Deep in the Shadowland.
Alina trained tirelessly beneath the cold, watchful eyes of Arlasan. Each motion was sharper than the last, every swing of her short blade faster, her footwork surer. She could feel the growth in her strength and speed, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough until she surpassed the memory of her father—until she could become stronger than he had ever been. And in her heart, she knew even Arlasan, formidable as he was, had never reached the heights her father achieved.
When they finished, sweat clung to her like a second skin, clinging in the cold, ever-shadowed air. The Shadowland was a place where sunlight never reached—blanketed always in dim gray, where even midday looked like dusk. The cold there wasn't natural; it was the kind that crept into the bones, like the place itself had long forgotten warmth.
She wiped herself down with a rough cloth, then made her way to the washhouse—a squat stone structure where the village kept its most precious resource: water.
The villagers drew it from deep beneath the earth—stale, metallic, but clean enough to keep infection at bay. Even so, it was rationed carefully. Each person had the right to bathe once per week, and today was her turn.
She stepped into the smaller washing chamber, a space so plain it felt almost monastic. A chair stood in the corner beside two wooden buckets filled to the brim, each drop accounted for. A low shelf held scraps of coarse soap, a brush with half its bristles missing. This was all she was allowed.
She undressed in silence, the air cool against her skin. Kneeling, she poured the first bucket slowly over her shoulders, shivering as the water sluiced away the grime of combat. Then she scrubbed herself methodically, refusing to rush. She would be clean—at least for now.
Nearly an hour later, she tipped the second bucket over her head. The last of the water ran down her arms, her chest, pooling at her feet. She let herself stand there a moment, eyes closed, breathing in the stillness.
Then the earth shook. A deep, shuddering vibration rolled through the floor, rattling the shelves and making the buckets clatter together. Shouts erupted outside—urgent, panicked. A woman screamed, her voice abruptly cut off.
Alina's eyes snapped open. She seized her clothes and pulled them on, dripping wet. She didn't bother with drying her hair—there was no time. Heart hammering, she burst through the doorway and sprinted across the hard-packed clearing between the houses, dodging others who were pouring from doorways in confusion.
The sounds were coming from her left—an ugly chorus of screams and a strange, guttural roaring unlike anything she had ever heard. She dashed toward it, breath ragged, until she rounded the corner of an old house.
The creature was enormous—easily as big as a house. It lurched forward on four grotesque limbs as thick as old tree trunks, each step splintering the ground and sending cracks spiderwebbing through the packed earth. The slick, gray mass of its body pulsed and heaved with a sick, heavy rhythm, as if the entire surface of its flesh were breathing. From its hunched back sprouted a forest of tentacles—some barbed, some smooth and sinuous—long enough to whip across rooftops and pull down anything in reach.
It had no face—no eyes, no nose—only that gaping, vertical maw where a chest should have been. Rows of jagged, yellowed teeth flexed wetly inside it. Smaller orifices opened and closed along its torso, each ringed in ragged flesh, each exhaling a low, slobbering whisper that sounded almost like words—but in no tongue she knew.
Where the tentacles touched, the ground blackened and cracked, as if the creature's mere presence was poison to the earth.
The greatest warriors of their village were already arrayed against it. Arlasan himself was at the fore. Blood ran down his arm, but he showed no sign of slowing. To his left, a woman Alina knew only as Shara was pinned beneath one of it's massive limb, her ribs crushed to pulp. Another warrior was held aloft in the grip of a barbed tentacle, still alive but limp with shock as the thing drew him inexorably toward the yawning maw.
Alina's mind rebelled against the sight. Every instinct told her to run. But her legs refused to move, locked between terror and the certainty that if they failed here, this entire settlement—everyone she trained beside, everyone she knew—would be swallowed by this abomination.
And in that paralyzed moment, she realized that even Arlasan's strength might not be enough.
The creature turned slightly, as though it could sense her arrival. From the weeping holes in its flesh came a long, wet sucking sound—like something drawing in breath before it spoke. Or devoured.
Alina clenched her fists, and a cold clarity settled over her fear. She had no choice. She would fight it or she would die here with the rest of them.
As she ran toward the creature, one of its massive tentacles snapped through the air, striking at her like a whip. Alina swung her sword in a desperate arc, the blade biting into the slick, rubbery flesh but failing to sever it completely. All around the village, others were converging, their weapons raised, their faces pale but determined.
Their settlement was small—no more than a few dozen families—but nearly half of them were fighters, hardened by years of surviving in the Shadowland. Spear after spear was hurled into the monster's body, burying deep into its pulsing hide. Arlasan leapt past a slashing tendril and brought his curved blade down with all his strength, severing one of the thrashing limbs in a gush of foul, dark ichor.
The creature reared back. For a heartbeat, it went still.
Then it let out a sound that shattered the darkness—a bellow so loud and deep it struck their bones like a hammer. Agony flared in her skull. Alina's limbs locked in place. All she could do was watch, eyes wide with terror, as the thing surged forward.
Before she could even draw a breath, a tentacle as thick as her waist smashed into her torso, lifting her off her feet. She felt her ribs crack as she hurtled backward, slammed into the side of a house, and crumpled amid the splintering wood.
Dust and broken planks buried her in a suffocating weight. She tried to move, but only a dull ache answered. Through gaps in the debris, she saw the chaos outside—warriors falling beneath snapping limbs, the monster dragging bodies into its maw.
Tears blurred her vision. She hadn't even had time to become stronger. She was still too weak—too slow. Despair curled cold claws around her heart.
But in that dark haze, a memory flickered. The old, brittle parchment she'd found on her last expedition—a prayer to something she hadn't dared to name aloud since. She had read it once before, but only word by word, studying it carefully without truly speaking it as a plea. Nothing had happened then.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to focus. The words surfaced, hesitant at first, then gathering strength. She whispered them, each syllable tasting of fear and hope.
"The Creator—an eternal presence, neither good nor evil, bearer of both light and shadow, who forged balance from chaos and gave form to the formless."
Her tears slid down her dirt-smeared cheeks, pattering against the broken floor.
"From nothing, You spoke.
From chaos, You sculpted stars.
In shadow, You placed the seed of light;
In light, the promise of shadow."
The world around her seemed to blur and recede.
"The Creator, who sees without eyes,
Whose voice echoes in silence—
Guide me as You guide all."
Her voice broke.
"Please…help us…"
The instant the final tear touched the ground, the ruin and carnage of the Shadowland vanished.
She was no longer beneath shattered beams and darkness. Instead, she stood in the place she had glimpsed only once before, in the fevered haze of a dream, an endless expanse of pure, blinding white. But this time, she was within the boundaries of a colossal chamber without a roof, the blankness above stretching into infinity.
At its center rose a towering vortex of swirling mist, red and white currents endlessly twisting around each other in a vast, living spiral. The air shimmered with a presence so immense it pressed against her skin and her thoughts alike.
Inside the fog, she glimpsed the silhouette of a throne—and a figure seated upon it, as still as carved stone.
For a moment, she could only stare, heart hammering. Then a voice—neither loud nor soft, but everywhere—spoke.
"Your prayer has reached the heights beyond the shadows, and so have you. Speak, mortal—why have you come here?"
Alina got up from her seated state in a rush, her sword still clutched in her trembling hand even here. Her tear-filled eyes lifted to the churning vortex. She bowed her head.
"Please…save our village."
There was no immediate reply. Silence reigned so total it felt like the universe itself was holding its breath.
When the voice came, it was not merely sound—it was the weight of thought pressed into her bones, resonant and inescapable, echoing from all directions and within her own mind.
"And by what shape do you imagine such salvation to take?"
Her lips parted, but no words formed.
"Know this, in the order of this world, a higher presence does not intervene in the quarrels and frailties of mortal life. The smallest touch can break the balance upon which your world endures."
Despair hollowed her chest, yet she could not look away.
But the voice did not fall silent.
"Still…you have called to Me in truth, with a heart laid bare. For that, I shall grant you a choice. I will not save your village for you. But I will place power in your grasp—power to stand and face the darkness."
Hope surged in her throat, fragile and bright. She bowed again, her voice unsteady.
"Then…give me that power. Please."
"Every request bears a cost. And yours shall be this."
In the air before her, a sheet of parchment appeared, pale as bleached bone, and beside it, a pen of glistening black metal.
"By this bond, you pledge your loyalty to Me alone. You will kneel to no other, and your prayers will be given to Me and no one else. When I call, you will answer."
Alina stared at the parchment. Her heart thundered, but she did not hesitate. Slowly, she took the pen and wrote her name in ancient elvish.
The instant the final stroke left the page, searing pain lanced through her body. She collapsed to her knees, a silent scream caught in her throat as the white chamber rippled and began to dissolve around her.
…
Leo looked down at the elven girl collapsed on the floor before him. Fortunately, when her prayer reached him, he had only just been preparing to sleep. Now, with Alina bound to him, all three of his chosen had pledged themselves—enough to begin shaping the foundations of his own designs.
Though he could not yet create true clones, there were other ways to lead them when the time came.
At last, Alina's convulsions stilled. She dragged herself upright, her slender frame quivering, silver hair clinging to her tear-streaked face.
Leo regarded her with impassive calm. The creature assailing her home was no mere beast—a B-rank horror, perhaps worse. A simple blessing alone would not suffice. His voice resonated through the whiteness, deeper and vaster than any mortal throat could shape.
"I shall grant you more than strength alone."
At his silent command, the swirling fog churned and split, threads of pale fire spiraling down around her. They coiled about the sword in her grasp, sinking into the steel. Along its length, runes of blinding white ignited, as though the blade itself had become a vessel of his will.
"Pour your mana into this weapon when you stand before the darkness."
He paused, the unseen throne looming behind the mist.
"Consider this a gift."
Before she could form a reply, Leo lifted his hand. The air cracked and folded. Her form vanished from his domain in a ripple of blinding light.
As he considered the possibility that she might still fail, even with her new strength, Leo resolved to watch over the battle himself. If it became necessary, he had ways to intervene.