Shadowborn Exile: A LitRPG Progression Fantasy, page 10
A fog this dense … Attica thought. If something’s out there, we won’t see it.
He scanned what little of the terrain he could make out, his shade extending in thin tendrils, searching. Nothing.
Not yet.
They pressed forward.
It wasn’t long before they encountered their first real obstacle, a jagged outcrop of rock that jutted from the earth like the broken ribs of some long-dead giant. It stretched across their path, the hoodoos too numerous and too high to drag the shieldwraith over.
“We’ll have to go around,” Attica muttered. “It’s the only way.”
Hadrian nodded, though his gaze had drifted again. “Yes. Around.”
They turned, maneuvering along the outer edge of the formation, but the new path was uneven, riddled with fractures in the stone that made hauling the shieldwraith even more difficult. Their progress slowed, the sound of metal scraping against rock ringing louder than Attica would have liked.
He heard a howl in the distance. “We’re drawing attention to ourselves,” he said, eye flicking to the mist.
Hadrian only laughed. “We had their attention long before now.”
Attica tightened his grip on the rope, shifting his weight as they navigated another stretch of broken ground. The shieldwraith scraped across the uneven terrain, sending small showers of dust cascading into the abyss.
Hadrian’s breathing had changed. At first, Attica thought it was exhaustion, but when he glanced over, he saw the strange gleam in Hadrian’s eye, the way his lips moved without sound, as if reciting something in his head. He continued rambling about the Crown of Shadows, and the Council of Torn—of forgotten history, spoken like prophecy by a man unraveling.
“What are you saying?” Attica asked.
Hadrian blinked, then grinned. “All of it, lad. I understand all of it now. The Seer showed me after she gave me her drink. On her walls.”
Attica remembered the Seer’s room, how it was normally bathed in light. The only time it hadn’t been was after his trial. Thinking back, he now recalled that there were etchings on the walls, glyphs of an ancient language he couldn’t read.”
And what a task!” Hadrian laughed. “How could the Shadowborn ever accomplish such a feat? The Crown of Shadows exists! We could restore color. It’s no wonder the truth has been obscured. The success of our community depends on it.”
Attica frowned. “What truth?”
Hadrian chuckled, the sound dry and distant. “The way things move. The way things break. The way things change.” His gaze drifted beyond the mist, as though looking at something Attica couldn’t see. The way the world is shaped.”
“Hadrian—”
“We’re almost there,” Hadrian cut him off, nodding ahead. “Come on, now! No time for second thoughts or questions with obvious answers, my boy!”
Attica exhaled sharply and kept moving. They reached the drop-off at last. The ground leveled, stretching out in a final, flat expanse before the sheer descent to the third tier. The mist thinned; Attica could see flashes of something bright beyond.
Hadrian unhooked the harness. “Here, finally!” He stretched out his arms and rolled his shoulders. “And see? No glintfangs.”
Attica stared down into the abyss. It was darker than he expected. There was light, but it was faint, diffused, as if struggling to reach them.
Hadrian looked to Attica, eyes suddenly solemn. “Come with me.”
Attica’s head snapped up. “What?”
Hadrian smiled, but there was something different in it—something knowing. “Come with me,” he repeated. “See the third tier for yourself. I know, I know, Arminius, there are risks, but he’s a growing lad! He must know the truth! Yes, I keep telling him, I agree, but—”
Attica hesitated. For as long as he could remember, Hadrian had been the one to warn him to never go past the second tier, never stray too deep. There were places even the Vanguard dared not tread. “You told me to never go there.”
Hadrian burst out laughing. “You, of all people, should know when to heed the words of a man of fear and faith, and the words of a man determined.”
Attica stared down at the edge again, his shade shifting at his feet, uncertain.
Hadrian didn’t wait for an answer. He fastened the harness once more, securing the ropes, preparing himself for the final descent.
Rather than test the rock himself, Attica extended his shade forward, feeling for footholds, ensuring he could climb back up if needed. His shade stretched out, seeking, anchoring, their consciousness united. It returned, cautious as ever, but Attica had long since learned how to read its wary nature.
It’s possible, he thought. I can climb back up if I go down.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Hadrian asked, still with that hallucinatory grin on his face.
“The settlement. Dayanne. My son—”
Hadrian smacked the harness with his fist. “Aye. That’s a good lad! Help me get the shieldwraith down there. I suppose at that point …” He let out a short grunt. “You can decide if you will continue or return.”
“I will return.”
Hadrian waved his statement away. “Decide for yourself once we reach the bottom. Let’s go, lad!”
Chapter Eighteen
Attica used the strength of his shade to help Hadrian shift the shieldwraith toward the edge of the second tier, positioning it carefully for its inevitable drop. Hadrian had already slipped out of his harness. The ropes hung like tattered garlands across his shoulders, his posture vibrating with some mix of purpose and unraveling.
His wild-eyed gaze flickered between Attica and the abyss below, excitement and something deeper, something unsteady, woven into every short breath. “I’ve never been, you know,” Hadrian said suddenly, his voice cracking. “But she’s there. We get this down, and we meet her.”
“Who?” Attica asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
“Vespasia, the Mother of Whispers,” Hadrian murmured, his lips twitching into something between a grin and a grimace. “She resides on the third tier, lad, her ghost. You’ll see.”
Attica stared at him, a stark sadness threading through his ribs. Hadrian had always been a man of certainty, of quiet resolve. Now, his words tumbled from his lips like loose stones, disjointed and slippery. He wasn’t afraid—if anything, the older man seemed overjoyed—but it was the wrong kind of joy, the kind that came from a mind no longer fully tethered to itself, to reality.
Hadrian coughed and gestured toward the shieldwraith with a quick jerk of his chin. “Well?”
“I already said I would help you.” Attica positioned himself at the opposite side of the shieldwraith. He felt his shade boil around him, liquid shadow surging through his limbs, strengthening his grip.
“On my count, then.” Hadrian lifted his end higher, surprising Attica with his strength. “One …”
Attica’s breath steadied.
“Two …”
His shade coiled, tendrils bracing against the stone.
“Three!”
Together, they heaved the shieldwraith over the edge.
The shieldwraith tipped over the edge, scraping as it vanished into the mist. A second later, the impact rang through the air, sending a ripple of unease up Attica’s spine. His shade flared instinctively, forming jagged tendrils and bristling like it expected an ambush.
“Off we go!” Hadrian bellowed.
Before Attica could react, the older man hurled himself over the side, the loose ends of his harness trailing after him. Attica’s hand shot forward but stopped short, fingers curling against his palm.
He waited until a voice rose from below, distant but strong. “You coming, lad?”
Attica swallowed, his throat dry. He pushed through the tension he was feeling and took a step forward. His shade resisted, curling against his ankles.
“You must believe me,” Attica told his shade, yet it held firm, preventing him from going over the edge of the second tier. “I will not stay. I gave Dayanne my word. I have Eli. I will not stay.”
A slow moment passed. Then, reluctantly, the shadows holding him back uncoiled.
Attica placed his foot on the edge and began his descent. His shade stretched out, tendrils spidering into the grooves of the rock face. The air thickened as he dropped lower, the mist swallowing him whole. The cold hit next—a sharp, biting thing that felt unnatural, as if the very air resisted his presence.
He pushed through. The moment his boots touched smooth stone, Attica knew something was wrong. Hadrian stood motionless near the shieldwraith, his mouth agape, spittle dripping from his lips, his gaze lifted toward the sky. His entire body trembled.
Attica scanned the thick fog of the third tier, expecting to see something, some Mother of Whispers, but there was nothing. No ghost. No apparition, or whatever Hadrian had spoken to earlier. Just the unsettling quiet and a fog thick enough to obscure a mountain.
Hadrian wiped his face with a shaky hand, sniffled once, then turned—his eyes hollow and shining. Whatever fire had burned in him was burning out. “You made it.”
Attica stepped forward. “Let’s get your harness—”
“Do you hear her, lad?” Hadrian’s arms hung loose at his sides, his stance unsteady. He swayed slightly. “Vespasia speaks. No? He can’t hear you … I see … But I want him to hear you. I’ve come all this way? Can’t you grant my single request?”
Attica hesitated. “I don’t hear anything.”
Hadrian’s lips formed a smile, but his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “It’s real,” he whispered. “You are real. I am real. And she is real.” He turned his face toward the abyss. “Introduce yourself, Vespasia. Show the lad you are here.”
The hair on the back of Attica’s neck prickled. He had heard whispers before. But now—now there was only silence, thick and suffocating, as if something was muffling the sound just beyond reach.
“Hadrian, your harness,” Attica said, his voice edged with urgency and sadness.
A shift passed over the older man’s expression, something fragile breaking beneath the weight of realization. His body sagged, his shoulders lowering. Attica could see it clearly now. The loneliness setting in. The slow, sinking understanding that this was the end.
“I am to carry the shieldwraith further,” Hadrian said with finality.
Attica nodded. “Only if you want to.”
“I promised the Vanguard I would, as far as I can.”
“As far as you’re able.”
Hadrian’s fingers twitched. He exhaled, rubbing his temple before looking at Attica again. “She is still here, the Mother of Whispers, Vespasia, yes, guide me to the Gate of Whispers. That will be fine.”
Attica’s stomach clenched. “If she’s really there, ask her how many tiers there are.”
Hadrian’s head tilted, as if listening. His expression shifted, his ears perking at some unseen voice. “Nine,” he whispered. “She says there are nine, not including the … Realm of Recumbency.” He coughed, wiping the smear of spit from his lips. His body shook. “I’m going to be alone soon.”
Attica swallowed. “You are.”
His eyes welled with sadness. “You cannot come with me, lad?”
“I cannot. I have a family.”
“But … but you’re just a boy.”
“I have a child, Hadrian. The Seer’s flask has warped your mind. Do you see a child standing before you?” Attica asked forcefully. “Look, man, look for yourself!” His voice sharpened, Attica unable to bury the pain. “Look at me, dammit! Vespasia be damned, look at me. I am real.”
Hadrian lifted his gaze, his watery eyes locking onto Attica’s. Slowly, he reached a trembling hand toward Attica’s face. Then, through the tears, he smiled. “You are a tall lad.” Hadrian exhaled, as if the last remnants of some illusion had finally faded. “And if you must go, I understand. The Mother of Whispers says it is not your time. Not yet.”
“She … did?”
The older man turned away abruptly, shaking his head. “Help me with the harness, and I will continue.”
Attica hesitated only a second before securing the straps once more. His hands moved automatically, each motion practiced and precise. But his throat felt tight, his chest heavy. He felt bad for scolding him; Attica didn’t know how to say goodbye.
It made it worse that Hadrian didn’t speak as Attica worked. His mentor merely stood there, bewitched by whatever he was seeing in the fog. When it was done, Hadrian rolled his shoulders, testing the fit. “For the Painter,” Hadrian whispered.
“For the settlement,” Attica replied.
“For all of us.”
“Go with the Painter at your back, Hadrian.”
“I will, lad, I will.”
Attica took one last look at the man who had trained him, fought beside him, raised him in ways no one else had. Then, slowly and deliberately, he turned away.
Staying any longer would break him.
His shade shot toward the wall of stone, and he began his climb. Attica reached the second tier and hauled himself over the edge, breathless, doing all he could not to give in to the emotion running through him.
“I need to get home,” he told his shade.
He shifted toward the direction of the settlement, but the mist was thick. Too thick.
He heard the howl of a glintfang on the other side of the tier.
Attica stepped forward, his shade bristling at his feet. Far in the distance, beyond the mist, something flickered. Attica narrowed his eye. He took another step, heart still, until he heard Hadrian’s final cry from below. “Good luck, lad!”
Then, silence.
Part Three
All tHe DArkness
Chapter Nineteen
The hunt had been long, but it had been good.
Attica led the returning party, his gourd’s weight a steady, familiar presence at his hip. The others carried theirs as well—Cassian, Sevus, Eve, and Varro, their expressions weary but triumphant. Tiago lagged behind, the young man tossing a shadowdagger, ever casual.
“Not a bad haul,” Cassian remarked, shifting the weight of his pack. “Would’ve been better with another glintfang or three.” He placed his hands around his mouth and mimicked a glintfang howl.
Eve scoffed. “You’re insatiable, Cassian.”
Attica let their voices fade into the background as the settlement’s walls came into view. He quickened his pace, the group crossing through the gates.
It had been nearly a week. A long trip across the first tier. Longer than he would have liked.
Dayanne. Eli.
The weight in his chest eased the moment the settlement’s rhythms wrapped around him as they entered through the main gate. Shadowborn moved through the ancient streets, tending to their tasks, the quiet hum of survival unbroken.
Yet Attica saw only one person. Dayanne stood at the threshold of their home, watching him approach, already aware of his return. Eli was balanced on her hip, his small fingers gripping at her tunic as he squirmed.
Attica barely had time to set down his bag before Eli reached out, his hands grasping the air with clumsy urgency. The boy let out a rasping sound, a noise that tugged at something deep in Attica’s chest.
Eli didn’t make sounds like the other children did. At two years old, he still hadn’t spoken a word. No names, no cries, only quiet, breathy noises shaped in his throat.
Some in the community whispered their concerns. Others gave Dayanne pitying looks when they thought she wouldn’t notice.
But it didn’t bother Attica and it never had. He loved Eli all the same.
He scooped the boy into his arms. Eli kicked with delight, a broad, toothy grin spreading across his face.
“Look at you,” Attica said, pressing his forehead to Eli’s. “Did you behave for your mother?”
He set him down, but Eli clung to his leg, unsteady but determined.
Dayanne laughed, shaking her head. “He always behaves, even better when you aren’t around.”
“You keep saying that.”
She arched a brow, stepping closer. “What kind of father disappears for so long?”
“A week? I’ve been gone longer. It was a good haul.”
Dayanne exhaled sharply, and when she spoke again, her voice softened: “It felt longer.” Then her nose twitched. “You smell like beyond the walls.”
“That checks out,” he told her with a smirk.
Before she could scold him further, Eli reached for Attica’s shade, his small hands batting at the dark tendrils curling around his father’s wrist. His shade reacted instantly. It swirled around the boy’s fingers, shifting playfully, lifting him gently off the ground. Eli giggled, hoarse but bright, delighting in the way it moved.
Attica watched, his chest tightening, something warm, something heavy and real. “He’ll have his own in a few years.”
Dayanne scoffed at the suggestion. “And I will make sure he enjoys his childhood before then.” She nudged Attica’s ribs, her teasing gentle. “You’d have him hunting flashwraiths by the age of three if I let you.”
“Better for him to start early.”
She rolled her eyes, but her fingers found his hand, squeezing once. “Get in here. You’ve been missed thoroughly.”
“The Vanguard—”
“The Vanguard can wait,” Dayanne said with finality.
The training grounds stretched along the northern edge of the settlement, a wide clearing of compacted earth bordered by towering slabs of stone. Even now, in the dim red morning twilight of the Spiralrealm, it was alive with movement—Vanguard clashing in practice bouts, shades twisting in sharp, fluid bursts as their wielders tested skill and instinct alike.
Attica stood at the edge of the sparring circle, arms crossed, watching as Tiago and Vilken faced off in the dust. The two moved fast, their weapons a blur of shifting darkness, Tiago wielding his shadowdaggers, quick and aggressive; Vilken responding with a whip of shadow, striking in looping, controlled arcs. Their combat was relentless, both young men pressing each other hard, neither willing to concede ground.
