Primal Sin

Left alone with my thoughts, my eyes lingered on the endless darkness of the ocean. The ship creaked softly beneath me, a steady rhythm that should’ve been comforting, but the void of the sea was anything but. Hours seemed to stretch into an eternity, and still, nothing happened. The deck had emptied—Eryon and Susan had gone below to rest—but I remained. Sleep felt distant, like an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. The warming spell I’d cast earlier helped combat the biting cold, and I focused on its hum, grounding myself.

Every now and then, I lightly punched my own arm, testing the shield spell I’d activated earlier. A faint shimmer met each strike. It was still active. Good. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to test it so often, but there was something satisfying in feeling the flow of my mana, controlling it with precision. No, I didn’t just understand it—I could feel it now.

But then, my thoughts froze.

Somewhere in the distance, a shape cut through the abyss. A massive, serpent-like silhouette slithered beneath the surface of the ocean, illuminated faintly by phosphorescent flashes that danced along its body. It was enormous—far larger than anything I’d ever seen before. My chest tightened as panic set in, and I found myself glancing around the deck, my heart hammering in my chest. Was anyone else seeing this?

“Do not panic,” a voice came from beside me, calm and steady. Rowan stood there, his lance resting casually in his hand as if he were waiting for a drink at a tavern. His piercing gaze was locked on the water, following the shifting shape. I envied his composure.

“What is that?” I whispered, barely able to tear my eyes away from the creature.

“An ancient one,” he replied, his tone even. “The dwarves call it The Deep Sovereign.”

The name sent a shiver down my spine. “What is it doing here?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Existing,” Rowan said simply. “It’s been here longer than most of the lands we know. Predates the demons, predates the gods, some say. A force of nature, nothing more.”

My panic didn’t subside. “What if it attacks us?”

“It won’t.” He turned his eyes to me, his expression calm but firm. “It’s dangerous, yes. Deadly. But harmless if left alone. Like most ancient creatures, it’s ruled by instinct. You’d do well to remember that.”

Torran joined us at the railing, his broad figure barely jostled by the shifting ship. He handed Rowan and me mugs of hot Draeven Brew, the steam curling into the frigid air. I wrapped my hands around the mug gratefully and took a long sip, letting the warmth spread through me. My nerves were still raw after seeing that... thing beneath the waves. This was my first encounter with something so ancient, so vast, so powerful. The experience left my thoughts racing.

Rowan, as composed as ever, glanced at Torran. “We just saw The Deep Sovereign.”

Torran chuckled, not with humor, but with a kind of knowing exasperation. “Ah, that one. I’ve crossed paths with it a few times. Seen it sink a ship once—fools tried fishing it out of the water. Didn’t even have time to scream. You don’t mess with it; you leave it alone. Always.”

My curiosity surged despite my lingering unease. “If it’s so ancient... older than demons, older than gods... how many creatures like that are out there?” I asked, still sipping the brew as I tried to keep my voice steady.

Torran leaned against the railing, his gaze on the dark horizon. “A few,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Seen my fair share in all my years sailing. Though not many live to tell about them.” The hot Draeven Brew on my hand suddenly goes cold.

He took a long gulp from his mug before continuing. “This sea, for instance, hides more than its share of ancient beasts. There’s The Deep Sovereign, of course. That one’s always lurking, always watching. You give it respect, and it’ll let you pass.” He paused, swirling the last of his brew in his mug. “Then there’s another.”

I leaned forward, the cold forgotten. “Another? What is it?”

He hesitated, staring into the black expanse as if reliving an old memory. “We call it The Abyssal Harbinger. Unlike The Sovereign, it doesn’t just watch. It hunts. A creature that shouldn’t exist. I only saw it once, years ago, and I’ve prayed to the seas every day since that I never see it again.”

I felt a chill crawl up my spine, and it wasn’t from the wind. “What happened?”

“Stormy night, darker than this one,” Torran began, his voice heavy. “We were barely holding the ship together, riding out waves higher than mountains. Then, through the chaos, I saw it. A mass of writhing shapes and impossible angles, glowing faintly in the depths. It moved like a predator, and when it struck, it tore three ships apart like they were paper.”

He fell silent, his face grim. “I don’t think I even saw its true form, just a shadow of it. But that shadow... it was enough. That thing isn’t just old—it’s wrong. Like it doesn’t belong here, in this world.”

He exhaled sharply and stood up straight. “That’s why these waters are so dangerous. There’s more than storms and pirates to fear out here. Best not to linger.”

His words left a heavy silence between us. I sipped my Draeven Brew, trying to push down the unease bubbling in my chest. Torran’s tales painted the seas as an unforgiving world, one ruled by ancient creatures beyond comprehension. And yet, here we were, drifting over its surface, mere specks in the grand scheme.

“I’ve seen some too,” Rowan said, his voice low, almost reflective. His eyes lingered on the abyssal darkness stretching endlessly before us, the faint crests of waves glowing softly under the ship’s magical light. He took a sip before telling his story.

“I’ve been hunting monsters for over two hundred years,” he continued. “Met some creatures I’d rather not. One was called the Morath by the old folk—what they called a Forest Guardian. I was hunting a Dire Wyrm in the eastern woods, about to take it down, when this... thing stepped in. Looked like it had been carved straight out of the forest itself—tall, hulking, with bark-like skin and glowing green eyes.”

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He shook his head, a faint smirk on his lips as if recalling an old mistake. “It knocked me clean off my feet. I was ready to fight back, raise my lance, but something told me to hold back. Good thing I did.”

I listened intently, my fingers tightening around my warm mug. “What happened?”

Rowan shrugged, the gesture calm, but there was an edge of caution in his tone. “It just stood there, towering over me. Watching. Once I stepped back and left, it disappeared into the trees. Most of these ancient creatures aren’t as dangerous as they seem—so long as you leave them be. Sure, they could kill you easily if they wanted to. But they won’t, unless you give them a reason to. People are fools to think they can hunt them. Those who try? They don’t come back.”

“Aye,” Torran added, leaning against the railing and staring at the distant waves. “Most are harmless if you leave them alone.”

He took another swig of his Draeven Brew, his tone shifting to something darker. “But not The Primal Sins.”

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a thread. I could feel the weight of them pressing down, heavy and suffocating. Rowan straightened slightly, brushing the back of his neck as his brow furrowed. Even his usually stoic demeanor cracked for a moment, a flicker of unease in his golden eyes.

“What’s that?” I asked, breaking the tense silence, my voice quieter than I intended.

Torran didn’t answer right away. He tapped the rim of his mug thoughtfully before turning his gaze to me, his expression grim. “The oldest creatures in this world. Folk said they were the first creation that exist. They’re not like The Deep Sovereign or the Forest Guardian. Those creatures just are, you see—part of the world, like the trees or the sea.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The Primal Sins, though? They’re against the world. Predators of creation itself. They’re chaos, madness, destruction. No rhyme or reason to them. They don’t just kill—they unravel everything they touch.”

My chest tightened as Torran’s words sank in. “And you’ve... seen one?”

Torran’s eyes darkened, a shadow crossing his normally jovial demeanor. “No,” he said, voice low. “And I pray I never do.” He gestured vaguely toward the horizon, as if the sea itself held the stories he spoke of. “There are tales, though. Places consumed. Entire civilizations wiped out overnight. Not destroyed in flames or floods—just... gone. Leaving nothing but ruins, whispers, and the faintest trace of a Sin passing through.”

My eyes drifted to Rowan. He had been silent, unusually so, his expression unreadable, though I could sense something brewing beneath it. He wasn’t shaken easily, but this? This was different.

Torran noticed it too. He shifted uncomfortably before clapping Rowan on the shoulder. “Sorry to bring it up, brother,” Torran said, his voice softer now. “But she better know, right?”

Rowan exhaled deeply, his gaze steady but heavy. “Yeah,” he said, almost too quietly. He emptied his mug in one gulp.

Then he spoke, his voice steady but carrying the weight of old wounds.

“My entire clan,” Rowan began, “was wiped out by a Primal Sin. I was just a boy then. Maybe fifty years old—still a child by dwarven standards. I’d fallen asleep in the forge, where my father worked. When I woke up...” His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “When I woke up, they were all gone. My father. My mother. My brothers and sisters. Every single one of them. Dead. Just... dead.”

I could feel the tension in his words like a physical thing, the air around us thick and oppressive.

“The buildings were untouched,” Rowan said. “No fires. No signs of battle. Just... lifeless bodies. All of them. I was the only one left.”

Torran clapped Rowan’s shoulder again, squeezing tightly. “You’ve carried that burden long enough,” Torran said, his tone uncharacteristically solemn.

I wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence. My hand moved toward Rowan, but he shook his head slightly, a faint, almost invisible gesture. “I’m fine now,” he said, though his voice betrayed a quiet struggle.

Torran cleared his throat, shifting the conversation slightly but not losing the gravity of it. “Old folk called them The Old Demons,” he said, addressing me directly. “Demons that came before demons even existed. Does that make sense to you?”

I shook my head. “No,” I admitted. “Demons are already so foreign to me. Something older than them?”

Torran let out a bitter chuckle. “It doesn’t have to make sense, my lady. It just is. They’re not like your demons—Lust, Greed, Wrath. Those ones want something. These? They just... exist. Like a force of nature. They come, they take, and they leave. And if you’re in their way? You’re gone.”

Rowan nodded, his gaze distant. “They don’t care about power or vengeance. They’re beyond it. You can’t reason with them. You can’t fight them. You can only hope they don’t notice you.”

I shivered, the cold of the sea air biting deeper into my skin now.

“But don’t let that terrify you too much,” Torran added quickly, his tone lightening, though it didn’t erase the grim weight of the conversation. “There are ways to survive. Most are harmless, like The Deep Sovereign. Leave it be, and it’ll leave you be. The problem is when you meet one that isn’t.”

“Like the one that destroyed your clan,” I said softly, my gaze drifting to Rowan.

He nodded once, a solemn acknowledgment.

Torran leaned against the railing, staring out at the black sea. “Demons, Primal Sins, and gods know what else is out there. If you think demons are the worst thing this world has to offer, my lady...” He glanced back at me, his face grim but resolute. “You’re wrong. And you better be ready for whatever’s next.”

I gripped my mug tighter, the weight of his words sinking in like stones in my stomach. Whatever was next, it wasn’t just demons we had to worry about. It was everything else lurking in the shadows of this world—waiting, watching, and perhaps, already moving.

Rowan suddenly clapped his hands, the sharp sound cutting through the tension like a blade. I jumped slightly, startled out of my thoughts. “Well,” he said, his voice a mixture of finality and practicality, “let’s worry about what we can handle, shall we?”

I exhaled slowly, nodding. “True,” I murmured, gripping my staff a little tighter.

He turned to face both me and Torran, his expression resolute. “We’re here to finish the demons,” Rowan continued, his voice steady. “They’re the real threat for now. If we take them out, that’s one less disaster waiting to destroy this world.”

Torran nodded in agreement, his gaze still lingering on the dark horizon.

“When we kill the last of them,” Rowan said, his tone softening slightly but still holding its unyielding edge, “we’ll make the world a little bit better. And for me?” He shrugged. “That’s enough.”

I glanced at him, the words settling in my chest. A little bit better. It wasn’t a grand promise of a perfect world or the end of all suffering. Just... better.

And as much as I hated to admit it, that was enough for me too.

Suddenly, without warning, Rowan lunged forward, his lance thrusting straight toward my face with terrifying precision. My heart froze. I didn’t have time to think, let alone react. Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact.

A faint hum, a shimmering buzz of energy, and nothing.

When I opened my eyes, his lance hovered inches from my face, stopped dead by the invisible barrier of my shield. The faint shimmer pulsed softly before fading, leaving only Rowan’s calm, almost amused expression behind it.

“For the Gods, Rowan!” Torran roared from beside me, clutching his chest. “At least say something first, you bloody maniac!” He patted his chest, muttering something in Dwarvish under his breath.

Rowan let out a rare, deep laugh, the sound warm and genuine. It caught me so off guard that I just stared at him.

“You just fixed your fatal flaw,” Rowan said, lowering his lance with a satisfied nod. “For now, at least. That’s good enough for me.” He turned, moving toward the deck with the quiet assurance of someone who always knew exactly where he was going.

I stood there, still gripping my staff tightly, my heart pounding in my chest. “A little warning would’ve been nice,” I muttered under my breath.

But despite myself, I couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of pride. I had done it. The shield held. I could handle myself now—at least a little better than before.

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To be continued