Year 400, Duskrendi Wildlands
Takaya's first memory of this world was not sight or sound, but touch.
Something soft, faint, almost tender brushed against his hand. A woman's hand—or at least, it felt like one. Warm against his clammy skin, slipping something small, weightless, almost alive into his palm. He tried to cling to that touch, but his fingers wouldn't move, his body unresponsive. The sensation faded before he could even place it, leaving only a lingering warmth and the certainty that someone—or something—had been there.
Then came the cold.
Takaya's eyes fluttered open, and above him stretched not a sky he knew, but a vast expanse illuminated by three moons. Duskrendi's triad hung high, pale discs spilling argent light across a wasted land. Their glow carved sharp outlines into the jagged crater where he lay, the ground broken and scorched as though a meteor had struck.
He shifted, every joint aching, and noticed how the trees surrounding the crater leaned outward, away from him, like a circle of sentinels recoiling from something foul. Their trunks twisted unnaturally, bark split and groaning, roots gripping desperately to the earth as if trying to drag themselves further back. Not a single leaf crowned their branches. Bare wood, skeletal and lifeless, silhouetted against the moons.
Snow drifted down in scattered flakes, sparse and thin. The cold wasn't deep—not the heavy suffocation of winter—but a cruel bite all the same. The ground was dusted in white, the crater floor uneven with frozen clods of soil and shattered stone. Takaya could see the faint steam of his own breath rising into the moonlight, thin, labored.
He pushed himself up to his elbows, chest heaving. His mind felt foggy, dreamlike, as though he were halfway between sleep and waking. His hand curled instinctively, and he felt something there—something that hadn't been his before he blacked out. But when he opened his palm, nothing visible greeted him. Just cold skin, trembling fingers.
Takaya sat there, under the cold glow of three moons, surrounded by trees that bent away from him like frightened animals. A sense of wrongness pressed in from all sides, heavy and unyielding. For a moment he wondered if he had died. Maybe this was the afterlife—if so, it was nothing like he'd been promised.
And then… the silence broke.
From beyond the crater rim came a sound: low, guttural, wet. A growl.
Takaya froze, eyes darting to the treeline. At first, nothing. Only shadows, twisted branches reaching into the air like claws. But then—two points of light, faintly glowing amber. A second pair. Then a third. Dozens of them, blinking into existence one after another, surrounding the crater rim like a ring of fireflies. Except these weren't fireflies.
They were eyes.
The eyes did not blink. They stared, unbroken, burning faint in the darkness. Takaya's stomach twisted, instinct screaming before his mind caught up: predators.
Snow crunched faintly above, cautious steps circling the crater's rim. Shadows shifted between the skeletal trees, fur bristling, teeth glinting when moonlight kissed them. Wolves—though larger than any Takaya had ever seen. Their shoulders rose higher than a man's waist, their limbs corded with lean muscle, their coats patchy and frost-rimed. Hunger radiated off them like heat.
Takaya's throat went dry. He had nothing—no blade, no shield, not even a stick. His heart hammered in his chest, pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
That was when the voice came.
"Run."
It wasn't external. It was inside his head. Not his own thoughts—no, this was different. Clearer. Sharper. It cut through his panic like a command.
Takaya didn't question it. His legs moved before doubt could catch up. He scrambled to his feet and lunged up the slope, boots slipping in the powdery snow, lungs burning with each breath. Behind him, the growls deepened, and the crater erupted into motion.
The wolves descended.
Takaya broke from the crater's lip into the forest beyond, weaving between skeletal trunks, the frozen earth jarring with every step. His breath tore ragged from his throat, each inhale stabbing his lungs with icy needles. He didn't dare look back, but he could hear them—paws thundering, snow scattering, growls swelling into frenzied howls.
Branches clawed at his arms, tore at his cloakless frame, but he didn't stop. The command still rang in his skull—run, run, run—and his body obeyed, even as his strength bled away.
And then, through the labyrinth of trees, he saw it.
A clearing bathed in silver light.
At its center stood a figure.
Takaya's steps faltered, his chest seizing at the sight. The figure was humanoid in shape, but wrong in every way a human could be wrong. Its body was void—entirely black, as though carved from the night sky itself. Across its surface shimmered countless white specks, like stars scattered across an Infinite canvas. Its form shifted faintly, as though it wasn't quite solid, like a mirage threatening to unravel.
But the sword it held—oh, that was real. Too real. Its blade shimmered in the moons' light, sharp enough to cut the silence.
Takaya stumbled into the clearing, desperation overriding fear. "Help me!" His voice cracked, hoarse, trembling. "Please!"
The figure did not move. It only stood, head slightly tilted, the constellations across its body shifting slowly like the night sky turning.
The only reply was silence, broken by the thunder of paws.
The wolves struck.
The first slammed into his back, its weight driving him into the snow with bone-shaking force. Takaya's face hit the ground, snow filling his mouth and nose, choking him. Pain exploded across his shoulder as jaws clamped down, teeth sinking deep, hot blood spilling into the frozen air.
He screamed.
Another wolf lunged, its fangs tearing into his thigh. Flesh ripped, and fire shot up his leg. He kicked, flailed, fists pounding uselessly against muscle and fur. The beast barely flinched.
More shadows surged around him, snarls rising into a frenzied chorus. Claws raked his side, tore fabric and skin alike. Takaya tried to crawl toward the star-figure, toward salvation, but his arms gave out. His body was no match for their hunger.
The snow beneath him turned slick with his blood. Each breath grew shorter, sharper, edged with panic and disbelief.
This can't be it.
Jaws clamped onto his forearm, crushing bone with a sickening crack. His vision blurred, white sparks bursting behind his eyes. He screamed again, weaker this time, the sound dissolving into ragged sobs.
The wolves didn't stop. They wouldn't stop.
One tore into his back, hot teeth scraping ribs. Another dragged his leg, shaking its head violently, flesh tearing away in strips. Agony drowned everything—thought, sound, even fear.
Takaya's hand stretched feebly toward the star-figure, the distance between them only a few paces but impossibly far. The void-being did not move. Did not lift its blade.
It only watched.
As if his suffering was not tragedy, but inevitability.
Snowflakes fell around him, settling on his torn body as if the world itself had already begun to bury him.
And through the haze of pain, Takaya realized something: he was dying. Not metaphor, not exaggeration. He was being eaten alive, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do.
Darkness crowded the edges of his vision.
Takaya was barely alive. His body was torn open, skin flayed, muscles shredded under wolf fangs. Every breath rattled like a dying fire, his blood steaming into the cold air. His vision had collapsed into fragments of teeth, snow, and red.
So this is it… The thought echoed faintly. I'm done…
And then–
"Failsafe activated."
The words weren't his own. They weren't even human.
Heat detonated inside him, flooding his veins, forcing shattered flesh to reknit and broken bone to seal. Pain sharpened, then dulled, then vanished entirely as if erased. His body moved—not because he willed it, but because something else had taken the reins.
He tried to lift his head, but found he couldn't. His perspective slid sideways, as though he'd been pushed out of himself, condemned to watch through a warped lens.
And his body—no, the thing controlling it—rose to its feet.
Black ash swirled from the air around him, unnatural and silent. It coiled along his right arm, layer upon layer, until it hardened into the shape of a blade. Not forged steel, but something older, darker. The sword mirrored the one carried by the starry figure he'd glimpsed earlier in the clearing, its edge humming with unreal weight.
Through his own mouth, a whisper escaped, alien yet familiar:
"Solthar."
The name rang in his head like it had always been there, waiting to be remembered.
Takaya screamed inside, struggling to move, to resist, but his body didn't listen. His hands tightened around the weapon. His stance shifted.
The wolves, snarling and circling, froze. They sensed it too—that whatever now stood before them wasn't prey.
The Veyl's laughter cut through Takaya's mind, sharp and cynical.
"Relax. You can watch. I'll handle the dirty work."
The wolves lunged, teeth bared, their snarls cutting through the frigid air. Takaya's body didn't wait. Solthar moved on its own, black ash coalescing into a blade around his arm. Every strike executed before he even thought, guided by the Veyl's unseen hand.
The first wolf snapped, jaws aimed for his shoulder. Solthar struck before fear could register, cleaving through sinew and bone. Another pair leaped simultaneously, and the sword met them midair, shredding their forms with surgical precision. Takaya's mind watched from behind his own eyes, detached, aware that he was no longer fully in control.
The remaining wolves faltered, sensing a force beyond instinct. Solthar's movements were a cruel premonition—strikes delivered faster than thought, more deliberate than reflex. The black ash of the sword seemed to drink from the chaos itself, coiling and reshaping with each motion.
One by one, the wolves fell. Silence followed the last, as if the forest itself held its breath. Takaya's knees buckled, but he remained upright, cloaked in pristine fabric despite the carnage around him. Pools of blood mixed with snow, and remnants of black ash traced the blade's path.
The Veyl's laughter filled his mind, dark and gleeful.
"Look at you. Chaos incarnate. Isn't it beautiful? Don't fight it, darling—let me show you what we can do."
Takaya's eyes scanned the aftermath: the forest littered with shattered wolves, black ash curling into the snow, the air heavy with iron and smoke. Solthar rested lightly on his arm, humming faintly, a living extension of the Veyl's will.
Fatigue crashed into him. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving exhaustion that gnawed at his bones. His knees buckled under the weight of what he had done. He tried to stand, but the world tilted violently, and darkness tugged at his vision.
"Sleep, my darling," the Veyl purred in his mind. "Let go. You've done enough for one night."
Takaya's body sank into the snow and blood, half-covered in black ash. The cold pressed against him, unrelenting, and the taste of iron filled his mouth. He fell unconscious, the world fading to black.
As his consciousness slipped away, Solthar disintegrated into fine black ash. Unlike before, it did not linger around him. The ash coiled upward, twisting in the cold night air, before flowing seamlessly into the ring on Takaya's hand—the Veyl's domain. The power that had executed every impossible strike vanished from the world, now resting fully in the entity that had guided it all along.
The forest was still. The only evidence of the night's events were the torn bodies of the wolves, the scorched patches of snow, and the faint curl of ash drifting in the wind. Takaya remained motionless, suspended between sleep and unconsciousness, while the Veyl smirked inside the ring, already plotting the next phase of what had begun.