1 THE AWAKENING
Pain.
That was the first thing he felt.
Not the kind that strikes the flesh, but the kind that burrows into the soul — gnawing, searing, unraveling.
He gasped, a raw, shuddering breath that felt like it came from a throat that had never tasted air before. His back arched off the cold stone floor, eyes flaring open to nothing but shadow.
His hands trembled, clawing at the ground. Everything hurt. His skin, his bones, even his memories —
What memories?
There were none.
He was naked. Shivering. Alone.
Until the voice came.
He lives. The Mark work
Figures emerged from the gloom. Robes as dark as spilled ink, faces hidden behind bone-white masks. The light in their hands wasn't fire, but something colder. Paler. It pulsed like a heartbeat, like a soul trapped in glass.
Good,another said. Begin the shaping. His soul is fresh. Untouched. The Devourer will feast well.
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.
A hand grabbed his jaw, forcing his gaze upward. The mask hovering above him had no eyes, only a carved spiral that seemed to spin the longer he stared.
You were chosen, vessel. You will burn. And you will serve.
They called themselves the Veiled Hand. He would learn that name later, scrawled in blood and ink across the walls of his mind. But in that moment, all he knew was pain, and the sound of his own screaming as the curse was carved into his soul.
Days passed.
Or weeks. Maybe months. Time bled together in that place.
He was not taught, not nurtured. He was broken. Again and again. His body was forged in agony, his soul thinned and stretched like a thread ready to snap.
They made him kill.
Creatures. Others like him. He didn't remember their faces, only the sounds — the pleading, the silence that followed.
Each time he fought, the curse responded. It roared inside him. Hungry.
Use it, they whispered. Let it in. Power is pain refined.
And he did.
Because to disobey was worse.
The Devourer's Mark etched into his spine glowed when he called on it. Burning veins. Cracked bones. But with it, he moved like death itself.
But each victory left him emptier.
Then came the girl.
She was thrown into the pit with him — frail, bruised, eyes wide with terror. She didn't scream. Didn't beg. Just stood there, trembling.
He looked at her.
She looked back.
I know you, she said. Her voice was barely audible. From... before. Another life. You saved me.
He didn't understand. He barely remembered his own name — if he ever had one. But something flickered.
A warmth.
Don't let them win, she said. Please... don't become like them.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He stared at the stone ceiling, the Mark on his back pulsing like a second heartbeat. Her words had cracked something.
The next day, when they told him to kill her, he refused.
No.
A silence thicker than death filled the chamber.
What did you say, vessel?
He raised his head. His eyes no longer hollow.
I said no.
The pain came swift — a punishment unlike the others. His soul torn open, a burning hook dragged through his very essence.
He screamed.
But he didn't yield.
Not that time.
He waited.
He endured.
And when the day came — when they let their guard down — he broke free.
The corridor burned behind him, a trail of ashen fire licking the walls. The Mark blazed, feeding on his life, but he didn't care.
He carried the girl.
They ran.
Through blood. Through madness. Through the veil itself.
Until only stars remained above them and the cold wind kissed his skin for the first time.
He collapsed under the moonlight, chest heaving.
She leaned over him, tears mixing with ash.
We made it,she whispered.
He smiled.
And then, darkness.
Somewhere deep in the void of his mind, a voice echoed.
You escaped the cage... but not the chain. The Curse feeds. Your time bleeds. Find the cure — or die, again.
And just like that, the nightmare truly began.
To Be Continued...