In the beginning, there was no light.
Nor darkness — only absence.
The space was too vast to be called a place, too deep to have form. The silence was not a lack of sound; it was something active, heavy, as if it were watching.
Then—
ploc.
A single drop of water fell.
The sound spread in invisible circles, echoing beyond what the senses could reach. Each reverberation seemed to awaken something that had never truly slept.
From the darkness, a shadow began to move.
It did not walk.
It crawled.
It stretched through the void like an ancient serpent, unhurried, without urgency — certain that everything would end beneath it. Where it passed, absence grew denser, as if the very idea of light were being refused there.
At the center of that nothing, someone stood.
Éon did not move.
His body remained still, firm like a pillar forgotten by the world. The dark cloak hung without wind. His eyes — black, hollow — sought nothing.
The shadow circled him.
First at his feet.
Then his legs.
It climbed slowly, as if measuring him, weighing not his flesh, but what lived inside it.
That was when the voice emerged.
It did not come from a specific point.
It came from all of space.
Ancient.
Deep.
Carrying a fatigue only the eternal can know.
"So it was you…"
The shadow contracted, forming curves around Éon, like a living ring.
"…the one responsible for awakening the only fragment that remained of my essence."
The silence closed in for an instant.
The drop fell again.
ploc.
Éon's eyes lifted.
Slowly.
They met other eyes in the darkness — deep as bottomless springs, ancient as the first fear. They did not shine. They observed.
The voice returned, now closer.
"So much pressure…" it said, almost reflective. "So much density… for such a small body."
The shadow tightened.
Not to wound.
To remind who ruled that space.
"You may be the threshold, child," the voice continued. "You may even be the point where the world decides to change direction."
There was a pause.
Heavy.
"But never touch my shadow again."
The space trembled slightly, as if something colossal had adjusted its posture.
"Even reduced to this fragment…" the voice took on a cruder, more direct weight. "…I am still capable of killing you."
The shadow then pulled back a little, like a predator retreating not from fear, but by choice.
"Remember that," it concluded. "There are powers that need no names to be recognized."
The sound of the drop ceased.
The void began to unravel.
The darkness folded in on itself.
And broke.
And, somewhere far from the waking world, the battlefield breathed again — unaware that something far older had just opened its eyes.
Éon opened his eyes.
He was back on the field.
Between Neriah and Ghatotkacha.
The rain had forgotten how to fall.
The shadows were too still.
For one second — only one — Éon's eyes rested on Neriah.
There was no urgency.
There was confirmation.
Then he turned.
Walked toward Ghatotkacha.
The colossal creature tried to react.
Tried.
But the body did not respond.
Éon raised his hand.
Touched the creature's enormous abdomen with a simple — almost respectful — touch.
And spoke.
Not in the language of men.
The command came in ancient Greek, dense, cutting, impossible to translate without loss:
"Πέτα."
The word did not cross the air.
It descended.
The shadows heard.
Ghatotkacha was torn from the ground.
His body flew toward the gates of the wall, sweeping Drakkouls away like leaves caught in a windstorm that never chose to exist.
The wall trembled.
The field breathed.
The shadows learned.
From above, the Black Fury watched.
Her smile appeared slowly.
Not in surprise.
In pleasure.
"So…" she said, with a slight tilt of the head, almost curious. "You've learned to speak."
The impact of Ghatotkacha did not need to be seen.
It reached her as a deep, slow vibration, traveling through the wall beneath her feet — not a chaotic tremor, but a weight being set back into the world.
The Black Fury felt the echo climb through the stone, reach her body, settle into her bones.
"And it seems…" she continued, in a low voice, far too gentle to be safe "…the shadows have learned to listen as well."
The field remained suspended for a few seconds longer than it should have.
No one advanced.
No one drew a deep breath.
Neriah felt the water around her lose its familiarity. It still obeyed — but not as before. It was like touching something that remembered its shape, but no longer belonged solely to her.
The field remained active, sustained by habit more than by will.
Inside her chest, her heart beat out of rhythm.
Not from fear.
From adjustment.
She understood, without words, that something had placed itself between her and the water — not as a barrier, but as precedence.
Éon did not move.
The shadows around him remained too quiet — not submissive, but attentive.
From atop the wall, the Black Fury rested her chin on her hand, thoughtful.
Her smile did not widen. It sharpened.
"Interesting…" she murmured, almost to herself. "So it wasn't only you who woke today."
The rain, finally, remembered how to fall.
Iaso was the first to manage a deep breath.
The air entered as if it had been returned to the world.
Around them, shields creaked. Knees touched the ground not in surrender — but in delay.
Lys realized it before thinking.
The shadows were still there.
But now… they once again aligned with the bodies.
Neriah remained where she was.
Her body still ached, every muscle remembering the price demanded seconds earlier. Even so, her eyes stayed fixed on Éon's back.
On that motionless shadow that now separated her world from the rest of the war.
"I thought…" she began, her voice low, hoarse, but clear "…that you would consume all of us."
There was no accusation there.
Only honesty.
Éon took his time to answer.
He did not turn immediately.
The silence he allowed to grow was not indifference — it was calculation. When he spoke, his voice came simple, without unnecessary weight, like someone stating an inevitable fact:
"We've gathered enough."
Neriah drew a deep breath.
The water around her still recognized her… but at a distance.
Neriah kept her eyes on Éon's back.
"You need to move forward," she said.
It was not a request.
Nor an order directed at him.
It was a statement cast at the entire field.
The silence stretched for an instant.
Éon cast a brief sideways glance, assessing her not for strength, but for permanence.
Neriah continued, before the silence could close again:
"I'm sorry for my insolence," she said, without lowering her head. "I know the position I'm in. I know how this may sound."
She swallowed hard.
The pain throbbed, but did not stop her.
"But those men…" her eyes slid across the field, across the bodies that were beginning to move again "…they're still advancing."
Iaso and Lys were already behind her.
Silent.
Present.
"If we are not on the winning side of this war," Neriah continued, her voice gaining firmness even while wounded, "then all the deaths, all the sacrifices… will have meant nothing."
She clenched her teeth for a brief second.
"We cannot betray the trust of those who have already fallen—"
"—nor that of those who still advance, even knowing the price."
Iaso's light-green eyes shone, alert, alive.
Lys's metallic gray eyes remained fixed on Éon, sharp as a blade kept out of its sheath.
Neriah concluded, without raising her voice:
"Then we will do what we can to stop that creature."
A brief pause.
"Or to follow you. Whatever path this moment demands."
The word still seemed to vibrate in the air when footsteps approached.
They did not come running.
They came with the caution of those crossing a field that might still bite.
Kaelir appeared first, his garments marked with mud and dried blood.
Skýra followed close behind, her gaze alert to the flanks, as if expecting the world to decide to disobey again.
Rynne closed the group.
She stopped a few steps from Neriah.
Observed Éon.
Then the field.
Then the shadows, now stabilized — quiet, but not forgotten.
"It seems…" Rynne said, without raising her voice "…that it will be the North that decides how this war ends."
There was no challenge there.
There was acknowledgment.
Éon's eyes moved to her.
Not fast.
Precise.
Rynne held his gaze for an instant.
Then looked away.
Lifted her face, staring at the wall, beyond the rain, beyond what was still visible.
"That is not the worst monster," she continued. "Just the loudest."
The wind blew faintly.
"The most dangerous one…" she said, simply "…is staring right at us."
"And monsters like that…" Rynne lowered her gaze again, firm "…only die when they meet another just like them."
There was silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Necessary.
Kaelir stepped forward, breaking it.
"Then we'll keep doing what we know how to do," he said. "Keep the soldiers alive. Fall back when needed. Advance when there's space."
His gaze passed over Neriah, Iaso, and Lys.
"Buy time," he concluded. "For those who can decide how this ends."
Skýra nodded, discreet.
The field seemed to listen.
Éon remained still.
The shadows around him did not react.
The rain fell more regularly now.
And, for the first time since the advance began, the field did not seem merely to resist.
It seemed to be waiting.
Author's Note: Good evening, good morning, or good afternoon — it depends on when you're reading this.
Today is December 31st, so I'm stopping by to wish everyone an early Happy New Year.And also a belated Merry Christmas.
Just a reminder that I follow Brazil's time zone, so if somewhere in the world it's still another day… the intention still counts.
I truly want to thank everyone who keeps reading, following along, and giving this story a chance.
Every read, comment, or favorite makes a real difference and motivates me to keep writing.
If you're enjoying the work, please favorite it so you don't miss the next chapters — there's still a lot of important things ahead.
Thank you for being here.
See you in the next chapter.