The night came early.
The sun hadn't even finished setting before the mist began to move again — rolling over the fields of Ashvale in choking waves. The air reeked of iron and decay, as though the world itself had begun to rot.
Kaelith stood at the edge of the square, the crimson flames flickering faintly behind him. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his eyes burned steady. "Positions," he ordered. "Don't wait for them to come closer this time."
Varen checked the glowing sigils carved into the wooden palisade. "The flame's thinning. When the outer ring fails, the shades will flood through."
Kaelith's lips twisted in a dry smile. "Then let's make sure it doesn't."
The lie hung in the air, heavy and obvious.
Behind them, Seris knelt in the ritual circle, both hands pressed to the earth. Her vambraces flared with a dull red glow, feeding light into the barrier that wrapped the village in a trembling sphere. She didn't look up, not even as sweat rolled down her face. Every pulse of light was her soul being poured out—inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Riel stood a few paces behind Kaelith, chain wrapped around his arm, eyes locked on the mist. "How long do you think she can hold it?"
Kaelith didn't answer. He didn't have to.
A blur of blackness lunged out of the fog—its form half-man, half-void. Kaelith moved first, his claymore roaring with silver light as it split the creature in two. The air hissed where the blade cut, smoke hissing off the wound as the shade dissolved.
Then came the rest.
Dozens. Then hundreds.
The barrier flared, crimson veins running through the air as shadows slammed into it. Some burst on contact, their screams echoing through the night; others forced their way through—shapes like beasts, knights, and crawling masses that defied shape altogether.
"Hold the line!" Kaelith shouted, his voice hoarse. He swung his claymore again, light burning through the dark. Each strike shattered the ground, scattering spectral bodies into clouds of ash.
Varen hurled sigils that exploded into lines of fire, keeping the edges of the circle clear. But there were too many. For every shade that fell, another climbed over its corpse.
Riel moved through the chaos, his chain coiling and cracking like lightning. He dragged one shade off Varen, its shriek splitting the air before it turned to vapor. Another lunged from behind—he ducked, the chain tightening around its throat, snapping it in two.
His muscles burned. His lungs screamed.
And through it all, he could feel it—his shadow writhing beneath his feet, growing darker, heavier. Gold flickered within it, faint and trembling.
"Riel—your shadow!" Varen shouted.
He barely heard him.
Something inside was breaking.
The world warped—the sounds drowned out by a rush like the tide. And then, for a heartbeat, his sight opened.
The battlefield was gone.
In its place stood hundreds of figures—men, women, children—each pale and hollow-eyed, their faces frozen in terror. Their hands reached out, their bodies chained to the ground by runes of belief and despair.
They weren't monsters.
They were souls. Bound by the same ritual circle Seris was sustaining.
"Gods…" Riel whispered. "They're not—"
The vision shattered.
The noise came flooding back—the screams, the fire, the mist. His head rang with pain, but the truth burned in his chest. Something inside him reached out, desperate, furious.
He raised his hand.
The dagger answered.
It didn't appear in a flash or a roar—it simply was, the weight familiar, the shape carved into his being. Gold light bled along its edge, shadow running beneath like oil. It pulsed once, in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Riel exhaled—and moved.
The blade sliced through the shades like they were made of smoke and silk. Each strike was effortless, instinctual—his body remembering what his mind had not. Where the dagger cut, the darkness burned away in gold light. The trapped souls broke free, their whispers fading into the wind.
Kaelith caught sight of it for only a moment as he split through another wave of shades.
The horde thinned. The barrier wavered but held. Seris' light was nearly gone—her shoulders trembling, eyes half-lidded as she forced the last of her strength into the ritual.
By the time the final shade fell, the world was silent again.
The fields were black with ash. The mist was gone.
Seris collapsed beside the circle, runes dimming to a faint ember. Kaelith dropped to one knee nearby, blood seeping through his sleeve.
"We're still breathing," he rasped. "That counts for something."
Riel didn't answer. He stared down at his hands, at the faint gold glow still pulsing beneath his skin, at the dagger fading back into smoke.
Varen leaned against the wall, chest heaving. "If we don't end this soon," he muttered, "it won't matter how many dawns we survive."
Kaelith's jaw tightened. "Then tomorrow, we find where it starts."
The dawn crept over Ashvale—weak, red, and cold. Ash fell like snow over the silent square.
And Riel, staring into the dying light, wondered if the night would ever truly end.