A Shadow.

The stars aligned on the ninth day at the ninth hour, a line of bright points drawn across the sky.
Sand from the bottom of the ocean lifted, forming a path that began at the beach and followed the stars. A bridge of sand rose as the shadow stepped forward, one step after another.

The water retreated as the sand climbed higher. The shadow walked until the sand stopped rising—there, where the final star shone the brightest.

The shadow drew four runes into the sand and lifted a flask engraved with the same symbols. Pointing the flask skyward, it whispered words of power in an ancient language. A pulse erupted from the flask, and the stars began to melt.

As the shadow continued whispering, the stars twisted into a tornado of light, spiraling downward into the flask. Its hand trembled as it struggled to hold the weight. The whispers became shouts, shouted over the chaos in the sky. With a violent motion, the shadow sealed the flask.

The sky went dark—empty of all light—and the silence felt loud, tense, like an injured soldier clutching a wound.

With a few more words, dark smoke poured from the shadow’s clothes and locked the surrounding water in place. The runes burned bright red. The shadow knelt and scooped a handful of each rune. Its clenched fist glowed crimson as the sand melted into a lava-like substance that dripped from its hand. With it, the shadow traced a circle—every line meeting at the center.

Holding the flask close, the shadow spoke three words in a voice so low they seemed to escape without permission.

At the final word, thunder roared from the black sky, rattling the earth.

The circle ignited again, burning red, and from its center a cup emerged, dragging molten lines upward as it rose. The shadow opened the flask. Another pulse blasted outward, forcing the water back several meters.

The cup was cold, heavy—and hungry.

The shadow bit its hand and fed the cup its blood. The blood vanished on contact, and the cup grew lighter. When it was satisfied, the shadow lifted it.

The silver cup still burned where the circle’s lines bound it. As the shadow poured the stars from the flask, a final pulse erupted the instant the light touched the cup. Thunder cracked again, as if nature itself protested what was unfolding.

When the last drop fell, the flask crumbled into ash and scattered with the wind.

The shadow drank every last star.

The cup, now blazing brighter than before, slipped from its hands and sank back into the sand. The molten lines reformed the circle, glowing red for a final second before dissolving into smoke.

The shadow collapsed to its knees.

Another pulse surged—this time from within. The shadow tried to scream, but no sound came. Kneeling, hands at its sides, it screamed silently at the empty sky. One last thunder rolled like a lament, and when it faded, the shadow’s shriek finally tore free—echoing for miles.

It clawed at its own skin as something burned beneath it. The pulses now lived inside its body, stronger and faster.

Light burst from the wound where it had bitten itself. With trembling hands, the shadow sealed it by whispering the three words again. More light spilled from beneath its nails. It pressed both hands over the wounds and repeated the words until the glow died out.

Still trembling, the shadow rose.

With a single motion, the water froze, forming a path. Ice cracked and refroze beneath its feet as it walked back toward the shore. Where its palm hovered beside its hip, the sand turned to glass.

The shadow paused and turned, testing its power.

Both hands lifted. One word was screamed.

A pulse exploded outward, and the entire ocean froze.

The shadow looked at its hands, turned away, and walked on. Wrapped in dark smoke, it vanished.