In the bleak, colorless world of the Shadow Realm, Gwayne, Amber, Betty, and the nameless hedge wizard sat around a crude wooden table. Before them lay a simple meal: fried sausages, toasted bread, and a thin vegetable broth—prepared moments ago by Betty.
Yet everything appeared drained of color, as if they were sitting inside an old, worn black-and-white photograph.
Gwayne made no move to touch the food. Though he now knew it was possible to cook in the Shadow Realm, he had no idea what would happen if a living human (probably living, he thought grimly) ate food crafted from this unreal plane.
Amber and Betty also sat motionless, their knives and forks untouched.
Across the table, the old hedge-wizard made no effort to urge them. He simply ate quietly, as though nothing were amiss.
The entire cottage was wrapped in a strange, heavy silence.
At last, Gwayne spoke. "How long have you been here?"
The old wizard set down his utensils with deliberate care, his manner oddly polite. "A long time," he said. "I settled here the second year after I left the Arcanist Brotherhood."
Gwayne raised an eyebrow. "You were part of the Arcanists?"
"I was a second-tier member," the wizard said quietly. "By their standards, I was a failure. I was good at calculations and theories but lacked the skill to weave true spell-models. I never advanced past apprentice-level magic. In the Brotherhood, such people are not... welcomed."
Amber looked baffled. She knew full well that a mage, even a poor one, was a rare treasure outside the great cities. "They kicked you out?"
"I left on my own," the wizard replied, turning his weary eyes toward Betty. "For my daughter's sake. To heal her... I had no choice."
Betty blinked blankly at the wizard, then nodded as if she understood.
Gwayne didn't press the matter. Instead, he placed a hand lightly on the hilt of the Pioneer's Blade and spoke in a low, firm voice: "You know why we're here. We don't have time to waste."
For the first time, a ripple of emotion flickered across the old wizard's stiff face. His body shook slightly. He lowered his head.
"...Guests," he murmured hoarsely, "I don't understand what you mean."
Betty tugged at Gwayne's sleeve nervously. "Master...?"
Gwayne frowned, then slowly released his grip from the sword hilt. "We'll wait," he said after a long pause.
The wizard continued eating, slower now, as if savoring every last bite. Occasionally, his gaze drifted to Betty, but his eyes seemed distant, unfocused—as though he were staring through her to some memory far beyond.
At last, the meal ended.
The wizard cleaned his plate meticulously with a scrap of bread, then struggled to stand. His body shook with the effort.
Betty rushed to help him.
"Father, I have to go now," she said gently. "Lady Rebecca and Lady Hestia are waiting for me... and Master has come to find me."
The old wizard's lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he finally nodded. His voice was a whisper: "Don't eat food from strangers... Sleep on time... Obey your teachers... Don't fight with other children..."
The light of reason dimmed rapidly from his eyes.
He was already half lost to madness—and had likely never fully returned to sanity during their entire encounter.
Then it happened.
The wizard's translucent form began to flicker and fade. But within his chest, a burning spark of flame suddenly ignited.
Gwayne had been waiting for this moment.
He drew the Pioneer's Blade in one smooth motion, its edge glowing faintly with righteous light. Amber grabbed Betty, shielding her eyes and pulling her close.
Without hesitation, Gwayne plunged the sword into the burning heart of the fading wizard.
The fire flared violently. The wizard's body, poised to transform into some terrible wraith, convulsed—and then was devoured by the cleansing flame. He burned like dry tinder, reduced to a charred skeleton in seconds.
The fire consumed him utterly.
As the embers died, a sharp crackling noise filled the air. The decrepit cabin—stripped of its master—began to crumble, cracks spiderwebbing across the walls and ceiling. Pale light from the outside world pierced the growing fissures.
Gwayne grabbed Amber and Betty. "Run!"
They bolted out the door just as the cabin collapsed behind them.
The ruins caught fire almost immediately, burning away in moments as if the building had been made of dry paper. As the ashes drifted on the wind, Amber suddenly tugged urgently at Gwayne's arm.
"Look! Over there!" she cried.
Gwayne narrowed his eyes.
Beneath the ash, glowing lines were appearing—an intricate and massive array of luminous runes etched into the earth.
"A magic formation," Gwayne murmured. "Probably his life's greatest work. And the root of all this madness."
As he spoke, Betty's body began to shimmer, breaking apart into tiny motes of light. The glowing particles swirled twice in place, then shot off in the direction they had come from.
Amber looked down at her hands, astonished to see the blood-red color returning to her skin. Color was returning to them both—and with it, the oppressive rejection of the Shadow Realm grew stronger.
From the thinning mists around them, shapes began to form—shadowy, formless things, creeping closer.
The true denizens of this plane had caught their scent. And like hyenas drawn to fresh blood, they were gathering.
"We need to go!" Amber shouted. "This place has had enough of us!"
Gwayne cast one last look at the ruined cabin and burned the image of those glowing lines into his mind. "Move!" he barked.
With a lurch and a rush of cold, they plunged through the veil—and found themselves back in the real world.
The forest greeted them, green and living once more. The chilling Wraithmist had vanished. Color and life had returned.
Nearby, Hestia and Rebecca slumped against a tree, supporting each other. Ser Byron stood guard over them, his sword buried in the earth to steady himself. Two surviving soldiers lay gasping on the ground.
Betty stood nearby, clutching her iron skillet, staring blankly into space as if frozen mid-thought.
Seeing Gwayne, Hestia struggled to her feet, face pale but determined. "Ancestor—thank the divines you're safe!"
Then she caught sight of Amber behind him—and her expression twisted slightly.
"So... the thief didn't run away after all."
"Hey!" Amber squawked, bristling like a cat. "I just saved your overinflated noble backside along with your whole fancy family! You big-chested—empty-headed—"
"Enough," Gwayne cut in hastily, stepping between them. "She's telling the truth. Amber helped me pull us out of the fire—though," he added dryly, "her choice of insults could use work."
There was a brief, awkward silence.
Rebecca shyly raised her hand. "Ancestor, um... that was the only compliment she gave, and you still shot it down..."
Hetty looked like she wished she could melt into the ground.
Gwayne sighed. "Focus. We survived. That's what matters."
After he explained what had happened, all hostility faded.
Even Byron, normally stone-faced, listened intently. Tales of the Shadow Realm were rare—he knew this was an experience few mortals could ever claim.
"You can enter the Shadow Realm?" Hestia stared at Amber, her voice tinged with awe. "That power... only high-ranking Shadow Mages or the Chosen of the Night Gods are said to possess it. How...?"
Amber turned her head away. "Fine, fine. Think of me as a Chosen of the Night if it makes you happy."
Hestia frowned deeply. "That's unlikely. A Chosen wouldn't get smacked down by a knight with a common steel sword."
Gwayne raised a hand. "Enough. She helped us. That's all that matters for now. She'll explain herself when she's ready."
And when Gwayne spoke, even Hestia could only nod and fall silent.
"Now," Gwayne said, standing, "we honor the dead."
He approached the fallen soldier—the one who had perished from the mist's soul-devouring grasp.
"He fought bravely. He deserves to be buried like a warrior," Gwayne said simply.
The remaining soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
"...He was born a serf," Byron said awkwardly. "Under law, serfs can't receive a warrior's rites. Only freedmen or nobles..."
Gwayne turned to Rebecca. "Is that true?"
Rebecca shrank under his gaze, shamefaced. "I... I know the law isn't fair. I tried to change it, a little. I let serfs earn freedom through military service—but... he hadn't served long enough yet..."
Gwayne's frown softened. "I'm not blaming you."
He knelt beside the fallen soldier, drawing a coin from the depths of his cloak—a coin placed there centuries ago, at his own burial, by High King Charles I himself.
Without hesitation, Gwayne tucked it into the dead man's chest pocket, over his heart.
Amber caught sight of it—and gasped.
"By the gods—that's worth half a fief!"
But Gwayne barely heard her. He simply stood and brushed the dirt from his hands.
"Now he has paid the price for his soul," he said quietly. "Bury him with honor."
Byron hesitated. "But the law—"
Gwayne looked at him, eyes as cold and unyielding as iron. "I am the law."