Prologue – The Legend of the Black Shadow
The world did not begin with life…
But with a sudden extinguishing of light.
In a single moment, everything dimmed, as if an unseen hand had clamped over the sky and strangled the glow.
The ancient forest lay asleep beneath a full moon, its light pale, cold, offering no comfort.
Above it, black clouds piled layer upon layer—dense, suffocating—as though the night itself were holding its breath in preparation for something irreversible.
The wind was not blowing…It was dragging the branches.
The sound of wood grinding against wood was like a final call, a long weeping rising from the mouths of the trees.
The forest was waiting.
Not for humans.
Not for animals.
But for something terrifying… something it knew it could not stop.
And on that night—A young man from the village transformed, for the first time, into a feral wolf.
The first transformation does not grant strength alone.
It awakens madness.
Raw madness—blind, knowing neither mercy nor distinction.
The body tore apart beneath the moonlight.
Bones stretched and screamed.
Skin split, and breath turned into a muffled roar.
And when the transformation settled—There was no young man left.
There was a wolf.
He ran between the trees like a black storm, his eyes blazing with savage color, his chest shuddering with sounds no longer human, his breaths hot, broken, serrated.
He did not see the world…He only felt it.
Scent.
Pulse.
Movement.
And the first thing he encountered—Was a small child.
Not just any child.
He was the witch's son.
The child stood among the trees—small, fragile—carrying in his eyes a curiosity that had not yet learned fear.
He was not running.
He did not know how to run.
The attack was not intentional.
There was no hatred.
No curse.
No prophecy.
There was only a beast that had lost control on the worst possible night.
The child's body fell to the ground.
The blood was warm… warmer than it should have been.
And his soul slipped away, in harsh silence, before anyone could hear his scream.
The forest… did not move.
The moon… did not fade.
Time passed.
And when the witch found his body—she did not scream.
She did not collapse.
But something… died with her in that moment.
Something deep, fundamental—something that could never be repaired, no matter how much time passed.
A mother's heart.
And the forest, from that night onward, was never an innocent place again.
Ten Years of Darkness — Living scenes, grim, seen rather than told
Ten years.
Since that night, the witch no longer saw the world as it was.
Colors faded.
Sounds lost their meaning.
And faces… became nothing more than passing shadows that left no trace.
She no longer sought justice.
Nor revenge.
Nor even a truth that might soften the pain.
There was only one goal—clear, harsh, and non-negotiable:
That death would never take anything from her again.
Ten years—Enough time to vanish from villages, to erase her footsteps from familiar roads,
and to descend into forbidden books—those that open only to those who have abandoned fear.
She traveled to places untouched by human hands.
Caves where light never entered.
Ruins that pulsed with dead magic.
Libraries whose names had been sealed from memory.
Until—she found it.
It was not a treasure.
Nor a prophecy.
But a single word written in ink as dark as dried blood:
The Immortality Spell.
But immortality… was not a gift.
It was a price.
A forbidden ritual that tore a human apart to keep them alive.
And it required—
An ancient being… powerful, older than kingdoms themselves.
Blood from an exceedingly rare human lineage, nearly extinct.
A beating heart… torn out before it could stop.
A full moon, to bear the power and imprison it.
And black magic… capable of burning a human lifespan as paper is burned.
The conditions were clear.
And the path… already stained with blood.
And among those coincidences that are never truly coincidences—
The girl who carried the required lineage lived in the very same village.
In that same forest.
Every morning, she walked alone.
Every evening, she stood beside the tree.
She touched the trunk with childlike reverence, unaware that the ground beneath her feet was preparing a fall that did not belong to her life.
The only being that fulfilled the condition of age and power—was not a monster.
It was the ancient Sun Tree.
Its roots stretched beneath the earth like golden veins, coiling around stone, drinking time drop by drop.
Its leaves gleamed whenever morning light touched them, as if they still remembered an age when the world was less cruel.
But the witch—no longer saw beauty.
She saw the key.
And the forest—held its breath once more.
So…
The witch began to plan its downfall.
And she did not hesitate.
She did not ask herself whether she had the right.
Nor what the cost would be.
She already knew the answer—And she accepted it.
On another night of the full moon…
The moon hung high, cold and white, like an unblinking eye.
At the heart of the forest, the ground had taken the shape of a circle carved with deep symbols, their lines interwoven like open veins in the body of the world.
The witch stood at the center.
Her hair fell loose, her eyes steady—shining not with fear, but with resolve.
Beside her—her husband.
And her children.
Faces that knew what they would lose… and yet moved forward all the same.
One single step—And they all crossed a line from which there was no return.
The air ignited.
Not with fire… but with dense, suffocating magic, like pressure crushing the chest.
The earth beneath their feet trembled, roots recoiled, trees leaned away, as though the forest itself were trying to flee the place.
The incantation began.
The witch's voice emerged low at first, then rose, then fractured into layers, as if more than one mouth were speaking from her throat.
The light spread—A white spark burst from the circle, then its color bled into dark crimson, and then everything went out…
And became completely black.
The sounds entwined.
They were no longer words.
They were overlapping screams, screams breaking into vibrations, and the vibrations—piling up, shaping themselves,
until—Birth began.
Bones stretched.
Breaths broke apart.
Hearts slowed… then nearly vanished.
Time itself seemed hesitant.
And when the ritual ended—silence fell.
No one remained as they had been.
They were not dead.
Nor were they alive.
They were something else.
Immortal.
Their hearts barely existed in their stillness, beating only when hunger was summoned.
Bodies that did not age.
Skin that knew no fracture.
Eyes that saw beyond flesh.
Stronger than any human.
And weaker before a single desire.
Thirst.
The thirst for blood.
A thirst that could never be sated.
On that night, a new family was not born—But an eternal curse.
That night… became the beginning of a legend no one knew.
After long hours of a wolf's howl—a howl that split the sky, then abruptly faded—The villagers emerged at dawn, their hearts suspended in fear,
to find something…Impossible.
No bodies.
No footprints.
No hastily dug graves.
And no sins left behind to testify.
The witch… vanished.
Her husband… faded away.
And her children… did not leave behind even a single shadow.
As if the forest had opened its mouth and swallowed them whole—then sealed it forever.
Even the ancient Sun Tree—the one that had guarded the forest and held its balance—was gone.
The trunk disappeared.
The roots were severed.
As though time itself had torn it from existence.
A few days later, the villagers abandoned the place.
Doors were shut.
Houses were left to the wind.
And the story was lost between generations.
People forgot.
Legends faded.
And the world moved forward into the future—believing itself to be ordinary.
But… on the very night that followed the family's disappearance—something happened that only one person witnessed.
After everything had settled.
After the blood had dried and its traces vanished.
After the forest fell silent… or pretended to—A girl stood.
One of the witch's daughters.
She stared into the mist of the night, moonlight touching her face without warming it.
And among the trees—at the very spot where the ritual had taken place, where bodies were torn and the world had cracked—she saw a shadow.
It had no features.
It was not a witch.
Nor a wolf.
Nor a human.
No malice emanated from it.
No light either.
It was merely a black form… standing calmly, unnaturally still.
As if… it were listening.
As if… it were looking at the trees, the ground, the sky—as though discovering the world for the first time.
And in that moment—the girl did not know she was witnessing the birth of something older than legends… and more dangerous than oblivion.
She was not certain.
Had she truly seen it?
Or was it a final delirium of a mind exhausted by endless nights?
Or a remnant of consciousness clinging to life after everything had shattered?
But she—swore.
She swore she heard a sound.
Not a word.
Not a whisper.
But something like a first breath… a breath released into the world before it even knew its own name.
Then—the shadow vanished.
It did not flee.
It did not fade slowly.
It disappeared… as though it had never existed at all.
And thus ended the story that no one believes.
And so… in places unseen, in distances beyond the reach of human eyes—something else was born.
Something whose story has not yet been written.
Something that will not appear… until humans forget everything about the past.
⸻
The Modern World — Today
It knows nothing of this.
Cities are crowded.
Lights never go out.
And people sleep in comfort… because they believe that legends
have died.
But the legend—has not ended yet.
The man's voice softened.
His words stopped at the same point they stop every night…
The point of shadow.
In that small house, beneath the light of a dim lamp that swayed slightly, a ten-year-old girl sat.
Her eyes were wide.
Reflecting the light like two small mirrors.
Within them—fear… and curiosity.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders without realizing it, and asked in a soft voice—one that barely cut through the silence:
Then… what happened?
The man did not answer at once.
He smiled—a smile only those who have lived long with shadows can wear.
And finally said, in a low voice:
This… my little one…
He turned off the lamp.
And the house sank into darkness.
It hasn't begun yet.
She suddenly lifted her head toward him, her eyes shining with pure, childlike eagerness.
She reached out her small hand and gently shook his shoulder, as if afraid the answer might vanish with him:
Dad… was the shadow real? Or not?
He looked at her calmly.
A long look… calmer than it should have been, as though behind his eyes lay layers of nights never told, and truths not meant for a child—yet.
But she was not satisfied.
She moved closer, knelt before him, and insisted in a slightly louder voice:
Dad… why don't you finish the story?
She gasped softly, as if voicing an old complaint:
Every night… you stop here!
Then she asked, her voice cracking between curiosity and protest:
Why?
She leaned toward him, her short hair falling over her shoulders,words spilling from her mouth with innocent excitement:
I want to know who the hero of the story is! Is it one of the witch's sons? Or the witch herself? Or… someone else?
She lifted her head high, her eyes pleading:
Tell me, Dad… please.
The man exhaled slowly.
The air left his chest heavy, and when his voice returned… it was no longer the voice of a storyteller.
It was the voice of someone who had known the truth for a very long time.
He reached out and gently patted her hair—a slow, tender motion, as if shielding her from something unseen.
Then he leaned down and placed a warm kiss on her forehead.
And whispered:
Alright… my child.
He smiled a small smile—a smile carrying a thousand unspoken things—then added softly:
I promise you… when you grow up, I'll finish the story.
She lowered her head slightly, fatigue beginning to creep into her eyelids: But… why not now?"
He reached for the lamp—And slowly turned it off.
And he said in the darkness:
Because some stories… their time to be told has not yet come."
He covered her with the blanket, adjusted it around her shoulders, and waited until her breathing became steady… calm… small.
Then he stood and headed toward the door.
But before he closed it—he stopped.
And whispered to himself, in a voice barely audible:
And because you… may one day become part of it.
He hesitated for a moment, then added, as if entrusting a will to the darkness:
So, my dear… when that time comes, if I am not by your side… I hope you live for yourself alone… and for the family.
He turned halfway back and spoke in a gentler voice, as though leaving one last trace behind:
And now, my dear, sleep.
Your mother and I are going to take care of some work, and we will return quickly.
Then he added in a warm whisper:
Take care of your brother, alright?
We won't be long.
He closed the door.
And its creak remained—lodged in his chest, like the echo of a story that had not yet ended.
He looked toward his wife.
She said nothing, but the pain was clear—still, weary, settled in her eyes like an old wound that no longer bled… yet had never healed.
He spoke in a low, careful voice:
Are you ready?
He paused for a moment, then added:
We need to go… I don't want us to be late for the council.
He hesitated briefly before asking:
Did the boy fall asleep too?
She lifted her gaze very slowly, as if her head were too heavy to raise.
Her voice came out faint, broken, as though it shattered inside her chest before reaching him:
My love… I feel something very bad.
She swallowed.
Her fingers gripped the edges of her dress without realizing it.
I can't leave the children.
She fell silent for a moment, then spoke in a deeper voice:
What we're about to face… is extremely dangerous.
He moved to her at once.
Without hesitation.
He wrapped his arms around her trembling body, pulled her close, and rested his forehead against her head.
And he whispered, like someone trying to hold a collapsing world in place:
My dear… we're doing this for the family.
He tightened his arms around her.
For them.
Then he repeated, his voice heavier:
For them alone.
He pulled his head back slightly and said with painful calm: You know they will never allow us to live a normal life.
He took a deep breath.
We have to do this… for the children.
He tried to sound reassuring—even as he didn't fully believe his own words:
Don't worry… even if anything happens…
He fell silent for a moment.
The children will be fine.
They'll live a better life than the one we went through.
Then he whispered with hidden pleading:
So please… don't let fear consume you.
He stepped back and said in a broken tone:
If you want to stay… then stay.
He lifted his eyes away from her.
I'll go alone.
But when he looked into her eyes again—he trembled.
The fear he had been trying to bury… woke inside him as well.
He spoke quickly, with naked honesty:
I don't want you to come.
It's very dangerous.
He stepped closer, his voice lowering:
Please… stay with the children.
But she didn't wait for him to finish.
She broke.
She rushed toward him suddenly, wrapped her arms tightly around him—desperately, as if trying to keep him from vanishing.
Her tears were warm… trembling… soaking into his chest.
She said in a broken, choking voice:
My love… please don't leave me.
She held him tighter.
I'll go with you.
She lifted her head slightly, her eyes shining with tears: My fate… is your fate.
She whispered:
Wherever you are… I am.
Her voice cracked as memory flooded back: We talked about this…
She gasped.
You promised you'd take me with you.
Then she pleaded, without any mask: So please… don't leave me behind.
She paused, then spoke with a trembling breath, honest to the point of pain: I don't know how I'll raise the children alone if you're gone.
She lowered her head against his chest.
"I'm scared…"
She whispered: So scared.
Her words fell like open wounds—wounds that could not be closed.