The room was too still, the air thick with something unspoken.
Achem felt cold despite the warmth of the small fire flickering in the corner.
The old woman’s blind eyes bored into him, as if she saw more than sight should allow.
Vessel.
The word hung in the air, pressing down on him like an unbearable weight.
He had suspected—feared—that he wasn’t just a man thrown into a dead king’s body. But this…
Lysara finally broke the silence.
"You’re going to have to explain that," she said, arms crossed, her tone sharp.
The old woman didn’t react to Lysara’s usual bluntness. Instead, she reached for something on the table—a small, jagged stone, its surface etched with faint, pulsing runes.
She rolled it between her fingers, then placed it before them.
"The soul of Rogar still lingers within you," she said, voice quiet, measured. "But it is not alone."
Achem’s fingers twitched. He clenched his fists. He already knew.
The way his body moved in battle, the memories that weren’t his, the flashes of rage, power, destruction.
There was something else inside him.
Something ancient.
Something hungry.
Lysara’s frown deepened. "Are you saying he’s possessed?"
The old woman tilted her head. "No." She tapped the stone. "A possession is when something forces itself upon another. Achem is not being controlled. Not yet."
Achem’s pulse thundered in his ears. "Not yet?"
The woman leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Whatever lies dormant inside you is waiting."
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Achem’s mind reeled. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to focus, but the room felt smaller, as if the shadows pressed against him from all sides.
He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You’re saying there’s something else inside me. Something separate from Rogar."
The woman nodded.
Lysara’s expression was unreadable. "And what exactly is it?"
The old woman’s white eyes flickered.
"An echo of something lost," she murmured. "A remnant of a god who once walked this world."
The words sent a sharp chill down Achem’s spine.
"A god?" he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
The woman nodded. "Not one of the petty deities men pray to now. No, what lingers inside you is older. Forgotten, even by history itself."
Lysara exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "Well, that’s just fantastic. Not only are you an exiled king, but you’re also carrying some kind of ancient god inside you."
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Her sarcasm was sharp, but Achem wasn’t in the mood.
He clenched his fists. "Can it be removed?"
The old woman studied him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she shook her head. "No."
Achem’s stomach twisted.
Lysara leaned against the table, scowling. "So what does that mean? That he’s doomed?"
The woman smiled—a slow, knowing smile.
"That depends," she said softly. "On whether Achem can keep it caged."
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The fire in the corner crackled, the flames flickering strangely, as if responding to the conversation.
Achem exhaled slowly. "You said it’s waiting. Waiting for what?"
The old woman tilted her head, fingers brushing the runes on the stone before her.
"For you to break," she murmured.
Achem’s chest tightened.
Lysara’s smirk faded. "Be more specific."
The woman gestured toward Achem. "The more you embrace war, the more you give in to rage, the stronger it becomes. It is watching, learning from you."
Her sightless gaze turned sharp, as if peering straight through him.
"And one day, when you are weakest, it will offer you something."
Lysara’s frown deepened. "What kind of something?"
The woman’s voice lowered to a whisper.
"Power."
Achem’s throat felt dry.
It made sense. The bloodlust, the hunger in battle, the way his body moved with unnatural precision.
How much of it had been Rogar’s instincts?
And how much had been… something else?
Lysara exhaled. "So, let me guess. If he accepts, he loses himself completely?"
The woman nodded.
Achem’s grip tightened.
And for the first time, he was afraid.
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Silence settled over the room.
The weight of the revelation sat between them, heavy and unmoving.
Finally, Achem spoke. "Then how do I stop it?"
The old woman gave him a long, thoughtful look.
"You cannot rid yourself of it," she admitted. "But you can resist it."
Achem narrowed his eyes. "How?"
She tapped the stone on the table.
"You must remember who you are."
Achem clenched his jaw. "That’s not exactly helpful."
The woman smiled, amused. "You are not Rogar. And you are not the god that slumbers within you." She leaned forward. "You are Achem Powers. If you forget that… you are lost."
Achem’s breath was slow, controlled.
Lysara leaned against the table. "And what happens if someone else figures out what’s inside him?"
The woman’s expression darkened.
"They will try to use him," she said softly. "Or kill him before it wakes."
Achem exhaled sharply.
"Great," he muttered. "So I’m either a weapon or a corpse."
The old woman simply smiled.
"That, my dear king," she murmured, "depends entirely on you."
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Achem and Lysara left the shop just before midnight, stepping into the cold, fog-choked streets of Black Hollow.
Achem’s mind was a storm—thoughts crashing against each other, impossible to settle.
A god inside him. A force waiting for him to break.
Lysara walked beside him, silent for once.
She finally spoke as they turned a corner. "You’re quiet."
Achem let out a slow breath. "I have a lot to think about."
Lysara gave a small chuckle. "That’s an understatement."
They stopped at the edge of an alleyway, the distant hum of the city’s nightlife a murmur in the background.
Lysara turned to him, studying his face.
"You good?"
Achem exhaled, looking down at his hands—the same hands that had held a sword, that had taken lives, that had moved with the memory of a king.
"I don’t know," he admitted.
Lysara nodded, as if she expected that answer.
"Well," she said, smirking slightly, "try not to get yourself possessed before sunrise."
Achem huffed out a tired laugh.
"Can’t promise that," he muttered.
They walked deeper into the city.
The storm hadn’t arrived yet.
But it was coming.
And Achem had no choice but to meet it head-on.