Requiem for a shadow

When the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets of Rondon, Artemon and Stefan headed towards the lair of the bandits whose tyranny had harmed innocent people. The city was slowly quieting down, like a candle in the windy darkness of the night.

They walked in silence. Only the divine axe in the merchant's hands rang softly through the air. Their determination left no room for retreat, and the resolve hanging in the air hurried to instill fear in anyone who dared to cross them.

Narrow alleys and hidden paths led them to an old warehouse, serving as the haven of the local tyrants looming before them.

Approaching closer, Stefan tightened his grip on his axe handle.

"Stay alert, Artemon. These people won't give up easily," the merchant murmured softly.

Artemon simply nodded silently. His mind was already focused on the incantations that would annihilate the ruthless bandits.

They stealthily entered the warehouse, where the stale smell of decay and neglect lingered. The flickering light of torches cast eerie shadows on the dilapidated walls, but the place itself seemed deserted and empty, though the sense of someone's presence persisted.

"Too quiet... Something's not right here," Stefan muttered, turning to Artemon.

"This bunch of filthy cowards has long fled from here. They must have realized they couldn't handle us," the youth in the cloak replied with a slight smirk. His voice echoed throughout the room.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, a large bandit attempted a lightning-fast strike at Artemon from behind.

"Watch out!" Stefan yelled with all his might, swiftly pulling the youth away from the blow, parrying it mid-air. The merchant's face was stone cold; not a muscle twitched.

While Artemon fell lightly to the ground, catching his breath, a guttural cry broke the silence from the shadows: "Attack!"

The bandits had been lurking in the darkness, lying in wait for their moment. And now it had come. They viciously lunged forward. Their weapons ominously gleamed in the dim light. The leader of the bandits, seeing how his men surrounded the heroes, stepped into view. He towered over everyone, standing apart from the battlefield, his eyes filled with malicious amusement as if victory were already his.

"Get them!" he roared with a touch of anger. "Did you really think we weren't expecting you? How naive!" The leader addressed the uninvited guests with a mocking sneer.

"Artemon, stand closer," Stefan said grimly, gripping Aixatellia tighter.

The youth in the cloak nodded and quickly took up a defensive stance beside the merchant, ready to recite incantations. And so they stood back to back.

The flickering barrier of light that enveloped Stefan helped deflect the first wave of attacks. The weapons of the bandits standing near the heroes clanged against the magical shield, each blow weakening it.

The shield collapsed. Stefan swung Aixatellia with practiced ease, the blade slicing through the air with a deadly hum. The first bandit fell, his head cleanly severed from his body. Blood sprayed in an arc, staining the ground. Artemon, his hands already filled with magical energy to create a protective barrier around Stefan again, shouted, "Stefan, let's go!" The bandit's sword harmlessly clashed against an invisible shield, giving Stefan the opportunity to strike. The ax pierced the bandit's torso, splitting him in half. The sound of tearing flesh and breaking bones filled the air.

The youth in the cloak, watching the merchant fight fiercely, unleashed a stream of fire at the bandits sneaking up on Stefan from behind. The flames roared, engulfing the attackers alive.

The merchant moved with deadly grace, each swing of Aixatellia a dance of death. He deftly dodged attacks, parrying blows and inflicting injuries incompatible with life. The divine axe cleaved limbs and torsos, spraying blood and guts in all directions.

Artemon barely had time to blink as they tried to surround and cut him off from Stefan. Apparently, the bandits knew they couldn't defeat them together. But the mage was not easily shaken. No wonder his teacher Merlidnor called his magic a symphony of destruction.

The youth began to recite spells of ice and cold: icy spikes began to embed themselves at a furious speed into the bandits, giving them a slow death. Their bodies convulsed, staining the spikes with their blood.

Next, with a powerful spell, he started sending shockwaves through the ground, knocking down enemies and shattering bones. The warehouse turned into a battlefield, filled with the screams of the dying and the clashing of steel against steel.

Watching their comrades-in-arms mercilessly killed, the leader of the bandits fell into despair.

"No... This can't be... They're too strong. What have I done, listening to him... Forgive me, brothers," the leader said sadly. "Retreat! Run from here!" he shouted with all his might, his voice hoarse.

The leader of the defeated army was already about to run away when a dark figure stopped him, blocking the only path to retreat.

"This wasn't the deal, Brook-s-s-s-s," the figure said in its raspy voice, stepping into the dim light. An aura of anger emanated from it.

Brooks's eyes widened. Fear showed on his face.

"No! I did everything you told me!" he cried, looking into her hollow soul. "You said we could defeat them..."

"You failed," the figure whispered. "And now you'll pay for it."

While Brooks and the figure talked, the battle still raged, though not in favor of the bandits. Bodies lay on the ground, puddles of blood spreading across the cold warehouse floor, forming a whole lake that seemed inexhaustible. The surviving bandits, realizing their doom, began to retreat hastily. But Stefan, whose eyes were already filled with blood, swung Aixatellia, severing the spine of the fleeing bandits.

The merchant was about to rush after them to kill the survivors, but Artemon stopped him.

"Stop. We've spilled enough blood as it is..." the youth said, looking at Stefan.

The merchant only solemnly lowered the blade of his ax onto the bloody ground. His face was terrifyingly calm, though his cold blue eyes thirsted for murder. He didn't show that rage was boiling inside him. Only the faint murmur of the fleeing bandits could be heard.

When the dust settled and the last echoes of battle faded, a heavy silence fell over the warehouse. Only two companions stood amidst the bloody carnage, casting a heavy glance at the killings they had committed.

Suddenly, Artemon and Stefan sharply turned their attention to the dark figure intending to kill Brooks. Seeing how the hollow darkness began to envelop the leader of the bandits, the youth in the cloak began to recite a spell of arcane energy. But the beam of light never reached its target: darkness swallowed it into its depths.

"How surprising... You, it seems, are still alive," the figure noted, addressing the mage. "Long time no see, Artemon Feldrin. Long time..."

"Sorry, but who are you?" the youth asked.

"Oh, so you don't remember..." the figure mysteriously replied. "Well. It's probably for the best. I am the one to whom you brought the bitterness of suffering and eternal humiliation! The one who considered you an exemplary mage. But darkness opened my eyes to your rotten nature. It told me everything about you. Everything..."

Artemon's eyes narrowed as he tried to recall any hint of recognition. But all attempts were futile.

"Do you know him?" Stefan asked in surprise.

"No," the youth replied firmly.

"I see. You brought your friend along. How amusing," the figure said mockingly. "Well. Enjoy yourselves... I have enough concerns without you," the figure said maliciously in its raspy voice.

Suddenly, a piece of evil, cloaked in human form, killed Brooks, tearing his flesh to pieces.

"Goodbye, heroes of Rondon. We'll meet again," the figure said sarcastically, disappearing.

Artemon and Stefan barely had time to blink before the piece of evil dissolved into the air.

"Well... Now we have one more problem..." the merchant said, surveying the battlefield.

"Listen, now is not the time for idle talk. You must take me to your acquaintance who knows about magical barriers," Artemon rambled. "You promised me," the mage reminded.

"Fine. A deal is a deal. And Stefan Stronax always keeps his promises."

As they left the warehouse, a heaviness settled over them for their deeds. The dark figure haunted the two heroes, not leaving their minds. But Artemon had his own mission, his destiny, if you will. He had to hurry, or everything would be meaningless.

The path ahead was shrouded in impenetrable fog, but one thing was clear: darkness was far from defeated, and the real struggle was only beginning.

The merchant and the mage left the warehouse.