Alvinnué’s eyes fluttered open.
He lay on a cot, the coarse blankets rough against his skin. The familiar scent of leather, canvas, and faint iron filled the air.
Blinking against the dim light, he realized he was in the barracks at Zorim Fields. The world was solid, real… and alarmingly quiet after the void’s roar.
Hovering above him, Brynda’s expression wavered between relief and lingering fear. “Thank Saint Leanore! You have woken,” she said, her voice tight with concern.
Alvinnué shifted slightly, feeling the obsidian shard in his hand pulse faintly, a heartbeat echoing the visions he had just endured. Even here, the void’s weight lingered.
Brynda leaned closer, her green eyes shadowed with worry. She had sat by Alvinnué’s side since the battle, never leaving. “How do you feel?” she asked softly.
Alvinnué rubbed his temples, still feeling the echo of the void in his chest. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Far too long,” Brynda said, her voice tight with concern. “Three days.”
“Three days?” Alvinnué’s eyes widened. “What?”
Brynda’s voice was quiet but firm. “After your battle with the lich, you tore that crystal from its forehead… then you collapsed. We couldn’t get it out of your hands.”
Alvinnué’s gaze fell to the black shard in his palm. Its faint pulse echoed the visions he had endured, a heartbeat of shadow and power. Slowly, he tucked it into his chest pocket, as if carrying both a burden and a reminder of what had passed.
Alvinnué sat up slightly, voice steady but wary. “What of the army of the undead?”
Brynda shook her head. “After you defeated the lich, the undead could no longer resurrect. They were mindless. The Geldanos Army eradicated them.”
Alvinnué exhaled, a hint of relief in his voice. “That’s… good.”
Brynda’s eyes widened, disbelief mixing with admiration. “Good?… Good? You are a hero, Alvinnué!”
Alvinnué’s shoulders stiffened, and he looked down, avoiding Brynda’s eyes. Praise was unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable. He had fought for duty, for survival—not for glory.
“I… I did what needed to be done,” he murmured, voice quiet, almost brushing off her words.
Brynda huffed softly, frustration and affection mingling in her expression. “Brushing it off again, I see. You always do this… never giving yourself the credit you deserve.”
Brynda leaned closer, concern softening her features. “Can you stand?”
Alvinnué pushed himself upright on the cot, wincing slightly. “I think so.”
“The Geldanos Army is preparing to march back,” she said. “The last thing to do is a prayer to Saint Leanore for remembrance.”
Alvinnué’s gaze dropped, voice quiet. “How many of our people died?”
Brynda’s hand went to a lock of her red hair, twisting it nervously — a small gesture betraying the weight of her grief. “Over half of our army.”
Alvinnué swallowed hard, his chest tightening. “I see.”
A heavy silence hung between them, both mourning in their own way. Slowly, with Brynda’s steadying hand, he rose to his feet.
Together, they exited the barracks, stepping into the somber light of Zorim Fields.
The command tent of the Geldanos Army was alive with quiet tension. Around the large map of Zorim Fields stood General Maric, Adjutant Eldric, Baroness Yenn, Count Tomas, Duke Marmo, Duke Varno, and Aelric, each focused on the lines and markers charting the battlefield.
General Maric’s brow furrowed. “How is the effort on healing the wounded?”
Adjutant Eldric stepped forward. “The healers have mended most of the soldiers. However, the heavily wounded will need to be transported back to the castle for further aid.”
Maric’s concern deepened, his fingers tracing a route on the map. “Have them transported ahead of the army with an elite detachment. They cannot wait.”
Eldric nodded solemnly.
Maric’s gaze swept the others. “Any signs of a further advance by the undead?”
Baroness Yenn shook her head. “No signs. Our scouts have not seen any undead crossing from the Unclaimed Lands. A messenger from Zariyaz also confirms their borders are secure.”
“Good,” Maric said, exhaling a sharp breath. “Thank the Gods.”
“And the enemy dead?” he asked, scanning the faces around the table.
Count Tomas replied, “All burned.”
Duke Varno added, “…and our fallen comrades have been laid to rest in graves.”
Maric nodded approvingly. “Well done.”
Aelric stepped forward, hesitation in his stance. “About the volunteer army, General…”
“They will be well compensated by the castle,” General Maric replied firmly, eyes sweeping the tent. “Alive and dead.”
Aelric’s gaze shifted, concern lingering. “And Grimgurgh, and the Half-Giants?”
Maric’s expression softened with conviction. “I will personally speak with the King—your father—about granting them the territory of the Darminian Gap. Gods know they deserve it.”
A quiet murmur of agreement passed through the gathered officers, each acknowledging the sacrifices made and the justice promised.
The flaps of the command tent whipped open, and a soldier stumbled in, breathless.
“The Phantom of Zorim… Alvinnué,” he panted. “He has awoken from his slumber.”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the barracks.
General Maric’s stern features softened into a rare smile. “The planning is adjourned. Let us greet Alvinnué!”
General Maric and the officers stepped out of the tent, the morning light falling across Zorim Fields.
His gaze swept over the rows of graves stretching far into the distance, each marker a silent reminder of the fallen. The sheer scale of it weighed heavily on his heart.
He thought of what might have been, of the devastation that could have consumed them all had Alvinnué not defeated the lich. A grim mix of relief and sorrow settled over him, the cost of victory etched into the very land beneath his feet.
Alvinnué and Brynda stepped out of the tent.
The soldiers froze mid-motion, tools and weapons forgotten, heads snapping toward him.
“It’s the Phantom! The Phantom of Zorim!” someone shouted, and the cry spread like wildfire across the ranks. “Let’s take the fields!”
Alvinnué’s eyes widened. The attention, the shouting, the sheer admiration—it was overwhelming. He shifted uncomfortably, shoulders tensing, clearly unused to such praise.
Despite his unease, the soldiers surged forward, gathering around him. Their faces were lit with excitement and relief, a mix of reverence and joy at seeing the one who had turned the tide of battle.
Alvinnué took a slow breath, trying to ground himself as the reality of their adulation pressed in from all sides.
A booming voice cut across the field. “Alvinnué!!! Haha!”
Alvinnué’s eyes widened as Gorimund and the massive Half-Giant, Grimgurgh, came charging toward him, boots pounding the earth in unison.
Gorimund grinned widely as he reached him. “Ah, lad! Awake from your beauty sleep?”
Alvinnué’s tension eased, a smile breaking across his face. “Gorimund! I’m relieved to see you.”
Gorimund’s eyes twinkled. “Not nearly as much as I am to see you.”
Grimgurgh’s deep, rumbling laugh rolled across the field, and even Alvinnué felt a flicker of warmth break through the lingering weight of the battle’s aftermath.
Alvinnué’s eyes widened as he took in the massive Half-Giant. “Grimgurgh… what are you doing here?”
Grimgurgh thumped his enormous bone chestplate with a reverberating clap. “I came to fight an ancient enemy! We Gurghs have kept them at bay!”
With a careful bend of his towering frame, Grimgurgh reached down and handed Alvinnué an object.
Alvinnué looked at it, taking in the small totem carved with the likeness of a Half-Giant carrying a stag over its shoulder.
“It’s… the Half-Giant’s promise,” he murmured, awe in his voice.
Grimgurgh’s deep, rumbling tone carried pride. “Yes. When Aelric came and showed us this, we knew we had to come to your aid.”
Alvinnué’s hand closed over the totem, a quiet warmth spreading through him. “Thank you, Grimgurgh.”
The totem felt heavier than its size suggested, a symbol of trust, alliance, and the weight of promises kept in the face of ancient enemies.
General Maric and the officers arrived, moving across the field with measured steps.
Aelric was the first to break from the group, running toward Alvinnué with a wide grin.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, little brother,” he called, breathless from the sprint. “What a way to keep me in suspense!”
Alvinnué’s lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile, still unused to all the attention but warmed by Aelric’s familiar presence.
General Maric’s voice boomed across the field. “Alvinnué!”
The sheer presence of the general made Alvinnué pause, his chest tightening under the weight of respect and authority. He tried to return a salute, but it came awkward, faltering—an imperfect mirror of his own unease.
Maric’s stern features softened into an amused smile. “No need to worry about the formality, lad,” he said, his deep voice carrying both warmth and gravitas.
He stepped closer, placing a hand on Alvinnué’s shoulder. “When you came to the Geldanos Camp to volunteer, no one could have imagined the impact you would have. The King foresaw your importance in the battle, yes, but none of us could have known the scale of what you accomplished.”
Alvinnué listened quietly, the magnitude of the words settling over him.
“The Geldanos Kingdom owes you a debt that cannot be measured,” Maric continued, eyes sweeping across the field and the soldiers gathered. “You have turned the tide of this war, and for that, we are eternally grateful.”
Alvinnué’s jaw tightened. Praise was foreign to him, and yet he felt the weight of responsibility grow heavier in the same moment.
General Maric’s gaze lingered on Alvinnué for a long, measured moment, the weight of respect and admiration clear in his eyes.
“Tomorrow, we return to the castle!” he announced.
The soldiers erupted in cheer, voices thundering across Zorim Fields. They began to chant, loud and unified: “Phantom of Zorim! Phantom of Zorim!”
Alvinnué stiffened, overwhelmed by the attention. Brynda stepped closer, patting his shoulder gently, a quiet gesture to ease his discomfort.
From the back, a soldier’s voice rang out. “The Angel of the Battlefield!”
The chant swelled, mixing titles with fervor. “Phantom of Zorim! Angel of the Battlefield! Phantom of Zorim! Angel of the Battlefield!”
Brynda’s cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and amusement at the soldiers’ enthusiasm. Alvinnué’s eyes flicked to her, sharing a brief, unspoken moment amidst the roar of celebration.
Darkness had fallen over Zorim Fields. The air was still, the sky clear, and the twin moons cast pale light over the countless grave markers of the fallen soldiers. Smoke from the torches lining the camp’s perimeter swirled lazily, carrying the faint scent of burning wood across the quiet.
Alvinnué moved silently along the edge of the camp, scanning the perimeter with careful, practiced eyes. He had volunteered to scout that night, despite the protests of everyone around him.
He needed the solitude, the quiet. The adoration, the chants, the constant attention—it had been too much. Out here, under the moons’ silver light, he could breathe. He could think. He could try to clear his mind of the battles fought, the shard’s pulse in his chest, and the titles thrust upon him: Phantom of Zorim.
Alvinnué climbed atop a jagged rock cropping, settling himself as he activated his Shadowsight. The field stretched below him, silent and empty. No undead, no enemies—only the quiet rustle of the night breeze through the tall grass.
He activated Shadowsprint, dashing across the field with inhuman speed, scanning every nook and cranny. Still, nothing stirred. His senses caught only the familiar hum of moonlight on stone and the distant crackle of the camp’s torches.
At the edge of the field, he found a wooded area. Slumping to the ground, he drew the black crystal from his chest pocket, holding it in the pale moonlight.
He studied it closely, tracing the intricate patterns pulsing faintly with void energy. “This is a Shard of the Void God?” he murmured to himself. “And I am supposed to find the other four?”
Memories of the Voice in the Void surfaced—their cryptic words echoing in his mind. How would he find the path? The Voice had said he would see it, but the meaning remained elusive.
After a while, Alvinnué slipped the black crystal back into his pocket and rose to his feet.
The air around him seemed to thicken, and the Voice of the Void stirred within his mind, echoing with quiet authority:
“The Void knows the emptiness, yet has felt all things—past, present, and yet to come. To understand nothing is to touch everything.”
“Voidsense!” the Voice commanded, sharp and insistent.
A strange sensation welled up from his eyes. Void energy gathered, and the whites of his eyes darkened, blacker than any shadow. Panic surged through him, and he clutched his face, forcing himself to blink.
Then he opened his eyes.
The world had changed.
Auras radiated from every living thing—the trees, the grass, the animals nearby. Each pulse of life glowed in spectral colors only he could perceive.
“This is… the Void’s power?” Alvinnué whispered, awe and fear mingling in his voice.
Alvinnué stepped forward, his eyes still darkened by the void, attuned to the currents of life around him.
He approached a towering tree and watched in awe as its energy flowed from the roots buried deep in the earth, spiraling upward through the trunk, and unfurling in the leaves above. Each pulse was rhythmic, steady, a quiet heartbeat of the forest.
A deer emerged from the underbrush. Its muscles rippled as life coursed through its veins, each breath glowing faintly with the subtle luminescence of vitality. Alvinnué could trace the flow of energy like rivers of light moving beneath its skin.
Rocks nearby hummed faintly, as though holding memories of the earth itself. Water in a small stream shimmered with currents he could not fully name, an energy unlike life but no less alive in its own way.
Alvinnué exhaled slowly, his mind racing to comprehend it all. The world had layers he had never imagined, and the shard in his pocket seemed to pulse in resonance, as if urging him to understand its language.
Alvinnué’s gaze swept over the forest encircling the field, his senses sharpened by Voidsense.
Then he saw them.
Three figures, their bodies glowing with dark energy, moving silently through the trees.
Instinctively, Alvinnué’s hand went to the Doth-Éamon Short Sword, but he gripped his throwing knives instead. With Voidsense, he could see their positions with perfect clarity—every subtle motion, every shift in posture, revealed to him as if the world had slowed.
He hurled the knives in rapid succession. One toward the figure perched in the forest canopy, one at the figure near the boulders, and one at the figure by the stream’s edge.
The knives met resistance. Each figure deflected the blades effortlessly, their dark energy forming shimmering barriers that sent the metal ricocheting harmlessly into the night.
Alvinnué’s heart quickened. These were no ordinary foes—each exuded a presence of power and malice unlike anything he had faced before. The forest seemed to close in around him, the shadows thickening as the figures advanced.
In an instant, the three figures vanished, only to reappear surrounding him.
One figure swung a blade down toward his head. Voidsense flared in his mind, tracing the trajectory with perfect clarity. Alvinnué shifted just in time, letting the blade whistle past harmlessly. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of awe at the precision Voidsense granted him, predicting the enemy’s movements before they even struck.
He countered immediately with Inyyudian Sword Strike, a Shadow Skill from the Inyyu clan, aiming for the enemy’s vitals. The strike was deflected effortlessly.
The figure to his right loosed an arrow. Again, Voidsense mapped its path, and Alvinnué slipped aside, the projectile grazing past him.
He responded with Inyyudian Swift Sword, a flurry of precise, shadow-guided strikes. The figures behind him attempted their own assault, but Shadowvoid extended his awareness, letting him sense every incoming attack peripherally.
All three foes launched a simultaneous strike. Voidsense flowed through him, and Alvinnué countered each one with fluid ease, his short sword dancing like a shadow through the night.
After a tense moment, all four stood still, the air vibrating with residual energy.
One of the figures’ voices rang out, calm but firm. “Alvinnué, that is enough!”
Alvinnué relaxed, disengaging Voidsense. The world snapped back to normal. The forest, the field, the moonlight—everything returned to its quiet, still state, leaving only the lingering pulse of tension in its wake.
The figure in front stepped forward, his movements deliberate, the dark energy still faintly shimmering around him.
“Alvinnué, Anong Ginawa’mo?” he said, his voice sharp yet tinged with concern.
Alvinnué froze, disbelief written across his face. The words were in Shanda-Woldn.
“You… you’re Shanda-Woldn?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The figure lowered his hood, revealing familiar features. “Yes… that we are,” he said, calm and steady.
Alvinnué’s eyes widened as recognition struck him. “Manoj… Kuya!”
(Kuya, in Shanda-Woldn, means older brother.)
Emotion surged through him—a mix of relief, shock, and unspoken questions. The dark night, the eerie presence of the figures, the Void’s power—all of it suddenly converged on this moment.
The other two figures lowered their hoods, revealing familiar faces.
Alvinnué’s breath caught. “Darna… Ateh… Jun… Kuya… What are you doing here?”
(Ateh, in Shanda-Woldn, means big sister.)
Darna stepped forward, slipping her bow aside. A red sash wrapped around her waist caught the moonlight—a symbol of the Inyyu Clan.
“I will ask the questions here, little brother,” she said, voice firm and commanding. “How in the gods did you find us? We had Shadowblend activated!”
Alvinnué’s eyes darted between them, the weight of the moment settling on him. The forest seemed impossibly still, as if even the trees were holding their breath.
Alvinnué hesitated, debating whether to reveal the truth about Voidsense.
“I… I was just lucky,” he said finally, keeping his voice casual.
Darna’s sharp gaze lingered on him for a moment, then she let it slide. “Is that so?”
Manoj and Jun sheathed their weapons, tucking them neatly behind their red sashes.
Darna turned back to him, arms crossed. “Back to your question—why we are here. I don’t know if I should answer it! We nearly died!”
Jun’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Your skills have grown, little brother.”
Manoj’s tone was calm but firm. “It is the duty of full-fledged Shadow Warriors to watch over initiates during their Ritual of Proving.”
Alvinnué froze, eyes wide. “Wait… you’ve been observing me all this time?”
The forest around them was quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves. Alvinnué could feel the weight of their scrutiny, even now, and the unspoken pride behind it.
Darna’s eyes flashed with exasperation. “Yes! We observed you from the moment you arrived in Tarmynia—your training in the Black Forest, how you rescued a Zariyazene soldier from Mount Kan-Alon, your duel with the half-giant… and how you VOLUNTEERED in a war of another nation! Alvinnué! What were you thinking?”
Manoj’s voice was calm but carried weight. “All of it has been reported to the elders. And they are… not pleased.”
Jun’s gaze softened, but his words were firm. “Little brother, the ritual was meant to be secretive… yet you went in the complete opposite direction.”
Darna’s irritation was palpable. “Alvinnué, we Shanda-Woldn must remain detached from outsiders. You know that…”
“I… I know,” Alvinnué replied quietly, “but people needed help…”
For a moment, Darna, Manoj, and Jun stood in silence, the forest around them hushed as if listening.
Darna stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on his head. “I know… you always have been a good child.”
Jun’s tone was gentler now, though still insistent. “Alvinnué, I know how you are. But you have to THINK!”
Alvinnué lowered his head, contemplation and the weight of their words settling over him like the night itself.
Darna crossed her arms, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well, since we are here talking, the elders are calling you back to Liesü.”
Alvinnué blinked in surprise. “Back to Shada-Wold? Back to the capital?”
“Yes,” Darna confirmed.
Alvinnué hesitated. “But the Ritual of Provi—”
Darna cut him off mid-sentence, her tone firm but teasing. “You have just defeated the Army of the Undead and saved Geldanos, Zariyaz, and gods know what else across the continent. Please go back before you get in deeper trouble!”
Alvinnué nodded. “I will return.”
“Good,” Darna said, her eyes glinting. “And try not to garner any more attention, Phantom of Zorim.”
Alvinnué flushed lightly, unable to hide his discomfort at the title.
Darna, Manoj, and Jun stepped closer, each placing a hand lightly on Alvinnué’s shoulders in silent farewell. Their presence carried the weight of both family and duty, a reminder of the bond they shared despite the shadows that always surrounded them.
Without a word, they activated Shadowblend. Their forms shimmered, edges dissolving into darkness, and in an instant, they vanished into the night, leaving Alvinnué alone under the twin moons.
The forest seemed quieter for their absence, yet Alvinnué could still feel the lingering warmth of their presence—a reminder that even in solitude, he was not without guidance.