Darkness is everywhere. There is no light that casts no shadow. There is no heart that knows no suffering. Therefore, the role of the Church of Whekatsi should not be to erase the harmful Darkness, for it is impossible. The followers of the Shadow God should aim to contain, manage the harm dealt by the ubiquitous Dark. When the damage overflows, that is when the Inquistors intervene, cutting off the rot like a healer amputates a gangrened limb.

However, such a drastic act should be a last recourse. More vital than Whekatsi’s Inquisitors is the work of his Confessors. Whekatsi’s temples welcome not only sinners in search of redemption, but all who feel lost in the Darkness, overwhelmed by wounds invisible to the naked eye.

Darkness is everywhere. Suffering its touch is inevitable. Struggling against its ubiquitous Force is no weakness, and seeking help to return to the Light is no failure. Not even Whesi, the Radiant God, could ever completely defeat his twin brother. How could we, simple mortals, ever hope to face it alone?

That is why the role of the Confessors is so crucial: to listen and advise, to guide and heal the minds of the gods’ beloved children, before those invisible wounds deepen, fester and gangrene, before gloom, confusion, and fear turn to anger, hatred, and violence—against oneself or others—and before one sinks so deep into the Darkness they cannot even remember the appearance of the Light.

—extract from the memoirs of Radus the Bloodsoaked, retired Inquisitor, 2471 AK.

-

Remembrance 2, 2497 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Greyport.

Nearing the tapering end of the Split, before the continental scar sank under Greyport’s decayed walls, two enormous platforms clung to its vertiginous sides: aetheric elevators, Greyport’s one marvel. The enchanted stone slabs, several tons each, tirelessly ground up and down the cliffs since before the fall of the First Dynasty. For two millennia, they had facilitated the transportation of goods from the harbour to the upper cities.

To Kaydence, the elevators’ enchantments were wonders of magical engineering, a grand creation of singular practical focus, art composed with extreme simplicity and robustness. The evidence was in how the enchantments had kept the platforms trudging along for centuries, well after the physical mechanisms had succumbed to disrepair from neglect by generations of ducal governers.

Back in Seifer’s time, such works of magic existed only as broken, dysfunctional relics, scraps unearthed deep within ancient Jaldehim ruins. The Cataclysm that ended the Ancients had not been a natural catastrophe, but the Twelve Gods’ conscious effort to reset civilisation. It left behind very little and nothing Seifer’s contemporaries could dream of repairing or—gods forbid—reproducing. To see such magi-technical wonder built by Human hands, in a forsaken backwater like the Split Isles, had nearly brought tears to Kaydence’s eyes. It had rekindled her hope—and fears—that humanity might one day reclaim the unfathomable heights paved by their fallen progenitors.

To the denizens of Greyport, the elevators were nothing but loud and lumbering antiques that never moved fast enough for convenience.

On the commoner side of the city, the platform’s course ended inside a squat terminal building. It disgorged its cargo onto a cramped cobblestone plaza, barely large enough for in- and outgoing traffic to intermingle, conjuring by day a cacophony of swears and collisions. Ancient, gangling homes encircled the square, hewn from the heavy grey blocks excavated from the Cliffside quarry. The old dwellings now sat empty of people, their interiors gutted and refitted with broader doors and metal-barred windows, converting them into shoddy, overpriced warehouses for passing traders. Of course, storage fees were siphoned directly into Duke Emeth Kroah the Third’s coffers, adding to already oppressive import taxes.

In the dead of the moonlit night, the platforms finally rested, and the plaza lay empty. All that remained from the daytime chaos were countless imprints of boots, hooves, and wheels overlapping in the frozen mud. Ancient lampposts flickered blue against the old grey façades. A lone drunk stumbled across the square, humming a haunting nursery rhyme about missing children.

Atop one of the warehouses, a dark figure wrapped in stealthy shadows struggled not to slide off the ice-coated shingles. Kaydence clung to the backed-up gutter, craning her neck to peer down at the entrance.

A single man guarded the door below, seeming half-asleep—not an oddity, as Kaydence counted four more watchmen sat before other buildings. However, she was convinced hers was undead. The corpse mimicked a bored sentinel almost impeccably, but its actions felt rehearsed, lacking spontaneity; it never adjusted its slumped position on the uncomfortable chair or shivered against the biting cold; its glazed eyes never blinked or left the stumbling drunk.

The wanton use of necromancy puzzled Kaydence. Surely, these people did not believe no one would notice. Surely? And to what end? To cheap out on subordinates? To ensure secrecy? Nonsense. Any necromancers worth their bone dust should have many and more covert ways to command obedience, even from living minions. All of this reeked of smug, entitled arrogance, the sort Kaydence abhorred with a burning passion. Only, she found it incongruous for criminals who had so long evaded capture—if these were the same people who had smuggled the Ruby drug years ago.

As intriguing as this all was, Kaydence found her mind wandering. Every now and then, her fingers brushed against the obsidian ring that now rested in her pocket alongside the dragon scale necklace. She idly traced the spiked rose engraved in the cold stone, wondering why, tonight, the universe seemed intent on delivering to her jewellery that reminded Kaydence of her past life.

If this was some kind of divine omen, it was one she did not appreciate.

She still took the ring, of course. Never in two million years would she leave it in the hands of these unworthy lowlifes. Vermin. Her anger burned at the mere thought—contained only by her self-preservation instincts and the numbing effect of her Shadow Cloak.

When sneaking out of the smuggler’s ship, Kaydence had intentionally tripped the safe’s alarms and thrown a rock through the window. Hopefully, the brutish destruction would help disguise her magical proficiency and obfuscate her motives. With luck, the smugglers might even focus on the gems’ theft instead of the missing artefact. Maybe. Probably not. Kaydence was not holding her breath on that plan.

As a magic tool, the ring was unimpressive—discounting perhaps its maker’s identity. The Shadow Harvest Ring, as Kaydence knew it, allowed its wearer to drain a victim’s life force and convert it into necromantic Dark mana. Chilling in concept, the effect was unfortunately too slow and short-ranged for battle applications—decidedly underwhelming next to Zerina’s later works. In truth, the little artefact was more a proof of concept.

Nevertheless, its absence would be noticed. Its current owner had to be fuming at the moment. Former owner, Kaydence corrected herself. Not that she had any use for the ring’s sinister power. Her reasons were purely sentimental—regret, mostly.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The barest sad sigh escaped her lips.

…Rina…

Kaydence had gotten so absorbed in her dark rooftop brooding that she missed the attack until something pierced her Shadow Cloak. Only her obscured shape spared her. The metal spike missed her actual body, hidden in the mass of darkness. Instead, it clinked loudly off the frozen roof, striking with enough force to shatter the ice and crack the shingle under it.

Instinct took over. Kaydence threw herself backwards, just before a second weapon stabbed the spot she had occupied a heartbeat earlier. Without pause, she dashed up the slippery roof, slid down the other side, and dropped behind the warehouse into a confined alleyway. The shadows swallowed her as she fell, and Kaydence hit the pavement running.

She had to get away; she could not risk fighting an unknown in the city, where the Guard might notice. Anyone who spotted her Shadow Cloak and then kept attacking after losing the element of surprise had the confidence to face a Darkness mage at night. Whether that confidence was justified, Kaydence had no intention to stick around and find out. She planned on losing her assailant in Greyport’s mazy backstreets before things devolved into a conspicuous brawl.

That plan fell apart instantly.

A cowled figure landed before Kaydence—almost on top of her—with all the silent grace of an ambush predator. Kaydence backed away in several quick leaps, taking in her opponent.

An ample black cloak hid the stranger’s body. Contrary to Kaydence’s enspelled shadows, their cover was woven of actual cloth, lightweight, flowing, and enchanted to blend into the darkness like a hole in reality. The stranger raised their hands—slender, gloved—and the two throwing spikes darted down from the roof to land in their open palms. Peculiar weapons, the foot-long, silvery needles had no crossguard or even any discernible hilt, but their sharp, elongated points left no doubt as to their lethality.

As soon as the stranger retrieved the weapons, they were already poised for attack. Beneath their black cowl, two blood-red eyes gleamed malevolently, glaring at Kaydence with unbridled, overflowing hatred. The girl’s own crimson eyes widened in shock.

…Rina?!

Before she could say anything, the Vampire leapt at her.

* * *

Sarmin woke to find himself hung by the wrists. His taut arms stretched painfully above his head, holding him up, the tips of his winter boots barely scraping the floorboards. The damp robe binding his hands chafed horribly. The edges of a rusty metal hook bit into his inner wrists, and a small trickle of warm blood streamed down his arm. A gag tight over his mouth choked his breaths. His sprained ankle pulsed with every heartbeat. Cold, freezing stone pressed into his bare back, and an icy updraught chilled his chest.

He shivered violently.

Someone had taken away his coat and shirt.

Holding back a whimper, Sarmin kept his eyes shut, hoping to hide his wakefulness.

That hope did not last.

“H-Hey… Thomas, look,” a boyish voice slurred. “The freak is… He’s awake.”

“Fi­– ugh. Finally… I thought I hit the wuss… too hard or somethin’… Bah!” Thomas’s brash, remorseless laugh found echoes in his drunken goons. They had clearly kept indulging, and Sarmin spotted the source as soon as he dared open his eyes: a large barrel propped against the incurved wall. A dripping candle on top revealed five boys sprawled on the floor, drinking straight from the tap and overflowing mugs; at least one of them was passed out, drool—or something fouler—leaking from the corner of his lips.

Sarmin’s wide, fearful eyes met Thomas’s. His were unfocused, bloodshot, and filled with wrath. “What’s with the fuckin’ look, creep?!” A tankard flew across the dark room, smashing beside Sarmin’s head and shattering. Ale and splinters showered the half-naked Half-Elf boy.

The gag stifled Sarmin’s begging pleas for mercy.

“SHUT UP!! SHUT! UP!” Thomas struggled to his feet, nearly falling over. Catching himself against a wooden pillar, he glared at Sarmin with unblinking rage. “I don’t… I don’t care about you– your excuses! You think I don’t kno… know what’s going on in your creep head?!”

The older boy was unhinged. He had always been malicious, but never like this. Panic gripping Sarmin’s heart. Tears dragged dirt down his face. He struggled to break free—in vain. His weak, bound arms could not muster any strength; the hook’s angle was too awkward to pull himself off. Sarmin’s despair mounted as Thomas ambled closer, drunkenly rambling on.

“I knew… From the start… Always… lurking away from everyone… lurking… little creep!” His voice rose with every word. Abundant spittle flew from his mouth. Angry veins bulged on his neck and forehead. “Hiding behind that demon! You think you’re better– better than us ‘cause your dad’s an Elf?! Uh?! Well, you’re not! You’re not worth shit! You half-bred failure! FAILURE! You know why your mum killed herself? It’s ‘cause she was ashamed of giving birth to a freak like you!”

His round, rubicund face twisted in a distressed grimace. He stumbled in place, nearly tripping on a loose floorboard. His tone dropped to a mumble, somehow even scarier. “I’m just… gods’ work… Someone has to put you… your place… Yeah. That’s it.”

Prickles skittered down Sarmin’s spine as Thomas raised a hand and conjured a finger-sized flame. The big teen stared at it in almost childish wonder, then hate bled back into his eyes as they snapped to the hanging Half-Elf. A malevolent grin warped his features.

“Let’s try for a bullseye.”

Confused, Sarmin followed the other’s gaze to his bare chest, where someone had drawn a crude target with circles of mud. Terror returned, but again, the gag swallowed his wails. His efforts to escape redoubled—still futile.

“Stop… Stop moving so much!” Thomas laughed crazily. With a swipe of his hand, he cast his conjured fire toward Sarmin. Yet, before the meek flame even crossed half the room, the updraught leaking through the rotten floorboards snuffed it out.

Thomas’s face flushed with shame as his triumphal moment sputtered and fizzled out. A drunken chuckle drifted from behind. His head whipped around. “Who was that?!” The large boy stumbled back to his friends and lifted one by the collar. “What’s funny, uh?! Come on… Laugh again! I fuckin’ dare you! Maybe I’ll burn your face off!” Even hammered drunk, the other knew to keep his mouth shut. Eventually, Thomas dropped him with a grimace. “Coward. Ugh.” Brows scrunched, he sloppily gestured for another boy. “Hey! Rob, give… give me the… that thing.”

“Thing?”

“Come on.” Thomas rubbed his forehead. “You know… the bag… with the thing.”

The boy named Rob blinked groggily out of his drunken stupor.“Ohhh… the thing!”

“Yes! Now hurry the fuck up!”

Rob frowned, even as he patted his pockets. “I don’t… I don’t know, Tom.” He fetched out a small satchel and reluctantly held it out. “You’ve already had… two tonight, right? My brother will kill me if he notices too many missing.” The fear seemed to sober him up a little.

Thomas snatched the bag with a snort. “Can that dumbass… like… count?” His shaky fingers fumbled with the bag’s strap. “Don’t be a bitch… If he has– hasn’t noticed yet, he sure as Void won’t now. He’s probably passed out drunk in some whore’s bed right now, ‘nyway.”

Rob chortled awkwardly. “Maybe… You’re likely right.”

“Of course I am, dumbass.” Thomas finally managed to open the bag. Tiny red balls rolled out onto his shivering palm, each the size of a fingernail. When he held one by the candlelight, the orange glow reflected off its many angular, crystalline facets. “They really look like gems…” he wondered out loud, before popping the thing in his mouth and biting down with an audible crunch. Sarmin stared anxiously, confused about the whole interaction.

Before long, a shiver ran through Thomas’s entire body, and more bulging veins appeared along his neck and forehead. “Ugh.” He groaned in pain, briefly gripping his stomach, and then his laboured breathing settled. His relieved sigh transitioned into a mad cackle, which rapidly grew increasingly unhinged. Soon, he was laughing uproariously, clenched fists raised towards the high, shadowed ceiling. Strange solid shapes occupied that impenetrable darkness, and Sarmin could only imagine what indescribable monsters lurked just out of sight, peering down on them. The other teens stared at their laughing leader with a mixture of awe and worry.

“This… Who’s laughing now, uh?!”

Without warning, Thomas spun and slammed his fist into his friend’s face—the one who had dared mock his failure. A sickening crunch echoed in the tall room, blood bursting from the boy’s broken nose.

“Not you, huh!”

Snarling, Thomas delivered another punch to his drunk friend’s stomach, throwing him to the ground, where he promptly vomited.

“Never. Laugh. At. Me. You. Useless. Shit!”

Each word was punctuated by a kick against the downed boy, leaving him whimpering in a puddle of blood and vomit.

Thomas loomed over him, panting, his face redder than ever, teeth clenched, pupils dilated and quivering amidst prominent blood vessels. “How many times will you force me to beat you up before you get it?! You’re nothing without me! Nothing!” he roared, angry spittle flying off his lips and dribbling down his chin. “YOU’LL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH!!”

Just when Sarmin was daring to hope he had been forgotten, two crazed eyes found him again. “Now, where were we? …Ah. Right.” A deranged grin split Thomas’s face as he raised both his hands. Prickles stronger than ever crawled up and down Sarmin’s spine, and churning flames erupted above Thomas’s palms, each rumbling fireball now the size of a grown-up’s fist.

“I was teaching the half-bred vermin a lesson.”

* * * * *