The Varaksha’s Curse

The night was thick with mist, curling like ghostly fingers around the ruins of Vareth's Hollow.

Lyssara moved through the fog like a wraith, her steps silent, her presence almost nonexistent. Cloaked in midnight silk, she was nothing but a ripple in the darkness, unseen and unnoticed.

And that was how she preferred it.

Malrik's command still echoed in her mind.

"Break him. If he will not fall to the Hollow Mark, then take everything else from him."

It was not a command she questioned.

It was an order she would enjoy.

A City of Forgotten Echoes

Vareth's Hollow had once been a great city, long before the Void had begun to seep into the world. Now, it was little more than crumbling stone and shattered remnants of forgotten lives.

But it was not empty.

Hidden beneath the ruins, tucked away in a cavernous network of tunnels, Kiran's allies gathered.

Refugees, warriors, and those who still dared to stand against Malrik's rule.

They believed they had found safety here.

Lyssara would remind them that nowhere was safe.

The First Strike

She perched on the edge of a ruined tower, her violet eyes gleaming as she watched the camp below.

Fires flickered. Voices murmured.

They thought they had another night of peace.

How fragile a thing peace was.

Lyssara raised her hand, fingers curling in a slow, deliberate motion.

From the darkness, her whisperers stirred.

Creatures of shadow and silence, beings twisted from the Void's essence, slipping between the gaps of reality. They clung to the walls, the ceilings, watching, waiting.

One gesture from her, and they descended.

Screams rose.

The first kill was silent—a guard dragged into the abyss before he could even take his last breath. The second was messier, a woman's cry breaking the air before she, too, was gone.

Panic spread like wildfire.

Lyssara smiled.

The Message

She moved swiftly, weaving through the chaos with inhuman grace.

One by one, the warriors of Kiran's camp fell, not to outright slaughter, but to fear.

Fear was more powerful than any blade.

Because once fear took root, it never truly left.

Finally, she reached her target.

A scribe.

Not a warrior, not a fighter.

A messenger.

She grabbed him from behind, her blade pressing lightly against his throat.

"You are going to send a message," she murmured against his ear.

The man shuddered, nodding frantically.

She loosened her grip just enough to let him speak.

"W-what message?"

Her lips curled.

"Tell Kiran this—"

She leaned in, her voice like silk and steel.

"Run faster. It will not be enough."

Then she vanished into the shadows once more.

To Be Continued…