Shadowmire
I stood at the gates of the temple, hands folded tightly, trying to stop my fingers from shaking. Doya was still unconscious inside and I couldn't make myself look back. Every part of me wanted to stay, to wait until he woke, but the pull of duty was too sudden, too urgent to ignore. Kumbuye was beside me, silent and steady. I didn't speak. I couldn't. I took a deep breath, forced myself forward, and stepped through the gates, leaving the Sanctum and Doya behind. The temple wouldn't be safe if I stayed any longer.
I mounted Bali. Kumbuye swung onto his horse and we rode away. The compass on my hand glowed a faint blue, barely visible in the dim light, marking the path to the Cranium. The glow flickered as we pressed forward, and though the road was long, there was no turning back.
Night fell thick and quiet around us. We took turns keeping watch, stopping only briefly to eat what little we carried, then riding on again. Days blurred into nights, nights into days. We rode, rested, ate, and rode again. The rhythm became endless. Weeks passed, and still the journey stretched farther than I had imagined.
Since learning the true origin of the Cranium, I had tried over and over to make sense of it, but questions circled back to the same absence — why Anthos, the original creator of the Labyrinth, was so rarely mentioned. Some answers had been given, but each only raised more questions, leaving the truth just out of reach.
I couldn't stop wondering why the Ascend hid so much from the rest of the Bound. Even Doya knew nothing of these truths. It was as if Anthos had been quietly erased from the Labyrinth's history. No explanation was given for his silence, for his disappearance from memory.
The more I thought about it, the heavier the unease became. Perhaps the Labyrinth held far more darkness than I ever imagined.
The journey stretched further, and at last we reached the seaport. The compass still glowed faintly on my hand, unwavering, pointing north — the very direction we needed to go.
We had collected some coin before leaving the Temple, enough to secure safe passage through the seas.
I stepped closer to the pilot, wind tugging at my cloak and pulling my hair across my face. I could taste the salt in the air, hear the gentle slap of water against the dock, and still, every sense felt sharp and raw. My voice came out firmer than I felt. "Will you grant us safe passage to the north?"
The man looked me over, slow and deliberate, eyes cold and calculating. Then he glanced at Kumbuye, who stood still, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. "The boat's full," he said finally, flat and dismissive. "Leaves at dawn."
I tried to steady my hands. "We have money," I said, hoping my words carried more weight than my nerves. "Enough for both of us and our horses."
He laughed, low and dry, a sound that made my chest tighten. "Money, you say? Always the answer, isn't it?" His eyes glinted, cruel, almost hungry.
I felt my fingers tighten on the pouch at my side. My pulse hammered.
"We're willing to pay well," I said, my voice shaking despite the calm I forced into it. "Enough that it will be worth your trouble."
The man leaned closer.
"You think coin bends me?" He chuckled, sharp and mocking. "I've carried fools and kings alike, and no gold ever bought me peace. You have horses? You'll pay twice to cover the risk of those beasts."
I swallowed hard, forcing words out. "Name your price."
His grin widened, teeth catching the dim sunlight.
"Ah, courage… or foolishness. Never sure which. Two silver each for the beasts, and five silver a head for you lot."
"That's quite pricey," I muttered.
"I thought you were willing to pay," he said, unmoved.
"Fine," I said quietly. "Deal."
His grin twisted. "Ah... the price just went up, double. Upfront. And I like that necklace you wear."
My stomach sank. My fingers flew to the emerald necklace resting against my chest. My mother had given it to me. It was the last piece of her I had left, a tether to a life I had lost, to a world ripped from me too soon. It reminded me of her. Of my father. Of everything I still needed to set right. And I wasn't giving it out for anything. Not now. Not ever.
"I can give you double," I said, trying to steady my voice, "but not the necklace."
He paused, weighing me, testing how far I would go. My heart hammered hard against my ribs.
At last, he exhaled through his nose, a harsh, reluctant sound.
"Fine. I'll take you aboard," he said, leaning in, voice dropping to a hiss. "Double it, then. Four silver a horse. Ten silver a head. And mark my words… no mercy from me again."
I released a long, shaky breath, the tightness in my shoulders easing only slightly. Kumbuye's gaze met mine for a brief moment. No words passed between us, but the small nod he gave was enough. I was not alone.
"Remember," the pilot added as we turned away, "we leave at dawn."
We moved off to find shelter, the sound of the sea following us.
"I don't trust him," Kumbuye muttered quietly.
"Why's that?" I asked.
"He's crooked," he said, his voice low. "The kind who would sell you out without a second thought if the price was right." He paused, then added, "If he has any idea who you are, he might betray us."
"Well," I said, forcing a steadiness I did not feel, "we don't have much of a choice."
"I know," he replied. "That's what troubles me." His jaw tightened. "If the Forsaken are after you, they will go to any length to reach you."
A dull heat settled in my chest. He wasn't wrong. The thought made my nerves coil tight. I wished I knew what the Forsaken were planning, wished I could stay one step ahead instead of waiting in the dark.
My mind drifted to Giselle. Since the day I caught her rifling through my things in the Temple, she had vanished. No trace. No word. Just gone.
Nearly a year had passed since I came to the Labyrinth, and the purpose that brought me here still lay unfinished. Jephas was still alive. Still breathing. Still free. My parents' faces flickered in my mind, but the details felt faint now, like a memory left too long in the sun.
By the time we reached the inn, my thoughts were heavy and restless.
I approached the innkeeper, a middle-aged woman tending a pot of brew that hissed softly over the fire. The smell of yeast and something bitter filled the air.
"We need a room for the night," I said.
"Five copper for the floor. One silver for a bed," she replied without looking over our direction.
"Two silver. Two beds," I said, placing the coins on the counter. The metal clinked softly against the worn wood.
She paused. Then she looked up at me properly, eyes sharp but amused. A wide smile spread across her face as she swept the coins away.
"Alright then," she said. "I'll show you."
She untied her apron and tossed it over the counter. "Oy," she called out, turning her head, "serve those drinks at the table to the left." Her gaze landed on a young man hovering nearby, clearly her apprentice.
She motioned for us to follow and led us up a narrow staircase that creaked beneath our steps. The air grew colder as we climbed, the warmth of the tavern fading behind us.
The room she opened was small and dim, lit by a single sputtering candle. The walls were rough stone, stained dark with age and smoke. The floorboards looked uneven, and the beds were little more than thin mattresses laid over wooden frames. The smell of damp wood and old cloth clung to the air. Rust stained the iron fixtures, and the window was barely more than a slit in the wall.
It wasn't comforting. But it was shelter.
"If you want a drink," she said casually, already turning away, "there's ale downstairs. Two copper a cup."
Then she was gone, leaving the door to shut with a dull thud behind her.
I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The room felt tight, cold, and unfamiliar. But it would do.
For one night.
I sighed and crossed the room, lowering myself onto one of the beds. The mattress dipped beneath my weight, thin and unforgiving. Exhaustion settled into my bones all at once, heavy and inescapable.
Only then did I realise how hungry I was. My stomach betrayed me with a loud growl.
"Let's get something to eat," Kumbuye muttered.
I glanced at him. "Stay out of my mind."
He chuckled softly. "I wasn't in your mind. I heard your stomach."
"Oh." A small laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.
"I already told you," he said, more serious now, "I would never do that to you. You just have to trust me."
"Do what?" I asked.
"Listen in on your thoughts."
I didn't reply. I only looked at him.
He had promised me months ago that he would never go through my thoughts. And I believed him. I did. Yet sometimes, a quiet unease crept in, the feeling that my thoughts were exposed. It wasn't fear exactly. Just doubt, thin and persistent.
We set down our bags and weapons. I slipped the compass and the key into my bag, tucking them beneath folded cloth and tightening the straps, making sure they were well hidden. I wasn't taking any chances. Not here.
Then we left the room and headed back down to the tavern, the sound of voices and clinking cups growing louder with each step. Food, warmth, and watchful eyes awaited us below.
We walked to a table, settling onto the hard wooden benches, our eyes sweeping over the lively tavern. The room was loud with chatter, the scrape of chairs, and the rhythmic strum of a bard's lute as coins clinked into the small bowl before him.
I waved at the innkeeper, who hurried toward us, her skirts brushing the rough, worn floor. "Two bowls of pottage, two hunks of rye bread, and two mugs of ale," I called, keeping my voice steady even as my fingers twitched near the pouch at my side.
She gave a sharp nod, her gaze flicking toward Kumbuye for the briefest moment before vanishing behind the counter. Around us, bowls clattered and kettles hissed, mixing with the low hum of conversation. The scent of roasting meat, herbs, and spiced stew curled through the air, tugging at my stomach.
Soon, the food arrived. The pottage steamed, earthy and rich, curling into the air between us. The bread was warm, its crust rough beneath my fingers, and the ale foamed golden, glinting in the dim candlelight. Hunger gnawed at me, but I forced myself to eat slowly, aware of every sound and glance around the room.
"So," I said carefully, breaking the silence between us, "you never really told me why you do this with me."
He didn't look at me at first, fingers tightening around the mug. Then, finally, his gaze met mine. "Do what?"
"Coming with me," I lowered my voice, "in search of the Cranium."
He shrugged, casual as ever. "I didn't have much to do in Krythmoor. Thought I'd find a little action… a little adventure."
I arched an eyebrow, amused. "You're risking your life for that?"
He smirked, a faint glint in his eyes. "Well… spending time with you makes it worth it too."
The words hung between us, strange and heavy, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The air felt tighter somehow, like a thread stretched to its limit.
I broke the tension, almost unconsciously. "I miss Doya," I said plainly, letting the words fall lightly but with meaning.
Kumbuye went quiet but I could feel the shift, the subtle weight of his reaction, though he masked it quickly.
We ate in near silence after that, the flicker of firelight casting shadows across our faces. The moment we finished our meal, I moved toward the bard and dropped a copper into the bowl before him — a small gesture, almost insignificant, yet enough to make him smile.
Kumbuye rose beside me without a word. We moved through the tavern quietly, letting the warmth of the room fade behind us.
We climbed the stairs, and by the time we reached our room, I closed the door behind us. The night had deepened. I slid into my bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, never daring to glance at Kumbuye. For the first time since leaving the Temple, my thoughts wandered freely.
Doya. The thought came unbidden, relentless. I pictured him in the infirmary, pale and still, and the ache in my chest tightened. Had I done the right thing, leaving him behind while following the compass north? The guilt pressed sharply into my ribs. I had abandoned him, even if only for a duty I could not ignore.
A memory flickered through my mind, the way his gaze always met mine, steady and unwavering, the quiet warmth of his presence that had always grounded me. He was my safe haven, my calm. My fingers itched, imagining the brush of his hand against mine, the sound of his voice in those small, quiet moments, always there to steady me when I faltered.
I hadn't realized until that moment how much I craved that, how much I needed it, how much I missed him. The longing twisted inside me, sharp and heavy, and I let it take over until I drifted somewhere between thought and dream, finally slipping into a restless sleep.
I woke to pale light slipping through the curtains, my body stiff from the ride.
The room was quiet. Kumbuye's bed was empty. I frowned, then noticed his gear neatly arranged by the door, boots polished and his spear standing. He was already ready.
I dressed quickly, cinched my kirtle and hose, tied my hair back, and checked my bag to make sure the compass and key were safe.
The moment I finished, Kumbuye stepped into the room, standing by the door, silent, watching me with his usual unreadable expression. His hand rested lightly holding his spear, calm but alert, the faint tension in his shoulders unmistakable. He gave a single, slight nod.
I slung my bag over my shoulder, checked my boots one last time, and we went down the stairs. Outside, his horse waited, already saddled, nostrils flaring in the cool morning air. Bali stamped her hoof, I ran a hand along her neck, feeling the familiar warmth, grounding me.
I swung onto Bali's back, feeling her muscles tense beneath me, and Kumbuye followed, mounting his own horse with practiced ease. The morning was cool, the sun low, and the streets of the port still quiet.
We moved through the narrow docks, the scent of salt and tar thick in the air. Boats rocked gently against the wooden piers, ropes creaking with the tide. Sailors shouted orders, dragging barrels and securing cargo, but no one paid us any attention.
At the far end, the ship we'd paid upfront for waited, its hull dark and imposing. The pilot leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes sharp as we approached.
"It's about time," he said, stepping aside to let us onto the gangplank.
The moment of departure hung heavy, unspoken. The sea would take us closer to the Cranium, but it also carried danger. Every creak of the wood, every cry of a gull, reminded me that once we set sail, there would be no turning back.
I let out a long breath and nudged Bali forward. Kumbuye's eyes flicked toward mine, a faint, unspoken understanding passing between us. We were ready. At last, the ship weighed anchor and set sail.
I rested my hands on the rail, staring at the waves rolling beneath us. They stretched on endlessly and my mind wandered to everything we had left behind. Kumbuye came up beside me, silent, and together we watched the sea, letting the quiet ease the tension for a moment.
And then—
A shape tore from the fog ahead, rising from the far waves with unnatural speed. Dark, jagged, shifting like liquid shadow, it moved with a mind of its own. Screams rose from the sailors and travellers as the monstrosity loomed over us. My stomach sank with a cold rush of recognition: the Forsaken.
But this… this was something I had never seen before. The air around it pulsed, thick and heavy, carrying the stench of salt and decay. The fog writhed, coiling around it unnaturally. My heart hammered against my ribs.
Kumbuye stiffened beside me, one hand tightening on his spear. "No…" His voice was low, tight with alarm. "That's a Shadowmire… a Riven Shade. Only the darkest of magic could summon one over open waters."
I blinked, trying to make sense of it. Its form twisted endlessly, and for a moment, I felt it probing, as if it could possess me.
Whatever had been following us, watching, waiting… it had found us.
And it wasn't here to negotiate.