The air outside the chamber was colder, thinner. Ethan staggered through a ruined archway, clutching the dagger though his grip was useless. His sneakers slid on moss-slick stone as Serenya guided him down a spiral staircase carved into the cliffside.
Below stretched a world unlike anything he'd ever seen.
Cities of white spires and black fortresses glittered across the horizon, threaded together by rivers of silver light. Floating islands drifted lazily in the skies. Vast forests, their trees taller than skyscrapers, glowed faintly with emerald fireflies. And beyond them, jagged mountains rose, capped by ice that shimmered with strange colors.
Ethan's breath caught. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Too big, too alien.
Serenya didn't pause to let him marvel. Her stride was swift, precise, as if she already knew enemies were watching.
"Where… where are we?" Ethan asked, his voice shaking.
"Veyndral," she answered simply. "A realm where gods died, but their games continue."
"That… doesn't explain anything."
She shot him a sideways glance. "You'll learn. Or you won't live long enough for it to matter."
They reached a broken courtyard littered with old bones, half-buried under vines. Ethan noticed scorch marks across the walls, as if dragons had once fought here. The thought twisted his stomach.
He forced himself to speak again. "Why me? Why was I summoned?"
Serenya stopped. Her back stiffened, her bow still loose in her hand.
"Because you're weak," she said finally. "And weakness is useful."
Ethan blinked. "…What?"
"Every kingdom will want you. Not as a hero. As a weapon. A bargaining chip. Or a sacrifice." Her eyes narrowed. "If I hadn't found you, the humans would have. And trust me—you'd have begged for death before they were done."
Her words sank like lead into his gut. He wanted to argue, to demand answers, but his throat was too dry.
Then—
A sound cut through the night. Low. Guttural.
From the shadows of the courtyard, figures emerged. Pale skin, black eyes, blades glinting like obsidian. Their bodies moved unnaturally, twitching as if puppets on strings.
Serenya's jaw tightened. "Shadowborn."
Ethan's blood ran cold.
The creatures hissed, their voices overlapping like broken echoes. "The summoned… give us the vessel…"
Serenya raised her bow. "Stay behind me."
Ethan tried to lift his dagger, but his hands shook so violently it slipped from his grip and clattered to the stones.
The Shadowborn moved closer, step by step. The air grew colder.
Serenya loosed her first arrow.
The night erupted in blood and screams.
Serenya's arrow flew like lightning. It pierced the nearest Shadowborn's skull, splitting bone with a sickening crack. The creature crumpled, twitching, but two more crawled over its body like carrion beetles, black eyes fixed on Ethan.
He stumbled back, heart pounding so loud he thought it might burst.
Serenya didn't wait. She was already moving—fast, precise, every arrow loosed in the space of a breath. One shaft tore through a chest, another through an eye, and a third severed a hand clutching a jagged blade. The courtyard filled with inhuman shrieks.
Still, they kept coming.
The Shadowborn were wrong—too wrong. Their bodies twisted in ways no human frame should bend. When she struck one down, its corpse dissolved into a puddle of black mist, only for another to slither out of the darkness.
Ethan dropped to the ground, scrambling for the dagger he had lost. His palms slipped on moss. His chest burned.
A Shadowborn lunged at him. He froze, eyes wide, the dagger clumsy in his grip—
—and steel flashed.
Serenya was suddenly there, her short blade buried in the creature's throat. She ripped it free in a spray of black ichor, then shoved Ethan backward with her free hand.
"Stay. Down," she hissed.
Her bow was gone now, replaced with twin knives, her movements a blur of silver and blood. She ducked, spun, slit a throat, severed a tendon. Each strike was merciless, precise, beautiful in its brutality.
But there were too many.
One of the Shadowborn darted around her, faster than Ethan's eyes could follow. Its clawed hand reached for him—cold, sharp, death itself—
Ethan raised his dagger in panic, swinging wildly. The blade scraped across the creature's arm, barely cutting. It hissed, more enraged than wounded, and swatted the dagger from his hand.
He fell backward, gasping, helpless as it loomed over him.
Serenya's knife buried itself in its spine. She twisted, and the Shadowborn collapsed on top of Ethan, vanishing into mist before he could scream.
Silence.
The courtyard was littered with black haze, drifting upward like smoke. The last of the creatures dissolved, their shrieks fading into the night.
Serenya stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard but steady, her knives dripping ichor.
Ethan lay on the ground, chest heaving, sweat freezing on his skin. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. His body shook uncontrollably.
Serenya sheathed her blades and looked down at him. "Pathetic," she said flatly. "But you survived. For now."
Ethan stared at her, throat too dry to answer.
She offered him her hand again. "Get up. They won't be the last."