Lumnea 15, 5093.
The lone ranger patrolled a wall that vanished into the horizon, its stone spine stretching endlessly in both directions. The days of stalking the forest for rare fauna and flora had long since faded into memory. Home was now a distant, dim echo, a comforting warmth replaced by the cold reality of her duty. Ba'Lathon. The Wizardwaste. Known by many names, to her, it signified one thing: monotony. Five miles northeast, ten miles southwest, five miles northeast again. Tomorrow would be just as today - an endless march through sameness, a dull echo of yesterday.
As the sun reached its zenith, she turned toward her outpost five miles away. Her thoughts wandered to simpler matters: food, water, and sleep. But those thoughts were abruptly banished when she felt it - a low, guttural growl at the edge of her hearing, quickly escalating into a shriek as stone crumbled underhoof. Perhaps, like her, it too was hungry.
Without hesitation, she drew her weapon—a radiant short sword, forged for this very moment. Her training, honed through years of discipline, coupled with a surge of adrenaline, steadied her hand and quickened her pulse. The seconds stretched into eternity as they engaged in a deadly dance, a brutal choreography of steel and fury.
It was over in a heartbeat. Her sword clattered to the ground behind the demonspawn, and she knew what would come next. She steeled herself, fixing her gaze on the creature, daring it to finish what it had started. It lunged, a blur of claws and fangs. As teeth and talons pierced armor and flesh, she shut her eyes and let her thoughts drift to home one last time.
When she opened them again, all that remained was a sizzling circle on the ground and her sword. She screamed.