Ellara’s breath fogged in the cold air, the weight of her calling pressing down on her as heavily as the night sky above. Rhydian’s fingers twitched, a nervous habit of his when they neared danger. Yet his eyes remained keen, following the shadowy movements in the dark trees beyond.

“Do you really believe in this relic?” he muttered, his voice laced with both curiosity and skepticism. “The Ebon Light… sounds like a bedtime story to frighten children.”

“Belief isn’t a luxury I can afford,” Ellara replied. “This is prophecy. Or maybe it’s madness. Either way, it’s all we have left.”

A smirk flickered across Rhydian’s face. “Prophecy or madness, we’re all heading for death if this is real.” 

A soft, eerie glow suddenly appeared at the edge of the clearing, and they turned as one, hands on weapons, alert to whatever emerged from the shadows.

A slender figure stepped forward—a girl, barely more than fifteen by the looks of her, yet with an air of age about her far beyond her years. This was Fenn, the witch cursed to age backward, trapped between life and oblivion with each backward heartbeat.

“Are we just going to stand here all night?” she asked, the impatience in her voice undercut by a thin, almost childlike tone that grated against her ancient presence. “If we’re to reach Harkmoore, we’d best start moving before the forest decides we’re better as prey.”

Ellara nodded, tightening her grip on her staff as they stepped into the dense, twisted woods. 

---

As they ventured deeper, shadows seemed to coil around their feet, dragging down the light from their torches and making the air grow colder with every step. Fenn’s skin paled, her hands trembling as she fought to keep control of her power. Each step deeper drained a bit more of her youth, her strength, but she masked her fear with a steely resolve.

“It’s not just darkness here,” she muttered, more to herself than to them. “Something ancient… older than this world.”

“What could be older than the gods?” Rhydian snorted, though there was a quiver in his voice that betrayed his fear.

“Things that gods feared,” she replied simply.

An hour later, they arrived at the Ruins of Harkmoore, its towering spires like jagged teeth silhouetted against the black sky. Rhydian ran a clawed finger over one of the stones, feeling a chill spread up his arm. These stones pulsed faintly, echoing with a rhythm like a heartbeat—alive, and yet dead.

“This is where we’ll find it,” Ellara said, though her voice was hollow, filled with a lingering doubt. She led them into the heart of the ruins, down winding corridors lined with statues of forgotten kings and fallen heroes. Their faces, frozen in terror, seemed to follow them with hollow eyes as they passed.

As they reached the central chamber, a dark flame rose from the altar at the far end, casting a pale, unnatural glow. The flame twisted and grew, until it took a form—a towering figure, draped in shadows and crowned with a halo of cold light. It was the God of the Nightveil, his form both beautiful and terrible, as though the void itself had taken shape.

“You seek the Ebon Light,” his voice echoed, soft yet resonant, vibrating through their bones. “But you are fools. It is not for mortals.”

Ellara stepped forward, her voice firm. “Then tell me why you called me here, if we are unworthy.”

The god laughed, a sound like the breaking of glass. “You were not called, Ellara. You were lured—a lost soul to join my realm.”

With that, the shadows surged forward, attacking the group with a fury that seemed to come from every dark corner. Rhydian transformed, his bestial strength tearing through shadows as Ellara called upon her last vestiges of magic, her staff glowing faintly in defiance.

The battle raged, but as Fenn unleashed her power, her form flickered, and she aged backward, her life force draining as her spell grew. Ellara realized the truth in a sudden, crushing moment: to retrieve the Ebon Light, someone had to sacrifice themselves entirely, giving their life to pierce the darkness.

With a final, wrenching cry, Ellara poured all her energy into one blinding strike, her spirit merging with the Ebon Light as it broke through the god’s essence. The god’s form shattered, and light returned to the land, dawn breaking through the Nightveil at last.

Rhydian and Fenn, weakened but alive, stumbled out of the ruins as the first rays of sunlight touched the ground. Ellara was gone, but her sacrifice had freed Varldorn. Rhydian took her staff, bearing it as a symbol of his own new purpose—to continue her mission, guiding lost souls.