Chapter 0: Before the Abyss

The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows across the worn wooden table, illuminating Isadora’s face in a soft, ethereal glow. She was young, barely past her eighteenth year, but the hardships etched onto her features told a story far older. Her eyes, a startling shade of emerald green, held a depth of sadness that belied her age, a constant reminder of the harsh realities she had endured.

Tonight, however, there was a different kind of fear lurking within them, a cold dread that threatened to consume her entirely. Tonight was the night she would be offered.

The village elder's words echoed in her ears, each syllable a hammer blow against her already fragile hope. "A sacrifice, child. A necessary offering to appease the darkness that stirs."

Isadora clenched her fists, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. Sacrifice. As if her life had ever been her own to begin with. From the moment she was orphaned, cast adrift in a world that seemed determined to break her, she had learned to survive by her wits and her charm. But charm was a useless weapon against the ancient, unyielding traditions of her people.

She glanced around the small, sparsely furnished room that had been her sanctuary for the past few years. A worn blanket lay folded on the narrow bed, a single clay pot sat on the windowsill, holding a handful of wilting wildflowers. These meager possessions were all she had to show for her life, a life that was about to be ripped away from her without so much as a second thought.

A tear escaped her eye and traced a lonely path down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away, refusing to succumb to despair. She would not go quietly into the night. She would fight, she would resist, she would do everything in her power to survive, even if it meant facing the very embodiment of darkness itself.

The village had been plagued by misfortune for months. Crops had failed, livestock had sickened and died, and a strange, unnatural darkness had begun to creep into the surrounding forests, twisting the trees into grotesque shapes and silencing the birdsong. The elders, steeped in superstition and ancient lore, had declared that the only way to appease the encroaching evil was to offer a sacrifice to the Demon Realm of Umbra, a dimension shrouded in mystery and ruled by beings of unimaginable power.

And Isadora, with her unusual beauty and her outsider status, had been chosen.

The logic was simple, if brutal: she was different, therefore she was to blame. Never mind that she had always been kind and helpful to the villagers, never mind that she had worked tirelessly to earn her keep, never mind that she was just a girl, barely more than a child. She was an easy target, a convenient scapegoat for their fears and their misfortunes.

A knock on the door shattered her thoughts. Her heart leaped into her throat, and her breath caught in her chest. This was it.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. She stood up, straightened her simple woolen dress, and walked towards the door, her legs feeling like lead. She reached out and slowly pulled it open.

Standing before her were two of the village guards, their faces grim and unyielding. They were burly men, hardened by years of toil and unwavering obedience to the elders. They did not meet her gaze, their eyes fixed on the ground.

"It is time," one of them said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Isadora nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She stepped out of the room and into the cool night air. The village was eerily silent, the only sound the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. The stars twinkled in the dark sky, indifferent to her fate.

The guards flanked her on either side, their presence both intimidating and strangely comforting. They led her through the narrow, winding streets of the village, past the darkened houses and the shuttered windows. She could feel the eyes of the villagers watching her, judging her, condemning her.

She kept her head held high, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. She would not let them see her fear. She would not let them see her pain. She would face her fate with dignity and courage, even if it was the last thing she ever did.

They arrived at the edge of the forest, where a crude altar had been erected. It was made of rough-hewn stones and stained with what she could only imagine was blood. The air around it crackled with an unnatural energy, a palpable sense of dread that made her skin crawl.

The village elder stood before the altar, his face gaunt and his eyes wild. He was chanting in a language she did not understand, his voice raspy and guttural. The other villagers stood behind him, their faces a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.

Isadora felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She wanted to run, to scream, to fight, but she knew it was futile. She was trapped, surrounded by people who had already condemned her to death.

The elder finished his chanting and turned to face her. His eyes were cold and empty, devoid of any human emotion.

"Kneel," he commanded, his voice barely a whisper.

Isadora hesitated for a moment, then slowly lowered herself to her knees. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself for what was to come.

She felt the cold stone beneath her knees, the rough fabric of her dress against her skin. She heard the rustling of leaves, the chanting of the elder, the beating of her own heart.

And then, she felt it.

A cold, dark presence, a sense of overwhelming power that made her tremble from head to toe. It was as if the very air around her had become thick and heavy, pressing down on her, suffocating her.

She opened her eyes and looked up.

The sky above her had been torn open, revealing a swirling vortex of darkness. Lightning crackled within the vortex, illuminating grotesque shapes and shadowy figures. A low, guttural growl echoed from the depths of the abyss, a sound that seemed to vibrate in her very bones.

The Demon Realm of Umbra had answered their call.

And Isadora was about to meet her fate. Or so everyone thought.

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