“Ready yourselves contestants!” The harsh voice of his teacher pierces his ears. The anxiety of his first duel gnaws at him, breathing is hard, so does focusing his mind. Then his opponent a fellow academics with a rather attractive face, not as attractive though as Acniss’s, prepares to attack. He feels Igna dancing around her palms as she chants in the incomprehensible language of magic. As the fireball heads towards him, he finally manages to find his inner calm, and without chanting teleports out of the way. He swiftly starts chanting, then midway through a new idea pop into his head. His opponent conjures a ward wrapping around her body, then her body is skewered from the inside by stone spikes. He watches as the mangled cadaver plumps, his body shaking with excitement but also feeling the awful taste of vomit as it reaches the top of his throat.

The Arnyak continues standing still as if frozen in time, Griggorn’s eyes jumping from it to the surrounding undead that remaining as silent spectators around them, giving them space. The darkening clouds slowly dissipate, luminous splendour of the Upper Stratum painting the scene. Then the Arnyak lifts his heavy looking immaterial sword, disappearing from his sight. He spots the weird mana residue appearing as transparent black mist in the air, and shapes his mana into a strong ward. The shadowy blade clashes with the blue transparent ward, a slim crack appearing in a straight, vertical line. It dodges away as the earth starts shaking under his feet, Griggorn’s hand wrapped around his staff gaining earthly textures.

He keeps his eye on the Arnyak, groaning in pain as his hand gains back its fleshiness slowly. He blinks only once, taking a paranoid peek at the motionless undead, giving the opportunity for the Arnyak. The same transparent mist pops up, rapidly getting closer to him. His body leans out to the right, evading the black blade while using his staff to keep his balance.

The shape of a fist carves into his dark robes as he tumbles backwards. Thanks to timely noticing the unseen attack, Griggorn manages to stay on his feet, while gasping for air. His grip tightens, while his chanting is broken, the jaws of the dragon head on top of his staff send out hardened wall of air, pushing the Arnyak backwards, while the undead spectating stand out the way in unity as its tall body falls between.

Griggorn taps into his Mythrinite staff, siphoning inscriptions out as he stumbled down. His feet start feeling light, dispersing as they lose opaqueness. Swirling lines wrap around his feet, as his steps regain their weight. Have to end this quickly! Griggorn comes to this resolution as he feels nearing his limits.

The heat of the growing flaming sphere in the centre swings the temperature in combination with the unnatural coldness of the undead. It starts dipping towards the cold as the Arnyak slowly approaches Griggorn. With each step, the sphere starts losing the battle, then it disappears in a fleeting moment. The Arnyak disappears in the raging explosion, and for a moment Griggorn feels a weight releasing from his shoulders.

But it is a short lived one, as the flames quickly die out, leaving behind icy smoke that rapidly dissipate as the Arnyak continues its slow march, raising its black blade. Griggorn curses within as he parries the above head strike of the Arnyak. Then he spits out his blood after a foot note pressures into his gut.

“Are you feeling alright?” As he lays in the dirt, he recalls the first time he met with her. Her cute face made his heart beat faster, her frail body awakened a desire of protection and her kindness, if it really existed within her, made his anxiousness fade away.

“Its alright. I was frozen with fear two at my Unveiling too. Even my muscle headed brother froze up.” She continues while offering a cold, sweet scented drink. Or is it her scent, he was never sure.

“Thanks.” He replied with his frail, broken voice.

“Oh, where are my manners. Acniss, eldest and only daughter of Kjelnoan and Czarnare!” After a worried look, the young Acniss steps back and elegantly bows as she introduces herself.

“Griggorn, middle child of Ciemnyh and Skazai!” He puts the drink on a table, and musters his voice as he bows too. “And future Arch-Magus” She laughs innocently, making him flustered, enamoured.

“Then future Arch-Magus Griggorn, are you prepared?” She asked with the perfect smile while holding her hands out, Griggorn grabs it and gets up from the ground before disappearing just as the blade of the Arnyak strikes. The ground trembles as the shadowy blade lands in it.

The Arnyak turns around as if nothing happened while half a burnt cart crash into it. The lightning strikes to its chest, pushing it back a few steps. The ear bleeding sound mixes with Griggorn’s groans. Another cart hits it and the Arnyak raises its free arm, the lightning dispersing on impact of an unseen ward. Part of a tent tries to wrap around its body, slowly disintegrating as it descends down to the ground.

Small cubes lit up the surroundings in their warm light, while Griggorn bits onto his tongue feeling the aspect of fire scorching his flesh. Each of the fifteen cubes disappear one by one. The wind of the explosions blows his hood off, chunks of charred rotten flesh taint his body.

“Why won’t you die?” He asks, his voice breaking as the Arnyak walks towards him silently, ignoring the flames short rage.

“Why you had to come here?” He screams at it before the space distorts, the Arnyak disappearing as reality swirls, then finds itself falling towards the ground. He lands on his feet, the earth cracking under it, then it just continues walking towards the tired Griggorn.

The putrid smell fades, the still standing undead disappear replaced by teeth shaped rock formations as he lays his back on one while trying to hold back his tears. He had enough. He knows that all the Dhau-Íssz are now dead, serving a new master.

“Gods truly damned this place.” He mumbles to himself while crackling like a maniac. He looks at his stuff while tapping once more into its inscriptions, feeling the previous burning subside as the few burnt marks slowly disappear as time reverses. He looks up at the ceiling of the Upper Stratum, wonder gleaming in his eyes as he appreciates the lights for the first time in a long time.

The memory of him and Acniss laying outside the walls of the capital flood back, her soft hair caressing his shoulders while her sweet scent makes the moment memorable. Her lips tasted like he always imagined, wishing him for it to never end.

“I failed. Seems I’m no different from those other fools charmed by your beauty.” He mumbles while tears flow down his cheeks, while his head slumps down, no longer caring if the Arnyak or a monster finds and tears him apart. This life was cursed from the beginning he concludes as he waits for the cold grip of death to claim him in whatever form it comes.

“How fascinating.” The deep voice that shook his whole being as he kneeled into the harsh ground while he struggled to not fall to decay echoes within his mind as the wrapped in dark robes alabaster form of the Nameless appears in front of him. His dreaded cold presence bringing flooding him with memory he first spoke with the Deadfire.

“Oh, Great Eternal Night I seek to be of service for thou!” He remembers how hard to speak those words were, how he felt the grip of their vile presences gnawing at him with each passing moment with the pace of a snail.

“Forego the pleasantries little dried one. You had already proven your worth by reaching this deep.” His eyes turning to him terrified him in that moment, he still wonders to this day if his slow descent into madness helped with veiling that.

“Your Gift a welcome addition amongst my myrmidons.” The ground decayed rapidly around Griggorn, the holes breaking through the ward around him as the death tainted waters dripped down from the several meters long jaw of the Deadfire. The jagged spikes at its chin stroke down as the sickles of a Mantisoid.

“Just end me.” Griggorn’s tired voice spoke to the Nameless as he hunched down, Griggorn met his empty stare ready.

“This will do.” The Nameless spoke with calm look, Griggorn found the deep, ominous voice unfitting for the androgynous young elven face of his making him cackle while his cold hands touched his face.

“This will hurt both of us.” He spokes once more, then their flesh joins together and Griggorn screams echo through the formations. A horrified look settles on his face as the Nameless’s head splits open emitting a dark light forming into hands. He is slowly pulled into the gaping maw of his. Then he finds himself floating below a lightless sea with no bottom in sight.

His hands tap through his body as the indescribable pain is no more. As he calms down, he notices all the silhouettes around himself. The nearest ones resemble folks with familiar shapes, the distant ones crumbling to pieces unfamiliar, even in shape they resemble monsters rather than humanoids. The one thing uniting them are the tendrils reaching into their heads. The same slithering tendrils pierce his head and the pain slowly subsides as he falls into the tender arms of oblivion…