In her world, she was known as Alora, a name whispered with both reverence and disdain in the streets of Celantheris. The city was a sprawling jewel of elven architecture, its spires rising high into the sky, adorned with cascading waterfalls and glowing runes.
But beneath its grandeur lay a festering rot. The nobility lived in decadent splendour, their wealth drawn from the suffering of the city's lower districts. The slums of Celantheris were a stark contrast to the gleaming towers above—a labyrinth of crumbling stone and perpetual darkness, where sickness and starvation were the norm.
Alora was born into those shadows. She quickly learned how to survive, her nimble fingers and sharp wit earning her a reputation as a thief. But Alora wasn't just any thief. She was The Shadow, a figure who stole from the noble houses and distributed her spoils among the desperate and downtrodden.
She became a legend in the slums, a hero to those forgotten by the city's rulers. But to the nobility, she was a menace—a phantom that slipped through their defences and left them humiliated.
For years, Alora evaded capture. Her magic, an innate gift of the elves, allowed her to meld with the shadows, slipping unseen through walls and alleys. But even legends have their limits.
One night, while infiltrating the Grand Vault of the Imperial Palace, Alora triggered a trap. Runes flared to life, binding her in chains of light that burned her skin and severed her connection to the shadows.
The guards dragged her before the Emperor, a figure cloaked in crimson robes and adorned with a crown of glowing obsidian. His eyes gleamed with a cold, predatory light as he studied her.
"You've caused me no small amount of trouble," he said, his voice calm but laced with menace. "But troublemakers can be... useful."
Alora spat at his feet, earning a sharp strike from one of his guards. The Emperor chuckled. "Defiant to the end. Good. You'll need that strength where you're going."
The Emperor's sorcerers stripped Alora of her memories, their spells tearing through her mind like a hurricane. The fragments of her past—her name, her purpose, her cause—were scattered, replaced by an artificial loyalty to the throne.
They implanted her with shadow crystals, shards of pure magical energy that pulsed with a dark, alien light. The crystals fused with her body, embedding themselves in her arms and spine. They granted her immense power, allowing her to channel shadow magic with deadly precision through her bow.
Alora became the Emperor's perfect weapon, a hunter who could strike from the darkness with unerring accuracy. She carried out his will without question, her memories buried beneath layers of enchantment.
For years, Alora served the Empire, her skill unmatched and her loyalty unwavering. But cracks began to form.
It started with dreams—vivid flashes of a life she couldn't remember. The laughter of children in the slums. The glint of stolen gold in the moonlight. A sense of purpose that felt alien yet familiar.
The dreams became visions, haunting her waking hours. Faces she didn't recognise but felt she should. A voice—her own—whispering a name: Alora.
The more she fought to suppress them, the stronger they became. The shadow crystals, once a source of control, seemed to resonate with her confusion, their glow flickering erratically.
When she finally confronted the Emperor, her voice trembled with uncertainty. "My lord... why do I remember things that never happened? Why does my past feel like a lie?"
The Emperor's expression darkened. "You were remade for a purpose," he said coldly. "The past is irrelevant."
"But it's not," she said, her voice rising. "I remember people. A cause. A... life."
The Emperor's guards moved to restrain her, but something within Alora snapped.
As the guards lunged, she unleashed her shadow magic, the crystals blazing with a furious light. Arrows of pure darkness struck down her attackers, the force of her power tearing through the throne room like a storm.
The Emperor raised his hand, summoning a spell to bind her, but Alora's desperation fuelled her strength. She loosed an arrow aimed not at him, but at the great obsidian mirror behind his throne—a relic said to be connected to other realms.
The arrow struck true, shattering the mirror in a blinding explosion of light and shadow. The air itself seemed to ripple and tear, and Alora felt herself being pulled into the void.
Her screams echoed as she was flung through the rift, the fragments of her world dissolving around her.
When Alora opened her eyes, she was lying on a threadbare rug in a dimly lit room. The smell of smoke and stale alcohol filled her nose, and she blinked up at the sight of a man in a tattered jacket leaning against the wall.
He held a cigarette between his fingers, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance.
"Well," said the World-Shaman, his voice tinged with amusement. "You're either a hallucination or the most interesting thing to ever crash into my bedroom."
Alora scrambled to her feet, her shadow magic crackling around her like a shield. "Where am I? Who are you?"
"Relax, love," the Shaman said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You're in my humble abode, and I'm the poor sod who has to figure out how you got here."
Alora's gaze flicked to the window, where a shattered skyline loomed under a gray sky. "This... isn't Celantheris."
"Nope," Shaman said, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Welcome to Earth. Or what's left of it."
Alora's heart raced as she tried to make sense of what had happened. She was a stranger in a strange land, her memories a fractured puzzle. But one thing was certain: she wasn't going back.
Not yet.