In the calm of cold winter noon, two snow elf hunters roamed through the Northern Tundra on their daily patrol around their village. The wind was strong that day, a lot more than usual, enough to raise the salty dust in the air. Those conditions had scared off many of the rodents that usually could be found around the demonic rose bushes, pushing the two hunters to wander further away from their usual routes.

As the hunters walked with their bows ready and the confidence of natives, one of them noticed a large body half-hidden beneath the dust. He signaled it to his companion, pointing at it. They strayed further from their paths to investigate, approaching the mysterious creature with care and quietness. With the innate agility of the elven races plus years of experience hunting on the Tundran soil, they effortlessly erased the sound of their steps.

Soon, they noticed the body of a giant white creature. At first, the hunters thought it was a wolf since its fur was the same. But it was too big, and its features were different. An unmistakable sense of danger still lingered in the air around it. It was unmistakably a predator, or at least it had been since it now laid dead in the Tundra.

They relaxed their stances. What was dead would not pose a threat. The oldest of the two started heading back to their original path. It was their duty to notify the village chief of their discovery. However, the youngest thought to carve away the two large tusks that rested under the creature's maw. Surely, those would make a beautiful gift for his loved one. What a lucky find! Especially as he was planning on asking her hand soon.

So, he put away his bow and grabbed the simple knife tucked in his belt. With practiced ease and just as much youthful enthusiasm, he moved closer to the beast's head and started sawing the impressive tooths off. Now that he was so close, he was impressed by the sheer size of the creature. Its head was as big as half his body! He earnestly hoped he never again faced one of these creatures, not alive at the very least.

Just as he was about to finish on the first tusk, the young hunter heard a low gnawing sound within the corpse. It was like something was voraciously chewing at the corpse's flesh from the inside. With creased brows, the hunter snapped the fang off with a final pop and hid it in his tunic. Then, he lowered himself on his knees, silently exploring the perimeter of the creature. Some rodents had probably found a way in and were feasting on the corpse's meat. Easy prey, he thought.

He sneaked around the creature, knife on the ready in his left hand. When he was finally on the other side, his jaw dropped. A large circular hole passed through the creature's dead body, the charred skin around the deadly wound's perimeter covered in dust and salt. That's what killed such a magnificent beast. It meant there was something even more terrifying roaming through the Tundra.

Scary.

It was then that he noticed that the gnashing sound had stopped. An indescribable feeling of dread fell on him. Quickly he stepped away from the corpse, calling at his older comrade. He received no answer. The old hunter was not a man known for his pranks. The youngster ran his steps back in a hurry, and his eyes opened wide when he saw the headless body of his companion. Panic took over his body as he frantically looked for enemies in every direction. He could not imagine that the attack would come from his own shadow. It was a simple swipe, its speed faster than an ordinary person could follow. The cut was so clean that the young hunter died a painless death. That way, he never had a chance to scream.

A small body escaped the hunter's shadow. It looked like a Tundran wolf cub, harmless, even cute. Its tail was weirdly long, a sharp glaive-like blade at its tip, thin like the edge of a fine sheet of paper. Four eyes opened on its face, capable of independent motion to better scan the surrounding area. The wolf moved with uncanny purpose, betraying how far it was from an ordinary cub. It took the two heads of the elves, bringing them back in the hole inside the giant panther-like body.

A few weeks ago, a near-death experience had taught it how easy it was to be defeated. It was a lesson that it would not dare forget. And now, the Urutomo plotted its future. First, it would consume its former body and every creature that dared interrupt it.

Then, the hunt would finally resume.

***

"Your Highness, the subject is ready," declared the voice of a mysterious woman cloaked in silver. With surgical gloves on, and her ever-present porcelain mask, the Spymaster's emerald eyes remained the only part of her body exposed to the exterior world.

Beside her, two other women stood in silence with bowed heads. On their neck were collars, magical objects inscribed through the dark arts to ensure absolute obedience and incorruptible secrecy - a common practice in the underworld used by secret organizations, spies, and wealthy eccentrics.

No windows and the pungent staleness of the air told of a chamber deep inside an old crypt. A raised altar stood in the middle of the room, and on it was a man fighting against the chains that bound him tightly. Judging from his powerful muscles and the sheer number of scars on his naked body, he was an experienced warrior and a martial practitioner. They had done something to him, an injection of some concoction that had thrown his internal energy in disarray. In his current state, the chains would limit him without issues.

Looking in the chamber from the darkness of the corridor was a man of distinguished air and noble clothes. Crown Prince Kaveat of the Gothric House stood and watched, one hand closing his nostrils and the other resting on his back. "How long will the procedure take?" He asked the silver-cloaked woman.

"Just short of three minutes," the Spymaster answered with a cold, sharp voice.

"Very well. Proceed."

She nodded, then turned to the two slaves and gave them a silent signal. Then, she moved to the side of a chamber, where operating instruments of all kinds sat neatly and perfectly clean. She took a scalpel, and one of the women appeared beside her with a bowl of fuming hot water. The woman in silver dipped the sharp instrument in, held it for about ten seconds, then removed it. The second slave was ready with a clean towel, which the Spymaster used to dry the scalpel. When she was satisfied, she moved towards the altar.

The clicking sounds of the woman's heels told the tied man that his time was running out. His fight became desperate, and the crypts soon echoed with his screams and frantic struggles. "NO! DON'T COME CLOSE BITCH! DON'T YOU DARE!"

His threat fell on deaf ears, as did his pleas. Of course, his captors did not care. "Is it necessary for the subject to be awake?" Asked the Prince.

"Yes," answered the woman, who now stood over the immobilized man with her scalpel onto his broad chest. "A high level of stress is required for the subjects to survive the transplant. We have found keeping them awake during the procedure to be highly effective," she explained through the increasingly desperate screams of the man.

"PLEASE! I'LL DO WHATEVER YOU ASK! PLE--"

His words became incoherent mumbles as he felt the scalpel cut deep within his chest. Soon the silver-cloaked woman had cut a long vertical incision. One of the two slaves appeared with another towel to take the bloodied instrument, while the other moved to the altar and used a retractor to open the newly formed wound, exposing the white bones of the bloodied rib cage.

Then, the Spymaster removed her left glove, putting a fair young hand right over the incision. She whispered words in a strange language that almost sounded like she was talking in reverse. A circle of arcane symbols appeared on the pavement around her, revealing her identity as a sorceress. While it covered a relatively small area, an expert eye would notice the sheer density of arcane formulas within. Various symbols of obscure significance danced in the air around her, showing her understanding of the Laws that governed the world. The last hint to her powers came from the color of her circle, black like the darkest of night skies. She was not just an Arcane Master but at the pinnacle of the arts of death and shadow.

The intersection between the arcane and the dark arts was a territory few dared explore. On the surface, society ostracized the dark arts, and its practitioners were allowed to be hunted like monsters. No rights, no dignity. They would be tortured, burned, interrogated for days, all to avoid the rise of cabals and cults that could plot to topple the status quo.

In the underworld, however, finding a dark artist offering their services was as easy as entering the right alleys. Or the wrong ones, depending on what you were looking for. From banal love curses to cruel poisons, from talking to the dead to summoning pestilence over an enemy, dark artists found fertile ground on the petty desires of society. Over the millennia, the ban over the dark arts became mere words and little action. How could a nation earnestly get rid of all their dark artists, when there was a risk of enemies employing theirs? It would be like burning all the swords in your nation because bandits used them too. In practice, suicide.

Then, a single discovery made magical society tremble. Five hundred years after the Fall of Theorzea, a gnomish researcher by the name of Sir. Falken Hubbletop became famous for his papers on reaching the dark arts through arcane sorcery. It was revolutionary in some ways. It meant that the various magic forms could have a common root! However, many thought his discoveries were nothing but dangerous. Not even one month later, Falken had mysteriously disappeared, and the Ivory Council declared his research 'the unfounded conjectures of a drunken cretin'. Just as quickly as the news had spread, it died down. Still, an idea was not something easily extinguishable.

And five hundred years later, the mysterious Spymaster of the Alcian Kingdom was putting a drunken cretin's theories to practice.

The bound man groaned, then pain exploded in his chest. Every muscle and tendon of his body tensed, unable to scream from the sudden shock. His pupils rolled back so much that only the white of his eyes was visible, while the skin on his fists broke and bled from how intensely he was clutching them.

A cracking noise echoed in the room, followed by another, then another, as the rib cage visibly opened to the eyes of the Spymaster. The pain had brought the man to a state between consciousness and nothingness, unable to think, or talk, or move. He could only suffer in silence.

When the cracking noises stopped, the silver-cloaked sorceress recited a new formula. There was a wet popping sound, then his pumping, beating red heart floated towards her hand.

The two slaves approached the Spymaster, holding one metal bowl each. The first was copper and empty, while the second was golden and contained a large black heart. It was still beating, emitting tears of a dense, purplish liquid.

With dextrous movements, the woman put the heart in the copper bowl, then she took the black heart and replaced it with the same formula. Cracking sounds followed as the rib cage closed to its original state. Finally, the slaves brought a new bowl of water to their mistress, and she used it to meticulously clean her hands.