Prelude

A WHISPERER TOWERED over inferior souls atop a tower. Not just any mere Whisperer but Myrillo. Myrillo of the Mist.

Myrillo didn't stand upon the infamous Black Pyramid afield where guards and single-handed soldiers and corrupted souls roamed and patrolled.

Instead, he chose to stand above it all. In this case, above it all was the Skypeircer: a tall, hollow watchtower shrouded by the mists.

"We cannot hear nor see it, my lord, but there is constant bloodshed down there," Kyak said. "Our men are being … slaughtered. Slaughtered coldly."

Myrillo stared unblinkingly at the Black Pyramid in the distance. Death meant nothing. A few hundred soldiers were nothing. The breach of the Black Pyramid meant nothing. He was making a necessary sacrifice.

"My lord, I'm certain you are utmostly capable of shredding the intruders," Kyak turned to look at him. "They are but two … but you … you're a man of a million souls."

"Mind your own business," Myrillo finally spoke, his voice sonorous. "This incident does not concern us."

"I'm beginning to think this was no incident …"

"I do not care about what you're beginning to think. Just stand and watch our forces falter. This is what's best … what's best for us."

Kyak looked away. Then, he looked at Myrillo again, trying his best not to peer into his eyes. "Why?"

Myrillo finally looked at Kyak, his hands clasped behind his back. "Sometimes sacrifice is the only way, Kyak. Again, 'tis what's best for us. The darkness will return and there is nothing we can do to prevent it."

***

Chandrelle dashed past two souls and cut right through a pouncing soldier. No blood. No perceivable physical damage. But his soul was cut in two. The soldier groaned and was about to collapse when Fal slashed, lopping off his head.

Chandrelle threaded through tiny spaces in between sluggish attacking souls, Fal in pursuit. Holding her sword in a hanging right, she then slashed through two souls at once

A soldier attacked. She sidestepped, spun, and cut him down. Another swung his blade. She parried and thrust her sword into his chest.

Yet another soldier attacked. She ducked; a blade swept overhead. She then sliced at his arm. The sword went right through the arm like a ghost.

From the very looks of it, no harm was done. Yet the arm released the sword and dangled. The soldier winced. He was a single-handed soldier. As such, he didn't have another arm to attack.

Arm wobbling, he watched as Chandrelle raised her sword and swiftly passed it along his neck. The man forthwith collapsed. She whipped her sword out and was about to continue toward another soldier when she was attacked from behind.

She felt the man's presence. Cold. But his body was warm. She pivoted on her toes and swung her sword. The man fell. Another presence from behind again. Cold. She was about to turn around when Fal swept in. He swooped his sword downward, cutting the man in two from the head down.

Chandrelle spun around.

Smirk kindling on his face, Fal slung his longsword–two full arms long–across his shoulder. "Watch your back, Snow."

Chandrelle scoffed, brushing past him. "Showing off for that? Watch this fell trick."

Her eyes burnt aglow. She lunged toward a charging lot. The first man rushed in. She slashed at his head. Before he could fall, she then ran up his chest.

A pouncing soul neared. She kicked off the collapsing man's head and cut through the nearing soul in midair.

Before she could fall, she held her sword with both hands, fell, and thrust it into the ground. A rumbling explosion of light. The soldiers pitched away.

Slowly, Chandrelle yanked her sword from the ground, eerie energy emanating from her eyes.

Fal tittered. "Good," he cut a man down, "but I've been doing better all day."

Chandrelle held a man in the air by his neck. "Lies," she opened her mouth and began to suck the man's soul. The energy spiraled, weaved together and entered her.

Fal slashed. Then again. Once more. Flesh and bones pitched about. Blood splashed upon his metal armor. "I'm accumulating as many souls as possible for the ritual."

"Is that why you haven't been using," she dodged a lunging soldier, "your Sith?" She plunged her sword into his gut.

"Yes," he said. "The spell wouldn't fail, would it?"

Chandrelle yanked her sword out of a soldier. "No," she frowned, "because I won't allow it to."

Fal rekindled a smile. "These ones in here are easy, don't you think?"

"The best are saving themselves for last."

"Haven't we already made it through the best?"

"We haven't," she started toward a behemoth door, "the ones we stopped were all small fry."

Fal stopped next to her with his blade upon his shoulder. A behemoth door to the Black Pyramid stood before them.

The door was almost as tall as a mountain with embroidered pieces and gold and silver and ash as well as depictions of the one true Mono–their god.

"Well," Fal said, "waiting out here isn't going to do much for us …"

A man came sliding in front of the giant door. He wore old, baggy clothes and a hood over his head. He had papules and scars on his face. His wrinkled skin was pale and his pupils were shrouded by cataracts.

Fal stopped.

The old man shuddered with age as he loitered in front of the door. "Please, dare not enter!"

Fal placed a hand in front of Chandrelle to halt her movement toward the man.

Chandrelle glimpsed at Fal. She felt the urge to question his actions but chose not to after acknowledging the possibility of the man being a potential whisperer.

"Think he's one of them?"

"They come in all shapes and sizes," Fal muttered.

The old man dropped to his knees. "If you breach the Black Pyramid now, you are putting all our lives at stake. The man … the man behind this door means grave danger … a monster. If you let him out, we're history."

Fal sniggered. "I'm sorry, paps, but I don't believe in monsters."

"He's a monster—trust me. I need your trust."

Chandrelle scoffed. "How do we know you're not one of those Whisperers?"

"Because I am but an old, weak man begging for his life," the man said. "The people you've faced already were incompetent. You don't stand a chance against the monsters behind this door! You don't stand a–" the man paused as his head slowly fell to the floor.

Fal squeezed at his sword handle.

It was Chandrelle. She stood at the door, next to the man's felled head.

Fal gasped and froze. She was no longer next to him. It was in but an instant alone and she's already decapitated the old folk.

She looked over her shoulder at Fal in her white cloak. "Coming or not?"

Fal looked at the man's severed head, frowned, and started toward the door. They were making a terrible, terrible mistake.