A Monster's Shadow

Following a god is an act of faith. Following a monster is an act of desperation.

The forest swallowed us whole. One moment, I was running from the ashes of my home; the next, the sounds of Cinderfall—the crackling flames, the sorrowful cries of my friends—were gone, replaced by the deep, indifferent silence of the ancient woods. The only sound was the rustle of my own clumsy feet on the dead leaves, a frantic, desperate rhythm as I struggled to keep pace with the figure ahead of me.

He moved like a ghost. His steps were silent, his path a straight, unwavering line through the tangled undergrowth. He did not seem to choose his path; he simply moved forward, and the forest seemed to part for him. Branches that should have snagged his cloak seemed to bend away. Thorns that should have torn at his clothes seemed to wither at his approach. He was a phantom, and I was his loud, clumsy, all-too-human shadow.

For the first hour, I tried to speak. My attempts were pathetic, born of a desperate need to fill the suffocating silence.

"My name is Mark," I offered, my voice a hoarse croak.

He did not reply.

"Where... where are we going?" I tried again, after another long stretch of silence.

No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. It was like speaking to a stone. I was not being ignored; I simply did not exist in his world. I was an irrelevant piece of noise trailing in his wake. Finally, I gave up, and let the silence consume us.

We walked for what felt like days. The sun arced across the sky, its light filtering down through the thick canopy in dappled, shifting patterns. He never stopped to rest, never seemed to tire. His pace was constant, relentless. My own body screamed in protest. My muscles ached, my lungs burned, and the cuts and bruises from the battle in Cinderfall throbbed with every step. But I did not stop. I could not. To lose sight of him would be to be truly lost, abandoned in a world that had already proven it had no mercy.

It was during the late afternoon that I first witnessed his madness.

He stopped abruptly, his head tilting as if listening to something I could not hear. His gaze was fixed on an empty patch of air beside him.

"The trajectory was inefficient," he murmured, his voice a low, weary monotone. "The kinetic force was excessive for the desired outcome."

I froze, my blood running cold. He was speaking to no one.

"It was a message, not a masterpiece," a different voice seemed to whisper from him, sharp and impatient. "They understood. That is all that matters."

He sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "Understanding is not the goal. Perfection is."

I watched, hidden behind the trunk of a large oak tree, my heart pounding against my ribs. He was arguing with himself, his voice shifting subtly with each line, as if two different people were trapped inside him, fighting for control. One was a cold, detached analyst. The other was something sharp and cruel. I had not been saved by a mage. I had been saved by a madman.

As the sun began to set, casting long, distorted shadows through the trees, he finally stopped in a small, sheltered clearing. Without a word, he began to prepare a camp. Or rather, he began to create one.

He walked to the center of the clearing, and with that same, casual flick of his fingers, he sent a tiny shard of light into a pile of damp leaves and twigs. A perfect, controlled flame blossomed into existence, crackling cheerfully, giving off warmth but very little smoke. Then, he touched the ground. He did not speak a word of power, did not draw a glowing circle. He simply touched the earth, and it obeyed him. The ground softened and rose, forming two smooth, bench-like shapes near the fire.

I watched in stunned silence. This was not the violent, explosive magic he had used in Cinderfall. This was something else. It was quiet, precise, and effortless. It was the magic of a master, wielded with the bored indifference of a god.

He sat on one of the earthen benches, his gaze lost in the dancing flames. He seemed to have forgotten I was there entirely. Hesitantly, I moved to sit on the other bench, the warmth of the fire a welcome relief against the encroaching chill of the night.

For a long time, we sat in silence, two strangers sharing a fire, a universe of questions separating us. Finally, he spoke, his voice so sudden it made me jump.

"What do you fight for?"

He was not looking at me. His gaze was still fixed on the fire. The question was not conversational. It was an examination.

"I... I fight for my home," I stammered, caught off guard. "For my friends. To protect them."

He turned his head, and his strange, mismatched eyes locked onto mine. The dead grey one saw nothing. But the other one, the one with the unnatural pattern, seemed to see everything. It saw my fear, my naivete, my pathetic, hopeful idealism.

"A home can be burned," he said, his voice flat and empty. "Friends can die. Protection is an illusion." He looked back at the fire. "Your reasons are fragile. They will break."

His words were not cruel. They were simply a statement of fact, delivered with the finality of a death sentence. Before I could form a reply, he stood up.

"Rest," he said. "We move at dawn."

He then walked to the edge of the clearing and sat with his back against a tree, a solitary figure who seemed to welcome the darkness. I was left alone by the fire, my mind reeling. I had left the ashes of my home to follow a monster, hoping to find answers. But as I watched the strange boy who spoke to ghosts and wielded impossible power, I realized I hadn't found any answers at all. I had only found more terrifying questions. And I was afraid, truly afraid, that I was already too deep in his shadow to ever turn back.