Amara stirred in a dark, formless space, her senses drifting as though submerged in warm water. She couldn’t feel the ache in her muscles or the bruises she’d earned in the battle against Lord Vernius. Instead, there was only weightless silence. She knew this place—it was the vast emptiness where she sometimes met him.

Her breath hitched. She’d collapsed after the fight, and now her consciousness floated in the void that lay between life and dreaming. The faintest pulse thrummed in her chest, steady and hypnotic: the echo of the eldritch power coursing through her.

A low voice rumbled, deep as the ocean’s floor.
“You have awakened me once more.”

Amara braced herself. Even here, in the hollow of her own mind, the presence of her patron pressed down like some ancient monolith.

“I—I didn’t mean to summon you,” she managed, voice echoing in the dark. “I collapsed. I guess I—passed out.”

A swirling mist, edged with flecks of starlight, coalesced around her, forming the faint silhouette of an immense, otherworldly being. Tendrils of shadow reached out and curled back, as though the entity were breathing in the darkness.

“Whether you wished it or not, you crossed that threshold between life and dream, where I dwell.”
The voice reverberated through her bones.
“I have felt your triumph… and your kills.”

Amara swallowed, heart pounding. In that moment, she remembered the destruction she’d wrought in past battles—the bandits disintegrated by her power, the illusions of darkness and light dancing around her fingertips. Some had been monsters, but others had been people. The memory stung.

“They threatened my friends,” she said, her voice small. “I didn’t want to kill them. But I had no choice.”

The mist churned, as if considering her words.
“You have a choice, little warlock. And you’ve made it. You saved many lives—the dragon hatchling, the villagers who would have been its victims if it became a lich, your elf companion, your tiefling knight. You walk a path of… compassion.”

A fleeting warmth of pride filled her at the memory of rescuing the baby dragon. But the presence continued, its ancient, dissonant tones impossible to read.

“Yet,” it went on, “human or beast, you have taken enough souls—spilled enough blood—for me to feast on. You have grown my strength in this world. Whether you kill monsters or men is of no consequence to me. But it may be of consequence to you.”

Amara frowned, fists clenching by her sides.

“I don’t want to kill without reason.”

A low, rumbling echo reverberated, something that might have been laughter, or disdain, or both.
“Then do you truly wish to keep saving lives? To spare dragons and fenrirs at the cost of humans’ blood? You carve your own path—but such a path leads to solitude. So few will understand. So few can.”

She thought of Drevan’s scars, Calen’s gentle eyes, the way they had both pulled her back from despair. I’m not alone, she wanted to shout. But she could almost feel the deity’s hollow gaze on her, prying into her doubts.

“And the paladin,” it continued, voice twisting with a note of warning, “he wields a power meant to undo mine—holy magic that scours the void. You tread dangerously, forging bonds with him. If his light ever turns on you, your bond to me could unravel.”

Amara’s heart twisted. She braced herself against the swirl of cosmic shadows, eyes burning with defiance.

“Drevan and Calen trust me. I trust them. Do you want me to leave them, to live quietly somewhere far away?”

The swirling presence went silent. The darkness rippled like black water, but no answer came. She realized he would not—could not—give her a simple yes or no. This entity might grant her power, might feed on the death she sowed, but it did not direct her life. It never had.

At length, the inky haze rolled closer, faintly luminous eyes swimming through the void.
“I cannot command how you live, Amara. Only bestow what you need—to keep living, to keep killing—whatever that entails. For now, I will grant you more of my essence. Use it wisely, or don’t. It is yours.”

She shuddered as a rush of unfamiliar energy coursed through her, not the chaotic burst she was used to, but something sharper, more refined. It coiled behind her heart like a serpent waiting to strike, promising new ways to shape her magic. She wondered if it was truly a gift—or a darker tether binding her further.

“Th-thank you,” she whispered, though fear hollowed her chest. “For the power.”

“Do not disappoint me,” the deity warned, voice echoing like the roll of distant thunder. “And remember: every life you spare… or end… strengthens us, in one way or another.”

The surroundings blurred, and Amara felt the dream begin to slip away. She realized how heavy her limbs felt, how her heart thudded. She reached out a hand into the blackness, wanting to say more—to demand clarity—but the void receded, the presence dissolving into that endless dark from whence it came.

Consciousness returned in a sudden rush of light and sensation. Amara blinked against the brightness. She found herself lying in a snug bed, tucked beneath a rough cotton blanket. Sunlight streamed through a window to her left, illuminating warm wooden walls and a few chairs. The faint smell of bread and stew drifted on the air—an inn, by the look of it.

Her entire body ached, yet that new coil of energy inside her still thrummed, an undercurrent to her own heartbeat. She flexed her fingers, half expecting sparks to fly. Nothing happened. But the power was there, waiting.

With a low groan, she pushed herself up on one elbow, scanning the room. Her bag rested on a small table nearby, her boots left in a corner. A chair near the bedside had blankets piled on it, as though someone might have been sitting vigil.

“Calen? Drevan?” she called, her voice raspy. No immediate response.

As she sat there, her patron’s words nagged at her heart. ‘Solitude… trust the paladin at your own peril… more refined magic….’ She smoothed the sheets over her lap, mind churning.

She had saved a hatchling. She had helped free a village from monstrous attacks. And perhaps, in doing so, she had inadvertently strengthened a cosmic entity that thrived on conflict, be it against men or beasts.

Yet she couldn’t undo what she was: a warlock to an eldritch god. She could only decide how to wield that power—whom to protect, whom to oppose. And if it meant forging a precarious path between light and dark, so be it.

Amara swallowed, remembering Drevan’s warning that night she nearly lost control. She remembered Calen’s unwavering compassion. A small, tired smile touched her lips. She clung to the idea of them, her found family. I won’t push them away. Not even if her deity disapproved—or tried to twist her choices.

Gathering her courage, she slowly pushed the blanket aside, wincing as her feet hit the floor. Time to see where they are, and what comes next. One step at a time, she thought. She would walk this path—her own path—no matter how lonely it might become. For as long as her friends would stand beside her, she would stand by them, even if an eldritch god whispered otherwise.

With that resolve burning in her chest, Amara made her way to the door, determined to face whatever waited beyond it—her new spells, her uncertain bond with the paladin, and the shadows of an ancient god who might yet shape her destiny.