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Chapter 3 - Chapter 7: The Shadow That Follows

Rian's hands were blistered and raw from digging through the wet, ashen earth. The ground refused to give way easily—mud and stone and the remnants of what used to be a garden. He had no shovel, only his hands and the jagged edge of a metal sign he found half-buried in the rubble. By the time he was done, his fingers were bleeding, the skin on his knuckles torn open. The rain hadn't stopped all day, turning everything into a gray haze. The world felt empty—like it had forgotten how to breathe.

He stared at the body wrapped in an old, bloodstained blanket. For a long time, he couldn't make himself move. His chest hurt too much. It wasn't from the exhaustion or the cuts; it was from something deeper—something that gnawed at him every time he looked at her still form.

He kneeled beside the grave, silent. His breath came in short, uneven gasps.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what else to say anymore."

The rain fell harder, soaking the blanket until it clung to the small shape underneath.

He hesitated, then slowly reached out to touch her face one last time through the thin fabric. The cold was unbearable. It wasn't just the chill of death—it was the chill of absence, of knowing that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he screamed, the person beneath that blanket would never wake again.

And yet, even now, he could feel her. Deep inside his chest, that faint warmth still pulsed, slow and rhythmic. It wasn't gone. It would never be gone.

That was the curse.

He closed his eyes and pushed the body into the grave. The sound of it hitting the wet soil was soft, final. He covered it slowly, handful by handful, until there was nothing left but a mound of mud.

He didn't pray. He didn't know who to pray to anymore. The gods had died with the rest of the world.

When it was done, he sat there in the rain, staring at the grave until the light faded. His body was trembling—not from the cold, but from the weight in his chest. He couldn't tell if he was crying or if it was just the rain on his face.

The wind howled through the ruins, carrying with it the faint echoes of something that sounded almost like a voice. He thought he heard her name. He thought he heard his name. But when he turned, there was only emptiness.

Still, as he stood and walked away, he felt it—the sensation of eyes on his back.

That night, Rian camped in the remnants of an apartment building a few blocks away. The fire he lit barely held against the cold, its smoke curling through the broken windows like thin, dying ghosts.

He hadn't eaten. The idea of food made him sick. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—the way it looked before, when she was laughing and teasing him. And then the way it looked after—pale, lifeless, still.

He'd killed her.

No matter how much he told himself it was to save her, that she was already gone, the truth clawed at the back of his skull like something alive. He had eaten her soul. He could feel it pulsing inside him.

He lay on the cold floor, eyes open, staring at the ceiling that had half collapsed. The shadows danced with the flicker of the fire. He told himself it was just the light playing tricks. He told himself it was just his imagination.

But then he heard it again—bare feet moving across the wet floor.

Soft. Slow. Careful.

His heart stopped.

He sat up, every muscle tensed. "Who's there?"

No answer.

The fire crackled, and for a moment, everything was still.

Then, in the far corner of the room, the shadows shifted.

A small figure stood there—motionless, half-hidden in the dark.

"Nara…"

The name escaped his lips before he could stop it.

The figure didn't move, didn't speak. But when the light flickered again, he saw her face.

A little girl. Eyes black and empty, staring straight at him.

Rian scrambled back, his breath coming fast. "No. You're not real."

The figure tilted its head, slow and unnatural. The sound of bone grinding filled the silence.

He blinked, and she was gone.

He looked around wildly, his pulse hammering. "It's not real. It's not—"

Something cold brushed his shoulder.

He spun around, swinging his arm instinctively, but hit nothing but air.

"Stop it!" he shouted. His voice echoed off the cracked walls. "You're not her! You're not!"

Silence.

He pressed both hands to his head. His veins were burning again, that familiar black shimmer crawling beneath his skin. He could feel the voices now—the ones he'd absorbed, whispering from deep inside him.

A thousand murmurs, too quiet to understand but too loud to ignore.

"Shut up," he muttered. "Shut up…"

The whispers didn't stop. They never did.

Some cried. Some laughed. Some begged.

And somewhere in that endless noise, a small, trembling voice whispered, Rian.

His chest tightened.

"Don't," he said. "Please… don't do this."

But the voice kept calling him, softer, gentler, until it broke something inside him.

He slammed his fist against the wall. Cracks spread through the plaster. "Why can't you leave me alone?"

Because you won't let me go.

He froze. The voice wasn't in his head this time. It was behind him.

He turned slowly.

There she was again—closer this time. Her white dress soaked in rain and ash, her eyes black pits that reflected no light.

He couldn't breathe.

"Nara…"

She blinked slowly, and for a brief moment, her eyes changed. They flickered—black, then brown, the way they used to be.

"Brother," she said softly.

Rian's knees nearly gave out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

Her expression didn't change. The faintest smile curved her lips, sad and hollow.

"You did what you had to," she said. "But now… I'm still here."

He shook his head. "You're dead."

"I was," she said. "But you took me with you."

She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. The closer she came, the colder the air became. His breath turned to mist.

Her hand reached out, brushing against his chest where the faint glow of her soul still lived inside him.

"It's warm," she whispered. "So warm."

He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to tell her that he'd trade anything to bring her back. But when he reached out, his hand passed through her like smoke.

The moment his skin touched the space where she should have been, pain shot through his arm. The veins turned black again, burning.

He fell to his knees, gasping.

She stepped back, her expression unreadable now.

"You're changing," she said softly. "You can't stop it."

"I don't want this," he hissed.

"But you already took it."

Her voice echoed, stretching and splitting into multiple tones—the same voice, repeated by countless others inside his head. The room began to warp, the walls melting into shadow.

The whispers grew louder—souls crying, laughing, screaming all at once.

Rian clutched his head, his nails digging into his scalp. "Stop! Just stop!"

The world went black.

He woke up lying on the floor, drenched in sweat. The fire had long since gone out.

Morning light seeped weakly through the cracks in the walls. His breath came in ragged gasps. His head pounded like someone was hammering from the inside.

He dragged himself to a sitting position, his whole body trembling.

It hadn't been a dream. He could still feel her. The chill in the air lingered, the faint echo of her voice curling in the corners of his mind.

He looked at his reflection in a puddle nearby. His eyes were different again—both darker, both with that faint, unnatural glow.

"You're losing it," he muttered.

But another voice—his own, yet not his—whispered back.

No. You're awakening.

He clenched his teeth. "You again."

You keep resisting what you are. That's why you suffer.

"I didn't ask for this!" he shouted. "I didn't want any of this!"

You did when you chose to live. You can't eat the soul of the one you love and stay human. That's not how it works.

Rian slammed his fist into the ground, cracking the concrete. "Then what am I?"

Something new, the voice purred. Something above.

He staggered to his feet, his body shaking from exhaustion and rage. "If this is what being above means, I'll tear it all down."

He stumbled out of the building, into the dim, dead light of the ruined city. The wind howled through the streets, carrying the stench of decay.

Everywhere he looked, he saw shadows moving—some distant, some too close. But now, he wasn't sure which ones were real and which were only in his mind.

He walked past the spot where he had buried her. The soil was undisturbed. The rain had flattened it. But as he passed, he saw small footprints in the mud—bare, small, leading away from the grave.

He froze.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the dark alley beside him.

There she was again. Standing at the end of the path, her white dress fluttering in the wind.

He didn't move. Neither did she.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other—two shapes caught between life and death, bound by a hunger neither of them understood.

Then she smiled—soft, haunting.

And vanished.

Rian closed his eyes. The whispers inside him were quiet now, almost waiting.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and whispered, "I'll find out what you are. I'll find out what I am."

He turned and walked away, his shadow long and jagged under the pale morning light.

But as he disappeared down the street, another shadow moved behind him—small, light, silent.

It followed him with patient steps, eyes glowing faintly in the fog.

No matter how far he went, she would always be there.

Not as sister.Not as ghost.But as the reflection of what he had become.

The shadow that would never leave.

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