The city was waking to its usual symphony of chaos: the distant clatter of carts over cobblestones, shouts echoing from narrow alleys, the occasional metallic scrape of someone's life ending quietly behind closed doors. Rain had stopped, leaving streets slick and shining, reflecting the neon and gas lamps in jagged, trembling lines. And yet, for Voryn, the world felt different, taut, alive, dangerous.
The relic pulsed faintly beneath his shirt, the black mark on his arm still warm. It was not just a mark; it was a tether, a contract, a promise of power, and a warning of cost. And the first cost was already obvious: blood, his own, and now the unshakable awareness that every choice would exact a toll.
He had spent the night alone in the shadows, watching the city, testing his new awareness. He could feel the subtle whispers of life around him, the faintest tremor of fear in a rat skittering across the rooftops, the shallow panic in a drunken man staggering out of a tavern. He tested it, focusing, willing the shadows around him to listen, to obey. A small wisp of darkness slid along the ground, unseen, almost like water finding cracks in stone. When it brushed the man's shoulder, the man shivered inexplicably and fell to his knees, coughing violently.
Voryn suppressed a grin. Clever, subtle, efficient. No need for brute force.
It was then that the thugs found him. Not the same group as last night—these were smarter, younger, bolder. They had heard rumors of a kid getting lucky with a gang fight and now assumed he was just a scared boy who had found temporary advantage. One of them laughed, a low, cruel sound, swinging a makeshift crowbar with a casual arrogance that came from inexperience.
"Thought you could hide, huh? We're gonna make an example out of you."
Voryn's eyes flicked to the shadows curling along the walls. He took a measured breath. In and out, slow and deliberate. His mind raced through probabilities: how many of them? Strength? Weapon reach? Potential escape paths? What could the shadows do?
Five seconds for assessment, ten for action. Maximum casualties: zero. Collateral: minimal. Cost to me: acceptable.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice calm, almost teasing, "you've clearly forgotten how to pick targets."
The first thug charged, a crowbar raised. Voryn moved, not fast, not reflexively, but with precision, sidestepping and letting the thug's momentum carry him forward. A tendril of shadow, thin as a thread and blacker than oil, slid under the man's foot. He tripped, sprawling against the wet cobblestones. Voryn felt it, the small tug at his veins, a whisper of energy siphoned from his own body to animate the shadow. Pain flared for a heartbeat, sharp, metallic, draining but controlled.
Cost is unavoidable. That's the rule.
The second thug swung too wide, wild-eyed with panic. Voryn's shadow wrapped around him, fingers of darkness lifting and pinning him lightly, not enough to kill, just enough to terrify. The man screamed as the shadows whispered unintelligible words in his mind, a foreign language that tasted of old fear and forgotten blood. He collapsed, shaking.
Voryn smirked, a dark humor curling through him. You'd think they'd learn after the first night. Brains first, brawn last.
But then he saw it. A scream, piercing, unnatural, impossible. Not from the thugs, he had been too focused on controlling them, but from inside the air, a soul trapped, twisted, screaming. One of the men he had spared last night, the one whose soul had brushed the edges of the Black Oath without his knowledge, was screaming from somewhere invisible. Pain, fear, regret, agony, it poured into Voryn's mind like fire.
"Shit," he muttered, staggering back. The sensation was unlike anything he had felt. Not physical pain, not fear, but a pure, raw price of power. This was the Oath's truth: every gain, every manipulation, came with a life's echo. One life touched by the shadow left a scar not visible, not spoken, but etched into his consciousness.
The thugs had scrambled now, realizing they weren't dealing with a normal boy. The leader snarled, pulling another weapon from his belt, this one a rusted knife. Voryn's fingers brushed the mark again, feeling the contract pulse, and a plan formed instantly, elegantly, with terrifying simplicity.
One move, all controlled, no witnesses hurt if I'm careful.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, letting the shadows around him curl and dance like living entities. They moved silently, wrapping around the legs of the first thug, binding him to the ground. The second thug froze as a shadow slid across his chest, light as silk, heavy as iron, whispering threats only he could feel. Fear paralyzed him.
And then Voryn smiled, a predator's smile. Not wide, not theatrical, subtle, sharp, calculated.
"Run," he said, voice casual. "Go on. Tell your friends what you saw. Tell the world about the boy who should've died."
They fled, leaving Voryn alone. Alone, but not untouched. Every pulse of the relic, every tug of the shadows, every scream of that soul from last night, it cost him. He stumbled slightly, hand pressed to his chest. A drip of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth, metallic and bitter.
This is the price, he thought. Not free. Never free.
Voryn sank to the edge of a gutter, staring at the rain-slick streets. He could feel the energy of the city in a new way now. He could sense patterns: where fear lingered, where hope flickered weakly, where blood had been shed recently. The Black Oath had opened his senses, yes, but it demanded awareness, calculation, constant vigilance. Misstep meant death. Miscalculation meant collapse.
I can live with that.
He flexed his fingers, noting the subtle traces of the shadow remaining under his skin, coiling, pulsing, waiting for direction. Already, he was imagining the next stage, the potential of this power. Stage one is manageable. Stage two… Stage two will be fun.
Then he felt it: a tug, faint, insistent, like a thread stretching from the core of the city into his chest. He looked around, pulse quickening. There was nothing visible, no shape, no figure yet he knew. Somewhere in the darkness, something had noticed him. Watching. Waiting. A presence older than the alleys, sharper than steel, patient.
The street suddenly became oppressive. Each shadow seemed darker, heavier. The Black Oath pulsed violently, and the scream of the lost soul from last night echoed faintly in his mind, reminding him of cost, reminding him of consequence, reminding him that power was never free.
Voryn gritted his teeth. "Fine," he whispered. "Let's see who's clever enough to find me."
Hours passed, or maybe minutes, he couldn't tell. He wandered the city, testing the shadows. Rats froze mid-step at his command, puddles of water rippled without wind, and faint whispers echoed in alleys. Each manipulation drained him slightly, a constant, gnawing hunger pressing at his chest. And yet he felt alive, more alive than ever, each act of control a delicious puzzle, a calculated risk, a tiny victory over the chaos of the world.
The night deepened. Voryn paused atop a roof, watching the city below. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faintest clamor of another gang, unaware of the game they were stepping into. A smirk formed. Let's test the system.
He dropped down into the alleyway, shadows coiling around him like liquid, silent, deadly. Every step was precise, every movement calculated. He struck from the darkness, non-lethal but terrifying. Screams, stumbling, fear, yet no one truly died. Not yet.
But then he froze. A presence. Behind him. Watching. Not a thug, not a human. Something else entirely. He could feel it in his bones, the way the shadows trembled slightly, the way the air pressed against him. It was not part of the city. Not part of the street.
And then, without warning, the scream came again. Not faint this time. Not distant. Close, sharp, blood-chilling. A soul being ripped violently from its body, right before his eyes but there was no body.
Voryn staggered, falling to one knee, eyes wide. The Oath wasn't a game. The cost wasn't theoretical. It wasn't something he could calculate, not fully. One soul could scream across the world and touch him, marking him, warning him, threatening him.
The shadows around him pulsed violently. The relic burned against his chest. And the voice not his own, not human, whispered, layered with cruelty and amusement:
"You think you control it. You think you survive. You are ours, and your price has only begun."
Voryn swallowed hard, darkness clinging to the edges of his vision. Fear, real, sharp, gnawed at him. But beneath it, exhilaration, the same thrill he felt the first time he had touched the Oath. The game had begun.
And from the shadows, two glowing eyes emerged. Not human. Not a beast. Watching. Waiting. Smiling.
Voryn's hand instinctively touched the relic. His pulse raced. Not free. Not easy. Not forgiving. Perfect.
The air shifted. The shadows lunged. And just as he thought he understood the rules, the figure stepped closer, revealing a face half-hidden beneath a mask of black smoke, and Voryn felt a surge of dread that promised only one thing: the world had just grown infinitely larger, infinitely deadlier, and infinitely more addictive.