Shadow Slave: Foreign shadow

​A blade made of pure gloom clashed with a steel tempered in the blood of a myriad fallen foes.

​The collision sent a shockwave through the hall, a thunderous roar accompanied by a hail of sparks and stone splinters.

From the corner, Sunny watched the impact, his body anchored to the spot. The towering giant of War was a mountain of pure, crushing malice, and the sheer weight of his presence felt like a physical shackle upon his soul.

​The first exchange ended in a stalemate.

​The sheer magnitude of the impact forced both combatants back, their boots carving deep furrows into the debris-strewn floor.

​Thene skidded to a halt beside Sunny. Her composure was gone, replaced by an unadulterated, murderous intent that burned within her obsidian eyes. It was a cold fire, fueled by the sight of Gaston’s dead body.

​”I will take exquisite pleasure in killing you,” she spat, her voice laced with a lethal poison.

​Across the hall, the Champion of War slammed into the far wall, but he didn’t falter. A jagged, satisfied smirk split his face.

​”Finally,” his eyes seemed to snarl. He didn’t need words; his red eyes said it all. ”A worthy opponent.”

​They both braced themselves to meet again.

Thene leveled her black sword—the physical manifestation of her Mark of Shadow—at the giant’s throat, her every nerve screaming for his blood.

The Champion rose, carelessly brushing the dust from his crimson cloak. The tip of his greatsword etched a red line into the ground as he stepped forward, his pace rhythmic and terrifying.

​Sunny watched them through trembling eyes. The Master’s aura was a suffocating shroud, a gnawing dread that left him no room to breathe, let alone act. Yet, deep within his soul, that mysterious supporter of him stirred. It flickered against the darkness, a stubborn ember trying to melt the ice of his panic, but it wasn’t enough to break the paralysis.

​As they prepared to leap into the fray once more, Sunny gathered a fragment of his resolve and caught Thene’s wrist. She spun her gaze toward him, the flickering rage in her eyes softening for a fleeting moment.

​”Please,” Sunny choked out, his fingers tightening around her. ”Don’t leave me, Thene.”

​He begged her with glistening eyes, the words a desperate echo of the prayers she had once whispered over Thamriel’s infant corpse. Over him.

Sunny knew that their paths were fated to split. He knew that when this Nightmare finally ended, they would never meet again.

He knew it all too well.

​Yet, Sunny couldn’t bring himself to accept it.

​In less than a month, Thene had become more to him than he dared to admit. The very people of this temple—Eva, Ava, even the stern Gaston—had become a family he never thought he’d possess. It had been a perfect, beautiful dream, and the realization that it was dissolving into smoke was a pain more piercing than any blade.

​Thene placed a steady hand on his shoulder. She leaned down, hugging him tightly.

​”I won’t,” she whispered, her voice not a promise or an assurance, but a decree. ”Not now, not ever. I will come back to you, just as you came back to me long ago.”

​With that, she let go. A goodbye, but also a see you soon.

Leaving Sunny behind, Thene stepped forward into the fray.

​The Champion of War already occupied the ”ring,” a space defined by the jagged remains of the shattered Doric columns.

He was in no rush; the anticipation only served to sharpen his bloodlust. His massive greatsword rested patiently across the broad expanse of his back, a silent promise of slaughter.

​With a subtle flick of her left wrist, the Priestess of Shadows called upon the temple’s ancient inhabitants. At her command, the silent sentinels stirred, slithering and stretching toward her. From her own shadow, seven black blades emerged, each with a different edge and curve. They swirled around her waist in an inaudible melody of dark iron and impending death.

​Standing face-to-face, the Champion and the Priestess locked eyes.

She raised the sword in her hand to her chin in a cold salute, while the seven floating blades leveled themselves at her opponent.

He lowered his greatsword directly in front of him, a wicked, jagged smile twisting his lips.

​Then... they began to circle.

​The two combatants followed the same orbit, like binary stars that could not coexist in the same sky. They paced the ring twice, studying each other with predatory focus.

He was as tall and unyielding as a mountain, an immovable monolith whose crimson cloak was matched only by the thirst for glory burning in his red eyes. With a calm, effortless motion, he spun his greatsword to his left; in his grip, the massive slab of metal moved as light as a needle.

​She was as agile and graceful as a butterfly, a veteran of the blade who lacked only her opponent’s raw stature and experience. The shadow swords followed her every step, a dark wake that transformed a single duelist into a one-woman skirmish.

Their steps began to shorten, the distance between them shrinking with every calculated breath.

​”A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master of Shadows,” the Champion greeted Thene. His tone promised a joyous battle, but his eyes demanded only the ecstasy of the slaughter. ”I am Goliath, Champion of War, and I-”

​With a sharp huff, Thene cut him short. ”Spare me the litany, Master of War. I have already sent tens glory-drunk fools like you to their graves, and I have fed a thousand crows with their remains.” She finally halted her pace, the shadow swords hovering above her tensing like drawn bowstrings.

​Goliath sighed, visibly pleased by his opponent’s disdain. ”A duel without bows or pleasantries then,” he murmured, licking his lips in delight. ”Exactly as it should be.”

​He, too, came to a halt.

​From Sunny’s chin a single drop of sweat fell, hitting the stone with a silent echo.

​In perfect unison, Thene and Goliath, the Priestess of Shadows and the Champion of War, thrusted themselves forward into a frantic, earth-shaking battle. Two synchronized bolts of lightning.

Being the smaller combatant, Thene crossed the distance in a flash, claiming the first strike. ​

With two explosive bounds, the Priestess launched a direct thrust aimed straight at Goliath’s heart. The Champion of War shifted his massive greatsword vertically to catch the point. As steel ground against steel, the seven shadow blades fanned out from behind Thene like a predatory wing, curving around to strike the Champion’s back in perfect synchronization with her own lunge.

​However, Goliath’s crimson cloak flared. The black blades bounced off the fabric as if striking the hide of a manticore, the enchanted silk proving as impenetrable as plate armor.

​Having parried the initial thrust, Goliath whipped his greatsword in a counter-clockwise arc, a horizontal reaper’s swing meant to sever Thene at the waist. She jammed her blade between her flesh and the oncoming slab of iron, bracing for the impact. The blow didn’t cut her, but the sheer momentum sent her staggering, her balance momentarily shattered.

​Thene didn’t panic. Instead, she leaned into the stagger, rolling across the stone to bleed off the force of the strike and using the rotation to spring back to her feet.

Without wasting a heartbeat, she lunged again, unleashing a frantic flurry of precision thrusts. The remaining shadow blades moved in a deadly harmony with her offensive, a storm of dark needles seeking a gap in his guard.

​Goliath pivoted, using the broad flat of his blade and the defensive properties of his cloak to weather the assault. For a moment, he was forced onto the back foot—until one of the shadow blades managed to graze his cheek, drawing a thin line of red.

​Tiring of the defensive stalemate, the Champion let out a low growl. With a single, blindingly fast cleave, he shattered four of the seven shadow blades into obsidian dust while simultaneously intercepting Thene’s primary weapon.

​Goliath didn’t let the momentum die, but his transition to the offensive came at a price. Another shadow blade found its mark, piercing the bicep of his right arm. The blade snapped as it hit the bone, crushed by the sheer magnitude of his tensing muscles. Treating the wound like a mere mosquito bite, Goliath ignored the steel buried in his arm and reached out with a massive hand to seize the Priestess by the throat.

​Thene evaded the grasp with a feline leap, landing several paces back, her breath sharp and cold in the dusty air.

This time, it was Goliath who seized the initiative. With strides long enough to clear riverbeds, he lunged toward the Priestess.

​Sensing the shift in momentum, Thene recalled her remaining shadow blades and beckoned the ancient shades of the Temple to her aid. At her command, jagged ebony palisades erupted from the stone, weaving together into a reinforced wall of solid ink to shield her from the coming storm.

​The Champion was undeterred. He didn’t let the shifting gloom blind him. Swinging his massive greatsword in arcs that seemed jagged yet expertly placed, he advanced-cleaving through the shadow spears that thrust up from the ground to impale him. ​He reached the ink-black barrier in a matter of heartbeats.

Instead of using his blade, Goliath threw a devastating punch that punctured the wall with a thunderous crack.

On the other side of the breach, his fingers closed around his enemy’s throat. ​With a roar of raw power, the Champion yanked his arm back, dragging his captured prey through the shattered remains of her own defense.