The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the land as Alvinnué walked the narrow road, the soft crunch of his boots the only sound for miles. To his right, a golden wheat field rippled under the breeze, whispering like distant voices. On his left, the edge of the forest loomed—a line of deep green, wild and watching.
The air was warm and carried the scent of grain and pine. A hawk circled high above, its shadow gliding over the road, over him. Alvinnué adjusted the strap of his pack, his obsidian eyes fixed on the winding path ahead.
He was alone, and he preferred it that way.
Each step brought him closer to Zorim Fields, where the real test awaited. Word had reached all over the Geldanos Kingdom: the Army of the Undead was on the march, and Geldanos was rallying what forces it could. Alvinnué had made his choice. He would not hide in shadow or flee across the sea. He would volunteer.
The Ritual of Proving demanded more than skill—it demanded meaning.
The road bent slightly, disappearing behind a low hill. He paused only once to glance at the wheat field beside him, watching the stalks sway like dancers in slow motion. The land felt untouched here, calm before something greater.
And so he walked on.
Alvinnué had traveled two uneventful days along quiet roads, passing only shepherds and the occasional wagon headed in the opposite direction—away from Zorim. Most kept their eyes down, gave him wary glances, and said little. Fear, he realized, moved faster than the undead.
As he walked, his thoughts drifted to Hakun. The old soldier had taken the southern route, making his way back to Sariyaz to help defend his kingdom. Was he safe? Had he made it past the Unclaimed Lands without trouble? Or had the undead already spread too far?
He shook the thought off and kept walking. Hakun was seasoned. He knew how to disappear, how to endure. Still, doubt lingered at the edge of his thoughts like a shadow that would not fade.
Then his mind turned to Aelric—the fire-hearted adventurer who had spoken of gathering volunteers for Geldanos. Was he succeeding? Were there still enough brave souls willing to stand and fight? Alvinnué imagined him in dusty town squares, speaking to nervous villagers, his voice steady even as dread crept closer to their doors.
He smiled faintly. You better not get yourself killed before I get there, wheat prince.
The breeze shifted, carrying with it the faintest scent of ash—too faint to place, too fleeting to trust. Alvinnué’s fingers drifted toward the hilt at his side, more from instinct than fear.
The road continued, quiet and winding, but the stillness had changed. Something was beginning.
Up ahead, a figure moved along the road.
Alvinnué slowed, eyes narrowing. At first, he saw only the silhouette—tall, steady in stride—but as he closed the distance, more details took shape. The figure was a woman, young like himself, with red shoulder-length hair that caught the sunlight like fire through autumn leaves.
She walked with purpose, unhurried but watchful, a traveler accustomed to the weight of her own steps. Light armor clung to her muscular frame, worn but well-kept. At her side hung a longsword, its pommel glinting with faint etchings.
Alvinnué said nothing at first. He kept to his side of the road, one hand loose near his own hilt, eyes flicking from her weapon to her posture. She didn’t look like a brigand—her stance was too upright, her presence too calm.
The wind passed between them, stirring the wheat and rustling the edge of the forest.
Another soul headed toward Zorim, he guessed. Another blade for the coming storm.
He picked up his pace.
The woman heard his approach and glanced back, her expression calm but alert. As Alvinnué drew level with her, he caught a clearer look at her face—young, dust-smudged, and focused. Her eyes were a striking green, sharp and steady, the kind that didn’t flinch easily.
They walked in silence for a few steps, the road narrowing slightly between the wheat and the treeline.
Then she spoke.
“Are you heading to Zorim Field?”
Her voice was clear and even, but there was a weight behind the question—not just curiosity, but a quiet testing of intent.
Alvinnué nodded. “I am.”
She gave a short nod of her own. “Volunteering to defend Geldanos against the Army of the Undead?”
“I am,” he said again, his tone steady.
For a moment, there was only the wind and the rhythm of their boots on the road. Then she looked ahead once more, her jaw set in silent resolve.
The woman suddenly stopped walking, her boots kicking up a small cloud of dust as she came to a halt. Alvinnué slowed beside her, noting the shift in her demeanor—something in her posture had sharpened.
She turned to face him fully, sizing him up with a quiet, assessing gaze.
“I’m Brynda,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind.
“Alvinnué,” he replied, nodding.
She studied him for a moment, her green eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his presence. There was something about her that didn’t feel quite right, but not in a threatening way—instead, it was as if she were a living riddle.
“Are you ready to fight?” Brynda asked, her tone as direct as her gaze.
Alvinnué met her stare without hesitation. “Yes.”
She didn’t speak right away. Instead, her eyes flicked over him again, pausing at his sword and the way he carried himself. Her scrutiny was thorough, though it didn’t feel like judgment.
“And have you fought before?” she asked, her voice steady but still probing.
Alvinnué tilted his head slightly, curious about the edge in her question. “Did you mean fighting the undead?”
Brynda’s eyes hardened, and her lips parted just enough to show her seriousness. “Yes. Against the undead.”
Alvinnué considered for a moment before answering. “I’ve fought before, but not against the undead.”
Brynda’s expression softened slightly at his answer, and after a moment, she nodded. “I haven’t fought the undead either.”
The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward—more like an understanding that passed silently between two travelers who had seen enough of the world to know its dangers.
Alvinnué glanced at her, noting the slight tension in her posture. “Are you afraid?”
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze, but there was a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I am.”
Alvinnué gave a small nod, the truth of her answer resonating with him. “It’s okay. I’m afraid too.”
She gave a short, almost imperceptible laugh, though it wasn’t filled with humor. It was more of a release. They both knew the weight of what was coming.
They continued walking in silence for a bit, each wrapped in their own thoughts.
Then Brynda spoke again, her voice low and thoughtful. “How do you kill something that’s already dead?”
Alvinnué stopped, as if the question itself had brought him to a halt. His hand moved to his pack, fingers brushing the worn leather of his Creature Compendium of Shanda-Wold. He pulled it out and flipped it open, scanning the pages for the section on undead creatures.
He found the entry after a moment, his eyes tracing the words, the faint scratch of parchment under his fingers. Finally, he looked up, meeting her gaze. “You can kill the undead with holy or light magic.”
Brynda’s expression seemed to shift—less tension in her shoulders, less uncertainty in her eyes. “Well… that’s reassuring,” she said, her voice lighter than before.
Alvinnué raised an eyebrow, curious. “Why is that?”
She smiled, a small but confident smile. “I can use holy skills.”
Alvinnué’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine amazement in his gaze. “You can?”
She nodded, her posture shifting just slightly—proud, but humble. “My training was with the paladins of Leanorem. I’ve learned how to channel holy energy through my sword.”
Alvinnué was quiet for a moment, processing. The idea of someone wielding that kind of power… it was rare, even among the seasoned warriors he had known.
“You truly are a warrior,” he said, his tone almost reverent.
Brynda chuckled softly. “I try.”
Brynda and Alvinnué continued walking, the steady rhythm of their steps a quiet comfort between them. The golden light of the setting sun stretched long across the road, casting a warm glow over the land.
After a while, Brynda broke the silence again.
“So,” she began, her voice thoughtful, “do you have some way to fight the undead?”
Alvinnué glanced at her, his eyes steady. “I think I do.”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Can you use holy and light magic as well?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Not even close.”
Brynda’s expression softened, a mix of curiosity and concern. “Then how do you plan to fight the undead without those powers?”
Alvinnué slowed his pace slightly, reaching to the side of his pack. His fingers brushed the worn leather before he unsheathed the Doth-Éamon Short Sword with a swift motion. The blade shimmered faintly in the sun, its dark metal glinting with a subtle, otherworldly edge.
He held the sword out toward her, allowing her to study it. “I can use shadow arts. This blade—” he paused, letting Brynda examine it in silence, “—it can seal or disrupt mana.”
Brynda’s eyes widened in awe as she studied the intricacies of the weapon. The Doth-Éamon Short Sword was unlike any weapon she had seen before. The craftsmanship was unlike anything from the kingdoms, the design sleek yet infused with an almost unnatural power.
“That… that’s incredible,” she murmured, her voice tinged with wonder.
Alvinnué smiled faintly at her reaction, pleased but not surprised. He had seen the sword work wonders before, but it was still satisfying to see someone else recognize its value.
Brynda was quiet for a moment, thinking it through. Finally, she nodded. “Yes. That could work. If it can disrupt mana, it could certainly hinder the undead, who rely on dark magic. I see now.”
“Then you understand,” Alvinnué said with a glimmer of approval in his eyes. “But you haven’t told me—what exactly are your holy skills?”
Brynda’s lips curled into a faint smile. “You want to know? Well… I suppose it’s only fair. I channel holy energy through my sword to purify what the undead touch. My blade becomes a conduit for that power, and when I strike, it burns through the darkness they wield.”
Alvinnué’s eyes lit up at the explanation. The idea of combining her holy energy with his shadow arts had the potential to be powerful—together, they could complement each other perfectly.
“That’s impressive,” he said, his voice filled with respect. “I’d love to learn more about your skills.”
She grinned, clearly enjoying his interest. “And I’d like to know more about your shadow arts.”
They both slowed to a stop, standing side by side as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The road ahead was uncertain, but for the first time since they’d met, there was an unspoken understanding between them.
“Perhaps we can teach each other,” Brynda said, her eyes bright with excitement.
Alvinnué nodded, a spark of eagerness in his own gaze. “Agreed.”
And with that, they resumed their journey, walking side by side into the sunset.
Night had settled gently over the road to Zorim Fields, stars blinking into view above the dark silhouette of the forest. The wind was calm, carrying with it the scent of pine and smoke.
A small campfire crackled at the edge of a clearing near the roadside, its glow casting warm light across Brynda’s armor as she crouched beside it, adding another piece of dry wood. Sparks danced upward like fireflies.
From the trees, Alvinnué emerged with two plump fowls slung over one shoulder and a bundle of mushrooms in the crook of his arm. His black hair fell loosely around his face, damp with dew, and he moved with the quiet grace of one long used to forests and shadow.
“You found food,” Brynda said, glancing up with a grateful smile.
“Two fat birds and enough mushrooms to flavor them properly,” he replied, kneeling beside the fire.
He worked quickly and with practiced care, plucking, cleaning, and dressing the fowls. From a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a small satchel of herbs and leaves—dry, fragrant, and strange. He crushed some between his fingers and rubbed them into the meat, along with slivers of garlic-like roots and a few long, narrow green leaves.
“What are those?” Brynda asked as he wrapped the birds in leaves and set them on a spit over the fire.
“Seasonings from Shanda-Wold,” he said, glancing at her with a slight smile. “This one—” he held up a leaf before placing it under the fowl’s skin “—is Pandan. Sweet, earthy, very aromatic.”
Brynda nodded, intrigued but silent as the fire crackled and the smell of roasting meat began to drift through the clearing. It was a comforting smell, grounding.
They ate in silence when the meal was done, the juices dripping down their fingers as they tore into the crisp skin and tender meat. Brynda took her first bite and blinked in surprise.
“This is… actually delicious,” she said. “What is that flavor?”
Alvinnué smiled faintly. “Spices from Shanda-Wold,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.
Brynda licked her fingers thoughtfully, then tilted her head. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes,” he said, poking at the fire with a stick. “Born and raised.”
As the fire settled into glowing embers and the stars multiplied overhead, Brynda leaned back on her elbows, staring into the night sky. The taste of Alvinnué’s cooking still lingered on her tongue—foreign, but comforting. She glanced at him, then down at the leaf her portion had been wrapped in.
“Shanda-Wold…” she repeated softly, more to herself than to him. Her brow furrowed. “I’ve read a lot of books back in Leanorem. My mother insisted on it. Histories, maps, legends—even the more obscure scriptures from the Saint-Leanore libraries. But I don’t think I’ve ever come across Shanda-Wold.”
Alvinnué didn’t seem surprised. He stirred the ashes with a stick, watching the embers rise like fireflies into the dark.
“It’s an island,” he said simply.
Brynda hesitated, then sat up straighter, her green eyes searching his face. “Would you be comfortable telling me more about it?”
He looked up at her, then gave a small nod. “I don’t mind.”
Alvinnué drew his knees up, resting his arms across them as he looked toward the trees beyond the firelight. The breeze carried the scent of pine and smoke, but his eyes were distant—somewhere across the sea.
“Shanda-Wold lies in the northern seas,” he began quietly. “Far north of Tarmynia’s shores. Hidden by reefs, storms, and old wards. Few ships can find it. Fewer return.”
Brynda listened in silence, her gaze steady.
“We weren’t always there,” he said. “Long ago, my people lived on this very continent. In fact, right here—these fields, these forests. But when the old kingdoms began to rise, they saw our bond with shadow as something to exploit.”
He glanced at Brynda. “They wanted us to be assassins. Tools for war. Instruments in the dark. But we refused.”
A silence followed, heavier than the last.
“So they hunted us.”
Brynda’s mouth parted slightly, but she said nothing.
“They called us traitors, witches, monsters. And so, we fled. Across the sea. We’ve lived in isolation ever since. Hidden, silent, forgotten. That’s why no one writes of us. Why you’ve never read our name in your books.”
Brynda’s voice was barely above a whisper. “That’s terrible.”
Alvinnué offered a thin smile. “It was long ago. But the memory lingers. In our stories. In our training. In the reason I’m here.”
Brynda tilted her head, her green eyes reflecting the firelight. “So why are you here, Alvinnué? Why leave your hidden island and come to a continent full of war and fear?”
Alvinnué poked at the embers with a stick before answering. “I came to Tarmynia a year and a half ago, for the Ritual of Proving.”
“A test?” Brynda asked.
He nodded. “In a way. When our warriors come of age, we leave the island. Alone. We’re meant to master our skills, in secret. Some face great beasts. Some seek ancient relics. Others find something of value—something to bring back to Shanda-Wold.”
“And have you done that?” she asked.
Alvinnué smiled faintly. “Not yet.”
She leaned back on her hands. “Would fighting in this war… count?”
“Maybe,” he said. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
She grinned. “If it’s supposed to be secret, you’re not doing a great job.”
That got a small laugh from him. “No, I’m not. But I met good people. People who needed help.”
He thought of Hakun, steadfast even in his grief. Of Aelric, reckless and full of fire, chasing hope where others had abandoned it.
“And I couldn’t just walk away.”
There was a quiet pause between them, the fire crackling softly.
“Enough about me,” he said, turning his gaze to her. “Let’s talk about you, Brynda.”
Brynda sat a little straighter, her green eyes reflecting the firelight. She hesitated briefly, then tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering a moment before absently twirling it.
“I was born in Leanorem,” she said, her voice a touch quieter than usual. “The capital of Corinthia. It’s a small country west of Geldanos—but old, and deeply devoted to Leanore, the saint of light.”
Alvinnué tilted his head. “I’ve heard the name Leanore,” he said. “But not the country.”
“That’s not surprising,” she replied with a soft laugh. “We don’t make much noise outside our borders. But inside, everything revolves around faith and justice. My mother, Amanda, was a priestess of the Leanorem Order. She taught me compassion, honor, and how to serve the light with humility. My father, Bryndor, is a paladin of the same order. From him, I learned courage—and that some evils must be met with steel.”
She paused, then looked across the fire. “Do you have family?”
Alvinnué gave the faintest smile. “Tell me more first.”
Brynda nodded. “Even though I was raised in faith, I was always drawn more to the sword than the scriptures. While my parents served through prayer and healing, I trained to fight—to protect. I wanted to stand between danger and those who couldn’t defend themselves.”
Alvinnué listened, silent and attentive.
“I was on a pilgrimage when I crossed into Geldanos,” she continued. “A holy journey, meant to reflect and renew my purpose. But then I heard the rumors—of the Army of the Undead, of Zorim Fields. I could have kept going, stayed out of it.”
Her voice grew firm. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t ignore the call. Not when I had the means to help.”
Alvinnué poked gently at the coals with a stick, the embers pulsing red in the quiet night.
“Was it Leanore’s teachings that moved you to fight?” he asked, his voice low, almost thoughtful.
Brynda nodded. “Yes. It’s the law of the God of Light. To fight against evil, especially evil that defies the natural order.”
“There is nothing more evil than the Undead,” Alvinnué said.
Brynda chuckled softly. “That’s what I thought too.”
They sat in silence, the fire crackling between them, its warmth fighting off the chill that had settled over the road.
After a time, Brynda turned toward him. “Do you believe in a god, Alvinnué?”
He shook his head. “No. My people have no god. No saints. We follow tenets… philosophies that guide our lives. Balance, secrecy, discipline, purpose. Those are what shape us.”
Brynda studied him a moment, then asked, “Are there no spirits? No deities? Not even myths of old?”
Alvinnué shrugged. “We speak of the world as shadow and flame, always shifting. But we do not worship it. We walk through it, and we learn.”
Brynda nodded slowly, then said, “There are others besides the God of Light. There’s the God of Fire, worshipped in the southern mountains. The God of Nature—mostly revered in the Druidic enclaves. The God of Beasts, honored by hunters and those who live close to the wild. And then…” she paused, “there is the Death God.”
Alvinnué raised an eyebrow. “You worship death?”
“No,” Brynda said, looking into the fire. “But some do. Or they pray to be spared by it.”
Alvinnué stared into the fire, its flickering light reflecting in his obsidian eyes. Brynda’s words lingered—gods of light, of fire, of death. The idea circled in his mind like a hawk in slow glide.
What kind of god would his people have followed, if they ever had one?
One that dwelled in shadow, perhaps—not in fear or wickedness, but in quiet strength. A god that watched from behind the veil, asking not for worship but for discipline, for balance. But there was no such god in the tenets he had learned. Only silence. Only the Way.
He didn’t know if that made his people wiser or more lost.
“I think I’ll turn in,” Brynda said softly, brushing off her hands as she stood. The night air had cooled, and her red hair caught the firelight like copper.
Alvinnué nodded. “I’ll sit a little longer.”
“Don’t let the fire die,” she said, smiling faintly. “Good night, Alvinnué.”
“May you walk in shadows,” he replied.
She paused, then gave a respectful nod before stepping toward her bedroll.
Alvinnué remained, watching the flames rise and fall, the shadows dancing just beyond. Above, the stars blinked down—cold, distant, ancient.
He had seen many strange things since leaving Shanda-Wold. Fought creatures he hadn’t known existed. Met people who taught him more than weapons ever could. And now… gods. Faith.
He leaned back on his hands and breathed deeply.
Somewhere beyond that starlit sky, there might be answers. Or perhaps the answers were already within, waiting to be shaped like the shadows he called his own.
The fire crackled low.
The night deepened.
And Alvinnué sat in quiet wonder.