The cell stank of iron and mildew. The air hung thick with decay, as if the stones had soaked up decades of blood and suffering. Dust clung to the cracks in the floor like dead skin. Orien sat with his back against the cold wall, the spiral on his chest pulsing faintly.
Outside the bars, Veyren settled onto the ground, his gnarled walking stick resting across his knees. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of unwanted wisdom.
"Do you know what a pact is?"
Orien stayed silent.
"The Pactless Law," Veyren said, his eyes catching the torchlight. "That's what they call it. An ancient rule, older than scripture. Neither angel nor demon can touch this world directly. Their power stops at human skin. So they make deals instead."
Orien said nothing, his fingers tracing the spiral's outline. He could feel it inside him now, a second heartbeat made of teeth.
"Pacts aren't just trades of power," Veyren continued. "They're mirrors. When you accept one, it doesn't just give—it reflects. It twists your desires, your very essence, and binds them into shape."
His cane tapped against the stone, stirring dust.
"Angelic pacts purify. Demon pacts empower. Both have limits. You grow stronger, faster, harder to kill—depending on what spirit you bargain with and what you offer in return."
"What do people offer?" Orien asked.
"Obedience. Blood. Service. Faith. Memories. Sometimes pieces of their soul." Veyren's mouth twisted. "But there are always terms. Rules. Exchanges. Dangerous, yes, but predictable."
He gestured at Orien's chest.
"What you have? That's not a pact. That's something else entirely."
The spiral flared in response, heat spreading through Orien's ribs. He gritted his teeth.
Veyren leaned forward.
"There are stories," he whispered. "Forgotten texts buried deep beneath the Hall of Judgment. They speak of things older than light and shadow. Forces that were never meant to be known. Things that lurk in the cracks between creation."
He drew a spiral in the dust between them.
"Primordials. They don't bargain. They don't bless. They consume."
Silence settled over them.
Orien clenched his fist. "Then why give me power?"
"Because you were broken," Veyren said simply. "Because your scream reached places it shouldn't have. Because you called without knowing. And it listened."
Orien remembered—his shattered body, his will crumbling, that final scream of rage and despair. And in the darkness, something answering.
"What does it want?"
Veyren paused.
"Yours specifically? Pain."
The word echoed in Orien's bones. The spiral pulsed, sharper this time.
"They don't want obedience," Veyren continued. "They want feeling. Raw and unfiltered. Pain, fear, hatred—anything strong enough to turn the spiral."
Orien touched the mark. It burned under his fingers.
"I only remember... fire in my veins."
"The first node," Veyren said. "Your spiral has six. You've awakened one. And with it, you tore a pactbearer apart."
Orien swallowed. "What happens when all six are active?"
Veyren shook his head. "With the first node, pain cuts deeper. A scratch feels like a blade. Each node doubles it further. But in return, it gives you power beyond normal pacts."
Orien's stomach turned.
Veyren leaned closer. "There's more. Normal pacts strengthen you from any pain—wounds in battle, burns, whatever feeds your endurance."
He pointed at Orien's chest.
"But your pact? It only truly answers when you cause the pain yourself. Willingly. The spiral doesn't honor victims. It honors sacrifices."
The truth settled over Orien like ice.
I chose it.
I chose the pain.
And it rewarded me.
"Others' suffering might give you flashes of power," Veyren said, "but only your own agony feeds the spiral. That's its nature—pure devotion through suffering."
Orien looked away, bile in his throat. He could still taste blood, still feel bones breaking.
"Why me?" he whispered.
Veyren studied him for a long moment.
"Because you screamed louder than the world," he said at last. "And you meant every word."
Silence fell between them, broken only by distant screams and the slow, steady pulse of the spiral in Orien's chest.
"How do you know all this?" Orien asked. "Why tell me?"
Veyren sighed. "Let's just say my own pact allows it."
Then he stood, walking away until the shadows swallowed him whole.