The room was simple. A bed. A small table. A single window that overlooked the city below. The walls were bare, the floor covered in woven mats.
Tsaral stood in the center of the room for a moment, his white eyes staring at nothing.
Then he spoke aloud, his voice low and deliberate.
"I need to enter the astral plane."
He moved to the table and retrieved two red candles, placing them on the floor in front of him. He lit them with a flint, the flames springing to life and casting dancing shadows across the walls.
Then he reached into his satchel and pulled out a small clay jar. Inside was the blood of an animal—a goat, purchased earlier that day from a butcher in the market.
He unscrewed the lid and poured the blood in a careful circle around the candles, the dark liquid pooling on the mat, glistening in the candlelight.
"Fuel," he murmured. "For the projection."
He set the jar aside and moved to the bed, lowering himself onto it with deliberate care. He lay on his back, his hands resting on his chest, his breathing slowing.
His eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling.
I must enter the Ethereal Drift, he thought. The surface layers. Where the entities dwell.
He closed his eyes.
And began to drift.
The sensation was immediate.
His body grew heavy, as though sinking into the mattress, but his mind—his consciousness—began to lift. It was a strange, disorienting feeling, like being pulled in two directions at once.
He was no longer fully awake.
But he was not asleep either.
He existed in the space between.
And then, he felt it.
A tug. A pull. A silver cord extending from his navel, stretching upward, outward, into the unseen.
Tsaral's consciousness separated from his body.
He rose.
Not physically. His body remained on the bed, still and silent. But his soul—his astral form—lifted into the air, hovering above his prone flesh.
He looked down and saw himself lying there, the candles flickering on the floor, the blood circle glistening.
And from his navel, a faint silver cord stretched downward, anchoring his soul to his body.
The lifeline, he thought. If it severs, I die.
He turned away from his body and began to rise further, the silver cord stretching with him, thin and taut but unbreaking.
The walls of the room dissolved. The ceiling vanished. The physical world fell away.
And he entered the Ethereal Drift.
The surface layers of the Ethereal Drift were unlike the physical realm.
The air—if it could be called air—was thick and luminous, shimmering with faint, shifting colors that had no names. The ground beneath him was not solid, but fluid, rippling like water disturbed by an invisible wind.
In the distance, structures floated—buildings, temples, fragments of memory and imagination given form. Some were clear and defined. Others were blurred, distorted, as though seen through warped glass.
The sky above was not a sky at all, but a swirling expanse of light and shadow, where stars and darkness coexisted in impossible harmony.
Tsaral floated forward, his astral form gliding effortlessly through the plane. The silver cord trailed behind him, stretching further and further as he moved.
He flew.
Not with wings, but with will. His consciousness propelled him forward, cutting through the layers of the Ethereal Drift with practiced ease.
And then, ahead, he saw it.
A cabin.
It was old. Ancient. Its walls were twisted, warped, as though the structure had been pulled and stretched by invisible hands. The wood was dark, rotting, covered in moss and strange symbols that glowed faintly in the shifting light.
The cabin sat alone on a floating platform of earth, surrounded by nothing but the swirling expanse of the Ethereal Drift.
Tsaral approached slowly, his astral form descending until his feet—translucent, faint—touched the ground.
He walked toward the cabin.
And as he drew closer, he felt it.
A presence.
Heavy. Angry. Ancient.
The door of the cabin was closed, but Tsaral did not need to knock.
He simply projected his intent.
I am here. I seek audience.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, slowly, the door creaked open.
Inside the cabin, the air was thick with malice.
Shadows writhed along the walls, twisting and coiling like living things. The floor was stained with old blood—dark, dried, cracked. The scent of decay and iron filled the space.
And at the center of the cabin, seated on a crude wooden chair, was a figure.
A vengeful spirit.
It had once been a warrior of Nubia. That much was clear. Its form was vaguely humanoid, but distorted, twisted by rage and death. Its body was translucent, flickering like a dying flame. Its face was a mask of fury—eyes hollow and burning with red light, mouth twisted into a permanent snarl.
It wore tattered armor, rusted and broken, and in its hand, it clutched a spectral blade, jagged and cruel.
The spirit did not speak aloud. Its voice came directly into Tsaral's mind, sharp and grating, like metal scraping against stone.
"Why have you come?"
Tsaral bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect. I come seeking your support, great one. I have a task ahead of me. A hunt. Three targets.
The spirit's hollow eyes fixed on him. "What do you offer?"
Their hearts, Tsaral thought, his projection clear and deliberate. When I succeed, I will sacrifice the hearts of all three to you. Fresh. Warm. Full of life.
The spirit was silent for a long moment.
Then it spoke again, its voice colder. "And if you fail?"
Tsaral's astral form stiffened slightly. I will not fail.
"If you fail," the spirit repeated, its voice growing darker, "your soul will depart your body. And when it does, I will be waiting. I will capture you. And you will become my slave."
The spirit rose from its chair, its form growing larger, more imposing. It moved toward the door of the cabin, its spectral blade dragging across the floor with a sound like grinding bone.
It reached the door and waved one translucent hand.
The door swung open.
And Tsaral saw.
Inside the cabin—deeper, in a space that should not have existed—were souls.
Dozens of them.
Contorted. Screaming. Their forms twisted and broken, bound by invisible chains, forced to perform tasks that Tsaral could not fully perceive. They moved in jerky, unnatural motions, their mouths open in silent wails, their eyes empty and hollow.
Slaves.
The spirit's voice echoed in Tsaral's mind, cold and final. "This will be your fate. If you fail."
A chill ran down Tsaral's spine—a sensation that should not have been possible in his astral form, but was nonetheless real.
He forced himself to nod. I will not fail.
The spirit turned its hollow gaze on him one last time. "Good. Then go. And bring me their hearts."
Tsaral felt the pull immediately.
The silver cord at his navel tightened, yanking him backward with sudden, violent force. He was dragged away from the cabin, away from the spirit, away from the Ethereal Drift.
The plane blurred around him, colors and shapes smearing into a chaotic swirl.
And then—
He slammed back into his body.
Tsaral's eyes snapped open.
He gasped, his chest heaving, his heart pounding like a war drum. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his hair, dripping onto the bed beneath him. His hands trembled, his fingers twitching uncontrollably.
His eyes were bloodshot, the whites stained red from the strain of the astral projection.
He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his breath ragged.
Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked at the window.
The faint light of dawn was beginning to creep across the horizon.
4 AM.
He had been in the Ethereal Drift for hours.
Tsaral sat up slowly, his body aching, his mind still reeling from what he had seen.
He wiped the sweat from his face and clenched his fists.
I will not fail, he thought, his jaw tightening. I will succeed. I will kill them. And I will offer their hearts.
I will not become a slave.
He rose from the bed, his legs unsteady, and moved to the window.
Outside, the city was waking. The first rays of sunlight touched the rooftops, casting long shadows across the streets.
And Tsaral stared out at it, his white eyes burning with cold determination.
Three days.
Three days, and the hunt would begin.