Voyage
Dana's POV
"It's a Shadowmire!" one of the sailors screamed, running back as the other travellers scrambled for safety. The ship shuddered under the panic, creaking and groaning, but I stood frozen, my mind trying to make sense of this monster. What did it want?
Kumbuye was suddenly at my side, dragging me toward cover. I saw the fear in his eyes — he was someone who rarely flinched at anything, yet now his hands trembled.
"Come on, Dana! We need to hide!"
Everywhere was chaos. People shoved and pushed, some falling, others screaming trying to run to safety. I hit the wooden floor as Kumbuye turned back, trying to pull me to my feet. Behind him, the Shadowmire twisted and warped, passing through a sailor who screamed, eyes wide, before going limp. The life drained from him, leaving his body cold and still, like he'd been dead for days.
Panic surged through me, my eyes went sharp. I wasn't ready to die today. I grabbed Kumbuye's hands and struggled toward the lower deck but it was already packed. Screams rose around us, each one sharper than the last. I tried to channel my magic, but it faltered again. My bag felt heavy, I held it close as though it were the last thing keeping me anchored.
The Shadowmire fixed its gaze on me, its dark mass sliding across the deck with intent. Kumbuye lunged in front of me, spear raised, striking at the shifting darkness. The form split in two, then reformed, twisting toward me with a hunger that made my skin crawl.
Kumbuye swung again, forcing it to recoil, only for it to circle behind, attacking from another angle. The Shadowmire ignored him entirely, its focus deadly and precise, moving closer to me as if it had all the time in the world.
Relentless, Kumbuye fought, each swing of his spear driving it back but he could not stop its advance completely. Finally, the darkness around it began to thin, dissipating like smoke. The Shadowmire shrieked in a voice of pure shadow and fled, leaving the deck eerily quiet except for the sound of gasping, shaking survivors.
I was still in shock from the experience. My mouth felt heavy, like the words were lodged somewhere in my chest. When I finally found my voice, it came out unsteady.
"What… what's a Shadowmire?" I asked, trembling.
Kumbuye didn't answer right away. His eyes still held that same look — shock tangled with disbelief, his gaze fixed on the fog as though it might tear open again.
"It doesn't come during the day," he muttered to himself. "How did this even happen?"
He hadn't heard me.
I tightened my grip on him and asked again, my voice firmer this time despite the fear clawing at my throat. "Kumbuye. What is a Shadowmire?"
His head snapped toward me.
"It's a living darkness," he said quietly. "A malevolent force that thrives in gloom. It feeds on fear, on hesitation. Once it touches you, it paralyzes you, drains the warmth, the life." His jaw tightened. "They only come out at night. In deep forests, abandoned places. Places long hunted and forgotten."
As he spoke, the travellers who had fled below began climbing back onto the deck. Their voices were hushed now, broken. Some cried openly.
The sailor that the Shadowmire had passed through lay exactly where he'd fallen.
His eyes were wide open, glassy, staring at nothing. Too still. Like his body had been emptied and left behind.
I moved closer before I could stop myself. Someone screamed as they passed him. Another turned away, retching.
Kumbuye leaned closer to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That wasn't a normal Shadowmire."
I looked at him, dread curling deep in my stomach. "What do you mean?"
"It was a Riven Shade," he said. "Someone summoned it. And they sent it for you."
My breath caught. "What's a Riven Shade?"
His expression darkened further, as if even naming it tasted wrong.
"It's a torn Shadowmire," he said slowly. "Unstable. Fractured. Its form can split, twist, reshape itself at will. Faster than ordinary Shadowmires. Smarter. Chaotic." He paused, eyes flicking back to the fog. "It can weave illusions and strike from angles you don't see coming."
He swallowed.
"Even other Shadowmires fear it. A Riven Shade is an omen of destruction."
"Could this have been the Forsaken?" I asked in a hushed whisper. "Did they summon this… thing?"
"I don't know for sure," Kumbuye replied. "All I know is that dark magic did this. Dark magic summoned it."
The ship had reached open sea during the attack. There was no turning back now. We stayed on course, surrounded by nothing but water and fog.
"You said they don't come during the day," I said after a moment.
"They don't," Kumbuye answered. "Light is their weakness. They only roam in darkness."
I looked out at the fog, still thinning, still curling back on itself. "Then how did it even appear?"
His gaze followed mine as he lowered his voice. "The dark magic that summoned it wrapped the fog around it and shielded it from the sun long enough to strike."
As if answering him, the fog began to unravel. Thin strands peeled away, dissolving into the air as the light grew stronger.
"The magic couldn't hold," Kumbuye continued. "Once the light reached it fully, the binding broke."
A chill ran through me. "So it fled."
"Yes," he said. "Not because it was defeated. Because it was exposed."
I swallowed, my hands tightening at my sides.
The Shadowmire was gone, but the fear lingered. My hands still shook as I leaned against the rail, the salt wind tearing at my hair. Kumbuye was close, silent, his eyes never leaving the horizon. I could feel his tension like a second heartbeat, steady, controlled, but barely hiding it.
The first day passed under pale skies, the coast shrinking behind us until it became nothing more than a thin, dark line. By the second, the sea swallowed everything else. Water stretched endlessly, steel-blue in the morning, black and restless by night. The gentle rocking of the ship did nothing to calm me, it only reminded me how small we were in the vastness of it all.
We ate the rations the sailors handed out — dried fish, hard bread, watered ale. I chewed each bite slowly, aware of the cold and the hunger. Kumbuye sat near me with his spear resting across his lap, the corners of his mouth tight. I could feel his impatience, the way he braced for danger that might never come, and I tried not to disturb him with my own fear.
Sleep was a stranger to us. Hours passed in broken fits below deck, the air thick with wood, damp cloth, and harsh cold. When the sea swelled, there was no resting at all. Every wave tossed us against the ropes, slammed us against the rails. I counted breaths, trying to remember something normal. Anything normal that could calm the storm in my heart.
Sometimes I caught myself thinking of those days on Earth. A sunlit field, birds, wind in my hair, the simplicity of nothing depending on me. I hadn't known I could miss something so mundane. Now every moment was a battle for survival, every glance behind me a reminder that someone wanted me gone. That someone — maybe many — wanted me dead.
By the fifth day, the cold had sharpened, the wind bit harder, and the water felt heavier, almost as if the north itself was pressing down on us. Conversation fell away. People's faces were pale, all eyes fixed on the horizon, counting the days we had spent on sea.
The seventh morning brought a cry from the bow. Land. It was not relief, not yet just certainty. The sea had let us go. We had endured. The ship turned toward the shore, sails snapping in the wind and waves hissing along the hull.
The ship finally reached the northern docks. Winter was coming, and it showed in everything. The air was sharp and cold, biting at any skin it found. The water lapped against the pier, dark and icy, with chunks of floating frost. The docks were nearly empty, wooden planks slick and groaning under the wind.
I pulled my cloak tighter, shivering. Kumbuye stayed close, silent, eyes scanning the surroundings. I could feel the tension in him, the same sharp alertness he had carried on the ship.
I grabbed Bali, and Kumbuye grabbed his horse too. We moved down the gangplank.
"Finally, some solid ground, huh?" the pilot called out.
I shot him a glare. He had been unbearable all the way here.
"You've got a fierce look about you, girl. I like it." He stepped closer, leaning in, voice dripping with something I didn't like. "I can show you a proper warm meal, maybe a bit of comfort to beat this harsh cold… if you're interested." His breath smelled of cheap ale.
"Get out of my face," I snapped, fierce and annoyed.
"Oh, come on, I could be a proper man for you," he pressed.
Kumbuye's hand twitched toward his spear, jaw tightening. "Step back," he growled, low, controlled, dangerous. The pilot froze mid-step, smirk faltering under that glare.
He muttered something about "having a little fun" and finally scuttled to help with the ropes, leaving us alone.
I exhaled, watching my breath curl in the cold air. "He is annoying," I muttered, shivering.
We moved on, looking for an inn where we could rest for the night. My stomach ached with hunger, sharp and insistent.
We mounted our horses and rode deeper inland until we reached a settlement. The place was loud and busy, voices clashing, boots scraping against frozen ground, lanterns swinging in the cold wind.
We stopped in front of the first tavern we saw. It did not scream danger, but something about it felt wrong. The men inside did not look friendly. Their stares followed us as we walked in, heavy and unashamed, all the way to the tavernkeeper.
"Can we get two bowls of pork stew?" Kumbuye asked, his voice steady.
I stayed quiet, painfully aware of every eye on me. There were no women here except the tavernkeeper and her apprentices, and the way the men treated them made my skin crawl.
One man slapped the backside of a passing server and then threw ale at her, laughing as the cup shattered against the floor. Disgust twisted my stomach.
"That'll be four coppers," the tavernkeeper said, turning to Kumbuye. Her eyes lingered on him warm and teasing.
He reached into his pouch and dropped the coins onto the counter. "And two cups of your best brew." He added.
"That'll be another six coppers," she replied, then looked at me. Her stare was sharp, almost hateful, as if she had already decided what kind of woman I was, as if Kumbuye and I shared something she resented.
We found a table and sat, waiting for the tavernkeeper to bring our food and drink. The place unsettled me. Every sound felt too loud, every stare too long. I wanted to leave, badly, but the hunger gnawing at my stomach kept me rooted to the bench. I just needed to eat first. Then we could go.
When the food finally arrived, the tavernkeeper brought it herself. She dropped the bowls onto the table with little care. Kumbuye muttered a quiet "thanks" as the steam rose between us.
She smiled at him again, slow and teasing. "If you need more," she said, pressing a hand against her chest, drawing attention to herself, "I can satisfy you."
The cloth she wore barely covered her body. Too revealing, too deliberate. It turned my stomach.
"I'm not interested," Kumbuye said plainly, not even looking up at her.
I didn't know whether he truly meant it, or if he said it because I was sitting right there. The thought lingered uncomfortably. The tavernkeeper was undeniably beautiful, the kind of beauty meant to draw eyes and keep them. Perhaps that was how this place survived.
She held his gaze for a moment longer, as if testing him, then straightened with a scoff and walked away.
"She's obviously interested in you," I said with a small smirk.
Kumbuye huffed. "Who wouldn't be?" he replied lightly.
We shared a brief laugh, the tension easing just a little.
Then a chair scraped loudly against the floor.
One of the men from another table staggered toward us, dishevelled and reeking of ale. He stopped too close.
"Oy, lassie," he slurred, his eyes crawling over me in a way that made my skin prickle.
I stayed quiet. Any attention was the last thing I wanted.
"I'm talking to you," he said again, louder this time. "Don't act like… like you can't hear me." He stuttered, struggling to keep his balance.
"What do you want?" Kumbuye asked, his voice calm but firm.
"Ohhh," the man laughed, turning his head toward the room. "The boy speaks."
A few others joined in, their laughter loud and ugly.
"Come on, lassie," he said, grabbing his crotch and thrusting it forward. "Won't you like some of this?"
Disgraceful.
"Let's leave, Dana," Kumbuye said quietly.
I nodded. I had barely eaten, but my appetite was gone. My stomach felt tight and wrong. I stood quickly, turning toward the door—
And suddenly, the man grabbed me, pulling me against him, grinding himself forward.
I screamed.
Instinct took over. I shoved him hard and slapped him across the face, the sound sharp and loud.
Kumbuye didn't hesitate.
His fist connected with the man's face, bone crunching under the force. Blood sprayed as the man collapsed backward, clutching his nose and howling.
Chairs scraped again, the laughter stopped.
The other men stood, one by one, forming a loose circle around us.
The room went quiet suddenly but the silence shattered all at once. A chair flew, and they came at us together.
Kumbuye moved fast. His spear flashed in brutal arcs. He fought like he always did — controlled, precise. Every movement meant to end the fight quickly. No wasted swings. No hesitation.
I barely had time to draw my sword before one of them lunged at me. I stepped aside and slashed across his arm with one of my daggers. He screamed, dropping his blade. Another came from behind. I spun, my other dagger sliding free from my waist, drove it into his thigh, and shoved him hard.
My bag bounced against my side. I clutched it tighter, protecting what was inside. Someone reached for it, but I slammed my elbow into his ribs. I felt something crack, then sliced my dagger into his chest. He fell with a wet gasp.
I looked at Kumbuye. The men around him weren't trained. They rushed blindly, shouting instead of thinking. They had no chance, even in numbers.
Those still standing hesitated, eyes darting between us and the bodies on the floor. One by one, they stepped back, fear finally outweighing their courage.
Silence returned.
"You hurt?" he asked.
I shook my head, swallowing hard. "No."
I tightened my grip on my bag.
"Good… let's leave."
As we moved for the door, I glanced back and saw the tavernkeeper staring at Kumbuye in awe. Like she enjoyed watching him fight.
We mounted our horses, ready to leave, when we saw them — men dressed as guards, swords drawn, approaching fast on horses.
My heart skipped. What was happening? I clutched Kumbuye tightly. They were so many, circling us, pointing their blades.
"You have violated the law of our land and have been found guilty," one of them said.
"What?" I whispered.
"You will come with us to the castle to answer for your offense."
Kumbuye stretched out his spear, ready for a fight. Every muscle in him coiled like a spring. But I knew this wasn't one we could win.
The guards went into the tavern and returned with the drunk fool from earlier — the one who had started the fight — dragging him by the arms. The survivors, groaning and beaten, were also held captive.
I shook my head, bewildered. My first day in the North, and I was already in trouble. True to my nature.
I held Kumbuye tighter. Like he had read my mind, he slowly let down his spear.
We said nothing. No words were needed. We didn't want another fight, not with the entire village watching. So, without resistance, we followed the guards.
I still held Bali close, my hands tight on her reins, as we followed the guards down from our horses.
After walking a far distance, a large castle loomed faintly in the distance, though it felt like the road would never end. I was exhausted, the hunger I had felt earlier growled in my stomach yet again. I stared at Kumbuye, who kept his gaze far ahead, calm and unflinching.
The soldiers moved like shadows around us, their grip on my arms tight and unyielding. When we finally reached the castle, they held Bali back, took my weapons and shoved me through massive iron gates into a narrow, dimly lit hall that reeked of damp stone and smoke. From there, we were herded into a holding area that felt less like a room and more like a dungeon.
Before I could catch my breath, the guards seized me again and separated me from Kumbuye. I struggled, clawing at their grips, kicking and screaming, but it was useless. They dragged me across the hall and shoved me into another room, wide and bare, with a balcony looming high above. My bag was ripped from my shoulders, spilling my belongings across the floor. A surge of helplessness hit me like a hammer, I felt my control slipping.
Then, something inside me snapped. A warmth stirred in my chest, a hum of energy I had long denied. My hands tingled, and before the soldiers could react, the air around me shimmered with power. My magic — raw, hungry, and alive — answered my call. The floors vibrated and before I knew it my hands moved sending the nearest guard sprawling, slamming him against the wall.
The other guards moved back in fear.
A voice bellowed from above, echoing off the stone: "Bring her to me."
From the shadowed balcony, a tall figure appeared, clad in plate and chain — the head of the knights, the Castellan of this Castle. His presence was commanding, his eyes sharp as steel. The soldiers stiffened and immediately obeyed his orders.
The guards pushed me forward, arms pinned, dragging me across the cold stone floor. My bag, my compass, the golden box, all left behind, abandoned in the room like discarded trinkets. I wanted to snatch them back, but my magic faltered again, weak and useless under their watchful eyes.
At last, they stopped before the Castellan. He stood tall, his gaze swept over me, sharp, assessing, leaving no part of me unmeasured. The soldiers fell silent behind him, rigid, awaiting orders.
"Bring her closer," he commanded. His voice carried easily, smooth and controlled, yet there was a sharp edge to it.
My eyes flicked to my bag on the floor, its contents scattered. He followed my gaze and smirked. "There's something about that bag," he said, eyes narrowing. "Bring it to me."
One of the guards moved quickly, scooping up the bag and hurrying it over. My heart thudded in my chest.
"What are you?" he whispered, almost to himself.
I didn't answer. I just stood there, staring at him, caught between fear and fascination.
"You will bring me much joy at the arena," he said, smiling as he walked away, taking my bag with him.
Arena?
What was that?