I keep my senses stretched to the edge, nerves humming, the thought and revelation gnawing at my mind with a dull, persistent ache: Monsters still exist! Its the only explanation. Real, and not just a stories of a past ant to frighten children. What if they're here, watching from the gloom, waiting for us to let down our guard?
I try to picture one sothing out of books, all claws and fangs stalking us through the trees. The thought makes my hand tighten reflexively on my sword hilt. I run through every strategy I know. If a monster appears, do I fight it head-on? Try to outthink it? Are monsters like humans in the end, vulnerable to blade and fire and fear, or do they follow rules of their own? All my training, all my knowledge of marks and combat, feels woefully inadequate when the enemy might not play by the logic of n. Even their appearance will be foreign because how could I possibly conceive of an abomination that even the gods rejected?
Worse, I don't even know if our marks would matter. I assu they will because the Awakened of the past fought and killed them, but who knows? The one we run into could a unholy fiend immune to illusions, or could shrug off fire, drink lightning like cold water. Gauging what they can and cant do is a fools task.
Elijah walks close, his stride relaxed but his eyes never still. The rest of House Apophis weaves through the woods in the sa wary formation. Ayil leads, shield mark ready, with Bragg and Niko on either side.
Elijah slips closer, his voice pitched so only I can hear. "You look like you expect a dragon to drop out of the trees, man."
I smirk, but there's no real humor in it. "Not a dragon.. I keep thinking about things I probably shouldn't."
He grins. "Rember If sothing jumps out, I'll go invisible and you can be the brave hero while I hide."
"Thanks," I mutter. "Glad to know I'm bait."
We walk on, the muggy warmth pressing in, sweat trickling down my back despite the snow still lingering in the branches overhead. The ground is uneven, roots snaking underfoot, and the air tastes green and sullen. The silence is uncomfortable. Every so often, the path narrows, and we bunch up, shoulders brushing, weapons drawn. Other tis, it widens, and we relax a hair, but nobody lets their guard down completely.
I keep thinking of ways to fight, ways to hide, ways to run. If a monster is real—if it's here—what does it want? Does it hunt by sight, by sll, by sound? Can it sense magic, track us by our marks? I hiss in annoyance knowing that with so many unknowns its impossible to plan or prepare. I hate being vulnerable to rules I don't understand.
Hours pass, or maybe it's only minutes. The trees never thin, the sky never brightens. It's like the forest has swallowed us whole and is digesting us slowly. I imagine, for a mont, that we're walking in circles, that we'll never escape, that the monster is the forest itself and we're already trapped in its gut. That's a lovely thought isn't it?
The voices in my head have been quiet these past hours, coiled sowhere deep beneath my thoughts, but now they co slithering up.
They hiss through my mind, mocking, their words curling around my head.
Monsters, they sneer. You're afraid of monsters? How small you are, Ayato. How human you still act. If there's anything still lurking in these woods, it should fear you.
Their laughter is soft, sibilant, echoing in the spaces between my heartbeats. I grit my teeth, trying to focus on the trail ahead, but the voices are relentless wiggling past attempts to banish them to the edges of my mind.
You are not so trembling child in the outskirts, clutching a stick and hoping to see the dawn. You are marked, thrice marked at that, chosen by the One and the Many, given divine purpose. None not even you understand what you are. You fear those beasts? They would cower before you if they had any sense left at all.
I clench my jaw, my hand tightening on my sword hilt and I furrow my brow in confusion at what the One and the Many ans. But they feed on my anger and fear and press on.
You are a god among insects, Ayato. All your little friends, your enemies, the ones who whisper behind their hands and plot in the shadows they are nothing, less than nothing, compared to what you could be if you only let go. If you only accepted what you are. Half-mortal, indomitable, the shape of all their fears made flesh. What is a monster to a God? What is a nightmare to the thing that inspires them? The answer is nothing boy!
I want to silence them, to drown them out with logic and reason that I am not a half mortal, that I am not unbeatable but a part of listens. A part of thrills to their words, to the promise that nothing no beast, no Elite, no ancient horror could ever truly touch , not if I wield my marks as they're ant to be wielded. Maybe the forest would split open at my command. Maybe the monsters would fall to their knees and beg for rcy.
You could rule this land, remake it, burn the Elites of the world to ash and write your own legend in blood and fire. Accept it. Embrace it. There is nothing that can harm you, nothing that can scare you, once you do.
My heart hamrs in my chest. Sweat beads on my brow, mingling with the muggy air. I squeeze my eyes shut for a heartbeat, fighting the rush of hot, wild certainty the voices bring. I am not a god. I am not invincible. But the temptation is there, always just beneath the surface, waiting for to surrender.
The voices are relentless now, crawling up from what feels like the marrow of my bones, their whispers louder and more seductive than ever. They slither through the corners of my mind, weaving their visions into the spaces between my thoughts, until I can almost see them see myself, older, changed, destiny writ large across a landscape of ash and shattered banners.
Embrace it, they urge, their tone honeyed and terrible. This is what you were born for, Ayato. You are neither beast nor man, not wholly mortal, not wholly god at least not yet. You are the shadow that walks between. You are the storm at the edge of the world, the warden of fear. The world will know your na. The world will tremble at it.
Images bloom behind my eyes, vivid and intoxicating as a Shine hit. I see myself astride a black warhorse, onyx armor gleaming like oil in the dawn, and behind stretches a host no a horde of Elites and Inquisitors, their banners dark and bright, their faces hungry for conquest. I see the masses gathered before , thousands no, tens of thousands spilling across a ruined field, bows and blades useless at their feet. My hands are raised, and with a thought, the world bends. My illusions crawl over their minds like a silken net, and one by one, they drop to their knees. They kneel.
The voices purr, their delight a chill along my spine. This does not have to be fantasy, Ayato. These need not be illusions conjured for your amusent. You could make it real. All you have to do is stop hiding, stop pretending you are like them. You are not. You never were you never will be.
My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches. I hiss through them, a sound almost like the voices themselves. "Enough," I snarl under my breath. "You don't know what I want. You don't know anything about ."
But they only laugh, their tone mocking, sweet as poison. We know you, Ayato. Better than you know yourself. You want to be strong? This is strength. You want peace? Peace is the gift of the conqueror. Take it. Take what is yours by right, by blood, by mark. The world is waiting for soone like you.
I shove the images away, fury burning in my chest. I don't want to rule. I don't want to lead armies or watch the world burn at my feet. I want to be strong, yes strong enough that no one can ever hurt again, strong enough that I can protect what little is mine. But after that? I want peace. I want a quiet life, far from the gas of kings and the ambitions of madn. I want to eat well, sleep soundly, laugh without looking over my shoulder. I want to live.
The voices recoil from my anger but do not disappear. They laugh instead, ever patient, ever hungry. "You cannot escape what you are. Let us showww you so more"
The voices slip deeper, curling around my mind until my thoughts aren't my own. They drag down, down into a vision so vivid it burns. I'm no longer Ayato I'm soone else, so naless soldier in the press of a broken army.
This is how you will look to them, the voices hiss, gloating and cold. Holy. Great. See how they kneel, Ayato. See how they tremble.
KNEEL, a voice commands. Not a shout, not a plea just a whisper, soft as a lover's breath, but it hits like a hamr between the eyes. My body obeys before my heart can rebel. I want to fight it. I want to stand, to scream, to spit in the face of the power pressing down on . But my muscles betray . The world is a blur of dust and blood and the stink of burning flesh. My knees hit the ground hard, pain shooting up my shins, but I can't stop it. None of us can. Around , tens of thousands collapse into the dirt, armor scraping, weapons falling from slack hands . My chest heaves, my fists clench in the dirt, but I can only tremble, my forehead pressed low. This isn't loyalty. This isn't worship. This is slavery, forced into the bones.
All around thirty thousand berserkers, the fiercest legion from Rufrurg the world has ever seen, kneel in the dust of our shattered city. We are rendered prone by Imperial decree, our pride and rage crushed under a will greater than our own. A whole legion, broken and silent, bows to sothing they cannot see and cannot resist.
Then the vision shatters, and I'm Ayato again. The world snaps back into focus, too bright, too close. My knees buckle and I stumble, catching myself against a tree. The rough bark bites into my palm, grounding in the here and now. My house mates halt around , boots skidding in the moss, concern flickering on every face.
See? the voices croon, triumphant. This is your Empire. This is your destiny. You can and will have this, Ayato. You will be the god they kneel to, the force that shapes the world with a word. The bugs are nothing while you are everything.
Elijah is the first to reach , his hand on my shoulder, eyes sharp with worry. "Ayato? You alright?"
"I'm fine," I manage, forcing my voice steady. "Just tripped. Keep moving."
But my heart is still hamring, my skin slick with sweat. The voices recede still gloating and cackling, but their vision and words linger dust, blood, a legion kneeling at my feet and I can't shake the chill that cos with it. I straighten, refusing to let the others see how rattled I am, and force myself forward, deeper into the woods, my mind echoing with that terrible whisper: KNEEL.
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