The mist lingered long after the creatures dissolved, curling between the ruined arches like smoke from a funeral pyre. Ethan forced himself to sit up, still trembling, his palms slick with sweat and dirt.
"What… what were those things?" he managed to whisper.
Serenya crouched to clean her blades on a torn scrap of cultist robe. Her expression didn't change, though her voice dropped low, almost reverent.
"Shadowborn," she said. "Creatures of betrayal given form. They were men once—scholars, soldiers, kings. Every one of them died by treachery. Their souls twisted in the void until all that was left was hunger."
Ethan shivered. The memory of those black eyes burned into him. "Hunger for what?"
Serenya finally looked at him. Her gaze was sharp enough to cut. "For weakness. For fear. For people like you."
Ethan's stomach dropped. "Like me?"
She sheathed her knives with a sharp click. "You don't understand your place here, do you?"
"I didn't even ask to come here!" His voice cracked louder than he meant. "I was at home—my apartment, my computer—and then suddenly I'm standing in a circle with psychos trying to stab each other. I don't even know why I'm—"
"You're here because someone wanted you here." Her tone was cold, matter-of-fact. "The Shadowborn can smell it on you. They know what you are, even if you don't."
Ethan swallowed. "And what am I?"
Serenya's expression shifted for the first time—a flicker of something between irritation and unease. She glanced toward the horizon, where black clouds gathered over distant towers.
"A vessel," she said at last. "For power that doesn't belong in mortal hands."
The word sank into him like poison. Vessel. Not a hero. Not chosen one. Just… a container.
Ethan's chest tightened. "So that's it? I'm just—what—meat for monsters?"
Serenya stood, adjusting her cloak. "Not just monsters. Humans. Dwarves. Elves. Every kingdom in Veyndral will want a piece of you. Some will offer you crowns. Some will offer you chains. And some will slit your throat before you can draw breath."
She started walking, her boots crunching on the mossy stones. "Come. If we stay here, more will come. And next time, I may not save you."
Ethan staggered to his feet, legs shaking. His dagger still lay in the courtyard, but he didn't bother picking it up. What good was a weapon in his hands, anyway?
He hurried after Serenya, the dragon's words from the summoning chamber echoing in his mind.
This world devours its own.
And Ethan knew, with a sinking dread, that he was already being swallowed.
The throne room stank of incense and blood. Chains rattled as Ethan was dragged forward, his body weak, knees scraped raw from stone.
He hadn't wanted to trust them. The humans had offered him protection, a place among their knights, even whispered promises that he might find a way back home. But all of it was a lie.
Now he was on his knees before the High Lord of Eryndor, the one who had smiled and called him guest only days before.
"You were never meant to rule," the lord said, voice echoing off marble walls. "You were meant to be fuel."
Serenya stood in the shadows of the hall, her bow lowered. She didn't move to help him. She didn't even look at him.
"Serenya…" Ethan's voice cracked. "You said I could trust you."
Her eyes flicked to him at last — and in them he saw no mercy. Only regret. Or was it satisfaction?
The cultists who had first summoned him reappeared, circling, their knives gleaming. Ethan fought to rise, but the guards held him down. He was too weak, too lost, too broken.
The High Lord raised a black crown studded with runes that writhed like snakes.
"Power demands blood," he intoned. "And your blood, outsider, is worth more than kings."
Ethan struggled, panic surging in his chest. "Wait—please—I don't even belong here!"
The lord's smile was cruel. "Exactly."
The blade came down.
For a heartbeat, Ethan felt the world split open. His body burned with fire, his veins flooded with light and shadow both. He screamed — not in fear this time, but in rage, as if every piece of him was being ripped apart and used as fuel for something ancient.
The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was Serenya's face — unreadable, distant — as if she had known this would happen all along.
And then Ethan was gone.
The summoning was complete.
The world of Veyndral had claimed its first pawn.