Ragor tasted blood every time he breathed.
It bubbled up from somewhere deep and hot, spilling past his teeth as he dragged himself backward across the stone. His hook-axe lay just out of reach, the handle slick, the blade nicked and useless. Every movement sent fire through his spine.
He laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because laughing was easier than screaming.
"So," he rasped, eyes locked on the thing standing between him and the moonlit pool, "you learned a word."
Zairen watched him.
The sound—word—settled in his chest like a pebble dropped into water. It made ripples. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. His attention shifted, cataloging everything at once: Ragor's weakening breath, the way his blood spread in thin veins across the polished floor, the tremor in his hands as strength fled.
Behind Ragor, Tava stumbled back another step.
Her magic flickered uncontrollably, ember-thread snapping in and out of existence like a dying fuse. Sweat soaked her collar. Fear sharpened her breathing into short, frantic pulls.
"This isn't—" she said, then stopped, swallowing. "This isn't how this goes."
Borrik groaned somewhere near the broken pillar, his massive frame curled in on itself. One leg bent wrong. Blood soaked the stone beneath him, dark and slow.
Zairen took one step forward.
The sound of it—claw touching stone—made Tava flinch like a struck animal.
"Don't," she said, voice cracking. "Stay back."
Zairen tilted his head.
He tried again.
"…don't."
The word came out warped, scraped raw by a throat not meant for it yet. It hurt. The sensation surprised him more than the pain. Sound was… complicated.
Tava's eyes widened.
"He—he copied me," she whispered.
Ragor coughed and spat blood. "Course it did," he said hoarsely. "Figures. Steals everything else—why not voices?"
Zairen moved again.
Not fast.
Deliberate.
He crossed the space between them with measured steps, shadows clinging to his limbs as if reluctant to let go. With each movement, his outline shifted—subtle, unfinished, like a sculptor still deciding where the edges should be.
Ragor tried to push himself upright.
Failed.
"Listen," he said, desperation finally burning through his bravado. "We can talk. You want coin? Take it. You want magic?" He gestured weakly toward Tava. "She's got spells. Real ones."
Zairen stopped just out of reach.
Coin.
Spell.
The sounds held no meaning yet. But the tone—that he understood. Ragor wasn't challenging now. He was offering. Bargaining.
Zairen crouched.
The movement brought him eye level with Ragor, close enough for the man to see his reflection warped across dark plates and slit pupils.
Ragor swallowed hard.
"…what are you?"
Zairen considered.
The question pressed inward. Not as sound, but as intent. He searched for something inside himself that matched it.
Nothing fit.
"…learned," he said finally.
The word felt insufficient. But it was the closest thing he had.
Ragor's laugh broke into a wet cough. "Yeah," he wheezed. "Aren't we all."
Tava screamed.
Zairen didn't look back in time to see the spell form properly—only felt it.
Heat surged.
Not a weak ember-thread this time. Tava tore into her reserves recklessly, shaping a crude but violent burst. Fire roared down the corridor, lighting the court in harsh orange, shadows fleeing from it in jagged pieces.
Zairen reacted on instinct.
Shadow compressed.
Armor thickened.
He pivoted, taking the blast across his shoulder instead of his core. The heat scorched deep this time—pain lanced through him, sharp and immediate. He staggered a half-step, claws scraping stone.
The smell of burnt shadow filled the air.
Tava collapsed to one knee, gasping, eyes wild. "Why—won't—you—DIE?!"
Zairen turned toward her slowly.
Pain fed something inside him. Not rage. Focus.
He Blinked.
The space between them folded.
One moment he stood by Ragor.
The next, he loomed over Tava.
She barely had time to look up.
Zairen grabbed her wrist as another spell tried to form, crushing it with controlled pressure. Bones cracked. The ember-thread fizzled out uselessly.
Tava screamed.
Zairen didn't flinch.
He watched her face as the sound left her, studied the way fear reshaped her features, the way her breathing changed pitch and rhythm.
Words tried to rise again.
"…stop," he said.
This time, clearer.
Tava sobbed. "Please—please—I didn't know—I thought—"
The sound please struck him again.
Something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.
Ragor shouted, raw and furious. "KILL ME THEN, YOU BASTARD! Don't just—don't just—"
Zairen ended it.
He drove a shadow blade through Ragor's throat with one clean motion.
The shout cut off instantly.
Blood sprayed, warm and heavy, pattering across the floor in a wide arc. Ragor's body went slack, eyes staring at nothing.
Silence rushed in to fill the space he left.
Zairen turned back to Tava.
She stared at Ragor's corpse, mouth open, breath stuttering. Something inside her broke quietly.
"I'll do anything," she whispered. "Anything. Teach me—control me—just don't—"
Zairen hesitated.
Again.
The hesitation felt wrong. Dangerous.
He remembered Mirro's heartbeat stopping. The rush that followed. The knowledge gained.
This one… would give more.
Magic. Structure. Language.
He tightened his grip.
Tava screamed once more before shadow enveloped her.
The devouring was faster this time.
Cleaner.
Information flooded him in sharper clarity—spell theory fragments, vocal nuance, facial expressions, meaning layered onto sound. The pain of speech eased slightly as his throat reshaped, muscles aligning closer to purpose.
He released her body gently.
It hit the floor with a soft, final sound.
Zairen straightened.
He inhaled.
"Enough," he said.
The word came out clearer now. Still rough, but recognizable.
Borrik stirred.
The brute pushed himself onto one elbow, face pale, eyes unfocused. He looked at the bodies scattered across the court, then at Zairen.
"…monster," he whispered.
Zairen walked to him.
Borrik tried to crawl away, strength gone, dragging useless leg behind him. "Wait—wait—I didn't—"
Zairen placed a claw on his chest.
The heartbeat was slow. Fading.
This devouring brought mass, strength, density. Muscle memory poured in, reinforcing Zairen's already formidable frame.
When it was over, Borrik lay still.
The court fell silent again.
Moonlight reflected off the pool, unbroken.
Zairen stood alone among the dead.
He looked at his hands.
They were changing.
Not fully human. Not yet. But closer. The silhouette smoother. The proportions shifting subtly toward something that could stand under the sun—if only briefly.
He opened his mouth.
"…I… speak."
The words hurt less this time.
They echoed softly against stone pillars that had not heard voices in centuries.
Zairen turned toward the corridor leading upward, where the night air drifted down faintly.
Beyond this floor lay the surface.
Beyond that—things he did not yet understand.
He stepped forward, leaving bloody footprints that slowly faded as shadow reclaimed them.
Behind him, the palace-maze remained calm and beautiful, indifferent to the lives it had just witnessed end.
The hunt was over.
Something else was beginning.
---