Nathor’s body ached, his obsidian wings trembling slightly as he sat in the relative safety of the cave. The darkness wrapped around him like a shroud, but instead of comfort, it brought a heavy, oppressive weight. His wounds throbbed with each beat of his heart, and though he had retreated to heal, his mind was far from restful. The cave was silent, save for the distant echoes of the storm raging outside, and the quiet crackle of some residual energy still crackling within his battered form.
He closed his eyes, feeling the shadows pulse around him, a reminder of the power that coursed through his veins—power that came at a steep cost. His hand pressed against his side, where the man’s tomahawk had cut deep, and he grimaced. His health was low, dangerously so, but that wasn’t what troubled him. The physical wounds would heal, but the scar left on his pride was deeper, more painful. Nathor was not accustomed to losing, and the taste of defeat was bitter on his tongue.
As his body began to heal in the cold embrace of the shadows, Nathor’s thoughts wandered back to his past, to the path that had led him to this point. The journey from his early days to becoming one of the feared Shadow Aetherials had been long, fraught with violence and sacrifice. The Throne of Shadows, or the Throne of Death as it was more commonly known, was not a position sought after by the ambitious or the power-hungry. It was a mantle that was thrust upon the chosen few, an inheritance that came with the weight of countless souls and the endless march of decay.
Nathor had never asked for this power, never sought to be one of the three Shadow Aetherials alive at any given time. But the Throne had chosen him, and when it did, there was no refusing. He had felt the transformation deep within his bones, his flesh, and his very soul. His once vibrant eyes had dulled to a glowing red, swirling with shadows that mirrored the abyss he constantly gazed into. His hair, dark as the night sky, had streaked with silver, a physical manifestation of his connection to death and decay.
The Throne of Shadows resided in the deepest parts of the world, far from the light of the sun, where the souls of the dead were guided to their final rest. It was a place of silence and stillness, where time seemed to stand still, and the air was thick with the weight of countless lifetimes. As a Shadow Aetherial, Nathor had been bound to this place, to this duty. He was a shepherd of souls, guiding them to the afterlife, ensuring that the balance between life and death was maintained.
But it wasn’t just a duty—it was a burden. The power that came with being a Shadow Aetherial was immense, but it was also a curse. Nathor’s touch could wither life, his very presence could bring decay. The shadows he commanded were not just tools or weapons; they were extensions of the darkness that lived within him, a constant reminder of the path he had been forced to walk.
As he sat there, healing in the shadows, Nathor couldn’t help but reflect on the irony of his situation. He had spent his life fighting, clawing his way to the top, only to be handed a role that required him to embrace the very thing he had fought against—death. The Throne of Shadows was not just a seat of power; it was a prison, binding him to a solitary existence, cut off from the vibrancy of life that other Aetherians enjoyed.
He had no real society, no community to belong to. The other races of Udanara feared and respected the Shadow Aetherials, but they kept their distance. Nathor was used to being alone, used to the silence that came with his role. But there were times, like now, when the weight of that loneliness pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe.
The battle with the man in the cave had shaken him, not just because of the physical wounds he had sustained, but because it had forced him to confront a truth he had been trying to avoid. Nathor was tired—tired of the endless cycle of violence, of the constant struggle to maintain his place in a world that feared him. He had thought that by embracing the power of the Throne of Shadows, he could find some measure of peace, some way to escape the endless battles. But now, sitting here, bloodied and bruised, he realized that peace was as elusive as ever.
The shadows around him whispered softly, voices of the dead calling out to him, offering their secrets, their knowledge. It was an ability that had once filled him with awe, the power to communicate with the dead, to learn from those who had passed beyond the veil. But now, those whispers only reminded him of the souls he had guided, the lives he had seen snuffed out, the endless march of death that he could never escape.
Nathor’s mind drifted back to the Throne of Shadows, to the solitary king who ruled over it. Unlike the other thrones, which were ruled by queens, the Throne of Shadows was governed by a king, a figure of immense power and gravitas. This king was more a force of nature than a person, embodying the concept of death and the end of all things. Nathor had never met the king, but he had felt his presence, a constant, looming shadow over his life.
The king was believed to be immortal, though there were rumors that he could pass his mantle to a successor when his time ended. Nathor had often wondered what that would be like, to take on such a mantle, to bear the full weight of the Throne of Shadows. It was a thought that both terrified and intrigued him. On one hand, the power was unimaginable, but on the other, it was a power that came with unimaginable responsibility, with a burden that would crush any ordinary being.
And yet, Nathor couldn’t help but wonder if that was his destiny. Was he meant to take the place of the king someday? Was that why he had been chosen as a Shadow Aetherial? The thought gnawed at him, a constant, unsettling presence in the back of his mind. It was a question he had no answer to, a fate he had no control over.
The shadows continued to swirl around him, cold and comforting all at once. Nathor sighed, feeling the weight of his past pressing down on him. He had been so focused on fighting his way to the top, on proving his strength and dominance, that he had never stopped to consider what it was all for. Now, as he sat here, healing in the darkness, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of futility. What was the point of all this power, all this strength, if it only led to more pain, more loneliness?
He thought of Selene, who had a similar approach to life—fight your way to the top, and if anyone gets in your way, make sure they don’t live to tell about it. They were alike in many ways, both driven by a fierce determination to survive, to dominate. But Nathor wondered if she felt the same way he did, if she ever questioned the path she was on. He doubted it. Selene was strong, perhaps even stronger than him in some ways. She didn’t seem to have the same doubts, the same weariness that plagued him.
Nathor’s eyes flickered open, the dull red light within them glowing softly in the darkness. The healing was slow, but he could feel his strength returning, the wounds knitting together, the pain receding. The ability to heal in the shadows was a tiring one, draining his energy, but it gave him time to think, to reflect. And in those moments of reflection, Nathor often found himself questioning everything.
He had tried to leave his past behind, to move beyond the life of violence and conflict that had defined him for so long. But it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, the shadows always followed him, always pulled him back into the darkness. It was a part of who he was, a part of his very being, and there was no escaping it.
Nathor leaned back against the cold stone wall, his wings folding tightly around him like a protective cocoon. The shadows whispered softly, offering comfort, but it was a comfort that came with the chill of death. He had spent so much of his life surrounded by death, by the inevitable decay that followed every battle, every conflict. It was his duty, his burden, to guide those souls, to ensure that the balance between life and death was maintained. But what about his own soul? What about the balance within himself?
The Throne of Shadows was a realm of silence and stillness, a place where time seemed to stand still. It was a place that Nathor had always felt drawn to, a place that felt like home in a way that no other place ever had. But it was also a place of loneliness, of isolation. The other Aetherians had their communities, their families, their vibrant societies. Nathor had none of that. He had the shadows, the silence, and the endless march of death.
He had tried to build something for himself, tried to carve out a place in the world where he could be more than just a Shadow Aetherial, more than just a harbinger of death. But every time he tried, every time he thought he had found a way out, something pulled him back. The shadows were a part of him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape them.
Nathor’s thoughts drifted to the king of the Throne of Shadows, the solitary figure who ruled over the realm of death. What must it be like, to bear
that mantle, to carry the full weight of the Throne? It was a question that haunted him, a question that he had no answer to. The king was a figure of immense power, but also of immense loneliness. Nathor couldn’t help but wonder if that was his destiny, if he was meant to take on that mantle someday.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There was no point in dwelling on what might be. He had more immediate concerns, more pressing matters to deal with. The fight with the man in the cave had shaken him, but it had also reminded him of something important. Nathor wasn’t invincible. He wasn’t untouchable. There were forces in the world that could challenge him, forces that could bring him to his knees.
But that didn’t mean he was powerless. Nathor had been chosen as a Shadow Aetherial for a reason. He had power, immense power, and he had the will to use it. He had fought his way to the top before, and he could do it again. The shadows were his allies, his weapons, and he would use them to reclaim his strength, to rebuild what had been broken.
As the last of his wounds began to heal, Nathor’s resolve hardened. The path ahead wouldn’t be easy, but it was a path he had to walk. He would face whatever challenges came his way, and he would overcome them, just as he had always done. The shadows were his to command, and he would wield them with the same precision and ruthlessness that had brought him this far.
But even as he steeled himself for the battles to come, Nathor couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the back of his mind. The shadows were his allies, but they were also a constant reminder of the darkness that lived within him, the darkness that he could never fully escape. And as much as he tried to fight it, tried to overcome it, Nathor knew that the Throne of Shadows would always be a part of him, a part of his very soul.
With a sigh, Nathor stood, his wings unfurling as he prepared to leave the cave. The shadows clung to him, a cold, comforting presence that he had grown accustomed to. He had healed enough to continue, to face whatever lay ahead. But as he stepped into the darkness, Nathor couldn’t help but wonder if he was walking toward his destiny, or if he was simply prolonging the inevitable.
Nathor lingered in the shadows, his glowing red eyes narrowing as he watched the man by the fire. After the beatdown he had taken earlier, Nathor wasn’t exactly itching for a rematch. Besides, something about this guy made him think twice—like maybe he wasn’t the only one with a few screws loose.
The man seemed perfectly content, sitting cross-legged by the fire, staring into the flames as if they held the secrets of the universe. Every so often, he’d reach out to shift a log or add another piece of wood, his movements slow and deliberate, like some kind of ancient ritual. Nathor couldn’t help but wonder what kind of thoughts were rattling around in that guy’s head. Probably something about the circle of life, or the beauty of nature, or other such crap. Nathor rolled his eyes.
Every once in a while, the man would glance around, his sharp green eyes scanning the cave. Nathor held his breath each time, convinced that the man was about to spot him. At one point, the man’s gaze seemed to lock directly onto Nathor, and he felt his heart skip a beat. But then, just as quickly, the man’s attention would drift back to the fire, as if deciding that whatever he thought he saw wasn’t worth bothering with.
It was a tense waiting game, and Nathor wasn’t enjoying it one bit. But he wasn’t stupid enough to make the first move again—not after what happened last time. So, he stuck to the shadows, blending in like a proper shadow-walking badass, even if his pride was still stinging.
Then, without warning, the man stood up. Nathor tensed, ready for anything. The man lifted his head slightly, sniffing the air like some kind of wolf. What the hell was he doing? It was like he was auditioning for a role in the local theater as alpha of the pack. Nathor had to resist the urge to scoff out loud.
“Shadow Walker,” the man called out, his voice calm and steady, with just a hint of a smile. “I know you’re still out there.”
Nathor’s blood ran cold. He believed him—no doubt about that—but the man didn’t know where he was exactly. Did he? Nathor cursed silently. He really hoped the guy wasn’t some kind of weird shaman who could sniff out people’s fear.
“The storm outside has ended,” the man continued, his tone almost conversational. “If you’d like to fight, now’s the time. Otherwise, I suggest you leave.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Nathor didn’t bite. He wasn’t about to walk into another beating, not after the first round had left him feeling like a ragdoll in a tornado. But damn if the man’s words didn’t plant a seed of doubt. Could he really not hear the storm anymore? It was hard to tell, given how deep they were in the cave. Still, something about the guy’s tone made Nathor want to keep his distance—like maybe he really did have eyes in the back of his head.
The man waited for a moment, as if giving Nathor a chance to show himself. When nothing happened, he shrugged, apparently unbothered, and began to walk toward the cave’s exit.
Nathor stayed glued to the shadows, silently cursing every nature-loving bone in this guy’s body. The man moved with that same maddening calm, like he didn’t have a care in the world, his bare feet hardly making a sound on the cave floor. Nathor followed at a safe distance, keeping to the darkest corners. No way was he giving up his advantage now.
When the man reached the mouth of the cave, Nathor hung back, letting the darkness conceal him. The man stepped outside, into the light of a sunset sky, the storm clouds having cleared away to reveal a horizon tinged with reds and oranges. Nathor stayed put, watching as the man paused, breathing in the fresh air like it was the first breath he’d taken in years. Seriously, who the hell was this guy?
Nathor waited until nightfall, the cave’s entrance now bathed in the cool light of the rising moons. Only then did he slip out, making sure he was unseen. The night air was cool against his skin, a welcome change from the stifling heat of the day. The sky was a canvas of stars, the kind of view that would’ve made any other guy stop and appreciate the beauty of it all.
Not Nathor. He was too busy nursing his bruised ego and trying to figure out where the hell he was. The storm had scattered everyone, and Nathor had no idea where his team had ended up. But he was pretty sure they’d all be heading toward Emberfall—after all, that’s where the action was, and none of them were the type to miss out on the action.
Besides, Nathor thought with a wry grin, he could really use a drink after all that. Emberfall was as good a place as any to find a tavern, and after the day he’d had, he needed something strong to take the edge off. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find a decent tavern where he could sit in the shadows, sip a drink, and try to forget the fact that he’d just gotten his ass handed to him by a half-naked forest fuck.
***
Paola stirred slowly, her senses coming back to her one by one as the light from the early morning sun streamed through the broken window. Her head throbbed with the remnants of last night’s drinking, and as she stretched her arms above her head, she froze mid-stretch, her eyes widening at the sight before her.
Poca was standing by the small table, completely naked, her blue skin glowing softly in the morning light. Paola’s gaze traveled over Poca’s form, taking in the soft curve of her stomach, the patch of black curly hair between her legs, and the fullness of her chest, which bounced slightly with each peppy step she took as she whipped up some oatmeal.
Paola blinked, her mind struggling to process the scene before her. The memories of the night before were hazy, but one thing was clear: she and Poca had somehow ended up naked together, and she had no recollection of how that had happened. She silently chided herself, feeling a mix of embarrassment and confusion. For someone who supposedly hated this trait, she seemed to talk about it—a lot.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Poca said cheerfully, her voice light and melodic as she stirred the oatmeal in a small pot over a makeshift stove. “I 'ope you 'ad a good sleep. You were out like a light.”
Paola’s eyes flicked down to her own petite, naked frame, suddenly hyper-aware of her smaller chest and shorter stature. Then she looked back at Poca’s body, feeling a strange mix of admiration and guilt. She knew she wasn’t doing anything wrong, but the thought of Ayla crept into her mind, making her feel like she was somehow cheating on her, even though there was nothing romantic or sexual about the situation.
Poca noticed Paola’s hesitation and turned to her with a playful grin. “You know,” she began, her accent thickening as she spoke, “you were ze one who started ze whole ‘naked breakfast’ idea last night. I zink you mentioned something about using your nudity to your advantage with XP. We bonded over zat, remember?”
Paola’s eyes widened in surprise. “I said that?”
Poca nodded, still smiling. “Oui! You were quite ze talker after a few drinks. You told me all about 'ow you use your nudity to gain experience points, and 'ow it’s part of your strategy. I thought it was rather clever, actually. I do something similar, though for different reasons.”
Paola felt her cheeks flush, partly from embarrassment and partly from the realization that she really needed to watch how much she drank. “I… don’t really remember saying that,” she admitted, feeling sheepish.
Poca laughed softly, her chest rising and falling with the motion, and Paola couldn’t help but notice how the sound was as comforting as it was infectious. “Well, it’s true. We talked about it quite a bit. Turns out, I spend most of my time naked as well. It’s just more natural for me, and it helps with my puppetry magic. Clothes can be… restrictive.”
Paola chuckled, feeling a little more at ease. “I guess that makes sense. I've met one other person like this, but most have never heard of it.”
Poca shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Maybe we’re just ahead of ze curve, non?”
Paola found herself smiling, the tension in her shoulders easing as she accepted the situation for what it was—two women, comfortable in their own skin, sharing a strange but genuine connection. She leaned back in her chair, letting herself relax as she watched Poca work, her thoughts still swimming from the events of the previous night.
She let her gaze linger on Poca for a moment longer, taking in the way the morning light played over her blue skin, the soft curves of her body, the way she moved with a natural grace that was both calming and mesmerizing. There was something about Poca that drew Paola in, something that made her feel at ease despite the strange circumstances.
Poca must have noticed Paola’s gaze because she turned and offered her a warm smile. “Admiring ze view, are we?” she teased lightly, her tone playful.
Paola blinked, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. “I—uh, no, I mean—”
Poca laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Relax, Paola. I’m just teasing you. Besides, I’m not exactly shy, as you can see.”
Paola couldn’t help but laugh, the tension melting away as she shook her head. “Yeah, I guess not. And, well… you’re not bad to look at either.”
Poca’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Merci, ma chérie. You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”
Paola felt a warm flush of pride at the compliment, even as a small pang of guilt tugged at her thoughts. Ayla. She had to ask her how she felt about all this nudity. She couldn’t remember if they had ever talked about it, and now she was starting to wonder what Ayla thought about Paola walking around naked all the time. That was a conversation she’d have to have later, but for now, she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the present moment.
The aroma of the oatmeal began to fill the small room, and Poca hummed softly to herself as she finished preparing the meal. Paola found herself enjoying the simple act of watching someone else cook, the rhythmic motions of Poca’s hands as she stirred and mixed, the way her body moved with a casual confidence that was as captivating as it was comforting.
After a few more minutes, Poca ladled the oatmeal into two small bowls and brought them over to the table. “Voilà! A naked breakfast, just as you suggested,” she said with a grin, setting one bowl in front of Paola and taking the seat opposite her.
Paola chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I actually suggested that.”
Poca winked playfully. “You did, and I zink it’s a brilliant idea. Nothing like starting ze day au naturel, right?”
Paola smiled, picking up her spoon and taking a bite of the oatmeal. It was simple, but it was warm and satisfying, and she found herself savoring the taste. “You know,” she said between bites, “this is actually really nice. Just… being here, eating breakfast with you. It’s been a long time since I’ve had something this normal.”
Poca nodded, her expression softening. “Oui, I understand. Sometimes we forget 'ow important ze simple things are, especially when life gets so complicated.”
Paola looked up at Poca, feeling a surge of gratitude for the woman who had shown her such kindness. “Thank you, Poca. For everything. I really needed this.”
Poca smiled warmly, reaching across the table to gently squeeze Paola’s hand. “You’re welcome, Paola. I’m glad we met. And I’m glad we can 'elp each other.”
They continued to eat in comfortable silence, the quiet of the morning broken only by the occasional clink of spoons against bowls. When they were finished, Paola leaned back in her chair, feeling more content than she had in a long time. Poca stood up, stretching her arms above her head, and Paola couldn’t help but admire the way her body moved, the easy grace with which she carried herself.
“Zat was a good breakfast,” Poca said with a satisfied sigh. “But I suppose we should get dressed, non? Ze day is waiting for us.”
Paola nodded, though a small part of her was reluctant to leave the comfortable cocoon they had created in the small room. She stood up and grabbed her tattered cloak, relieved to see that it had finally begun to repair itself, though it was still pretty torn up. At least it did its job of covering her up, so she wasn’t naked anymore.
Poca slipped into her potato sack dress, which seemed to be her preferred attire, and Paola couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of it. The dress was rough and plain, but on Poca, it seemed to take on a certain elegance, as if she could make anything look good.
“Ready?” Poca asked, turning to Paola with a smile.
Paola nodded, feeling a sense of excitement bubbling up inside her. “Yeah, let’s go.”
They stepped out into the morning light, the air fresh and cool against their skin. The shanty town was beginning to stir, with people moving about, preparing for the day ahead. Poca led the way to the inn, where they would pick up Abraham before continuing their journey to Emberfall.
When they reached the inn, they found the boy sitting in the lobby, patiently waiting. He looked up as they entered, his dark eyes wide and alert, but he didn’t say anything. Paola noticed how quiet he was, how he seemed to prefer being left alone, and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him.
“Good morning, Abraham,” Poca said gently, kneeling down to his level. “Did you 'ave a good sleep?”
Abraham nodded, his expression unreadable.
Poca smiled, her tone soft and motherly. “Are you ready to go? We’re going to continue our journey today.”
The boy nodded again, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Paola watched the interaction, noting how Poca respected the boy’s need for space, how she didn’t push him to speak or open up. It was clear that Abraham preferred to be left alone, and Poca seemed to understand that instinctively.
As they left the inn, Paola glanced at
Poca. “He’s very quiet, isn’t he?”
Poca nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Oui, 'e is. 'E’s been through a lot, more than any child should 'ave to endure. I try to give 'im space, let 'im come to me when 'e’s ready.”
Paola admired Poca’s approach, the way she handled the boy with such care and understanding. It was clear that she had a deep empathy for others, a quality that Paola found herself drawn to.
They made their way to the cart, where Tariq was waiting with several bunches of fruit. He smiled warmly as he handed them to Poca. “Thank you again for saving my daughter,” he said gratefully. “These are for you, as a token of my appreciation.”
Poca’s eyes lit up as she accepted the fruits. “Merci, Tariq. Zese will be put to good use. I can repurpose ze seeds, if zat’s okay with you, but I only do so for personal trade or use, not for profit or mass production. I don’t want to steal your idea.”
Tariq chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re welcome to them, Poca. I trust you.”
Paola watched the exchange with a smile, feeling a sense of warmth and community that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. As they prepared to leave, Paola caught sight of Carter, the puppet that had been mentioned earlier. He was standing by the cart, his wooden face fixed in an eerie grin, his hollow eyes staring straight ahead.
Paola shivered slightly, unnerved by the puppet’s presence. She turned to Poca, her voice hesitant. “Poca, about Carter… he’s…”
“Wonderful,” Poca finished with a bright smile, completely oblivious to Paola’s discomfort. “'E’s ze best companion I could ask for. Always reliable, always there when I need 'im.”
Paola forced a smile, deciding to let the subject drop. It was clear that Poca had a deep affection for Carter, and Paola didn’t want to spoil that. Still, there was something unsettling about the puppet that she couldn’t quite shake.
As they climbed into the cart, Paola felt the warmth of the morning sun on her skin, the light breeze ruffling her hair. The road stretched out before them, a ribbon of possibility winding its way toward Emberfall. As they settled into the cart, Poca turned to Paola, her expression thoughtful.
"So," Poca began, her voice gentle, "what are you going to do about Selene and your bag? What’s your plan?"
Paola took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before answering. "I think Selene and Oso—the cub—are together. I can feel their connection, and I can sense that Oso is safe. We’re getting closer to them."
Poca tilted her head, a puzzled look crossing her face. "Closer? What do you mean?"
Paola smiled faintly, the bond she shared with Oso bringing her some comfort. "It means that Selene is likely making her way toward us. It’s just a feeling I have, but it’s strong. I don’t think she’s trying to run away."
Poca’s expression grew uncomfortable, her brow furrowing as she considered Paola’s words. "And what will you do when we meet 'er? I mean... after what happened."
Paola noticed the hesitation in Poca’s voice, the way her gaze flickered with unease. She reached out and gently placed a hand on Poca’s arm. "If you’re uncomfortable, I can meet Selene separately. I don’t want you to feel pressured into facing her if you’re not ready."
Poca shook her head, her eyes reflecting a mix of emotions. "Non, I zink I need to face 'er again. I can’t keep running away from zis. We need to talk, to understand what happened." She hesitated, then added, "But I’m glad you offered. It means a lot, Paola."
Paola squeezed Poca’s arm, offering her a reassuring smile. "We’ll face her together, then. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it."
Poca nodded, a small but determined smile playing on her lips. "Oui."
As they settled into their seats, Carter took the reins of the oxen, his wooden hands moving with an eerie precision that made Paola shiver. She tried to push the unease aside, focusing instead on the warmth of Poca’s presence beside her. The cart began to move, the gentle rocking motion lulling them into a comfortable silence as they made their way down the road. Paola, Poca, and Abraham sat in the back, the morning sun casting long shadows as the day began to unfold.
Paola glanced at Abraham, who sat quietly beside her, his dark eyes gazing out at the passing landscape. He seemed lost in thought, his small frame huddled against the side of the cart. She wondered what was going through his mind, what thoughts and fears he carried with him. But she didn’t press him, respecting his need for space, just as Poca had.
Poca, too, seemed deep in thought, her gaze distant as she stared out at the road ahead. Paola could sense the tension in her, the unease that lingered beneath the surface. She knew that Poca was wrestling with her own emotions, trying to make sense of everything that had happened with Selene. The cart continued its journey toward Emberfall, the three of them together, their thoughts and emotions intertwined.