ECLIPSA

Darkness enveloped the village like a funeral shroud. The sky had long vanished behind heavy, low-hanging clouds that spat a fine, icy rain. Mud, mixed with blood, squelched underfoot, while tongues of flame burst from the windows of burning houses, devouring the remnants of the old world. Silence hung over the village, broken only by death cries and the beastly snarls of the shapeshifters. Every corner of this place had become a battlefield; every step could be the last.

On the deserted courtyard, amidst the wreckage of carts and broken wooden fences, stood a lone warrior—tall, with shoulders hardened by countless battles and a face as proud as if carved from stone. Dark hair, matted with blood and rain, fell across his forehead but did nothing to hide the fury and exhaustion in his gaze. His once-gleaming armor was now scratched by claws, and his once-crimson cloak had blackened from soot and grime. Malrian.His sword, slick with blood and filth, trembled slightly in his grip. Before him, writhing on the ground, lay a shapeshifter—a vile abomination of the new world, a curse woven from human flesh and bestial savagery, a creature in which nothing human remained, only hunger and hatred. Its claws were shattered, its neck cleaved so cleanly that its head barely clung on. It was their first stroke of luck in this long night. Malrian breathed heavily, his gaze flicking occasionally to the smoldering ruins. But rest would not come.

From the shadows emerged two more—twisted, unnatural creatures with massive claws and burning eyes. They moved like predators, though their wounds from the recent fight made them cautious. One shot Malrian a brief, hateful glance before disappearing into the dark silhouette of the barn. The second, hissing, limped after it, no less dangerous for its injuries.

The third shapeshifter seemed determined to fight to the end. It moved slowly, but its growl made the earth tremble. Malrian tensed, raised his sword, and braced himself. His gaze darted toward the barn—but then, from the side, a voice cried out:

“Malrian, stop! Don’t chase them!”

It was his young comrade—lean, with a sword in one hand and a spellbook strapped to his belt in a leather harness. His armor was light, almost weightless, as if woven from shadow and steel: chainmail sleeves, reinforced pauldrons with no excess bulk, a breastplate etched with faint runes. Everything about him spoke of speed and reflexes, not brute strength. His blue eyes, usually calm, now burned with urgency, his brows furrowed as if he were already calculating every possible outcome of this pursuit.Tamion, struggling against his own foe, desperately called to him.

But Malrian only exhaled sharply, nearly whispering:

“Idiot.”

And then he charged after them. His mind worked at its limit, his thoughts focused on one thing alone—to finish them all. He sprinted across the yard, ignoring the mud and cold. The barn was his target, and nothing would stop him.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the village, Novian moved with thunderous steps—a giant in battered but sturdy armor, his shoulders broad enough to break down a door with a single shove. His red hair, matted with sweat and blood, stuck out in all directions, his freckled face twisted in battle rage. He pushed through the ruins, gripping a massive axe. Every shadow seemed to hide an enemy. His heart pounded wildly, his breath growing heavier. Every sound echoed painfully in his ears. He froze at a rustling noise, then raised his axe as a figure darted from around the corner.

“STOP, NOVIAN! IT’S ME!”

The shout made him hesitate. In the dim light, he saw Kessell—slender, with dark hair tied in a messy knot and brown eyes blazing with fire. Her leather armor was scratched and worn, a bow and quiver of black-fletched arrows hanging at her hip. Her eyes were wide, her face twisted in fear.

“Damn you!”she hissed, stepping back.“Can’t you see who’s in front of you? You’re like a drunk who can’t tell friend from foe!”

Novian smirked, lowering his axe.

“With a partner like you, it’s hard not to drink.”

Kessell muttered something venomous under her breath but pressed on, shooting him a dark glare.

Behind Novian and Kessell stood Kairon—tall, with long blond hair tied back and cold green eyes. His armor bore no ornamentation, forged for killing, not for show. The missing lobe of his right ear only emphasized his violent past. Armed with a longsword, he stood by the ruins of an old mill, his gaze icy and focused. He turned to his companions, noting their argument.

“Where’s Malrian?”he demanded sharply.

Kessell rolled her eyes but answered:

“Ran off. As usual.”

Novian added, shaking his head:

“You won’t believe it—he’s decided to play hero again.”

Kairon frowned.

“For all his recklessness, he’s a great warrior. But his carelessness will get him killed one day.”

Novian snorted but, after a pause, said:

“You wouldn’t talk like that if he were standing here. A bit of an idiot, but a damn good fighter.”

Kairon said nothing, his expression unreadable. But their conversation was cut short as Tamion appeared from around the corner, his clothes splattered with blood, clutching the severed head of a shapeshifter. Exhaustion lined his face.

“I saw Malrian run into the barn,”he panted.“I tried to stop him, but I was busy with this.”

He lifted the creature’s head as proof.

“We need to go after him. Now.”

The group quickly regrouped and rushed toward the barn, hoping to aid their comrade in time.

The darkness inside the barn was thick as tar. The air reeked of rotting hay and stagnant water, the walls slick with dampness. Malrian slowed his steps, his breathing loud and ragged. His wounds throbbed with every movement, but he refused to stop. Ahead, a figure flickered—tall, slender, with a sword at its hip. In the faint moonlight seeping through the cracks in the wood, he recognized the silhouette.

“Tamion? Decided to join me after all?”Malrian grinned, taking a few steps forward. His voice was calm, almost cheerful, though his fingers tightened instinctively around his sword’s hilt.“Thought you’d left me to deal with these bastards alone.”

The figure remained silent, swaying slightly as if unsteady. Malrian paid it no mind, too caught up in the thrill of the hunt, too certain the shapeshifters were no longer a threat.

“Alright, listen—stop standing there like a statue. I’m doing all the work here while you lot don’t even cover my back! But you know what? I don’t mind. Admit it, Tamion—you’re lucky to have me. I’m your best fighter. When I finish off these monsters, first round’s on me. And yeah, I’m paying!”

Malrian laughed, the sound echoing off the barn walls. He took another step—then froze. Something was wrong. The silhouette was too still, its shape slightly distorted. His eyes narrowed as the moonlight shifted, illuminating part of its face.

It wasn’t Tamion.

The half-transformed shapeshifter stood before him, clad in mangled, makeshift armor. One side of its face was eerily human—smooth skin, a short beard, like the village elder. The other side was a horror of burned flesh, a missing eye, and bared fangs. It had tried to shift fully but failed, trapped between forms.

Malrian’s blood ran cold. He realized his mistake too late.

The creature roared and struck, its claw like a blade plunging into his gut. Pain flared, but Malrian reacted instantly—his sword flashed, slicing through the thing’s neck. It choked, staggered, but didn’t fall. And then, from behind, footsteps.

The second shapeshifter—less wounded, just as deadly—had crept up unseen. Its claws tore through his back, piercing flesh and muscle. Malrian collapsed to his knees, his sword clattering to the wooden floor.

“How… did you… change?”he rasped, staring into the first creature’s eyes. His voice was weak, laced with pain and confusion.

The shapeshifter grinned, dark saliva dripping from its jaws.

“We completed the first ritual. Times are changing, traveler.”

The second one leaned close, its voice a venomous whisper in his ear:

“But I’ll honor your request.”

Its jagged smile was the last thing Malrian saw before its claw tore through his throat.

When the others finally reached the barn, they found only death. Tamion was the first inside, sword ready—but there was no fight left. Just a scene of slaughter. One shapeshifter lay dead against the wall. And beside it, Malrian, his eyes open but lifeless.

Kessell froze, then pressed her hands to her face, as if trying to stifle her scream.

“Why didn’t he listen?! Why?!”

Novian said nothing. He knelt beside Malrian’s body, gripping his hand, his own trembling. For him, this was like losing a brother.

Tamion stood apart, his arms still bloodied from earlier battles. He stared at the ground, jaw clenched, and whispered:

“Fool...”

Only Kairon remained composed, his gaze that of a strategist assessing losses.

“Take Malrian’s body. The others too. We move on.”

Kessell whirled on him, her voice shaking with fury.

“They had names too!”

Kairon didn’t turn.

“Then carve their headstones.”

Tamion stepped forward, sword raised toward Kairon.

“Now’s not the time for your damn remarks.”

Kairon met his gaze coolly.

“Now’s not the time to waste it. The shapeshifters are getting away.”

A beat of silence. Then Tamion lowered his blade.

“What’s next?”

Kairon nodded toward the exit.

“We’ll plan as we go.”

They set off in pursuit. Kessell and Novian lingered by Malrian’s body, unable to move. For them, this wasn’t just a loss.

It was death’s victory.