She remembered little of her creation, save that it was painful for all those involved, and that she immediately punished those responsible for it. In hindsight, she had acted rashly, leaving herself with questions that would be forever unanswered—but still, she did not blame herself for it. As she plunged her bloody hands into the frigid waters of the Baltic, her only regret was that she had not taken the time to learn her own name.

Once her skin was clean, there she remained: naked and unflinching, despite the snow that fell listlessly onto her shoulders. The nascent night curled around her waist, curious at this new shadow that seemed somehow deeper, darker than the rest. She petted it idly as she stared across the sea, considering the wild chain mail of froth and foam, the glass shards of ice that spun from wave to wave. She was hardly ten minutes old, but she had all the knowledge and wisdom of an ancient evil. That was what her creators had believed her to be, after all. And thus, so it was.

What meager memories she did have were hazy, indistinct: the ritual with its circle of bone-pale faces; the chanting in an invented language; the acrid scent of burning herbs. Her creators had offered themselves to the shadows, believing their pact would summon a demon—but the demon they had believed in did not exist. The shadows had to birth one for them instead. And so, this new shadow, this pact-made creature, had stepped forward and found herself pressing against an intangible barrier. Her feet burned where they touched something fine and crystalline on the floor. A circle of salt.