The basket thumped against Ryelle's thigh in a rhythm to rival her head, both steady, aching things.

Hot sunlight blared down mercilessly from a cloudless sky onto the winding mountain pass before her; Ryelle scowled back up at it, her cheongsam already clinging to her frame. The scent of spring wildflowers and pine tar mingled and teased at the edge of her awareness, the ghost of a sneeze itching in the back of her throat, only adding to the growing pile of her misery.

Tsk. Of course, she had to pick one of the days with a lovely, sunny, sneezy morning with wild flowers around. And what had she been sent out to do again?

"Oh yeah. Delivery."

Just a simple, easy little trip down the mountain. By herself. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

Ryelle peered into her basket.

She supposed that the little glazed containers, painted with fanciful renditions of horses and wild creatures, were quite pretty, if the fanciful was something she cared for. It all just seemed a little... elaborate.

Downright odd, even.

Maybe they were more fancy trinkets for people in the outside to decorate their places with? They did look like little gems...

At the very bottom, hidden, nestled amid the straw, Ryelle could see little boxes of the same sort of glass; her curiosity piqued, as she rummaged further down in the little basket.

The container didn't seem as big as the rest of the contents would suggest, and at first, Ryelle assumed this to be because a good half of the items had been jammed in with no rhyme or reason. She winced at a memory of Rostyslav, angrily stuffing the straw and the glass boxes into the basket, his eyes bleary with exhaustion.

Then, in a further bout of curiosity, and because she had nothing but a headache and a few more days of travel to work off this cranky mood anyway, Ryelle lifted the first layer of the basket.

Secret cubbies, lined with straw, met her gaze.

No wonder the basket didn't match the contents. Rost must have had one of the artificers build in little slots here and there for his wares to survive jostling and handling.

Her fingers tapped on the compartment, a crooked smile cracking her dried lips at this hidden piece of ingenuity. It was clever—keeping the boxes snug, and secure on the more open frame...

Silence wrapped itself around her. A deafening silence of absence, of attention shifting away from the road, away from the wilds. The air lost some of that pine crispness that had danced on her palate; the scent of wild flowers that teased at her sinuses died away. The world became...

Grey, she decided. It was like seeing a picture of how the world should have been painted in different colors.

"Oh shit—"

If she ever needed something to scare away the remnants of a headache, it was this.

Ryelle's golden eyes narrowed. Her ears twitched, pivoting slightly to try and capture any noise, anything at all from within this very strange fog.

How she had walked right into this fog, unaware, with a basket of trinkets at hand, all while having a hangover... well that was something she would muse on once she was out of this grey... and whatever it brought.

The mist clung to her skin like wet silk, cold and somehow hungry. Each breath tasted of old copper and forgotten things. Her footsteps, which moments before had crunched against pine needles and scattered pebbles, now made no sound at all—as if the grey had swallowed even the memory of noise.

Ryelle set the basket down carefully, her fingers already itching for the kanabō strapped across her back. The weapon's weight had been a comfort during the morning's walk, a familiar pressure between her shoulder blades. Now it felt necessary.

The fog pressed closer, thick enough to chew. She could barely make out her own hands when she extended them, the olive skin looking wan and bloodless in the grey light. Even her silver hair seemed drained, hanging limp as old rope around her shoulders.

"Right then," she muttered, her voice falling flat and dead in the unnatural air. "Let's see what you're hiding."

Something moved in the mist ahead. Not walking—gliding. A shape that suggested shoulders, a head, but wrong somehow. Too tall. Too fluid. The grey parted around it like water around a ship's prow, revealing glimpses of pale flesh that gleamed with its own sick luminescence.

Ryelle's hand found the kanabō's grip. The wooden handle, worn smooth by countless hands and blessed by Hilda's earth-magic, felt solid and real against her palm. Real enough to anchor her in this drained world.

The thing in the mist turned toward her. Where a face should have been, only smooth bone showed—a skull that might once have been human, but stretched too long, the jaw hanging open in a permanent, silent scream. Wisps of the grey fog drifted from the empty sockets, as if its very presence bled the color from the world.

"A Drained," Ryelle whispered, the word surfacing from Ebonheim's borrowed memories. Creatures that fed on life's vibrancy, leaving only hollow husks and grey despair behind. The valley's borders sometimes attracted such things—drawn to the concentrated vitality within.

The creature's skull tilted, studying her with eyeless attention. When it spoke, the voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a sound like wind through empty houses.

"Such... brightness... in the grey places. Such warmth to taste."

Its form solidified as it approached, revealing a body that had once been human—or something close to it. Pale skin stretched over elongated limbs, fingers that ended in yellowed bone instead of nails. Tattered robes hung from its frame, the fabric bleached to the same lifeless grey as everything else in this pocket of dead air.

"Come closer, bright one. Let me drink deep of your colors."

Ryelle hefted the kanabō, rolling her shoulders to loosen the muscles. The divine essence thrummed through her bones, a warm counterpoint to the chill that seemed to seep from the creature's very presence.

"Sorry," she said, settling into a fighting stance. "I'm rather attached to my colors. You'll have to find another snack."

The Drained hissed, a sound like steam escaping from cracked stone. The mist around it writhed, reaching toward Ryelle with grasping tendrils. Where the grey fog touched the exposed skin of her arms, numbness spread—not cold exactly, but an absence of sensation that felt worse than any pain.

She moved.

The kanabō whistled through the dead air, its studded head aimed at the creature's elongated skull. The Drained flowed aside like smoke, its form dispersing and reforming three feet to the left. Ryelle's swing met only empty mist, the momentum carrying her forward.

Bone fingers raked across her back, tearing through the tough fabric of her cheongsam. Ice-fire traced the wounds, and Ryelle felt something more than blood flowing away—warmth, energy, the very essence of her vitality being drawn into the creature's hungry touch.

She spun, bringing the kanabō around in a horizontal arc. This time the weapon found purchase, the iron-bound wood smashing into the Drained's ribs with a wet crunch. The creature stumbled backward, grey mist spilling from the wound like smoke from a broken bellows.

But already the damage was healing, bone and flesh knitting together with obscene speed. The creature's jaw hung wider, that soundless scream becoming something almost like laughter.

"Yes," it wheezed. "Fight. Struggle. The brighter you burn, the sweeter the feast."

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Ryelle wiped blood from her split lip—when had it managed to strike her face? The grey was making it hard to track its movements, the lack of color and sound creating blind spots in her vision.

"Feast on this," she snarled, and reached for the divine essence that coiled in her core.

Power flowed down her arms, into the kanabō's grip. The weapon's iron studs began to glow with golden light, pushing back the grey fog in a small circle around her. The warmth felt like summer sunlight after winter's end.

The Drained recoiled, its form wavering at the edges. "Brightness... burns..."

"Good," Ryelle said, and charged.

This time she didn't aim for center mass. The creature could disperse, reform, heal from wounds that would fell any mortal thing. But its skull—that remained constant, the anchor point for its unnatural existence.

She feinted left, then spun right, using her momentum to drive the kanabō upward in a rising strike. The blessed weapon caught the Drained's jaw, shattering bone with a sound like breaking glass. The creature's scream finally found voice—a wail that seemed to shake the very air.

The mist around them churned, growing thicker, hungrier. More shapes moved within it—the Drained wasn't alone. How many travelers had vanished along this pass, their life force feeding this growing nest of parasites?

The thought made Ryelle's blood sing with rage. Her horns, small as they were, began to tingle with heat. The draconic essence that Ebonheim had woven into her being stirred, responding to the challenge.

The broken-jawed Drained lunged at her, its movements becoming desperate, feral. She caught its grasping hands on the kanabō's haft, muscle straining against unnatural strength. This close, she could see the thing's true nature—not undead, but something that had never been properly alive to begin with. A hole in the world wearing flesh like an ill-fitting coat.

"What are you?" she grunted, pushing back against its weight.

"Hunger," it whispered through its shattered jaw. "Emptiness. The space between heartbeats, between breaths. The grey that comes when all color dies."

More of them emerged from the mist—a half-dozen hollow shapes with reaching fingers and empty sockets. They moved like dancers in some obscene ballet, flowing around Ryelle in a tightening circle.

She needed space. Room to maneuver. The kanabō was powerful but limited in close quarters against multiple opponents.

Ryelle planted her feet, drew breath, and roared.

The sound erupted from her throat with draconic force, a primal challenge that made the very air shiver. The divine essence flowed with it, turning her voice into a weapon that scattered the grey mist like leaves before a hurricane.

The Drained staggered backward, their forms wavering. For a moment, color bled back into the world—the green of pine needles, the blue of distant sky, the warm brown of mountain earth. Life reasserted itself in that circle of sound and fury.

In that moment of clarity, Ryelle moved.

She bounded forward, not toward the closest Drained but to a cluster of three that had been trying to flank her. The kanabō became a blur of motion, divine essence crackling along its length like captured lightning. She caught the first creature across the skull, sending it tumbling into its companions. The second lost an arm to her backswing, grey mist pouring from the stump.

The third managed to rake its claws across her shoulder, but Ryelle was already moving, spinning away from the strike and bringing her weapon around in a devastating overhead blow. The Drained's skull exploded like a rotten melon, releasing a gout of grey fog that dispersed in the mountain wind.

Two down. Five to go.

The remaining creatures had learned caution. They spread out, forcing Ryelle to divide her attention. The original Drained, its jaw partially healed, began to chant in a language that predated words—syllables of emptiness and void that made reality itself flinch.

The grey fog thickened again, pressing close around Ryelle like a living thing. Her enhanced roar had bought her momentary clarity, but now the world was fading back to that terrible uniformity. Even the glow from her blessed weapon seemed dimmer, struggling against the encroaching void.

She needed to end this quickly. Each passing moment let the creatures drain more of the vitality from this place, making them stronger while the world grew weaker.

Ryelle closed her eyes, shutting out the deceptive grey. Instead, she reached out with other senses—the tremor of feet on stone, the whisper of cloth through air, the subtle shift in temperature that marked a Drained's presence. Her draconic heritage stirred, lending her the predator's instinct for hidden prey.

There—two approaching from her left, moving in perfect synchronization. Another circling behind, its bone claws scraping against stone. The chanting one holding position, weaving its emptiness-song to maintain the fog.

And directly ahead, the one she'd struck first, its movements jerky but determined.

Ryelle opened her eyes and smiled, baring teeth that seemed sharper than they had been moments before.

She feinted toward the pair on her left, then pivoted and hurled the kanabō like a spear. The weapon caught the circling Drained center mass, divine essence flaring on impact. The creature's torso simply evaporated, leaving legs and arms to collapse in a tangle of pale limbs.

But now she was weaponless, and four Drained remained.

The pair she'd feinted toward rushed her, sensing opportunity. Ryelle met their charge bare-handed, her fingers extended like claws. The draconic essence that had been a warm glow in her core now blazed like a forge fire, strengthening muscle and bone beyond mortal limits.

She caught the first Drained's wrist, her grip shattering the bone with a wet crack. Her other hand found its throat, divine power flowing through her fingers to burn away the grey mist that filled its form. The creature dissolved with a final, whispering shriek.

The second Drained managed to score deep cuts across her ribs before she caught it by the skull and crushed its head between her palms. Grey matter splattered her cheongsam, already torn from the earlier exchange.

Three down. Three to go.

The chanting Drained had stopped its song, fear finally piercing its alien hunger. The fog was already beginning to thin without its constant reinforcement. Color seeped back into the edges of Ryelle's vision—the warm brown of her basket where she'd left it, the green of a distant tree.

She retrieved her kanabō from the dissipating remains of her thrown target. The weapon's blessed iron was unmarked, its divine glow steady and sure.

"Still hungry?" she asked the remaining creatures.

They didn't answer in words. Instead, they attacked as one—a final, desperate gambit. The chanting one raised its hands, trying to weave one last spell of draining and despair. The other two flanked wide, hoping to overwhelm her with numbers.

Ryelle planted her feet and let them come.

The first to reach her died on the kanabō's point, the weapon punching through its chest with enough force to lift it off the ground. She spun, using the impaled creature's body as a shield against the second Drained's claws, then kicked it away and brought her weapon around in a horizontal arc that took the second creature's head clean off.

The chanting Drained's spell reached completion just as Ryelle turned toward it. A wave of grey emptiness washed over her, trying to drain away her color, her warmth, her very essence.

But Ryelle was more than mortal flesh. The divine spark that Ebonheim had kindled into her being flared against the creature's hunger, refusing to be diminished. The draconic heritage in her blood burned like molten gold, too pure and fierce to be tainted by such hollow magic.

She walked through the wave of draining force as if it were merely rain, each step leaving small pools of golden light in her wake. The chanting Drained's empty sockets widened in what might have been surprise, its spell faltering.

"My turn," Ryelle said, and struck.

The kanabō caught the creature squarely in the center of its elongated skull. There was no sound—the divine essence had burned away even the possibility of a death cry. The Drained simply... stopped. Its form collapsed inward like a punctured waterskin, grey mist dissipating into the mountain air.

Silence returned to the pass. But this was the natural quiet of high places, not the dead absence that had marked the creatures' presence. Birds began to call from distant trees. A breeze stirred the pine needles, filling the air with the sharp scent of resin and life.

Ryelle leaned on her kanabō, breathing hard. The cuts on her back and ribs stung, but they were already beginning to close—divine resilience knitting flesh back together. Her cheongsam was ruined, the tough fabric hanging in tatters around her frame, but she was alive and whole.

More importantly, she had won. Her first real battle, and she had emerged victorious.

She retrieved her basket, checking to ensure that Rostyslav's precious glasswork had survived the encounter. The secret compartments had done their job—not a single piece was cracked or broken.

The old glassblower would be pleased.

As she settled the basket's strap across her shoulder, Ryelle caught sight of something glinting in the dirt where the chanting Drained had fallen. A small crystal, no larger than her thumb, pulsing with faint grey light.

She picked it up, turning it over in her palm. The crystal felt cold, empty, but somehow important. A trophy of sorts, or perhaps something more. The Drained had been feeding along this pass for some time—this might be a condensed fragment of all the life force they had stolen.

The crystal went into one of her torn pockets. She would ask Ebonheim about it when she returned. Or perhaps Th'maine—the old arcanist would likely find it fascinating.

The sun was climbing toward its noon position, and Three-Rivers Crossing was still several hours' walk downslope. Ryelle adjusted the basket's position, tested her grip on the kanabō, and set off down the mountain path.

Her first mission was only half complete, but already she felt different.

The nervous energy that had plagued her since creation had settled into something more focused. This was what she had been made for—not Ebonheim's patient diplomacy or gentle guidance, but direct action against threats that words could not sway.

As she walked, Ryelle found herself humming—a wordless tune that seemed to spring from the draconic part of her heritage. A song of victory, of challenges met and overcome. The sound echoed off the mountain walls, clear and bright in the morning air.

Behind her, the last traces of grey mist faded into memory. Ahead, the trading post waited, and beyond that, whatever other dangers the world might offer.

Ryelle smiled, her golden eyes bright with anticipation. Let them come. She was ready.

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