The path before him was pure darkness as Seeker stepped into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Instinctively, he reached for his Phial—then froze. Of course. He’d given it to Bright. Without its light, the Valley pressed in heavier than before—thick, suffocating, alive with unseen weight.
The crunch of the gravel beneath his boots assured him he still walked the Narrow Way. His feet seemed to know the road, step by step, without the aid of sight.
As he took a step forward, his boots shifted of their own accord, drawing him slightly to the right. He couldn’t see his hand before his eyes, much less the path ahead. Yet his mind saw it clearly—the bones, the traps, the snares that had haunted this place the last time he’d passed through. He knew they were still here.
The Interpreter’s words echoed in his mind: We walk by faith, not by sight. He drew a slow breath, closed his eyes, and let his feet guide him.
“Oh, Seeker… did you come back to me?” Charm’s laughter rippled through the darkness—low, taunting, impossible to place. It mingled with the howls of unseen fiends. Fear tightened in his chest as the sounds drew nearer. A sudden brush of wings grazed his shoulder, and he staggered back, unsheathing his Sword.
The Sword blazed to life in his hands, flooding the darkness with a silver radiance that bled across the twisted ground. Shadows leapt and shrank away. The light burned brighter than the Phial had ever shone. Above him, drakes wheeled and shrieked in fury; before him, a legion of fiends gathered—countless shapes massed in defiance of the light.
The fiends swarmed him. A squat, leathery creature lunged—the moss-mottled hide of its body glistening in the silver light. It swung a jagged blade with surprising speed. Its teeth were needle-sharp, its ears long and pointed, its eyes burning with a feral cunning that spoke of hunger rather than thought.
It will guide your hands. The Sword rose of its own accord, meeting the goblin’s strike with a flash of silver light. His boots pulled at his feet, urging him left—just follow the lead. He turned as a drake swooped low, its claws raking the air where he’d stood a heartbeat before. The Sword arced in answer, cleaving through its neck. The creature crashed to the ground, twitching at his feet.
The goblins closed in around him. Feet. Sword. Let go. He moved without thought—light and motion as one. A single sweep of the blade, and they were flung back in every direction.
Howls. Shrieks. Endless. The battle became a dance with death: swing, block, step forward, fall back. The longer he fought, the brighter his sword burned. Then a dragon swooped in from the dark, its wings splitting the air. Seeker raised his blade—and lightning leapt from it, striking the beast mid-flight. It crashed to the ground, lifeless before it touched the earth.
Ten. A hundred. A thousand—he lost count. There was only the dance. The air around him crackled; the hair on his arms rose. Seeker cried out—ΔΕΞΑΙ! Waves of lightning cascaded from the Sword in torrents, and he dropped to his knees. No fiend remained standing. Mangled corpses surrounded him.
“Oh, brave warrior…” The voice drifted through the stillness, lilting and cruel. “Come and play with me.” Play with me. Play with me. Lay with me. Charm’s mirage shimmered in the distance—her green eyes gleaming through the dark like twin lanterns of deceit.
Out of the shadows emerged tall, broad-shouldered shapes—bodies lithe and powerful, half-shrouded in coarse brown hair. From the waist up they bore the form of men, beautiful in a savage and terrible way. But below, their legs were those of goats—corded with muscle, ending in cloven hooves that struck sparks from the stone.
From their brows sprang horns that curved backwards like a ram’s. Their eyes gleamed amber and wild, pupils slit and threaded with crimson. When they smiled, their teeth were too sharp—too human to be fangs, too bestial to belong to men.
They circled him in a wild dance, flutes and pipes shrieking in discordant joy. Goblets sloshed with dark wine as they spun and leapt. “Rest, Seeker, Rest,” they chanted. “Drink. Dance. Play with us.”
They pressed close—so close he could smell the mingled scent of sweat and wine on their breath. The satyrs spun around him, brandishing their flutes like daggers. His boots refused to join their rhythm. He swung his sword, but they slipped past each stroke with mocking grace. Step by step he forced his way forward. The Necklace had grown warm against his chest, and the old stripes on his back began to burn. Never forget.
Yet his Sword stayed steady in his hands, and his boots carried him onward—calm, unhurried—until he passed beyond that place and came to the straights between the sulfurous bog and the abyss.
From the depths rose specters—faces of men, half-formed, flickering in and out of substance. Moans drifted through the air, tangled with whispers. Then came the thoughts—unbidden, relentless. They hissed like steam in his head. Curses. Blasphemies. Accusations. His mind reeled beneath them. Despair. Shame. Guilt. He could neither fight nor flee.
Then the words of the Interpreter returned to him: This is not I. At once, the specters—and the thoughts that carried them—wavered, thinned, and sank back into the abyss from which they had come.
Seeker did not look back when he reached the far side. The air turned sweet, fragrant with lilies, and the gentle murmur of running water welcomed him.
He was covered head to toe in blood, yet not a single tear marked his garments, nor a scratch marred his skin. It was good to stand once more in Humility. First, he would wash—then find Bright.
