Misbegotten world

Chapter 17: Cloaked in Black

Vartos stumbled forward, each breath a reminder of the toll the catacombs had taken on his body. The medallion felt heavy in his hand, though its glow had faded, leaving behind only a dull, cold weight. The whispers, though quiet now, lingered in the back of his mind, like shadows that refused to vanish even in the dawn's light. They seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.

As he knelt there in the snow, the realization began to dawn on him—this was no ordinary encounter. The forces at play inside those cursed halls had awakened something within him, something ancient and far more powerful than he understood.

The girl, or rather the creature that had taken her form, wasn't just a trick of the dark. It was a messenger. But of what? Or who? Vartos' thoughts spun as he tried to shake the feeling that he had been marked, chosen for something beyond his comprehension. He had been many things in his life—warrior, hunter, killer—but now, as the weight of the catacombs pressed upon him, he knew that he was standing on the edge of something far greater.

The whispers... they were not merely echoes of the dead. They were calling to him.

Vartos stood, his legs still shaking from exhaustion, but his resolve strengthening. He couldn't let this consume him. He had to keep moving, keep searching for answers, and most importantly, find the missing girl. That was the mission, after all. But even as he told himself that, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that the missing girl had only been the beginning—a lure into something much darker.

As he turned to leave the clearing, something shifted in the snow. Vartos froze, his instincts immediately on edge. Slowly, he turned his head, scanning the white expanse around him. His breath hung in the air, freezing into mist. For a long moment, nothing moved.

Then, from the distance, he saw it.

A figure, cloaked in black, standing just at the edge of the tree line. It was motionless, watching him. Even from afar, Vartos could feel its eyes on him, piercing through the cold. The figure didn't move, didn't approach, but it was unmistakable—someone, or something, was watching.

His hand instinctively went to his sword, but he didn't draw it. Whoever this was, it didn't seem to pose an immediate threat. Instead, the figure simply lingered, like a shadow against the snow.

Vartos took a step forward, his voice low and firm, "Who are you?"

No response. The figure remained still.

"I said, who are you?" he demanded, louder this time.

The figure finally moved, raising a hand and pointing—directly at him. Vartos felt a cold shiver run down his spine, colder than even the biting mountain wind. Then, without another word, the figure turned and vanished into the trees, as silently as it had appeared.

For a moment, Vartos stood frozen, torn between following and continuing on his path. Every instinct in him screamed to chase after it, to demand answers, but something held him back. He knew he was not ready to face whatever that was, not yet. He needed to understand more.

The whispers inside his mind seemed to hum softly, as if acknowledging the presence of the figure. It was connected to them somehow—another piece of the puzzle he had yet to solve.

But for now, he had to keep going.

Vartos tightened his grip on the medallion around his neck, feeling the cold metal press into his palm. Whatever dark path lay ahead, he knew he was already on it. There was no turning back.

And with that, Vartos resumed his journey, his footsteps heavy in the snow, the shadows of death trailing behind him, growing closer with every step.