Dimlights Village lay in a dark forest. Not far from a castle of ill repute.
It was twilight inside the tavern "The Last Haven." The corners and edges of the main hall sank into darkness. A small handful of people sat at a single table. Three were listening, while the fourth spoke.
"Pain became our second self. Our second wind. Ever since the Lord of Pain took residence in the castle—and when he did, no one remembers. They say it was after the rise of the Demon-King's tyranny. That was when many creatures and demons, once spoken of only in legends—believed to lie in enchanted slumber within their lairs—crawled back to the surface and began to terrorize the people of the Kingdom."
The three listened, holding their breath. Their darkening gazes never left the speaker, catching every word as it came.
Somewhere in the forest, wolves began to howl. The four shuddered in fear, glancing around like hunted prey. In the twilight by the far wall, someone sat. A fifth visitor. One who did not reveal himself—or was in no hurry to do so. What was he doing there? Listening closely to the tale or lost entirely in his own shadowed thoughts?
Having composed himself slightly, taking a few sips of wine from his mug, the storyteller continued:
"Ever since then, it has been this way—pain, which settled in our minds, can suddenly grow stronger, twisting some in agony and killing others. The castle is traditionally considered the source of this pain. But, I'll tell you a secret," he leaned in toward frozen, grim faces, "the forest holds many ancient ruins, which may hide terrible secrets of the past—and they are quite capable of giving rise to sinister events. They say ancient magic has claimed these cursed places and made them its inescapable prey. Strange creatures come from there. Creatures better left unseen by human eyes."
The tavern door opened, and a formidable figure in armor appeared on the threshold. Behind her hung the night and the stars. Several bolts of lightning streaked across the night sky in the distance.
The figure crossed the hall with unsteady steps, armor clinking with every movement. She stopped at the bar. Tall. Female. Her armor was ancient, dark. Its patterns and symbols radiating an indescribable dread. Shoulder-length, dark red hair, tangled. With flecks of dirt and leaves falling from it. At her hip hung a large, long sword in worn scabbard—not sized for a girl. Too big. Better wielded with both hands. And not for every warrior, but for one possessing great physical strength.
"Water," a hollow female voice drifted through the room, as if weary under the weight of hundreds of years.
The four patrons snapped out of the hypnotic trance they had fallen into while watching the newcomer fixedly. The storyteller continued:
"There are dark legends. They say that one of the terrifying creatures that comes from the forest is a woman in dark armor. Once every hundred years, she awakens from her cursed slumber and rides around the nearby castles, judging those who rule them, to determine if they are worthy of that rule. She is called the Judge. She wields a massive sword with absolute mastery—and she is completely insane. She kills anyone she dislikes for a single wrongly spoken word. They say she has the right to pass judgment by an ancient dark pact with primordial powers, and so she utters the words: 'The court has sentenced you to death. The sentence is to be carried out immediately.'"
The innkeeper, trembling, handed a mug of water to the newcomer and hastily retreated into the shadows. The dark aura emanating from the visitor filled him with an inexplicable dread.
She drained the water in one gulp and slammed the empty mug onto the bar with a crash.
The four patrons jumped and fell silent. She turned. They saw her face, twisted with malice. They choked.
She approached those seated. They instinctively shivered.
"The court has sentenced you to death. The sentence is to be carried out immediately," she intoned in a merciless tone, devouring them with her eyes.
They shrieked in fear. Their hair bristled on their heads, and they began to slide to the floor. From its sheath, the massive sword flew out, and with two strikes, it cleaved all four into bloody pieces.
The fearsome warrior cast a piercing glance into the darkness of the hall. It seemed to her that someone had moved there. She held the great sword in one hand. Behind the bar, the innkeeper's howls rang out. In the darkness, no one stirred. The warrior turned and left the tavern.
The face with short black hair and the black beard emerged from the darkness of the hall. He had been sitting at the corner table by the wall all this time, listening to the tale and witnessing the horrific, bloody slaughter of the patrons. An unthinkable and inexplicable cruelty.
It seemed to him that she could see perfectly in the dark and had clearly noticed him. Yet, for some unknown reason, she did not touch him and continued on her way. He noticed that she walked more firmly than when she had entered. And if he judged the events correctly, he guessed where she was headed—along the same road he intended to take. To the castle on the hill.