WOE TO THE RIFTBORNE

 18th Century,

ORIN, NØTTHRIDAM

Sir Collins had warned him: the torrent of rain would bring more than just biting cold. It would carry sickness—an affliction that now ravaged the town, consuming its inhabitants one by one. Within the fortified walls of Lord Erryk’s estate, his household remained untouched. The maids, stable boys, and servants were safe. All except his daughter. 

Myralyne had been away at school when the illness seized her. For months, she fought against it, her frail body waging a desperate battle. But now, it was over. 

She was gone. 

"My lord," Dr. Randall said softly, his voice tinged with pity. The city physician stood hunched before him, hands trembling from both exhaustion and the relentless cold. He tucked them quickly into his coat, a futile attempt at warmth. 

Erryk barely recognized his own voice when he spoke. "What is it?" 

He felt hollow, an echo of the man he once was. All his wealth, influence, and power now seemed meaningless. Myralyne—his light, his only joy—was gone. 

"The body must be burned, my lord," Randall murmured. "It is our custom." 

The words cut deep. Burn her? Reduce her to ash and smoke? How could he destroy the last tangible piece of her existence? Her belongings would be donated or burned alongside her, leaving nothing but the stench of loss. 

"I need a moment with her," he rasped. 

Randall opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it. With a solemn nod, he left the grieving lord alone. 

Erryk rose on unsteady legs and made his way to the cold, silent room where Myralyne lay. She looked peaceful, the torment that had wracked her body finally stilled. Yet her beauty lingered, even in death. 

He knelt beside her, tracing the delicate contours of her pale face, her blue lips, her brittle hands. She had been his peace, his joy, his world. Tears welled and fell freely as the dam of his grief broke. 

The wails of a broken man echoed through the empty halls, carrying sorrow, despair, and the unmistakable weight of death.

Lord Erryk’s cries had echoed through the empty halls for what felt like hours, his voice hoarse and his chest hollow. Time had no meaning; sorrow had devoured him whole. 

A sudden knock at the door cut through his grief. 

"Enter," he croaked, his voice barely audible. 

The door creaked open, its groaning hinges slicing through the silence. Erryk froze, his eyes narrowing as a figure stepped into the dim room. The man—if he could even be called that—was tall and unnaturally thin, his form bending and twisting as though it were unsure of its own structure. His face was a patchwork of shadow and flesh, features slipping and shifting in and out of focus, as though the man existed between this world and another. 

Erryk’s breath caught. His mind screamed to flee, but his legs refused to obey. 

The intruder’s steps were slow and deliberate, though no feet touched the ground. A trail of black smoke curled where they should have been. His presence filled the room like a suffocating fog, pressing down on Erryk’s chest, stinging his eyes. The lord wiped at the tears streaming down his face, though he was certain they hadn’t come from grief. 

The man tilted his head, an unnervingly fluid motion, before his lips twisted into a smile. It was wrong—too wide, too sharp—and yet it exuded a sickly charm. 

"If your sorrow were to vanish," the man said, his voice a rich, honeyed tone that belied his grotesque appearance, "what would you give in return?" 

Erryk blinked, shaking his head as if to dispel a fog clouding his senses. "I... I’m sorry?" 

The man’s smile deepened. "If I could take your despair away," he repeated, voice low and melodic, "what would you offer in exchange?" 

Erryk’s eyes darted to the still form of his daughter, Myralyne, lying pale and lifeless on the bed. Her absence hollowed him, gnawed at his very soul. 

"Can you bring her back?" His voice cracked, trembling with a desperate hope. 

The man’s gaze remained fixed on him, those hollow, unblinking eyes aglow with an unnatural blue light. "What will you give?" 

"Bring her back first," Erryk demanded, his grief momentarily overshadowed by an edge of defiance. 

The man’s smile faltered, ever so slightly. "Void." The single word hung in the air, heavy and final. 

Erryk’s jaw tightened. "What do you want?" 

The man spread his hands, palms upturned and flickering as though made of smoke. "What do you have?" 

Erryk hesitated. His gaze returned to Myralyne, her lifeless form a dagger in his chest. He missed her smile, her laughter, the way her small hands would tug at his sleeve. For her, there was nothing he wouldn’t give. 

"A life," he whispered. 

The man’s head tilted further, neck bending to an unnatural angle. "Whose life?" 

"Mine," Erryk said without hesitation. 

"Void." The man’s voice darkened, colder now. "Your life is worth nothing." 

Erryk’s breath quickened. "Then... then I’ll bring you more. A hundred lives. A thousand, if necessary!" 

The man’s smile returned, wider, sharper. "A hundred souls? A thousand? You would do this?" 

"Yes!" 

The man’s shadowy form stilled, his eyes narrowing. "Understand this: the price is eternal. There is no escape, no redemption. For each soul you bring, her life will be extended by a single year. Five lifetimes at most." 

Erryk’s hands clenched into fists. "Five lifetimes? That’s not enough!" 

"It is all you can have," the man replied, his voice low and measured.

Erryk trembled. He felt the weight of the bargain pressing against him, yet his grief and desperation consumed all logic.

‘If I could take your despair away’, the man asks for the last time, ‘what will you offer me?’

Erryk  locked eyes with the shadowy figure, his voice breaking as he spoke. 

"Everything." 

The man extended a hand, his fingers tapering into wisps of smoke. Erryk hesitated only a moment before grasping it. The touch burned, searing his flesh and soul alike, yet he didn’t let go. 

"For every soul you deliver, she will live," the man intoned, his voice echoing unnaturally. "Five lifetimes, and no more. Beyond that, she will be mine. Just as you are now mine." 

Erryk nodded, his resolve unshaken despite the terror coursing through him. "I accept." 

The shadow-man’s smile widened into something monstrous as the room plunged into blackness, and everything went still.