Mist coiled through the trees of the dark forest like a living thing, shrouding the Forbidden Lands in an ethereal veil. Every branch, every blackened trunk, pulsed with the weight of memories too ancient to name, as if the land itself bore witness to secrets better left buried. Beneath the commander's steed, soil squelched, dark and soft like decaying flesh, absorbing sound and steps alike. Heavy air hung with silence, broken only by the faint scrape of steel and the distant murmur of whispers—low, melodic, and wrong.
The massive iron gate and bridge behind them groaned like a wounded beast, its rusted expanse stretching over a river that ran thick and crimson. Even the water was unnaturally quiet, mirroring the oppressive stillness that cloaked the cursed land ahead.
"What are we looking for, my lord?" asked the captain, his voice low but steady. His steel plate armor glinted faintly under the muted light of the sorcerer's orbs.
"A witch. Remnant of an old era. She lurks on this side, along with the darkness that protects her." The commander's voice cut through the quiet, low and commanding. His scarred face remained impassive, though his eyes scanned the shifting mist with cold precision. "Ready your men, captain. It will only get worse the deeper we go. We only have one chance to end these brutal raids by those monsters."
The captain gave a curt nod, turning to address his forces. "Split into parties! Move cautiously and keep your eyes sharp and weapons ready. We won't get another chance. May the lord of light protect you from darkness and its children."
The soldiers moved with mechanical precision, though their faces betrayed the tension gripping them. Each party consisted of three or four individuals, their movements methodical but strained, the black fog wrapping around them like a living thing. Before they disappeared into the mist, the commander spoke again, his voice rising just enough to carry.
"And remember, when you hear the whispers," the commander warned, "guard up and fire a signal. Do not follow them." He shouted, "I repeat, do not follow them alone."
Those words hung in the air, heavier than the fog itself, before multiple groups vanished one by one into the dark mist.
***
Norman struggled to match his captain's pace, the old man's heavy plate armor seeming to weigh nothing as his longsword rested casually over his shoulder. In contrast, every step he took felt clumsy, his boots catching on the soft, blackened ground that seemed to cling to him. The mist pressed close, warping the orb of light the sorceress carried into shifting, unnatural shapes. It cast their shadows into outrageous forms, twisting like spectres in the gloom.
He couldn't silence the words. "Whispers?" His voice cracked as he broke the silence, his unease spilling into the air. "What does he mean by that?"
The sorceress glanced back, her black eyes catching the glow of her floating orb like dark mirrors. Her smirk didn't quite mask the tension pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Norman, was it?" Her tone was sharp, laced with a sarcasm that bit harder than she likely intended.
"Yes, ma'am," he stammered, his gaze darting to the shadows that seemed to flicker just beyond the edge of the light.
"Then listen, Norman." Her voice dropped, her words carrying an edge as cold as the air. "Shut your damned mouth if you don't want to summon what's out here. That's the only advice I'm giving a rookie like you."
Norman swallowed hard, his throat dry, but before he could respond, the captain chuckled. The sound was strangely warm, a steady contrast to the chill that gripped the air. "Ease up, Rina. The kid's just nervous. This other side of the Kaal would rattle anyone on their first run. Give him a chance."
Norman's chest tightened as the captain's words eased the sting of Rina's warning. He glanced at the man's broad back and felt a pang of envy at his confidence. Even in the face of this cursed land, he spoke of home and family as if they weren't an impossible dream.
"I understand your frustration," Henrick, his captain, added, his voice quieter now, almost wistful. "Even I want to get back alive. My boy's started talking, you know. He said 'Pa' just before I was called on this madness."
Norman clung to that thought, letting it anchor him, but the air around them shifted. A cold, unyielding presence seemed to press down as the sorcerer at the rear raised his hand sharply. "Quiet," he hissed. His wand dimmed, and the faint light faded further into the oppressive mist. "Movement ahead. Something's coming our way."
Norman's hand found his sword hilt, the leather grip slick under his trembling fingers. The weight of the blade felt immense now, a far cry from the training grounds. He froze as the fog thickened, dark shapes emerging within it—slithering things that disappeared the moment his eyes tried to focus.
Then it struck. A blur of black and red shot from the canopy above, claws flashing like polished steel. The sorcerer barely dodged, rolling to the side as the creature landed with a sickening thud where he'd stood.
Norman's breath caught. The thing was no larger than a wolf, but its scaled body shimmered faintly, a patchwork of black and crimson. Its eyes burned like embers, filled with an intelligence that chilled him. Bone-like spikes jutted from its back, and its tail lashed, slicing the air with a sound like breaking glass.
The sorcerer's spell came quick and sharp, his wand igniting with midnight-blue light. The energy burst from its tip, striking the creature's face with pinpoint precision. Norman flinched as the head exploded, black ichor splattering the ground. The sickly scent of burnt flesh and rotten blood filled his nostrils, and he gagged.
Then, the silence broke in an instant. From all directions, guttural growls and the clicking of claws filled the air. Shadows moved, growing solid as more of the creatures emerged from the fog.
Henrick stepped forward like a guardian, his longsword glowing faintly as the runes etched along its blade flared to life. With a roar, he swung in wide, deliberate arcs, cleaving through limbs and skulls with practiced precision. Each strike left a trail of blue flame across the creatures' bodies, their flesh hissing as it burned.
"Yolstre Pyrrhos!" Rina's voice rang out, filled with authority and desperation. Her wand ignited with a fierce orange glow, spewing fire that consumed the creatures in a roaring inferno. Norman flinched as the flames licked at the edges of the fog, briefly revealing the forest's blackened skeleton before fading back into the oppressive gray.
He gripped his sword tightly, raising it high, but his swings were slow, clumsy. The blade lodged into the body of a fallen creature, and he struggled to pull it free, his breath coming in panicked gasps.
Behind him, Rina's chuckle was low, tinged with frustration. "Nervous, rookie? Can't even swing your sword properly. Look at him. Cap... tain."
Her smile faded. "Henrick?" she called out. The towering man was nowhere to be seen, his longsword lying abandoned in the dirt.
Norman's chest heaved as a chill rolled through the air. A sound, soft and otherworldly, whispered through the mist. The voice was feminine, haunting, and full of cruel promise. "Zor'vek..."
The whispers felt like fingers trailing down his spine, and he shuddered.
"The whisper… Send the signal! Now!" Rina barked, her voice trembling. The other sorcerer raised his wand, shooting a brilliant light into the air. For a moment, hope flickered—but then a shadow streaked through the mist with inhuman speed, dragging him into the darkness. His screams of struggle were sharp, echoing, then cut short in the distance.
"W-What the fuck was that?!" Norman's voice broke, his hands gripping Rina's arm as panic overtook him.
"Run!" Rina shoved him forward, her voice breaking with urgency. "Run toward the whisper, it's the only way out of this cursed forest. Run!"
Norman hesitated, his instincts screaming against her command, but when the scraping of claws sounded closer, he obeyed, sprinting into the fog. The mist twisted around him, the air thick with the stench of corruption and blood. Whispers coiled in his ears, soft and melodic, pulling him deeper into the cursed forest.
The air felt suffocating with each step he took, pressing down on his chest like a leaden hand. The sickly metallic tang of blood coated his tongue, saturating every breath. His boots squelched against the ground, which grew slicker with every step, the wetness clinging unnaturally, seeping into his mind as much as his soles. It wasn't water. He knew that. The crimson stream winding alongside them like a pulsing vein confirmed it.
Norman swallowed hard, his throat as dry as the parchment maps back at the fortress. Every instinct screamed for him to run, to not look back, and Rina's heavy breathing ahead of him kept him moving, even as fear coiled tightly in his chest.
The whispers had gone quiet. The forest had gone silent.
He hadn't even realized it at first, the silence creeping in like an unseen predator. The oppressive stillness was somehow worse, the absence of sound making his own laboured breaths seem deafening. Even the wind had stilled, though the icy bite of it lingered, carrying with it a faint, coppery tang that felt as much a part of him as the blood-soaked ground.
And then, from the direction they fled, a figure emerged.
Norman's breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribs. The black shadow seemed like a man. It was impossibly tall, its form cloaked in shadows that bled into the fog like smoke. Tendrils of darkness trailed behind him, twisting and writhing as though alive.
Relief and dread warred within Norman, his mind latching desperately onto the familiar shape. "W-wait, it's a man!" he croaked, his voice cracking. He lowered his sword instinctively, the weight of the blade suddenly unbearable in his trembling hand.
Ahead of him, Rina stopped cold. Her voice came sharp, slicing through his fragile hope like a blade. "No! He's not even human. He's a demon."
Norman blinked, the word echoing in his skull. A demon. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword, but his body felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sheer wrongness of the figure.
Rina didn't wait. Her wand was already a blur, runes etched into its handle igniting with a pale, flickering light. Her chant was fierce, each syllable like the crack of a whip. Fire blossomed in the dark, blazing orbs streaking toward the figure with the speed of arrows.
Norman flinched as each orb veered off-course or dissolved into harmless sparks, the flames extinguished as if the air itself rejected them. The figure moved, its steps slow, deliberate, yet unnervingly fluid. Rina's breaths came faster, her voice rising as she unleashed a powerful spell with every ounce of her strength.
"Yolstre Pyrrhos!" she screamed, her voice breaking with strain.
A torrent of fire erupted from her wand, a searing inferno that roared across the darkened forest. Trees splintered and blackened, the ground itself hissing as the flames devoured everything in their path. For a moment, Norman thought it was over.
The silence that followed was shattered only by her gasping breaths and heavy coughs, blood dripping from her nose and the tips of her trembling lips. The smoke began to clear, the scorched air stinging Norman's eyes.
And then he saw them.
Two red eyes, glowing brighter than the embers, fixed on them from the darkness. The demon stood unscathed, the flames parting around him like obedient servants. His steps resumed, slow and deliberate, each one filling them with an almost primal terror.
Norman couldn't move. His legs felt like stone, his sword like dead weight.
Rina's voice snapped him back. "Run! I'll hold him back." She screamed, desperation and exhaustion blending into raw panic. Her wand trembled in her hand as she raised it again, her body visibly shaking.
For a moment, Norman hesitated, his gaze locked on the approaching figure. But then survival instinct took over, and he turned, sprinting into the fog with all the strength he could muster.
The world twisted around him as he ran. The metallic stench of blood grew overpowering, clinging to his skin and filling his lungs. His steps echoed unnaturally, each squelch louder than it should have been. The air grew colder, heavier, until it felt as though death itself was pressing down on him.
Then the whispers returned.
"Zor'vek thar'shira..."
The words slithered through the air, their tone both melodic and guttural, laced with a cruel authority that made his skin crawl. They were faint, yet they seemed to fill the entire forest, wrapping around him like invisible chains.
Norman stumbled, his legs burning, his mind racing. He didn't know where he was running, only that he couldn't stop. The only thing on his mind was to run.
After what felt like an eternity, the fog peeled back abruptly, the veil lifting to reveal a land that shouldn't exist. His breath hitched. The ground before him was a desolate plain like a sea, cracked and dry but stained a deep crimson as if soaked in the lifeblood of countless battles for years. The remnants of something monstrous littered the battlefield, colossal skeletons with jagged teeth and hollowed eye sockets, their forms twisted with unnatural features. Massive, broken wings lay folded among their ribs, each one as wide as the iron bridge they had crossed earlier.
But it wasn't just the inhuman remains that made his stomach churn. Scattered between the creatures were human skeletons, their skulls grinning up at him in eternal torment. Rusted armour clung to their brittle bones, weapons still clutched in skeletal hands. The wind carried a faint metallic tang, and the blood-red sky above burned like an open wound.
Norman's knees threatened to buckle. This wasn't just a battlefield from his land, it was a graveyard of ancient battle in the forbidden lands. The land where only he has walked over.
A movement drew his gaze upward. Just ahead, rising from the cursed earth, stood a stake. Its dark metal was pitted and jagged, its base surrounded by a lake of congealed blood that wound its way toward the forest behind him. Bound upon it was a woman.
Norman froze, the sight burning into his mind. She hung limp, her gown soaked in blood that dripped steadily from gaping wounds along her arms, legs, and throat. The crimson rivulets fed the streams pooling below, like tributaries to a river of death. A sword, plain but thrumming with pure energy, pierced her chest, pinning her to the stake like some grotesque offering.
Then her head lifted.
Blood-red eyes met his, piercing and unyielding. Her lips curled into a faint, predatory smile. The sheer wrongness of her presence struck him like a physical blow, and he staggered back, bile rising in his throat.
"Witch. S-She's real," he whispered, his voice trembling. The realization hit like a hammer: the witch they had hunted was no legend. She was here, still alive after centuries, or something close to it.
Norman turned, panic clawing at his chest. He had to run, to get away, but his retreat was cut short as the shadows coiled and thickened before him. From the mist of the forest, the figure emerged, its form shrouded and shifting like living smoke.
The soldier's training snapped into place, shaky but instinctual. He swung his sword with all his might, the blade cutting through the air toward the shadow. But the figure moved with impossible speed, dodging every strike effortlessly. Desperation surged through Norman, and with a final cry, he brought the blade down.
It connected.
For a moment, he thought he'd succeeded, but the shadow peeled back, revealing a face beneath.
"C-Captain!" Norman gasped, his voice breaking.
The old man's lifeless eyes stared back at him, his body slumping forward. The sword still lodged in his shoulder felt heavier than ever in Norman's trembling hands.
From the corner of his eye, the shadow reformed into a humanoid creature with shadowy horns, its red eyes narrowing with contempt. "You…" it hissed, its voice fractured and echoing, each syllable dripping with malice. "Why are you here, human?"
Norman couldn't answer. His throat felt constricted, his mind spinning with the impossibility of what he had just seen.
A sudden burst of crimson light shot past him, striking the shadow with a force that sent it reeling. The scream that followed was deafening, the sound twisting into something guttural and primal.
The commander emerged from the fog, his wand aglow with the same blood-red hue as the sword that had struck true. His face was as impassive as ever, but there was something darker in his eyes now. They felt tainted with corruption.
"On your feet, lad," he barked, extending a hand to Norman.
Norman hesitated, his gaze darting back to Henrick's lifeless body. "Henrick…he…"
"He was already dead," the commander snapped, his voice cutting through Norman's panic like a blade. "Focus now. Go. Free her."
Norman's breath quickened as he turned toward the stake. The woman's crimson gaze bore into him, unrelenting. "My lord," he stammered, "she—"
"Don't make me repeat myself, boy," the commander interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.
With leaden steps, Norman approached the stake. The blood-soaked ground sucked at his boots, each step a battle against the terrain and his own growing dread. The sword that pinned her was unremarkable, yet its presence made his skin crawl.
He reached for it with trembling hands. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the blade vanished, dissipating into the air like mist. Norman recoiled but pressed on, working to unfasten the iron chains that bound her. Each link he unlatched sent a shiver through the air, a tension building around them like a storm about to break.
The shadow hissed, its fractured voice ringing in his ears. "You don't know what you've done, you fool," it growled, its body pinned and writhing against the crimson blade. "You have broken the old pact formed by the First Alliance. The world is not ready for this. You are not only releasing her, but also releasing an ancient spell cast on this land. Stop this instant."
Norman ignored it, his focus on the final chain. As it fell away, the woman collapsed forward into his arms. A delicate chiming sound cut through the silence of the battlefield as she moved, emanating from an intricate silver bracelet adorning her ankle. Her body was cold, trembling violently, but he could feel her strength returning with every breath. Her complexion was returning, it felt like seeing someone age backward.
She pushed him aside gently, her movements deliberate, each step accompanied by the haunting chime of the ankle bracelet that seemed to announce her presence across the desolate battlefield. Her wounds knit themselves closed before his eyes, skin and muscle weaving together with horrifying precision.
"You have forgotten your place, Kronos." Her voice was soft like a blade wrapped in silk, sweet yet venomous. "You have betrayed your kind. Your true masters."
The shadow recoiled, its flickering form faltering. "Betrayal doesn't sound right coming from your filthy mouth," it hissed. "Where is your lord protector now? He has perished, and his bloodline has become extinct. Our kind has mingled for long with the mortals; let them choose for themselves, like how your father envisioned. You are no queen of mine, Serena 'Blood' Raven."
Norman's breath hitched as her smile widened. Her bloodied hand reached for the shadow, and he could only watch in horrified awe as her touch dissolved its flickering form. The dark tendrils were drawn into her body like smoke into a flame, vanishing completely. With each passing second, her wounds knit faster, and her presence grew impossibly more commanding.
Her scarlet eyes scanned the battlefield, the glow within them brighter now, pulsing with an unearthly rhythm. For a long moment, she stood still, her expression unreadable, as if she were searching for someone among the broken remnants of what looked like a massive battle.
Then, she laughed.
The sound was melodic, almost hypnotic, but beneath it was a deep, aching sorrow that sent a shiver down their spine. Tears of blood streaked her pale cheeks, carving vivid red lines down her pale skin. The sound of her laughter echoed across the plains, a ripple of sound that seemed to carry weight, pressing down on him and the commander alike.
Her hands rose slowly, revealing silver rings set on both hands with blood gemstones. The gemstone on her left hand pulsed with the same hue of blood as her eyes. Magic radiated from her in waves, thick and suffocating, making the very air around them feel heavy and charged.
She began to chant, her voice low and resonant, carrying an ancient cadence that made the ground quiver beneath his feet:
"Zhal'thir vakar sol'khan, vrae vor Thul'vrae."
Norman's heart raced as the words reverberated in the air, a language older than anything he'd ever heard. The moment the chant began, the gemstone's light intensified, spreading upward to the sky in a massive spiral of blood-red energy. The crimson light blanketed the battlefield, casting every bone, weapon, and jagged stone in sharp, eerie relief.
The sky itself trembled.
Above them, the clouds swirled, forming a vortex as the hue deepened to a pulsating, living red. Thunder rumbled, but there was no lightning, only flashes of shadow within the storm. The battlefield responded in kind; the skeletons scattered across the land began to shift.
Norman froze as he saw a faint shimmer, a shadow rising from one of the massive, winged skeletons. The form of a dragon from legends, spectral and ethereal, emerged, its hollow eyes burning with ghostly light. More shapes followed: shadowy figures of knights, their tattered banners with trident-tip symbols flowing in an unseen wind, and human forms that flickered with the dim glow of souls long trapped.
The shadows rose in unison, drawn upward by her spell, twisting and spiralling together like smoke caught in a gale. The massive beast's shadow let out a soundless roar, its wings stretching wide before it dissolved into mist.
Norman's legs threatened to give out as he watched the figures vanish one by one into the air, their presence leaving a void even deeper than before. It was as if the battlefield itself exhaled, releasing the cursed souls that had been bound to it for centuries.
Her chant ceased abruptly, the power in her voice replaced by a suffocating silence. The vortex above slowed, the blood-red hue fading, though the sky remained bruised and foreboding. The tremors stopped, but the ground beneath them still felt alive, humming faintly with residual energy.
Norman stared at her, his mind unable to process what he had just witnessed. His body felt cold, his breath shallow as he clutched his sword with trembling hands.
She turned to the commander, her expression almost playful, though her eyes burned with untold power. "Well, that took a lot of energy," she said, her voice deceptively sweet. "Tell me, what do you desire? You haven't done all this out of pity for me?"
"Your Majesty, Queen of the Darkness," the commander spoke, his voice steady despite the pallor that had drained from his face. He lowered himself into a deep, reverent bow, one hand pressed to his chest in formal deference. "It is the highest honor to stand before your divine presence. Only through my master's grace and guidance has such a privilege been granted to one so unworthy."
He held the bow for a moment longer before continuing, his tone carrying the weight of ceremonial respect. "His Excellency humbly requests the honor of an audience with Your Majesty, should it please you to grant such favor."
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, then swept to Norman, who felt as if her eyes pierced straight through him.
"And what of you? Your blood feels... familiar. It has the smell of the one who pierced that sword." She said, her tone lilting but tinged with menace.
Norman trembled but didn't speak. He couldn't.
Without waiting for a reply, she smiled faintly and turned toward the forest. "Come. Bring me to that master of yours."
She vanished into the shadows, her form dissolving like smoke. The silence that followed was deafening, the battlefield stripped of its lingering souls and left eerily still.