Pain was a constant companion now.
It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a dull, insistent drumbeat through cracked ribs and torn muscle. Every breath dragged fire across his lungs. Blood crusted his lips, flaking away in bitter flecks whenever he moved his tongue. The labyrinth's mouth had spat him out into a moonless forest hours—or days?—ago. Time blurred in the haze of survival.
Elias crawled at first.
The ground was a carpet of damp leaves and loamy earth, cool and yielding under his palms. Needles of pine pricked his skin where his gauntlets had torn away. The air was thick here—heavy with the scent of moss and decaying wood, undercut by the sharper tang of his own blood trailing behind him like a dark breadcrumb path.
He didn't know how far he'd gone. Only that stopping meant dying.
And he refused to die.
Not while her laughter still echoed in his skull.
*Vespera.*
The name was a curse and a fuel. He whispered it through clenched teeth as he dragged himself onward, fingers digging into soil that smelled of rain and rot. Flashes came unbidden: her crimson hair spilling across Torren's chest, her thighs slick and gleaming in torchlight, the way she'd looked back at him one last time—eyes bright with triumph, lips swollen from another man's kisses.
He'd been blind. So blindly in love.
Raised in the shadow of her family's faded nobility, Vespera had always clawed for the light. He'd seen the signs—her sharp words to lesser adventurers, the way she'd preen when praised, how she'd linger too long with party members who flattered her. But he'd dismissed it. Told himself it was ambition, not envy. That her touches, her nights pressed against him, were real.
They weren't.
She'd used him. His tactics elevated the party; his reputation drew quests and gold. But it was always *his* name on everyone's lips. Never hers. And when she'd found others willing to follow her whispers—promises of leadership, of glory without his shadow—she'd struck.
The memory fueled him.
He found a stream eventually. The water was ice-cold, shocking against his fevered skin. He cupped it in trembling hands, drinking deep—the mineral bite sharp on his tongue, washing away some of the blood's copper tang. Then he stripped what remained of his armor, wincing as fabric peeled from wounds like scabs.
The forest provided.
Bitter herbs grew in clumps near the water—pungent, astringent leaves he crushed between stones and packed into gashes. They burned like acid at first, then numbed. He chewed others for the faint healing magic they carried, the flavor acrid and earthy, coating his mouth like mud.
Days passed in this way. Or weeks. He hunted small game with improvised snares, the snap of twigs and the warm gush of blood from a rabbit's throat a grim satisfaction. Fire came from flint struck against his ruined dagger, sparks flying into tinder that smelled of dry pine and smoke.
He grew leaner. Harder.
The boy who had simped for smiles was dying, piece by piece.
One night, under a sky bruised with storm clouds, he found the voidstone.
It jutted from a fallen monolith half-buried in the earth—an ancient ruin, perhaps a remnant of some forgotten war. The stone was black as midnight, veined faintly with crimson that pulsed like slow heartbeats when lightning flashed overhead.
He pried a shard free with his dagger. It was heavy, unnaturally cold. Smooth as polished obsidian.
Perfect.
He worked by firelight for days. Chipping, grinding, shaping with whatever tools the forest and his ingenuity provided. The mask took form slowly—a skull, stylized and menacing, with hollow sockets deep enough to hide his eyes. When he held it to his face, the chill seeped into his skin like frostbite's kiss. The crimson veins glowed faintly, responding to his touch.
He etched runes along the edges—old tactical sigils he'd learned in forgotten tomes, twisted now for concealment and intimidation.
The first time he donned it, the weight felt right. Final.
Elias stared into a still pool at his reflection.
A stranger looked back.
Amber eyes smoldered from the depths of the skull. Midnight hair, longer now and wild, framed the edges. The scar across his collarbone—a souvenir from the betrayal—peeked above his tattered tunic.
He was no longer Elias.
"Riven," he whispered. The name tasted like ash and promise.
Low. Firm. Unyielding.
The forest scavenged the rest.
Black leather from a slain direwolf, cured over fire and stitched with sinew. Trousers that hugged his thighs like a second skin, supple and silent. A vest that molded to his torso, accentuating the lean muscle forged in pain. Boots of obsidian hide, heavy and sure. A cloak pieced from shadow-pelt—billowing, weightless, whispering with every movement.
He tested the mask's fit one final time. It slipped slightly on sweat-dampened skin, clacking softly against his brow. A rare sound escaped him—a muted rumble, almost a chuckle. Self-mocking. The old Elias might have cursed. Riven merely adjusted it, fingers steady.
Comedy in the darkness. A small thing, but it grounded him.
The vows came then, spoken aloud to the indifferent trees.
"No more weakness. No more blind trust."
*No more love.*
Vespera's face flashed—her moans, her betrayal. Hatred surged, hot and clean.
"I will find you," he said, voice a hushed thunder. "And when I do..."
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
The frontier town appeared on the horizon after weeks of travel—smoke rising from chimneys, the distant clamor of life. Riven approached at dusk, cloak drawn close. His aura preceded him now—an invisible pressure, born of will and pain. Villagers parted without knowing why, conversations faltering as he passed.
The guild hall was a sturdy timber building, lanterns glowing warm against the chill night. Inside, the air was thick with sour ale, acrid sweat, and the smoky bite of hearth fires. Oaken beams overhead creaked. Tables groaned under tankards and elbows.
Eyes turned as he entered.
He felt them—curious, wary. His presence demanded it.
The registration counter was manned by a bored clerk, quill scratching idly. Riven approached. The man looked up—and froze.
"Name?" the clerk asked, voice cracking slightly.
"Riven," he said. Low. Firm. The word carried, silencing nearby chatter.
"Origin?"
"Far lands. Beyond the eclipse wastes."
A lie, smooth as shadow.
The clerk swallowed. "Class?"
"Adventurer."
No more details. None needed.
The quill scratched across parchment, ink's wet scent sharp in the stuffy air. Riven's gloved fingers drummed once on the tacky wooden counter—warm from countless hands, sticky with spilled drink.
"Rank starts at bronze," the clerk muttered, stamping the form. "Quests on the board."
Riven nodded once. Took the badge—cold metal against his palm.
He turned to survey the hall.
Conversations resumed, but quieter. Eyes lingered.
The shadow had arrived.
And it was only beginning.