1651, Modern Ceri Calendar

Year 21 of the 31st Tor

The sky had been rumbling since dawn. Heavy winds pushed thick clusters of clouds to the east, above the forest that stretched before the high lands of Ceres.

Rena's thoughts weren't hers anymore. They burned with invisible fire, a mass of souls screaming, biting, and scratching inside her.

As background noise, echoed the last words Yanor had said to her: "Don't worry, Sister dear," he whispered lazily, "once the Monarchy has burned you to death with Opace, I will rule over those left of our people. As it should have been from the start. And wherever you hid the Relic, I will find it." The voice resounded, over and over, as if Yanor stood behind her.

Rena knew she wouldn't be alive when the rain finally poured. She stared at the land for the last time, tasting all the bitterness in her mouth. She had lived to end this war between mankind and the shadows. Had made herself an enemy to both. This day was meant to come. A woman couldn't fight a battle against thousands without paying the price of blood. Still, she had lost.

She held onto one of the few thing she had left. Even on her knees, she showed a face hard with pride, staring at the fortified line of court guards holding her at spear point.

Robust dark-armored soldiers, wearing belts full of dangerous gems, regarded her with stern faces hiding fear. But Rena saw past the façade. She read the skin like paper, knew every fold of flesh, each curve of bone. And she took pride in finding agitation in each heart beating around her, as one last taste of her natural position as The First Seat of Galeda.

Holding onto her pride was the only armor she mustered against the invisible flames consuming her, cast by the thick chains of Opace.

Rena had touched the shadows, practiced what the Ceri Monarchy deemed to be supernatural arts. And in their grotesque lack of coherence, they punished her with Opace chains — committing the same crime she was guilty of.

Still, her choice was irrevocable : if The Great Ancients and The Great Darkness had meant for this day to change the fate of her people forever, these men would keep a memory of her dignity and strength.

As she craned her neck up, the dry crust of blood layering her forehead cracked. Rena glanced beyond the row of guards facing her, her gray eyes matching the color of the rainy sky.

All these men surrounding her were so close to death, just the distance of the chains of Opace. That removed, she could kill half of them with her bare hands. Attempt an escape. But what would happen to her son?

Grief had led her down paths of the Forbidden Arts of soul trade. The Ancients knew she would have resisted had it not been for her son. At night they screamed, all the faces of the men whose souls she had taken, haunting her from deepnight to dawn. She had paid that price. Still it wasn't enough. She had failed him. And the simple recognition burned her more than the Opace ever could.

Her eyes set at the grove of the domain, she found herself reaching inside her vessel absently. She would die if she attempted to wield energy against the guards without the Zykarn Relic. Still, she didn't let go of the threads of energy flowing from her chest, nourishing a breeze that swung her hair. Was she trying to prove to her son she hadn't given up on him yet? Or trying to hasten her death?

This time she ignored the screams of lost souls that called her to the Order of the Shadows, the breeze adopting a wind cadence. She heard each boot of the guards shuffling on the cobbles with recoiling steps.

"Hold your positions," bellowed the general, his own heart beating faster, his face moist with sweat, a trembling grip around a dagger of filthy Opace. Although conquered by the same fear, his men obeyed.

Her eyes darkened, opening a path that linked the Order of the Shadows with the Order of Men, granting her the energy of the dead. Dark veins sprouted from black irises, stretching on pale skin like black roots. She saw clearer, with the light of a thousand suns.

The agitation among the guards increased, the smell of fear wreathing intensely around her nose. She reached deeper into the vessel, grasping onto the force of countless men, aching to be unleashed in all their abhorrence of light, aching to kill.

The shadows granted her the strength to stand, two unbalanced feet held in chains anchored on dark cobbles. The soldiers around her morphed into a pile of flesh to tear apart, a barrier of bones to break, barrels of blood to spill. How insane they were not to run for their lives.

Rena released the destructive force, life exiting her body. The chains of Opace around her limbs heated up and tightened, pressing back at her with as much force she attempted to unleash.

She had aimed for the guards, but found herself battling the chains solely, her arsenal not brushing past five cobbles around her. And the more she took from the vessel, the stronger the grip of the Opace chains grew, crushing her, the screams in her head growing tenfold. Now she drew energy simply to withstand the weight of the Opace until her vessel was empty.

Maddening pain rippled through her. Even the tips of her hairs ached. She could feel her mind fragmenting, her bones eroding, her blood boiling, legs giving out.

Her kneecaps crashed against the ground with a crack of bone. The invisible flames growing more impetuous, eating at her flesh but never consuming it. She felt more despair than she ever felt powerful.

She would really die there. No one would come for her son.

In a coordinated motion, all the spears raised to her head were erected vertically, tips pointing skyward. Boots grated the ground periodically.

She was guilty of atrocities but her son didn't deserve that same fate.

The narrow path cornered by guards on both sides opened to accommodate the man who would slay her.

Tor Oneon stood before her regarding her with disgust, a long sword of Baalkan mineral held one-handed. The white blade emanated a light of its own, the mark of the Regional Monarch.

The whistle of the wind against the sword echoed in Rena's ears like a funerary song — her son's funerary song.

It was the moment of consummation of the conflict.

"Ancients help him," she said, her voice faint. It was strange to implode with energy and still have none left to avert her eyes from her killer.

And the killing blow came. A precise thrust that ripped bone and flesh, sending her head rolling along the cobblestone. Her body sprawled on the ground, where it lay even after the rain had poured. As a prize of the victory of the Ceri Monarchy over its attempted detractors.

If she had been alive and capable of seeing her body, lifeless and cold on the ground, she would have been proud. Because even then, she would have no regrets.