The day after the market incident, the entire village seemed to change.
The square was quiet, though the muddy prints from Kael's fall still marked the ground. Life went on as it always had—women carried water, men worked their tools, children ran through the alleys—but the air was different now. Every time Kael walked through the streets, eyes followed him. Doors slammed shut. Whispers trailed in his wake.
Once, he had been merely pitied, mocked as the cursed child. Now he was something else entirely. He was feared.
One morning, as he approached the well with his bucket, two women came toward him with empty jars. For a moment Kael thought to greet them, but they turned their heads sharply, avoiding his gaze. They pulled their children closer, as though his shadow alone could taint them. As he passed, he caught the words they muttered under their breath.
"Jinn-eyed."
"He carries the mark of shadows now."
Kael's steps slowed. His chest tightened. He had always been shunned, yes, but now the fear was raw, spoken openly, almost reverently, as if he had become something inhuman.
Even the children had changed.
The boys who once threw stones at him now kept their distance. They no longer shouted insults. They only stared at him from afar, wide-eyed, whispers locked in their throats. The laughter was gone—replaced by the silent weight of terror.
Kael hated it. He hated the way they shrank from him.
And yet, part of him thrilled at it.
That night, he sat by the fire with his grandfather. The hut was quiet except for the crackle of flames. The old man leaned on his staff, his gaze heavy, his expression unreadable.
Finally, he spoke.
"You lost control," he said, voice grave. "Fear, anger, pride—these are doors the Jinn will use. And you have opened them."
Kael lowered his head. His fists trembled on his knees.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "But… when they looked at me… they were afraid."
The old man closed his eyes, pain etched across his features.
"Fear is a chain, Kael. If you use it to bind others, it will bind you as well. Every chain pulls at both ends. Power is poison. Drink enough of it, and it will kill you."
Kael said nothing. Inside him, two voices warred. His grandfather's warnings—the tales of their cursed bloodline, the stories of Sealers who lost themselves. And then the whisper of the Karabasan, soft and alluring.
"They already despise you," the voice murmured. "You were never theirs. But with me… their fear will be your weapon. You will never be alone."
Kael's lips twitched, a shadow of a smile rising before he forced it away. If his grandfather saw it, he would have struck him.
That night, Kael lay awake, the wind rattling the shutters. Dogs barked in the distance, and the village settled into uneasy sleep. But Kael could hear nothing more clearly than the whisper inside him.
"Their fear will be your strength."
"Let me bind them."
"Every power has its price. But you have already paid it. Their hatred has been your burden for years."
Kael shut his eyes tight, clutching the blanket. His grandfather's warning echoed: Power is poison.
But then came the memory of the square.
Roran's pale face, his knees collapsing, the silence of the crowd. Kael could still feel that moment, the rush of it, the intoxicating thrill of seeing someone else tremble before him.
And for the first time, he thought:
If power is truly poison… then I will drink it to the last drop.
---
That night, something within Kael shifted.
The shadows were no longer only a curse.
They had become his mark.
And however heavy that mark might be, Kael was ready to bear it.