The cell was silent, save for the faint dripping of water somewhere in the dark. Alaric sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, his wrists still bound by the shackles the guards had not cared to remove. The iron bit into his skin, leaving faint marks, but he paid little attention. The taste of the last soul he had consumed still lingered on his tongue—bitter, metallic, and heavy, like swallowing fire wrapped in ash.
He hated it. He hated how necessary it had been.
The whispers had already begun. They slithered inside his skull, voices of the departed clawing at his thoughts, echoing their regrets, their pain, their rage. They reminded him of who he had taken, of the fragments of humanity that were no longer theirs but his, chained within him.
"You could have saved me…" one voice wept.
"You stole what was left of me…" another accused.
"You are no savior. You are a grave."
Alaric gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing into a steady rhythm. He would not let them overwhelm him. Not now. Not yet.
The heavy iron door creaked open, spilling torchlight into the cell. A figure entered—a man dressed in a long cloak of crimson, embroidered with golden runes that seemed to shimmer faintly in the light. His presence radiated command, and the guards who had escorted him bowed low before retreating, leaving Alaric alone with the stranger.
The man studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Then, in a voice deep and resonant, he spoke.
"So. The rumors are true." He stepped closer, the faint glow of the runes casting shifting shadows across the walls. "A man who devours souls and survives. The gods may have abandoned us, but perhaps they left… remnants."
Alaric lifted his head, his eyes narrowing. "And who are you to speak of gods? Priest? Charlatan? Or just another vulture circling the carcass of this world?"
The man's lips curved into something between a smile and a sneer. "I am Lord Caelum. High Magister of the Obsidian Court. And unlike you, I have no delusions of purity. I know exactly what this world demands: power. You have it. You may despise it, but you cannot deny it."
Alaric remained silent.
Caelum circled him slowly, like a predator examining prey not yet decided upon. "Tell me, soul-eater… when you consumed them, did you feel it? The strength surging into your veins? The fire of their essence becoming yours? How intoxicating it must be."
Alaric's voice was low, steady. "Intoxicating? No. Corrupting? Yes. Every soul burns, and with each one I lose something I cannot reclaim."
Caelum leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "And yet you live. Do you not see the irony? While others die screaming beneath the claws of the dead, you endure. You thrive. You could be a weapon unlike any other. A weapon this world desperately needs."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "A weapon for whom? For you? For your court of shadows and schemes? I am no one's blade."
Caelum's smile widened. "So proud. So righteous. But tell me—what do you think the villagers whisper about you now? Savior, or monster? Protector, or curse? You fight for them, but they will never embrace you. They fear you. And fear, my friend, is a leash stronger than any chain."
The words struck deeper than Alaric wished to admit. He remembered the eyes of the villagers after the battle—some filled with awe, others with dread. Children clutching their mothers' skirts, elders muttering prayers to gods who had long since turned their backs. He had saved them, yes. But at what cost?
Caelum straightened, his cloak flowing like bloodied water as he turned toward the door. "You will soon understand. The world no longer belongs to mortals, but to those willing to claim it. And when that truth becomes unbearable, when the weight of chains and whispers crushes you, seek me."
The door closed with a thunderous echo, leaving Alaric once more in darkness.
He sat in silence, his thoughts a storm. The whispers clawed louder now, emboldened by Caelum's words. Monster. Weapon. Grave. Savior. He pressed his palms against his temples, forcing them back, forcing himself to breathe.
The chains rattled as he shifted. He remembered the dying soldier he had consumed—his final expression, a mixture of terror and gratitude. He had begged Alaric to take his soul, to let it serve one last purpose rather than feed the dead. Was it mercy, or was it damnation? Alaric did not know.
But he knew this: he could not let Caelum's poison take root. He was not a weapon. He was not a god. He was a man clinging to the last shreds of his humanity, and if he let them slip, then he truly would become the monster the whispers named him.
The cell door groaned again, this time revealing a different figure—an old guard with a lantern in hand. His face was lined with weariness, his eyes heavy with something that looked like pity.
"Boy," the guard muttered, his voice rough. "They'll move you at dawn. Trial, they call it. But we both know what it means. The Court wants you caged… or broken."
Alaric met the man's gaze. "And you? What do you want?"
The guard hesitated, shifting his weight. "I want to believe you're not the monster they say you are. I want to believe there's still a man beneath those eyes."
He placed the lantern on the ground just inside the cell. "For what it's worth, I hope you prove them wrong." Then he left, footsteps fading down the corridor.
Alaric reached for the light, letting its faint glow chase back the shadows. His heart was heavy, his body weary, but his resolve did not waver. If the Court wished to make him their weapon, they would fail. If the whispers sought to drown him, he would endure.
For he had made a vow, silent and unyielding: as long as he still breathed, he would not let the world sink further into darkness. Even if it meant consuming every fragment of his own soul to hold back the tide.
The lantern flame flickered, casting his shadow long and distorted against the stone wall. For a moment, Alaric saw not himself, but the monster Caelum promised he would become.
And in the silence, the whispers laughed.