"Erik, be ready. This is it. This is what we were fighting for, st—"
His words were cut short.
The Mother moved.
No hesitation. No sound. Just pure speed.
A blur of gray flesh and black claws sliced through the air, her elongated form lunging toward us with terrifying precision.
I barely saw it—but Rikard did.
Steel met claw.
Sparks erupted as Rikard's sword caught her strike mid-air, the force of the impact sending a violent shockwave through the cavern. My ears rang, my breath caught—but Rikard barely flinched. His body moved on instinct, blade shifting to deflect her next strike, then the next—each one too fast for my eyes to follow.
He wasn't just strong. He was faster.
His reflexes, his movements—unnatural. It was as if his body could react before his mind even registered the attack.
And me?
I stood there, watching.
I wasn't even able to see the attack coming—let alone react in time.
Was this… was this the difference between us?
Was this why, no matter how hard I trained, I would never reach him?
Rikard twisted his blade, forcing her back—for a second, just a second, there was an opening.
An opening he made for me.
My chance.
I didn't take it.
I stood frozen, caught in my own thoughts, in my own inferiority.
And The Mother?
She saw it.
She laughed.
A horrid, rasping sound, like broken bones grinding together, like a whisper that slithered beneath my skin and coiled around my throat.
She jumped back, tilting her head as if studying us. Not us. Me.
Her milky-white eyes bored into mine.
Then, she smiled.
It was an unnatural thing—a predator's grin, stretching far too wide, revealing rows of jagged, needle-like teeth.
"Oh, how cruel, warrior." Her voice was smooth now, sickly sweet, crawling into my skull like a parasite burrowing deep. "You fight alone, don't you?"
She raised a clawed hand and gestured toward me.
"And you…" She let out a small, mocking tsk. "Standing there like a child, watching, waiting. Hoping. For what?"
My jaw clenched, my grip on my sword tightening.
"He carries such a burden, doesn't he?" Her gaze flicked back to Rikard. "Fighting alone. Protecting the weak."
My breath hitched.
She laughed again.
"Tell me, warrior, how long will you carry him before you finally break?"
My chest tightened.
She didn't know us. She didn't know our names.
And yet, somehow, she saw right through me.
Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.
"Or… perhaps, it's already too late?"
Her words were knives, stabbing into my ribs, cutting into thoughts I refused to say out loud.
Because she wasn't lying.
Rikard let out a slow breath, steadying his stance. Calm. Unshaken. Not even The Mother's words had rattled him.
He glanced at me, eyes sharp yet filled with something else—something steady. Something sure.
"You think I care about that?" he scoffed, rolling his shoulders, loosening his grip on his sword. "Protecting him isn't a burden." His voice was firm, unwavering. "We've been brothers since we were kids. We've fought together, bled together. If I have to keep fighting to keep him alive, then that's what I'll do. Every damn time."
His words hit me harder than any wound ever could.
"You don't get it, do you?" Rikard took a step forward, his blade gleaming in the dim firelight. "We're not just surviving. We're going to kill you."
Then he moved.
And this time—he was winning.
Rikard danced between her strikes, his sword a blur of steel and blood. His movements were effortless, dodging her claws by inches, slipping past her attacks like he knew where she would strike before she did.
Even The Mother was struggling now.
She couldn't keep up.
Her claws lashed out, but Rikard was already on the other side, his blade carving a deep gash across her torso.
She shrieked, stumbling back—and that was my moment.
I jumped in.
I wasn't as fast as him, but I didn't need to be. Rikard made the openings, and I took them.
My blade sank deep into her side, cutting through that stretched, sinewy flesh. Black blood splattered across my hands, hot and thick.
The Mother reeled back, her twisted face contorted in surprise.
She hadn't expected that.
Rikard saw it too.
He turned toward me—and grinned.
It happened in an instant.
Rikard's eyes were still on me, that grin still on his face—
And then The Mother moved.
Faster than before. Faster than even he could react.
I saw the blur of her claws. The sharp, sickening crunch of flesh being pierced.
Rikard's body jolted.
His breath hitched.
The tip of her clawed hand had driven straight through his chest.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't breathe.
It was like my mind refused to register what just happened.
Rikard—my best friend, my brother—
He—
No. No. No. No.
My body moved before my mind caught up.
I swung.
My sword cleaved through her arm, severing it from her body in a single, wild strike.
The Mother let out a horrid, ear-piercing shriek, stumbling backward, her severed limb hitting the ground with a wet thud.
She hissed, her milky-white eyes scanning the battlefield, assessing the situation.
But I wasn't looking at her.
I was looking at Rikard.
He was swaying on his feet, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his chest, blood pouring between his fingers. Too much blood.
He was dying.
He was dying.
No. I had to do something.
He did everything to keep me alive.
I would do the same.
I gritted my teeth, my grip tightening around my sword. I would not let him die here.
I wouldn't—
Pain.
A sharp, horrific pain tore across my throat.
My vision blurred. My body stiffened.
I tasted iron.
I was on the ground. When did I fall?
Something warm was spilling down my chest.
Blood.
My blood.
The Mother stood over me, her claws dripping red.
I couldn't move.
My fingers twitched, weakly clutching my sword. But I couldn't lift it. I couldn't lift anything.
No.
I—
I didn't want to die.
Not like this.
Not weak. Not helpless.
I wanted to live.
I wanted to be strong.
I wanted power. Enough power to never let this happen again.
To never lose the ones I cared about.
At all costs.
Everything went black.
The pain, the fear, the world itself—gone.
Just emptiness.
I wasn't falling. I wasn't floating.
No breath. No sound.
No life.
And then—
A voice.
Distant, yet everywhere.
Low. Smooth. Otherworldly.
"You sound desperate, my child."
I floated in nothingness.
No ground beneath my feet. No air in my lungs. No weight, no warmth—just emptiness stretching endlessly in every direction.
Was this death?
It felt like something worse.
Then—a shift.
The void trembled, like reality itself was folding in on itself.
And suddenly, I was not alone.
A throne rose from the darkness, towering and impossible, made of something that wasn't metal, wasn't stone—wasn't anything I had ever seen. It looked like it had been carved from the fabric of the void itself.
And sitting upon it—
A woman.
Or at least, something that wore the shape of a woman.
She was tall, draped in black, her form moving like flowing ink, shifting ever so slightly, as if her body wasn't fully anchored to reality.
Her arms were too long, her fingers tapering into elegant, claw-like points. Not grotesque—almost beautiful in their wrongness.
Her skin was flawless, eerily smooth, but unnatural—like something trying to be human, but failing in the details.
And her eyes.
Bottomless. Eternal. Not black, not hollow, but something deeper—something that devoured all light, all existence.
She wasn't from here.
Not from Valkthara.
Not from this realm.
I knew it in my bones.
She did not belong.
And yet—here she was.
"I am Eindva, and I can help you."