The Grand Hall of Yainna was alight with flickering torches, their flames casting long shadows upon the ancient stone walls. The air was thick with tension as the lords and warlords assembled, voices low with hushed whispers. At the heart of it all, King Derek sat upon his throne, his gaze cold and unreadable. Thalia sat beside him, her fingers brushing the pendant that never left her neck. She could feel it pulse subtly against her skin, though she told herself it was merely her imagination.
The scouts had returned.
The great wooden doors groaned as they were pushed open, revealing the survivors who had been sent to Darkwood Isle. There were only three of them left. They were caked in dirt and blood, their eyes hollow as if they had seen the depths of hell itself. The sight of them silenced the hall. The tallest of the three stepped forward, his body trembling though he tried to still it. He was not a man accustomed to fear, and yet it clung to him now like a second skin.
"We are at war," he announced.
The words crashed into the hall, sending a ripple of unease through the gathered lords. Murmurs broke out at once, a mix of disbelief and rage. The King lifted a hand, and silence followed.
"Explain," Derek commanded.
The scout swallowed hard, his voice thick. "We reached the shores of Darkwood Isle at first light. The shipwreck was there, as we expected, but the town beyond it... It was empty. At first, we thought it abandoned, but the signs of life remained—cooking pots still warm, clothes left on lines as if the people had only just vanished. Then we found them."
"Found who?" one of the warlords demanded.
"The bodies," the scout said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Slaughtered. Torn apart. Some had their throats cut, others had their limbs twisted and broken in ways no man could have done. And the worst of it... they were afraid. Their faces were frozen in terror."
A chill settled over the hall. Lords exchanged uneasy glances.
"The town was attacked?" King Derek pressed.
"Yes, Your Grace. By a man whose skin is as white as bone."
At those words, something inside Thalia shifted. A strange, creeping sensation curled around her mind, tightening like a vice. The hall seemed to blur at the edges, voices becoming distant echoes. And then—
A sudden darkness.
She was no longer in the Grand Hall.
She was somewhere else entirely.
Through eyes that were not her own, she stood upon the shores of Darkwood Isle. The scent of salt and blood filled the air. The bodies of the scouts lay before her, lifeless and broken, their blood soaking into the earth. But she—he—was not done with them yet.
His pale fingers stretched out, reaching into the chest of one of the fallen men. The flesh gave way beneath his grasp, and with unnatural ease, he gripped the man's heart. The body shuddered violently as though sensing what was to come.
Then, he spoke.
The words poured from his lips in a language that was neither mortal nor kind. It scraped against the air, thick with power and malice.
"Tor'vah'lik ezur'nash. Morthil ve'ak Zyn'ahra."
A guttural sound followed, something inhuman.
The corpse convulsed. Bones snapped and realigned, the sickening crunch of flesh reforming filled the stillness. Then, as if wrenched from the abyss, the dead man gasped—a breath that should not have been possible. His eyes, once dulled in death, flared open, revealing an abyss of blackness. He coughed, dark blood spilling from his lips, his body trembling as if adjusting to life once more.
He turned to the pale man and spoke with a voice that was not his own.
"I have seen it," he rasped, reverence and horror intertwining. "I know my purpose. Yainna will fall."
A soundless scream echoed through Thalia's mind. The vision shattered, and she was back.
She gasped sharply, her chest rising and falling in erratic breaths. The hall blurred, voices melding into an indistinct hum. Her nails dug into the wooden arms of her chair, scratching against the polished surface. Her vision swam, the weight of the experience pressing down on her like an unseen force.
Someone was calling her name. She barely registered it.
"Thalia!"
It was William. He had moved from his place, his expression lined with worry. But she could not answer him. She could not find the words. The world tilted, and all sound faded into a distant murmur.
Then, her body betrayed her.
Her vision darkened, and the last thing she saw before the abyss claimed her was her father rising from his throne, his eyes unreadable as he called her name.
The darkness took her.
And in that moment, somewhere far from Yainna, the pale man turned his head, as if sensing something—someone—watching him.