The morning mist clung to the village like a shroud, heavy and silent.
Erynd moved quietly through the narrow dirt paths, careful not to draw attention. Every step was measured. Every glance was calculated.
He had learned early that in this world, carelessness was an invitation to disaster.
The air smelled faintly of burnt wood. Somewhere beyond the tree line, an old kiln had been smoldering for days, left untended after its owner disappeared. People vanished often in the Outer Fringe. No one asked questions.
He reached the well at the center of the village. The rope was frayed, the bucket dented, but the water below shimmered faintly in the dim light. He drew it up quickly, filled a small clay jar, and started back toward his hut.
Then he heard it.
A whisper.
It wasn't the kind carried by wind — it was sharp, deliberate, close.
"…Erynd…"
He froze, his pulse spiking. The jar trembled in his hands.
The voice came again, low and insistent, seeming to seep from the shadows pooling at the base of the well.
"Follow…"
He stepped back, heart hammering. His shadow on the ground rippled unnaturally, stretching toward the well like a living thing.
A sudden memory flashed — the day of the Initiation, the dark surge that had answered his call. The power of Shadow was not a gift to be flaunted. It was a secret to be hidden, or it would draw predators far worse than hunger.
And yet… there was a pull.
He glanced around. The village was still. No one saw. No one knew.
Erynd crouched beside the well, peering into the darkness.
The whisper became a hiss, then a shape — faint, insubstantial — a hand made of shadow, fingers curling as if beckoning him closer.
"What are you?" he murmured.
The hand tilted, almost in amusement. And then, with a sudden burst of cold, it plunged upward.
The world shifted.
He was no longer at the well.
Stone walls pressed around him, slick with moisture. A dim blue light pulsed from cracks in the ceiling. The air was thick, ancient, and laced with the metallic tang of blood.
Far away, something groaned — deep, resonant, like the movement of earth itself.
Erynd's breathing quickened. He wasn't dreaming. He wasn't hallucinating.
This was a place between.
The whisper returned, louder now, layered with many voices speaking as one:
"First Circle… Awaits."
The blue light flared, revealing a staircase spiraling down into the black.
Erynd's instincts screamed to turn back. But his shadow — his own — was already moving ahead of him, sliding down the steps as if it knew the way.
He tightened his grip on the jar of water. The absurdity of holding it here almost made him laugh.
"Fine," he whispered back. "Let's see where you lead."
Step by step, he descended.
The air grew colder, heavier. Whispers became words, and words became names — none of which he recognized. His vision swam, shapes forming at the edge of the dark: towering figures wrapped in chains, eyes glowing faintly like embers.
When his foot hit the final step, the chamber opened before him.
A single circle was carved into the stone floor, its lines etched with shadowy light. Inside it knelt a figure — tall, gaunt, with hair like drifting smoke. Its eyes were pits of endless night.
The figure smiled without warmth.
"You came."
Erynd swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head. "A gate. A test. A debt you don't yet know you owe."
It rose, chains clinking softly. The circle around it flared brighter.
"To ascend, you must first survive the First Circle. Fail, and your shadow will belong to me."
The ground trembled. The air shivered.
Erynd's pulse steadied — fear crystallizing into something sharper. Determination.
"Then test me."
The figure's grin widened.
"Very well… Shadowbearer."
The circle erupted in black fire.