Deep in the heart of the forest, where the trees seemed to whisper secrets older than time, Morgana stood atop the roof of an ancient cottage, her eyes fixed on the distant chaos unfurling in Hollowmere. To the ordinary eye, the riot would be a blur of motion, lost within the shadows of the night. But Morgana was no ordinary girl.
She had called upon a miracle, one that lifted the veil of the world and allowed her to see what was hidden from mortal sight. Through the eyes of the blind, the truth of the world was laid bare.
"His eyes were dark, but the veil of the world lay bare before him. What the seeing denied, the blind one beheld. The blind seer of terbes ..."
Her heart pulsed with a strange mix of emotions. A flicker of a smile tugged at her lips, but it was quickly shadowed by a look of concern. She had known, deep down, that things were bound to unravel in Hollowmere. She had tried to stop him, warned him of the danger, but he was too stubborn to listen.
Morgana's gaze turned away from the riot below as she felt a weight settle in her chest.
"I must check on Granny," he murmured, the words like a prayer.
His family circumstances had always been complicated. The boy had no true home, no true roots-but an old couple had taken him in, cared for him, and raised him when no one else would. They were elderly, their days numbered, and Alistair could never ignore their kindness. They were the only ones who had offered him warmth when the world had turned cold.
She turned to face him, her expression softening.
"It won't take long. I will escort them out and be back. I promise. please stay safe until I return."
The boy face still carrying the weight of the decisions he had made. But as he readied to leave, he paused, glancing over at Morgana. He leaned down to match the eye level of the black cat perched on her shoulder, his voice strangely soft.
"Ragna, keep her out of trouble till I'm back. I'm counting on you."
The cat, a creature as enigmatic as its owner, blinked its amber eyes slowly before giving a soft, almost disinterested "Grrr... Meow... Meeow."
It was strange, speaking to a cat as if it understood, but in Morgana's world, the lines between the magical and the mundane were often blurred. The bond between them, human and beast, was one forged in trust, and Ragna seemed to understand every word.
"Then promise me. at least keep this with you," Morgana said, pressing a strange pendant into Alistair's hand. It was clearly only half of something-its edges jagged, unfinished. "And make sure no one ever sees it," she added, her voice low and urgent.
Without a word, the boy nodded and slipped it beneath his clothes, hiding it against his chest.
The boy turned and vanished into the trees, leaving Morgana standing alone on the rooftop, her heart heavy with the weight of the future that awaited them all.
As the shadows deepened, she could only wonder if she would be able to make it back in time-and if things would ever be the same once she did.
By the time Alistair reached the heart of Hollowmere, the air had shifted into something unnatural. The noise, once the frantic clash of steel and the sickening grind of battle, had mutated. A beastly sound filled the air-roars, guttural growls, and incomprehensible voices that carried an ominous weight. The village, once full of life, had turned into a nightmare: houses were broken, their walls charred black, and the air carried the acrid scent of something more than fire. Yet, there were no marks, no footprints of men or animals that could account for the destruction.
The silence between the bursts of chaos was almost worse. Alistair's heart thudded as his mind raced, but there was no denying the inevitable-death was here, and soon enough, a corpse would appear. It wasn't the first time he'd encountered such things, but that didn't make it easier. As he pushed forward, determined to reach his grandmother's cottage, something caught his eye-a shadow, far too large to be a man.
It was more like a shape, hulking and distorted, standing easily two meters tall. The silhouette loomed in the distance, its features too monstrous to be mistaken for anything human. The glint of its eyes reflected a cruel light, something alien, and its hunched back and thick limbs suggested a grotesque form of something that had no place in the world of men. A chilling wave washed over him, and though his body screamed to freeze, instinct drove him forward, desperate to keep moving.
In the blink of an eye, the creature's silhouette shifted. Alistair's breath caught in his throat, but his legs moved without hesitation, guiding him to a fallen pile of debris. He slid beneath it, pressing his back against the cold earth, the faintest tremble coursing through him. The creature's growls echoed through the air, too close now, and the darkness that had settled over the village felt like it might swallow him whole.
It was here, Alistair realized, that Hollowmere had truly been cursed. And whatever this thing was, it was just the beginning. "If Granny saw this thing..." he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding. "The shock alone could..." They were old, fragile-there was no telling what could be torn away from someone so vulnerable after an encounter like this. He couldn't risk it.
"I must hasten... but I can't be careless," he muttered, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. "Ideally, I wouldn't have to use you." The words were a quiet prayer, the weight of them gnawing at him.
It was then, in the middle of his silent plea, that a fragmented memory flickered to the surface-a tale Julius had once told him, a story that had seemed like nonsense at the time but now gnawed at his thoughts. "Like... the moonlit... something. She-moved, no, glided through the night... a shadow, I think? Swift, silent, a... whisper in the... wind? It's all... blurry now, but... she was never seen, always... there, I think."
"Aaagh, I can't quite remember it!" His frustration boiled over. "And even if I did... would it really work?" He let the thought linger like smoke in the air before forcefully pushing it aside. Damned priest, he thought, gritting his teeth. You said those of pure intent... He faltered, narrowing his focus. Or is this not pure enough of an intent?"
No. He couldn't afford to waste time on miracles, not now. The creature's growls sent a fresh shiver down his spine, urging him to act quickly. With a final grunt of frustration, Alistair stopped trying to summon anything-no chants, no forgotten legends. He'd have to rely on his instincts and his resolve, treading carefully, slowly, as the tension in the air thickened.
The clash of steel, distant but sharp, echoed through the night, but it felt far away enough that it wasn't his immediate concern-yet. No, his old house was just around the corner, and his eldery would be waiting for him. She needed needed to be safe.
"I'll get to them he thought, gripping his sword tighter, stepping forward with quiet, deliberate steps. He pushed through the thickening gloom, his breath shallow and steady, the world holding its breath around him. Time was slipping away-and he was running out of it.
"Granny, we need to get out quickly!" Alistair urgently called as he reached for his grandmother, crouching amidst the chaos. She was covered in blood, but miraculously, she didn't seem gravely injured. He let out a breath of relief, almost forgetting for a moment the horrors that surrounded them.
But just as his hand reached hers, everything shattered.
"Agghh!" His vision warped, his mind grasping at some semblance of reality as shock flooded his body. The world twisted, and in an instant, his mind forced a hallucination upon him, a cruel veil to shield him from the truth. There, before him, the bodies of countless villagers-some still clutching at the very air in their last moments-lay scattered like discarded meat. And there, beside them, a winged creature, its flesh sickeningly torn and hungrily gnawing at their remains.
His stomach twisted.
Among the carnage, his grandmother's lifeless body lay splayed in the same grotesque tableau. Her torso split in half, her once-strong hands frozen in the act of struggle. She had fought. She had tried to survive, to crawl away from the nightmare that claimed her. The trail of blood, the desperate scratches-she had fought with everything she had left.
"No."
Alistair reached out with trembling hands, his fingers brushing against her cold, lifeless form, and his body shuddered, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. His feet collided with her hand-still warm, still grasping at life even in death.
"Was she trying to escape...?" His voice, strangled and barely audible, whispered the words as he gripped her body in a fierce embrace. The warmth in her hand was a cruel reminder of the time he had lost, of how close he had been, yet how late he truly was. His breath hitched, and the air seemed to grow heavy with the weight of his guilt. The screams that tore at his throat were held back by sheer force, his chest a prison of emotion he couldn't release. His teeth clenched, grinding together as he fought to suppress the rising tide of grief and fury that threatened to consume him.
The realization sank deeper-he had failed. Morgana, the creatures, the villagers' suffering, the helplessness that gnawed at him... It was all too much. His instincts, his very being, screamed at him for being too slow, for not arriving in time to protect her. He trembled, caught between the devastation of his loss and the rage that burned inside him, consuming every ounce of clarity he had left.
But then, amidst the chaos of emotions, something else took shape.
"I... I..." The words barely formed, but they were edged with a venomous clarity. "I will kill you."
His eyes, dark with sorrow, now burned with the fierce heat of vengeance. His grip on his sword tightened, knuckles white from the pressure, as his resolve crystallized. The primal instinct to protect, to survive, to avenge-fused into a singular, explosive fury. His lips parted, and a cold, dangerous determination swept through him, like ice cutting through the air.
He stood, trembling but unyielding, torn between the urge to flee and the burning need for vengeance. Every muscle screamed against him, yet his will forced him forward, step by agonizing step, blood dripping from his bitten lip, but his resolve unbroken.
"A shard of light, borne from the skies,Where mortal souls in darkness rise,It cleaved the dark, and none dared to feel." the demon growled, a low, guttural growl that reverberated through the ground beneath them. a bolt of lightning ripped through the air, through the demon's abdomen .
"#########," the demon hissed in a language older than any man had known. With a flick of its wrist, blood and fire swirled together, forming into a long, jagged weapon-a trident of crmison blood-crackling with power.
In the distance, the woman in black stood motionless, her hood casting deep shadows over her face. But her stillness would not last-moments later, the demon lifted his trident, blood pooling at its tips. It ignited a dark flame, and in a breath, the entire block where she stood was consumed.
"Chains not forged but grown, root-deep in marrow.
Each step, a howl the earth remembers.
Sin walks-wearing the face of its maker."
The moment she spoke, a pulse of radiant light surged from the earth-chains of searing brilliance, so pure they bent the very air around them. The demon's eyes widened. He moved like lightning, slipping between the lashes of light with mocking grace. "#######," he grinned-But the smile faltered.
The chains caught him at last, wrapping around his wings in a blaze of holy fire. He crashed to the ground, his flight stolen, bound by light that would not forgive.
As the demon readied a counterstrike, the woman was already gone-vanished from the spot where she had stood. Confusion flickered across the demon's face. She moved like a shadow, swift and silent or rather more like fleeting mist, her blade carving a silver arc through the air. In a flash, she reappeared before him, her -his eyes snapped toward her, but too late.
In that fleeting moment, the woman swung her sword in a perfect arc. The demon, unprepared for her sudden movement, staggered back as her blade connected. It cut deep into its chest, and the blood that spilled from the wound sizzled as if touched by fire. A roar of fury shook the earth, but the demon did not fall.
With a vicious cry, it thrust its trident forward. The woman only narrowly avoided the attack, the jagged tip grazing her side. Pain shot through her, and she stumbled, but kept her balance. The ground beneath them trembled as they clashed-light against darkness, speed against power.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. The first strike had given her the edge, but the pain in her side ,black flames consumed her from within. Her strength was slipping, fading into the dark as quickly as the light that surrounded them. She could feel the end drawing near; the battle, like all things, would soon reach its inevitable conclusion. She had to finish it.
The demon, bloodied but unbowed, readied itself for another onslaught. Its hulking frame loomed over her, casting shadows like a stormcloud. But before it could strike, the woman's sphere of light flared with renewed power. A pulse of radiant heat rolled outward, scorching the air, making her very bones ache as it surged around her. With the swiftness of a predator, she moved-her body a blur, her sword a streak of silver-driving it deep into the demon's arm.
Her momentum faltered as the wound in her side throbbed, a searing burn threatening to tear her apart from the inside. Her sword fell with an unrelenting force, but she faltered, her body betraying her will. It was inevitable. Even if she hadn't faltered, the pain would have caught up with her. She staggered, the strength seeping from her, leaving her a husk.
The demon's eyes glinted, cold with malicious glee, and it saw its opening. "########," it hissed in a tongue older than the earth itself. With a barely perceptible twist of its foot, it retreated toward the corpses. The remains of Alistair's grandmother lay amidst the death, a silent witness to the chaos. The demon lowered its twisted head and began to feast, devouring the flesh to heal itself.
Maria stumbled forward, but the effort was too much. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the earth. Blood stained her fingers as she pressed them against the wound. A tremor shook her body, but she forced the words from her lips. "If I can't finish him quickly... I have to heal."
Her voice trembled as the words of old slipped from her lips, a prayer whispered against the darkness:
"A wound was torn, yet from the blood, light arose, stitching the flesh where darkness once lay."
The world seemed to still for a moment, a quiet thrum beneath her. The battle was now a race-who could heal, who could strike first. But Maria could feel the edge of exhaustion coming for her. The demon was recovering too quickly. She had no time to waste.
From the corner of her eye, Alistair, saw the demon's savage act. The blood of his grandmother stained the earth beneath them. His heart broke, fury rising in his chest. With a roar, he appeared behind the demon , sword outstretched, aiming for the it's throat.
His strike was reckless. The blade scraped uselessly against the demon's hide, metal shrieking in protest. With a roar, the demon struck back-a brutal swipe that hurled Alistair across the street. He crashed into a house, breath knocked from his lungs, sword slipping from his grasp.
The demon, now consumed by fear of looming death, continued to feast upon the bloodied corpses, its wounds sealing with each macabre mouthful. It was a grievous mistake-one that overlooked the most dangerous force of all: the will to fight, even when the end seemed inevitable.
With his strength nearly gone, Alistair fought to rise, every muscle screaming in protest. The demon's trident lay beside him, slick with blood. A ragged cry escaped his lips as he seized it-and from the swirling dust, his figure surged forward in one last act of defiance.
The demon turned in time to see the weapon's glint, its eyes widening with a flash of realization. But it was too late. The trident sank deep into the demon's chest with a sickening crunch.
The demon's roar shattered the air as it writhed in agony, the dark power that had once sustained it now turning against itself. In its final convulsion, it swiped out with feral rage, its claws raking deep into Alistair's abdomen, pulling him toward its dying form.
They struggled, locked in an eternal dance of life and death, each draining the other in a desperate, final bid for survival. Then came a jolt-sharp, cold, finale. Blood poured from Alistair's mouth, his breath hitching in confusion. He looked down.
A blade. Not the demon's.
It had run clean through him-bursting from his back and driving into the demon's skull.
For a heartbeat, he remained upright, trembling, the weapon still lodged in both flesh and fate. Then his limbs gave way. He collapsed, wordless and wide-eyed, into the dust. beside the lifeless demon, his body sinking into the soil, the river of blood mingling with the earth. "Morgana, I am sorry," he whispered, his voice weak and ragged. "I don't think I can keep my promise."
His vision blurred, and the world around him seemed to fade. But then, a voice pierced the haze.
"I tried to avoid your fatal organs , don't be too dramatic " Maria said, her tone light, almost teasing, as she glanced down at him. Alistair tried to focus, but his vision failed him. He could see nothing but a hazy outline.
"Your time has yet to come " Maria continued, her voice filled with warmth and certainty. "You are a lucky one."
With a grace that belied the chaos of the moment, she extended her hand toward his wounds. Her fingers glowed with the same ethereal light that had saved them all before. Slowly, deliberately, she invoked the miracle once more. A soft warmth spread from her touch, and the gaping wound in his abdomen began to close, the blood stopping, the flesh knitting back together.
Alistair gasped as the pain ebbed, his strength returning, but the weariness still clung to him. "Morgana." he murmured, barely able to whisper the name, his thoughts still clouded by the battle.