Date: April 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The moment lasted an eternity. The white figure stood at the valley's edge, and its presence pressed on them like the sky before a storm. Ulviya felt her heart pounding somewhere in her throat, the vine on her left hand stirring anxiously, ready to burst free at any moment. She looked at the creature and understood — they would not survive alone.
"We need to unite," she said. Her voice was quiet, but in the valley's silence, it rang out clearly, like a bell.
The dwarf — Datuk — turned his head toward her. His face, covered in blood, was impassive, but in his eyes, green, bright, something like agreement flickered. He was not afraid of battles. He craved them. But even his Berserker Spirit, pushed to its limit, pulsed anxiously at the sight of this creature.
"Are you serious?" he asked, and there was no mockery in his voice. Only weariness and a strange, almost childlike hope.
"Serious," Ulviya replied. "It will kill us one by one. Together, we have a chance."
Rosh, standing a few paces away, smirked. His smirk was crooked, almost angry, but in his mismatched eyes — green and brown — there was no trace of his former arrogance. Only cold, calm assessment.
"A chance?" he repeated. "Against a Herald? Do you understand what you're saying?"
"I understand," Ulviya looked at him. "But we have no choice."
She shifted her gaze to the bear. Sobra stood behind Datuk, his amber eyes fixed on the white figure. He made no sound — only his nostrils flared, drawing in the enemy's scent, only the fur on his scruff bristled, only the silver stripes on his sides flared brighter. He sensed the danger. But he did not retreat.
Silence fell over the valley again. The creature did not move. Only watched them with sightless eyes, and in that gaze, that stillness, was something that made them hurry.
"Fine," Datuk said, shifting his axe to both hands. "We unite. But if you," he nodded at Rosh, "try to stab us in the back, I'll personally tear your head off."
"Agreed," Rosh nodded, his fingers, folded in an intricate pattern, relaxing slightly. "As long as you don't do it first."
Sobra growled softly — low, guttural — and in that sound was something that made Rosh fall silent. The bear didn't trust the half-blood. But he trusted Datuk. And if his friend decided to unite, so be it.
Ulviya stepped forward, taking her place beside them. Four — the dwarf, the half-blood, the girl, the bear — stood in an uneven line, staring at an enemy that surpassed them in every way. In strength, in speed, in rank. But they did not retreat. Because there was nowhere to retreat.
The creature took its first step. Slow, unhurried, but in its movement was such confidence, such power, that Ulviya involuntarily clenched her fist. The white figure approached, and with each step, the air around grew denser, heavier. The Herald's pressure increased, and Ulviya felt her own spirit, her power, begin to contract, hide, trying to protect itself from this alien, hostile might.
"Hold fast," Datuk said, his hoarse, strained voice sounding firmer than she expected. "Don't let it frighten you."
"Easy to say," Rosh muttered, but his fingers began to move, tracing the first vectors in the air.
Sobra crouched, his heavy body tensed, ready to spring. He did not growl — only watched, and in his amber eyes burned the cold, calculating fire of a predator that had chosen its target.
The creature stopped twenty paces from them. It raised its hands — long, thin, with excessively long fingers — and opened its palms. At that moment, light began to form in each. White, blinding, it condensed, thickened, took shape. In seconds, the Herald held two swords. Long, straight, with blades that shimmered like ice in sunlight. They were not made of metal — they were woven from light, from power, from the Tree itself.
"Watch out," Ulviya said, and her left hand, her living vine, burst from under her sleeve.
She didn't wait. She attacked first. Her vine, flexible, alive, stretched into a long, thin whip covered in small, sharp thorns. She lashed out, and the whip whistled through the air, aiming for the Herald's head.
But the creature didn't even flinch. It simply raised its left sword, and the shimmering blade met the whip halfway. A sound like breaking glass rang out, and Ulviya felt her vine, her living hand, explode with pain. The whip disintegrated into a cloud of silver dust, and she recoiled, clutching her stump to her chest.
"It... it destroyed it," she whispered, looking at what remained of her hand.
But the vine was alive. It grew again — from the stump, from the stub, from the very depths of her being. New shoots, thin, flexible, burst forth, intertwining, forming a new hand, new fingers, a new arm. In seconds, her left hand was whole again. Weaker than before, but whole.
"Don't just stand there," Datuk shouted, and his axe arced toward the Herald's side.
He attacked from the flank, putting all his strength, all his fury into the blow. His Berserker Spirit accelerated his blood, made his heart beat faster, his muscles work at their limit. The axe whistled through the air, and it seemed nothing could stop that strike.
But the Herald didn't even turn its head. Its right sword flashed, and the shimmering blade met Datuk's axe. A clang rang out that deafened the ears, and the dwarf, losing his balance, flew back, leaving a deep furrow in the sand.
Sobra lunged forward without waiting for a command. His huge body, his heavy paws, his silver-striped fur — all of it moved. He charged the Herald, trying to knock it off its feet, sink his teeth into its throat, tear it apart. He was a shield, a living, breathing shield that had to take the first blow.
The creature raised both swords. The blades crossed before its chest, and at that moment, a sphere formed around it. Not of light — of cuts. Thousands of invisible lines that sliced the air, sliced the light, sliced reality itself. The sphere expanded, and Sobra, caught inside, felt his skin, his muscles, his flesh — all of it begin to burn.
He retreated, but it was too late. Dozens of deep cuts covered his body — on his sides, on his paws, on his muzzle. Blood, thick, dark, poured from the wounds, staining his white fur crimson. He growled — low, long — but did not retreat. He stood between the Herald and Datuk, and his eyes, amber, bright, burned with resolve.
Datuk, already on his feet, received a fresh set of cuts — the sphere reached him too, leaving deep, bleeding wounds on his arms, his chest, his face. His shirt was in tatters, and through the tears, fresh blood mixed with old. But he stood. Stood straight, and his axe was raised.
"Rosh!" Ulviya shouted. "Now!"
The half-blood raised his hands. His fingers moved faster, tracing complex, almost indistinguishable patterns in the air. Vectors — invisible lines of force — shot toward the Herald, trying to change the direction of its attacks, redirect its strikes, make its swords meet empty air.
But the creature didn't even glance at him. It simply stood, and Rosh's vectors, reaching it, scattered like sand, causing no harm.
"Nothing... works," Rosh whispered, lowering his hands. His face was pale, and in his mismatched eyes, fear appeared for the first time.
Ulviya raised her left hand. The new vine, weak but alive, stretched into a thin whip. She lashed out, aiming for the Herald's legs, hoping to snag, entangle, slow it. But the whip, touching the sphere of cuts, crumbled to dust before reaching its target.
"It's... too strong," Ulviya said, clutching her stump to her chest. "We can't..."
"We can," Datuk interrupted, and there was no doubt in his voice.
He looked at Sobra. The bear stood beside him, bleeding, but his eyes, amber, bright, looked at his friend with the same fire as always. He was ready. Ready for anything.
And the white Herald slowly, unhurriedly, took another step forward. The two swords in its hands shimmered, and the sphere of cuts around it pulsed, ready to explode in a new wave of death at any moment.
The battle was only beginning. And they knew — this fight would be the hardest of their lives.