'Yea, we did it! Hah! Did you see that? Tell me you saw what I did! I was perfect—sharp, clean, beautiful!' The voice in his head came back, hyped, bouncing around with excitement.
"Shut up, you didn't do shit but yap," he snapped back.
'So ungrateful,' the voice muttered, sounding almost hurt.
He ignored the voice. Getting out was easier than he expected. He used the same door he entered through, and before he knew it, he was back in the well.
His back slammed into the cold floor with a thud. First real fight in years. Lips curled into a savage grin. One slip and he would've been dead—he knew that. And yet… that's what made it good. That risk. That edge. The closer he came to death, the sharper everything felt. The more alive he was.
He pushed himself up, leaning into the wall. Head tilted back, eyes shut tight, a grin tugged at his lips—sharp, stubborn.
"So this is where my strength begins," he muttered, turning the assassin's dagger in his hand.
'We will kill them all. Rip their throats open. Revenge, revenge, revenge,' the voice hissed, jagged with hunger.
"Yes… an eye for an eye."
'A tooth for a tooth.'
"Assassin rule number one—always pay back a hundredfold."
'We will never lose again,' the voice whispered, warped and echoing, like it slithered out of the shadows themselves.
Then he remembered the egg. His hand slipped into his pocket. Fingers closed around it. Warm to the touch, alive. He pulled it out and raised it closer to his face, the faint heat pressing into his skin like a pulse.
"You know… it's because of you I almost died," he muttered, voice rough. "I risked my life for you. You'd better hatch into something awesome."
'Yea, yea, like a dragon!' the voice added.
The egg flared, light bursting bright enough to sting his eyes. He winced, throwing up a hand. "Damn—my bad."
The glow dimmed, but then it began to pulse again, steady, sharp—like it was giving him attitude.
He narrowed his eyes. "I didn't risk my life for a damn egg with attitude."
'You mean we. There's no I in team,' the voice muttered, sulking.
"Yea, yea. Stay quiet for a bit."
Then it struck him. He could feel it—faint, but real. Emotion. As if the thing was reaching back. As if they were bound.
It pulsed again. Somehow, he understood it. Not just hunger—something sharper, heavier. It wasn't a simple plea. It was more like: You peasant—feed me.
He stared at it, deadpan. "Picking you up was the worst decision I've ever made."
'I'm craving omelette,' the voice cut in, mocking.
"Same."
The egg flared brighter, light stabbing into his eyes, pulsing harder like it was mocking him.
'The light! It burns! Feed it now!' the voice screamed dramatically.
He scowled. "Alright, alright! Damn you, stupid egg."
He slit the top of his finger, blood welling fast. Holding it above the shell, he let a drop fall. The moment it touched, it vanished instantly.
"You happy now?" he muttered.
But the egg gave no reply. Its glow dimmed, quiet, like it had fallen asleep.
He brought it closer to his face. "Damn it… what did I get myself into?"
Just then, voices echoed through the tunnel. "The light came from there—it has to be the dungeon lights."
"It's time."
'Yes,' the voice shifted, suddenly serious.
He rose and slipped into one of the passages he had carved in the well, becoming one with the dark.
Three of his clan members came down. They carried no weapons, so he knew they hadn't come to fight. He was about to strike—until he noticed the one in the middle. A ball of fire flickered in his palm, burning steady. His memories stirred, sharp and bitter. He wondered if they carried powers like the five.
He slipped deeper into the dark, letting it swallow him whole. A plan—that's what he needed. If they had powers like the hunters, charging head-on was nothing but suicide. So he lingered instead, silent, patient, a predator biding his time for the perfect strike.
"You sure it's here?" the one on the right asked, suspicious.
"Yes. The clan leader said he felt the rumble," the middle one answered.
The left one glanced around, restless. "Where are all our rare snakes?"
"Some should still be alive," the middle one replied with a smirk, cocky, dismissive. "But with the power we've received, we don't need any snakes."
They searched, boots scraping against stone. Shadows shifted with every step. In the end, they found nothing.
'So what's the plan?' the voice asked, impatient.
"They're not wearing white. That means they're not top ranks. We can take them—but it has to be fast."
'What? So we've been following them for nothing?' it snapped.
"I had to make sure. Couldn't risk it. Now shut up."
He picked up a stone and waited. This was his domain. He knew every twist, every dead end in this place. They were prey here. Even the strongest assassin—still prey.
He waited until they were almost past. Then he flung the stone with sharp precision, striking the one carrying the flame. The light died instantly. Darkness swallowed them whole.
He moved.
The nearest man never had a chance. A clean slice across the throat. A wet gargle was the only sound he made.
The next one fell just as fast—his mouth covered, his neck twisted until the crack echoed off stone.
At last, the leader. He reignited the fire and spun, only to see bodies on the ground.
"Come out!" he shouted, panic bleeding through.
Nothing answered.
Just then, the man started to shiver, as if the temperature had dropped—like something sharp and piercing was watching him from above. His gaze dragged upward. There, the boy clung to the wall, still as stone. Crimson pupils, slit like a serpent's, bore down on him, and the weight of that stare seemed to drain the life from his body.
He pounced before the man could react, closing on him like a lion. In a blink the dagger was under his throat. His lips hovered next to the man's ear, his breath hot, whispering like a serpent before the strike.
"You're going to help us get out of here."
He forced the man forward until they reached a wall. Solid stone. A dead end.
The leader froze. His grip tightened on his flame. "A dead end…?"
The blade pressed harder into his throat until blood welled.
"Are you messing with me?" His voice came flat, cold.
The man's breath hitched. His head jerked frantically. "No… no—"
His trembling hands scraped at the stone until a faint click broke the silence. The wall shifted, stone grinding as it slid aside, a narrow stair cutting upward through rock.
He shoved the man aside and stepped forward. Stale air brushed his face, sour and heavy. A bitter laugh slipped out.
"It was here the whole time," he muttered. "Right under my nose."
The leader staggered up behind him, breath ragged. "That voice…"
His light trembled across the wall, then caught his face. The man's eyes widened. "Is that you, Re—"
The sound was cut short.
His dagger split the man's throat in one brutal motion, hot blood spilling over his fingers. The man's mouth opened, choking on a word that never came. He twitched once, then dropped.
He leaned close, meeting the man's fading gaze as he bled to death, unable to make a sound. Crimson eyes tightened, their glow sharp as blades. His jaw clenched, voice flat, merciless.
"Don't ever call me by that name."
He turned and walked away as the man reached out, clawing weakly for help, trying to force his name through a throat that no longer worked.
At the top, a warped wooden door waited. He shoved it open.
For the first time in years, cool fresh air brushed his skin. He spread his arms wide, eyes shut, chest heaving as if his body didn't believe air like this still existed.
A shed framed him, old wood groaning at the hinges. When he stepped out, silver light spilled across the ground like it was welcoming him.
"It's time to paint the moon red."
'Yes,' the voice hissed, serious now. His eyes glowed as he turned, the light in them colder than steel.