An approaching movement on the side of the clearing catches the knight’s attention, and with a swaying vision he turns to see. Relief surges through his body as he realises that he did not fall off his plane of reality and that he was not relocated too far away; Greufard has his axe drawn as he hurries to assess the situation, and the goddess and their orc companion linger at the edge. The sight of corpses so strewn about – in whole or in parts – staggers them. Iacy especially is holding back her shock to keep herself composed – her fingers on her neck, clenching and loosening – the knight notices. Then their eyes meet and hers widen.

“Friends of yours? Late to the feast. Go now, and let us not see you again, or there will be questions. Go.” The commander leans onto the spear he has thrusted into the ground. He and the knight have removed themselves from the proximity of the Shade after dealing the lethal blow, but the commander is holding off the kill for his unsaid reasons. With spears aimed on their target, the soldiers shift uncomfortably, watching. The Shade writhes and screams with a hand on the neck, blood rippling through the dark malignant mist and dripping onto the ground.

Walking over to the goddess, the knight takes in his surroundings now that his attention is less grappled. The large clearing is encircled by giant roots that have creeped and curled up and out of the soil while above is a canopy roof made by interweaving branches and leaves. The trees – bent or sturdy – are pillars supporting a green glass roof as the cracks in the latter allow splashes of light into this nature-oriented hall. It looks specifically designed as grounds for a battle – one after an ambush.

Iacy slides down the root-made steps to place a hand on the knight’s arm, where a sudden pain jolts him away. “I was beyond my limits for worry. We followed a bright white light that shone out of a distance.” She explains as she snatches the injured arm and removes the gauntlet that hides twisted flesh and broken skin. At her touch, the knight feels the goddess’ shaking composure even as she displays a stubborn calmness. “Don’t stare. It actually caught me off guard, though I now wonder why I didn’t properly heed Greufard’s suggestions. Anything could happen with nothing too impossible; I guess we’ve found our Shade, hm?” Finished with her spell, she looks to the cluster of armour huddled in a bright blue sheen. “Screens. Men. Not of the Melacunid Kingdom, I wager. What terrible casualties.”

“Miraculously good to have found you.” Greufard returns to them as the knight helps Nadi down from the ledge of roots which Iacy somehow slid down untroubled. “It appears that things never go according to plan.” He lifts a black pebble to his eyes, pinched between a finger and a thumb, with a blackness deeper than the knight thought he observed. “But it’s time. I’ll count on you to explain, my Lady. I hope you understand; I hope you can help him, even as there are soldiers around. I have no more patience; I can’t afford to be picky with the situation. Goodfaring, my Lady, Ser Knight, and Lady Ulsnadir. May you safely find your son.”

Three steps are all he could take before a howl pierces the air, long and sharp, agonised and miserable. A deafening shatter of glass rings before streams of dark thorns pour out from the Shade and blanket the clearing as tendrils of dark malignant mists gush through the trees and then the forest beyond in overflowing tides. The knight has come in front of the goddess with his shield up – Screened and braced – while she whispers a spell to strengthen his stance. Nadi has also leapt to defend Iacy with her own body, but her impulse proves fortunately unnecessary; and Greufard himself has managed to put up a Screen just in time for the waves of darkness to smash wildly against the barrier.

Then it is as if the world had turned to glass; the air stills and cracks and all is silent save for the hollow echoes of fracturing that a hall of mirrors might make. The knight peeks above the shield to glance – his movements as jarringly languid and slow as thick honey flowing down a bottle – and that is the final movement he could make before he freezes entirely. He sees a sea of coal-ashy darkness pushing the soldiers apart – their Screens punctured and broken – and at the opposite end of the clearing is a statue of obsidian-black glass depicting a ragged figure extending a double-bladed scythe to the heavens with both hands bony and straightened.

What had been corpses have disappeared completely, leaving behind only their weapons and their shells of armour and chains to litter the ground. Slipping back between the splits and the fractures in the air, the streams and tendrils and tides swiftly recede to engulf their origin; the figure is now enveloped in a bulging darkness that is gradually absorbed, the thrashing abyss bubbling as it is soaked in. The cracks heal and another shatter sounds before reality resumes its pace.

The Shade rises from the ground and rises further, levitating into the air as dark malignant mists swim beneath like floundering tentacles. Then the scythe swings backwards in preparation with anyone that is before it as heading. The commander yells for spears, but the Shade is quicker. Combat re-erupts.

“Exactly now…That shadow.” Nadi has soundlessly slipped past the knight, her gaze forward and unwavering, seemingly entranced by the bloodshed. “My dream. I saw-” But she is walking too quickly, as if eager to leap into the chaos, and Greufard has to pull her back.

Quickly struggling to shrug him off, she stops instantly when he whispers something into her ear – like chanting a spell, though it is no useful spell – and her hand goes up to grab his collar, slightly lifting his entire weight. Her eyes are wide and her lips are pressed tightly, and it is almost as though she is about to punch a hole through Greufard’s chest, but she simply shoves him away and climbs back up the roots with frantic effort. Before heading into the forest in the direction they had come from, Nadi turns back for a brief look at the goddess and the knight by her side. Then she disappears into a sprint.

Greufard avoids meeting Iacy’s eyes. “She would be better off elsewhere. It’d be fatal for us if she lost herself to a careless rage, and Erdent would just slice us apart.” He pauses, inhaling a sharp breath and balling his hands into fists. “That thing over there. We need to be calm.” He does not receive any response.

Without further exchanges, they – the knight, the goddess and the man with an axe – approach the battlefield with regretless strides.