Mana The Dark

The mist drifted through the Forest of Old Lament like a shroud, each of Mana's steps crunching on dry leaves, her dark blue hair cascading down. Dressed in black and white, she stood out against the purple gloom. On her head, the greenish spheres of her diadem and the rings on her wrists glowed faintly. They were her eyes to the dark energy of the forest. He stopped in a clearing of crooked trees. There, a wisp of greenish smoke rose from a rock. It was a lament, a soul trapped and wasting away. "You're tired," Mana whispered, without emotion. He held his metal rod "But not free."​*𝗟𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗮 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗴𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗼́, 𝘂𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗱𝗼 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼 𝗲𝗿𝗮 𝗱𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗿, The Lament consumed souls. 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗮 𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗼́ 𝗹𝗮 𝘃𝗮𝗿𝗮, 𝘂𝗻𝗮 𝗮𝗴𝘂𝗷𝗮 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮́ 𝗰𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗼 𝘁𝗶𝗽𝗼 Her emerald eyes narrowed. She knew that freeing her soul would cost her a piece of herself. "Sleep," he ordered, and stabbed the air above the rock. A purple and black mist enveloped her. Mana felt a piercing chill in her chest. The greenish smoke dissipated. The wail faded.

When the fog lifted, the rock was revealed to be an engraved stele. The shine of her rings had diminished A memory, the shape of her mother's face, had become grotesque

She was the guardian of mourning. Each rescue cost her a piece of herself. Without a word, she went deeper into the forest. Tomorrow, another echo would call to her, and she would be there, growing colder, becoming more and more of a shadow. Suddenly, she heard someone walking through the woods and looked toward her rescuers.