The Hollow Wraith

The forest at night was a different world, the air was cooler, still. Every sound amplified against the hush, an owl’s distant call, the faint rustle of leaves under something’s cautious step.

Morgana moved with deliberate quiet steps. She let her eyes adjust, the magic of Night Prowl sharpening her vision until the world was bathed in shades of pale silver and deep shadow. 

Twigs stood out like black veins against the ground, the textures of bark and moss sharp enough to trace with a fingertip.

The Hollow Wraith left little sign, but the forest gave it away in subtler ways. A patch of grass bent as if something had brushed through moments ago. A low branch swayed faintly despite the air being still. 

Every dozen steps, she caught a flicker — just at the edge of her sight — of something pale moving between the trees.

Not too close. Let it think it’s still leading me.

She had been following this faint trail for almost a half an hour now. It led her deeper into the woods, away from the road, into a clearing lit faintly by moonlight. That’s when it stopped playing coy.

When the trees finally opened into a small clearing, she saw it.

And stopped cold.

The figure waiting in the clearing wasn’t monstrous. It was a woman, draped in the pale light of the moon, wearing jeans and a faded cardigan. The sight punched through Morgana’s focus harder than any weapon could.

Her breath caught. Hair tucked behind her ears exactly the way she remembered. Eyes the same warm brown that had scolded and comforted her in another life.

“Amelia,” the woman said. Her voice was soft, warm. Exactly the same. “What… what happened to you?”

Morgana’s grip on her scythe tightened until the leather bit into her palms. For a second, the forest around her faded, the smell of damp earth replaced by faint traces of laundry soap and brewed coffee.

No. Not her. Not possible.

Her eyes narrowed, the softness in her chest hardening to steel. “Really? You’re going with my mother? Out of all the damn faces you could’ve stolen?” Her lips twisted into a cold smirk. “Guess flattery is the cheapest fucking trick in your book.”

The woman’s expression froze, then cracked, lips peeling back into something too wide.

The figure shimmered, clothing melting into black mist. The skin rippled, splitting, stretching until the face dissolved into a writhing mess of half-formed visages, each one mouthing silent screams. Ragged shrouds hung from its skeletal frame, and eyes like silver pits fixed on her.

“That’s better,” Morgana muttered. “And here I thought you didn’t have a fucking sickening ugly face.”

With a roar that made the nearby trees shiver, the Hollow Wraith lunged.

The Wraith’s roar rolled through the clearing, and then it lunged.

Its claws swept for her throat, but she slipped sideways, scythe biting into its ribs. The thing shrieked and dissolved partially, reforming behind her. She spun, the blade hissing through empty air as it darted out of reach.

“Fast little shit, aren’t you?” she muttered.

It lunged again, this time its shape rippled, and suddenly she was looking at her old self. Her old brown hair, her own smirk, her old voice cutting through the night.

“You can’t kill you,” it whispered in her tone.

Morgana laughed. “Bitch, I’ve already killed you! This is the new me now.”

She dashed forward with Moonfang Dash, scythe swinging low, the blade cutting straight through her doppelgänger’s midsection. The form buckled, flickering between shapes.

Her mother’s face again, then her own, then a dozen strangers before it collapsed into a heap of black mist and pale residue.

A glowing silver orb raised from the dust on the ground and buried itself in Morgana's chest. She felt a warm sensation all over her body.

Feeling excited, she summoned her book from her tattoo and flipped the pages until she saw the new entry.

[Skill Gained: Phantom Guise] – Assume an alternate physical appearance, concealing racial traits or mimicking another form. Does not alter abilities or voice unless practiced. Duration: Sustained while focused. Drains 1% of mana every minute.

“Well, aren’t you a fucking useful little nightmare,” she muttered. Closing her eyes, she focused, letting the new magic ripple over her skin. Her horns melted away, wings dissolving into shadow before vanishing entirely. 

She opened her eyes to find a tall, blue-haired human girl staring back at her from a nearby pool’s reflection. Same eyes, same grin, no demonic tells.

She flexed her shoulders. No wing weight. No horns snagging her hood.

“This’ll make the city trip a hell of a lot easier.”

She stepped over the corpse’s fading remnants, turning toward the path back to camp—

And stopped.

Nyra stood in the shadows just inside the treeline, staff angled slightly, the silver caps catching the moonlight. Her gaze dropped briefly to the Wraith’s remains before returning to Morgana.

Nyra’s grip on her staff never wavered. “You should be careful wandering off at night. Things out here can be dangerous.”

Morgana glanced at the mangled Wraith under her boots, then back at Nyra. “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m not joking.” Nyra’s tone was sharp, but there was steel under it. “You’re a wildcard, and I don’t trust wildcards.”

That earned a slow grin from Morgana. “Good. You shouldn’t.”

She reached up, tugging her hood back and running her fingers through her long blue hair until it fell loose over her shoulders, and down to her knees. Her eyes caught the moonlight, gleaming brighter than seemed natural, locking on to Nyra’s without flinching.

“Trust gets people killed,” Morgana said, voice calm but edged. “If I ever have to pick between my life and yours — hell, between my life and any of theirs — guess who walks away?” She tilted her head slightly. “It won’t be you.”

Nyra’s expression didn’t change, but her knuckles tightened slightly on the staff. “At least you’re honest about it.”

“I'm always honest. I speak my mind and do what the fuck I want,” Morgana said with a faint smirk. “Lying’s too much work.”

For a long moment, they stood there, the silence between them thicker than the shadows. Then Morgana stepped past her, heading back toward the faint orange glow of the campfire.

Nyra didn’t lower her staff until they reached the campsite safe and sound.