The first sound was cracking. A brittle, deliberate rhythm—like branches snapping under weight. The bones on the table were rebuilding themselves, knitting with wet precision into a stronger lattice, the marrow filling, stretching, hardening with every beat of the silence.
From beneath the corpse, the shadows began to rise. They weren't ordinary darkness; they were the same crawling tendrils that filled the crater of Menystria, the same substance Evodil once used to twist living men into Shades—souls trapped forever in their own carcasses. Now, those same shadows obeyed again, sliding up the body like a living tide, shaping what death had left behind.
In this loop, the war raged one-sided—phantoms striking at illusions—and Evodil, the only aware survivor of his own mistakes, was using knowledge bought with one hundred and sixty-six lifetimes. He knew how to pull a soul back. He knew how to forge one when none remained.
The flesh rippled, pale white seeping over the frame as the last of the infant's dead skin sloughed away. Black hair began to coil at the top of the skull, damp and ink-dark, hanging in uneven strands over a small face that looked far too calm for something that had just defied death. The lips twitched; the eyelids fluttered, trembling at the touch of air for the first time.
What lay before Evodil now was not the same body that had died hours ago. It was taller—stretched as if the corpse had been aged by will alone, the frame slender but lined with faint traces of strength beneath the skin. The pale tone matched Evodil's perfectly, the shade of a being born without sunlight.
His hair, black as pitch, clung to the sides of his face, short yet messy, strands half-stuck together by the residue of shadow still evaporating from him. The eyes beneath the lashes opened halfway—silver, unfocused, almost mirrorlike in their emptiness.
Evodil exhaled through his nose, a quiet, humorless sound. The resemblance wasn't lost on him.
He'd made something that looked just like himself— a reflection carved from death, clothed in his mistakes.
Evodil's grin widened, the dim light catching the faint sheen of shadow that still clung to his cheekbones. He leaned back slightly, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh — the kind that came not from exhaustion, but from the strange satisfaction of seeing something finally go according to plan for once.
The boy on the table had grown fast — disturbingly fast. His body stretched and molded until he looked nearly seventeen, his limbs proportioned, his posture natural as if he'd lived years compressed into mere minutes.
Evodil tilted his head, crossing his arms with an amused hum. The outfit wasn't his choice — that much he knew — but it was his taste.
The suit was black, tailored neatly across the torso, with a red bowtie perched at the collar. Beneath it, a scarlet shirt glimmered faintly under the flickering chandelier light. Around his neck was a fluffy fur collar — not a cape, not theatrical, but comfortable, human even. The pants shared the same midnight hue, and around his boots, faint gray star-patterns shimmered like dying embers.
And then there were the glasses. Thin red frames, sharp along the edges, catching the light with a faint glint that reminded Evodil far too much of Noah's broken ones. Except these weren't cracked. They were new — perfect, even.
He snorted, brushing a thumb under his nose. Stylish little bastard, he thought, shaking his head as his grin threatened to split wider. The boy — or thing — wasn't written into the script. Not by Azraem, not by fate, not by anyone. Which made him his.
Finally.
A variable.
A hand grenade in the middle of a story that had repeated itself too many damn times.
He took a slow step forward, boots tapping softly against the wood, leaning down as his horns angled closer toward the boy's forehead. The air buzzed faintly, static from his own aura bleeding into the room. His grin softened just slightly.
"Well then…" he muttered, his voice low, almost amused. "Let's see what kind of mess you're gonna be, huh?"
He was just about to touch the boy's forehead — a small, deliberate gesture, almost paternal in its curiosity — when the body jerked.
The boy's eyes shot open, silver and trembling, and he gasped violently, as if the air itself was fire being shoved into lungs that had never breathed before.
The sound startled Evodil so badly that he stumbled half a step back — his tendrils snapping in response, his hands twitching mid-motion — before he broke into a startled laugh.
"Well, shit," he hissed under his breath, blinking once, then twice. "Guess you can wake the dead."
The boy, now with his body fully grown, fused with shadows and souls of other beings Evodil could get a hold onto while using his powers, coughed. The air was cold inside his throat, too cold for a normal human being to live, but he didn't die of it. He couldn't die of it, and now he would never be able to die again — being made of a matter that wasn't alive or dead… a half-shade.
First of its kind, truly an amazing piece of work that Evodil had made himself in a matter of minutes — and a little bit of creativity, as well as gore, of course.
Evodil patted him on the back as the boy wheezed, trying to take another breath. Cold sweat ran down his forehead, his lungs shaking, his throat rattling, choking on the new sensations and his brain growing too fast, too vast.
Slowly, awareness crawled in. The wooden floor below the table… the table itself, which he was sitting on now. The wallpaper covered with yellow flowers and white-ish lines between beige ones. And finally — the man right above him. Standing on his own two feet, patting his back with surprising gentleness for someone who had horns jutting from his head and most of his clothes drenched in blood.
Ethan took a deep breath — first through his nose, then his mouth — only to cough the excess air out. His gaze lifted. Past the blur, he found the man's white blindfold. His own hand moved sluggishly, rubbing the sweat off his cheeks before his lips parted.
"Are you my father?" he asked.
Evodil stood still for a moment, his hand frozen mid-pat before it slipped away to his side. Was he his father? Or more of a creator? Both had a certain ring to them. Then again, he thought, the boy was just born in the most basic sense. Saying his mother died and he never met his father would be… a bit off. Even for someone who just ripped a woman open.
His eyebrows rose behind the blindfold, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a familiar smirk. He leaned closer to the boy's level, the distance between them thinning until he could feel the cold air radiating from Ethan's skin. With a small nod — as if settling the matter with himself — he agreed to the title.
"Yeah," he murmured, low enough for only the two of them to hear. "Guess that makes me your father. Evodil."
He ruffled Ethan's hair briefly, the gesture awkward, almost foreign to his hands, before straightening up again. His gaze drifted toward the lamp that lit the dining room, its faint hum the only sound cutting through the stillness.
He scrubbed his chin, thinking. What the hell am I supposed to do with him here? Menystria wasn't kind to new lives, especially not ones like this. He could let him go — let him walk freely, maybe one of the others would take him in, train him. But both of them were neck-deep in a war, even if one-sided.
He huffed, eyes falling back to Ethan. The boy stared back up at him, silver-eyed and uncertain, like a lost puppy expecting a name or command.
"Don't look at me like that," Evodil groaned, grabbing one of his own black horns as if trying to pull patience out of it. "Fine, fine—listen. You're the god of spirits. Son of the god of chaos and…"
His voice trailed off.
He blinked once. Then again.
"Anddddddddddd—"
Nothing. Just silence and that same silver stare.
Evodil exhaled through his teeth, shoulders sinking a little as he looked away.
Ethan looked up at the man, his head tilting slightly at the words that hung between them. A god? The idea barely made sense. Just minutes ago, there had been nothing—no air, no thought, no sound. Only the thick darkness he thought he'd never crawl out of. And now, standing before him, was a horned man claiming to be his father.
It was absurd.
But what if it wasn't?
What if this was simply how things were here—no reason, no explanation, only existence?
He clenched his hands, feeling the tendons move under the skin. There was motion, but no warmth—his fingers felt alive without truly being living. He watched his palms flex and relax, fascinated by the mechanical rhythm of it, before lifting his eyes again toward Evodil.
For a moment, the silence stretched between them. Then a small, hesitant smile broke across his face.
"…Thank you, Father," he said softly, voice still uneven from the earlier coughing. "For explaining what I am… and why I'm here."
His hands pressed against the table's edge, the wood creaking faintly as he pushed himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, the motion awkward and raw, but he managed to stand. A quiet groan slipped from his throat as he steadied himself, smile still faintly there, like a candle refusing to die out.
Now face to face with Evodil, he finally noticed the details — the scars that cut through the man's skin, the faint gray patches that looked like death frozen mid-spread, the exhaustion tucked under the smirk. He didn't reach out, only studied, memorizing it.
"What should I do now that I'm… here?" Ethan asked. "Now that I can walk, breathe… exist?"
Evodil stared at him for a long second. What the hell should I even tell him? Walk around the Manor? Meet the others? Maybe dump the paperwork on him so I can finally think in peace?
He sighed, rubbing his forehead just above the blindfold.
"It's your choice," he said finally, his tone half tired, half amused. "You're alive—technically. Walk around the city, do whatever the hell you want. Nobody's gonna stop you."
Ethan stood fully now, his balance returning, the trembling in his legs fading into stillness. He nodded once, quietly, and murmured another thank-you to his father's retreating back.
Evodil didn't answer.
His boots thudded softly across the floorboards, a steady rhythm that echoed faintly in the wide dining room. Without another glance, he passed the boy and disappeared past the archway. The sound of his steps climbed the stairs—slow at first, then turning into the dull creak of wood as he vanished to the upper floor.
Ethan's gaze followed him until he was gone. Only the blood remained—thin, dark trails left in Evodil's wake. They led back to the table, where a single hole marred the wood. He tilted his head slightly. How did that even happen? He'd been sitting there, not inside it.
Everything else around him felt too orderly for a place owned by the so-called god of chaos. The wallpaper was untouched, the furniture neatly arranged, the chandelier's light faint but steady. Still, it wasn't his place to disturb anything. Things like this had their own rhythm—just like him now.
He drew a slow breath, letting the air cool his chest before he exhaled, steadying himself into the act of "being alive." His hand brushed along the edge of the table once more before he stepped forward and crossed the archway into the entrance hall.
The space was quiet, almost reverent.
Paintings lined the walls; chairs sat neatly in rows along the sides; a tall clock ticked softly near the coat hanger. Evodil's coat still hung there, heavy and stained with blood. A scarf rested atop it, just as ruined, dried crimson against the fabric's gray.
Ethan's eyes wandered to the large wooden door at the end of the hall. He stepped toward it, reaching out to knock. The sound was solid—thick wood, not hollow. With a small, steadying inhale, he pressed his shoulder against it and pushed.
Before he could even apply real force, the doors swung inward on their own. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the handle as the cold air from outside rushed in.
His breath caught in surprise.
Outside stretched the Manor's front yard, bathed in muted colors—purple and blue flora spread across the soil, strange trees with glimmering leaves swaying gently in a wind that didn't touch him. Above the doorway hung the glass dome, its blue windows dimly lit from within.
Through that glass, he caught a glimpse—his father's silhouette, still and sharp, looking down at him. Then, with a quick turn, the figure vanished deeper into the Manor's upper halls.
Ethan stared for a moment, then nodded slowly. As if he understood, or wanted to. As if that silent glance had been a message: find your own path, your own reason to exist.
He looked back toward the distant city lights beyond the yard.
He didn't even know its name.
Should've asked, he thought quietly, stepping into the cold air.