The village square was alive with the noise of trade and gossip. The air carried the scent of bread fresh from ovens, the metallic tang of blood from the butcher's stall, and the sour-sweet aroma of fermented milk. Merchants shouted their prices while women haggled, and children darted between legs, chasing each other through the dust. It was one of those days when everyone was gathered, when even the smallest corners of Duskvale seemed full of voices.
Kael moved among them silently, shoulders hunched, eyes low. He carried a small pouch of grain, given by his grandfather, to barter for dried meat. The pouch felt heavier than it should have, as though the eyes of the whole square were pressing it down into his hands. People shifted as he passed, leaving space where there should have been none. A woman pulled her child behind her skirts, muttering prayers under her breath. A man spat to the side, glaring at him as though Kael had walked too close.
It had always been this way, but today the whispers stung sharper. His nights had left him frayed, and every sound seemed to cut deeper into his thoughts. He could hear them even when they spoke quietly.
"That's the cursed boy."
"His grandfather should have left long ago."
"He brings ruin with him."
Kael pressed his lips together, forcing his steps steady. He would get the meat and return. Nothing more.
But fate did not let him pass unnoticed.
At the butcher's stall stood Roran, the butcher's son. Broad-shouldered, thick-armed, older by a few years, Roran was well-fed where Kael was thin, confident where Kael was quiet. His grin was already cruel when Kael approached, but it widened as though fortune itself had handed him sport.
"Well, if it isn't the ghost spawn," Roran sneered, loud enough for the people nearby to hear. "Come to buy meat, cursed one? Or is it blood you crave?"
A ripple of laughter spread among those watching. Kael felt his face burn, but he kept his gaze on the pouch in his hands. He placed it on the counter, voice quiet.
"I've come for dried strips. Nothing else."
Roran leaned forward, his shadow falling across Kael. "Nothing else, he says. Nothing else but nightmares and death. Tell me, do you hear them scream when you sleep?"
Kael's fists trembled. He wanted to leave, but Roran's hand shoved him hard in the chest before he could step back. Kael stumbled into the mud, grain scattering from the pouch. The crowd laughed louder.
Something inside Kael cracked.
Heat rushed into his chest, his vision tunneling. His humiliation burned into anger, raw and sharp. His grandfather's words whispered at the edges of his mind: Power is poison. But another voice, closer, sweeter, drowned it out.
"One taste, child. Just one taste."
Kael's breath quickened. The pouch lay forgotten in the mud. The laughter blurred. His heart pounded so loud it drowned the square. And then, from the corner of his sight, he saw it—his shadow stretching unnaturally across the ground.
It should not have reached that far. The sun was weak, the angle wrong, but still the shadow stretched, twisting like smoke. It writhed, alive, pulling itself toward Roran.
The butcher's son froze mid-laugh. His eyes dropped to the ground as black fingers rose from Kael's shadow, curling around his ankles. The air grew colder. The laughter of the crowd stuttered, then died completely.
Roran gasped. He tried to step back, but his legs refused him. His knees buckled. His eyes widened in horror as the faceless image of the nightmare flickered before him, a vision only he could see. For a heartbeat, he felt the weight Kael had borne in the void, the suffocating press of the Karabasan. His breath caught in his throat, strangled by terror.
Kael stared, equally frozen. He had not spoken, had not willed it—but the Karabasan had answered his rage all the same. The shadow tightened, squeezing. For a moment, he thought he could feel Roran's fear, taste it, as though it was being fed into the chain that bound the Jinn to him.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the shadow receded. It shrank back into place, curling harmlessly beneath Kael's feet. The cold lifted.
Roran stumbled backward, gasping. His face was pale, sweat glistening on his skin. His father shouted, rushing to his son's side. The crowd erupted, fear exploding into chaos.
"Witchcraft!" someone screamed.
"He's possessed!" shouted another.
"The boy is cursed!"
The square erupted. Mothers grabbed their children, dragging them away. Merchants pulled down their stalls. Men grabbed stones and sticks but did not dare step closer. Their fear was louder than their anger.
Kael remained in the mud, his hands shaking, his breath ragged. His heart pounded, not with terror alone, but with something else. Something darker.
Exhilaration.
For the first time, he had not been the one mocked, the one pushed down. For the first time, someone else trembled before him.
Roran had looked at him with fear. Real fear.
Kael's body shook, his mind torn between horror at what he had unleashed and the dangerous thrill that surged in his veins. The whisper returned, soft, satisfied.
"Do you see now? They will never laugh again. They will kneel."
Kael shivered. His fists clenched. He wanted to deny it, to reject it, but the memory of Roran's eyes—wide, pale, filled with terror—etched itself deep inside him.
When he finally stood, the square was nearly empty. Only the whispers of the fearful remained, carried on the cold wind. Kael turned, his legs unsteady, and began the long walk back to the hut.
Every step felt heavier, but within, the seal pulsed.
And the laughter of the Karabasan echoed in his soul.