Warren sat on the edge of his bed, watching Sabir pace back and forth on his wooden floor, the occasional creak from the floorboards the only thing that broke the silence between the three young men. Warren was getting bored watching his two new friends think, it seemed between them they shared a single brain cell.

Zabo sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, but there was no deep thought in his countenance. He was struggling to think and his sleepiness wasn’t helping the situation. He opened his eyes, his gaze flitting around the bedroom, looking for some sort of inspiration.

Dark oak furniture filled the space within the small room, an elegant aesthetic fit for a noble. Zabo watched Sabir bump into a wardrobe while pacing, unable to see, because of the drawn curtains and the singular flickering candlelight by Warren’s nightstand, that caused dark shadows to be painted on the walls.

Sabir rubbed his shoulder and let out a sigh. Despite how warm and comforting Warren’s bedroom was, only anxiety filled his mind. Sabir broke the silence, “So... what are we going to do about Zabo?” he said, his voice steady, yet the tapping of his feet exposed his unease. “We only have a week, right?”

“Whoa, I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Sabir,” Zabo chuckled, from his place against the wall, breaking the stillness.

“Quit laughing,” Sabir snapped, turning on his heel to glare at Zabo. “We’re in the same boat. I don’t want to see you die, alright?”

Warren watched them bicker before he spoke up. “Then can you also give up on your revenge? Killing Vincent won’t change anything. You’re my friend, Sabir; I don’t want to see you die, either.” Warren shifted awkwardly on his bed, realizing how cringeworthy he sounded. He sighed before adding, “Besides, he’s my brother. I can’t just let you kill him.”

Sabir stopped pacing, the suddenness of Warren’s words catching him off guard. His hands clenched into fists. “You’re right. As of right now, Vincent isn’t who I need to kill. It’s that damn old man. Frederick. He killed her, but don’t think Vincent is off the hook; he had his part to play, I know it.”

Warren took a sharp intake of breath. “You honestly believe that? Come on, Sabir, we never got the full story. It’s clear he didn’t want that to happen. He’s a victim in all this, just like the rest of us,” Warren argued, pleading for his brother’s case.

Sabir knew Warren was right. Deep down, he had always known, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit it. He couldn’t leave it alone, not after everything; he needed more people to blame. His sister, Cynthia, was dead. He had no one left; he just wanted more people to suffer the same fate.

Zabo’s voice cut through Sabir’s thoughts. “You’re going to be dead before you even get revenge.”

“What are you talking about?” Warren asked, frowning; his gaze shifted to Zabo.

Zabo snickered, looking from Warren to Sabir. “Oh? You haven’t told him yet?” He crossed his arms, his grin widening. “Sabir over here is dying.”

Warren blinked, confusion crossing his face. “What are you talking about?”

“According to him, some power inside of me is killing me.” Sabir sighed, returning to pacing, this time a little slower.

Warren let out a laugh, though there was an edge of unease behind it. “What? You’ve got some spirit inside you? You gonna turn into a nine-tailed monster or something?”

Sabir couldn’t help but snort, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m struggling to believe him myself. After all, I feel fine.”

Zabo stood up, pushing himself off the wall; a small, exasperated laugh left his lips. “Fine, don’t believe me. Watch this.” Without warning, Zabo ripped the bandages off his torso, revealing his poorly healed wounds. The stitches tore, and blood dripped down his side.

Sabir threw both his palms out in a desperate plea. “What are you doing? Stop!” Sabir exclaimed, his heart skipping a beat. Warren shot up from his bed, alarm spreading across his face.

“Relax,” Zabo said through gritted teeth, his face pale from the pain.

“You’re going to get blood on my floor,” Warren said, wincing as he watched Zabo’s blood trickling down slowly.

Zabo rolled his eyes. “Just watch,” he said, unfettered by the two men’s reactions. They watched in silence as Zabo sat down, with his legs crossed in a meditative stance. His posture serene and unhurried, he closed his eyes, his breaths slowed, his lungs contracted and relaxed in a melodic rhythm, each inhale and exhale deliberate and controlled.

Both Sabir and Warren swallowed hard, a feeling of apprehension repelling between them. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows that did very little to ease the tension. Sabir couldn’t help but question what he was doing. What is he trying to do? He thought. Meditating when he had opened his wounds? How was this going to prove anything?

Warren glanced over at Sabir; they both exchanged anxious looks amid the silence. With each passing second, Sabir could only think about how the longer this dragged on, the more likely Zabo had lied about everything. He moved around uncomfortably, his previous doubt settling into an uneasy foreboding.

A few seconds passed before Sabir noted a delicate shift. A nearly undetectable steam rose from Zabo’s skin, wafting up in wisps that caught the half-light of the small room. As the steam thickened, it clung to Zabo’s muscles; they grew taut and defined, each sinew becoming more pronounced as though carved from stone. The contours of his arms and chest solidified, rippling with newfound strength.

Yet, the most amazing transformation was the quick recovery from Zabo’s injury. Before their eyes, the once nasty, bleeding gash of a rib wound appeared to be healing. The skin mended, smoothed itself together over the wound, and looked almost as if it had never been cut, barring the bruising and scars. The entire process was hypnotic. That made it hard for Sabir to peel his eyes away.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Sabir’s heart raced seeing the wound magically close by itself. He thought back to the time Maize had healed him; it felt like she manipulated nature to heal him, whereas what he saw right now felt more natural. Warren mirrored Sabir’s shock, his mouth wide open and eyes wide.

“Holy shit…” Warren whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding in Sabir’s ears.

The air in the room thickened with the intensity released by Zabo. Candle flames flickered and spat, casting a light that caused the shadows to come alive. Zabo’s skin, smooth and pristine, caught the light; he looked rejuvenated and full of life; the toll in the prison cell disappeared like it never happened. The atmosphere in the room had changed dramatically; skepticism and doubt had given way to something else—something more akin to fear.

The astonished faces of Sabir and Warren didn’t seem to phase Zabo; he continued to meditate. His breathing remained steady as the surrounding environment pushed him further and deeper into his body. He drew more energy, allowing it to enter through his pores; like a river, he circulated it into his body, the wider ocean.

As the river finally flowed into the ocean, leaving no energy left for Zabo to draw from, he slowly opened his eyes. The calmness in his gaze seemed to pierce through the confusion and disbelief writhing in Warren's and Sabir’s faces. “There. I’ve recovered some of my aura,” said Zabo calmly.

Sabir and Warren had sat there for what felt like an hour, their eyes transfixed on Zabo’s transformation. Zabo’s voice broke the spell, and Sabir’s mind raced, trying to comprehend what he saw. Before he could even question him, Zabo had vanished. Sabir barely blinked before he felt the weight of chains on his shoulders. Sabir looked over his shoulder to see Zabo's arms wrapped around him and Warren.

“So fast,” muttered Sabir.

Warren’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Shit, I thought you had super strength, not speed.”

Zabo’s grin returned. “I’m a dud, remember? What I use is a secret, a secret a noble like yourself isn’t allowed to know.”

Warren turned to Sabir, throwing Zabo’s arm off his shoulder. “He might be right, Sabir. Whatever he just used wasn’t normal; it felt... different. If what he’s saying is true, you might be in trouble.”

Sabir couldn’t believe it. Aura. Power. This was all real. And he was supposedly dying because of it. His chest felt tight, but he shook the feeling off.

“Put your vengeance aside, Sabir. You need to survive first. Wait, no—we need to survive,” said Zabo, his expression somber.

Sabir remained silent. The sheer burden of all that had happened was pressing down on him, but he still had anger and frustration simmering in the back of his mind. Frederick simply could not be allowed to walk free, and he still needed to understand Vincent’s involvement. But Zabo was right. If Sabir didn’t live long enough to carry out his plans, there would be no point in having plans.

As the tension settled, the three boys stayed in Warren’s room for the night. It was too dangerous to go anywhere else. They bickered for a while about who would get the bed. Zabo claimed it almost immediately; Warren argued halfheartedly before giving up and tossing a pillow at him. Sabir, not in the mood for arguing, grabbed a blanket and threw himself on the floor. “Shut up already,” he groaned. “Can’t you be considerate to someone who’s supposedly dying?”

The room finally settled into a heavy silence. Warren tossed Sabir and Zabo some old clothes to sleep in and told them they needed to take a shower the next day. With that said, everyone drifted off, the exhaustion of the day catching up with them.

Just as Sabir was relaxing, Zabo’s voice cut through the silence. “Hey, you guys awake?”

“I would be if I were in my bed. What is it?” Warren grumbled, adjusting his blanket so it could fit his tall frame.

“I think this is the closest I’ve ever had to friends,” Zabo said softly.

Warren snorted, rolling over. “Who said I was friends with you? Go to sleep man; you’re in your feels.”

As the room grew quiet again, Sabir’s mind wandered. He thought of Sam, Max, and his niece. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were safe. He wished he could be there with them.

Then, with no sign, an intense, stabbing pain pierced Sabir’s chest, as if someone had skewered his heart from within. He sucked in air; his breathing became shallow as the intensity of it squeezed against his lungs like a noose. His heartbeat became a locomotive, heading straight through his body, growing louder with each second. It hammered against his ribcage as though it wanted to tear its way out. Pain usually felt like a whisper, a tide that slowly waned, but this—this felt like a raging inferno.

Sabir held his chest with shaking hands, trying without success to keep the pain at bay. Every breath felt shallow and hard, an attempt to pull air into lungs that seemed on fire. He was in agony—not just pain, something that felt like molten metal coursing through his veins, searing every nerve as it spread. The sensation crawled under his skin, a sickening heat that twisted inside him, suffocating him.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his eyesight turned murky. The room seemed to tilt and spinning, but he knew it was him who was off balance. Sabir fought to pull himself up from the makeshift bed and stumbled toward the door. His legs felt like lead, and a part of his mind screamed that he needed to go somewhere—anywhere—away from the muscles in his body that felt like they were being shredded. He hung onto the door frame and peered through the opening, down the hall, greeted with nothing but darkness.

His world became a distorted blur of shadows. The walls seemed to close in; the surfaces twisted grotesquely ghoulish figures that bore whips slicing at him. His mind struggled to make sense of his surroundings; he knew he was seeing things, but he couldn’t seem to gain control. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, each inhale like trying to drag air through burning embers.

With shaking hands, Sabir lifted his shirt, and what he saw froze the very blood in his veins. A network of thick black veins marred his skin. They pulsated angrily beneath the surface and twitched and bulged with a vigor that was almost animated, like there were beats running rampant from within. His veins spread rapidly from his chest, shooting out in all directions, forming the pattern of a web, staining his pale skin with their venomous hue.

They throbbed in time with his heartbeat, swollen, pushing up against his skin as if they might burst open at any moment. The pressure beneath them was unbearable—a sensation of something festering and growing, pressing outward as if trying to escape his body.

Sabir gagged, bile rising in his throat. It was as if his chest were rotting from the inside out. Sleek, unmarred skin earlier turned black as it decaying before his eyes, the veins beneath spread outward, like the roots of a parasitic infection. He tried to scream, but no sound came through. His throat constricted, shutting off the windpipe before his voice as his hands clasped his chest, fingers digging into his skin to stop whatever was happening to him.

A dark, monstrous thing awakened inside him, eating him alive from the inside out, devouring his organs and life force. Every pulsation drove a new, searing wave of heat through his chest that set ablaze every inch of his body.

His legs buckled, and Sabir went down to his knees in the hall, gasping for breath. His vision dimmed, spots dancing before his eyes as the pain went on, climbing higher and higher. He grasped the floor, his fingers scraping the wood as his chest heaved; the black veins spread farther, growing by another inch. He knew he couldn’t take this much longer; it felt as if his body were going to break, as if he were burning from the inside out with no way to put out the fire.

He was dying. There was no doubt now. Something inside him was tearing him apart piece by piece, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.