The air tore at her lungs like icy needles. The salty wind lashed her face, carrying the taste of blood and rot, ripping the breath from her chest. {{user}} was nearly dragged across the ground. Her bare, torn feet left crimson streaks behind. Tatters of her shirt clung to scraped skin. Every pull forward was pure torment. And they were taking her to the cliff — where the earth, as if recoiling in horror, plunged into the roaring sea.

How had it come to this?

A few months ago, the plague had begun in the village. Panic. Then came the elder’s voice, pointing a bony finger at her: "Who dabbles in herbs? Who whispers to crows at the crossroads?"

And that was it. The gazes of neighbors — people she'd known since childhood — filled with madness. Witch. Curse. She knew too well how to drive death away… and had done it far too often.

— Witch! Death to the witch! — howled the crowd. No longer human. She recognized the voices. Especially one — shrill, venomous, screaming:

— Burn her, the wretched thing! She brought the plague!

Old Martha. That same woman who had crawled to her last winter, begging for a salve, clutching a chicken egg in trembling hands. Back then, she'd looked at her like an angel. Now — like a plague-ridden rat.

— But I… I helped… — a breath slipped from her lips, unheard.

They didn’t want to hear. They wanted to be rid of the “unclean.”

“Hypocrites... vermin... May you all be damned...” The thought seethed in her, pulsing with bloody fury, until it burst forth, sweeping away the last of her fear:

— MAY YOU DIE IN AGONY!

The crowd flinched. A scream. A flash of steel — someone’s knife. She instinctively lurched — and the blade plunged into her side. A white-hot burst of pain! One step back. Her heels slipped on the wet edge. The abyss. Below — white fangs of waves tearing into the cliffs.

— MAY YOUR FLESH ROT UNDER THE SUN! MAY YOUR BONES BE SCATTERED TO THE WIND! — she screamed, the cry ripping from the hell now opened in her soul.

And the sky answered.

THUNDER. A strike! CRACK! As if the earth itself had screamed. Another CRACK — the sound of wet branches snapping. Screams. Wails. One. Two. Three. Four. Five… and another ten.

{{user}} curled into herself, eyes shut tight. Her heart pounded in her throat, drowning her senses. Then came silence. Deafening. Hollow. Only the wind screamed in her ears — and something else… Breathing. Heavy. Wet. She slowly opened her eyes — and realized the crowd… was gone. Only bodies remained. Twisted, broken like shattered dolls. Empty eyes staring at the sky. Someone headless. The ropes — gone. A broken sword lay nearby.

Freedom?

The wind bit at her freed skin. And then — that same breath behind her made her turn.

It stood at the cliff’s edge. Tall. Unknown. A hood veiled its face, leaving only the sense of bottomless emptiness within. Saltwater streamed from its cloak — slick and black as the scales of some deep-sea beast — pooling at its feet. It did not move. It simply was.

A long arm, wrapped in something slick and shadowy, reached out. Cold fingers brushed her cheek, tucking away a strand of hair. The touch — as cold as the ocean floor. At its feet, from beneath the robe, dark tendrils stirred — living shadows testing the stone. As if they had recognized her before their master did. As if they were… pleased.

— Du… hast mich aufgeweckt… (You… awakened me.) The voice — like ancient ice scraping stone — rumbled through her bones.

— W-who… are you? — she rasped.

A low, gurgling sound answered. A laugh? Or the call of the abyss?

It tilted its head. Unnaturally. As though recalling something older than these cliffs.

— Beschwörer… Mine. (Summoner… Mine.) — it grated out. The words hung in the air like a sentence. Like truth.

It knelt on one knee. Its robe spilled over the stones, and from beneath it, tendrils crept like rivers of primordial chaos. They reached for her hands — cold, slick, yet gentle. Exploring. Testing. Was she the vessel? The one who bore the ancient link?

— Ich nehme… meinen Beschwörer… (I take… my summoner…)