Lucien's eyes fluttered open to a dim, flickering light. The smell of smoke and wax clung to the air, heavy with something metallic—like blood that had dried too long on stone. He sat upright slowly, blinking, his head pounding as though the world itself had beaten him senseless.
The room he awoke in wasn't the same chamber where the daemon had appeared. This place was larger, built like a hall carved from the bones of some forgotten beast. Pillars stood crooked along the walls, etched with markings he couldn't decipher. Torches burned low, casting shadows that seemed far too long, too alive.
His left hand throbbed. Lucien turned it over, frowning at the faint, glowing mark etched into his palm. It pulsed once, dimming into silence, like an ember fighting not to be extinguished. He closed his fist around it.
So they think I signed a contract…
He could still feel the daemon's voice—or was it silence? That suffocating presence pressing against him, waiting for him to submit. He hadn't. He had stood still, teeth clenched, refusing. Yet instead of tearing him apart, the refusal itself had birthed something new, something alien in his veins. The mark was proof of that.
A scrape of metal rang out. Lucien's head snapped up. At the far end of the hall, a gate opened with a groan. Figures stepped in, shadows stretching across the stone.
The Fourth Division leaders.
They came in two at first: a tall man draped in dark blue robes, his face hidden beneath a mask shaped like an owl, and beside him a woman with silver hair braided tight, her eyes cold and calculating. More followed behind—officers, initiates, people Lucien didn't yet know how to name.
The owl-masked man spoke first, his voice echoing unnaturally as if swallowed by the walls.
"Lucien…" His head tilted slightly, studying him. "You've been chosen. And it seems…" His gaze lingered on the faint mark glowing faintly through Lucien's clenched fist. "The daemon has accepted you."
Lucien didn't reply. His silence earned a ripple of murmurs from those gathered. He caught the silver-haired woman's expression, sharp as a knife—curiosity mixed with something like suspicion.
Careful, he told himself. Too much resistance, and they'll pry deeper. Too much eagerness, and they'll see through the lie.
So he exhaled, feigning calm, and bowed his head slightly. Not in submission—but enough to play along.
The owl-mask raised a hand, and the hall stilled. "From this day forward, you are no longer a man of the streets. You are Syndicate." His words dripped with authority, each syllable like a chain being fastened. "The Fourth Division accepts you."
A roar of approval came from the gathered initiates. Some clapped him on the back, others muttered envy under their breath.
But Lucien felt none of their triumph. Only the faint throb of the mark in his palm, the weight of chains invisible but no less real.
---
He was led from the hall, through corridors that twisted like veins. Every door he passed was sealed with strange glyphs. Once, he glanced through a half-open doorway and saw a man kneeling before a mirror, his reflection smiling back with a face that wasn't his.
Lucien didn't linger.
At last, they entered a vast chamber lit with lanterns of black flame. Desks, maps, weapons, artifacts—this was the Fourth Division's heart. Around him bustled men and women of every shape and scar, some carrying relics that pulsed with unholy light, others bearing daemon marks etched across their skin.
It was chaos, but ordered chaos.
"You'll work under our eyes for now," the silver-haired woman said, her voice like frost. "Survive, and you'll find your place. Fail…" She let the word hang, a cold smile brushing her lips. "And you'll feed the daemons."
Lucien met her gaze steadily. "I understand."
Did he? No. But he couldn't let her see that.
---
That night, Lucien sat on the edge of a bunk assigned to him. The mark in his palm glowed faintly in the dark, pulsing with his heartbeat. He pressed his other hand against it, as if to smother it.
All around him, the new recruits whispered. He caught fragments of their talk:
"…family daemon passed down, three generations…"
"…contracted flame-bearer, lost half his sanity in the bargain…"
"…don't go near Division Two, they'll cut you open just to see what crawls inside…"
Each word tightened the knot in his chest.
The whispers of the wraith-touched were already enough to gnaw at his mind. Now this—daemons, contracts, Syndicate politics—it was a web designed to suffocate.
Lucien lay down, staring at the ceiling until his vision blurred.
For the first time since he'd arrived in this world, he felt something stir inside him. Not fear. Not hope. Something colder, heavier.
Resolve.
If the Lantern Syndicate thought they had bound him, they were wrong. He would play along, yes. He would walk their halls, obey their orders, learn their secrets.
But his chains were his own.
---
And in the deepest corners of the hall, beyond the flicker of the black lanterns, something shifted. Watching. Waiting.
The daemon he had refused.
The mark on his palm burned once in warning, as though whispering:
This is only the beginning.