Asher crouched low, his breath shallow, staring at the monstrosity ahead. The Veinspawn loomed, its grotesque form pulsing with the corrupted energy it had absorbed. Its many eyes, glowing with malevolence, locked onto him with an insatiable hunger. Blackened veins webbed across its misshapen body, oozing ichor that hissed as it dripped onto the mossy ground, leaving patches of decay in its wake.

The forest around them seemed to shrink under the creature’s presence. The glow of the Veins beneath the ground flickered, their light waning as though recoiling from the corruption. The air was heavy, saturated with the scent of rot and the metallic tang of something far more unnatural. Asher gripped the branch he’d picked up earlier—a poor excuse for a weapon, but it was all he had.

“It senses the bond,” Aetheros’s voice whispered, faint yet steady in his mind. “My power is its prey. It will not stop until it consumes you.”

The beast growled, a guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the forest. Its claws, unnaturally jagged, flexed with anticipation as it prowled forward, its movements predatory and deliberate.

“Great,” Asher muttered under his breath. “Just another Tuesday.”

The creature lunged, impossibly fast. Asher barely rolled out of the way, the branch clutched tightly in his hands as he scrambled to his feet. The beast’s claws tore through the air, carving deep gashes into a nearby tree.

“Damn it,” Asher hissed, swinging the branch wildly. It struck the creature’s arm with a dull crack, splinters flying, but the Veinspawn didn’t even flinch.

“Aim for its core,” Aetheros’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent. “The Veins—it draws its strength from them. You must sever it!”

“Yeah, sure,” Asher snapped, darting back as the creature slashed at him again. “Just let me find a magic sword while I’m at it.”

The beast roared, its jagged maw opening wide, and lunged again. Asher stumbled backward, his boots skidding across the mossy ground as he tripped over a gnarled root. He landed hard, the breath forced from his lungs. The creature loomed over him, its claws raised high for a killing strike.

Desperation surged through him. His hand shot out, grasping at the mossy ground—and found something solid. A satchel.

“Bringing you here drained my power,” Aetheros’s voice whispered, faint and strained. “This satchel and my meager strength are all I can offer right now, Asher. Use them wisely.”

Without hesitation, Asher grabbed the satchel and swung it upward with all his strength. The creature recoiled slightly, thrown off balance as the satchel’s weight connected with its jaw. Asher scrambled to his feet, fumbling with the clasp as he dodged another swipe of the creature’s claws.

Inside the satchel, his fingers closed around something cold and metallic. A dagger. He drew it quickly, the worn leather grip rough against his palm.

Asher tightened his grip, his heart hammering in his chest. “Is this all you’ve got?” he thought bitterly. The bond pulsed faintly in response, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a flicker of something—Aetheros’s fear, its desperation, or perhaps its trust in him.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The creature snarled, its many eyes narrowing with feral intensity, and lunged again. This time, Asher was ready. He sidestepped, slashing with the dagger in a wide arc. The blade tore into the creature’s arm, ichor spraying as it let out an inhuman screech that echoed through the forest.

The Veinspawn staggered, its corrupted Veins pulsing erratically. Asher could see it now—a mass of writhing, blackened tendrils coiling around a faintly glowing core in the center of its chest.

“That’s it,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The creature charged, and Asher darted forward, driven by a mix of adrenaline and desperation. He plunged the dagger into the pulsing core, putting his entire weight behind the strike.

The blade sank deep. The creature let out a keening wail, its body convulsing violently. Blackened ichor sprayed from the wound, and the corrupted Veins began to unravel, disintegrating into ash that was carried away by an unfelt wind.

Asher stumbled back, his chest heaving as he watched the creature collapse. Its grotesque form crumbled, leaving only a faint, lingering shadow where it had stood.

The bond pulsed faintly in his mind, a warm yet unsettling presence. “You survived,” Aetheros said, its voice unsteady but tinged with relief. “That is no small feat.”

“Yeah,” Asher muttered, wiping the ichor from his hands onto the mossy ground. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

Asher leaned against a tree, the satchel still clutched tightly in his hand. The faint hum of the Veins beneath the ground returned, though their rhythm felt strained, almost fragile.

Opening the satchel fully, he found a few items inside: a folded map, a glowing crystal the size of his palm, a small vial of swirling blue liquid, and the dagger he had just used.

“Aeloria provides,” Aetheros murmured in his mind, its tone almost wistful. “These remnants are gifts from the past, left by those who walked this land before you.”

Asher unfolded the map, his brow furrowing as he traced the crude markings. It was not a cohesive landmass but a broken patchwork of continents and regions, each surrounded by jagged lines he guessed represented the fractures caused by the Sundering.

The largest fragment was labeled Cael’tharyn, the Land of Shattered Spires, dominated by jagged peaks. Between his location and the Throne lay ominous regions: The Gloamfields, a forest choked with dense, suffocating shadows; The Red Wastes, where Aether Veins spilled corrosive rivers across barren ground; and The Obsidian Ridge, a treacherous mountain pass riddled with Veinspawn nests.

Asher’s gaze returned to the Throne’s symbol, impossibly far. He sighed. “That’s my destination, huh?”

“Yes,” Aetheros replied, its voice steadier. “The Throne is where gods fell and mortals dared to rise. It holds answers—and dangers you cannot yet fathom. But it is the only way forward.”

He folded the map and tucked it back into the satchel. “Great,” he muttered. “Just me, a knife, and a glowing rock against the apocalypse.”