The tent smelled of mold, old leather, and poorly concealed fear.
Isaac remained seated at the center, hands resting on his knees, visible. Always visible. He had learned quickly that any sudden movement made guards tighten their grip on their weapons. So he did not move suddenly.
In truth, he did not move much at all.
He simply observed. Listened.
The camp's rhythm had become predictable. Heavy footsteps every two hours — shift changes. Controlled but overly rapid breathing — chronic fear. Constant whispers beyond the canvas — theories about what he was, what he would do, when he would attack.
He heard everything. He commented on nothing.
His body had stabilized. Burns still covered his skin in irregular patterns of raw red and pale pink, but the sharp pain had faded into a constant discomfort, almost familiar. Like background noise you eventually stop noticing.
The heat, however, had not ceased.
It was not a fever. It did not come in waves. It did not weaken him.
It was simply… constant. As if something inside him burned eternally at low flame, sustained by fuel he did not fully understand.
Anyone who came too close could feel it. He saw it in the way they instinctively stepped back, in the sweat forming on their foreheads even in the cold air of the depths.
The canvas shifted. A man entered — the camp's scribe, thin, nervous, holding a wooden tablet and charcoal as if they were a shield.
Two guards followed him. Always two. Never one. Never three.
Two allowed for a witness if one was attacked.
"Name," the scribe said, his voice subtly trembling.
"Isaac."
"Full name."
"Isaac."
The scribe hesitated. "No surname? No lineage?"
"Not anymore."
The answer unsettled him more than it reassured him. He wrote something down, charcoal scraping wood with excessive pressure.
"Current status?"
Isaac raised his eyes. Amber irises fixed on the scribe, who swallowed hard.
"Alive."
The charcoal stopped for two full seconds before continuing.
"Classification," the scribe pressed, sweat now visible on his brow. "Are you… human? Undead? Possessed? Some kind of—"
"Human."
Silence fell immediately. Heavy as lead.
One of the guards let out a short, nervous laugh. "Humans don't do what you did."
"I agree," Isaac said calmly. "And yet, I remain human."
"That's impossible," another guard muttered.
"Humans don't return from death," the scribe added, his voice rising slightly. "They don't walk out of funeral pyres. They don't glow. They don't—"
"They shouldn't," Isaac agreed. "And yet, here I am."
The scribe exchanged a nervous glance with the guards. "Then… then explain. What happened to you?"
Isaac considered the question. Not for lack of an answer, but searching for words that would not provoke immediate panic.
"I was touched by something greater."
The effect was worse than a scream.
The scribe stepped back half a pace. Guards tightened their grips on their spears. Breathing quickened.
"'Something greater,'" one of them repeated tensely. "That's always how it starts."
"The darkness is also greater," another shot back, almost defensively. "Abominations always talk like that. 'I was touched,' 'I was chosen,' 'I'm special'…"
"And then they rip out throats," the first finished, staring at Isaac with a mix of fear and anger. "Always the same."
Isaac listened. He did not defend himself. He did not argue.
Because they were right, in a sense. Abominations always spoke like that. The language of grandeur was common currency among things that were no longer human trying to pretend they were.
The problem was that he truly had been touched by something greater.
And there was no way to prove he was different until it was too late — or until he proved it.
"You're not going to deny it?" the scribe asked, almost hoping Isaac would retract his words.
"I cannot deny truth."
"Then you admit you're an abomination!"
"I admit that I was changed," Isaac corrected, his voice still calm. "But change is not necessarily corruption."
"Fallacy," a guard spat. "Everything the darkness touches is corrupted."
"I was not touched by the darkness."
"LIAR!" the other shouted, spear trembling. "There are only two forces in this world! The darkness and… and…"
He stopped.
Because there was no second option.
Not anymore.
Isaac saw the exact moment the guard realized the conceptual void. Saw the desperation cross his face when he understood that his worldview had only one side.
And if Isaac did not come from the darkness…
Then where did he come from?
The tent opened again.
Tobias entered.
His presence alone reorganized the space instantly. Guards straightened. The scribe lowered his tablet. The air became less suffocating.
It was not formal rank — Tobias technically held no superior office over anyone there. It was something else. Tacit recognition. Survival earned respect hierarchy could not buy.
"Leave," Tobias said. He did not command. He simply stated.
"Captain, we still—"
"Now."
The scribe opened his mouth, closed it, gathered his things. The guards hesitated, then followed. One by one they left the tent.
The last one cast a look at Isaac — half plea, half warning.
If he kills you, at least die facing him.
Then they were gone.
Alone.
Tobias did not sit. He stood with arms crossed, studying Isaac like a problem to be solved.
"You're making this worse," he said finally.
"I know."
"Half the camp thinks you're a product of the darkness in disguise."
"They're wrong."
"And you say that," Tobias laughed humorlessly, "with the absolute conviction of someone who leaves no room for doubt."
"There is none."
"Isaac…" Tobias rubbed his face. "Do you hear how this sounds? You walked out of a funeral pyre. Your body burns from the inside. Your eyes glow. And you speak like a mad prophet about being 'touched by something greater.'"
"I know how it sounds."
"Then help yourself! Give some explanation that doesn't sound like…"
"Madness?" Isaac finished. "Possession? Corruption?"
"Yes!"
Isaac fell silent for a moment. Then, carefully:
"Tobias. Do you remember the official story? What we were taught about how the world came to this state?"
The shift in topic unsettled Tobias. "What? That has nothing to do with—"
"Answer."
Tobias sighed, frustrated. "Of course I remember. Everyone does. The Long Night. The stars disappeared, then the moon, then the sun. A gradual process over decades until—"
"And the official explanation?"
"Cosmic phenomenon," Tobias recited almost automatically. "Regional stellar collapse. The academics call it 'celestial desynchronization' or something like that. Why are we—"
"Celestial desynchronization," Isaac repeated, something almost sad in his voice. "Big words. Comfortable words."
"They're the words the wise use," Tobias snapped defensively.
"They're the words people use when they don't want to admit they don't know," Isaac corrected gently. "Or when they do know, but the truth is worse than ignorance."
Tobias stared at him. "Are you implying a conspiracy?"
"I'm stating an observation."
"What observation?"
Isaac leaned slightly forward. "Have you ever seen a natural phenomenon act with intent?"
"The darkness doesn't act with intent," Tobias said automatically. "It just… consumes. Expands. It's a natural force."
"Then why are there patterns?"
"Patterns?"
"Why do some cities endure while others vanish?" Isaac asked quietly but firmly. "Why does the darkness advance faster in certain regions? Why are some zones completely spared while nearby areas are devoured?"
Tobias opened his mouth. Closed it.
Because he had no answer.
He never had.
No one did.
"Coincidence," he tried. "Geography. Residual magical resources. The academics have theories—"
"Theories," Isaac echoed. "But no definitive answers. None that explain why the darkness seems to… choose."
"You're anthropomorphizing," Tobias accused. "Assigning consciousness to a natural phenomenon."
"I'm recognizing a pattern a natural phenomenon shouldn't have."
"That's… dangerous thinking. Paranoid."
"Or observational."
Tense silence.
Tobias stepped closer. "So what are you saying? That the Long Night wasn't an accident? That it has purpose?"
"I'm saying," Isaac replied carefully, "that it has a cause. And that cause was not cosmic."
"Then what was it?"
"Human."
The word dropped like a stone into a deep well.
Tobias laughed — short, bitter. "Now you've truly lost your sanity. Humans don't have the power to extinguish the sun."
"Not alone."
"So what then? Magic? A mass ritual?" Sarcasm became defense. "Isaac, you're starting to sound like those apocalyptic cultists who—"
"I left evidence."
That stopped Tobias mid-sentence.
"…What?"
"Evidence," Isaac repeated. "Documents. Ancient texts. Records I gathered over years. All stored in my old tent."
Tobias blinked. "Your old— you mean the area that was abandoned? Overrun by the darkness weeks ago?"
"Yes."
"You're insane. Nothing survives there."
"The evidence will," Isaac said with a certainty he should not have had. "Because I protected it specifically to survive without me."
Tobias stared at him, disbelief mixing with something dangerously close to hope.
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I knew I might die before convincing anyone," Isaac said. "And the truth needed to survive even if I didn't."
"That sounds like…" Tobias stopped. "That sounds like long-term planning. As if you knew something like this would happen."
"I didn't know," Isaac admitted. "But I feared it. And fear made me careful."
Tobias dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion bleeding through. "If I go there… if I risk the darkness, into an abandoned zone, and find nothing…"
"Then you'll have every right to consider me mad," Isaac said without hesitation. "Or a liar. Or dangerous. And do whatever you judge necessary."
"You accept that too easily."
"Because I cannot force conviction," Isaac replied. "Only offer verification."
Tobias was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"Your body. It's still hot?"
"Yes."
"It never cools?"
"No."
"That's not normal."
"No," Isaac agreed. "But it's not corruption either."
"How can you be sure?"
Isaac raised those amber eyes. "Because the darkness does not create, Tobias. It distorts. Degrades. Corrupts what already exists. I was… altered. Transformed. But not degraded."
"You sound very certain about a distinction no one else can make."
"Because I experienced both."
That stopped Tobias. "…Experienced?"
"I saw the darkness," Isaac said quietly. "Not just saw. Felt. Between death and return, I was in a place where… I could compare."
"Compare what?"
"What corrupts and what transforms."
Tobias closed his eyes. "You realize that if you're wrong, you could doom us all."
"I do."
"And you still ask us to trust you?"
"No," Isaac corrected. "I ask you to verify. Trust comes later. Or not at all. But at least it will be an informed choice."
Silence.
Finally, Tobias turned toward the exit.
"You remain under custody. Double guards."
"I understand."
Tobias stopped at the entrance, hand on the canvas. He did not look back.
"I'll go to your tent," he said. "Alone. If I die, at least no one else risks it."
"Tobias—"
"And if this is all a lie…" his voice hardened. "If I return and find nothing…"
He did not finish.
He didn't need to.
Then he left.
The tent fell silent.
Isaac closed his eyes.
The heat beneath his skin remained. Constant. Watchful. A living reminder that he was no longer entirely what he had been.
But also not what they feared.
He was something in between.
And the truth about what lay buried in documents he had spent years collecting, translating, protecting.
Documents about how the world had not fallen by accident.
About choices made.
About prices paid.
About a promise forgotten.
Tobias would discover it. Or die trying.
And Isaac could do nothing but wait.
And burn. Always burn.