ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Far across the western reaches of Amthar, deep within the desolate stretch known as the Land of Ruins, a blue, oval-shaped portal shimmered into existence. From its glowing surface emerged five figures.

Two Crescent Knights. Eliv Borges. Berg Thuden. And Princess Sheila Granger.

As Sheila stepped through, her boots meeting cracked stone and dust, her brows furrowed with immediate unease. She turned in place, scanning the barren, broken landscape.

"…This isn't Celestria," she said, voice quiet but sharp.

Berg took a step forward, his face twisted in confusion. "Hey, Borges, don't tell me you messed up the coordinates again. What the hell are we doing in the Land of Ruins?"

Eliv didn't reply.

He stood perfectly still, gaze fixed on the horizon, eyes distant—as if peering into something no one else could see.

"Hey! Old man! I'm talking to y—" Berg's complaint was abruptly cut short by a voice neither of them recognized.

"Why do round folks always talk so much?" the voice said lazily.

From the empty air ahead, a figure stepped forward, emerging from thin air like a ghost pulling itself from shadow.

He looked… average. Strangely so.

Mid-thirties, lean frame, sharp jawline. His black hair was slicked back with disturbing precision, not a strand out of place. His eyes, an eerie pale gray-green, didn't blink often. They stared too deeply, too silently, like he was listening to something no one else could hear. And his smile—small, polite, and ice-cold—was the kind that turned your stomach even before he spoke.

He wore practical earth-toned leathers, a dagger at his hip, and a forest cloak half-draped over one shoulder. The kind of man you wouldn't notice until he was already behind you.

Berg took a cautious step back. "Who… who are you?"

Eliv's voice answered before the man did. Calm. Familiar. Unbothered.

"It's been a long time… Morbuan."

Berg froze. "Morbuan? That name… isn't that who Queen Lucy warned us about at the summit?"

Morbuan inclined his head ever so slightly, as if acknowledging an old friend. "Mage Borges. I see you've delivered the princess, as promised." His pale gaze shifted toward the two knights and Berg. "And the others…?"

"They came by necessity," Eliv said, tone even. "Had I traveled alone with the girl, it would've raised too many questions. But now—"

He turned slightly. "They are no longer necessary."

Berg's heart dropped into his stomach. In that split second, he sensed death. With a roar, he threw up an ice wall around himself and Sheila, just in time to intercept the attack.

Blades of air—razor-thin and faster than sound—whipped through the space they'd been standing in.

Behind them, the two Crescent Knights stood paralyzed—only for a moment—before both of their heads were severed clean from their bodies. The sound of their helmets hitting the ground was dull, anticlimactic. Their corpses teetered for a second, then collapsed, armor clanking lifelessly against the cracked ground.

Sheila froze. Her body refused to move, her breath caught in her throat. She looked down and saw a warm streak trailing across her cheek.

She reached up.

Blood.

Not hers. The guards'.

"N… no," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"What the hell are you doing, Borges?!" Berg roared, turning on Eliv with fury in his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you've done?! You're endangering the Princess—your kingdom!"

Eliv turned his head slowly, his expression calm, unreadable. "Still ignorant, I see. After witnessing the lives of two royal guards be snuffed out in seconds, you think your questions matter?"

Berg's jaw tightened. His fists clenched. "How long?" he asked, voice bitter. "How long have you been betraying the Kingdom?"

Eliv tilted his head. "Long enough to know it cannot be saved."

He stepped forward, just once. "Don't bother moralizing. You wouldn't understand. That girl you're clinging to—she's more dangerous than you think. If left unchecked, she'll eventually destroy this world. So… we'll use her before she does."

His gaze turned cold. "Now, Thuden. One chance. Hand over the Princess, and I may let you crawl back to the capital… with most of your limbs intact. Enough to serve as a warning."

Berg stood his ground. "This isn't you, Borges. You are the Grand Primordial Mage—the protector of the Crescent Line. You'd never side with demons!"

Eliv regarded him in silence. Then he sighed. "I gave you your chance."

Berg felt the shift in the air—too late.

This time, he wasn't fast enough.

A single blade of wind—silent, invisible—slashed through him.

His head flew from his shoulders… and was then sliced into four clean pieces in an 'X' formation before hitting the ground.

His body crumpled like a broken toy, blood soaking the shattered dirt.

Sheila could only watch in horror, too stunned to scream. Morbuan turned toward her slowly, smiling.

"Now then, Your Highness," he said softly, "shall we talk?"

Sheila's legs refused to respond. Her knees trembled, but didn't give, holding her in place as her lungs fought for air. Every breath came shallow, ragged. Her heart pounded so violently it felt like it might shatter her ribs. The thick, metallic scent of blood clung to the air—Berg's, the knights'—and it soaked into the broken earth in dark, glistening pools.

Morbuan stepped forward, calm as morning fog, hands behind his back. He moved like a man strolling through a garden, not toward a girl standing amid the corpses of her protectors.

"No need to panic, Princess," he said softly, that eerie, courteous smile spreading across his lips. "I understand this looks… distasteful. But believe me—this is the start of something far greater than you can possibly imagine."

Sheila stumbled backward, fists clenched, her arms shaking violently. "What… what do you want from me?"

"Oh, many things," Morbuan answered, his tone too casual. "But don't fret. I won't hurt you. Not personally, anyway." He glanced over to Eliv and gave a slight nod. "Make her sleep. Bind her."

Eliv raised a hand, whispering under his breath. Golden runes ignited the air, swirling with light magic, humming with restrained power.

"No!" Sheila screamed, turning to flee—but it was too late.

"Crying and screaming are nothing but futility," Eliv said flatly, not a shred of empathy in his tone. "Those cries of your's won't change the path set before you. I'd advise you to save those tears, Princess… you'll need them later."

The spell lashed out in ribbons of golden energy, striking her wrists and ankles in perfect precision. They coiled around her limbs like snakes, yanking her downward. Her knees slammed into the stone, and a sharp cry escaped her lips as the force robbed her of breath.

She thrashed, fighting the bindings, but every motion drained more of her strength—her myst dampened, her stamina stolen by the magic.

"Eliv… please…" she gasped, eyes wide and glossy. "You taught me! You watched over me! How could you…?"

Eliv stepped forward, gaze hollow, unmoved. "I taught you many things, Your Highness. But not all lessons are meant to save."

Without hesitation, he struck a vital point near the base of her neck with a crack of precise lightning magic. Her body jerked, then fell limp—unconscious before she hit the ground.

Morbuan crouched beside her still form, his pale eyes examining her with quiet fascination. "Such a lovely creature," he murmured, brushing a gloved hand against her cheek. "It's a shame, truly. Had she not carried the divine light, I might've enjoyed her company."

He smiled, more to himself than anyone else. "But alas… she's the key to Lord Sylvathar's rise. And fate is ever cruel."

He stood with a graceful stretch, turning toward the shattered horizon. "Let's go, Mage Borges. We've kept our lord waiting long enough."

Eliv gave no reply. With a motion of his hand, Sheila's unconscious body rose into the air, suspended by his telekinesis. Her arms hung limply, her silver hair drifting like a veil.

Together, the traitor mage and the phantom-like man walked forward, the girl floating silently between them. As they neared a crumbling stone arch, the space around them shimmered—a magical barrier pulsed once, then parted like water.

And with that, the three figures vanished, swallowed by illusion and spellwork—leaving behind only silence and blood-soaked stone.