Jackal Among Snakes

Chapter 637: Terra Incognita

Entering into the Shadowlands, even changed by Anneliese’s rewriting of its fundamentals, stripped Argrave of countless things that he’d come to take for granted; fundamental aspects of being that helped qualify the world around him. He was the first to pass through the threshold, and once he did, several facets of several senses left him.

Color ceased to exist. There were only different iterations of white and black, and all in between. Or at least, so he thought—when Anneliese entered, he still saw her amber eyes gleaming brilliantly. He thought she might be unique in some capacity, but when the heroes of old followed after them, Argrave realized that the only color still remaining was that of one’s eyes.

It was more than color. A dull, stale odor constantly wafted into his nose. It resembled cardboard. It became difficult to distinguish the intensity of touch—no matter how tightly Argrave squeezed the staff in his hand, it felt as though he was only squeezing it lightly. It made it impossible to tell how heavy things were, or how much strength his muscles were exerting. No matter how tightly he pinched himself, the pain felt like a dull ache no harsher than gently pressing a finger against a bruise.

At the edge of his vision, that darkness that had warded them from entering the Shadowlands persisted without an end. It did not encroach, but nor did it retreat. Argrave called upon his blood magic, casting a spell that sent an expanding whirlwind of blood outward. It was a wave of blackness that set all it touched into colorless flames. The Shadowlands had a distinct presence, but the flames left behind an emptiness, an absence of presence. Anneliese raised her staff, both healing the wounds Argrave’s magic had caused himself and recreating the Shadowlands into a place they might be able to understand. Shards of light spread out like a storm of white petals, creating the land ahead.

Once it took shape, this place did look an area where people might be able to live were it not so far removed from the laws of their world. They stood in a field of white grass, every blade looking like it had been folded out of bleached paper and planted into gray dirt. Despite Argrave expecting he would need to face waves and waves of Shadowlanders, they were totally alone in this empty plain.

“Argrave—” Anneliese said, but her voice came out strangely. She touched her throat, then tried to speak again. “Something’s wrong with my voice.”

It sounded flat, emotionless. It had no pitch or tone—it was a constant thing, lacking variation.

“Yeah, I—” Argrave began, only to double-take. His voice… it sounded exactlyas hers did, to the point where he was unable to realize that he was speaking. “It seems, even changed, this place follows fundamentally different laws from the world we left.”

voices, one by one. They all sounded identical. It might’ve been a bit of a hack for creating a perfect choir if the voices didn’t sound

of call signs for half a moment before dismissing the idea. “Our names will suffice. Say your name, then say ‘speaking.’ When you’ve finished, cap it off with

enemies could easily take advantage of that,”

speaking, who’s speaking?” he countered. “I can’t see any enemies. We can deal with that when it happens. For now, say only what’s pertinent, and keep your eyes open to any and

At first, it was difficult to discern its shape. But as it broke free from the outer boundary of

wind blew, yet it flowed upward like smoke. Where the horse stepped, the gray dirt and white grass turned black, seeping and spreading across the world as thick drops of inks

at the front of his mind. If this was the beginning of an attack, he hoped to reveal all enemies hiding in

as his medium, he thrust it forth and conjured a pillar of black fire that moved with the speed of a hawk. But he heard a rumbling bang that sounded like a huge drum had been struck. His spell veered upward, punching a hole in the darkness. It tore through the Shadowlands with little effort, vanishing into

there, a sword that billowed darkness in his hand. It was obvious from his stance he had parried the spell with that alone. Anneliese’s translation of the Shadowlands took shape behind him, revealing a sheer cliff edge. It seemed they stood on a plateau of marble, the horseman on its edge. But

approach. It waited there fearlessly, even as the fire continued to pass by it. In the far distance, a towering black tower took shape, partially concealed by the translucent wings of the dragon. Unlike all else, the tower did not remain visible for long—darkness fell back upon it, just as the tide

from across the grassy plateau, echoing out to them in a fashion identical to

in its sheath. “Will you come as denial or acceptance? Will you come

the dying of the light,” he said, feeling his humorous delivery of that line was somewhat stifled by the flatness this

only acceptance, and only mercy. If you’re here in defiance of that, it’s nothing less than you deserve.” It raised its head, and in that shadowy horseman’s face, he saw white eyes shining with life just as theirs did. It drew its sword once more, and dropped it into the ground. It sunk in, as

up. There, one of the nightmares that Argrave knew as the