Willow's reason for battling a multitude of soul beings was noble, yet perhaps the hardest task she had ever faced. In order to truly lead the Exiles, she knew she would eventually have to confront Eric, their merciless leader, and possibly other members of the band who were far from loyal companions.
All of this while fighting against a hundred or more soul beings of unknown classes and terrifying strength. The odds were crushing, but her resolve demanded clarity.
That was why she needed to know exactly where her companions were, and where her enemies lurked, before the first strike was made. Only with such awareness could she hope to survive, secure life energy, and claim her place as the Exiles' true leader.
The distinction was clear in Willow's mind — those she wanted to save, and those who were her enemies. The battle was only moments away now. Willow took one last look around, her eyes scanning the dunes and shadows, recounting the names of her friends, colleagues, and the individuals who had become her family in these past few days: Young, Sasha, Nect, Bark, Sheila, Eric, and KO.
Each name carried weight, each face a reminder of curses, loyalty, and betrayal. She sighed for a while, the burden heavy on her chest,before finally taking a step forward. With that single motion, she committed herself to the fight, to attacking the soul beings, and to securing the life energy that would decide not only her survival but the fate of the Exiles.
***
A soul being wielding a scimitar, dressed in a sleek black suit completely unlike the heavy armor worn by standard skeleton knights, was busy making his rounds around the camp set up by his master, Diego Qanan.
His movements were precise, but his mind was restless. He couldn't help but wonder where his master was and what he was up to. A full day had passed since Diego had last been seen in the camp, and the silence weighed heavily.
The soul being's unease grew with every step, the thought gnawing at him that something had gone terribly wrong with his master, and that the caravan's fate might already be shifting in ways he could not control.
He knew he couldn't possibly do anything to help his master. He wasn't even in a position, nor anywhere near where his master was, to offer aid. Worse yet, he doubted he was strong enough to make a difference.
His master was a true soul vampire, a being of immense power, while he was merely a skeleton knight, a servant bound by weakness. The weight of that disparity pressed heavily on him, filling his chest with shame.
Casting his eyes downward, he muttered to himself, whispering the same refrain over and over — the desperate need to grow stronger, to one day rise beyond his limitations and stand worthy in the shadow of Diego Qanan.
As he scanned the camp, the skeleton knight felt a subtle disturbance — a pattern in the sand, a rhythm of movement just a few meters ahead. Someone was using assassin's footwork, the kind designed to obscure presence and mask intent.
The soul being was immediately drawn to the area, his instincts sharpening as he tried to decipher who could possibly be moving with such deadly precision. He advanced cautiously, every step measured, his scimitar ready, eyes darting across the shadows.
He observed his surroundings repeatedly, tension rising, until finally he caught sight of a figure moving obscurely within the camp, slipping through the veil of darkness like a phantom.
It only took a moment for the soul being to lock eyes with the figure moving obscurely in the camp. Yet when the figure met his gaze, she did not attack or flee. Instead, she froze, alarmed and visibly shocked, her body stiff as though caught between instinct and disbelief.
The soul being had no idea why she behaved this way, confusion gnawing at him. But in that instant, the skeleton knight recognized her — the truth of who she was, and whether she was friend or foe. His decision was immediate. With a voice that cut through the silence, he shouted the word: "Elf!" The cry jolted the dark elf into consciousness, snapping her out of her daze.
With a swift, practiced motion, the knight assumed a battle stance, his scimitar gleaming as he brought it into view, ready to strike.
***
Willow was doing surprisingly well. She had successfully infiltrated the camp, slipping through shadows with a precise footwork that allowed her to move unnoticed, checking every nook and cranny with careful precision.
The soul beings had surprisingly well‑organized camps, far more structured than their brutish nature suggested, with supplies stacked neatly and patrols arranged in patterns. So far, she hadn't encountered a single soul being within the camp itself, which was both a blessing and a curse.
That meant she still had a few precious moments to conserve her strength before the real fight began. Yet it was not entirely good, because if she couldn't find the soul beings and battle them one on one, then when she did encounter them, she would be forced into group combat.
Willow was no group fighter — she despised the prospect of battling multiple targets stronger than herself, while trying to parry and dodge their blows as best she could. The thought of being surrounded, blades flashing from every angle, weighed heavily on her mind, but she steeled herself, knowing hesitation would only lead to death.
She proceeded past a few more tents until her eyes locked onto a lone figure — a skeleton knight. At first, Willow felt a surge of relief; the knight was alone, vulnerable, and seemingly open to any means of attack.
But then she faltered. Her gaze lingered on the armor he wore, and something stirred deep within her memory. The design looked strangely familiar, the craftsmanship echoing patterns she had seen before.
It was almost like something her mother would make, a detail that unsettled her more than the knight's presence itself. That single recognition shook her confidence, forcing her to hesitate at the very moment she should have struck.
Trying to confirm the truth, Willow began searching for the enchanted domain Crest. It didn't take long before her sharp eyes found it — resting on the assassin's suit that covered the bony ribs of the skeleton knight.
The mark was woven into the fabric itself, etched with precision and power. When she located the Crest, her breath caught in her throat. Recognition struck like lightning.
She realized, with a chilling certainty, that she was the one who had woven the Crest. The threads of her own handiwork stared back at her, binding the knight's armor, and the revelation sent a storm of confusion and dread surging through her heart.