The Rust of Shadows
The scream tore through the icy dawn like a jagged weapon, snapping Elara awake. She was on her feet in an instant, her rust-colored tunic shifting against her form as she threw on a black leather jerkin, the brass buttons glinting in the early light. She grabbed her sword—a lean, wicked thing—and stepped out of the crumbling stone hut into a nightmare.
The village was burning. Beneath the weight of the eerily glowing sky, where violet-black storm clouds swirled unnaturally low, flames licked at thatched rooftops. People ran screaming, clutching what few possessions they could. Wolves—no, not wolves but something fiercer, larger, with eyes that glowed ember-red—prowled the chaos. A child’s cry pierced the air. Elara’s lithe form tensed as she sprinted toward the sound, her boots crunching on ash-strewn cobblestones.
Elara cut an imposing figure against the apocalyptic backdrop. Her tunic, loose yet fitted enough to allow ease of movement, was the perfect muted shade of rust, reminiscent of autumn leaves clinging stubbornly to brittle branches. Over it, the gleaming black leather jerkin hugged her torso, its armor-like quality suggesting a history of bloodied skirmishes and narrow escapes. Her fitted black breeches tucked into weathered yet sturdy boots bore the marks of long treks through dense forests and swampy lowlands. Her auburn hair, tied back in a loose braid, shimmered like firelight under the eerie glow, a stark counterpoint to her pale, sweat-slicked skin.
Crouched behind an overturned cart, she found the source of the scream—a girl of no more than six, clutching a wooden doll as two monstrous beasts circled her. Elara moved without thought, her sword arcing through the air like a slice of moonlight. Blood splattered her face as the first beast crumpled, and the second lunged at her. She ducked low, her knee pressing into mud and ash, and drove the blade upward through its throat. The cry that escaped its maw was a guttural hiss before it crumbled, lifeless.
“Run,” she ordered the child, her voice steady despite the chaos. The girl stared at Elara with wide, terrified eyes but eventually obeyed, darting away as fast as her small legs could carry her.
The scene around her was warlike, but Elara knew better. This wasn’t war. It was something older, something primal. The sky itself seemed alive, the clouds swirling faster, occasional flashes of green lightning illuminating grotesque shapes that defied reason. She gripped her sword tighter, its blackened steel comforting in its familiarity. A gift—or a curse—from the old gods. She never asked which.
Memories flared unbidden in her mind. Months ago, she had stood in a grand castle, its halls gilded with tapestries of forgotten kings. The High Council, seated in a semi-circle of ancient stone thrones, had summoned her—a lowly mercenary—to undertake a mission none of their knights dared accept. The portal in the cliffs to the North had been breached, they said. Beasts of shadow, nightmares given form, had begun to spill forth. Take this sword, they said, forged in the fires of the first age, the blade of Morsath. You alone will wield it, for your bloodline links you to its power.
They hadn’t mentioned the toll that power would take on her—or how much blood would follow her across the land.
A roar shook her from her thoughts. Looking up, Elara saw the source of the chaos at the village gates. A colossal figure stepped through the flames. It was humanoid in shape but impossibly tall, its skin a ridged and volcanic black that seemed to drink in the light around it. A crown of jagged horns adorned its head, and fangs as long as daggers glinted in its maw. The villagers who could still fight had formed a trembling line, their flimsy spears useless against such a monstrosity.
Elara exhaled slowly. She ran a gloved hand over her jerkin to steady herself before stepping forward. Eyes turned to her, a lone figure walking toward the monster. Her movements were deliberate, precise, almost ceremonial, her boots striking the cobblestones with measured confidence. She tightened the braid in her hair. The stiffness of her leather jerkin allowed just enough room to roll her shoulders and quietly adjust her grip on the hilt of her blade.
The beast’s glowing red eyes locked on her. Its roar, low and earth-shaking, seemed to welcome the challenge.
“Well?” she called, her voice carrying over the crackling fires and the gale-like wind. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to fight?”
The villagers scattered, their terror palpable. Elara was used to standing alone. She positioned herself, step by deliberate step, until she was directly in front of the monstrous intruder. In the sky above, green lightning flashed wildly, illuminating the battlefield in a surreal, cinematic glow. Her blade began to hum, faintly at first, then louder. Symbols on the blackened steel came alive, glowing a deep crimson. The runes sang to her, flooding her blood with purpose.
The beast lunged, and Elara met it head-on, her blade slashing in an arc that seemed to cut through time itself.
The battle would last until the storm broke and the first light of dawn pierced the horizon. Whether Elara held the line against the creatures of the void, whether she lived to see another sunrise—these were questions only fate could answer. But in that moment, one woman stood against the dark.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Sleek Black Leather Jacket and Rust Turtleneck Autumn Outfit: Edgy Street Style with Tailored Black Jeans
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