“Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see.”

  Martin Luther King, Jr.

  Pebbles crunched under Bethany’s feet as she marched down the narrow valley path, its walls comprised of unclimbable stone covered in piercing thorns. The breeze that flowed down the passage felt like the winds that drifted off the northern mountains – crisp and damp, with a hint of the unknown behind the scent of the pine. It drew the desert heat from Bethany’s skin like a damp cloth laid upon a sunburn.

  Yet Bethany found little comfort in the sensation. With every minute that passed, the light in the valley grew dimmer, and a thick, imposing darkness flooded in to take its place. After three hours, she was forced to call upon her Hammer of Light to illuminate the path ahead. Where her light met the cruel thorns, haunting shadows cast against the walls, dancing with each step – candlelight phantoms that stole her bravado, piece by piece.

  Her instincts rested on a razor’s edge. Bethany twitched at every snapped twig and every phantom glimpsed in the corner of her eye that danced to a tune not cast by her light. The burden of the leather-bound book in her backpack grew heavier with every step, and Omoikane’s promise of death ahead weighed heavier still.

  “Hold it together Bethany,” she whispered to break the silence that threatened to drown her. “You’ll get through this. It’s just darkness, and you and the darkness are well acquainted.”

  A faint, malicious laughter echoed in the distance, and Bethany couldn’t tell whether it was real or a figment of her imagination.

  Her thoughts were drawn to her childhood, when she was ten-year-old and struggling to cope with the death of her mother and the betrayal of her father.

  Every night he came. Every night it got worse. I missed school and I fell behind. My father wouldn’t let me go with the bruises on my face. But it didn’t take him long to learn where bruises could be hidden.

  Her father wasn’t the only one who learned in those first few months. Bethany taught herself how to sense the danger building each night in her home. She sat in her bedroom, surrounded by the darkness, and listened to the clink of glasses as her father drank downstairs. She learned to distinguish the sound of an empty bottle and the difference between beer and whisky and gin. She could judge her father’s drunkenness through the subtle cues that drifted into her bedroom, and she could predict whether he would simply pass out, or if he would come for her in the night.

  On the first day of fall in her tenth year – sporting a day-old black eye and swollen lip – Bethany grabbed her ratty blanket and snuck out her window, desperate to escape the violence she knew would come again that night. She ran into the woods behind their home, until she could no longer see the light shining through the windows of her home. Clutching her blanket tightly to her chest, she walked on, each step taking her further away from cruelty behind her.

  Eventually, in the dead of night under the light of the full moon, she stumbled upon a tree that had collapsed during a recent storm. Its roots had been ripped from the ground, leaving behind a tree throw – a hole several feet deep – that was partially sheltered by the tree’s network of dying roots. Bethany spent the night in that hole, her blanket draped tightly around her as she shivered and cried in the darkness.

  For a few precious months, the hole became a sanctuary for the grieving little girl. She always returned in the morning – she couldn’t leave her grandmother alone – but on those nights when she knew the violence would come, she would sneak out and return to the sanctuary.

  She lined the hole with a thick bed of fresh moss and used leafy branches to create a barrier against the biting wind. She snuck what little food she dared from the cupboards so she wouldn’t starve, but she took nothing else from her home lest her father grow suspicious, save for one precious thing. Her mother’s nighty, which she stole from a trunk in the basement.

  It still held her scent, and as Bethany clutched it tightly as she slept, she imagined being held in her mother’s protective arms once more.

  The nights grew colder as the fall edged into winter, and with the cold came the howls of the wolves.

  At first, the howls were distant – the nocturnal dance of predator and prey carried on the wind and elevated by darkness. On those nights, chilled to the bone, Bethany would huddle in her hole, quiet as a mouse, until the howls faded away and she was once again alone in the world – protected behind a wall of flimsy sticks and childhood naivety.

  It was in the early days of November, as the first blanket of snow fell upon the forest, that the wolves came for her in the dead of night. Bethany woke to the scratching of claws against her stick wall, and the sniffs of predators who sensed nearby prey. Utter terror seized her soul, and she clutched her mother’s nighty tightly to her chest, squeezed her eyes shut, and silently prayed for her protection.

  She held her breath as a wolf eased its muzzle through the branches, its curious sniff filling her with dread. It reached blindly for her, and its teeth closed upon the nighty in her hands.

  The wolf tore it from her grasp, and it took every ounce of good sense for ten-year-old Bethany not to try to pull it back. All she could do was lay there, shivering from the combined chill of crippling fear and winter’s breath, as the wolves tore apart her last connection to her mother bit-by-bit.

  When morning’s sun finally broke over the horizon, all that remained were the tiniest fragments of the nighty – her mother’s scent lost to the wind. She ran home as fast as her frostbitten feet could carry her, only to run headlong into her father as she bolted through the front door.

  It had taken two weeks to recover from his fury. Her grandmother had sat at her side, tending to her prickly feet and deep, painful bruises, as she told Bethany not to blame her father.

  “Be brave, little bee,” her grandmother said. “He doesn’t mean it. Your father loves you. He grieves for your mother, and you owe it to him to be patient. I don’t want you to leave this house again like that, understand?”

  The wolves weren’t only in the forest. They were behind the walls of my home as well.

  Bethany shook away the memory, but the howls of the wolves still echoed in her mind – childhood trauma resurfaced against the flickering shadows of the valley.

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  A winter chill blew down the passage, and Bethany’s hair stood on end.

  Something’s not right.

  The howls came again, and this time they were not found in her memories.

  They came from behind her.

  Bethany gripped her Hammer of Light tightly and directed its light down the passage at her back. Three distinct howls greeted the light, and the shadows flickering on the walls took on a sinister dance.

  I’m vulnerable here, out in the open. I need to find some cover.

  She turned and ran, illuminating the path ahead as she sprinted through the tall grass. Her backpack – and the precious cargo contained within – bounced on her back, the straps digging uncomfortably into her shoulders. Her enhanced speed carried her forward, but the howls gained on her, growing closer with every step she took down the unwinding valley.

  Her breath grew heavy and sweat dripped down the side of her face. There was no cover to be found. Only the narrow path ahead, and the thorn covered, unclimbable walls on either side.

  Just when she had started to lose hope – when she was about to turn and face her pursuers – she caught a twinkle of pure white ivory in the middle of an open field.

  The bust of Omoikane.

  That’s where I’ll make my stand.

  The clearing gave her room to maneuver, and she could put the bust between her and the wolves to slow them down.

  She arrived at the clearing and ducked behind the bust and cast her light down the valley where she had been.

  The voice of Omoikane began to emanate from the bust.

  A man lives in the depths of Eternity. He…

  “Shut it Omoikane!” Bethany shouted angrily. “I’m too busy dealing with your fucking wolves to listen to your bullshit riddle.”

  She removed her backpack and leaned it against the bust to grant her shoulders more flexibility. With a deep, calming breath, she steeled herself for the enemies that would be upon her in moments.

  “Come get me, beasts. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m not your easy prey.”

  She held her hammer with both hands, eyes fixed forward, and willed the light to grow brighter.

  She could see the wolves now, loping through the darkness. There were three of them, each reaching the height of Bethany’s chest. Their eyes glowed sickly yellow, and darkness as deep as starless night flowed over their bodies – an armor of shadow that swallowed her light.

  They were creatures of nightmare – as malicious and hungry as the shadow monster at the construction site that had first triggered her Gift of Insight.

  Fear threatened to steal the breath from her lungs and squeeze life from her bones. Her Oracle Eye flashed with golden light, lending Bethany a touch of bravery as she stood alone against the oncoming enemy.

  “Fuck you, Omoikane,” she shouted, relying on her anger to keep fear at bay. “And fuck your arena. Shadow wolves? What does that have to do with this challenge? I won’t die here, you hear me? I won’t die…”

  These wolves are not my creation.

  The world around Bethany muted, the building rhythm of the approaching wolves the only sound that broke through the silence. Bethany slowly turned towards the bust, her eyes wide with shock, and was horrified to see the same expression reflected in the bust of Omoikane’s eyes.

  What?

  She didn’t have time to consider the implications of the revelation. A moment later, the wolves burst into the clearing, barreling towards her with snapping maws and fierce claws. She fixed her gaze on the lead wolf as it leapt over the bust to wrap its teeth around her throat.

  Bethany dodged right, letting the creature sail past her. Its attack fell on empty air, and the beast’s momentum carried it straight into the thorns at Bethany’s back.

  The wolf yelped as thorns pierced its body, but Bethany didn’t have time to celebrate. She dashed towards the second wolf and jumped, her enhanced strength carrying her onto the wolf’s back. A follow-up kick sent the second wolf crashing to the ground while flipping her over the third wolf. She twisted in mid-air and grazed the back of the third wolf with her hammer. Her light tore through its billowing shadows – her light and their darkness as incompatible as oil and water.

  She landed hard behind the wolves as they struggled to slow their momentum to round on their unexpectedly agile prey.

  Bethany didn’t slow her attack. She swung her hammer straight into the ribs of the third wolf. Its bones shattered, and the wolf howled with an unholy mix of pain and fury. Bethany watched as her light peeled back the shadows where it struck, revealing a desiccated body beneath – the creature’s life long since extinguished.

  The beast corpses are corrupted. Do not let them touch…

  Omoikane’s voice was sharply silenced, as if his connection to his own Arena had been severed.

  “God damn it,” Bethany swore as she followed up with a second strike on the injured wolf.

  Her hammer struck flesh behind the peeled back shadow and tore through it form as if she were smashing rotten fruit. The beast exploded in half, and the stench of death that erupted from the entrails of the corpse made her gag. She leapt back, a hand to her nose to block the smell.

  The other two wolves, now recovered, surged over the body of their companion. Bethany rolled beyond the reach of the first, its teeth missing her by inches, but the second raked its claws across her jeans, slicing them open from thigh to ankle.

  Bethany winced, but there was no blood. The strike had missed her skin by a fraction of a millimeter.

  I need to end this quickly.

  Bethany spun and struck, catching the second wolf square in the muzzle as it turned to strike at her. As the blow fell, her light peeled back shadows and revealed a decayed skull instead of a face. Her hammer struck bone, and the skull was crushed into a thousand fragments. It dropped to the ground, its unnatural life extinguished.

  The final wolf – the one that had impaled itself on the thorns – licked it lips as it circled its prey. Bethany caught a glimmer in its dead eyes, calculated and cruel. It had no concern for the fate of its companions. It only had eyes for its prey.

  The wolf snapped its jaws for Bethany’s throat, but she leapt backwards before the blow fell. She countered with a straight thrust, but the wolf leapt to the side and snapped at her hand. Bethany pulled back, and the wolf struck again, keeping her on her heels and dodging back before her own counterstrikes could land.

  It’s smarter than the others, and it’s learning. It’s trying to tire me out. I can’t stay on the defensive. I need to attack. But how can I… the thorns!

  Bethany feigned a straight thrust, and the wolf leapt backwards to dodge. It realized its mistake before its feet touched the ground, but Bethany didn’t give it time to recover. Two quick steps closed the distance, and Bethany twisted her feet, telegraphing a vicious horizontal swing – a second feint to draw the wolf into her trap.

  As Bethany hoped, the wolf leapt backwards again to avoid the blow, but it had forgotten its position on the battlefield. Its backwards leap launched it straight into the thorns behind it. The wolf yelped as its side was pierced for a second time, and, for a brief but fatal moment, it took its eyes off Bethany to gaze at the source of its injury.

  Bethany didn’t waste her opportunity. She brought her hammer down in a vertical plunge with all her might. The wolf’s eyes met hers just as her blow fell and caved in the creature’s skull with a sickening crack. Its head disintegrated from Bethany’s power, and its body went limp, still held aloft by the thorns.

  Bethany fell to the dirt, exhausted. The putrid stench of the corpses filled the air around her, their armor of darkness flickering in the light of her hammer. Her breath came in gasps and her legs felt like rubber, but she was alive, and she was victorious.

  Marvelous. Simply marvelous. I hadn’t expected to encounter a fighter of your caliber this early in the game. Here I was, settling for desperate souls trying to delay their inevitable deaths, when I could have had you.

  Her blood turned cold, and a pungent, deathly odor – beyond even the putrid scent of the wolves – filled the air.

  The voice did not come from the bust of Omoikane. It came from the darkness all around her, deep and malicious.

  It was a voice she’d heard before, amongst the celebrating gods in God Home. The starved god in the skull mask – the Mayan God of Death – who had challenged Authority himself.

  ‘I know my place, though it is not the place you believe it to be. Everything changes, Sun God. Even your Holy Law.’

  From behind the darkness, Ah Puch grinned wickedly.

  Perhaps you’d like to make a deal.