The whispers faded behind them, but they did not leave his mind. They clung like thorns in his thoughts, scratching with every step. His mother's tears. His father's broken body. His siblings' cries.
And the men.
The demons in black.
Their laughter, their fists, their gun.
The boy's hands tightened into fists. His teeth ground together. He felt heat rise in him, different from grief—sharper, hotter, burning with every memory of the men's cruelty.
"They should pay," he muttered under his breath. "They should suffer. They should die."
The rider did not answer.
The plain around them shifted. The grey grew darker, heavier, and the twisted trees leaned inward, their skeletal branches arching like claws. The air thickened. The boy slowed, his breath sharp in his throat.
From the shadows ahead, something stirred.
It stepped into view—a figure shaped like him. The same height, the same face, the same eyes. But those eyes burned with a wild, red-tinged fire. His mouth curled in a snarl. His hands dripped with phantom blood.
The boy staggered back, his stomach twisting. "What—what are you?"
The shadow smiled, baring his teeth. "I am you. The part you keep hidden. The part that knows the truth."
"No," the boy whispered.
"Yes." The shadow's voice was his own, but sharper, harsher. "You hate them. The men who came into your home, who beat your father, who made your mother beg, who stole your life. You wanted to kill them. You still do."
The boy shook his head violently. "No, I just… I just wanted to protect them—"
"Liar," the shadow hissed. "You wanted blood. You felt it, didn't you? When you grabbed that stone, when you struck him—you wanted to see them fall. You wanted their screams. And when the gun fired, you didn't die protecting your family. You died too weak to finish what you started."
The words cut deep. The boy flinched as if struck. "Stop…"
The shadow stepped closer. "You could stay. Here, in this plain. Feed on your hate. Wait for them. When they die, you'll be waiting. You'll strike them down, again and again. No rider to guide you, no chains to bind you. Only vengeance. Only power."
The boy trembled. His heart—whatever remained of it—thrashed in his chest. He saw the men's faces again, their laughter, their cruelty. He felt the stone in his hand, the sweet crack when it struck, the thrill of power in that single moment. The shadow was right—he had wanted it. For a breath, he had wanted nothing more than their pain.
His hands shook. His voice broke. "Maybe… maybe I should have killed them."
The shadow's grin widened. "Yes. Embrace it. Stay here, and we will make them bleed forever."
The boy staggered back, clutching his head. His vision swam with images of the men screaming, begging, as he struck them down again and again. The temptation burned like fire in his veins. His grief twisted into fury, and for a moment, he wanted it—wanted to sink into that endless rage.
Then another memory struck him—his mother's tears falling on his face, his siblings' small hands clutching him, his father's broken voice calling his name.
They had not looked at him with hatred. Not with vengeance. Only with love.
The boy gasped, clutching his chest. "No. That's not what they'd want. That's not who I am."
The shadow's face twisted into a snarl. "Weak. Always weak. That's why you died!"
The boy staggered forward, shouting with all the strength in him. "Better weak than lost!"
The shadow shrieked, its form twisting, breaking apart. Smoke poured from its mouth, its eyes hollowing into nothing. It collapsed into ash, scattering on the lifeless wind.
The boy fell to his knees, trembling, sweatless though his body shook as if fevered. His breath came ragged, yet he felt lighter, as though something had been torn free from inside him.
The rider watched in silence from atop his pale horse. At last, his voice came, low and steady.
"You have turned from your own darkness. Few do."
The boy lifted his head, his voice hoarse. "Will it come back?"
The rider's hood tilted, as though listening to something far away. "Always."
The boy lowered his gaze, the weight of the words pressing on him. But this time, he did not crumble.
He rose, legs unsteady, but he rose.
And he walked on.