Shadow Weaver: Sole Heir Of The Night-Chapter 189: High God

Atop a snowy peak the wind howled without restraint, dragging sheets of white across jagged stone and burying footprints the moment they were made. The sky was a pale endless grey, heavy with frost, as though the world itself had frozen in quiet observation.

"Haaaa."

A young man’s eyes snapped open, lungs burning as he dragged in air that cut like broken glass. Panic struck first. His vision darted wildly, searching for danger that no longer seemed present yet still lingered in his bones.

Around him lay three other bodies, sprawled and unmoving except for faint shudders of breath. Their limbs were twisted in awkward angles, drained of strength, faces pale beneath streaks of frost.

"We made it," he muttered, though the words felt unreal even to him.

His fingers clawed into the snow as he crawled forward, each movement heavy. The cold seeped through his clothes, biting into skin already raw from whatever force had thrown them here.

One minute they had stood upon a peak within the under dark, surrounded by suffocating shadows that seemed alive. The next, reality itself had ruptured.

The burning man had torn open the space between worlds as though ripping cloth. Not with effort. Not with strain. Simply because he could.

They had been swallowed by that tear.

There had been no ground, no sky, no direction. Only pressure. Only the feeling that something ancient and unseen brushed against them in the void between breaths.

In mere minutes their understanding of strength had shattered. What they once called powerful now felt childish.

Even for Enzo.

He had seen horrors before. He had stood before monsters draped in divinity. Yet this was different.

The only other time he had felt this small was in the presence of the life monarch bearing the surname Draken. That overwhelming vitality that crushed without touching. That certainty of death if displeased.

Slowly, Enzo forced himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, but he did not allow himself to fall again.

He dragged the three unconscious bodies to one side of the peak, placing them where the wind struck least fiercely. Each movement left deep grooves in the snow that filled almost instantly.

Without wasting time, he unpacked a small tent from his spatial storage. His fingers were numb, fumbling with ropes and stakes, yet he worked with quiet urgency.

The thin fabric rose against the wind after several strained minutes. It was not much, but it would keep them alive.

Once the others were inside, Enzo stepped away and activated his communicator. His expression had already hardened back into something controlled.

He contacted Minister Fin.

Woosh.

Woosh.

The air shifted violently as three figures materialized high above the mountain peak. They appeared as streaks of descending authority before landing with controlled precision, snow spiraling outward from their arrival.

"That was quick. It hasn’t even been three days," Minister Fin muttered, scanning the area with narrowed eyes.

Beside him stood Marquee John, posture straight, gaze sharp and assessing. Neither man appeared winded by the altitude or the cold.

"It was a miracle. That’s all I can say," Enzo replied evenly.

He did not elaborate. He did not speak of whom they had met. He did not mention the being who tore open reality as though bored.

Silence passed between them, weighted and careful. Each looked at the other through the corners of their eyes, measuring what was said and unsaid.

Then the sky rippled.

It was subtle at first. A faint distortion, like heat rising from invisible flames. Yet the temperature did not change.

The ripple deepened. Space itself seemed to churn, bending inward before unfolding again.

A figure stepped through the distortion as though descending invisible stairs. Unreal. Untouched by gravity.

It was a lady.

She wore silk that flowed like liquid silver, untouched by wind. Her gaze was firm and cold, not cruel, simply detached. Around her wrists hung two handcuffed chains that gleamed with aged ice, ancient frost clinging to their links.

High God.

The moment the divine beings below sensed her presence, their movements stilled. They did not look up. They did not react openly.

At her level, mortals would never perceive her even if she stood directly before them. She was that intoned with nature. That fused with her surroundings.

Yet Enzo saw her.

His eyes lifted slowly, locking onto the faint outline in the sky.

The moment he did, his shadow lineage churned violently within him.

It was not a simple stir. It was not curiosity.

It was hunger.

A dark and suffocating urge rose from somewhere deep inside his blood. An instinct older than reason whispered only one command.

Hunt.

Kill.

His breathing grew uneven as killing intent began to leak from him without his permission. The snow around his boots trembled faintly.

"Hm?"

Minister Fin felt it instantly. Without hesitation he stepped forward and struck Enzo at the base of the neck with precise force.

Enzo collapsed into the snow before that killing intent could fully bloom.

A smile that was not a smile curved faintly on the minister’s lips. It was thin. Careful. Measured.

He bowed slightly, though not directly toward her. Even that small acknowledgment was risky.

High Gods were not beings to address lightly.

Above them, she tilted her head almost imperceptibly. Her lips curved faintly as well, though it held no warmth.

She shook her head once, then turned and began to walk through the sky. Each step dissolved into ripples as though she were strolling across unseen water.

She did not care about Enzo.

She did not care about Raven.

She did not concern herself with the Freedom Party fraternizing with the Lokian faction.

None of that mattered.

What drew her attention was the rip through space that had briefly surfaced from the under dark.

Her gaze drifted toward the distant horizon where that distortion had once flickered.

The under dark was not merely a forbidden realm. It was a scar in existence. A prison for things that should never walk beneath open skies.

Even she, with all the power she wielded, remained wary of what slept in that hellish landscape.

Some doors were better left unopened.

And someone had just forced one ajar.

""Strange. This burn mark shouldn’t exist."

The high god hovered in silence, her gaze lowering to a faint scar in the fabric of space. It was subtle, nearly invisible, yet to her senses it blazed like a brand pressed into reality itself.

The air there felt wrong. Not broken. Not shattered. Simply disturbed in a way that did not belong to this world.

She extended her perception gently, brushing against the residue left behind. It carried heat, but not the kind born of ordinary flame. It was something older. Something that burned without light.

For a fleeting second her expression hardened. Then she shook her head.

"Perhaps I am overthinking it." 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Yet even as the thought formed, doubt lingered.

Maybe I will head into the under dark after the games to check for changes. This cannot be normal.

The idea settled quietly in her mind. She would not act hastily. She never did. The games were approaching, and her presence would be required. Order had to be maintained before she indulged suspicion.

Her figure began to fade, dissolving into the sky as though she had only ever been a trick of light. The silk around her stilled, the icy chains lost their gleam, and in a breath she was gone.

No ripple. No sound.

As if she had never existed.

Below, the three divine beings remained frozen for several long seconds. None of them dared move prematurely.

Only when the pressure fully vanished did they release the breath they had been holding.

A heavy sigh escaped Minister Fin first, followed by the others. The snow around them seemed lighter now, the mountain less suffocating.

Without exchanging unnecessary words, they moved.

Each divine being lifted one of the unconscious youths with practiced ease. Enzo remained limp, his expression strangely tense even in sleep, as though fighting battles within his own blood.

The wind roared once more as the three figures rose into the sky, their ascent swift and controlled. Within moments they were nothing but fading streaks against the pale horizon.

The peak returned to silence.

Far away from that frozen mountain.

"Finally here."

A relatively old man stood beyond the outer walls of Windhelm, his boots coated in dust and dried blood. The journey etched itself into his posture. His shoulders sagged slightly, and faint scars traced his exposed hands like records of recent battles.

Windhelm’s towering walls loomed before him, sturdy and proud, guards pacing along the battlements unaware of the presence that lingered beyond their sight.

The old man lifted his gaze toward the city, eyes dark and restless. He had crossed ravines, evaded beasts, and survived places where even seasoned warriors vanished.

Yet he had made it.

A slow breath left his lips, uneven but satisfied.

"Gaia..."

Her name rolled off his tongue like a curse disguised as a whisper.

A smile stretched across his face, but it held no warmth. It twisted instead into something sharp and festering. Years of pain surfaced behind that expression, memories buried but never healed.

He could still remember the moment everything was taken from him. The humiliation. The helplessness. The cold certainty that she had not even considered him worthy of remembrance.

He had carried that weight for far too long.

He would get his hands on her.

He would drag her down with him if he had to claw through the heavens to do it. If he burned, she would burn alongside him.

But rage alone was not enough.

His smile slowly faded as caution returned to his eyes. Charging blindly would only end in failure, and failure would mean a pointless death.

No.

He had not endured all that suffering to die without purpose.

He needed patience. He needed timing.

He would bury his intent beneath layers of obedience and quiet submission. He would become invisible. Harmless. Forgotten.

Only then would he strike.

The old man adjusted his cloak and stepped toward the gates of Windhelm, blending into the sparse flow of travelers seeking entry before nightfall.

His revenge would not be loud.

It would be precise.