Sorin refilled his canteen by a stream that ran through the field. The stream was cold and clear, running swiftly and creating small, melodic burbling sounds. The past two weeks had been incredibly relaxing, with very few threats and even fewer fights with beasts. He had managed to escape the Forest of Thieves two weeks ago, though it had been approximately four weeks since he had run through that mustached villain who had been so intent on his hide.
It had taken Sorin two weeks to carefully creep his way through the beast-ridden portion of the Forest of Thieves. He stayed hidden and avoided every fight he could. He had picked off one or two Acolyte beasts, but nothing impressive. Nevertheless, it had pushed Sorin incredibly close to the second Degree of Acolyte. That night, he planned to meditate and gather enough spirit to push himself into the next Degree.
Sorin continued on his journey with a brisk and confident step. Everything seemed to be going well for him. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and all was good in the world. He would encounter the Fen of the Necromancer any day now, and he would be able to convince Wuthum the Necromancer to bring back Magnus. Then, together, they would continue on to Cestead, the City of Academies.
Day turned into night, and Sorin settled down at a small campsite he had made for himself. He ate some jerky from a beast he had prepared days ago, then crossed his legs and began to meditate. Drawing on his senses, he reached out to the surrounding environment, gathering spirit bit by bit into his Divine Conduit. It was a slow and arduous process, but Sorin felt the familiar swelling as his Divine Conduit grew slightly.
Sorin’s Divine Conduit expanded only an incredibly small amount, but it was a sign of progress. There were no trumpets, no fanfare, no whisking off to his father’s Divine Realm to celebrate the achievement—just the cool night wind against his face. If Sorin sought some grand, divine recognition, he had nine more Degrees to go and a daunting quest to unlock the Disciple Rank.
With a sigh, Sorin lay down to sleep. Attempting to gather more spirit in this area would be a waste of time. Being rested and prepared for the journey ahead was far more important. The next day would bring more challenges, and Sorin knew he needed his strength.
The following morning, Sorin continued on his way, alternating between walking and jogging. As the day progressed, he noticed the plains he had been striding through had started to change. The once vibrant green grass had turned dull, and the presence of animals had grown scarce. Each gust of wind brought with it a new scent—one Sorin did not recognize, but that filled the air with unease. The ground beneath his feet became damper with every step, and soon, mud began to cling to his boots.
Over time, the landscape grew worse. Mud became the dominant terrain, with stagnant puddles and swampy patches scattered across the ground. No animals skittered through the underbrush, and the only sound was the wind, groaning as it swept through the dead landscape. Trees began to appear in the distance—twisted, leafless things, their gnarled branches stretching out like the claws of an ancient hag, as if seeking to ensnare Sorin in their grasp.
Sorin shivered as the wet chill of the fen seeped into his cloak and boots. His toes felt like icicles, and his hands had lost their feeling from gripping his daggers. A constant sense of being watched gnawed at him, yet there was nothing—no movement, no sound beyond the sighing of the wind. The oppressive fog that blanketed the area made it hard to see more than a dozen meters ahead, wrapping the world in an eerie, suffocating veil.
It was clear to Sorin that he had entered the Fen of the Necromancer. Nowhere else could be so desolate, so utterly forsaken.
Sorin would occasionally activate his Eye of Discernment to see if there were enemies lurking nearby, but he found nothing. While scanning his surroundings, Sorin took a step forward and heard a loud crack as something gave way underfoot. Looking down, he saw a pure white bone in the mud, now split almost perfectly in two. Sorin immediately scanned his surroundings again for danger, but once more, nothing revealed itself.
The bone appeared old and decayed. Though Sorin had little knowledge of anatomy, he guessed it to be part of a human leg based on its size and shape. A chill ran down his spine, wondering where the rest of the body had gone. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Sorin suddenly noticed a change in the air. It still carried the earthy scent of mud, but now a pungent odor of decay and rot clung to it, like a long-dead animal left to fester. Once he caught a whiff of the foul stench, it seemed to invade his senses, making it impossible to ignore.
Sorin moved cautiously as he ventured deeper into the swamp. The land became increasingly sparse, surrounded by pools of black, stagnant water. Sorin peered into the murky depths, but his Eye of Discernment revealed nothing; even with his enhanced sight, the water remained impenetrable, as though it swallowed light itself. He hesitated to test the depth, picturing himself stepping into the blackness only to be dragged under, drowning in eternal darkness.
His heart pounded in his chest, the only sound louder than the occasional rustle of dead grass or the scratch of bare branches scraping against one another. Every noise sent his nerves on edge, and Sorin found himself jumping at shadows, the fog twisting them into strange and haunting shapes.
Just as he thought he had run out of solid ground and would have to backtrack, something loomed in the distance. Breaking through the fog was a tree unlike any he had seen before. All the trees he had passed were twisted and leafless, but this one—a weeping willow—was fully covered in foliage. Its long, elegant vines cascaded down to shield its massive trunk from view, forming a thick curtain of green that stood out against the bleak surroundings. The willow stood alone on a small island, the only splash of life in a sea of death.
Sorin felt an inexplicable pull toward the tree, drawn by the strange beauty of the only living thing in this forsaken place.
Sorin approached the tree and carefully pushed aside some of the hanging vines. The moment he stepped into the tree's embrace, horror washed over him. Dozens of bodies hung from the branches, each one in various states of decay. The sight was grotesque—rotting corpses with sunken, empty eyes and lolling tongues swayed gently in the still air. Some were stripped of flesh, their yellowing bones gleaming, while others had decayed flesh clinging to their bodies, barely concealed by the scraps of cloth that still clung to them. Every single one had been hung by the neck, suspended by the same vines that draped the tree.
Sorin fought down the bile rising in his throat and drew his swords, the cold metal giving him some comfort. He needed to get out of here. Whatever had caused this horrifying scene, Sorin had no desire to share the same fate. He activated his Eye of Discernment, hoping for some insight, but it revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The tree, according to the Eye, was just a weeping willow. That realization brought him no comfort, though—something about the place felt deeply wrong, as if the tree itself had soaked up the death that surrounded it.
Turning his gaze toward the hanging bodies, Sorin examined them more closely. The Eye of Discernment revealed faint symbols on the clothing of a few corpses, symbols belonging to the gods and goddesses of both the Dark and Light Pantheons. These were no ordinary travelers—they were followers. The fact that both sides were represented sent a chill through Sorin. Whatever had killed these people had not discriminated between them. He suddenly felt a pressing need to leave, and fast.
Sorin sheathed his swords and swiftly made his way out from under the tree's grotesque canopy. His heart raced as he scanned his surroundings, half-expecting an ambush. But there was nothing—no movement, no sound beyond the ever-present groan of the wind and the distant rustle of dead leaves. Sorin sprinted back down the narrow strip of land that had led him here, grateful that no trap had been set in this obvious location. Still, his relief was short-lived. Something gnawed at him—this place was too quiet, too empty.
He knew Wuthum, the Necromancer, was somewhere in this fen. Sorin also knew, from what Magnus had told him, that Wuthum killed anyone who entered his domain. So why hadn’t Sorin been attacked yet? Why was there such an obvious place for an ambush, but no trap? It felt as though the fen itself was playing with him, luring him deeper with false security.
Sorin shivered at the thought of undead lurking anywhere and everywhere. Maybe the bodies on the tree were undead, merely dormant, waiting for the right moment to awaken. Perhaps they were under his feet even now, biding their time. Panic began to creep in, but Sorin forced it down. He reminded himself what was at stake. If he wanted Magnus back, he needed Wuthum’s help. There was no turning back. His mentor would have done the same for him.
He turned away from the weeping willow and took a different path, hoping it would lead him deeper into the fen. If he could find Wuthum and show that he meant no harm, maybe the necromancer would hear him out. And if it came to the worst, Sorin could always reveal his identity as the son of Vesperos. Surely that would compel Wuthum to help.
Sorin walked for hours, each step taking him farther into the desolate swamp. The landscape became stranger the deeper he ventured. At last, he came across something unusual—a broken obelisk. Once tall and proud, the stone monument had sunken into the swamp, half-submerged in mud. Once white, it was now so covered in dirt, moss, and grime that it had lost all meaning. Sorin activated the Eye of Discernment, but the obelisk revealed nothing more than a sense that it had once stood for something important, long forgotten now.
Seeing the obelisk as a possible sign that he was on the right path, Sorin circled around it, keeping a respectful distance. Beyond the obelisk, the ground seemed more solid and less treacherous than what he had encountered earlier. The path ahead was wider, more stable, and Sorin could tell that it had been traveled frequently—by what, he did not know.
On either side of the path, Sorin noticed strange, circular pools of black water. There was something off about these pools—they were perfectly circular, and each appeared to be the exact same size, equidistant from one another. It was unnerving.
Gathering his courage, Sorin approached one of the pools, staying at a safe distance. At first, all he saw was his reflection in the glossy, black surface of the water, mildly distorted by the ripples. But then, the pool rippled again, and Sorin’s reflection changed. In the span of a heartbeat, his image aged, transforming into an old, feeble version of himself. His future self lay gasping for breath, alone in a bed, staring blankly at nothing. With each labored breath, the older Sorin grew weaker until his chest rose no more, and he died.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
The water rippled once more, and the image vanished, leaving only the unbroken blackness. Sorin stood frozen in place, shaken by what he had seen. Several minutes passed and nothing else appeared in the water. It stayed as unbroken, inky black water.
Sorin couldn’t help himself. He stepped closer to the next pool, his curiosity pulling him forward. As he peered into the dark waters, his reflection began to form once again. Moments passed before a ripple disturbed the surface, and the scene shifted. Sorin found himself staring at a horrifying vision—he stood atop a pile of bodies, each one bearing wounds that closely mirrored those inflicted by his twin swords. In the vision, his reflection was bleeding out from countless cuts and gashes, his strength drained, leaving him unable to lift his blades. Seconds passed as his blood mixed with that of his fallen enemies, flowing together until it was impossible to tell whose blood was whose. The Sorin in the pool collapsed, still clutching his swords as though they were his only lifeline. The water rippled once more, and the image faded into blackness.
For a moment, Sorin lingered, watching the pool with a grim fascination. Seeing his own death so vividly, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. But this time, he didn’t hesitate as he strode to the next pool, a strange compulsion driving him to see more. He couldn’t explain why, but he needed to know what the next vision would show. As he peered into the reflective surface, a new image took shape—this time, Sorin saw himself, older, more seasoned, sitting upon an imposing onyx-black throne. His appearance was regal, powerful—an undefeated king. Yet that illusion of strength ended abruptly at the sight of a massive spear impaled through his stomach, pinning him to the throne.
No one stood near the throne. The room around this future version of himself was empty, devoid of any would-be attackers. The Sorin in the vision raised his head, locking eyes with the real Sorin. In those eyes was a resignation to his fate, but when he saw Sorin watching, a flicker of life returned—curiosity, and bewilderment. His mouth opened as if to speak, but only blood spilled forth, splattering onto his already blood-soaked tunic. He shook his head as though trying to clear his thoughts before attempting to speak again.
“I know not if you are a dream or a hallucination, but in my final hour, I grow desperate. If you are truly myself, then there is no harm in sharing this warning. Do not trust those who seek to become closest to you without proper restraint and caution. If you do, it will end in your death!” The kingly version of Sorin started in a rasping whisper, his voice rising with venomous fury, stained with blood.
Sorin staggered back, startled by the reflection speaking directly to him. None of the other visions had spoken, and this one’s sudden voice shook him. He instinctively drew his swords, expecting an attack. Yet nothing happened outside of the pool. Within the reflection, however, the kingly Sorin let out a roar of defiance, gripping the spear with both hands. With a mighty heave, he tore the spear from his body in a geyser of blood. Shadows immediately rose from the floor, swirling around him to staunch the wound as if sealing it with darkness.
Sorin noticed that something was wrong—there was not a spear embedded in his older self, but a lance, pure white and etched with golden spirals beneath the blood. The kingly version of Sorin took the lance and snapped it over his knee. He spread his hands wide, and two Niuweidao swords, forged from midnight-black metal, materialized midair and fell into his grip. With weapons in hand, the man began to stride forward, his footsteps rumbling and shaking the vision itself.
“A true warrior dies in battle with weapons in hand and bodies beneath his feet. I will not back down, even in my final moments. If you are not a delusion, then remember me at my best—bloody, injured, yet unbroken. Learn from my mistakes and go forth to conquer. Through the conquest of others, you will grow in strength as I have. Ensure your subjects are truly subjugated, or the power you’ve gained will abandon you when you need it most,” the kingly Sorin lectured.
The man then pushed open the doors to his throne room with a mighty shove. Sorin could not see past the doors, but he did witness hundreds of beams of light shoot forth from the entrance, piercing into his reflection and shredding him to pieces as he screamed his defiance to the world. Sorin didn’t see whether his middle-aged self survived; the pool turned blinding white from the blast before rippling and returning to its solid black.
Sorin didn’t utter a word, but he bowed his head and spent several minutes sending up a prayer to Vesperos for the man’s death. He wasn’t sure whether he was seeing possible futures or if these pools were designed to mentally torment him with visions of death, but it felt right to pray—even if the prayer was technically for himself. Sorin felt a hollow emptiness upon witnessing a version of himself, clearly so powerful, brought low and killed. He swore to himself that, even if these pools were intended to torture him, he would heed the man’s warnings. Deep down, he felt those warnings could not be wrong.
Driven by the need to move and escape the grim scenes haunting his mind, Sorin pressed on, walking several dozen meters down the path. Yet, he found himself once again drawn to the side, compelled to gaze into another pool. It was a strange, morbid fascination that spurred him, convincing him that each glimpse into his own death might hold clues on how to avoid it.
As Sorin stopped and allowed his reflection to surface in the inky blackness, a new shape emerged. This time, Sorin didn’t immediately see himself. His focus narrowed instead on a headless corpse, its skull shattered completely, fragments scattered across the grass. The weapon that had inflicted such damage lay beside it—a hammer. Sorin’s breath quickened, panic setting in as he took in the details of the body. The corpse was clothed in black, drenched in blood from a gaping wound in its chest. Two Niuweidao swords lay discarded a few meters away. Sorin knew instantly who the body belonged to—Magnus.
Sorin tore his eyes away from the body and toward Magnus’s killer. Lief Stoneheart stood exactly as Sorin remembered him—unchanged, unaged. Sorin’s lips drew back in a snarl upon seeing the man he hated most in the world. His anger surged, and for a moment, he was about to strike the pool with his sword to vent his hatred. But before he could, he was interrupted by a scream that sent a chill down his spine, a voice he knew all too well.
“No! Magnus!” the reflection of past Sorin screamed from the pool.
Sorin watched helplessly as his younger self, driven by reckless emotion, rushed toward his fallen mentor. It was as though time slowed, every movement agonizingly deliberate. He witnessed what could have easily transpired that day, had he ignored Magnus’s final words of caution. Lief Stoneheart turned his attention to the younger Sorin, charging toward him with lethal intent. Sorin’s reflection drew his twin swords, as if sheer willpower could be enough to strike Lief down.
But the attempt was futile. Sorin didn’t even manage to land a single blow. Lief’s hammer, glowing with a divine light, pulsed with power. A blast of light shot forth from it, striking Sorin directly in the chest. The impact was instantaneous—Sorin’s heart was pierced, his ribcage exploding outward in a gruesome display. The reflection of Sorin died instantly, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap.
Fear crept over Sorin as he stood transfixed by the brutal display. This death was more horrifying than any of the others he had seen in the pools. Watching himself die at the hands of the same man who had killed Magnus awakened a deep, primal terror. Lief Stoneheart was beyond powerful, a force Sorin could not comprehend nor hope to defeat. How could he possibly avenge his mentor when Lief had bested him so effortlessly? Sorin’s fear gave way to sadness—a crushing realization that he had failed Magnus, that vengeance was slipping further from his grasp.
“I suppose it was for the best. I did love my brother, but for the Light Pantheon, he was too dangerous to live,” a voice echoed from the water, breaking through Sorin’s spiraling thoughts.
Sorin’s head snapped up, his heart sinking. He recognized that voice, though the words were too cruel to accept. Quin, Sorin’s brother, stood there in the reflection, gazing down at Sorin’s lifeless body with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. It was Quin who had spoken those heart-wrenching words. Sorin’s mind rebelled against the scene. Quin had saved him in real life; his brother would never have said such things. At least, that’s what Sorin desperately believed.
“You did a good thing by letting me kill him,” Lief said, his broad smile filled with sick satisfaction. “Now we’ll finally bring peace to this world.”
“Yes, I should have asked you to do it from the beginning. It was naive of me to think a spawn of Vesperos should live,” Quin replied, his face darkening with grim determination.
Sorin felt anger toward his brother bubble up. Had Quin truly thought this of him all along? Perhaps that was why Quin hadn’t stuck to the plan they had created together. If Quin had intervened earlier, maybe Magnus would still be alive. Instead, he stood on the sidelines and watched as Lief used Sorin as bait to kill Magnus. Sorin’s anger grew with every thought of Quin and Lief. Magnus should still be alive. They should have been traveling together. Sorin shouldn’t be stuck in this cursed swamp, nor harassed and hunted through the Forest of Thieves.
Sorin’s rage got the better of him. He slashed the water with his sword, disturbing the image and causing it to vanish. What remained in the water was Sorin’s reflection, twisted in anger, with tears welling in his eyes. Seeing those tears filled him with deep shame. A true man would have restrained his emotions and not given in to such displays of weakness—that was what Magnus had taught him. And Magnus’s lessons were all he had left of his mentor.
Sorin wiped the tears away with his sleeve and looked back into the pool to inspect his reflection. He wiped the remaining emotion from his face and spent several moments regaining his composure. Then, Sorin knelt and prayed. The prayer helped steady his thoughts and bring calm to his turbulent mind. Whatever these pools were, they were likely a trap designed to torment him. Sorin didn’t fully understand how they worked, but he knew one thing for certain: the last scene they had shown was a perversion of the past. Quin was his brother, and he had saved Sorin from Lief’s hammer. One day, Sorin would repay Quin for that.
Sorin stood and didn’t look back into the water. He had seen enough of these disturbing visions. Sheathing his swords, he resumed his journey down the path. His eyes stayed trained on the fog before him, refusing to let his gaze stray toward the pools again. If the undead were going to ambush him, they would have done it while he was distracted by the visions or lost in prayer. The path was safe—so long as he resisted the temptation to look into those cursed pools.
As Sorin reached the end of the walkway, he didn’t glance back and continued onward. The symmetrically patterned pools had disappeared, but the path stretched forward into the thick fog. Unlike the narrow strip between the pools, this part of the trail resembled a dirt road, well-worn from frequent travel. Sorin could see no better alternative, so he chose to remain on the beaten path. He could only hope it wasn’t undead that had made the road so well-trodden.
Sorin walked along the road for what felt like hours, his focus unwavering. He didn’t deviate or stray, convinced that the end of the road was just ahead. Each minute, he promised himself that soon, he would reach its conclusion. And then, quite suddenly, he did. Out of nowhere, ominous shadows rose from the fog, towering over Sorin. He jumped back, startled—only to realize the shadows were completely still.
The walls of the city loomed out of the thick fog, ancient and crumbling, their once-great fortifications now pocked with decay. Massive stones, blackened with age and streaked with moss, jutted unevenly from the ground, some half-sunken into the swampy earth. Jagged cracks spiderwebbed across their surfaces, giving the impression that the walls were barely holding together—as if the city itself had clawed its way out of the fen, only to be swallowed by it again.
Vines and creeping fungi clung to the stone, winding through the fractures like veins of rot, pulsing faintly with an eerie, sickly glow. In places, whole sections of the wall had collapsed, leaving gaping voids where the fen had crept in, reclaiming what remained. The towers that once flanked the gates were little more than stumps of ruined stone, their battlements broken and worn, standing as silent sentinels of a forgotten past.
There was a strange weight in the air, pressing in around the walls, as though they carried the memories of all who had perished within them. As the fog swirled and parted, the ghostly outlines of the city’s former glory seemed to flicker in the gloom—brief glimpses of grandeur lost to time and ruin.