The night before his departure, Alexious could not rest. He had made his choice before all of Lyria: he would not take an army into Rafia, only twenty men. Enough to show strength, but not enough to appear as invaders. His voice had been bold, but now, alone in his tent, the weight of it pressed heavy.
When sleep finally came, it was not gentle.
He dreamed of his ancestor, Portos, the man who had once fought beside King Mancor. He saw him standing proud on the battlefield of snow and shadows, his spear still buried in the chest of the Great Shaman. The witches behind him writhed like smoke blown apart by the wind. Then Portos turned. His mouth opened as if to shout, but no sound came. Instead, his body burst with blood — from his eyes, his ears, his chest, his very skin. It poured until he was nothing but a man of wounds. Then came the scream. It shattered the silence, a cry of agony so sharp Alexious thought it would split his soul. Yet even as he bled, Portos never stopped staring at him.
Alexious woke drenched in sweat, clutching his chest. His breath came ragged, his body trembling.
“Alexious,” a voice called.
At the flap of the tent stood Marcous, his most trusted companion. Marcous had served his family all his life, a man as steady as the tide.
“The men are ready,” Marcous said softly.
Alexious wiped his face and steadied his voice. “Thank you. Tell them we leave within the hour.”
He dressed in silence, strapped his sword to his side, and knelt before the small shrine at the back of his tent. A rusted dagger, said to have belonged to Portos himself, lay there. He pressed his forehead onto its blade.
“Forefather,” he whispered. “You began this path. I will finish it. Watch me.”
When he emerged into the morning light, it was not only his twenty chosen waiting. The entire city of Lyria had gathered. Men, women, and children crowded the streets, pressing forward to see him. Some raised their fists. Others cried his name.
“Alexious! Alexious!”
“For Portos! For Lyria!”
The shouts rolled like thunder through the harbor. They had lived under the shadow of Farmonia’s might for generations. Now their king rode to make an alliance that might finally free them.
Alexious mounted his horse and looked over his chosen twenty. They were scarred men — sailors, raiders, killers — but they were loyal. Behind them, pack animals carried cages of goats and sheep, offerings of sacrifice. No one knew what the witches desired, or if they desired anything at all. But sacrifices were the only custom men dared to speak of when it came to the land of shadows. Alexious could only hope it would be enough.
He raised his hand, and the cheering quieted.
“Men of Lyria!” he shouted. His voice rang against the stone of the city. “We ride to the land of shadows, where no man enters and returns alive. You know the tales. You know the fear. But you also know me. You know I will not bend my knee to Farmonia, nor let my people live in chains.
“We do not march as conquerors. We march as envoys. We bring gifts, not armies. If the shadows speak, they will speak to us. If not—” he drew his sword, the steel gleaming in the light— “then they will remember our names in fear.”
The twenty men raised their blades.
“For Alexious!”
“For Portos!”
The crowd erupted again, shaking the very walls of Lyria.
With a nod to Marcous, Alexious turned his horse. The company of twenty began their march west, into the jagged peaks that loomed like teeth at the edge of the world.
The road ahead was cruel. Snow choked the passes. Rivers cut swift and cold. No maps existed to guide them. Only the stars would serve, and Alexious trusted the heavens more than any man’s word. Night after night, he read the constellations, steering his small company toward the forbidden land.
Around the campfires, whispers spread. Some claimed the mountains themselves shifted, trails vanishing overnight. Others spoke of strange lights in the skies above Rafia long ago. One tale said a beam of light had once struck the earth so fiercely that the ground itself trembled, though no one dared find out what it meant.
Marcous listened, his brow furrowed. “Do you believe it, Alexious? That something rules there?”
Alexious stared into the flames. “I believe no man alive knows what waits in those mountains. But I will not turn away. If a god or a ghost stands in my path, I will meet it face to face.”
The men fell silent. The fire crackled. The wind howled through the passes. Ahead lay the land of shadows
After the Great Shaman fell to Portos’s spear, the land of Rafia descended into chaos. The witches scattered, masterless. For decades, they drifted like smoke, feeding only on the sacrifices desperate villagers made in secret. The first king of Farmonia had outlawed such offerings, but fear was stronger than law. And so, in the dead of night, families crept into the woods, spilling blood on the stones to keep the shadows at bay.
But the shadows were restless. They were not content with scraps. They hungered for rule, for direction.
Then, one night beneath a moonless sky, a woman appeared. Her face was dazzling, her eyes brighter than flame, her beauty so sharp it made even the shadows tremble. She walked to the shrine where blood had been poured for centuries. In her hand she carried a staff of black wood, capped with a shard that pulsed faintly with light.
The witches gathered, hundreds upon hundreds, drawn to her like moths into fire.
She climbed the steps, cut her finger, and let her blood fall upon the stones.
The sky tore open. A beam of light unlike any other struck her, wrapping her in fire. The earth shook. The witches wailed.
When the glow faded, she stood taller, her eyes burning. She raised her staff and screamed, her voice echoing across the mountains.
“I am the shadow. I am the fire. I am the darkness. Before man set foot upon this land, I ruled it. I am your god. I am Ishtar, the God of Darkness!”
The witches fell into shrieks of agony and worship, their cries shaking the land.
Ishtar raised her staff again. “Hear me! Humanity’s time ends. The prophesied child will be slain. My dragon will devour him. The age of shadows begins anew!”
From that night forward, Rafia was no longer masterless. It belonged to Ishtar.
Back at Alexious camp, the mountains drew nearer, white and merciless against the horizon. Alexious rode at the head of his men, the animals trailing behind, their bleats carrying thin in the cold air.
No one has spoken now. The stories whispered by the fire clung to their minds.
Alexious lifted his gaze to the peaks. He thought of his dream, of Portos staring at him with eyes full of blood. He thought of Lyria behind him, cheering his name.
Whatever waited in those mountains — shadow, god, or death itself — he would face it.