The hooded figure stood tall, her form slender and elegant. Strands of dark auburn hair spilled from beneath the large black hood, framing a pair of wide-set gray eyes that seemed to glow in the shadows. Though cloaked in mystery, her beauty was undeniable—her features finely sculpted, symmetrical, and arresting.
She was so delicately built that her height only added to her allure. One glance was enough to mark her as a noblewoman—perhaps one in poor health, given the striking pallor of her skin.
They met gazes.
Andras staggered inwardly, thrown off by the uncanny familiarity of the woman before him. Her features echoed those of the fierce girl he'd encountered before — the sharp jawline, the calculated stillness — but where that girl had been wild fire, this woman was unmoving stone. A stoic expression was etched onto her face, as if seriousness had seeped into every corner of her being.
The silence between them stretched, weighted and uncertain. A breeze cut through the moment like a blade, rustling the branches overhead, whispering doubts into Andras' ear.
"W-Who are you? Name your state!" he demanded, his voice unsteady, words jumbled like fallen dice. His focus, however, remained locked on her figure, eyes searching for something — anything — that might explain her presence.
She didn't radiate hostility. If anything, her presence felt... calm. Grounded. Harmless, almost. And yet she wore mystery like a cloak — an entourage of secrets that trailed behind her like shadows.
Andras blinked. Was it enchantment? Was he drawn to her because of beauty, or was it the allure of danger that tempted him forward? Either way, he stood rooted in place, mesmerized, unsure whether to step back or closer.
They both stood still, like misfit actors frozen mid-scene with no stage direction. In that pocket of silence, a bird flew overhead. Distant, indifferent.
Andras finally sobered, the haze in his thoughts lifting. Suspicion crept back into his features, plainly visible on his face like ink bleeding across parchment.
"You don't belong here," she said.
Her voice was mellow, smooth as winter wine — yet there was an unmistakable coldness to it, the kind found atop the ice-bitten summits of Hilthurval.
Andras's brow furrowed; the skin on his nose wrinkled with uncertainty. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Are you...?"
Whatever sharp remark he'd meant to throw was lost.
Her eyes — they hadn't changed, but her gaze shifted ever so slightly. And that shift was enough.
A pain bloomed inside his skull, sharp and sudden, like talons scraping bone. He winced, staggered backward. Even the strongest poisons he knew couldn't compare to the fire now clawing at his insides.
His legs buckled. He hit the ground with a thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet town. A low groan escaped his throat.
His body convulsed — not violently, but rhythmically, like waves lapping over fire. His nails scraped at his skin as though trying to ground himself in the present. Small sparks flickered around his limbs, stuttering pulses of light that danced in the air like fireflies in agony.
His skin reddened — too quickly — like the aftermath of a lightning strike. His lungs struggled; for a moment, it seemed he'd forgotten how to breathe. Sweat slicked his body, tracing every edge and curve as he writhed.
He clenched his eyes shut, trying to will the pain away.
When he opened them again, the world was gone.
Instead, darkness embraced him — a slick, viscous blackness that clung to his limbs and face like living tar. He struggled, but the more he moved, the more the ooze held him close. His eyes began to sting from the substance, forcing him to shut them again.
Now blind, now trapped, now silent — Andras could only listen to the thrum of his own heartbeat, growing fainter with each passing moment.
"Sōlis lūx, tē lībera ex malō."
The words left Andras's lips like a prayer — not spoken, but released.
The air around him stirred. A sudden warmth pulsed from his chest outward as spheres of light sparked into existence, orbiting him like protective spirits. They sliced through the black goo like blades of dawn cutting fog.
He clenched his teeth, muscles trembling, and dug his fingers into the sludge. With a guttural cry, he tore through it — rending the gelatinous prison apart with what little strength he had left. Each movement was sluggish, as though the darkness clung to his bones, refusing to let go.
It was like swimming through a rotted swamp. Slime clung to his limbs, thick and unrelenting. His tunic began to disintegrate at the edges, eaten away by the corrosive substance.
He gasped for air as he emerged, drenched and weakened. The slickness of the goo still dripped from his hair and fingertips. He fell to his knees, his breath ragged. His entire body shuddered as he stared at his trembling hands, unable to tell if they were his own anymore.
And for a fleeting moment — a single, fragile second — he thought it was over.
But the silence that followed was unnatural. Heavy.
A low rumble echoed in the dark. Then another. A growl that multiplied into countless others, overlapping in eerie disharmony.
Shapes emerged from the shadows. Warped figures, neither beast nor man. They twitched and hissed, their bodies distorted as if pulled from broken mirrors — thousands of them, shifting like an ocean of nightmares.
Their eyes — if they could be called that — blinked slowly in unison. Watching. Hungering.
Andras stood slowly, spine stiff with dread. His breath fogged the cold air.
He laughed. Just once — broken, bitter, and breathless.
"Just when…" he rasped, pausing to inhale what little strength he could. His chest rose, held it—then fell.
"…will all of you die?"
His voice echoed into the horde. The creatures stirred, their outlines flickering like flames in wind. Andras clenched his fists. His knuckles turned white. He no longer knew if he was fighting to live — or just to spite whatever fate kept throwing him back into hell.
Sparks of light flared like miniature fireworks, popping quietly in the stale air. For a moment, they hovered—glimmering orbs suspended in the gloom—before they began to liquefy, dripping downward into shimmering, trembling spheres. They shuddered violently in place, as though waking from a nightmare, then jerked into motion.
Without warning, the orbs darted off in every direction, tracing the very path Andras had used to escape the black slime—quick, chaotic, and precise. They ricocheted off the worn stone walls, the surface slick with centuries of rainwater and green veins of moss creeping out from the cracks.
A sharp hum filled the air as the lights streaked forward, cutting through the mobs like needles through cloth. Threads of light zipped through their malformed bodies, punching clean holes into their gelatinous masses. For a moment, there was silence—flesh, or something pretending to be flesh, quivered around the new gaps.
Some of them tried to reform. Viscous skin pulled together with a sickening squelch, trying to stitch themselves whole again. But they were too slow. Too weak. One by one, their shapes collapsed.
The first of them hit the floor with a wet plop, its bones spilling out and clattering softly on the stone. Another followed. Then another. Soon, the ground was littered with remnants—bone fragments, globs of melting tissue, and puddles of black ooze that hissed faintly as if offended by the air.
And then came the stench.
It crawled into Andras' nose like a living thing, thick and gagging—like mildew, sulfur, and something long dead left to stew under the sun. He staggered back a step, one arm raised to cover his face.
"This smells worse than the Noblewoman of Foetorinus," he muttered, eyes watering, voice muffled through his arm. His face scrunched into a maze of wrinkles, disbelief and revulsion written deep into the lines of his expression.
The chamber was quiet now, save for the distant dripping of water and the low hiss of dying magic.
Andras exhaled shakily, letting his arm drop as he surveyed the carnage. "Charming," he said dryly, stepping over a steaming femur.
His eyes swept the empty chamber with restless focus, flicking from shadow to shadow, as if daring one of those abominations to move. Nothing stirred. Silence blanketed the space like a burial shroud. He stood still, letting his breath slow as his hearing stretched outward, heightened in the absence of threat.
After another cautious scan, he finally let his guard down and collapsed to the ground with a low grunt. The cold, uneven floor greeted him with bone fragments pressed against his back — remains of the creatures he'd barely escaped. A grim reminder that nightmares had bodies too. He shifted uncomfortably but didn't rise, deciding the exhaustion was heavier than the revulsion.
His eyelids drifted shut.
And then — a drop, a fall, weightless and sudden. A dream? Or something else?
His body jolted upward as if yanked from a ledge, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself no longer in the chamber.
But in a garden.
Not the modest, overgrown patch behind his home — no. This one stretched far and wide, like a painting crafted by divine hands. Everything was impossibly lush. Marble arches peeked through ivy-covered pillars. A breeze, scented with roses and something ancient, brushed his skin. He blinked rapidly, unsure if this was salvation, delirium, or a cruel trick.
Was he back? Had he escaped?
Hope glimmered in the fog of exhaustion. But as his boots touched the soft grass, a heavy knot of suspicion coiled in his gut. Everything was too still, too perfect. The air felt staged, like an actor frozen on a set waiting for a cue.
And then—there it was.
A fountain stood nearby, water cascading like silk down its crystalline sides. It shimmered like the pools in sacred texts. And yet… was it real?
His heart thudded. A part of him whispered: Jump in.
An absurd, childish urge. One he couldn't shake.
"Gods…" he muttered aloud, eyeing his grime-streaked arms, "…but I do smell awful."
He stood motionless for a moment, caught between caution and temptation. Then he laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "If something shows up, well — guess I'm fighting it naked."
With a flick of defiance, he peeled off his ragged, sweat-stiffened clothes. A half-smile tugged at his lips as he remembered sneaking into the garden fountain back home during long summer days — before everything went wrong.
Despite the scars trailing his skin and the gauntness that fatigue etched into his limbs, his body still bore the strength of someone marked by the gods — one of their favorites, perhaps, before they abandoned the world to rot.
He climbed into the fountain, shivering as the water closed around him. It was deeper than he expected. His feet couldn't find the bottom. He flailed briefly before kicking upward and breaching the surface with a gasp, wiping the water from his face with a small, boyish laugh.
And then a voice sliced through the peace.
"Cinaede."
The word slithered from behind him — a hiss soaked in venom.
Andras froze.
He turned.
Floating above the water like a phantom of judgment stood a female figure, or something that pretended to be. She had a face both beautiful and grotesque, shifting subtly in ways that unsettled the eye. Her form flickered between divine grace and unnatural wrongness — a creature beyond comprehension and far beyond mercy.
Andras screamed — loud, panicked, and filled with the primal instinct of get away.
It was the kind of scream a child gives when they know they are truly, utterly alone with something unknowable.
But it didn't last long.
With a flick of her wrist, she sent a ripple of force that crashed into him like a tidal wave, plunging him backward into the depths with a splash.