Emissary Of Darkness

Hope stirred awake slowly, his consciousness rising like mist from the depths of still waters. His lashes fluttered, then clenched instinctively against the blazing assault of sunlight that stabbed down from the sky. The brightness was overwhelming, searing into his retinas and painting red veins beneath his lids. He groaned softly, the sound rough in his throat as he turned his head away from the heat of the sun.

The world around him was blinding.

After a few moments, his eyes cracked open again—just enough to squint at the strange new landscape. The sharp contrast between what he remembered and what he now saw sent a ripple of confusion through his foggy mind.

Gone were the towering mountains that had stood like silent sentinels in the distance. Gone was the shattered cave where he had sought temporary shelter, where Nefer and Massa had lain near death, where his own battered body had slumped against cracked stone. Gone was the throne of his dreams, the fractured moon, the creeping darkness.

Now, there was only this.

The ground beneath him was dry and cracked, as though scorched by a relentless drought. The sun hung oppressively high, casting harsh shadows that clung to the edges of the few dilapidated structures around. They looked like the remnants of a forgotten world—crooked buildings with their bones exposed, half-collapsed walls that groaned in the breeze, and rusted metal frames poking out of the earth like skeletal remains. It was a ghost town, haunted by the wind.

Hope groaned as he shifted, testing his limbs. To his surprise, the pain that had gripped his body like chains seemed dulled, almost faded. A dull ache remained, but it was bearable—nothing compared to the agony of before. He pushed himself upright with a grunt, the dry dirt crunching beneath his fingers. His eyes roamed the new terrain warily.

Then a voice pierced the silence.

"Finally awake, sleepyhead?"

It was smooth and teasing—familiar. Hope's head snapped toward the sound, his heartbeat skipping as recognition dawned.

Nefer.

She stood a few paces away, the sun behind her giving her silhouette a surreal glow. But it wasn't just her presence that shocked him—it was her condition.

She looked… fine.

No, more than fine. She looked whole.

The blood-soaked tunic that had clung to her limp body before was now pristine and white, as though it had been freshly laundered. Her skin bore no sign of bruising or cuts. Her eyes gleamed with life, and even her posture was relaxed. There was even a smile tugging at her lips—calm, confident.

Hope stared at her in disbelief. His dry throat managed only one word:

"…How?"

Before Nefer could respond, another movement drew his attention. Massa approached slowly from his right, her staff tapping softly against the cracked ground. As she stepped into view, Hope's breath caught in his throat.

She, too, had changed.

The aged woman who had looked moments away from death was no more. Her skin was smooth again, unblemished by the creases of time. Her hair had returned to its vivid green hue, cascading over her shoulders like wild vines. Her staff, which had looked brittle and dulled before, now pulsed faintly with energy—vibrant, alive. Her green eyes sparkled with their usual mischief and cunning as she stopped beside Nefer.

Hope blinked rapidly, unsure if this was still a dream. His voice cracked as he stood with effort, steadying himself. "How… how are you guys awake?" he asked, scanning them both, disbelief plain in his tone. "And… healed? I thought—"

Massa chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Bit of an emergency spell," she said with a shrug, as though that explained everything. "Lucky for us, we were teleported two kilometers east, just far enough to avoid the corrupted fiends. So not only did we survive… we also made some progress in the right direction."

She smiled as if teleporting away from death was no big deal. Hope, still processing it all, could only watch in stunned silence.

He turned his gaze back to Nefer. A moment of quiet passed between them, unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. He remembered how they had fought side by side—how she had risked herself alongside him in the chaos of the corrupted fiends' ambush. There had been a strange sense of camaraderie there, brief but undeniable. Despite the danger, despite the fear, it had felt… good. Like they weren't alone.

Except they had almost died.

If not for Massa, none of them would have made it.

Hope's gaze shifted back to her. He'd held the question long enough—it had been gnawing at his mind ever since he saw her curled and aged beside the fire, drained after casting the teleportation spell.

He couldn't hold it in anymore.

"…Why did you look so old?" he asked, his voice quiet but sharp with curiosity. "Right after you cast the spell—your face… your hair…"

Massa's smile faded. She glanced down for a moment, the weight of the question sinking into her posture. Then she looked back up, expression calm, but her eyes—those piercing green eyes—held something deeper.

"That's my flaw," she said simply.

Hope's brows furrowed. "Your… flaw?"

She nodded, leaning slightly on her staff. "Every spell I cast takes a bit of my life force," she explained. "It's usually negligible—small things don't take much. A quick shield here, a simple flare there... You barely notice the drain. But powerful spells? Something like that teleportation? It's not just exhausting. It ages me. Rips time right out of my bones."

She tapped her chest with the base of her staff. "If I overdo it, I don't just get tired—I die."

The words settled over Hope like a leaden shroud. He swallowed hard. The idea of a flaw that punished you even when you won… it was cruel. Terrifying.

"The Veil is merciless," he muttered aloud, more to himself than anyone.

Massa smiled grimly at that. "You're not wrong."

Still, another question burned in him, clawing its way from his gut. "But you've used spells before," he said. "Plenty. You don't always look… old. So how come you're back to normal now?"

Massa's gaze narrowed slightly, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something darker in her eyes—something cold.

"I can reverse my fate," she said softly. "If I absorb other life forces."

Hope tensed, his throat going dry.

"Trees. Animals. Things with energy… with vitality. If I take from them, I can heal myself. Restore what I lost."

Then she turned to him again "for every magic or spell, there's a sacrifice to be paid".

Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost clinical. There was no shame in her voice. No pride either. Just truth.

"But," she added, "if I don't… then the next time I push too far, I won't be walking away."

Hope could only stare. His mind reeled at the implications. Absorbing life force to stay alive? Healing herself by stealing from the world around her? That was a line many wouldn't even dare to cross. Well not that they had a choice since the veil would give without asking or letting you choose.

But then again, maybe that was what surviving in The Ashlands meant.