The first thing I remember is the silence.
Not the kind of silence you hear late at night, when even the crickets have grown tired of chirping. This was different. This silence had weight, pressing against my chest, sinking into my bones, making the air taste like ash.
That was the day the sky went silent.
The world had been unraveling for years, ever since the dead clawed their way back into it. At first, humanity called them monsters, then demons, then plagues given flesh. We tried naming them, classifying them, giving ourselves a sense of control. But what do you call an enemy that doesn't bleed, doesn't break, and doesn't rest?
Now, we just call them the Dead.
I used to live in a city once, back when the towers still touched the sky and electricity still hummed in the wires. But that city is a carcass now, hollowed and picked clean. What little remains of us hide in the husks of villages, or among the trees, or underground, waiting for the end.
And maybe that's why the gods abandoned us.
I'd never been religious, but when every temple went dark and every priest fell silent, even the skeptics began to wonder. If gods exist, then they turned their faces away the day the Dead conquered the living.
That brings me to the ability.
It began on the night of my seventeenth winter. I woke to whispers clawing at my ears, voices of people who weren't there. My mother was long dead, my father too, and the rest of the village slept around me in uneasy silence. But I couldn't block the whispers out. They weren't words exactly, more like echoes of screams that had been cut short.
When I opened my eyes, I saw them.
Souls.
They hovered faintly above the bodies of the villagers, pale blue flames flickering and shivering like candlelight. Some were dim and cracked, like fragile glass about to break. Others pulsed strong, vibrant, almost blinding.
And then I saw another — dark, writhing, tangled like a knot of smoke and chains. It wasn't human. It was clinging to the corpse of a Dead that had fallen near the gates weeks ago.
Before I could scream, instinct moved me.
I reached out.
The world tilted. The soul—the thing—rushed into me, clawing, burning, screaming as it dissolved into my chest. I thought it would kill me. Instead, I felt power. My vision sharpened, my blood ran hotter, and for a moment, I felt alive in a way I never had before.
But when I looked at my reflection in the broken glass nearby, I didn't see myself. My eyes, once brown, now glowed faintly red. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't sure if I was still human.
That was my first "consumption."
The next morning, I swore I would never do it again. I told myself it was a mistake, that I would cling to what humanity I had left. But swearing and surviving are two different things.
The Dead came again, as they always do. A dozen of them, rotting skin hanging off bone, jaws clicking, eyes glowing like embers. The villagers screamed, scattered. We had only a few guards with rusted spears, and I knew—we all knew—it would not be enough.
And in that moment, the whispers returned. Dozens of souls shimmered before me. Some still tethered to villagers, some lingering from the corpses outside the gate. They called to me, begged to be consumed.
The choice was simple.
I reached out again.
The rush of strength flooded me, and my body moved like a storm. I tore through the Dead with bare hands, bones snapping beneath my grip, skulls caving under my blows. Their shrieks echoed, but I didn't stop. For the first time in years, the villagers survived an attack.
But when it was over, I could barely breathe. Not from exhaustion—no, my body felt stronger than ever—but from the realization of what I had done.
The villagers looked at me with fear. Not gratitude. Not relief. Fear.
And I couldn't blame them.
Because when the blood settled and the silence returned, I saw myself again in that broken glass. The glow in my eyes was brighter, fiercer. My teeth looked sharper, my skin paler. A part of me was gone, stripped away, and something else had taken its place.
That was the price.
Every soul I consumed made me stronger. Every soul I consumed also carved away my humanity, piece by piece.
That night, the whispers didn't fade. They grew louder. Some begged me to save them. Some screamed. And some… laughed.
I don't know what I will become if I keep going.
But I know this: in a world where the gods have turned their backs, where the Dead rule and the living cower, someone has to stand. Someone has to fight.
If I must sacrifice myself—my humanity—to protect what little remains of us, then so be it.
But sometimes, when the silence presses too deep, I wonder:
Will I be the savior that humanity prays for?
Or the demon that ensures its final destruction?
The sky offered no answer.
Only silence.