Chapter One: The Child of Wawat

In the southern land of Nubia, where the sun scorched the dunes and the rivers cut like silver veins through the earth, there lay a province called Wawat. It was here, amidst both wonder and danger, that a child named Theodore was born. He was no ordinary child, though he did not know it then.

His parents, Dragomir and Nadia, were warriors who had once trained under the high elves. The elves had taught them the secrets of steel and spell, forging them into deadly protectors. To demons, they were nightmares in human flesh. To Theodore, they were simply Mother and Father. The days of his early life were filled with warmth and laughter, but nights were another matter. The shadows in Wawat were restless. 

Demons prowled beyond the village walls, snarling and howling for blood. Many times they tried to breach the defences. Many times they failed, cut down by Dragomir's sword and Nadia’s twin daggers. But even the strongest warriors could not hold back the tide forever. One night, when Theodore was still small enough to be cradled in his mother’s arms, the demons struck with cunning. They did not break the walls; they stole him. 

Theodore awoke in darkness, his cries muffled by claws that gripped him too tightly. His parents chased after him, blades flashing. At last, they cornered the fiends. The demons snarled their ultimatum: Theodore’s life, or their servitude. Dragomir lowered his sword. “Take me,” he growled. “Take us both, but spare our child.” Nadia’s eyes were wet with fire and fear. She nodded. “We will serve.” 

For a while, their sacrifice held. Theodore was returned to them, though shackled by the weight of his parents’ chains. But the demons had no patience for weakness. When Theodore’s frightened wails broke the silence one night, a hulking brute stepped forward in rage. With a single swing, it cleaved Dragomir's chest. “No!” Nadia’s scream tore the night apart. The blade came again, this time for Theodore. But before it could strike, Nadia threw herself forward, arms wide. The blade cut her down instead. Her blood spilled across the ground as she whispered, “Live, my son.” Theodore never forgot the sound of her last breath. 

Before the demon could strike again, something unseen took hold of the boy. His body lifted into the air, glowing faintly with strange light. Then he was gone, torn from the demons’ grasp and hurled through space itself. 

When Theodore opened his eyes again, he lay in the tall grass of a farmer’s field. The farmer found him at dawn. Though baffled by the child’s sudden appearance, the man took him in. Soon, the whole village embraced the strange boy. They raised him as their own, never telling him that the shadows of his past still stirred in the dark corners of the world

Chapter Two: The Descent

Years passed, and the boy of mystery became a man. Theodore grew tall and strong, his hands calloused from farm work, his spirit tempered by the quiet life the villagers had given him. Yet behind his calm eyes lay a storm, one he could not name, for the truth of his past had been buried deep in silence. When Theodore reached his twenty-ninth year, the elders of the village came to him. 

Their voices were old and weary, but their words were firm. “The time has come,” one said. “On your thirtieth birthday, you must descend beneath the earth, as our tradition demands. You will face your fear, and you will return with a stone from the depths of the cave. Only then will you be a man in full.” Theodore bowed his head. He had known this day would come, though he did not yet understand what it truly meant. Two days later, as the dawn of his thirtieth birthday broke over the plains, he was woken by the elders. They placed a sword in his hand, a dagger at his belt, and a lantern in his grip. “Be brave, Theodore,” the eldest whispered. “Bring back the stone, and prove that nothing in this world can break you.” 

At the mouth of the cave, a rope was tied around his waist. It was old and frayed, but it was all the village could offer. Slowly, they lowered him into the darkness. The lantern flickered, shadows stretching like skeletal fingers across the walls. Then came the sound. A sharp snap. The rope gave way…

Theodore plummeted into the abyss, his body striking the cold stone floor with a terrible thud. For a long time, he lay unmoving. The lantern fell beside him, miraculously still burning. Hours passed before he stirred, pain crawling across his arms and back. With effort, he sat up and raised the lantern. The light revealed a horror that froze his breath. Skulls were mounted along the walls, hundreds of them, their hollow eyes staring into his soul. Their silent gaze gnawed at his sanity until he could barely think. Shaking, he forced himself onward. 

The tunnel stretched deeper, winding through shadows that whispered with voices too faint to understand. At its end stood something impossible: a tree, tall and strong, its branches heavy with bright red apples. Theodore reached out and tugged at one of the fruits. It came loose easily, solid and real in his hand. But at that moment, the cavern shuddered. Cracks snaked across the walls and ceiling. From above, distant screams pierced the air. Theodore looked up and saw chaos. The village was under attack. The demons had returned. Their claws tore through homes, their blades struck down the helpless. The people who had raised him were being slaughtered. He gripped the apple tighter, torn between running back and the impossibility of climbing to their aid. 

Then he heard it. “Go to the tree.” The voice was soft at first, echoing in his mind. He shook his head. “No… I have to help them.” “Go to the tree.” He backed away, curling into the corner of the cavern as rubble began to fall around him. “Go to the tree.” This time the command roared through him, louder than his own thoughts. Suddenly, the sound of scuttling filled the air. Spiders poured from the cracks in the walls, their countless legs clicking as they surrounded him. Theodore screamed as they wove their web around him, binding his body and dragging him forward. He struggled, but their strength was unnatural. 

They carried him to the tree. At that moment, the cavern split apart with a deafening crack, and the demons above froze, unable to step closer. Theodore fell to his knees at the tree’s roots. One spider leapt upon his hand and sank its fangs deep into his flesh. The pain was unbearable, fire searing through his veins. Before he could tear it away, the creature burrowed beneath his skin, vanishing inside him…

Darkness claimed him. When Theodore opened his eyes again, he realized the truth. He had not been spirited away to some other place. He was already in the Underdark, and the cave was only a shallow passage compared to the endless depths below. The spiders had dragged him deeper, past the boundaries of light and into the domain of the forgotten. And it was there, deeper than any surface-dweller had ever dared to go, that Theodore’s true journey began.

Chapter Three: The Spider-Bitten

Theodore awoke on cold stone, his breath ragged and his body trembling. His lantern was gone, yet the cavern was not entirely dark. 

Faint glows shimmered from patches of moss clinging to the walls, their pale light stretching just far enough to reveal the vastness around him. He sat up slowly, clutching his hand where the spider had bitten him. The flesh still burned as though fire lived beneath his skin. He peeled back his sleeve, expecting rot or venom, but instead he saw a dark mark spreading, etched into his flesh like a brand. “You are awake,” a voice said. Theodore spun, hand on his sword. From the shadows emerged a group of figures, their eyes glinting like those of nocturnal beasts. They were men, but changed. Each bore strange markings like his own, and their movements carried the same unsettling sharpness he felt now thrumming in his veins. One stepped forward, tall and thin, with hair as white as bone. 

“Do not fear,” the man said. “The bite has claimed you, as it has claimed us. You are one of the spider-bitten now.” Theodore’s voice was raw. “What have you done to me?” “It was not us,” another answered, a woman with a scar across her cheek. “It was the Weavers. They live within the stone, and when they choose, they make more of us.” Theodore’s chest tightened. “I never asked for this.” “No one does,” the tall man replied. “But the gift is not a curse, not if you learn to master it. The bite gives strength, speed, and the power to walk where others cannot. It ties you to the Underdark and all its hidden roads. You are changed, Theodore, but you are not broken.” He staggered to his feet, testing the truth of those words. His senses felt sharpened. The air was thick with scents he had never noticed before, every sound echoed like a map in his mind, and in the far distance, he could hear the faint skittering of spiders as though they whispered to him. “What do you want from me?” he asked. The woman smiled faintly, though it did not reach her eyes. “We want nothing. Survive here if you can. Or return to the surface and see what you will do with the gift. That choice is yours.” Theodore looked around.

 The cavern stretched into endless tunnels, roads carved by time and stone, some leading up, others plunging further into darkness. This was no simple cave. He had fallen into the Underdark proper, the world beneath the world, where light was a memory and survival belonged only to the strong. The tall man placed a hand on his shoulder. “You will learn, as we all did. But mark this: the surface still calls you. You will return there one day, and when you do, you will not return as the boy they knew. You will return as something far more.” Theodore felt the weight of the words settle upon him. His village, his people, the demons, everything he had fled from above was still there, waiting. 

And now, with the fire of the spider’s bite burning in his veins, he knew that when the time came, he would face them not as prey, but as a predator. The Underdark stretched before him, vast and endless. His journey had only just begun.

Chapter Four: Web of Shadows

Life among the spider-bitten was unlike anything Theodore had ever known. Days and nights had no meaning here in the Underdark, only the steady glow of fungi and the unyielding dark. Yet to the spider-bitten, this was home. Theodore was taken in by them reluctantly at first, for many saw him as an outsider unworthy of the Weavers’ gift. But the tall man who had first spoken to him, whose name was Kaelen, demanded they give him a chance. “He bears the mark,” Kaelen said. “The Weavers do not bite by accident.”

And so Theodore began his training. The spider’s bite had changed him in ways he struggled to understand. His senses had sharpened. He could feel the vibrations of movement through the stone, as though the ground itself spoke to him. His eyes adjusted swiftly to darkness, and his hands could cling to stone walls with a grip stronger than iron. At first he stumbled. He slipped during climbs, dropped his blade in mock battles, and struggled against the fire that sometimes erupted in his veins when his powers surged beyond his control. The scarred woman, Liora, trained him without mercy.

 She fought him daily, her daggers flashing in the pale glow of the cavern fungi. Each time she struck him down, she forced him to rise again. “You fight like a man still bound to the surface,” she sneered after one defeat. “Down here, hesitation is death. Fight like a hunter, Theodore, not like prey.” And so he learned. He trained to leap from wall to wall, to vanish into shadows, to strike swiftly and without hesitation. He learned the ways of the Underdark: which tunnels carried poisonous air, which mushrooms were safe to eat, which paths led to the domains of creatures best left undisturbed. At night, when the training was done, Theodore sat by himself, haunted by visions of his village. 

He saw the demons tearing it apart, heard the screams of the elders who had raised him. Rage burned in him, but Kaelen warned him against letting it rule his actions. “Anger can sharpen you,” Kaelen told him one evening, “but if you let it lead, you will be blind. The Weavers gave you the gift not for vengeance, but for survival. Only when you master yourself will you master the bite.” Weeks bled into months, though time was meaningless in the Underdark. Theodore grew stronger, his movements sharper, his senses more precise. In battle exercises, he no longer fell to Liora’s blades. Instead, she fell to him, and when she rose again she gave him the first true smile he had seen from her.

 “You are one of us now,” she said simply. Yet Theodore knew his place was not forever in the Underdark. The surface still called to him. His people, his village, the land of Wawat—they were not safe. They were not free. One night, as he sat alone by the glowing moss, Kaelen joined him. “You are ready,” Kaelen said. “For what?” Theodore asked. “To choose. Stay here, and live as one of us. Or return to the surface, where your past waits for you. The transport circles will take you where you wish to go, but know this: once you return, you will not be welcomed as a lost son. You will be seen as something else. Something the surface both fears and needs.” Theodore looked down at his hand, where the spider’s mark still burned faintly beneath his skin. He thought of his mother’s last breath, his father’s fall, and the demons who still ruled above. He knew his choice.

Chapter Five: Return of the Son

The transport circle glowed under Theodore’s feet. Strange marks cut into the stone lit up like fire. Around him, the spider-bitten stood in silence. Some looked proud, others jealous, and a few almost sad. Kaelen stepped forward. “You know what waits for you on the surface,” he said. “The demons will still be there. But you are not the boy they once hunted. You are one of us now.” Liora smirked. “If you die, die fighting. Do not crawl back.” Theodore nodded. “I will not crawl.” Light flared, and in a blink he was gone. He opened his eyes and stood on grass for the first time in months. The sky stretched above him, blue and endless. The air was fresh, not heavy and damp like the Underdark. For a moment, Theodore simply stood still, breathing it in. Then he heard the screams. His village lay ahead, but it was broken and ruined. Roofs had fallen, smoke rose into the air, and demons filled the streets. They dragged the villagers with chains, beating and killing anyone who resisted. Theodore’s heart filled with rage. The mark on his hand burned, and the shadows around him seemed to move with him. He drew his sword. The first demon never had a chance. Theodore moved quickly, his blade cutting through its head. 

Black blood sprayed across the ground. The others turned, snarling, but he was already gone, slipping into the shadows before striking again. One by one, they fell. Theodore’s sword cut through their bodies, his dagger struck their throats, and when his arms grew tired, the power of the bite pushed him forward. He was faster than the demons, stronger, and full of fury. The villagers watched in shock. 

For years they had lived under demon rule, but now the monsters were dying in front of them. Some of the villagers were afraid too, because Theodore no longer looked like the boy they remembered. His eyes glowed faintly, his skin bore strange marks, and he moved like a creature of the dark. At last, the final demon was crushed under his boot. Theodore stood among their bodies, breathing hard. The villagers crept closer. 

One elder spoke first. “Theodore… is it really you?” He turned and looked at them. For a moment he said nothing. Then he answered quietly. “It is me. But I am not the boy you raised. That boy is gone.” The villagers whispered among themselves. Some dropped to their knees in thanks, while others stepped back in fear. Theodore did not stay long. He looked past them, towards the horizon. The battle here was over, but he knew the demons would return. Their true masters were still waiting. And when they came, he would be ready.

Chapter Six: The Sandman

Theodore did not stay in the village long. Though the demons were gone, the people looked at him with fear as much as thanks. He could see it in their eyes, they were glad to be free, but they no longer saw him as one of them. He walked away without another word, following the open plains until the grass gave way to sand. Days passed as he wandered through the heat. His food ran low and the sun burned his skin, but still he pressed forward. 

One night, as the stars stretched across the sky, he saw a figure standing ahead. The man was tall and wrapped in long robes the colour of the desert. Sand seemed to swirl around his feet as if the earth itself obeyed him. Theodore stopped, his hand ready on his sword, but the man raised one hand calmly. “I am not your enemy,” he said. His voice was smooth but carried great weight. “They call me the Sand Man.” The stranger spoke of power and knowledge, of the desert’s secrets and the old tribes of Nubia. He claimed he could bend the land itself, shaping it with will alone. Yet despite his power, there was pride in his words, even arrogance. 

Still, he showed Theodore respect. “You are marked,” the Sand Man said, nodding to the scar on Theodore’s hand. “The Weavers chose you. That means you have a part to play in what is to come.” Theodore, who had lost parents, a village, and even his old self, listened carefully. For the first time since returning to the surface, he felt a bond. The two men talked through the night, sharing stories, learning from each other. And though the Sandman was proud and strange, Theodore felt the connection would last longer than friendship, it would become something unbreakable.

Chapter Seven: The Tribes of Nubia

Theodore travelled with the Sandman across the southern lands until they reached the old tribes of Nubia. The people welcomed them with fire, music and food, but Theodore could sense a weight hanging over the celebration. Among the crowd was a tall figure with green skin, broad shoulders and a voice that was calm yet strong. His name was Padfoot, leader of one of the oldest tribes. He spoke with Theodore about the past, about the battles fought against demons, and about the boy who had once been saved when all else was lost. Padfoot’s words were soft and full of wisdom, and he seemed to put aside all bitterness and anger as if nothing could trouble him.

 Theodore felt respect for him, though he did not fully understand the leader’s plans. He later learned the truth, and he would regret not seeing it sooner. The tribe was preparing a dark rite, one that demanded mass sacrifice. Among them was Nefitiri, a powerful spellcaster with knowledge of great and dangerous magic. She prepared to lead the ritual, her voice rising as she poured her strength into the spell. The air grew heavy, the earth shook, and for a moment it seemed as if the world itself would be torn apart. The villagers gathered to watch, their eyes wide with fear and hope. Then, in one blinding flash, the power became too much. The rite exploded, throwing fire and light across the land. Theodore was hurled back, his ears ringing, as screams filled the air. Nefitiri was gone, destroyed by the very magic she tried to control.

 The others who took part in the rite fell one by one, their bodies broken by the force of the blast. Theodore staggered to his feet and ran towards the fallen, desperate to save who he could. But it was too late. The ground was soaked with blood and the cries of the dying echoed in his head. The powerful spellcaster was dead, the tribe’s strongest members lost, and the cost of their ambition left only pain behind. Theodore stood among the bodies, his heart heavy, knowing that once again he had been too late to stop the tragedy.

Chapter Eight: Ashes of the Rite

The air still crackled with the force of the explosion as Theodore stood among the ruins of the tribe. Fires burned in small circles across the sand, casting long shadows over the bodies that lay broken and still. The smell of smoke and blood filled the air, thick and heavy.

 Theodore’s chest ached as he knelt beside one of the fallen, a young warrior whose eyes were already empty. He closed them gently and clenched his fists, the scar on his hand burning with heat as if the Weavers themselves were judging him. The Sand Man appeared from the smoke, his robes torn, his face covered with dust. He looked at the destruction with eyes that showed no surprise. “This was always their fate,” he said quietly. 

Theodore turned on him. “You knew this would happen?” His voice shook with anger. The Sand Man only looked at him with calm pride. “They were blinded by ambition. Power consumes those who do not respect it. Nefitiri’s greed for strength brought this end.” Theodore wanted to strike him, to scream, but his strength was gone. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees, staring at the flames. The cries of the dying were already fading, leaving only silence. For the first time since his parents’ death, Theodore felt truly helpless. 

He had fought demons, he had faced the dark, yet when his allies needed him most he could do nothing. Padfoot appeared, wounded but alive, leaning heavily on a broken spear. His green skin was cut and bruised, but his calm voice remained steady. “This is the price we pay when we chase what should never be ours,” he said. He looked down at Theodore. “Remember this, son of Wawat. The strongest power is not always the one you take, but the one you refuse.” Then Padfoot turned and walked slowly into the shadows, leaving Theodore alone with the ashes of the rite. Theodore sat among the dead until the fires burned low, and when he finally rose, his eyes were no longer filled with confusion. They were filled with a cold resolve.