The Shadow's Heart

A Tale of The Árgaard

Guardian of the River Eldrin - Art by L.G. Wells

Anja sleeps peacefully under the vibrant green Unbundu leaf. Bioluminescent, like many plants along the River Eldrin, this leaf also possesses unique warmth and protective qualities, making it the preferred cover for her kind, the Árgaard.

A sound, or perhaps a premonition of movement, jolts her awake. Heart quickening, her senses awaken fully, the world sharpening around her. She reaches out cautiously from under the Unbundu leaf. Guided by instinct, her hand closes around the smooth wood of her bow—her ever present, ever faithful, trusty companion.

Rising almost imperceptibly, she draws an arrow from her quiver and nocks it with a silent motion made fluid by long practice and necessity. The Unbundu Delta teems with predators that pose a constant threat to her kind. Though the Árgaard water fairies are known for their kindness and loyalty, they are also fierce warriors, expert archers who will defend their sacred river to the death from those who would defile its waters or attempt to steal its magic.

Anja blinks, the lingering fog of sleep clearing from her eyes. Rising, she is ready. Whatever foe has placed itself in the path of her arrow will face her wrath.

She draws back her bow with a fluid motion, assuming a strong shooting stance. As the shadowy foe resolves against the backdrop of the luminous forest, a wave of disorienting recognition washes over her.

Is that… me?

She looses the arrow, a reflex action, not a conscious choice. The projectile flies on a gentle arc. Her aim is true, yet the arrow passes harmlessly through the target and buries itself in a Wigium tree. The tree’s luminous blood trickles down its bark.

“What the wyrm’s breath?!” she shouts as the shadow… giggles? At her. Her own shadow. This isn’t right. Her shadow should be mimicking her, not… not this. It’s dancing, mocking, a separate entity moving with an eerie grace of its own.

She nocks a second arrow, trying to ignore the icy dread creeping up her spine. “Show yourself, whoever you are!” she demands. It’s me. It’s my shadow, she reminds herself, the thought both terrifying and absurd. The shadow giggles again, mocking her confusion, then disappears behind the Wigium tree.

Bow drawn taut, she creeps toward the large tree, the oozing sap glowing like eerie veins against the dark bark. Fear gnaws at the edges of her resolve, but she pushes it down, focusing on the task at hand. What is going on? she wonders, her mind racing with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. Her heart is a drumbeat counting down to an unknown confrontation.

Tee hee! The shadow squeals as it bounds from behind the tree and begins joyfully skipping away. Tee hee, you see! ‘Tis you or ‘tis me?

Her arrow flies, a silent messenger of her fear, only to be answered by the distant thwack of it hitting something—or nothing—in the darkness.

Anja recognizes the sheer absurdity of her actions. Rage flares within her, directed at herself. “You can’t kill a shadow, you Goblin-brained fool!” she snarls under her breath, the words sharp and bitter.

In the distance, it taunts her once more. Tee hee, tee hee, the voice giggles, dripping with malice. Tee hee, tee hee, just a shadow says ye, it sneers.

With renewed vehemence and a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, she bursts into a run. The quiet hunter transforms into a force of unleashed fury. Stealth is a forgotten luxury; she’s going to find this mocking entity and destroy it.

She tracks the shadow as it dances between the glowing flora, each passage marked by a subtle dimming of the light. She can see it, but the question of how to defeat it gnaws at her. It shouldn’t be like this, she thinks, a sense of dread creeping into her heart. It’s my shadow, she thinks, the words a mantra she clings to even as her heart races. But the thought offers no solace; it only gives her dread a solid foothold, a chilling certainty. Does a living being have to have a shadow?

The shadow halts, turning with agonizing slowness as if savoring the moment. Its complete form, a swirling vortex of darkness, is now exposed to her drawn arrow, a mockery of her readiness. The featureless mass radiates an almost palpable arrogance, a silent dare. Take your best shot, Anja.

Anja sights down the arrow shaft, the warm wood of her trusty bow a small comfort in her trembling hand. She scans the swirling blackness, desperate for a vulnerability, a point to aim for. Then she sees it. A faint, warm glow pulsing within the shadow, a rhythmic beat that echoes the frantic pounding of her own heart. Thump-thump. It has a heart.

My shadow has a heart. The realization is a cold wave washing over her, chilling her to the core.

Without conscious thought, her fingers reflexively loosen and the arrow is gone. It finds its mark—a direct hit to the point of light at the heart of the darkness—flickering, then dying, swallowed by the void.

It is done, she thinks, a wave of relief washing over her.

Her brief sense of victory vanishes. She feels a warmth spreading across her chest. She quickly dismisses it as the aftereffects of the fight. Then, a creeping chill as she suddenly understands the deadly truth. Blood—her blood—is flowing from her chest, a horrifying, crimson fountain. Her legs tremble, betraying her, and she collapses, her gaze drawn upward… not to the sky, but to the shadow that now looms over her, its presence a suffocating weight. The luminous glow of the forest fades, her own life dimming as the chilling giggle echoes around her. Then, a final whisper, a cold caress against her ear…

Tee hee, tee hee, ‘twas us, now ‘tis me.

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