Kneeling on cold, cracked earth, Zephyr let his eyes slide out beyond the horizon to the line of mountains that, in the early dawn light, were just a hazy outline. Their silhouette, ragged and jagged, seemed to reach out, like sentinels silently watching, reminding him just how small this village, steeped in the beauty of nature, truly lay against the grand Arcane Cities. Even with the chill that bit into his skin, it was not the cold that gave him cause to shiver; it was news received on the night before that did. Thus far, another village had fallen to an Eldritch incursion, another people swallowed by the shadows.
He came like shadows in the night, he stammered on, agog-eyed with fear, lean body aquiver at each joint. "My family," he croaked over the words, breaking down as if the mere memory was too much for him to bear.
Now, as Zephyr recalled that man's haunted face, even now terror resounded within him. The despair in his voice, the anguish in his eyes-every word was like a knife in Zephyr's heart. He could almost envision it now: what would his own people do when the shadows came for them too? Who would stand against the monsters once they descended upon his home?
A wave of anger surged, and his chest tightened as he looked over the empty fields. His fists clenched and whitened from digging his nails into his palms. "It's not fair," he whispered out hoarsely, almost to the silence. "They would have us live like this… waiting for death."
He turned behind him and looked back at the sleeping village, little more than a shadowy outline in the early morning. His eyes made out the ramshackle rooftops, the smudged lines of walls that wore the wear and tear of seasons of struggle. The people who slumbered within those houses were his family-maybe worn and battered, but his. How many nights had he stood out here, doing nothing but wrestling with his own fears? Guarding only his own doubts?
The familiar ache settled into his chest, heavy and insistent, reminding him of his own insufficiency. A farmer's son was the best he was; not greater skills he had than those he had learned in the field, nor any memories but the indistinct ones of stories heard from his mother and father when he was a child. It had been many, many years since the raid that took his parents from him, and all he was now a boy, haunted by their faces: the faintest whisper of his mother's gentle smile, his father's hearty laughter. With time, these actually faded into little more than whispers, but the ache of having lost them never softened.
He trudged back toward the village, his mind churning out one agonizing question after another: how much longer can I live like this? How long can I sit back, waiting, while everything that I care about slips away?
The thoughts tumbled over each other in a whirling millennium of the mind, thrust by memories of fallen villages and a haunted survivor's warning. Rumors spoke to him of something like a weird, shadowy order known as the Abyssal Guild. Stories floated from village to village like ghostly whispers, speaking about people who could command powers beyond comprehension, said to emanate from the very things they were fighting against. Some called them protectors, while others cursed them as monsters in human skin. They said that they lived far, far away from there, deep in the heart of the Abyss itself.
Zephyr's footsteps came to a stop right before the village gate as his fingers touched the rough, splintered wood. What would that mean, to go to them? he thought, his mind fluttering as light as a candle in the wind. Would I even survive it? And if I did… what would I become? He had watched too many lives ruined, too many families torn asunder. And what was left of his soul anyway? Of his humanity? His innocence? Perhaps that, too, had been taken-a very long time ago.
By the time morning came, he knew he would be leaving. Silence from the elders of the village as he had told them of his news, concerned stares, yet not a single one of them had contested his decision. They knew only too well how much he had lost and that he had no family to hold and no reason to stay other than out of a matter of duty. It was then, when he spoke of searching for the Abyssal Guild, that the head of the village, Old Alistair, came to him with words of caution.
Zephyr," Alistair began, his voice rough from age and hardship borne for too many years, "this path that you're looking for… there's no turning back from it. We have all heard the stories about the Guild. You don't just gain power-you sacrifice everything for it. Everything.
Zephyr's eyes met the elder's, unflinching. "I know. But I cannot stay here knowing that we wait only to die. If I can stop that… if I can make even the slightest difference, then I have to try.".
Alistair's gaze softened; his hand dropped onto Zephyr's shoulder. "Then may the Ancients watch over you, son. May they keep you whole, whatever you face out there.
He took very little with him, as he had left: a worn satchel with some food and a small pendant of his mother's last keepsake. He clasped it on to his neck and felt the coolness of the metal on his skin-a small comfort-and made a silent promise that this trip would be different, a promise that he was going to make something out of this trip.
It was a mile of winding trail to the Abyssal Guild through rough landscape, with few signs to guide him. Days had melted into days within his thoughts, worn down by tough travel, both body and mind. The hunger gnawed at him, and the cold had seeped deep into his bones; every step he made, however, was fueled by a simmering determination that burned fiercer than his exhaustion. This was his chance, probably the only one he was going to get, to preserve what had been left of it.
One night, after huddling under a tree for warmth, the stars above seemed impossibly far away, cold, uncaring of his sufferings. He found himself talking to them-voice hoarse from the wind, his breath fogging in the night air. "Do you see me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible to anyone. "Do you hear me? I'm just a boy, a boy who lost everything."
The stars glittered back, silent and unmoved.
"But I'll find a way," he whispered, his fingers curling around the pendant at his neck. "I have to.
He finally came to the base of a dark, towering cliff-face, where it was said that the Abyssal Guild resided. The entrance was all but hidden-a shaded crack in the rock, as if the earth itself had swallowed it in. His heart was drumming as he neared the cave, while his pulse boomed within his chest like a drum. He had not known what to expect anyway; yet the sight was much more ominous than he could ever have imagined.
Out of the night, a towering figure in a hood stepped up; shining within his eyes gleamed in the dark. They seemed somehow unnatural, with an aura of silent power, making Zephyr small and weak.
"You've certainly come a long way, haven't you?" he muttered with a smooth, icy voice, whispering greetings that ran chills down Zephyr's spine.
I came for the power. He stuttered into the silence, trying to steady his voice as turmoil continued to rage inside of him. He was consumed by anxiety, yet fear would not be shown to the figure before him.
The figure watched him wordlessly, his eyes boring, it seemed, into the bottom of his soul. "Power always comes with a price," he said finally, almost mockingly. "And once you start down this path, there is no turning back."
Zephyr swallowed and tightened his jaw. "I understand.
Do you?" The figure's voice gentled; there was the hint of dark amusement, chorusing in his tone. He gestured behind him. "Then come.
He moved deeper into the shadows, and as he did, his tense form receded into that abyss. The passage was very dimly lit with torches that cast long, twisted shadows almost to twist and writhe around like living things. Energy thickened the air, pressing upon his skin and seeping into his mind. Still, he pressed on, firming down his doubts.
They eventually reached the last great, echoing chamber in a quiet, unnatural atmosphere. Down the walls ran faint pulsations from strange symbols exhaled from dark energy that seemed almost alive, almost hungry. Dominating the middle of the room was an enormous stone altar with runes carved into its surface, which seemed to twist and shift under his gaze, something alive.
His voice was no louder than a whisper, and few words came from him: "Lay your hand upon the altar.".
Zephyr's fingers shook, wavered, and then stilled as he breathed, reached out. The stone was icily cold, the biting chill running up his arm, and suddenly the room seemed to dim further, the runes pulsing with ominous threat. Then, in the hush, a voice—a voice not his own—slid inside his mind. Soft, yet powerfully so, seductive and menacing.
It whispered, "Do you accept the pact, Zephyr Crowne?" Every word was a hum through him and echoed deep into his bones.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice little more than a whisper.
Then the darkness burst-forth in a tide of icy flame that seemed to cleave through him as a scythe, throwing him into convulsions wracking him from inside out. He felt his soul uncoil, his mind, his memories unravelling, sucked down into some endless well of nothing. Before his eyes, dancing visions-things of worlds twisted sideways, of creatures beyond knowing. Himself lost, absorbed within a vast and churning tide of energy from the Abyss.
Yet in the darkness clung one memory to him-of family, village, the faces for which he would give all. This was his anchor, this purpose a single thread that kept him together.
Slowly, the blackness ebbed away, and he gasped, shaking, his mind coming back. He knew that he felt different, changed, that something old and mighty now stirred within him. His eyes finally cleared, and his hearing became more sensitive to such an extent that every noise was sharper than before, every shade more definite.
It finally looked up at him and smiled nicely. "You have survived the first step. Now you are an Initiate of the Abyssal Arcana. Welcome, Zephyr Crowne.
Zephyr nodded only, another load put upon his shoulder. "And now?" he asked.
"Now," the figure said, his eyes aglow with intensity, "you will learn to control your power. Only remember one thing: for every act, there's a price. And the darkness you have chosen will want its due.
A fierce, grim satisfaction that had seized Zephyr in this still, silent chamber-most for the first time in his life, helpless was not what he was. Clenching his fists and allowing the power to course through him, he was ready to fight-to stand against the shadows. Silently, an oath was made to his village-to protect them at any cost.