The New Shadow

Chapter I: Whispers of Herumor

He stood there for a moment, every sense straining as he attempted to penetrate the oppressive silence. The familiar walls around him felt strange, and the air seemed thickly laden with an unspoken menace. The stench was faint but unmistakable.

He moved cautiously down the narrow passage, his hand brushing against the rough stone wall that he knew so well, as if to anchor himself to reality. His mind raced, recalling the ancient stories of when the Shadow had held dominion over this very region. He remembered how even in his youth he had hunted down remnants of the darkness in the earlier days of the reign of King Eldarion. Those memories surged now, vividly, as if they had never faded, and he knew that this was no mere imagining—Evil had returned, creeping even into his own house. But was it still here or had it gone?

Borlas saw nothing in the dark—no movement, no figure. Only the blackness and the weight of the house pressing down upon him. "Is someone here?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the growing dread in his chest. There was no response, only the hollow echo of his words dissipating into the shadows.

Something was there, lurking, watching. He could feel it, the presence that gnawed at the edges of his awareness. This was no simple fear—it was familiar.

He stepped cautiously to the side closet where he found a cloak and a short but simple sword which he slipped on under his waistcoat. Then he took hold of his stout walking staff. The familiar weight of it in his hand brought him a brief sense of comfort, though he knew it would be little protection against the shadows that gathered here. With another glance within, he ducked back out the door and latched it behind him.

Night had fallen, and as Saelon had predicted, clouds gathered across the face of the moon. Borlas, now clad in black, stood by the eastern gate of his house, where the shadows of the Emyn Arnen hid him from view. The once familiar path before him, worn smooth by years of wandering, now felt foreign underfoot as if it had somehow conspired with the shadows. Borlas stood at the edge, peering into the darkness. He clutched his cloak closer to him, its fabric heavy with the unseen weight of dread. His mind was restless, turning over the thought that had sealed his decision: This is not the first time the Shadow has risen, nor shall it be the last.

For a long moment, there was only silence. The wind picked up, stirring the leaves, and a chill ran through him that was deeper than the coming cold of night.

Just then from the shadows, the figure of Saelon emerged—clad in black, as he had said, moving swiftly yet silently, as though the night itself bent to his will. Something about the figure was different, darker. He approached without word, his dark clothing blending with the shadows, but his eyes gleamed with a strange light as he looked at the older man.

Without a word, they set out, moving swiftly, leaving the stone house behind, winding their way along the steep paths that led into the depths of the hills. As they walked, Borlas noted the silence; no birds sang, no rustling came from the trees. It was as though nature itself recoiled from their path. The further they descended, the heavier the air grew, thick with a sense of ancient malice, like a forgotten shadow lurking at the edges of the world.