Chronicles of the Untalented

The hellhounds slunk back into the dark.

Their glowing eyes faded one by one, swallowed by the stillness beyond the firelight.

Silas stood watching, his breath fogging faintly in the air. He didn't move. He didn't speak. Just stared, like he was watching prey limp away—not out of mercy, but because it wasn't worth the trouble.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't loud. Just a small breath of sound, almost to himself.

"Powerless mutts," he murmured, as if disappointed. As if they hadn't just nearly died.

His fingers slipped behind his back, posture suddenly relaxed, too relaxed—and when he turned to face Velira, something in his eyes had shifted. There was a strange gleam there, like a spark behind glass.

His gaze drifted to his effigy. It stood just a few feet away, watching him.

It looked like him—but leaner, stronger, its eyes too alert, its silence too intentional.

Silas smiled.

Not with warmth. With understanding.

Velira's steps crunched softly as she backed up slightly, her effigy stepping between them without command. Its movements mirrored hers in calm readiness.

"So," she said, tone light but edged, "feeling better now? Did those hellhounds help take the edge off your… bloodlust?"

Silas chuckled. "Even when you're nervous, you still make jokes?"

Velira tilted her head. "Oh, did you notice? Maybe it's because my best friend just single-handedly took down a death pack. With a grin on his face."

"They were small. Barely matured," Silas replied, brushing dust off his sleeves. "If they'd been a year older, we wouldn't be talking right now."

"Sure," Velira said quietly. "That makes it all fine, then."

Silas's smile thinned. He looked at his effigy again. Its eyes were still fixed on the fallen hound, unmoving—but the mouth… it twitched. A little. Like it wanted to chew.

Velira's voice hardened. "Do you not see it, Silas? It's salivating. It's hungry."

"It's not me," he said. "I'm not going to eat you."

"You say that like it's reassuring."

There was a pause. Wind brushed over the dead lake behind them. Silence settled, heavy.

Then Silas said, almost kindly, "Don't worry. You're probably bitter anyway. Like dirt and old roots."

Velira snorted, arms crossing. "Oh good. My death's been postponed by your high standards."

A beat.

Then she smiled. Just a little.

He did too.

But it didn't last.

Silas turned back toward the fire and sat down, suddenly thoughtful. His fingers laced under his chin.

Velira watched him carefully. "You're thinking."

"I'm always thinking."

"That's what worries me."

He ignored that. "If we go back now, with a corpse like that... they'll ask questions."

"They already asked questions," Velira said. "And sent us to die. This just proves we didn't. Isn't that a good thing?"

"No," Silas said, voice low. "Because surviving made us a threat."

He met her eyes. There was something cold and sharp there.

"If we bring back something we shouldn't have been able to kill, it won't earn us trust. It'll make them paranoid. And the next 'mission' won't be wolves. It'll be something we can't survive."

Velira went quiet.

And then: "So what, Silas?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he turned to his effigy.

"I have an idea."

Velira didn't move.

"...Oh no."

---

They moved further inland, away from the lake, into the open stone fields where mist hung close to the ground and the silence felt carved out of the earth.

Silas worked slowly.

With the tip of a bone-carved stick, he began etching three ritual circles into the cracked ground—one large, one mid-sized, and one small. He connected the smallest to the largest with a single chalk line. The medium circle had eight paths leading to the one around it.

Velira watched without interfering.

The corpse of the alpha hellhound was dragged into the smallest circle, its weight dragging lines into the dirt. Its body gave off the faint stink of death and old magic.

Dark-path sigils came next—carved slowly, carefully. Silas's hands were steady now. Focused. There was none of the earlier mania. Just purpose.

Demonic glyphs were added last.

Velira's effigy stood still beside her. Watching. Her arms were crossed again, but this time, her fingers trembled slightly.

"You're really going to feed it that thing?" she asked.

Silas gave a small nod. "It's what it wants. What it's built for."

"You don't even know what will happen."

"I know what won't happen. We won't be executed for being too successful."

Velira said nothing. She only stepped back, giving him space.

The ritual began.

Silas entered the largest circle and sat cross-legged, letting his breath even out as he entered the meditative state needed for refinement. His effigy, as if sensing its role, stepped silently into the medium circle.

The air grew heavy.

Lines began to glow faintly. Not with light—but with weight. The symbols pulsed with a slow rhythm, like a heartbeat echoing from deep underground.

Then, the effigy began to rise.

Velira took a step back, breath catching.

It floated silently, arms spread.

The corpse of the hellhound began to tremble, twitch—then unravel. Not by blade, but by essence. Strips of soul-matter were being pulled free, floating upward into the waiting hands of Silas's creation.

But they weren't alone.

Velira felt it first.

The pressure.

Soul beasts.

They came, but stopped just short of the circle—lingering at the edge like carrion birds too cautious to strike. Watching. Remembering.

They didn't attack.

Not this time.

And as the ritual neared its end, the last of the hellhound's remains dissolved into nothing. The effigy lowered itself gently, its form stabilizing—but its limbs twitching slightly, as if it had tasted something… addictive.

The glow faded.

Silas opened his eyes.

He didn't smile.

He looked at his hands. Then his effigy.

Then Velira.