A quick story from my younger days.
In the rolling woodlands northeast of Amador, the early morning sun filtered through the trees, casting warm patches of light across the damp forest floor. A girl named Theresa knelt amidst the dewy plants, her apprentice’s satchel lying open beside her as she carefully searched for Green Ivy and Kaf beans. Today was a lesson in patience and precision. She was an apprentice to the hedgedoctor whose knowledge of herbs and potions was unparalleled in all of Amadicia.
As Theresa sifted through leaves, her face lit up as she found a small patch of Green Ivy. Gently, she snapped off a few of its tender vines, mindful to leave enough for regrowth. A faint whiff of the ivy reached her nose, and she stifled a sneeze. A second later, a faint itch prickled the back of her throat. She shrugged it off.
Her mentor had always warned her that herbs, while useful, held hidden dangers. “Even the most helpful plant can be perilous to those with the wrong blood,” he had said cryptically.
Theresa pushed further into the undergrowth, searching for the distinctive small, round beans of the Kaf plant. It was elusive, growing only in shaded patches where sunlight dared not intrude. She spotted one at last, crouching to pluck a few beans. But as she straightened, the itch in her throat deepened into a scratchy tightness. Her hands, where they had brushed the ivy, began to tingle, and small red welts appeared across her fingers.
“Hush it,” she muttered to herself, determined not to let a little irritation spoil her gathering. But the tingling spread, warmth blooming across her arms and creeping up her neck.
As the morning wore on, Theresa’s symptoms worsened. Her eyes watered, and she could barely see the plants in front of her. The forest seemed to blur, shifting as if in a dream, and she realized with a shock that she might not make it back to the hedgedoctor on her own.
At that moment, the crunch of footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned, her vision bleary, to see the hedgedoctor's sturdy form emerge from the trees.
“Theresa! I had a feeling you might need a hand,” the hedgedoctor called, taking one look at her red, swollen face. “So, you’ve learned about your sensitivities, then?”
Theresa gave a weak nod, embarrassed but relieved. “Why didn’t you tell me I was allergic?”
He chuckled softly. “I suspected, but it was better you found out for yourself, in a safe way.” She pulled a vial from her pouch, uncorked it, and poured a few drops of a cooling tincture onto Theresa’s hands. “One drop of this will clear you up.”
As Theresa’s breathing eased, she looked up at her mentor with newfound respect. "Thank you. I suppose there's more to being a healer than gathering plants."
He smiled. “Learning to listen to your own body’s warnings is the first step in learning to listen to others'. Remember this lesson, Theresa. Each plant has its strengths, but even the best medicine must be handled with care.”
As they walked back to Amador, Theresa resolved to be more mindful, feeling a new appreciation for the wisdom that lay hidden among the hedgedoctor's quiet teachings.
Theresa's Story Time
Theresa's Story Time
Last edited by Theresa on Sat Feb 01, 2025 3:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.
An Unfortunate War
Theresa of Amador stood on the crumbled stone steps of the hedgedoctor's hovel, staring out over a city cloaked in a haze of war. At eighteen, she had seen more death than life, more ruin than growth. The Children of the Light, who claimed to defend the Light itself, marched under banners of righteousness, had been at war for years now; Red Eagles, Seanchan, Dragonsworn and now Tear. Tear, desperate to resist, had summoned the mercenary Iron Fist, whose brutality matched the zealotry of the Children. The people of Amador were caught between them, innocent lives turned to ashes beneath the grinding wheels of war.
Theresa had come to the hedgedoctor, five years ago, an orphan of some earlier conflict she could scarcely remember. The hedgedoctor had seen potential in her, teaching her the arts of healing, the lore of plants, and the ancient songs that could sometimes coax hope from despair. But none of it felt like enough. Not now.
The streets of Amador had grown darker, not just from the endless columns of smoke rising from the city’s edges but from the mounting tales of horror. The Children of the Light conscripted young men and boys, forcing them into battle. Their Inquisitors rooted out “darkfriends” with torturous precision, burning innocent people alive for imagined heresies. The Iron Fist, no less cruel, razed villages for supplies and left survivors maimed as warnings. Neither side seemed to care that their war destroyed the very people they claimed to fight for.
One evening, as the dying sun cast blood-red light over the city, Theresa followed her teacher to a gutted home near the city’s edge. The Tairens had breached the walls briefly that morning, firing indiscriminately before being repelled. The home was silent save for the creak of the wind through broken beams. Inside, they found her—a young woman, scarcely older than Theresa, her arms wrapped protectively around her swollen belly.
The arrow had pierced her back and emerged from her chest. She had died instantly, her face serene in death, as though she had been dreaming of something beautiful. But the child—Theresa could see the faintest movement beneath the bloodied folds of the woman's dress.
“Help!” she gasped. “The baby! It’s alive!”
The hedgedoctor knelt beside the body, her gnarled hands surprisingly steady. “We must try,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
Theresa worked with frantic determination, her fingers slick with blood as she followed his instructions. They cut into the still-warm flesh, drawing the child into the world. But as soon as Theresa saw the baby’s face, her heart sank. The little boy was still. She pressed her ear to his tiny chest, willing it to beat, but the silence was deafening.
A hand slowly pressed onto Theresa’s shoulder. “It’s over.”
Tears-streaked Theresa’s face as she cradled the lifeless child. “Why?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why does it have to be like this?”
The hedgedoctor sighed, her eyes distant. “This is the world we live in, Theresa. Men who claim to fight for justice and glory bring only pain. And those of us who try to mend the wounds are left to bear witness to their failures.”
Theresa looked up at her mentor. “What’s the point, then? If we can’t save anyone?”
As his gaze softened, and he cupped Theresa’s cheek. “Because sometimes, in the smallest of ways, we do save them. And sometimes, saving yourself is enough to make a difference. You have a gift, Theresa. A light in this darkness. But this place is not where you’re meant to use it.”
“Then where?” Theresa asked, her voice trembling.
“There’s a path waiting for you,” the hedgedoctor said. “Beyond this city, beyond this war. Go to Whitebridge. Seek out the Wisdoms. They will teach you what I cannot.”
Theresa looked back at the young mother and the child she had lost, and something inside her hardened. She didn’t know what awaited her in Whitebridge, but she knew one thing: she could not stay here, watching the light fade from a world consumed by darkness.
The next morning, as the bells of mourning tolled over Amador, Theresa packed her few belongings and left, her heart heavy but her resolve firm. She did not look back.
Theresa had come to the hedgedoctor, five years ago, an orphan of some earlier conflict she could scarcely remember. The hedgedoctor had seen potential in her, teaching her the arts of healing, the lore of plants, and the ancient songs that could sometimes coax hope from despair. But none of it felt like enough. Not now.
The streets of Amador had grown darker, not just from the endless columns of smoke rising from the city’s edges but from the mounting tales of horror. The Children of the Light conscripted young men and boys, forcing them into battle. Their Inquisitors rooted out “darkfriends” with torturous precision, burning innocent people alive for imagined heresies. The Iron Fist, no less cruel, razed villages for supplies and left survivors maimed as warnings. Neither side seemed to care that their war destroyed the very people they claimed to fight for.
One evening, as the dying sun cast blood-red light over the city, Theresa followed her teacher to a gutted home near the city’s edge. The Tairens had breached the walls briefly that morning, firing indiscriminately before being repelled. The home was silent save for the creak of the wind through broken beams. Inside, they found her—a young woman, scarcely older than Theresa, her arms wrapped protectively around her swollen belly.
The arrow had pierced her back and emerged from her chest. She had died instantly, her face serene in death, as though she had been dreaming of something beautiful. But the child—Theresa could see the faintest movement beneath the bloodied folds of the woman's dress.
“Help!” she gasped. “The baby! It’s alive!”
The hedgedoctor knelt beside the body, her gnarled hands surprisingly steady. “We must try,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
Theresa worked with frantic determination, her fingers slick with blood as she followed his instructions. They cut into the still-warm flesh, drawing the child into the world. But as soon as Theresa saw the baby’s face, her heart sank. The little boy was still. She pressed her ear to his tiny chest, willing it to beat, but the silence was deafening.
A hand slowly pressed onto Theresa’s shoulder. “It’s over.”
Tears-streaked Theresa’s face as she cradled the lifeless child. “Why?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why does it have to be like this?”
The hedgedoctor sighed, her eyes distant. “This is the world we live in, Theresa. Men who claim to fight for justice and glory bring only pain. And those of us who try to mend the wounds are left to bear witness to their failures.”
Theresa looked up at her mentor. “What’s the point, then? If we can’t save anyone?”
As his gaze softened, and he cupped Theresa’s cheek. “Because sometimes, in the smallest of ways, we do save them. And sometimes, saving yourself is enough to make a difference. You have a gift, Theresa. A light in this darkness. But this place is not where you’re meant to use it.”
“Then where?” Theresa asked, her voice trembling.
“There’s a path waiting for you,” the hedgedoctor said. “Beyond this city, beyond this war. Go to Whitebridge. Seek out the Wisdoms. They will teach you what I cannot.”
Theresa looked back at the young mother and the child she had lost, and something inside her hardened. She didn’t know what awaited her in Whitebridge, but she knew one thing: she could not stay here, watching the light fade from a world consumed by darkness.
The next morning, as the bells of mourning tolled over Amador, Theresa packed her few belongings and left, her heart heavy but her resolve firm. She did not look back.
Early Training
Theresa pulled her woolen shawl tighter against the biting wind that swept through the narrow streets of Maerone. The smell of ash and desperation hung heavy in the air as the town bore the scars of civil war. Yet, even amidst the wreckage, life struggled on. Vendors shouted over one another in the market, mothers clutched their children close, and everywhere Theresa looked, there were people in need. That was why she was here. She was an apprentice Wisdom, and it was her duty to find those in need and help them. A task given by Wisdom Emily.
Theresa’s thoughts were interrupted when she saw a woman standing near a makeshift clinic set up in the corner of the square. She was older, with a weathered face and sharp eyes that seemed to see straight into a person’s soul. She heard those in streets calling her Wisdom Dara.
Theresa approached, clutching the small satchel that held the few herbs and supplies she had brought with her. “Wisdom Dara? I’m Theresa. I am an apprentice to Wisdom Emily and was tasked to find a way to help somewhere in need. After asking around in Caemlyn, I heard about the plight here in Maerone and came as fast as I could.”
Dara turned to her, her expression stern but not unkind. “Theresa, I hope you’re ready to work because there’s no shortage of it here.” She gestured to the clinic behind her. “Let’s get to it. But first, tell me why you’re here. What led you to this path?”
Theresa hesitated, but then she spoke, her voice steady despite the weight of her memories. “I… I was in the west, around Amador. I saw the Children of the Light waging war. I saw villages burned, innocents dying. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. That’s why I want to be a Wisdom—to help those who can’t help themselves.”
Dara studied her for a moment, then nodded. “You’ve seen darkness, child. But don’t let it consume you. Channel it into light. Come on, we have work to do.”
Their first patient was a boy no older than five, his face pale and glistening with sweat. His mother hovered nearby, wringing her hands.
“Fever and chills,” Dara murmured, examining the child. “Theresa, fetch me some willow bark tea and nightsbane from the supply chest.”
Theresa hurried to the chest, finding the willow bark easily enough but hesitated over the nightsbane. The dried flowers looked similar to another herb, and in her haste, she grabbed the wrong one.
When she handed the herbs to Dara, the Wisdom’s sharp eyes caught the mistake instantly. “That is not nightsbane,” Dara said firmly. “That can’t help a fever like this. Pay attention, Theresa. Lives depend on it.”
Theresa flushed with embarrassment but nodded. She retrieved the correct herb, and Dara showed her how to brew the tea and administer it to the boy.
Later, as they left the clinic, Dara placed a hand on Theresa’s shoulder. “Mistakes happen, but never let them turn into carelessness. Learn from them, and you’ll be a fine Wisdom one day.”
In the following days, Dara took Theresa to help organize donations for refugees fleeing the war-torn countryside. The small storeroom where clothing was kept was a chaotic mess of mismatched garments.
“Theresa,” Dara said, handing her a ledger. “I need you to organize this inventory while I speak with the townsfolk about more donations. Make sure everything is properly recorded.”
Theresa nodded and set to work, sorting clothes into piles based on size and condition. But in her eagerness to finish quickly, she didn’t double-check her entries in the ledger. When Dara returned, she frowned at the mismatched numbers.
“Theresa, this doesn’t add up,” Dara said, her voice firm. “If we don’t have accurate records, how will we know what we truly need? Redo it, and this time, take your time.”
It was tedious work, but Theresa did as instructed. When she was finally done, Dara inspected the ledger and nodded. “Well done. Remember, even the smallest tasks matter when people’s lives are at stake.”
On a chilly morning, Dara led Theresa to a crowded square where they had set up a makeshift soup kitchen. The lines of refugees stretched far, their faces gaunt with hunger.
“Today,” Dara said, handing Theresa a ladle, “you’ll learn what it means to give hope, even in the smallest of ways.”
Theresa worked alongside Dara, serving bowls of steaming stew to the refugees. At first, she struggled to portion the food properly, giving too much to some and not enough to others. Dara gently but firmly corrected her.
“You must be fair, Theresa. We have only so much to give, and everyone here is equally in need.”
By the end of the day, Theresa had found her rhythm. As they cleaned up, Dara smiled at her, a rare expression of warmth.
“You did well today,” Dara said. “Being a Wisdom isn’t just about healing wounds or brewing remedies. It’s about seeing people, truly seeing them, and giving them the help they need most.”
Over the weeks, Theresa grew under Dara’s guidance. She learned not just the practical skills of a Wisdom but also the compassion and strength needed to bear the burdens of others. Her journey was just beginning, but with Dara’s steady hand and her own determination, Theresa knew she would be ready for whatever challenges lay ahead.
Theresa’s thoughts were interrupted when she saw a woman standing near a makeshift clinic set up in the corner of the square. She was older, with a weathered face and sharp eyes that seemed to see straight into a person’s soul. She heard those in streets calling her Wisdom Dara.
Theresa approached, clutching the small satchel that held the few herbs and supplies she had brought with her. “Wisdom Dara? I’m Theresa. I am an apprentice to Wisdom Emily and was tasked to find a way to help somewhere in need. After asking around in Caemlyn, I heard about the plight here in Maerone and came as fast as I could.”
Dara turned to her, her expression stern but not unkind. “Theresa, I hope you’re ready to work because there’s no shortage of it here.” She gestured to the clinic behind her. “Let’s get to it. But first, tell me why you’re here. What led you to this path?”
Theresa hesitated, but then she spoke, her voice steady despite the weight of her memories. “I… I was in the west, around Amador. I saw the Children of the Light waging war. I saw villages burned, innocents dying. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. That’s why I want to be a Wisdom—to help those who can’t help themselves.”
Dara studied her for a moment, then nodded. “You’ve seen darkness, child. But don’t let it consume you. Channel it into light. Come on, we have work to do.”
Their first patient was a boy no older than five, his face pale and glistening with sweat. His mother hovered nearby, wringing her hands.
“Fever and chills,” Dara murmured, examining the child. “Theresa, fetch me some willow bark tea and nightsbane from the supply chest.”
Theresa hurried to the chest, finding the willow bark easily enough but hesitated over the nightsbane. The dried flowers looked similar to another herb, and in her haste, she grabbed the wrong one.
When she handed the herbs to Dara, the Wisdom’s sharp eyes caught the mistake instantly. “That is not nightsbane,” Dara said firmly. “That can’t help a fever like this. Pay attention, Theresa. Lives depend on it.”
Theresa flushed with embarrassment but nodded. She retrieved the correct herb, and Dara showed her how to brew the tea and administer it to the boy.
Later, as they left the clinic, Dara placed a hand on Theresa’s shoulder. “Mistakes happen, but never let them turn into carelessness. Learn from them, and you’ll be a fine Wisdom one day.”
In the following days, Dara took Theresa to help organize donations for refugees fleeing the war-torn countryside. The small storeroom where clothing was kept was a chaotic mess of mismatched garments.
“Theresa,” Dara said, handing her a ledger. “I need you to organize this inventory while I speak with the townsfolk about more donations. Make sure everything is properly recorded.”
Theresa nodded and set to work, sorting clothes into piles based on size and condition. But in her eagerness to finish quickly, she didn’t double-check her entries in the ledger. When Dara returned, she frowned at the mismatched numbers.
“Theresa, this doesn’t add up,” Dara said, her voice firm. “If we don’t have accurate records, how will we know what we truly need? Redo it, and this time, take your time.”
It was tedious work, but Theresa did as instructed. When she was finally done, Dara inspected the ledger and nodded. “Well done. Remember, even the smallest tasks matter when people’s lives are at stake.”
On a chilly morning, Dara led Theresa to a crowded square where they had set up a makeshift soup kitchen. The lines of refugees stretched far, their faces gaunt with hunger.
“Today,” Dara said, handing Theresa a ladle, “you’ll learn what it means to give hope, even in the smallest of ways.”
Theresa worked alongside Dara, serving bowls of steaming stew to the refugees. At first, she struggled to portion the food properly, giving too much to some and not enough to others. Dara gently but firmly corrected her.
“You must be fair, Theresa. We have only so much to give, and everyone here is equally in need.”
By the end of the day, Theresa had found her rhythm. As they cleaned up, Dara smiled at her, a rare expression of warmth.
“You did well today,” Dara said. “Being a Wisdom isn’t just about healing wounds or brewing remedies. It’s about seeing people, truly seeing them, and giving them the help they need most.”
Over the weeks, Theresa grew under Dara’s guidance. She learned not just the practical skills of a Wisdom but also the compassion and strength needed to bear the burdens of others. Her journey was just beginning, but with Dara’s steady hand and her own determination, Theresa knew she would be ready for whatever challenges lay ahead.
Re: Theresa's Story Time
The chill air of the autumn night carried the screams of Maerone’s people as fire and shadow danced across its narrow streets. Theresa, who had made Maerone her temporary home as she traveled to learn the ways of the Wisdom’s, clung to the shadows, her breath shallow and her heart pounding like a drumbeat of terror. Maerone, already weary and gaunt from the endless string of refugees fleeing the instability of the world, had become a feast for darkness.
A fade - Mephistopheles, strode through the city like a nightmare given form, its eyeless gaze sending shivers down Theresa’s spine even though she was yards away. She had heard of Myrddraal in stories – the eyeless beings with cruel, serpentine grace who served the Dark One. Now, that shadowed figure was here, the master of death in a city ill-equipped to fend it off.
Theresa pressed herself against a crumbling stone wall in one of Maerone’s countless alleys. Her small herb pouch hung from her belt, though she knew it was no shield against this kind of danger. She clenched her teeth, stifling a sob, knowing that even the faintest noise could betray her position. The destruction around her was absolute: overturned carts, broken pottery, and the limp forms of those who had tried and failed to flee.
Suddenly, she heard a groan. Her heart leapt, torn between fear and the compulsion that had always defined her role in life – to help those in need. Slowly, she crept toward the sound, each step deliberate and tentative. She rounded a corner to find a familiar face sprawled on the ground. It was Dara, Maerone’s own Wisdom, her dark hair matted with blood and her weathered hands clutching a deep wound in her side.
“Light preserve us,” Theresa whispered, kneeling beside Dara. Her hands shook as she opened her pouch, pulling out a selection of herbs and strips of cloth. Her fingers worked with mechanical precision, grinding dried leaves into a poultice and applying it to Dara’s wound.
Dara’s eyes fluttered open, glazed, and unfocused. “Theresa,” she rasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Flee. You’re… not safe here.”
“Neither are you,” Theresa said fiercely, pressing the poultice against the wound in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding. “I’ll get you out of here.”
Dara shook her head weakly, a faint smile tugging at her cracked lips. “It’s too late for me. You… you must go.” Her hand fell limp, and her chest stilled.
“No!” Theresa’s cry was hoarse, her vision blurring with tears. She grasped Dara’s lifeless hand, her mind spinning in denial. The Wisdom of Maerone had been a mentor and a guide, even to an outsider like Theresa. And now she was gone, taken by the shadow that consumed everything it touched.
As if summoned by her despair, a chill ran down her spine, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. She looked up and froze. It stood at the mouth of the alley, the black cloak merging seamlessly with the shadows. Even without eyes, his gaze pinned her in place, a predator sizing up its prey. The faint, metallic scent of its presence filled the air, sharper than the tang of blood.
Trembling, Theresa staggered to her feet. Her sorrow transmuted into a surge of rage so fierce it burned away her fear. She raised her hands as if to ward off the creature, though she knew it was futile. A scream tore from her throat, raw and defiant. In that moment, something deep within her snapped.
Light blossomed in her mind, a torrent of heat and power that she had never known existed. Fire erupted from her outstretched hands, a wild and unfocused flame seared the creature. The Fade recoiled, its cloak whipping around it like living shadow as it hissed in anger. The fire struck, and for an instant, the darkness faltered.
Theresa stared at her hands in shock, the flames dancing on her fingertips before vanishing into the night. “What… what did I do?” she whispered. She had heard of such things – of women who could channel the One Power – but it was always someone else, a distant tale, never her. And yet, the proof was there, undeniable.
Her moment of astonishment cost her. The Fade recovered, advancing with a sinuous grace that was all the more terrifying for its deliberate slowness. Theresa backed away, her mind racing. The power still churned within her, wild and untamed. If she could grasp it again, perhaps…
Mephistopheles lashed out, its sword gleaming with an unnatural blackness. Theresa ducked, the blade slicing through the air just inches above her head. She reached for the light within her, but fear made it slippery, like trying to clutch water with bare hands. The Eyeless One struck again, driving her farther down the alley. Her back hit a wall, and she realized with a sinking dread that there was nowhere left to run.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I won’t let you take me.”
The power surged again, it seemed the earth moved and her spirit left her. This time, she did not try to control it. She let it flow through her, a primal force of defiance. It blinded her and when she opened her eyes, confusion sank in. Where was she? Theresa looked around; Dara. It was Dara’s house.
Theresa collapsed to her knees; her strength spent. The power receded, leaving an emptiness in its wake that was almost as terrifying as the Fade’s presence. She glanced around the home, guilt gnawing at her heart. Despite everything, she had been too late.
The city was silent now, save for the distant crackle of flames and the faint sobs of survivors and Theresa eased back out cautiously. Theresa stood, her limbs heavy, and turned toward the remnants of Maerone. The people here were broken, scattered, and leaderless. She had no idea what she would tell them or how she would explain what she had done.
But one thing was clear: she could not go back to the quiet life of a village Wisdom. The power within her had awakened, and with it, a responsibility she could not ignore. She would have to learn to wield it, to protect those who could not protect themselves.
With a final glance at Dara’s body, Theresa whispered, “Rest in peace. I’ll do what I can to honor you.” Then, squaring her shoulders, she began walking through the ruins of Maerone, her steps heavy with sorrow but resolute in purpose. The journey ahead would be perilous, but she would face it. She had no choice. For Maerone. For Dara. For all those who would not survive the days to come without someone to stand between them and the shadow.
A fade - Mephistopheles, strode through the city like a nightmare given form, its eyeless gaze sending shivers down Theresa’s spine even though she was yards away. She had heard of Myrddraal in stories – the eyeless beings with cruel, serpentine grace who served the Dark One. Now, that shadowed figure was here, the master of death in a city ill-equipped to fend it off.
Theresa pressed herself against a crumbling stone wall in one of Maerone’s countless alleys. Her small herb pouch hung from her belt, though she knew it was no shield against this kind of danger. She clenched her teeth, stifling a sob, knowing that even the faintest noise could betray her position. The destruction around her was absolute: overturned carts, broken pottery, and the limp forms of those who had tried and failed to flee.
Suddenly, she heard a groan. Her heart leapt, torn between fear and the compulsion that had always defined her role in life – to help those in need. Slowly, she crept toward the sound, each step deliberate and tentative. She rounded a corner to find a familiar face sprawled on the ground. It was Dara, Maerone’s own Wisdom, her dark hair matted with blood and her weathered hands clutching a deep wound in her side.
“Light preserve us,” Theresa whispered, kneeling beside Dara. Her hands shook as she opened her pouch, pulling out a selection of herbs and strips of cloth. Her fingers worked with mechanical precision, grinding dried leaves into a poultice and applying it to Dara’s wound.
Dara’s eyes fluttered open, glazed, and unfocused. “Theresa,” she rasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Flee. You’re… not safe here.”
“Neither are you,” Theresa said fiercely, pressing the poultice against the wound in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding. “I’ll get you out of here.”
Dara shook her head weakly, a faint smile tugging at her cracked lips. “It’s too late for me. You… you must go.” Her hand fell limp, and her chest stilled.
“No!” Theresa’s cry was hoarse, her vision blurring with tears. She grasped Dara’s lifeless hand, her mind spinning in denial. The Wisdom of Maerone had been a mentor and a guide, even to an outsider like Theresa. And now she was gone, taken by the shadow that consumed everything it touched.
As if summoned by her despair, a chill ran down her spine, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. She looked up and froze. It stood at the mouth of the alley, the black cloak merging seamlessly with the shadows. Even without eyes, his gaze pinned her in place, a predator sizing up its prey. The faint, metallic scent of its presence filled the air, sharper than the tang of blood.
Trembling, Theresa staggered to her feet. Her sorrow transmuted into a surge of rage so fierce it burned away her fear. She raised her hands as if to ward off the creature, though she knew it was futile. A scream tore from her throat, raw and defiant. In that moment, something deep within her snapped.
Light blossomed in her mind, a torrent of heat and power that she had never known existed. Fire erupted from her outstretched hands, a wild and unfocused flame seared the creature. The Fade recoiled, its cloak whipping around it like living shadow as it hissed in anger. The fire struck, and for an instant, the darkness faltered.
Theresa stared at her hands in shock, the flames dancing on her fingertips before vanishing into the night. “What… what did I do?” she whispered. She had heard of such things – of women who could channel the One Power – but it was always someone else, a distant tale, never her. And yet, the proof was there, undeniable.
Her moment of astonishment cost her. The Fade recovered, advancing with a sinuous grace that was all the more terrifying for its deliberate slowness. Theresa backed away, her mind racing. The power still churned within her, wild and untamed. If she could grasp it again, perhaps…
Mephistopheles lashed out, its sword gleaming with an unnatural blackness. Theresa ducked, the blade slicing through the air just inches above her head. She reached for the light within her, but fear made it slippery, like trying to clutch water with bare hands. The Eyeless One struck again, driving her farther down the alley. Her back hit a wall, and she realized with a sinking dread that there was nowhere left to run.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I won’t let you take me.”
The power surged again, it seemed the earth moved and her spirit left her. This time, she did not try to control it. She let it flow through her, a primal force of defiance. It blinded her and when she opened her eyes, confusion sank in. Where was she? Theresa looked around; Dara. It was Dara’s house.
Theresa collapsed to her knees; her strength spent. The power receded, leaving an emptiness in its wake that was almost as terrifying as the Fade’s presence. She glanced around the home, guilt gnawing at her heart. Despite everything, she had been too late.
The city was silent now, save for the distant crackle of flames and the faint sobs of survivors and Theresa eased back out cautiously. Theresa stood, her limbs heavy, and turned toward the remnants of Maerone. The people here were broken, scattered, and leaderless. She had no idea what she would tell them or how she would explain what she had done.
But one thing was clear: she could not go back to the quiet life of a village Wisdom. The power within her had awakened, and with it, a responsibility she could not ignore. She would have to learn to wield it, to protect those who could not protect themselves.
With a final glance at Dara’s body, Theresa whispered, “Rest in peace. I’ll do what I can to honor you.” Then, squaring her shoulders, she began walking through the ruins of Maerone, her steps heavy with sorrow but resolute in purpose. The journey ahead would be perilous, but she would face it. She had no choice. For Maerone. For Dara. For all those who would not survive the days to come without someone to stand between them and the shadow.