The first time Aiden truly understood the power of his new ability, it was by accident.
Three days had passed since his awakening, three days of carefully testing the limits of his misdirection skill during the grinding routine of quarry work. The ability came easier each time he used it—like exercising a muscle that grew stronger with repetition. A subtle touch here, a gentle nudge there, causing overseers to look away just as he straightened from his work or guards to lose interest in his section of the quarry.
Small victories, but victories nonetheless.
He was hauling a block of granite across the work yard when it happened. The stone was heavier than usual, and his grip slipped just as Overseer Boris rounded the corner. The block crashed to the ground with a sound like thunder, chips of granite scattering across the worn stone floor.
Boris's face went through its familiar progression of colors—surprise, then anger, then the particular shade of purple that usually preceded a beating. His hand moved to the whip at his belt as he strode toward Aiden with the predatory focus of a hunting cat.
"You clumsy bastard! That's the second block dropped this week, and I'm getting tired of—"
The words died in his throat. Boris stopped mid-stride, his expression shifting from rage to confusion as his eyes seemed to slide past Aiden entirely. For a moment, the overseer stood frozen, as if trying to remember what he'd been angry about.
Aiden felt the familiar warmth flow out of him—stronger than it had ever been before, more focused. Not just making himself overlooked, but actively redirecting attention away from his mistake and toward... something else.
Boris's gaze fixed on Tam, who was working quietly at his assigned station twenty feet away. The young slave looked up in confusion as the overseer's fury suddenly focused on him like sunlight through a lens.
"What are you grinning about, boy?" Boris snarled, striding toward the bewildered teenager. "Think it's funny when someone else does sloppy work?"
"I... I wasn't—" Tam stammered, but the protest only seemed to inflame Boris further.
"Don't lie to me! I saw you smirking when that block fell!" The whip cracked through the air, catching Tam across the shoulder. "Maybe a few lashes will wipe that smile off your face!"
Aiden watched in horrified fascination as Tam received the punishment meant for him. The young slave didn't understand what was happening—couldn't understand why he was being beaten for someone else's mistake. But he took the lashes without complaint, the way they all had learned to do.
I did that, Aiden realized with a mixture of guilt and electric excitement. I didn't just hide from punishment—I redirected it onto someone innocent.
The thought should have filled him with shame. Tam had done nothing wrong, had been quietly minding his own business when Aiden's power painted a target on his back. But instead of guilt, what Aiden felt was a intoxicating rush of control.
For the first time in six years, he had been the one with power in a confrontation. Not much power—barely a whisper compared to what the awakened overseers could do—but enough to protect himself and shape the situation to his advantage.
This is what it feels like to not be helpless, he thought, and the sensation was better than wine.
That night, he began pushing the boundaries further.
After the evening meal and mandatory rest period, when the dormitory had settled into its usual exhausted quiet, Aiden carefully sat up on his cot. The guard on duty tonight was Sergeant Mills—a thin, nervous man who jumped at shadows and had a habit of dozing off during the midnight hours.
Perfect for practice.
Aiden reached for his misdirection ability, feeling the familiar warmth build in his chest. But instead of the subtle nudges he'd been using during work hours, he pushed harder, directing a steady stream of attention-deflecting energy toward the guard.
Mills was reading a letter from home, his lips moving slightly as he worked through the words. Gradually, his eyelids began to droop. Not because of Aiden's power directly—misdirection couldn't force sleep—but because it made staying alert seem less important. The urgent sense of needing to watch the slaves faded, replaced by a vague feeling that everything was fine and attention could safely be directed elsewhere.
Within minutes, Mills was snoring softly in his chair.
Moving like smoke, Aiden slipped from his cot and padded barefoot across the stone floor. Every skill he'd learned during six years of avoiding notice came into play—where to step to avoid creaking boards, how to move without casting shadows, the art of becoming invisible through pure stillness.
But now he had an advantage that went beyond mere technique. His misdirection created a bubble of disinterest around him, making even his small sounds and movements seem unworthy of attention.
He made it to the door without incident, slipped through into the corridor beyond, and felt his heart soar with the intoxicating taste of freedom.
The guard barracks were on the far side of the compound, connected to the slave quarters by a network of corridors and storage rooms. Aiden had memorized the layout during his years of captivity, filing away every detail that might someday prove useful. Now, that knowledge became a roadmap to possibility.
He spent an hour exploring sections of the compound he'd never seen—the administrative offices where the overseers planned their daily cruelties, the equipment rooms where better tools were stored, the kitchen areas where the guards ate food that actually resembled nutrition.
And everywhere he went, his misdirection made him effectively invisible. Guards on patrol would look right through him, their attention sliding away like water off stone. Servants working late shifts never quite seemed to notice the shadow that passed by their peripheral vision.
I could go anywhere, he realized with growing excitement. Do anything. They can't see me when I don't want to be seen.
But he was careful not to push too hard. The ability still drained him, and he could feel his energy reserves depleting with each use. By the time he made it back to the dormitory, Mills was beginning to stir in his chair, and Aiden barely managed to slip back onto his cot before the guard's eyes opened.
The next few days brought more experiments, each one bolder than the last.
He began with small thefts—an extra piece of bread from the guards' meal table, a better blanket from the supply closet, small tools that could be useful for future plans. His misdirection made it easy; guards would look away just as he reached for something, their attention drawn to birds outside the window or imaginary sounds from other parts of the compound.
Then came the incident with the lunch.
Aiden was working the cutting face when the midday meal horn sounded. As usual, the slaves lined up for their rations of thin soup and stale bread while the guards retreated to their own dining area for significantly better fare. He could smell it from across the compound—roasted meat, fresh vegetables, bread that hadn't been sitting in storage for weeks.
Why should they eat well while we starve? The thought came with a surge of resentment that made his power flicker stronger. Why should they have comfort while we suffer?
Instead of joining the slave food line, he drifted toward the guards' dining area, his misdirection wrapped around him like a cloak of shadows. The sentries at the door looked right through him, their attention suddenly fascinated by clouds or distant sounds or anything except the figure walking past them.
Inside, the guards were enjoying their meal with the casual indifference of men who had never known hunger. Plates of seasoned beef, roasted potatoes, fresh fruit—luxuries that seemed almost obscene after years of eating gruel and scraps.
Aiden moved between the tables like a ghost, his power making him essentially invisible to the dozens of armed men around him. A plate here, a portion there—not enough from any one source to be missed, but collectively adding up to the first real meal he'd tasted in years.
He ate standing in the corner, savoring flavors he'd almost forgotten existed, while guards chatted and laughed just feet away, never noticing the slave in their midst.
This is what power feels like, he thought, and the sensation was intoxicating beyond measure.
But it was the incident with Overseer Kaine that truly showed him the potential of his abilities.
It happened during the afternoon shift, when Aiden was assigned to hauling duty despite his back still healing from the previous week's whipping. The blocks they were moving were massive—easily three hundred pounds each—and the ramps leading up from the quarry floor were steep and treacherous.
Halfway up one of the ramps, his strength finally gave out. The block slipped from the wooden skid, bouncing down the incline with enough force to crack the stone floor at the bottom. The sound echoed across the entire work site like a gunshot.
Kaine appeared within seconds, his face already twisted with rage. "What kind of incompetent animal can't manage a simple hauling job?" he snarled, his whip already in his hand. "Maybe twenty lashes will teach you to—"
Aiden's power surged outward with desperate intensity, not just deflecting attention but actively rewriting the narrative of what had happened. In that moment of crisis, his misdirection became something more sophisticated—not just making himself overlooked, but creating a false impression of recent events.
Kaine stopped mid-sentence, his expression shifting from rage to confusion. He looked around the work site as if seeing it for the first time, his gaze settling on the wooden pulley system he'd ordered installed the previous week.
"What idiot designed this pulley arrangement?" he muttered, examining the ropes and wooden beams with growing frustration. "No wonder the blocks keep slipping—the angle is all wrong!"
He spent the next ten minutes ranting about incompetent engineering and lazy construction crews, completely forgetting about Aiden's mistake in his fury over the supposed design flaws. Finally, he stomped away, leaving behind a work crew that exchanged bewildered glances but knew better than to question an overseer's sudden change of focus.
Aiden stood at the bottom of the ramp, heart pounding with the aftereffects of channeling so much power, and felt something that was almost like joy.
I made him forget, he marveled. Not just look away—actually forget what he was angry about and find something else to blame.
That night, as he lay on his cot listening to the familiar sounds of the dormitory settling into sleep, Aiden allowed himself a small smile. Three weeks ago, he had been just another broken slave, powerless to protect himself or others from the casual cruelties of their captors.
Now he was something else. Something that could slip through the compound like smoke, take what he needed without consequence, and redirect punishment away from himself with nothing more than focused will.
It was a small power, still growing, still learning its own limits. But it was his power, earned through suffering and awakened in the crucible of desperation.
And it was just the beginning.
In the corner of the dormitory, Gareth continued his endless mumbling, his broken mind cycling through fragments of memory and madness. But Aiden barely heard him now. His attention was focused inward, on the warm pulse of energy that grew stronger each day, on the abilities that were slowly reshaping his understanding of what was possible.
Path of Whispered Lies, he thought, and the words felt like a promise. Show me what else I can learn.
Tomorrow would bring new opportunities to test his growing skills. New chances to take small pieces of his life back from those who had stolen everything from him.
And someday, when his power had grown enough, new opportunities for the kind of justice that could only be served by those who had learned to lie with perfect sincerity.
The warmth in his chest pulsed once more, then settled into the steady rhythm that now accompanied his sleep. In his dreams, shadows danced at his command, and enemies who had seemed invulnerable revealed themselves to be nothing more than men with weaknesses that could be exploited.
The boy who had been helpless was learning to become something far more dangerous.
Something patient. Something cunning.
Something that whispered lies and made them into truth.