Jonas rushed to Arthur’s side. Arthur remained on his knees, clutching the bloody stump where his arm had been only monts before. His face had gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought against the waves of pain threatening to pull him into unconsciousness.
"Arthur, are you okay?" Jonas’s voice ca out shaky and panicked.
Arthur looked up, saliva dripping from his gritted teeth. His eyes were glossy with shock and pain as he t Jonas’s gaze.
"No, I’m not okay. My fucking arm is—" A fresh spurt of blood from the wound cut his words short, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. He bit down hard, nearly drawing blood from his own lip as he struggled to maintain composure.
Jonas’s worried expression softened unexpectedly, transforming into the gentle smile Arthur had co to know him for in their short ti together. A light laugh escaped Jonas’s lips—not mocking, but sothing else. Relief, perhaps. A strange, inappropriate response to tragedy that nonetheless felt perfectly right in the mont.
The laugh proved infectious. Despite the excruciating pain radiating from his severed limb, Arthur found himself giggling alongside his friend. The sound was strained and bordered on hysterical, but genuine. They had survived. Against impossible odds, they had defeated the sheepman. The cost had been high—Arthur’s arm was a steep price to pay—but they were alive.
"Alright, well, let’s hur—" Jonas began, his smile still warm and reassuring.
The sentence hung unfinished in the stale dungeon air. It would remain that way forever.
Warm blood splashed across Arthur’s face, coating his skin in a crimson mask. Ti seed to slow as realization dawned. How many tis? How many tis would he be forced to witness this scene? And why did so dark, knowing part of him understand that this wouldn’t be the last ti? No... not even close.
Arthur sat frozen, one hand still clutching his wound, eyes wide with horror as blood dripped down his face. His lips quivered violently, his grip on his severed arm tightening convulsively as he stared at Jonas and the very much alive sheepman looming behind him.
The creature’s armor was dented and broken in dozens of places, but it still stood. Its long sword, now slick with fresh blood, was drawn to the side at the completion of its strike. Jonas’s expression hadn’t changed—his smile and warm eyes remained fixed on his face as his head slowly, almost gracefully, slid from his shoulders and tumbled lifelessly to the ground. It rolled to a stop directly in front of Arthur.
Their eyes t—Jonas’s now vacant and unseeing. How many more lifeless eyes would Arthur be forced to look into throughout his life? When his mother and father died... when Luke died... each ti, overwhelming sadness had consud him. He had lost his will to live, his will to fight, surrendering to a depression that threatened to swallow him whole.
But not this ti. Not now.
Arthur had witnessed too many deaths, had seen too many loved ones fall before his eyes. The familiar sadness didn’t co. Instead, sothing else rose from the deepest part of his soul, clawing its way to the surface as he stared blankly at Jonas’s severed head.
Anger. Pure, primal rage unlike anything he had ever experienced.
Arthur released his wound, letting his remaining arm fall limp at his side. His face began to contort into sothing different—sothing feral and untad. His eyes filled with a manic light as he rose unsteadily to his feet and stared at the battered armor of the sheepman before him.
In that mont, Arthur beca aware of the darkness in the room in a way he never had before. It was as though a veil had been lifted from his senses. Until now, It was like the darkness around him was being funneled into him, but now the funnel was gone and he was dropped into the ocean.
His body trembled violently, not with fear but with unbridled fury as the shadows in the room began to move. They slithered across the stone floor, crawling toward Arthur as if summoned by his rage. One by one, every light source in the chamber—every torch, every candle—was extinguished as darkness flooded the ancient hall.
The shadows wrapped around Arthur like tendrils of living ink, transforming from re absence into sothing physical... sothing real... sothing alive. They coalesced around the stump of his severed arm, weaving themselves into a new limb composed entirely of writhing darkness. The shadow-arm materialized, solid as steel yet fluid as water, flexing with Arthur’s thoughts.
Arthur didn’t question this impossible manifestation. He didn’t waste ti wondering about its origin or aning. His mind had room for only one thought as he stared at the sheepman before him, his eyes wide and trembling with murderous intent.
"I’m going to fucking kill you."
The words erged as a whisper, yet they seed to echo through the chamber with unnatural resonance. The shadow-arm responded to his rage, elongating and sharpening at the fingers into wicked claws that glead with an impossible darkness that sohow reflected no light yet remained perfectly visible.
The sheepman tilted its helted head, regarding this new developnt with what might have been curiosity. It raised its bloodied sword once more, the tal catching what little light remained in the chamber.
Arthur felt the power surging through him—ancient and terrible. The darkness wasn’t simply around him now; it was part of him, an extension of his fury and grief. Every shadow in the room pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, every dark corner echoed his breathing.
The sheepman took a step forward, its armored foot landing beside Jonas’s headless body with a tallic thud.
Arthur didn’t exactly understand this power yet. But what he did know is that as long as the sheepman still stood, as long as Jonas’s killer still drew breath, nothing else mattered. Not his pain. Not his fear. Not even his humanity.
There would be ti for questions later. Ti to wonder about this newfound power. Ti to mourn Jonas.
But for now, there was only the darkness and his rage—and a promise of vengeance that would be fulfilled in blood and shadow.
Reviews
All reviews (0)