Sasha stirred from her restless slumber, the cold bite of iron digging into her wrists and ankles. She found herself bound by thick, rune-etched chains that glowed faintly, draining her strength with every passing moment. The prison was a cavern of despair, deep beneath the cursed lands—a tomb carved not of stone, but of broken wills.

  She tried to move, but the chains tightened, cruel and alive, mocking her weakness.

  Demons slithered around her, their jagged smiles dripping with malice. They watched her with glee, savoring every moment of her fading hope. Sasha felt the enormity of her defeat settle on her chest like a boulder. She had been a goddess once—respected, powerful. Now, she was prey.

  Through the haze of pain, fragments of memory clawed their way back into her mind.

  A battle.

  A cloaked figure of overwhelming power.

  The day she had been defeated, stripped of her light, and cast into this living grave.

  But then, something else broke through the darkness—something fragile, yet stubborn. A memory not of defeat, but of warmth.

  A face.

  A name.

  Shadow.

  In the depths of her despair, she remembered him—not the shadowy beast who had imprisoned her, but the one who had once stood by her side when the world was still whole. She remembered a promise whispered between battles:

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  "If you ever fall, I'll find you."

  Tears welled in Sasha's eyes, not from sorrow, but from a fierce, wild hope. Though her body remained shackled, her spirit surged.

  "You'll come," she whispered to the void. "I know you will."

  The demons snarled and closed in, sensing her shift in spirit, but Sasha no longer cared. Somewhere beyond this prison, beyond the cursed lands, beyond the stars themselves—Shadow was alive.

  And he was coming.

  Far away, across ruined fields and broken cities, Shadow stumbled mid-step.

  A searing pain shot through his chest, forcing him to his knees.

  A vision tore through his mind:

  A woman, radiant yet broken, shackled in darkness.

  Her eyes—pleading, shining with unyielding faith—locked onto his.

  "Help me," she whispered across the void.

  Shadow gasped, the air around him crackling. He didn't know her name, yet her presence pulled at him like gravity itself.

  Without hesitation, he stood, his fists clenching at his sides. Whatever this bond was—fate, destiny, or something deeper—he would answer its call.

  He would find her.

  No matter what it costs.

  The day bled into night as Shadow pressed forward, traversing forgotten trails and haunted ruins. The land grew harsher with every step, as if the world itself tried to hold him back.

  Eventually, the path ended abruptly at the edge of a colossal cliff.

  Below him stretched an endless chasm, so deep it swallowed the last light of day. A river—black as obsidian—snaked through the abyss, its surface shimmering under a wounded moon.

  At the cliff's very peak, a lone figure sat lazily, legs dangling over the edge, humming to himself.

  He wore a ragged cloak stitched with dozens of tiny bells that chimed softly in the cold breeze. His face was half-hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, and an old, battered book rested in his lap.

  Shadow approached cautiously, sensing no immediate threat—only an odd sense of familiarity, as if the world itself bent slightly around this stranger.

  Without turning, the figure spoke, his voice light and amused:

  "Quite the view, isn't it? Endless nothingness... and yet, somehow more peaceful than the world we left behind."

  Shadow didn't answer immediately. He studied the stranger, instincts sharp.

  "You're not from here," Shadow said finally.

  The figure chuckled, closing his book with a snap.

  "Neither are you."

  He turned, and Shadow caught a glimpse of his eyes—bright, silver, and filled with stories.

  The man tipped his hat and smiled.

  "Name's Varn," he said. "Wanderer, collector of tales... and perhaps, an old acquaintance of yours."

  Shadow frowned. He felt no recognition, but something about the name stirred the faintest ripple in his fragmented soul.

  Varn patted the stone beside him.

  "Sit a while, shadow-walker. We both have long roads ahead. And sometimes," he said, gazing into the abyss, "the best way to find the path forward... is to share a story or two."

  Shadow hesitated—then, slowly, sat beside him.

  The night deepened around them, and somewhere, across the broken horizon, a storm began to brew.