Ninety percent of my people died that night. The weak first. Then the children. Then the elders who tried to shield them. Those of us with potent mana survived—not because we were spared, but because the curse needed us alive.
We did not escape unscathed. The survivors were twisted. Our bodies hollowed. Our souls stretched thin and bound to shadow. We became wraiths—anchored to dark magic, sustained by it, enslaved by it.
We fled into caverns, believing them refuge. We were wrong. The caverns became ours. Or perhaps—we became theirs.
We were scattered. Torn apart by distance and time. Some dragged north. Some south. Some buried deep beneath the earth where even light forgot how to exist. The shadow pooled in those places, thickening, aging, growing intelligent in its own hateful way.
Over centuries, the dark magic did not fade.
It settled.
