The night at Shadowspire held a silence that felt… intentional.
As if the fortress itself was waiting.
The courtyard, earlier alive with shouts and clashing steel, now lay empty under the pale shimmer of moonlight. Only the faint smell of sweat and iron lingered. Cael stood at the edge of the training grounds, his chest rising and falling slowly, his senses sharpened far beyond the limits of ordinary fatigue. The power from the relic still crackled under his skin—coiled, restless, hungry.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling strength ripple through him like a second pulse.
The vial had changed everything.
And it was only beginning.
"Cael."
The voice came from behind him. Brenn.
The instructor approached with heavy steps, the air shifting subtly as the man's aura pressed outward—a weight that made even older trainees buckle. Cael straightened, but not in fear. Something inside him, something new, something born from demon essence, responded to Brenn's presence with a quiet snarl.
Brenn's eyes narrowed.
"You're… sharp today. Too sharp."
Cael said nothing.
"You didn't sleep," Brenn added. "Power that spikes overnight always has a price."
Still, Cael remained silent. His hands were clenched behind his back, nails biting into his palms. He didn't want Brenn close. He didn't want anyone close. He felt exposed—like if someone stared too long, they might see the flicker of something growing behind his eyes.
Something he didn't fully understand yet.
"Get some rest," Brenn muttered eventually. "Tomorrow's trial will break anyone who isn't prepared. Even you."
Brenn turned away.
Cael didn't.
Rest? Impossible. His blood felt alive, scorching his veins like molten iron.
He stepped into the shadows of the barracks, where rows of exhausted trainees lay collapsed in sleep. The air was thick with their breath, their fear, their dreams. Something deep inside him reacted to it—drawn to the weakness in the air, the scent of vulnerability.
He forced himself past it.
Sleep did not come, but still he lay in the dark, eyes open, listening.
And that was when he heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Faint. Curling through his thoughts like smoke.
"…more…"
His breath caught.
"Who's there?" he whispered into the darkness.
No answer.
Just that faint hum—deep in his bones, not in the air.
"…more… feed…"
The relic.
The demon blood.
It had a voice.
Or something close to one.
Cael's heart hammered, but not with fear—something darker, a rising thrill. He clenched his teeth and willed the voice away. For a moment, it receded like a tide pulling back from the shore.
But even silence felt wrong now.
As though the quiet had eyes.
---
Morning came brutal and sudden.
A horn blared, rattling the wooden frames of the barracks. Trainees scrambled up, some limping, others dragging themselves awake.
The instructors marched through the courtyard with an intensity that hinted at something special. Something nasty.
"Line up!" one barked.
Cael moved into place, calm despite the tremor of restless energy inside him. He noticed the looks—the side glances, the unease. The other trainees could sense something different about him now, even if they couldn't name it.
Brenn stepped forward.
"Today's trial is simple," he announced. "You will face the Shadewalk."
A murmur rippled through the trainees.
The Shadewalk wasn't a training drill.
It was a rite.
A labyrinth carved beneath Shadowspire where illusions bled into reality, where shadows took shape, and where the fortress tested not your strength—but your mind.
Many had entered.
Not all had returned.
Brenn's gaze swept across the line of trainees until it stopped on Cael.
"You especially," he muttered under his breath. "Try not to lose yourself."
Too late, Cael thought.
The hunger inside him stirred at the prospect of fear, chaos, darkness.
The Shadewalk gates groaned open.
---
Inside the Shadewalk, the world shifted.
The stone walls seemed to breathe. Shadows stretched and flickered as if alive. Every footstep echoed like a heartbeat—his heartbeat—amplified, multiplied, distorted.
Trainees walked ahead in nervous clusters.
Cael walked alone.
The air here was heavy, laced with old magic and older malice. His senses sharpened immediately. He could feel the walls, the air currents, the trembling heartbeats of the other trainees.
It was intoxicating.
Then the first illusion formed.
Not an illusion—no, something more. A memory, twisted and reshaped.
Elbhollow.
Burning.
His mother's scream.
But this time, her face was wrong—distorted, stretched into something monstrous. Her mouth split open into fangs, her eyes gleaming with demonic hunger.
"Cael…" the figure rasped. "Come… join… me—"
He didn't freeze.
He didn't flinch.
He attacked.
His blade sliced through the illusion with violent precision. The false image shattered into smoke.
And the whisper in his bones purred.
"…good… more…"
He exhaled, trembling from the inside out.
This place was meant to break him.
But instead—
it was feeding him.
---
Further in the maze, a scream echoed. A real one.
Cael followed it, the shadows parting for him like obedient servants.
He found a trainee collapsed on the ground, clutching his leg, eyes wide with terror as shadow-creatures crawled toward him—illusory but deadly if believed.
Cael's instinct told him to help.
The whisper told him to watch.
The hunger told him to let it happen.
His hand twitched on his blade.
The trainee reached toward him.
"P-please—Cael—help me—"
Cael took one slow step forward.
And smiled.
Not out of cruelty.
Not yet.
But out of realization.
Something inside him loved this.
The power.
The fear.
The control.
He slashed through the shadow-creatures effortlessly—but not before letting one of them sink its illusionary claws into the trainee's arm.
A reminder:
Cael chose when someone lived.
And when they suffered.
The trainee sobbed in relief.
Cael walked past him without a word.
---
By the time he reached the heart of the Shadewalk, the whispers were louder.
Clearer.
"…more… more… you were made for this…"
He knew it was wrong.
He also knew he didn't care.
Tomorrow, he would still smile, still train, still play the role of the quiet, disciplined prodigy.
But a crack had formed.
A small one.
Barely visible.
But it would spread.
It always did.
And Shadowspire had no idea the monster it was sharpening.