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CHAPTER XIII:

The Vision of the Valley of Skulls

Underneath an oppressive sun, a seemingly endless, barren landscape stretched out into the horizon. The air was thick with dry heat, carrying swirling dust clouds that danced around a solitary len traversing a rugged terrain. Every step was a struggle, his feet burning on the sands beneath him. The len passed through the rocks, weeping and howling.

The vast emptiness held a silence, broken only by the rhythmic whispers of the wind. It was almost musical, like many voices crying at once. It came in waves, but it never ended. The sandy ground of the desert beneath was parched and cracked, bearing the scars of an unforgiving environment. Besides him, brittle roots and thorny weeds were the only remnants of life.

As the young len pressed forward, a distant shadow began to come into view. A massive hill emerged. As he approached, the len rubbed his eyes and saw that this hill was not comprised of soil, but skulls. Among the remains, there were signs of violence—blade wounds on the decaying corpses, bodies mutilated, and missing limbs. The len tried to look away, and hobble out of sight, but he couldn't avert his gaze forever. Some were still moving, crawling toward him with whatever they had left.

Drawn by an unseen force, the figure ventured closer, and the truth became more apparent with each step. Faces of the fallen manifested, each bearing the mark of tragedy. Soldiers, tribespeople, len, wolen—all sharing in agony. Dispatched from life with force and brutality. The air filled with their moans and groans, an anguished chorus that grew louder with proximity.

In the blink of an eye, a company of phantoms materialized among the tragic dead, their ethereal swords drawn. These, too, were among the dead... the len recognized their faces. They were the valorous in life; their warrior spirits had endured beyond their body's destruction. A desperate plea from one of the crawling corpses, a young lenning, a gesture pointing toward the figure—whose heart raced with an unexplainable dread—marked the turning point. With an otherworldly speed, the phantoms charged toward the figure and impaled him with ghostly blades.

In a futile attempt to defend, the len reached for a sword that wasn't there. He had no defense, not here. The phantoms passed through, causing an agonizing howl that echoed through the empty expanse. The len fell to his knees, begging and pleading for help.

As he staggered backward, the vision revealed the true horror. At the summit of the mountain of skulls stood a hooded, masked figure in frayed dark robes. A long, silver sword rested against the pile. The wraith lifted his sword and slid down the pile toward the wanderer.

The len scratched at his eyes as the hooded entity descended, looming over him with a silvery gauntlet reaching for his throat. The chilling words echoed, "This is what disobedience has merited you."

As the len struggled for breath, the scene transformed. A blinding light swept over the land, revealing all—every spirit of the dead, every rejuvenated corpse. It was the Moon. A tremendous, glowing moon, taking center stage in the sky, its brilliance rendered everything visible, yet blinding.

In the crowd's piercing stare, the len's heinous sins were laid bare. The air was filled with a cacophony of accusations, regrets, and cries that reverberated through the luminous landscape. The len, unable to shed tears, gasped for every breath he could.

The Moon responded with a resounding voice, like streams of rushing water.

In the face of the relentless and piercing truth, the len found himself powerless. The spirits pointed, spat, and threw rocks at the len, each condemning him for the misery he had caused them and their beloved. He gasped for air, caught between the cries of the tormented souls and the blinding brilliance of the Moon.

Suddenly, a shift occurred. The len was whisked away, his vision melting into a blinding white. He was now hovering before the great orb of light, presented before that light by a phantom white hand that grasped his wrist, searing his flesh like the corrosive reaction of salt on a slug. The len cried out, feeling the burn as the Moon's voice resonated, "Face the truth."

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The len, held in a hovering stasis, was hardly alive in a place between life, death, and consciousness. The Moon pronounced judgement. The len, stripped of defenses, was urged to surrender.

In the haze of the surreal surroundings, the champion of the realm of departed spirits, a phantom knight, reemerged. The Moon's voice addressed the loyal servant, welcoming him before his presence.

The Moon's light pulsed, and the len felt the searing heat of the phantom hand release his wrist. He fell before the wraith, his body slack, his ragged cloak covering him. The wraith raised his sword...

Íbolín howled in agony as he lifted from his mat in a cold sweat. He was panting, terrified. He panicked, reached for the jug of water by where he slept, and lapped it. The sound of swords and the friction from sliding metal could be heard throughout the surrounding camp, where they rested in the great hills of the Alnujum.

"...No, no... I will." A grizzled voice said. "Stand down. I'll take care of it."

The fabric door that enclosed Íbolín's tent was sharply pulled open, and a small light illuminated the space. It was Dathan, holding up a corked bottle with fluorescent insects inside. It was just bright enough to illuminate the nearest surroundings, without alerting onlookers from the valley below. In his other hand was his sword.

"My lord, what ails thee!?"

Íbolín panted... sweat racing down the crevasses of his scarred face.

"Praise Yol, we thought it may be more marauders..."

"I WISH IT WERE!" Íbolín yelled, crying.

Dathan shook his head and sheathed his sword, approaching his side.

"What nonsense is this, Ibe?"

"You heard me." He snapped, still panting, crying further. "They should have felled me in this forsaken place. It would have been justice."

SMACK!

Dathan slapped Íbolín clear across the face. It was hard enough that Íbolín appropriated his hands to hold his jaw.

"No more of this," Dathan said. "Do not boast your pride in the light of Yol's mercy."

Íbolín's green eyes pierced him behind his frazzled hair.

His crying continued.

"I can't go back. I can't stop it. If this vision is my destiny... I more than regret it all, Dathan. All of it."

Dathan's eyes became glossy. He set down the bottle and pulled Íbolín in, embracing him as a father would a true son.

Íbolín began to weep.

"I despise the fact that this... this is the story of my life, that THIS is the destiny I am bound to," he said, laughter tinged with bitterness and frustration, almost bordering on the edge of madness. He pulled away from Dathan's embrace.

"I had everything, Dathan. I was at the top. Maybe I was in the shadows, but I had everything this world could offer. And I threw it all away. I discarded her, Dathan... I... I turned my back on the only genuine love I ever knew, the only love I could truly perceive. A love

that felt like fate... a face that has haunted me since my youth... a soul whose warmth I can no longer feel..."

"Íbolín... you've said this a hundred times to me," Dathan said, somewhat annoyed but catching himself.

"...And I am still here to hear it, lord."

Íbolín stopped crying... but his voice was still broken.

"Now, I'm haunted by the same nightmare until my last breath... my life has transformed into the very nightmare that torments me."

"So it is the dream again." Said Dathan, who began scanning around the tent in thought. He quickly returned to his ward's gaze.

"Íbolín... there is only one story, only one fate for those who have faith."

Íbolín shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"Redemption."