Far from the North's frozen decay, untouched from Zhuul's razor sharp gusts, Naboth gleamed in the western valleys. Its limestone walls caught the dying sun's glow, standing tall as a defiant beacon against the North's creeping frost.
Beyond its majestic gates, Naboth's vineyards bore vines heavy with gold-flecked fruit, their kingdom's long-standing emblem of endurance. Yet even amid its bounty, the air trembled with unease, as if the land itself waited for some shadow to fall.
Inside, the markets murmured with life. Merchants called their wares beneath striped awnings; children's laughter broke through the din, bright yet fleeting; like light before dusk.
There was a stark beauty here, carved by toil and tempered by time. Yet in every corner, whispers spread. Caravans lost beyond the northern pass. Cargo untouched. Horses found frostbitten and torn. No blood. No bodies.
High within Naboth's observatory, the royal clergy huddled about Elder Latta, their city's spiritual guide. Sprawled across his worn table, weathered maps and ancient tomes blanketed the old surface.
Latta's gnarled hands traced about the parchments, feverishly tracing mapped constellations as the men surrounding wrung their bony wrists.
The clergy had taken great interest in the green lights from the north. They shimmered outside the great windows; faint green flickers bleeding across the night sky. Brief, pulsing, then gone.
"What omen is this, elder?" murmured a priest, his thin fingers twisting his beard as he leaned forward.
"A mystery," another whispered.
The clergy had been following the reports of the missing merchants for weeks. When they noticed the green lights in the sky, Elder Latta charged the clergy with investigating the odd lights. Their appearance was unusual, as Zhuul lay too far south for auroras, yet the lights returned each night; thin, deliberate, branching like antlers.
All of this gave Latta a sinking dread he couldn't shake, as if something from beyond was clawing at his very being.
"I don't understand," the words slipped from Latta's mouth as he leaned back in his chair. "What does it mean?"
He gazed out to the stars, ignoring the rising tide of concerned murmurs from the clergy. His thoughts wandered as the green lights flickered before his pale sunken eyes.
Was this some sort of sign, he thought. But what could it be? None of the tomes referenced the odd stag-shape, and the emerald glow...could it be?
His eyes widened; his thought cut short with a horrifying revelation.
The doors opened without ceremony. A boy slipped through, hugging a large, blackened tome to his chest as though it burned.
Latta rose, his robes brushing the floor as he gestured for the boy to advance.
"Compose yourself, child," Latta began as he grasped the boys shoulders. "What troubles you?"
The boy steadied his breath. "I—I was in the library…and,"
Latta's eyes glanced at the book weighing the boys arms. His eyes narrowing as a heavy cold swelled within him.
"The Book—the Book of,"
"Shadows."
A murmur rippled through the robed circle. One priest paled; another struck his staff against the floor. The boy nodded as he lifted the book to Latta.
Latta's face darkened, his hands tracing the wrinkled surface of the cover. "You read what was forbidden, child?"
"I-I did," the boy said, voice trembling but firm. "I only meant to help. I beg your forgiveness!"
"You should not have touched this, child."
Silence gripped the chamber as all eyes were upon the book of shadows.
The text was ancient, written only in a language that seasoned scholars could parse. Within its pages, dark knowledge written by unknown hands scrawled the parchment. Passages spanning from simple magic spells to detailed accounts of creatures thought lost; the book of Shadows remained a forbidden herald of all things evil.
"This book," Latta whispered, "has not been opened since before I was born."
The words hung heavy as stone as he began to scan the text. Each flip of the page highlighted one monstrosity after another; hexes, beasts, plagues, all categorized meticulously, all contents available, for a price.
With every turn, the evil became increasingly concentrated. For at the end of the book, Latta had reached what was known as the Glyphs of Madness.
Latta's eyes clouded, he had reached the source of the lights. His lips quivered, barely making utterance, "Wendigo,".
The priests began to murmur, whispering doom to eachother as Latta's fingers traced the text.
"Elder," the boy began. "What is it?"
"A blight, dear boy" murmured Latta. "A festering evil, older than any kingdom." His gaze locked to the shimmering omen, "These lights are the precursor for the Wendigo!"
"The Wendigo?" the boy pressed, "Who is the Wendigo, Elder?"
Latta's gaze fell. "The Wendigo is not merely a 'who' dear child. It is an eldritch horror. Ancient and unyielding." He closed the book, eyes locking back to the blasphemy in the sky. "It moves through men's souls; corrupting it, hollowing it, enacting an insatiable hunger that cannot be satiated by the meat of Zhuul's fauna."
Latta paused, his brow hardening as he peered back at the child. "But by human suffering."
The clergymen fell into a deathly silence.
"Elder," one cried from the group. "Is there hope for Naboth? Can we vanquish this demon?"
"Eldritch horrors are not susceptible to mortal weapons, brother. Not since the fall of the holy order centuries ago were weapons of this magnitude forged."
"Then, how does Naboth battle such a threat?"
"Only a weapon forged from eldritch magic can vanquish a blight such as the Wendigo. And brother," his voice faltered; color drained from his face. "I fear Naboth hasn't the might to stop it."
A frenzy erupted, the chamber filled with fear and dismay as Latta signaled for his staff across the room.
The boy nodded, snatching the Elder's support from near his chair.
"Thank you," his hands received the staff with a smile, "Now, let us seek audience with the king."
Latta hastened through Naboth's grand hall, encircled by Naboth's clergymen.
The brilliant marble columns loomed ghostlike in the wavering torchlight, pale as the bones of saints. The frescoes adorning the walls, once proud chronicles of valor and triumph, now stared down with averted eyes, as though the painted heroes themselves recoiled from what lingered unseen.
At the door of the king's chamber, Latta came and struck his hand upon his breast, the royal sign of loyalty. The guards gave way, and the heavy doors swung wide upon their iron hinges.
Within, a cold, noble splendor met them. The marble table, worn by the hands of ages, gleamed pale beneath the torches' sullen glow. Chairs carved with Naboth's sacred vines sat in solemn array, their faded cushions speaking of glories long past.
There sat King Jarec, wise in age and unyielding in spirit, his hair silver as frost, his eyes keen as tempered steel.
To his right, his eldest, Luther; stalwart and noble, standing tall with his armor casting shards of light as though defying the encroaching shadow.
And to his left lounged Jack, slender and proud, the gold of his rings mocking the simplicity of his father's crown. His eyes, green, watchful, restless—smoldered with an envy that the sword commanded more love than the dream.
The clergy bowed low, their hands upon their hearts, and the hall was hushed save for the sighing of flickering torches.
King Jarec arose, tall and grave. "Latta, my faithful counsellor," he bellowed with a warm laugh, "what tidings bring you from the cloister?"
He led the old man gently to a seat and beckoned Luther to aid him. Jack came also, but his father's look withheld him.
"A jest, perhaps?" Jarec murmured with a weary smile, his hand resting kindly upon Latta's shoulder. "Have you absented yourself from holy communion again?"
The priest's face darkened as thunder before the storm. "No jest, my liege," he said softly. "I bring a dire omen."
The king's mirth faded. "Then speak it plain, Elder."
"Green fire in the heavens," Latta whispered, "and with it, a plague of darkness that moves upon the wind."
Jarec's brow knit. "Green fire? I was no scholar of mysticism in my youth, old friend; enlighten me."
"An eldritch blight is upon us my king," Latta muttered, "the Wendigo."
"Wendigo?"
"Yes, It is hatred made flesh; a whisper from the void that defiles all it touches. Its damned antlers rake the belly of the night. The omen of its impending arrival made physical, my lord."
At the window, young Jack gazed upward, the stars glittering like distant laughter. His heart smoldered with envy, caged by his father's will.
"Antlers, you say?" Jarec replied. "Does Harrod's crest not bore the head of the stag?"
"Yes, my lord" Latta's words falling like a stone.
"Harrod?" Jack's voice grew sly. "The northern scourge himself? Do we not source our livestock from them?"
The king's jaw set. "Yes. Harrod of the North. A vile tyrant," he spat, "who bought a child for coin and called her queen.". Jarec rose, gazing upon the emerald spectre beyond the mountains. "I saw her once; his child bride. Years ago, before I ascended the throne, Harrod sought audience with my father seeking further trade. The child was pale, broken, and bound. Hatred swelling behind her eyes." He paused, narrowing his brow as he composed himself. "My father refused his offer of trade, and the North has hungered for vengeance ever since."
Jack's lips curled, the green lights dancing across his young eyes. "They say she is quite beautiful now."
"Beauty hides rot, boy," thundered Jarec. "And her soul is the blackest of his brood."
Latta lifted trembling hands. "Sire, The Book of Shadows foretold this hour. We must prepare."
Jarec nodded, gesturing his royal guard to follow.
As the guards ushered the clergy from the hall, a stillness fell. Jack lingered, eyes fixed upon the flickering antlers that pulsed beside the moon. Its baleful glow seemed to quicken his blood, and a smile, proud and perilous, touched his face.
And Naboth, bright city of the West, shuddered beneath a wind that carried whispers from the snow.