t my home. I came here so you could get me home.¡±


    The Matriarch raised her head slightly but kept it under Tristan¡¯s head level. ¡°You are welcome to come and go as you please.¡± She moved her enormous, clawed front leg that was the size of an ox cart, and there were several rings upon the claws. ¡°Take one.¡±


    Tristan grabbed one of the rings and pulled it off. It shrunk in his palm down to his finger¡¯s size, ¡°What does it do?¡±


    ¡°This is a Fey Court Ring. Pour your mana into it, and you will be able to open a portal here. It cannot be used more than once every twenty-four hours and takes an hour to activate.¡±


    ¡°Thanks¡­why give me one?¡±


    Felicity groaned, ¡°Are you not listening, dummy? You are literal royalty here! The only way you could command more respect is if you were a woman.¡±


    Tristan chuckled on the inside as The Matriarch whipped her head around and admonished Felicity, ¡°We do not call his bloodline dummy, daughter.¡± Felicity deflated a bit and grumbled, and The Matriarch turned back to Tristan. ¡°You come and go as you please. Your ancestral arms and armor are yours to take if you can unlock them.¡±


    ¡°Come again? Unlock them?¡±


    ¡°Come with me.¡± The Matriarch stood and went into the tree. Tristan followed her, sheathing his sword as he took off his gauntlet, slipped the ring onto his finger, and watched as it resized to fit him. He wriggled his hand back into the gauntlet.


    The interior of the tree was a cavernous, hollow space. She led him down a spiraling ramp that led under the roots and into caverns below. Whereas the trees above looked like they were designed for fairy dragons, down here the earthen walls and roots were formed and molded into pristine, high-quality tunnels.


    ¡°This is where the elves of old used to reside. Well, the nobility, at least, lived here, at the Queen¡¯s Wood. Come, we go to the vault.¡± She began leading the way, and commented as she walked. ¡°Oh, and as for your blood being ¡®weak¡¯ ¨C since stepping foot in this realm, and being infused by its essence that has been gathering for so long ¨C you¡¯re practically full-blooded. The only way someone could overrule you in this realm is if they were female, and older.¡±


    Tristan followed, marveling at the architecture and feeling right at home. Something about the walls, the very roots of the trees, spoke to him. Called out to him. ¡°Felicity mentioned something about being able to use magic, mana, and mana cores. Can you fill me in a bit more on that? I never learned magecraft back home since dragons are so resistant to it.¡±


    ¡°Learning magic is something that you will have to do on your own, developing your abilities and your own repertoire,¡± The Matriarch replied. ¡°However, there are tomes and books locked behind seals here that you may access once your mana is plentiful enough. And that is where mana cores and mana capacity come into play. Tell me, have you ever engaged in monster slaying?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t say I have. Your¡­daughter would have been my first one.¡±


    ¡°When a monster on the Mortal Realm, or an intruder from another realm - such as your Elemental Dragons - dies, then you harvest some of their mana capacity and add it to your own. Generally, the larger the body, the more mana capacity you obtain.¡±


    She swished her long, serpentine tail and let it tap him on the center of the chest, ¡°That is where your mana core is, partially real, partially ethereal, next to your heart. It is strong, but that is because you are the first elf here in a long, long time. Think of yourself as a magnet for mana, and this entire world was iron filings.¡±


    ¡°How do I use it?¡± Tristan asked, feeling excitement well up in him.


    ¡°Again, you must practice, train, and learn from others,¡± The Matriarch replied. ¡°Now, when you first use magic, you will experience some discomfort and pain as mana channels are carved into your body. Again, not really there, but not really gone - in the ethereal. The size of the mana channel increases as your mana core grows.¡±


    Felicity flew up from behind Tristan and landed on his shoulder, and he jumped slightly. ¡°I just wanted to see you fail,¡± Felicity said, tauntingly.


    Tristan ignored her and just brushed her off her shoulder perch. The Matriarch led him to an enormous door made of stone; with swirls of a language he did not recognize. But as he focused, he saw the shapes reorganize themselves into letters he could read.


    The Queen¡¯s Vault


    ¡°How come I can read that weird, squiggly language? I only know how to read and speak Bhant¡¯s Tongue.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re an elf, dummy,¡± Felicity replied. ¡°Elves know their language as well as they know their own body. You¡¯ve been slipping into the Elvish Tongue here and there, occasionally.¡±


    ¡°Place your hands upon the spiral and focus on pouring your mana into the structure. Envision a stream of water, or a current of air, flowing from your torso, down your arms, and into your hands.¡± The Matriarch stood aside.


    Tristan put his hands on the object and did as he was instructed. He felt a swirling tornado of energy in his chest, and it rocketed down his arms - carving enormous mana channels that made him grunt in pain. It felt like the worst scrape one could get from falling on hard cobblestones. He saw a surge of silvery light flow from his hands and into the spiral, filling it up slowly.


    But he grew tired. The spiral only filled halfway before he collapsed, exhausted. ¡°Ah, shame. Your mana is not plentiful enough,¡± The Matriarch stated. ¡°It just means you must return for your birthright at a later time.¡±


    ¡°Haha!¡± Felicity laughed as she flew around Tristan¡¯s head, and this earned a swift slap from The Matriarch, launching the smaller fairy dragon to the floor next to Tristan.


    ¡°I told you, do not insult those of the royal blood.¡±


    ¡°But mooooom! He¡¯s cut off my wing!¡±


    The Matriarch growled, ¡°You are lucky that is all he did to you, foolish child.¡± She reached a massive claw down, extending one of the fingers to help Tristan stand on shaky legs. ¡°Lord Winterbloom. I apologize for my daughter¡¯s behavior.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Tristan said in between shaky breaths as the ground felt solid under him once more. ¡°How long does it take for mana to come back?¡±


    ¡°For those with elf blood? Quickly. Faster if you rest. The other alter-realm races generally regain their mana much quicker.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of that, my mom said that elves came from across the sea, from a sunken kingdom.¡±


    ¡°I am not sure. The going-ons of the other realms is something beyond my knowledge. I only know a little about them, and the Mortal Realm, as portals occasionally open between them. Such as the one that Felicity used to bring herself ¨C and accidentally, you ¨C here.¡±


    Tristan nodded, ¡°So¡­what do I do now? I failed my king¡¯s quest since I didn¡¯t bring back a fairy dragon.¡±


    ¡°Do you need a corpse? We lost a few of our number this morning due to old age.¡±


    Tristan felt slightly disturbed by that willingness to just give up the dead, but he nodded nonetheless. ¡°Yeah, then I can go home.¡±


    ¡°This is your home, my liege,¡± The Matriarch replied. ¡°Even though you are male, you are still of the royal bloodline. You may stay as long as you desire.¡±


    ¡°But¡­I was raised as a dragonslayer. It¡¯s what I am supposed to do.¡± Tristan felt that almost as strongly as he did the desire to see what was behind that vault door. Whatever it was that was promised to his bloodline. Maybe it¡¯s a weapon to rival Bertram¡¯s.


    ¡°Then I have a proposal for your path to growth, my lord. I would advise you to return to your realm, complete this quest you speak of, and then set off on your own to defeat creatures to increase your mana capacity. In that way, you may have enough power to unlock this door and claim the items within. I am sure whatever lies within will be valuable in fighting the source of the Elemental Realms dragonkind.¡± She looked over at Felicity who was lifting herself, ¡°And my daughter will be happy to accompany you to assist you in any way. She has an extradimensional storage space as all our kind do. And, despite her impertinence, she is a fount of knowledge when it comes to your lineage, your capabilities, and Mortal Realm lore.¡±


    Tristan glanced sideways at the fairy dragon who gave him an exasperated look. ¡°I can come back here any time, right? With this ring?¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡±


    Tristan nodded, ¡°Then I like your advice. I want whatever is behind that door.¡± And if its super-powerful weapons and armor, then I can show up Betram and Gisele. Maybe even go into an Elemental Realm portal and fight one of the Arch Dragons!


    ¡°It is your birthright,¡± The Matriarch replied. ¡°Now, let¡¯s get you a corpse.¡±


    ---


    Tristan was standing in front of the tree in a small, dirt circle surrounded by green and blue grass that waved gently in the breeze. He had a small, burlap sack with the corpse of an elderly fairy dragon inside it - which again, discomforted him slightly, but he wanted to complete this quest, regardless.


    Felicity was perched on his shoulder, grumbling slightly under her breath. She waved her front, right paw, and the burlap sack in Tristan¡¯s hand vanished with a slight pop as reality distorted around it. ¡°I can also turn invisible,¡± she muttered. ¡°To everyone except for you.¡±


    ¡°Remember,¡± The Matriarch stated, ¡°You will return to the place you arrived and left from in either the Fey Realm or the Mortal Realm. Return when you think you have enough mana to open the vault.¡±


    Tristan nodded, ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll do that.¡±


    I¡¯ll show them all. Turn in this corpse and return the king¡¯s scepter, kill some monsters and dragons¡­And then I¡¯m coming back here to reclaim my inheritance.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said as he channeled mana down his arm, into his hand, and the ring upon it. He saw the world turn white around him.

 Consumer

    Last-minute shopping is the worst, Aaron thought with a sigh as he rode the packed escalator up to the third floor of the crowded mall. He hated being here two days before Christmas. Still, somehow, that hate never stopped him from doing it year after year like an idiot.


    ¡°It¡¯s just my little Christmas tradition,¡± he muttered. ¡°Like hanging the stockings, putting up the lights and¡ª¡± The world seemed to end along with what he was saying in that moment as the mall shuddered from some violent impact. Then, with a cacophony of shattered concrete and screeching metal, the mall¡¯s roof caved in.


    For an instant, he imagined the entire building would collapse because of an earthquake. The way the building was shaking, he couldn¡¯t imagine anything else that might be happening. Then he saw it through the rain of churning wreckage. A dark magenta cube smashed through the building like a meteor.


    The thing slammed into the heart of the mall moments before the crushed concrete and shattered ceiling tiles buried it along with everyone else who had been standing there seconds before. A moment ago, the giant Christmas Tree and the long lines of families waiting to let their youngest sit on Santa¡¯s lap for a picture or two dominated the bright, colorful plaza. Now, there was nothing but ruin and darkness.


    He couldn¡¯t be sure what he¡¯d seen. He¡¯d only glimpsed it for a moment before the escalators ground to a halt, the lights went out, and the screaming started.


    The strange object had been a little larger than the industrial air conditioners that rained down around it when the ceiling collapsed, so it would have been a hard thing for him to just make up. Still, he would have been willing to concede that he¡¯d imagined the whole thing if it hadn¡¯t started glowing in a dim, throbbing light. That was disturbing, and it gave the dust that filled the air with an eerie, tremulous glow.


    What in the fuck¡­ He thought to himself as he allowed himself to be swept forward by the human tide, making for the next floor.


    Everyone was screaming and panicking, but he was too shell-shocked to do either. Instead, as he reached the mall¡¯s top floor, he moved over to the balcony to avoid the crush of the fear-driven stampede as he took in the carnage. It was only after he was in no danger of being trampled to death that he tried to understand what had happened.


    Some of the emergency floods had come on. However, their blue-white light did little to penetrate the throbbing pink gloom. The only lights around him were the cellphones of the idiots who were more intent on filming this than running away.


    Sounds like good advice, his brain told him. You should take it.


    Aaron slowly backed away as he tried to figure out how he could get down there to help those people as the Christmas lights started coming on. Not all at once, of course. Still, someway, somehow, a few of the strands that had decorated the grand plaza at the mall¡¯s center only a few minutes ago flickered to life.


    He thought that meant the lights for the whole place were about to come on as the entire grid failed over to some backup. That isn¡¯t what happened.


    For a moment, he considered going for the nearest escalator, but it was clogged with people who had exactly the same idea. People still crowded those to get a better look at the growing light show below them, slowing the few that were actually trying to evacuate.


    As he deliberated on what he should do, the tree lit up. Before he knew it, some of the strings that had been strung up to the second and even third floor started glowing.


    The overhead lights weren¡¯t on yet, though, and the throbbing pink light hadn¡¯t dimmed, making the whole thing look more sinister than festive. Still, as ominous as all that was, by the time the warbling sounds of the Christmas carols started playing over the loudspeakers again, and people started dying, he was already pretty far from the railing.


    Oh, the w-weather outside is fight-frightful¡­ in a oooonnneee horse, o-o-open sleigh¡­ Won¡¯t you, won¡¯t you guide my¡­ sssssi-lent nnnnight¡­ As the glitching PA system flicked back and forth between songs and tempos, Aaron¡¯s pace increased.


    Then, one of those light strings that had made it all the way up to the third floor yanked itself off the wall, and reared up like a crazed, impossible limb. The glowing tentacle ripped someone off of the balcony and down into the darkness below. Everyone he could see was too shocked to even react until it happened again.


    By then, everyone had scattered by a flock of birds as whatever it was down there that had turned the Christmas lights into weapons. That wasn''t enough to stop it from picking them all off one at a time.


    No, not all, he realized. Just the pricks with cell phones.


    Aaron immediately threw his phone away as he ran toward the stairs hidden just off the food court in the dark. He found lights in the stairwell, but that was from only a few dim green exit signs. The gloom wasn¡¯t enough to stop him from taking the stairs two at a time on the way down. It also wasn¡¯t enough to stop the screams that were growing louder outside.


    Part of him still wanted to try to help, but as he reached the first floor and burst out of the door, he knew that there was no helping the scene before him. The carnage was intense enough that blood was pooling out from beneath the rubble and the dust down there was chokingly thick. Neither of those would have been enough to stop him from digging through rubble in a search for survivors. That fear was reserved for the dark silhouettes that were partially hidden by that colorful pink fog weren¡¯t fully human. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    It was hard to tell what was going on exactly; only the colorful, glowing tentacles helped with that part. From above, he¡¯d been able to see them getting dragged down here, but from where Aaron stood right now, he could see where they ended up. The cube was devouring them. It was shoving people and pieces of people into its glowing depths.


    Jin-jingle aaaallll the way¡­ way¡­ way¡­ way¡­ the music echoed, making it all that much more surreal.


    No sooner had it swallowed someone then it would spit out something vaguely human looking again. Whatever happened, they¡¯d been changed. They might have an extra limb or two, or maybe a few glowing bits that didn¡¯t belong. Others trailed strange wires, or their own strings of Christmas lights, but all of it added up to bad news.


    This can¡¯t be happening, his mind assured him. Aaron was happy to believe that, but that reassurance didn¡¯t stop him from moving.


    The things that were coming out, well, he didn¡¯t want to get a close enough look to say for sure. They were hunchbacked and malformed. Some of them definitely had the wrong number of limbs.


    You¡¯re going to be okay, he told himself. That became his mantra. You¡¯re going to be okay. I can¡¯t save anyone else, but I can save myself, maybe. Maybe I can.


    Aaron slid along the wall, making his way toward the nearest exit one quiet step at a time. This far from the center of things without a cellphone, the things seemed to be ignoring him. Instead, they were swarming the corpses caused by the ceiling¡¯s collapse and the nearest electronics stores.


    He might have gotten away clean if not for the cellphone repair booth between him and the south door. He¡¯d known that was a risk from the moment he saw it, but it wasn¡¯t until he got far enough to one side to see the child that he cursed inwardly. The little girl standing there looked normal enough at first glance, but something in his mind screamed that something was wrong with this picture.


    That was where he saw one close up for the first time. The child was standing there looking at a few broken phones. Each time she would touch one, it would flicker to life in a way that made his heart hammer a bit faster. Something inside him broke as he realized that little girl was already one of them, whatever they were.


    Aaron knew that there was no saving that kid. However, when her head turned a hundred and eighty degrees while her body stayed put, and she opened her mouth to scream, he was sure of it. She let out a terrible screech, but even past that inhuman noise, it was her eyes that were the worst of all. In those terrible eyes, all he could see was the flickering light of television static.


    There were words there, or symbols that were almost words, and understanding too. For a moment, his brain froze as he tried to read them. They almost made the screeching and the broken, echoing music make a terrible sort of sense. However, that trance was broken when he saw the thick tentacle of braided electrical cables and Christmas lights coming for his head.


    Aaron ducked. He didn¡¯t see it take a chuck out of the marble veneer on the wall. He heard it, though; he just didn¡¯t care to look back. Instead he ran like his life depended on it.


    A hundred feet from the entrance, he could hear the footsteps of monstrosities chasing him. Fifty feet from it, a swarm of tentacles missed him for a second time, attacking a nearby cash register instead. Twenty feet before safety, the security cage doors started to roll down.


    Aaron didn¡¯t even hesitate. He just put his arms up in front of his face and slammed right through the glass. He wasn¡¯t stopping for anyone or anything.


    He made it to the foyer only a little bloody, and he was back up on his feet in only a few seconds. That was just long enough for him to push out the front doors. Even as he tried to do so, that tentacle unbraided into a hundred smaller tendrils. Then, each of those passed through the barrier in a desperate effort to reach him.


    He opened the far glass doors to escape but suddenly felt something tugging at his arm like a leash. ¡°Fuck!¡± he screamed as he looked down and saw that the thing had grabbed him by his smartwatch.


    I forgot I even wore that stupid thing today, he noted in frustration as he looked down.


    There was no removing it now, but that wasn''t the worst part. Even worse than that were the little circuitry patterns the wires were starting to make as they crawled deeper under his skin, and the main wire thickened to increase its hold on him.


    That horrified him more than any of the inhuman zombies that were shaking the metal grating now. All they wanted to do was drag him back to whatever it was in the center of the mall, consuming everything it could touch.


    This can¡¯t be happening, he reassured himself again as he looked around for his options. This is just a nightmare. I¡¯ll wake up any second.


    Just to be on the safe side, though, he ran to the fire cabinet and grabbed the axe. It took a few swings to break free. However, eventually, he severed the tether that had been reeling him back toward the gate with ever-increasing amounts of force.


    A roar of frustration echoed through the mall as he escaped to the parking lot. It would have been terrifying on its own, but the way it made the little bugger that had burrowed into his wrist squirm was worse. It was also a terrible reminder for what had to come next.


    ¡°You have to get out of here!¡± he yelled at the gathering crowd, but they ignored him as they tried to understand why the mall was strobbing with magenta light.


    When words didn¡¯t register, he started waving around his axe instead. After that everyone quickly got the message and ran. The pink glow from inside the shattered building was getting brighter and brighter. Aaron ignored it as he knelt at the curb and removed his belt to make a crude tourniquet just above his elbow.


    He could hear the sirens and he knew the ambulance would be here at any moment, but he also knew they¡¯d be way too late for him. He was already losing control on his left hand, and Aaron was ready to do what had to be done.


    I have to take care of this now or there won¡¯t be a later, he told himself as he raised the axe and looked away from his left arm. It¡¯s fine. None of this is really happening.


    . . .


    Victim #0001 Aaron Thompson was cutting his own arm off with a fire axe by the time the first police cruiser arrived at the scene. Though he was not the first person to die as a result of the anomaly, he was the first person to survive long enough to be studied.


    The Lakeview Mall was consumed in its entirety within twelve hours of manifestation (thereafter designated Hive 0). Thanks to his quick thinking, he survived almost 48 hours. The hospital he was housed in (designation Hive 3) was consumed less than 24 hours after Victim #0001 expired.


    His sacrifice, more than even the nuclear bombs that dropped in the days that followed, is the only reason that humanity was able to put up as much of a fight as they did against the Devouring in the months and years that followed.

 Unending

    The door creaked open, its sweet moan welcoming me into the only place I could call home. It was warm, though no fire crackled, but it wasn¡¯t dim. There was only a small source of light hanging from the ceiling, a makeshift lamp that never seemed to run out. I never questioned it, nor did I try to check why or how. I didn¡¯t need to know. I didn¡¯t want to.


    I sat down and shoved off the mountain of snow sticking to my legs, dampening the rotten wooden floor. The fierce wind whistled through the cracks, pushing against the four walls I dared call a shelter. There was a window in one of them, a small, foggy, low quality glass window that barely allowed me to see some distorted image of the outside world.


    My lips smacked together, trying to get rid of the frigid dryness that cracked them, but it was to no avail. A large cloud of vapor formed before me as I sighed, signs that there was some warmth inside me.


    ¡°The pen¡­¡± I say out loud, afraid that I might forget how to speak if I did not, then ¡°the notebook.¡±  I quickly picked them up. They trembled alongside my hands, but I found the strength to open the small, worn-out notebook and hold it on the box I called a bed. Flipping through its pages, I see day after day, month after month passing by. Records of previous residents, what they wrote, drew, lived through. I, too, do the same. If not for helping me not lose track of time or forget who I am, but for anyone else who may find this place after I¡¯m gone.


    Today proved to be as fruitful as the last. My cold hands have come back empty, the forever blowing snow refusing to stack up higher than my knees. I couldn¡¯t see anything, nor anyone, nor anywhere. The fog was too thick, the snowflakes too dense. Any footsteps I made immediately got covered up. Were it not for the fact that I knew where this small cabin was, I would have gotten lost.


    I don¡¯t know how I knew, though, but I know I do, at the very least. I was led here, through the snow and wind, and found it as I did. It was empty, safe for notebooks, the lamp and a few pelts. It smelled bloody horrible, too, but I bore through. In this white, frozen hell, this place was a little corner of heaven. However, even such heavens came with heavy prices. Knowledge.


    Ever since I began reading the journals, a difficult to imagine feeling rose up within me. A sensation of fear mixed with anxiety, palpitation¡­ and a morbid curiosity that I couldn¡¯t put away. It wasn¡¯t the sort that I felt before, like what would happen when I sat at the edge of a high building and looked down. It wasn¡¯t the same¡­ It wasn''t an impulse or desire to find out what happens after I die. No, it was¡­


    Whatever I wrote at that time got covered in blood, spit out by me as I coughed. I don¡¯t know what illness I contracted but the snow didn¡¯t help me, the frigid cold intensified it, and the desolate hopelessness of the situation amplified my desire to lay down and never rise again. However, I couldn¡¯t. I don¡¯t know why.


    Why would I not put an end to this eternal suffering, eternal hunger, thirst and pain? Why not stop this nightmare, this eternal winter, this insufferable domain made by the devil? Even when I questioned myself, I had no answers. My will to live, to progress, to exist, has long since faded. Yet I cannot end it all. Something is keeping me here.


    I turned the page after the blood froze and began writing again from the beginning.


    The day was harsh, the sun, despite its visual absence, made its presence through its blinding rays. They fell on the white snow, which then reflected it back, creating a veil of light so sharp my eyes hurt from looking at them for a second. Luckily the snow was thick, the fog dense, and the winds rapid. There was no sign of game, not through this snow. But it was weird, I had no need for food or water as I had neither thirst nor hunger. Yet something made me go outside and look for food, seek water, even the frigid snow blanketing my face and clothes.


    I sat outside until it was dark, until the winds calmed down and the snow stopped falling. I had nothing better to do anyway. This winter has come and never left, and I haven¡¯t seen any breathing humans since¡­a long time ago. But I have seen humans¡­ husks of what they used to be. Dried up, black, seemingly charred corpses. They had missing fingers, or limbs, their throats were cut, or backs were stabbed. A lot of them, in many numbers. And I wasn¡¯t alone.


    The journals said the entries written before me said the same thing. Perhaps we saw the same people, perhaps they themselves became one of them. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    But the night in this winter¡­ was the most beautiful sight I¡¯ve ever seen. The stars glowed with the majestic light of a shining city, and there was a constant boreal aura dancing on the night sky. Purple, green, pink, red and blue, all mixed in a cacophony of colours that decorated the darkness that has did nothing more than take over my life.


    Within the colours I see a pattern, it repeated itself again and again, like the earth circling the sun. It was predictable. I spent my time learning it, as I had nothing better to do. It was pretty, and it never got boring, but it felt¡­ looming. Like a presence, watching. In the end I always head back to the shack, which I couldn¡¯t call my own, and rest for the night, with eyes wide open, awake.


    I couldn¡¯t sleep, not knowing what would come. A huge earthquake happens every morning, so strong and fierce that I wonder if I will survive it. Not that I wanted to, anyway, but I still feared it. And so that morning, it happened again. The earth shook, the trees scattered, the snow fell once again, and the rapid winds threatened to take the air out of my lungs. Such was my morning.


    I got up long after it was over, long after I contemplated joining the other humans whose throats were slit. I had a knife, of course, a rusty one. I found it in the cabin, alongside long frozen blood puddles. I wonder if they killed themselves then walked outside out of courtesy for the next unlucky soul to make their way here.


    Truth be told I don¡¯t even know how I got here, I just¡­ remember being someone. No name, though, no memories of my past, nothing of who I once was. I have a feeling of remembering what it was like before this snow, but at the same time it¡¯s hard to recall if anything of what I am, existed. But that¡¯s just a feeling, one I do not wish upon anyone reading this.


    I go on with my day, staring at the falling snow and looking for anything that might be able to feed me, kill me, or waste my time. I always hoped it was the second option, but nothing ever came. Nothing moved besides the trees, nothing threatened to kill me besides the layers of snow piling up on me. However, it never killed, it never could. I don¡¯t know if that was the case, or it didn¡¯t want me to.


    I decided to do something I haven¡¯t done in a while; I don¡¯t think I dared to, in fear of losing my vision, but I had to. My eyes drifted upward, and I stared at the sky. Bright, so bright, yet so foggy. My eyes hurt like they never did before, as if the sun itself stared right into my soul. However, I managed to see it, the colour of the sky. It wasn¡¯t blue like I had assumed, but a weird beige and a combination of brown and green. Green¡­ just like the trees surrounding me. Pine trees. The colours were distorted, like the image I see when looking through the window.


    Lowering my gaze, I decided that it was time to head back. I took slow, careful steps going back through the snow however¡­ I couldn¡¯t find it. I couldn¡¯t find my shack. Panic rose within me, such panic that I had never felt¡­ not when I ran away from someone, or when¡­ when¡­ I saw¡­ an¡­ ice?...


    It was nowhere to be seen, my shack, as if it disappeared. I circled around the spot where I knew it was, and the snow grew even so fiercer. The wind whistled¡­ yelled¡­ raged. It was hard to bear, the shelter I dared call home had left me all alone. The snowflakes hit my face like pebbles, cutting me. I felt it, blood¡­ trickling down my face. It froze quickly, but I tasted its iron smell. I wasn¡¯t immortal, the snow wanted to kill me now. My heart raced


    I was naked, more naked than I ever felt in my life. My notebook, my writings, my light, my bed¡­ all¡­ gone. Suddenly the harmless snow became a killer, each second that passed cutting me deeper and deeper, causing more and more blood to flow. It dyed the snow at my feet a fearful crimson. It was beautiful, so beautiful, a colour in this snowy hell.


    Then the sky darkened, suddenly, not gradually. It always darkened like that, but I never took account of it. Now I questioned myself, why was it so¡­ it was never so. Not back when I¡­ I¡­ look down at my boot and see it. I bleed now, I can bleed, I can die¡­ This snow and cold will kill me eventually so why not¡­


    But I waited as I took the blade out of my boot, then stared at the sky, waiting for it, for the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. A dumb smile plastered on my face, a smile of freedom. I wanted to see it one last time.


    And it arrived, but not as I remembered it. It wasn¡¯t smooth, it wasn¡¯t flowy¡­ It was disorderly, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, sometimes gradual and sometimes sudden. Red, Yellow, Blue, Green, Orange¡­


    A tear fell down my cheek, mixing with the frozen blood. I took my knife and plunged it in my jaw, shutting it, then fell to the ground with an agonising expression.


    **


    The door creaked open, its sweet moan welcoming me into the only place I could call home. It was warm, though no fire crackled, but it wasn¡¯t dim. There was only a small source of light hanging from the ceiling, a makeshift lamp that never seemed to run out. I never questioned it, nor did I try to check why or how. I didn¡¯t need to know. I didn¡¯t want to.


    I sat down and shoved off the mountain of snow sticking to my legs, dampening the rotten wooden floor. The fierce wind whistled through the cracks, pushing against the four walls I dared call a shelter. There was a window in one of them, a small, foggy, low quality glass window that barely allowed me to see some distorted image of the outside world.


    I sighed and shivered as the corpse sitting right outside the shack smiled at me again. I always saw it, stuck in the snow, looking up at the sky¡­ the wound in its jaw always made me shiver.

 One Strand of Qi at a Time

    Old Ning Kelai set down the rope of his sledge and unwound the latch on his chickens. Finally, he¡¯d arrived.


    The lower quarter of a broken arch towered before him in the snowy plain as if abandoned for centuries. In reality, it had only been decades. Legions of eager hopefuls had picked the place clean hoping for a remnant of the Great Dragon¡¯s flame.


    Ning knew there was nothing left, and magical creatures meant little to him. Being here at all was a symptom of his lack of talent; he would never be a prodigy and probably fail to reach average. No point in chasing unattainable dreams.


    Exhaustion caught up with him. Displacing a sack, he rested on the sledge a moment, removing his hat and cloak to release the heat. Frigid air rushed in.


    It had been a week¡¯s journey on foot from Shivering Reach and his last restock of supplies. He¡¯d warded and slept light to avoid the demons. His rations were healthy, and he was pleased to see space for the seeds. The ground here was always frozen, but even Ning¡¯s small ability would be sufficient to help them grow. A small patch was all he¡¯d need.


    The chickens were already exploring, pecking at the snow in their fluttering red ribbons. Ning grunted and replaced his hat before hefting the sack from the ground. Late afternoon already. No time to rest yet.


    Snow covered most of the ruin. A few old flags still hung here and there, ragged and faded. He spotted no footprints on the ancient stairs. No current visitors. Good.


    He crunched his way up to the arch, treading with care. He was over two hundred years old, after all. Not the worst compared to some. But his lifespan had entered its downwards phase, and he found himself wanting to hold on to it. It wasn¡¯t enough.


    From the arch, half-buried flags sloped to the entrance cave. There were meant to be stairs, but the snow had covered them over. He picked his way down using the sack as a tester until the snow became slush on the rock below.


    The dragon¡¯s hall still bore traces of its former glory. All but one of the supporting columns remained intact. Most of the carvings had been chiselled away, but a few decorative strips had stayed. Nothing that might be a map or story.


    That was fine. He hadn¡¯t come for treasure. What mattered was that the hall was well-lit and free of snow, except for drifts tens of metres below the windows where it piled up in flurries. The empty expanse was vast, long, high and cold. He¡¯d shutter them up. Include hinges for the light.


    For now, tomorrow¡¯s problem. He set down the sack near the entrance and went back for a second. Eight more followed, ending with the regathered chickens. The emptied pine sledge he pushed easily down the entrance slope, too dangerous to leave outside. Bandits or demons ¨C both threats he¡¯d be unlikely to survive.


    Light snow had fallen the entire time, which he trusted to cover his prints. Scouting a spot behind a pillar, he laid out his bedroll and furs, and stored his gear behind another.


    He¡¯d half-expected competition; others to be set up well before him. But it seemed they¡¯d been focused on the dragon and its treasure. It suited him well. How did one hide something immovable? By making every alternative nearby seem better.


    That, and the venue was no place for living. He¡¯d have to fix that before winter.


    No cooking tonight. Ning scattered grain for the chickens and pulled out some dry meat. As he chewed, he unstoppered the gourd at his hip and poured a helping of its contents onto the large stone slabs around the edge of his camp. Mugwort and sweet flag. He¡¯d been sparing with its use on the journey; now, he was more liberal. Mortal men might not yet share his suspicions, but he wasn¡¯t so sure about demons.


    The mirror hanging down his back he removed and placed facing the door to capture any spirits. Near his bedroll he scattered pine needles for winter resistance to substitute for the peach-wood pin in his hair. Once upon a time, he would have bowed thrice to the Tortoise, heavenly guardian of the north. But he no longer dared. Especially not here, in this place.


    His major concerns were visitors and demons. The former he couldn¡¯t prevent. The latter were almost worse, having few other distractions. Before the dragon fell, there had been many animals in these parts, the weather warm and mild. After its death, the region had plunged into deadly winter which only the long-lived demons survived.


    Cultivators and their greed. As powerful as dragons were, their hearts were a shortcut to immortality. It had only been a matter of time.


    Now, starving, the northern demons turned on each other and travellers for food. They were becoming cannier at infiltrating human settlements. Shivering Reach, once a humble village, had become a strategic outpost. To make it past, he¡¯d had to turn back south a day and detour around the road.


    What just world and what kind of gods rewarded such behaviour? It stemmed from the top; strictures mandated by heaven. Those in power benefitted and didn¡¯t speak out. Everyone else simply found themselves reset on the endless wheel, memories gone as if they never existed. Over and over, many lives down, until they, too, joined the powerful. Maybe never.


    There were other, darker, ways, and Ning found them no worse or better. It was the same effect in the end, just sincerer. He rejected them all.


    Changing anything required defying the heavens. But not by becoming them, as official teachings practiced. By planting one¡¯s flag firmly in the mortal realm and defending.


    To do that, one had to build one¡¯s strength, a difficult task by traditional methods. Power attracted attention.


    But Ning would never be powerful, nor probably even average. It forced him to look at tasks differently.


    It was his greatest strength.


    Completing the protective round, he took out his pin and unwound the top layer of hair, placing his outer furs on top of his bedroll. This time of year, the sun here never set ¨C supposedly a relic from the dragon. For a while he stared at the desecrated carvings far above his head. What little was left.


    Eventually, he slept.


    ---


    Nothing arrived while he dreamed. He only had to repeat it.


    Before scouting the hall, he fed the chickens and re-pinned his hair. One of the birds had pecked at its ribbon until it nearly untied; he fetched a replacement. After that, he checked on his own; dozens of ties in protective red up his forearms, many adorned with talismans. He hid them with furs of the same colour, less overtly suspicious. The dye was expensive but worth it, and coins were no use to him here.


    He chewed salted meat, retrieved the bronze mirror and slung it across his back. Out of his pouch he pulled his compass ¨C a small plate and spoon ¨C and tested his path. The handle swung erratically, with a very slight bias. As expected, the dragon had been precise with its lair.


    Retesting deeper in eliminated the bias, though the centre of the hall wasn¡¯t hard to find. Something had once stood here the scavengers had dismantled, marked by the roughness of the stone. He marked it with a bamboo rod and retreated to the entrance to check the above-ground equivalent.


    Snow had covered his footprints overnight. He trudged new ones to the top of the ruins, unsurprised to discover a mound at the site. This would be the dragon¡¯s dais, where it had greeted visitors. None but the worthy had once been allowed below. It was covered in snow, so he left it for now.


    Underground, he returned to the site.


    This was the moment he succeeded or went home. He needed calm, but his heart pounded. With great difficulty, he forced the anticipation from his mind and focused on reading energy.


    His own came to him first; the easiest for any cultivator to find. Ning¡¯s meridians were few and narrow, their flow barely more than a trickle.


    Beyond them were others: trickles even weaker than his own. Hundreds of thousands of them, converging on this very point. Coating the hall in a gossamer web. Had he been stronger, even a little, his own qi would have drowned them out.


    The issue was, of course, known ¨C but not viewed as a problem. Sects were nothing if not prideful, loathe to admit weakness. Anything below their notice was thus deemed insignificant and hollow. And the more they heard it repeated, the more the people believed.


    Mostly, they were right. Those lacking sufficient qi could easily be detected by enhanced physical senses. Crushed in an actual battle.


    But to reach the dragon¡¯s lair, one usually needed power. First to survive the weather, and then to make it past the demons. Those who had power couldn¡¯t perceive the secret, and those without it, if they made it at all, wouldn¡¯t know what they saw.


    Ning glanced down at his compass. It was all about currents. Qi flowed through them in the body ¨C but it wasn¡¯t the only example, no. An old mentor of his had used magnets. Principle holding true, slowly but surely the world¡¯s background energy ¨C as befitting a giant magnet ¨C must then also cycle through each of its bottlenecks.


    He now had proof.


    That no sects had moved in immediately after the dragon showed how little they¡¯d cared to notice. He¡¯d have to ensure it continued. But Ning was as much interested in the path back out as its convergence inwards. Siphoning large volumes of energy from chokepoints was beyond his slight capabilities. Even if he¡¯d been able to contain it, the act would be quickly found out.


    He started instead by clearing some soil away from a niche in the ruin. It wasn¡¯t a perfect hiding spot, since he expected some seekers of treasures. But it wasn¡¯t immediately visible, which might buy him time he needed.


    By the time he tired, it extended four by four metres. The first quadrant he seeded with radishes, triggering each seed¡¯s growth in his hand. Gai lan went in the second; wheat for the chickens in the third. The fourth he split between calamus and mugwort for his tincture. Lastly, he warmed the soil as best he was able.


    Thus depleted, he returned to bed, fed the chickens and renewed the protective ritual. No demons arrived.


    Fresh snow fell overnight. He cleared it, re-warmed the soil, then repeated his exercise from the previous day. The new patch contained bamboo, plum and pine.


    On the third day, he replenished his qi meditating under the dais.


    On the fourth, he tested his theory.


    Having been through standard assessment while young, Ning had quickly learnt he lacked elemental affinity. Only after reaching his fifties had he learnt about non-elemental types, ironically more common. Too numerous and varied to test for, they were frequent but rarely identified.


    Ning¡¯s affinity was for affinities themselves; specifically adaptation. In the hands of a powerful cultivator, it might sow chaos, augment abilities and send opponents¡¯ techniques awry. Ning was less impressive.


    But not useless. With a bone shovel, he dug a short trench a handspan deep along the radishes¡¯ south side. In it he planted two bamboo rods strung together with several red ties. Using the structure as a frame, he moved his qi to create a filter for passing energy, transmuting its environmental type. Ice into fire; one basic element to another. Not too much, or the seeds would still die.


    Anywhere else, the filter would do nothing. Here, qi moved constantly south to north along the planet¡¯s meridian lines. He spent some moments watching, then filled in the trench.


    Not only did no snow cover the seeds the next day, but the subsequent snowdrifts had melted all the way to the dais in a distinct measurable line. He fixed the mistake with a secondary filter, set up the second seed bed the same way, and celebrated.


    Such a small action. Any decent practitioner would have scoffed at its scale and lack of refinement.


    Here, it would change the world. One strand of qi at a time.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Caution would be imperative; his line in the snow made that clear. Rushing would lead to disaster; missteps dramatically magnified. Even with his most careful efforts, Ning had to assume he might only have one try.


    He retrieved his axe from the supplies. The terrain made chopping easy; dead wood poking through snowdrifts for miles.


    Nothing grew here; not anymore. The forests he¡¯d crossed had been desolate and windswept, embellished with slanted snow blown sideways into ice. Their trees no longer had branches, and splintered with just a few swings. He carried the timber back on his sledge, building a stockpile in the hall.


    Smoke would attract demons, so he didn¡¯t build a fire. With his remaining bamboo rods, he instead built a filter around his camp, integrating it into the protective weave. He drove it through the gaps in the flagstones in a makeshift fence, rationing the salve running low.


    Even so, he was surprised there had been no demons. There were few other places travellers would visit nearby.


    With the wood, he began building shutters, slotting crossbars into whittled notches tied off with string. As he worked, he thought about his plan. He was onto the second by the time the first visitor came.


    Ning barely had time to dismiss his filter as their feet crunched the snow at the entrance. It was a woman; small, slender and young in appearance, possessing the aura of a cultivator more powerful ¨C but not absurdly so ¨C than he. She might have been a hundred years younger, or thousands of years older. Her furs were light grey to match the ice and designed for elegance more than protection, and on her back she wore a sword in a silver scabbard. The insignia on her belt and hairpins marked her as a low-ranking member of the Imperial sect. Not who Ning had expected to send seekers.


    She seemed only mildly surprised to see Ning¡¯s camp, fixing him with a severe glare. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    No greeting or etiquette for the likes of him.


    ¡°Me, master?¡± Ning replied humbly. ¡°Why, for opportunity, like everyone else who journeys here.¡±


    The visitor¡¯s eyes swept towards the reaches of the hall, past his growing camp, then back to his growing setup with disdain. ¡°¡®Everyone¡¯ doesn¡¯t generally make plans to move in,¡± she observed. ¡°This territory belongs to the Red Emperor.¡±


    Ning gave her a half-smile before returning to his whittling. ¡°Are you sure about that, master?¡± he asked. ¡°I believe it¡¯s been claimed by demons.¡±


    ¡°Not for long,¡± the Imperial said. ¡°And you¡¯re doubly a fool for staying. Talismans and rituals are barely a deterrent, and there¡¯s nothing here to claim. Unless you have found something.¡± Her eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Not that kind of opportunity,¡± Ning elaborated. ¡°I know my place. Actually, I plan to start a business selling to travellers.¡± He looked up from his work briefly. ¡°One that pays its taxes. What brings the Empire here?¡±


    The woman opened her mouth as if to retort, then closed it. Clearly she knew the law, and Ning was grateful she respected it. ¡°This site is marked to be cleared of demons,¡± she stated matter-of-factly, offering no further information.


    A scout, then. ¡°I¡¯d be appreciative,¡± Ning replied. ¡°But I¡¯d have thought those resources would be better spent towards settlements.¡±


    The woman moved further into the hall, eyes drawn by the chickens. ¡°On that we agree. But the Red Emperor¡¯s decisions are flawless.¡±


    The Red Emperor, Ning suspected ¨C as did most of the Empire¡¯s population ¨C wasn¡¯t nearly as powerful as propaganda made him out to be. The Imperial sect''s role was mainly symbolic: part-truce, part-excuse to keep the real powerhouses from warring. All the more obvious considering its leader was pushing five hundred and still in the mortal realm. No surprise there; all the good bloodlines were dormant or extinct. Any active descendants tended to ascend to higher realms faster than they could spawn children.


    And never came back.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you know when that¡¯s due to happen?¡± he asked.


    ¡°After winter, at the ebb of demon activity. You¡¯re foolhardy coming unprepared when it¡¯s about to begin. More for expecting client activity. What would you sell, even?¡±


    ¡°Oh, vegetables. Ingredients,¡± Ning evaded, aware his position was weak. ¡°But ultimately conversation. The value is less important than the feelings. Seekers out here won¡¯t be hurting for money, master. They¡¯ll appreciate a friendly ear.¡±


    The scout¡¯s brows rose in clear scepticism. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you once: Leave. If somehow you¡¯re still alive when we return, perhaps you won¡¯t be evicted. Your customers may be worse than the demons.¡±


    She left him to explore the rest of the hall, moving quickly and gracefully with a vigour Ning envied. She didn¡¯t appear to notice the funnel at the centre. He breathed a sigh of relief. Dismissal had kept him alive, but he¡¯d been lucky. Subsequent visitors mightn¡¯t be quite so pleasant.


    Eggs replaced meat as the days ran by and shadow crept into the night. His furs began to feel baggy around him. The radishes were ready within two weeks, accelerated by his qi, with the gai lan not far behind.


    In the cities, the sects would demand a fee. Qi-grown goods were a valuable service, they¡¯d say, and cultivation wasn¡¯t cheap. He¡¯d first need a licence, and then to pay taxes ¨C only to sell at a price no one needy could pay. Meanwhile, the taxes never made it back to the streets.


    He boarded up the hall¡¯s entrance and windows with fragile wood shutters, doing his cooking during the day. The smoke from his pot rose to the top of the hall and he let it out gently, gradually easing it away.


    That was his mistake.


    He woke to a tapping at the entrance.


    Rolling into a crouch, Ning held his breath and checked the ritual circle, white hair loose around him in a cloud. The last of his tincture had been growing thin.


    ¡°I smelt your pot,¡± a voice called from outside; soft, inhuman and gravelly. ¡°It¡¯s cold, and I¡¯m bone and skin. Won¡¯t you let me in?¡±


    He¡¯d bound the shutters with ribbon; a minor demon wouldn¡¯t break in. He thought it was minor. Major demons had been known to play the part, leading the overconfident to believe they could win.


    He held his breath longer. Soft clucking came from his chickens.


    Shuffling sounded from outside the door. ¡°You¡¯re a seeker,¡± the voice called again. ¡°Let me in, and I¡¯ll lead you to the dragon¡¯s treasure.¡±


    Like all words out of a demon¡¯s mouth, it would be true but deceptive. No doubt he would be led to an item long since scavenged into someone¡¯s vault and then devoured. Or devoured first and his corpse posthumously delivered. Regardless, he wasn¡¯t interested. Ning¡¯s lungs ached.


    ¡°I know where you are,¡± said the demon. ¡°Let me in or I¡¯ll return with my kin.¡±


    Demons, as a rule, didn¡¯t like to share. Much like cultivators in that regard. This one must have been desperate to consider splitting a find with its brethren.


    Pleading. Bargains. Threats. He stood less of a chance against a pack of them. He¡¯d known discovery would likely come, sooner rather than later. He could fortify his protections and resign himself to living under siege.


    And yet, that desperation.


    He breathed in and smoothed his beard. ¡°I have a counteroffer,¡± he declared.


    The shuffling ceased, followed by a long, long pause.


    ¡°Gracious traveller,¡± wheezed the demon.


    ¡°You want my soul,¡± Ning said bluntly. ¡°Or others¡¯ I can help you retrieve. I believe the standard arrangement is three in return for my life. Correct?¡±


    ¡°Three is not sufficient,¡± the demon breathed, no longer pretending. ¡°Promise me twelve human souls, one for each month of the year and delivered before month¡¯s end. Then I will leave you be.¡±


    It was a poor arrangement; the terms protecting him from only one adversary. He would have to return to a city, or at minimum Shivering Reach. The demon must badly need to feed.


    ¡°I have breeding chickens,¡± he called through the door. ¡°Promise not to harm me in any way, and I¡¯ll give you one straight away.¡±


    ¡°You insult me,¡± rumbled the demon. The shutters rattled, sending the red ribbon fluttering. But they held.


    ¡°That¡¯s not the full proposal,¡± Ning said. ¡°That¡¯s just to keep your immediate starvation at bay. I plan to feed you the souls of my enemies.¡±


    A low hacking sounded beyond the shutters. It took him a moment to realise the demon was laughing. ¡°Wicked. Shameful. Offering immortal parts of your mortal kin; sentencing them to permanent annihilation.¡±


    It was trying to make him feel bad; change his mind to make him give up more easily.


    ¡°Is it?¡± he asked. ¡°What if they didn¡¯t belong to mortals? What if I offered you souls from the heavens?¡±


    ¡°It is not possible.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Ning argued. ¡°Who made you how you are, requiring you feed on souls? Who could have undone your curse at any time but left you to rot in the mortal world, shunned and hunted by its natives? How many gods would it take to come back and change the shape of your whole existence without lifting so much as a finger?¡±


    A long silence sounded from the other side of the door.


    ¡°One,¡± said the demon, finally. ¡°One soul.¡±


    ¡°Then that¡¯s my offer, plus an interim supply of chickens. In return, I would like your protection, confidentiality and help. If in one year no divine soul has been turned over, the bargain is off.¡±


    ¡°And how do you, ambitious traveller, plan to achieve the impossible?¡± the demon wheezed.


    ¡°I won¡¯t do it alone. There¡¯s me. There¡¯s you. And everybody else.¡±


    ¡°How many is everybody?¡±


    ¡°All of them,¡± Ning answered. He stepped across the tincture boundary and shuffled to the shutters, hanging the resting mirror back over his neck. The talismans on his arms glittered. ¡°I¡¯m opening the door now.¡±


    On the other side stood an enormous brown deer, antlers almost scraping the floor. It had four bloodshot eyes with barely a spark of chilling glow. Its neck drooped under the weight of its horns, and it was horribly, terribly thin, with fur caved dramatically inwards. Inscriptions covered its hoofs and antlers, dulled and worn.


    He¡¯d had little to worry about, Ning realised, even as it hungrily stared at him. The situation was worse than he¡¯d thought.


    ¡°Let me get you that chicken,¡± he said, and stepped back from the door.


    ---


    The hall contained plenty of space for demons. Ning insisted on it staying at the far end away from his bedroll, and harvested a fresh batch of sweet flag and mugwort.


    The demon looked slightly less wretched since consuming the chicken ¨C albeit more likely to murder him in his sleep ¨C but he trusted the agreement would hold. The problem was that he suspected he¡¯d still been had, since he now had an ongoing drain on his chicken supply with little immediately obvious return.


    ¡°The plan is this,¡± he told it the following morning after sleeping badly. ¡°With the reminder you¡¯re bound to discretion. We don¡¯t reduce the flow of qi in the world. That would be noticed somewhere. The planetary meridians must travel away to somewhere from here.¡± Reaching inside his pouch, he drew out the compass spoon and used it to point towards his shoes. ¡°Channels run through the inside of a magnet as well as without; it probably ends up down there, out at the other Great Dragon¡¯s lair.¡±


    It made him uneasy; he had a base idea of what human cultivators were capable of and much less idea about dragons. As far as he knew, the southern dragon was still alive and would notice a disruption to its nest. Worse, intercept it.


    ¡°I think we capture qi here and send it out in reverse,¡± he continued his explanation. It was nice to put a voice to his ideas, even if the demon had no idea what he meant. ¡°But instead of the typical aimless cycle, we target it. Imagine, demon. Every person who can receive qi¡­ does. A portion of the planet¡¯s supply, which is not insignificant. Do you know what separates the mortal realm from the heavens?¡±


    ¡°Its inferiority in every way,¡± the deer haltingly replied. It sat on the slabs with its legs folded under it. Compared to the previous night, its voice was a little clearer. Head a little higher.


    ¡°The level of ambient qi,¡± Ning corrected. It was basic sect training, back when he¡¯d thought that dream could still fire. ¡°And do you know what creates that?¡±


    The demon blinked one set of eyes after the other and did not reply.


    ¡°Cultivators,¡± Ning answered for it. ¡°Well, the humans.¡± He wasn¡¯t sure about demons, who consumed more than provided. ¡°Cultivators generate qi from within as well as their environment. The stronger they are, the more they provide.¡±


    The mortal realm had always been the weakest of the realms, but historical records clearly showed a downwards slide as its stronger practitioners ascended.


    ¡°It¡¯s solvable in small doses,¡± he said. ¡°Concentrated qi can unstop blocked meridians. Stimulate new ones over time. Speed up refinement. Spur on breakthroughs in a fraction of the usual duration. The issue is one of scarcity.¡±


    There were pills the sects restricted, much like the taxes on radishes, but far more limited in supply. A single pill could purchase a marriage, alliance, or closely-held technique, usually to benefit the scarce few in favour at the time. Alchemical knowledge was closely guarded. Sects fought wars over the findings.


    The deer snorted through its lips in reply. ¡°You can¡¯t throw unfiltered qi at an average human and expect they¡¯ll survive. Your little bodies are fragile.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Ning agreed. ¡°So we tailor them.¡±


    ¡°Pah,¡± said the demon. ¡°How will this subdue the divine?¡±


    Ning answered indirectly. ¡°Two global cycles,¡± he announced, holding up an equal number of fingers. ¡°The first proceeds uninhibited. We filter qi in this hall subtly, altered to record the personal maps of every soul it touches. That information will soon make its way back to us.¡±


    ¡°How demonic of you,¡± the deer said dryly. ¡°You¡¯ll turn the whole world against you.¡±


    ¡°Only if they notice. Or listen to the people who do. The second cycle will be less subtle, because of how it¡¯s designed.¡±


    ¡°To break people open.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no hiding it,¡± Ning said. ¡°I¡¯m aware I might die in the backlash. In which case, you can have my soul once I¡¯m done with it. I don¡¯t see the point if I won¡¯t remember my lives.¡±


    The demon stared at him.


    He continued. ¡°So we don¡¯t try to hide it. We embrace it. Present being strengthened as the blessing it is, but at an individual scale rather than the agenda behind it. That¡¯s the gift we send in reverse, back along the surface. Back along the lines. The ambient qi stays constant because it¡¯s still travelling out in the world. Nothing is stolen, only put to better purpose.¡±


    That was his only hope at making it stick. He couldn¡¯t make his realm strong enough to withstand the heavens on a single try. It would need several iterations at least, each one building on the gains from the last to improve the results each time.


    ¡°There are obvious problems with this,¡± declared the demon.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Ning deflated somewhat. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°If you bump up everyone¡¯s power, your strongest humans will ascend. Taking their qi with them.¡±


    ¡°Only a few,¡± Ning said, though the sinking feeling he felt made him worry the deer was right. ¡°Overall, more people will be positively impacted by several million times.¡±


    ¡°And the chaos these presents will bring your society?¡±


    He stroked his beard, drawing the long strands through his fingers. ¡°Being selective would make them angrier. Excluding powerful players is exactly how I die.¡± He glanced at the demon. ¡°Let the masters ascend, then, and join the enemy. We¡¯ll focus on the new baseline.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to win them over, old man,¡± the demon rumbled with a toss of its antlers. ¡°They won¡¯t want to fight your battle. Heaven is an aspiration and legends struggle to die. The task you¡¯ve set is primed to fail.¡±


    But no longer ¡®impossible¡¯, Ning noted. There was much work to do before he set it all in motion, and it had to be done before end of winter. The strongest among mortals stood far below the weakest of the heavens.


    It would be hard.


    Still, he would try.

 The Shadow of the Mortal Holiday

    He ran through the forest, weaving around brambles and underbrush, his boots crunching


    over the snow. Each stride was a desperate stretch, his breath coming in sharp bursts that


    mingled with the howling wind. The blizzard roared around him, a curtain of icy white that


    bit at his face and blurred the night-shrouded landscape. He couldn¡¯t see more than a few


    paces ahead, but stopping wasn¡¯t an option.


    If they caught him now, it would all be over. Not after what he had done.


    For hours, he ran, his legs burning and lungs screaming in protest. Occasionally, he paused


    to scatter false trails¡ªbroken branches here, footprints leading toward nowhere


    there¡ªanything to throw his pursuers off the scent. He wasn¡¯t sure how far behind they


    were, but the paranoia clung to him like a second skin.


    Then, through the swirling snow, he saw it: the dark outline of a building. He blinked


    against the wind, heart pounding. As he drew closer, the shape sharpened into that of a


    cabin, half-buried under a thick blanket of snow. It was neither small nor large, but a


    modest structure with frost-covered windows that glinted faintly in the moonlight.


    With a final burst of energy, he stumbled toward the cabin, each step sinking into the


    snow as exhaustion tugged at his limbs. He tried the door knob, and surprisingly, it was


    open. He rushed inside, and slammed the door closed behind him. Now, he could truly feel


    how cold his body was, as the blistering cold wind outside could no longer reach him.


    Inside was simple furniture. A couch, a bed, a table, small cabinents and cupboards, and a


    fireplace. His thoughts immediately went to setting a flame¡ªbut that would produce


    smoke and steam, and pinpoint him inside the forest. He couldn¡¯t do that¡ªlest they find


    him.


    Instead, exhaustion began to tear away at his spirit. He stumbled toward the bed, and fellonto it. His hands grasped the daggers at his side, their blades still stained. He was tired,


    but he still had to be cautious.


    Eventually, he succumbed to a short sleep.


    When he awoke, it wasn¡¯t the gradual stirring of a man well-rested. It was abrupt, his heart


    thumping as though it had never slowed, his fingers tightening around the hilts of his


    daggers. The cabin was silent, save for the faint whistle of wind sneaking through the


    cracks in the walls. For a moment, he lay still, his ears straining for any sound, any sign


    that his pursuers had found him.


    But there was nothing.


    He sat up slowly, muscles stiff after last night¡¯s frantic escape. The cabin was dark, the


    only light coming from a pale crack of moonlight filtering through the frosted windows.


    Yet, something about the room felt¡­ different.


    His stomach growled, breaking the silence. With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet,


    intending to rummage through the cupboards for anything remotely edible. But as he


    turned, he froze.


    There, on the small table in the center of the room, was a tray.


    He blinked, unsure if his sleep-starved mind was playing tricks on him. The tray was laden


    with what could only be described as an attempt at breakfast: a hunk of stale bread, a


    steaming cup of something that smelled vaguely like tea, and what appeared to be an


    overcooked egg. The arrangement was clumsy, the plate slightly askew, and crumbs


    scattered around it.


    His instincts screamed that it was a trap. He tightened his grip on his daggers, his eyes


    darting to the door and windows. Had someone been here while he slept? Had his hunters


    somehow gotten in without him noticing?But the cabin was still as he¡¯d left it. No footprints in the snow outside, no signs of forced


    entry. Just the tray of food, sitting innocently on the table.


    Hunger warred with the caution within him as he approached it, his steps slow and


    deliberate. He prodded the bread with his dagger, half-expecting it to explode or release


    some kind of poison gas. When nothing happened, he took a cautious sniff. It smelled fine,


    if a bit burnt.


    Against his better judgment, he ate. The bread was dry, the egg rubbery, and the tea far


    too bitter, but it filled the gnawing ache in his stomach. Still, unease churned in his gut


    alongside the makeshift meal.


    Who had left it? And why?


    The questions nagged at him as he searched the cabin, checking every corner, every


    cupboard, even under the bed. But he found nothing out of place. He pushed the thought


    to the back of his mind.


    He needed to camp out here for a while, and a cabin was better than the blistering snow.


    So, he decided to take the day slow, and spend it resting.


    The next morning, it happened again.


    This time, the tray held a watery porridge and a single shriveled apple. Again, it was


    haphazardly arranged, and again, there was no sign of who had left it. He didn¡¯t touch it at


    first, spending the better part of the day searching the cabin for hidden compartments or


    signs of someone sneaking in. When hunger finally won out, he ate the meal with the


    same wary deliberation as before.


    Days passed, and the routine continued. Each morning, the mysterious tray appeared. The


    food never improved in quality¡ªif anything, it grew stranger, as though whoever prepared


    it didn¡¯t quite understand what humans ate. Once, there was a plate of raw potatoes.Another time, a pile of dried herbs sprinkled over a rock-hard biscuit.


    And yet, there was a certain comfort in the strange predictability of it. Whoever¡ªor


    whatever¡ªwas leaving the food didn¡¯t seem interested in harming him.


    At least, not yet.


    It wasn¡¯t until the fifth night that he finally caught a glimpse of his unseen benefactor.


    He had stayed awake, his exhaustion barely held at bay by the adrenaline coursing through


    his veins. The cabin was deathly silent, the fireless hearth casting long, jagged shadows


    across the walls. Hours ticked by as he sat in the dark, his daggers resting on his lap, his


    ears straining for any sound.


    And then, he saw it.


    A shadow moved¡ªnot outside, but within the cabin. It slithered along the wall,


    unnaturally fluid, its shape shifting as though it couldn¡¯t decide what it wanted to be. For a


    moment, it paused, coalescing into something vaguely humanoid before darting toward


    the door.


    He didn¡¯t think, only acted. Lunging forward, he flung the door open just in time to see theThis text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    figure slip through the crack and vanish into the blizzard.


    Cold air bit at his face, but he didn¡¯t care. He stared into the storm, his heart pounding, the


    image of that shadow burned into his mind.


    Whatever it was, it wasn¡¯t human.


    And he wasn¡¯t alone in the cabin.


    The door slammed shut behind him, and for a long moment, he stood there, his back


    pressed against the wood, his breath coming in sharp bursts. His mind raced, replayingwhat he had just seen. It hadn¡¯t been a trick of the light or a figment of his exhaustion.


    The shadow had moved, had shifted, had watched.


    The food, the tidied cabin¡ªnone of it made sense before, but now, it was unmistakable.


    He wasn¡¯t alone, and whatever shared the cabin with him wasn¡¯t flesh and blood.


    Sleep was out of the question. He spent the rest of the night perched on the edge of the


    bed, daggers clutched tightly in his hands, his eyes darting to every corner of the room.


    But the shadow didn¡¯t return. The only movement came from the flicker of the frosted


    window panes as the blizzard raged on outside.


    By morning, his body ached from tension, his muscles stiff and his eyes burning from lack


    of sleep. He forced himself to move, pacing the room as his thoughts spiraled. The


    shadow¡ªwhatever it was¡ªhad been helping him, hadn¡¯t it? It had brought food,


    straightened the cabin, even cleaned his boots one night. It had had countless


    opportunities to harm him, but it hadn¡¯t.


    Yet, the way it had moved¡ªthe way it had slipped through the crack in the door like


    smoke¡ªit wasn¡¯t natural.


    He was no stranger to danger, to the malice that often lurked behind kind acts. He¡¯d been


    a thief for too long to trust generosity at face value.


    When the food appeared again that morning, he stared at it for a long time. It was a crude


    attempt at a sandwich this time, two uneven slices of bread clumsily stuffed with raw


    greens and some unidentifiable paste. The sight of it, so absurd and almost pitiful, made


    something in his chest tighten.


    He didn¡¯t eat it. Instead, he let it sit there.


    Digging through his satchel, he pulled out a single, half-melted sugar cube¡ªone of the


    last remnants of his stolen haul. He placed it carefully on the table next to the sandwichand sat back, watching.


    Hours passed. The day crept by in agonizing silence, the blizzard outside refusing to relent.


    The shadow didn¡¯t show itself, but when he turned his head for just a moment, he heard it:


    a faint, almost imperceptible sound, like the rustling of dry leaves.


    When he looked back, the sugar cube was gone.


    That night, he lay awake once more, waiting. The hours dragged on, but eventually, the


    whispering rustle returned. It came from the far corner of the cabin, where the shadows


    were deepest.


    This time, he didn¡¯t move. He kept his breathing slow, his daggers resting within easy


    reach as his eyes remained fixed on the darkened corner.


    And then he saw it again.


    The shadow unfolded itself like a living ink stain from a page, its edges shifting and


    writhing. It grew taller, its form taking on more definition¡ªlong, thin limbs, a hunched


    frame, a head that tilted slightly as though curious. Two pinpricks of pale, glimmering light


    appeared where eyes should have been, staring directly at him.


    His breath caught in his throat, his fingers twitching toward his blades. But he didn¡¯t


    attack.


    The shadow didn¡¯t approach. Instead, it reached out a spindly arm toward the table, its


    movements deliberate and strangely careful. When it touched the crude sandwich, it


    seemed to hesitate, then pushed it slightly toward him.


    An offering.


    He stared at it, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. The thing wanted to¡­ what? To share?


    To befriend him?Swallowing hard, he forced his trembling hand to move. He reached toward the sandwich,


    his fingers brushing the rough surface of the bread. The shadow didn¡¯t react, simply


    watching him with its unblinking pinprick eyes.


    He took a bite. It was as unpleasant as he¡¯d expected, the greens bitter and the paste oily,


    but he forced it down. When he finished, he gave a small nod, his throat too dry to speak.


    Perhaps if he showed any discontent at the creature¡¯s offer, that thing would instantly kill


    him. There was no telling what it wanted, or what it could do.


    The shadow seemed to shrink slightly, its edges softening. Then, without a sound, it


    slipped back into the corner and melted into the darkness.


    The cabin was silent once more, but the air felt different, lighter somehow.


    He exhaled shakily, setting the daggers aside. Whatever this thing was, it seemed friendly


    for the time being¡ªotherwise it would have killed him the moment it knew that he was


    laying awake for it.


    But one thought lingered in his mind as exhaustion finally pulled him into a restless sleep.


    Had he won its favor, or had he just made himself easier to trap?


    The days passed, each one slipping into the next with an eerie consistency. The shadow


    continued its silent ministrations, appearing in the dark corners of the cabin when he least


    expected it. Every morning, a small, poorly made breakfast tray sat on the table, laden with


    clumsy food¡ªbread half-burned, eggs scrambled into a lumpy, unappetizing mass. But it


    was food. And for a man on the run, starving in the wilderness, it was enough.


    He gave little thought to the mystery of it. After all, the shadow had helped him. It had


    shown him kindness¡ªsomething he hadn''t experienced in a long while. And so, he began


    to leave things in return. Trinkets he had stolen, small treasures he¡¯d kept hidden in the


    folds of his cloak. He¡¯d leave them on the table, near the fireplace, sometimes under hispillow when he¡¯d sleep. He thought perhaps the creature wanted these things, some kind


    of payment for its help.


    At first, it didn¡¯t take them. But after a few more tries, the small coins, the little pieces of


    string he left out on the table¡ªthey began to disappear. That thing was accepting his


    offerings.


    One night, as he was resting, he heard the shuffle of steps, and the loud yells of


    something outside. The blizzard was still raging, but he could hear the voices of others


    from deep beyond the icy veil. His pursuers¡ªthey were somewhere near. But not near


    enough, as they would have seen the cabin if they were close.


    He gripped his daggers, and waited behind the door. If he heard the steps, he would have


    to spring out and attack.


    However, the voices eventually dissipated, disappearing into the howling winds outside.


    With a relax sigh, he slumped down the door, glad to have escaped danger, once again. As


    his eyes fixated back on the cabin, he noticed something strange. The table¡ªit was clear.


    The walls, the cabinets, even the bed¡ªthey were all dusty. It was as if the cabin had been


    abandoned, and his stay there had never existed.


    What was happening?


    The thief looked down at his hand, and noticed a small stain of blood.


    What? He thought. The thief froze, staring at the stain on his hand. It was dark and dry,


    flaking slightly from his touch. His mind raced. Was it his blood? No¡ªhe didn¡¯t feel any


    wounds. Then where had it come from?


    He turned toward the table, where the strange, unappetizing meals had been left for him


    every day. His heart sank. The table was empty, as if nothing had ever been placed there.No plate. No crumbs. No utensils. It was bare wood, cracked and warped with age, and


    streaked faintly with something dark. Something that looked like¡­ dried blood.


    The shadow. The creature. His mind replayed the odd exchanges over the past few


    days¡ªthe strange offerings, the things he had left in return. He thought of the food he


    had eaten, forcing down every bitter bite. His stomach churned.


    He staggered to the corner of the room where he had tossed a necklace the creature had


    left him the night before. But when he reached for it, his fingers brushed nothing but cold


    air. The necklace wasn¡¯t there. He scoured the cabin, overturning the sparse furniture,


    tearing through cupboards and drawers, but every offering he had received was gone.


    The unease grew into full-blown panic as he checked his satchel. His gold, the stolen


    riches that had cost him everything¡ªgone. All that remained were scraps: bark that


    crumbled in his hands, shards of bone, and a dark, oily substance that smelled like decay.


    ¡°No,¡± he muttered, clutching his head. ¡°No, no, no!¡±


    He stumbled back, his vision swimming. It was all a lie. The meals, the gifts, the


    protection¡ªit had been nothing but illusions. He¡¯d been eating scraps of bark, sipping foul


    sludge. And worse, he¡¯d been giving his treasures¡ªhis only leverage, his lifeline¡ªaway to


    a creature he didn¡¯t understand.


    The walls of the cabin seemed to close in, the air thickening. He staggered to the door and


    threw it open, desperate to escape. But the blizzard outside had only grown fiercer, the


    howling winds carrying whispers that sounded like laughter.


    The shadow loomed in the doorway, pale eyes gleaming with malice.


    ¡°You¡­ tricked me!¡± the thief shouted, his voice hoarse. ¡°You lied!¡±


    The creature tilted its head, an unnerving gesture that seemed almost curious. It steppedcloser, its edges blurring and twisting. The thief backed away, his remaining dagger


    clutched tightly in his trembling hand.


    ¡°What do you want from me?¡± he demanded, his voice cracking.


    The shadow didn¡¯t answer. Instead, it reached out, one dark, claw-like appendage unfurling.


    The thief lashed out with his dagger, but the blade passed through the creature as if it


    were smoke.


    The shadow¡¯s hand closed around his wrist, and an icy cold shot through his body. He


    screamed as the dagger fell from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor.


    The creature didn¡¯t stop. It took from him¡ªnot just objects this time, but pieces of


    himself. His strength, his warmth, his very essence. He felt his body weaken, his limbs grow


    numb, his vision darken.


    By the time it was finished, the man was a hollow shell, crumpled on the floor of the cabin.


    Outside, the blizzard raged on, but within the storm came a scream¡ªlong and piercing, a


    sound of pure, unfiltered terror. The scream echoed through the forest, carried on the icy


    wind, and then¡­ silence.


    ???


    Far away, in the grand halls of the royal house, the snow holiday was in full swing. Guards


    patrolled the opulent corridors, their boots echoing against polished marble floors.


    Outside, children played in the snow, their laughter carrying through the crisp air.


    In the entry hall, a messenger arrived with a package¡ªsmall, unassuming, wrapped in plain


    burlap. The guard who received it frowned, puzzled by its appearance. There was no


    indication of who had sent it, only the faint smell of iron that made his stomach churn.


    He hesitated, then untied the rough string and pulled back the cloth.The contents spilled out: a severed hand, pale and stiff with frost; a bundle of twisted,


    blood-soaked rags; and a pouch of gold coins, each one glinting faintly in the light.


    The guard recoiled, his stomach turning as the stench of decay hit him. But something


    else caught his eye¡ªa piece of paper tucked among the gruesome remains.


    With trembling hands, he unfolded it.


    The words were written in an uneven scrawl, almost childlike, as if the writer had never


    learned to hold a pen:


    ¡°A gift, from the snow. Thank his majesty for the yearly offerings. I present you, an


    offering of my own. Happy human holidays, mortal.¡±


    The guard turned pale, his mind racing. The nobleman¡¯s death, the stolen gold, the fugitive


    who had vanished into the wilderness¡ªit all clicked into place.


    He stepped back, his breath quickening, as if the shadow that had delivered the package


    was still watching.


    And outside, amid the snow and the cheer of the holiday, a dark figure moved through the


    forest, carrying its next gift.

 A Christmas to Forget

    The house stirred, the whispers of dormice, the splintering glow of the embers laying dormant in the living room hearth, and the creaking of the house, braving the fierce blizzard and yet; something else, something far darker swells and churns within the warm walls of the family home, a dark shadow looming over the sleeping few.


    A boy, no older than eight twists and turns in his bed, the rattling of harsh winds against the windows keeping him from his rest. Opening his eyes, he rises from the soft quilts, slipping out from the safety of his bed. Sliding into his slippers, he lifts himself to his feet, the floorboards betraying his restlessness as he finds his way through the dark room, his hands searching across the wall for the lightswitch.


    A brief click resonates through his room, the shadows retreating from his form.


    And yet, as the boy basks in the comfort of his own room, his gaze resting upon the gilding and garnishing, reminding him of the morning festivities to come, to those that lie in wake in the dark, he remains exposed.


    A set of steps can be heard as the boy trails out of his sanctuary, his unsated curiosity leading him to the landing beyond his bedroom, a fear roots him as he watches the darkness rising from the lower floor, yet the logical, more grounded part of his mind tells him it¡¯s a trick of the light. After all, he¡¯s within his own home, safeguarded by the presence of his family, is he not?


    Against his better judgement, he sinks down into the darkness below, one step at a time, each creak of the staircase beneath him sends shivers up his spine, despite this, the subtle glow of the christmas tree seeping from his living room fills him with a sense of security, one that belies the imminent danger the boy may soon find himself in.


    One, Two, One, Two. He finds his way to the door, a hint of a smile creeping across his features as his eyes fall onto the the myriad of colours before him, it¡¯s a heartwarming sight, one that fills him with nostalgic memories of the years before, warm eves spent by the fireplace, surrounded by family and festive cheer before the best day of the year¡­


    And surely this year would be no different?


    Without so much as a peep, the boy finds his way across the room, carefully navigating the barely illuminated remnants of festive treats and trinkets from their family celebration the evening prior, gradually inching closer and closer to the festive spire of green and gold, the star from the tree vividly outlined by the array of magical lights lining the leaves.


    Alas what captured the boy¡¯s attention, was not the lights, nor was it the star or the the shift in the rooms temperature, it was a small box, larger than any other present sitting under the tree. He traces a thumb along the seams of the paper, a crude job, but it gets the job done, surely he¡¯d remember such a magnificent gift from all those days of anticipation, gazing upon the christmas tree and all its spoils, counting down the days. And yet, as he may wrack his brain for answers, the present bears no semblance of any he¡¯d seen before, the box dwarfing him in height, yet no wider than his shoulders.


    Beckoned by insatiable curiosity, the boy peels at the wrapping paper, what could it possibly be?


    He tells himself that nobody will know, not if he¡¯s careful, not if he¡¯s quiet.


    But despite his best efforts, it already knows, it already watches, an unreadable expression adorning its spider-like features.


    From the corner of the room, it watches as a boy, no older than 10, peels away the paper of a large box, his small fingers finding their way to the seams, pulling away to reveal the hard texture of the cardboard underneath.


    The embers of the fireplace fade away as it approaches, without so much as a peep, it finds its way across the room, easily traversing through the clutter of the evening before. An evening it remembers well, the cheers of man and woman alike from beyond its fragile prison, but alas that is of no concern; for it is christmas, the one night of the year where it may truly feast.


    The boy, emboldened by the adrenaline running through him, tears away at the cardboard, peering into the box.


    Nothing.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Confused and disappointed, the boy sets the box as it was, patting down the paper in a feeble attempt to hide his transgression, before making his slow retreat out of the vacant living room, gently closing the door behind him a padding his way across the hallway, finding his way to the stairs.


    It watches from the landing as the child makes its way back up, clambering up the old staircase, unceremonious and loud, yet it remains still, molding into the darkness as its eyes remain fixed on the tiny form, full of excitement and anticipation, unaware of what lurks just out of sight.


    As the young boy slips back into the warmth of his bedroom, the creature moves, without a sound, without a trace. It finds its way into the room as the boy trails back into bed, the shadows seeping back into the room as he turns off the light before quietly ambling back to bed, his feet slithering out of his warm slippers.


    Pulling the duvet back over himself, the boy seeks respite from the cold that threatens to overwhelm him, an unnatural cold, sending sharp shivers up his spine, the safety of his christmas has vanished, and he has not a clue why.


    He buries his face in his pillow, trying to cast away his restlessness, yet something stops him, perhaps it¡¯s just his mind playing tricks, but regardless something is not right.


    The present, the unnatural cold, the way the shadows feel like they¡¯re swallowing him whole.


    Something is not right.


    It stands curiously over the small boy, examining as he hides his face with freakish intrigue, why does he shiver and whimper so?


    It paces around the room, once full of festive warmth and cheer, now full of unease and fear, a stocking lies empty hung loosely around the bedpost, cookies now cold and milk gone sour resting untouched on the floor beneath the bed.


    After all, Santa won¡¯t be coming; they¡¯re already dead.


    The boy crawls under the covers, shielding himself from the eerie presence within his room, a rational part of him tells him that there¡¯s nothing to be afraid of, the blizzard continues to rage outside, it¡¯s only natural for the cold to take hold even within the warmth of his home, and surely the present can be explained.


    And yet despite himself, he cowers in fear under the woven veil from a beast he does not know, a beast that belies reason, he¡¯s a smart young boy, and he knows in his head that there¡¯s nothing there, that he¡¯s as safe as he can be. And yet fear does not loosen its grip on his young heart as he cowers away from the shadows of his room.


    The creature regards the child with a warped grimace, its curiosity bordering on frustration, tracing its shadowy limbs, impossibly long and skeletal over the shivering boy, threatening to dig into him. Yet still it seeks entertainment above all, to carve away at the festive cheer that would have enveloped him only hours before, its lips pulled back, revealing a maw of jagged teeth, dripping with malevolent glee as a brilliant idea tugged at its mind.


    The boy felt it, for the first time that night, he was sure that there was someone else, something else in the room with him, a rugged claw grazed over him through the thick duvet, fear continued to grip him, but this time there¡¯s something else, adrenaline.


    The creature watches with sick amusement as the boy desperately launches himself from the gilded safety of his bed towards the door, his bare feet pounded against the wooden floorboards, each frantic step threatening to splinter the sturdy planks beneath him. Forcing the door wide open, his eyes settle on the open door to the room where his parents once slept.


    Following slowly, remaining just out of sight, it glides across the landing, grinning maniacally as the young boy attempts to elude him.


    Throwing the door shut behind him, the boy scrambles for the light switch, desperate to find respite in the safety of his parents, but as the light floods into the room, the sight before him is nothing short of soul-shattering, when the bulb flickered to life, it painted the scene in harsh, unforgiving clarity. His mother and father lay unnaturally still in their bed, their faces frozen in expressions of wide-eyed terror, mouths agape as if their last breaths had been stolen mid-scream. Crimson streaks painted the sheets, dark and glossy in the light, pooling beneath them like grotesque halos. His mother¡¯s hand, limp on the edge of the bed, still reached outward, as if she had tried to claw her way to safety¡ªor to him.


    The creature stalks the boy from a distance, it¡¯s visage the very image of satisfaction as it watches the boy, who¡¯s refuge he¡¯d sought was gone, replaced by a waking nightmare more horrifying than anything he could have imagined.


    But alas, the night was drawing to a close, the sun threatened to flood the room with the radiance of the morn, and the show must come to a close; the creature would allow no curtain call. From the shadows, it emerged with unnatural grace, its spindly limbs unfolding like a grotesque marionette freed from its strings. The boy barely had time to scream before it was upon him, its jagged grin stretching impossibly wide. There was no struggle, only the sickening sound of flesh meeting claw, a wet, visceral finality that echoed through the room. The boy¡¯s world dissolved into darkness, his last desperate thought clinging to the memory of his parents¡¯ embrace¡ªa comfort he would never know again. And then, silence.


    The house lay dormant, the silence of the night, the sooty smell of the fireplace laying cold in the living room hearth, and the eerie silence of the house, once a home to a family, now a home to none.

 Afterword

    Thank you everyone for participating, I had a lot of fun writing and organising this, I hope everyone has an amazing holiday.


    Please vote for your favourited short story in the Poll!


    Extra characters, so I can publish this as a chapter.


    MerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmasUnauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.