The northern forest was darker than any night Liora had ever known. Even as the sun sank behind the ragged hills, she could feel the cold seeping up from the ground itself, as if the earth were remembering something it had been forced to forget.
She and her company from the Sett Clan moved in tense formation, the Glory Clan warriors following close behind. At the front, the aged envoy of Glory—known simply as the Elder—kept one hand on the golden clasp at his throat. His breathing rasped against the hush of the woods.
No birds called. No insects stirred.
Only the stones remained, carved with symbols no living tongue could still pronounce.
At the forest's heart lay a ruin: a circular pit framed by pillars that reached like broken fingers toward the sky. There, etched into the cracked floor, was the sigil every hunter, scholar, and fool in the world had learned to fear.
Star Consumption.
Liora's gaze locked on the symbol. Something in her chest tightened, as if her ribs were trying to close around her heart.
"Lady Liora," one of her captains whispered, "are you certain we should be here?"
She swallowed. "If we turn back now, we hand this place to the next scavenger who dares to claim it."
"And if the legends are true—?"
"Then at least we'll know."
The Elder's voice broke in, soft and steady:
"You will know death if you underestimate what was sealed here."
He stepped forward, raising his staff as if to measure the darkness pooling between the stones. For a moment, the dim glow of his lantern painted the ancient runes in trembling gold.
Then the air shifted.
A hush deeper than silence rolled outward.
The lantern's flame withered to a pinprick.
And from the heart of the pit, a single figure rose.
At first, it seemed only a shade—a suggestion of height, a distortion of the shadows. But as it stepped free of the sigil, the darkness congealed into form:
A towering being clad in layer upon layer of cracked, blackened armor. A white mask, split by hairline fractures, hid its face. From the seams, red light pulsed like the last heartbeat of a dying star.
In its right hand, it carried a scythe as tall as any man.
Its voice was neither loud nor soft. It simply existed, the way gravity existed.
"All warmth shall fade."
The Elder fell to his knees. Someone behind Liora gave a strangled cry.
Umbra.
The name rattled through her skull. She had heard it spoken only in the most secret councils: a reaper bound to the Seven Sins themselves. A warden of any place the Sins had marked.
And Star Consumption was the greatest mark of all.
The thing took a step. The ground beneath its foot cracked, stone splintering as if fleeing its touch.
"Archers!" Liora shouted. "Fire!"
A volley of arrows streaked through the darkness, but Umbra did not flinch. The shafts struck its chest and vanished into the drifting black mist that clung to its form.
Someone screamed. A man to her left clutched his throat as shadows erupted from his skin, coiling around his limbs and dragging him off his feet.
Another took a step forward—Gelar, the Glory Clan's war-mage. He lifted both hands, weaving a barrier of blazing azure light.
"Fall back!" Gelar yelled. "I'll hold it—"
The scythe blurred. A single sweeping arc.
The barrier shattered like brittle glass. Gelar's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. The blade had carved straight through him.
Liora lunged, catching Gelar's limp body before it collapsed. She lowered him gently, feeling her heartbeat hammering against her ribs.
A cold voice whispered behind her ear, though she knew Umbra had not moved:
"None who stand in the path of hunger will endure."
The Elder staggered upright, eyes wide with dread. "This is folly—turn back—"
But Liora was already moving. She drew her blade, feeling the memory of every victory and every failure in the weight of its hilt.
Her men rallied to her side. Swords gleamed in the dying light.
Umbra raised its free hand. The darkness at its feet thickened, swirling into a vortex.
And then it struck.
A shockwave of cold and shadow crashed over the circle. Liora felt her breath torn from her lungs. Around her, men and women screamed as the shadows dragged them under. Armor split. Bones cracked.
One by one, her warriors fell.
Liora staggered, vision swimming. She forced herself to take another step—then another.
She could hear the Elder shouting something she couldn't understand. Could see the last of her captains trying to crawl away.
Umbra's mask turned toward her.
"Your warmth… will be the first to die."
Liora raised her sword. Every muscle burned. Her thoughts wavered between fury and despair.
She leapt.
For a single heartbeat, she thought she saw Umbra hesitate.
Her blade struck the white mask. Sparks burst, red light flaring. She felt the impact shudder up her arms—felt hope, for just a breath—
Then the scythe slammed into her side.
Pain exploded through her body.
Her feet left the ground. The world spun.
She landed on her back, staring up at the featureless mask as it loomed over her.
Her fingers twitched, searching for her sword.
But her strength was gone.
The last thing she heard was the Elder's strangled sob.
And then, darkness.
⸻
When she did not rise, the Elder knelt beside her. His hands shook as he pressed two fingers to her throat.
No pulse.
He drew a shuddering breath.
"She… she is gone…"
His voice cracked.
Umbra turned its mask toward him, and he scrambled back, clutching at the empty air.
Then came a noise—a soft rustle, like leaves stirring in the wind.
From the forest's edge, two figures emerged.
One was tall and broad-shouldered, a sword slung across his back. The other moved with a quiet purpose, daggers strapped to his sides, eyes fixed on the ruin.
Pex and Elyno.
Umbra did not speak.
It only turned to face them, the red glow in its mask intensifying.
Elyno felt the cold settle in his bones. For a moment, he could not look away.
This… he realized, heart stuttering…
This was what real despair looked like.
All warmth shall fade.