Chapter 2- The woman in black
Three sunrises had passed since the impossible took root.
A woman, once claimed by death, had opened her eyes once more. She breathed. She spoke. She lived.
No one could understand it. They had seen the sickness before—it did not let go of its prey. It consumed. It left nothing behind.
But this time... something shifted. No one dared speak of it aloud. They whispered instead, not out of fear, but with awe, with reverence.
He had not moved. He had not spoken. And yet, the world around him—everything—obeyed his unspoken will.
Angela had believed that he would vanish, just as suddenly as he had appeared. A fleeting shadow, a dream mistaken for reality.
But he remained. Not out of desire. Not out of duty. But because something, something formless and ancient, had told him to.
He had heard it before—by the lake, in the forest, in the silence that existed between every breath and heartbeat.
And so, he stayed. Beneath the tree. For three nights and three dawns.
He did not wait. He did not hope. He simply existed, observing, as the world turned around him.
The villagers had begun to come—one by one. At first, out of curiosity. Then, they brought offerings—bread, fruit, quiet words.
He did not ask for these things. He did not speak. He only watched.
Some tried to engage him. Most left in silence. But each visit left a mark, an imperceptible shift in the rhythm of the village.
He could feel it—their fear had lessened. Their awe had grown.
And then, on the fourth morning, a man approached.
Cautious. Awkward. His hands calloused, his apron stained with soot.
> "Good sir," the voice came, hesitant. There was a tremor in his tone—hope wrapped in disbelief. "They say you... helped a woman."
The elf opened his eyes. The grass stilled. The air around him thickened.
> "She wasn't supposed to live," the man continued quickly, words tumbling out. "But she did. I saw her walk. I heard her voice. It's... it's a miracle."
The elf remained silent.
> "She's a friend of mine," the man pressed. "Her name is Paulina. Most of us had already mourned her."
A beat of silence passed.
> "Paulina," the elf repeated slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue.
> "Oh—right. I'm Jeff, the blacksmith. My forge is just past the bend," the man added, scratching the back of his neck. His eyes flickered between the elf's expressionless face and the ground.
Still, the elf did not respond.
Then, the elf spoke—low, unmoved.
> "Not now."
Jeff blinked.
> "Ah, of course. Sorry to intrude. I just... wanted to thank you. You're a blessing. A miracle. Sent by the gods, maybe."
The elf's face didn't change, but something inside him twisted, an unsettling tension stirring within him.
The gods. Again. As if they would ever look upon a place like this.
But still, he said nothing.
Angela returned each day — sometimes alone, sometimes with Paulina beside her, no longer carried, but walking now, slow and quiet.
She remained a little longer with every visit, speaking in soft tones about things that seemed small, yet sacred to her — the village and its rhythm, dreams she barely understood, the shifting skies, the hush of the market, and the stars that watched it all in silence
Sometimes, she laughed. And sometimes, her voice trembled, just for a moment, when she mentioned her mother.
She smiled more each day. Once, she even whispered:
> "I was afraid you'd vanish after saving her… but you stayed."
As if the silence surrounding him was a comfort, not a wall.
He rarely spoke. But he listened. And that seemed to be enough for her.
He said little, but more than before.
One night.
Something inside him stirred. A voice, or something different all together. It did not whisper. It called.
To the forest.
He stood.
A tremor passed through the grass. The trees creaked. The clouds slowed. Even the insects fell quiet.
A single droplet rolled down his brow — slow, unexpected, oddly heavy, as if the air itself had turned against him for the first time.
> "Sweat," he murmured, more intrigued than alarmed, as though his body had acted without permission.
His gaze sharpened.
"That's new."
From deep within the trees ahead, something moved — not a sound, But a rhythm beneath rhythm, a pulse that beat with purpose rather than instinct, and with every step he took, it grew clearer.
The world around him held still, as if watching.
Then, it touched him — a sensation thin as smoke, cold as breath drawn in a crypt, slipping past his thoughts.
Unfamiliar.
Unwelcome.
But real.
He paused.
Fear…?
Not the kind that roared, but the kind that waited.
It settled behind his eyes like a weight that did not belong.
And so, without raising his voice, without anger or defiance, he exhaled and whispered:
> "I shall not carry fear," he said. "It does not belong to me."
And with that, whatever presence had tried to take hold withdrew — not shattered, not defeated, but simply… unwilling to remain.
As though even fear had recognized something older than itself.
The feeling left him, as though it were afraid to remain.
Each step stretched the world. Time unraveled. The forest thickened. The sky dimmed, though no clouds passed. Even the birds forgot how to sing.
He walked.
Not with haste. Not with hesitation.
Each step deliberate, carved in silence.
> "Until now," he murmured, more to the air than to himself, "nothing has tested me. Not truly."
His eyes narrowed as mana shifted in the wind.
This wasn't chaos.
This was design.
He had relied on instinct before — raw, overwhelming. But now, something different stirred. For the first time, he thought ahead.
A beast with draconic blood?
A demon cloaked in shadows?
A trial left behind by something older?
The pulse grew louder.
He followed it.
And then — she appeared.
A single figure, waiting.
A woman wrapped in black, standing still as stone.
Skin pale as frost. Eyes red like a scarlet moon.
A crimson aura bled from her figure, like vapor rising from open wounds. The shadows twisted around her, swirling, coiling, as if obeying an unspoken command.
Her presence swallowed the light, each step cloaked in deceptive grace. Not brute force. But calculation. Power that did not shout—it whispered. Schemed. Waited.
The air twisted. Leaves curled to ash.
A single black butterfly landed on her shoulder—and crumbled.
She turned to him.
> "There you are," she said. "I've been looking for you."
The elf did not flinch. He watched her magic ripple around her, not wild—but deliberate. Cunning. A web waiting for prey.
He did not feel threatened. But he remained alert.
> "I have no business with you."
Her voice remained steady, but her eyes shone.
> "I don't wish to fight," she said. "I came to serve."
His gaze sharpened.
> "Serve?"
> "I had a dream," she said, stepping forward. "A vision from the goddess. To find the elf whose aura is darker than the void. To offer myself to him. Entirely. Without question."
She paused. Then added:
> "I do not know your name. But I know your power. It called to me like hunger. It frightened me... and yet—I wanted to be near it."
Her hands, though steady, gripped her cloak as if to still a storm beneath her skin.
Something flickered in her expression.
Not madness. Not fear. Something far more dangerous: understanding.
Devotion. Not born from light. But from recognition of something greater. A predator yielding to an apex force.
Something moved within him. Low. Coiled. Not rage. Not recognition.
Dominance.
Was this why I waited beneath that tree? Was it her... the one guiding me? Not a voice. Not a command. A goddess, perhaps...? No. I do not serve.
He stared at her.
> "Goddess?" he said, distaste thick on his tongue.
"I do not believe in gods."