The damp, almost oppressive air clung to Genoes’s skin. The corridors of the Keep, at the heart of the Dark God’s realm, were a veritable labyrinth of shadow and stone, and he felt like he had walked them all countless times. It had been days—weeks, perhaps?—since he had last seen the Dark God and whilst he was still not wholly comfortable around that mercurial figure, at least the other boy had provided some measure of companionship.

But now, even he was gone. And Genoes was alone.

Singing a sad little song, Genoes wandered through the endless halls, his small feet tracing paths through millennia of dust and grime. Strangely, he had felt much more comfortable in the dark woods covering much of the rest of the Dark God's realm than he did within this Keep. However, without this realm's master to control and alter the weather, a colossal storm had rolled in soon after he had last vanished, and Genoes had needed to seek shelter inside. However, there was no light here, no warmth, no sound except the distant crashing of the wind and rain outside. The silence was so absolute that, to Genoes' mind, it became a monstrous being breathing down his neck, whispering hatred in his ears.

Thus, boredom had long since turned to uneasy restlessness, and now that restlessness was beginning to stir something else inside him—a frustration that twisted and coiled. This experience within the silent Keep was wholly alien to his life in the Village. There, he had never been far from someone to talk to, an errand to run or - the Goddess forfend - a bully to escape from. This loneliness gnawed at him, fraying the edges of his thoughts until they were raw. He did not feel he was safe within this brooding quiet. And, more than anything, he missed a feeling of safety.

From the very first moment he had seen the Lady Darkhelm, covered in blood in Master Cenwyn's washroom, she had made him feel safe. He recognised the irony in finding security in the presence of a terrifying warrior from legend, but he could explain it in no other way. He knew he would never be harmed when under her protection. And when she had asked Eliud to take care of him in her stead when she returned to wreak vengeance on the Trellecs, he had understood this was all for the best. But then Eliud had let the Dark God take him . . .

Genoes kicked a loose stone, watching it skitter across the flagstone floor. It clattered against the wall, echoing loudly before the depth of the silence swallowed it whole. He had long learned that there was no use in crying out for help; he’d tried that already. No one came. No one ever came.

Genoes slumped against the cold stone wall, sliding down until seated, fingers idly tracing patterns on the floor. He wished he had a stick, a toy, anything to occupy his hands. In frustration, he pulled back into his thoughts, seeking something—anything—to fill the silence.

And that’s when he felt it.

It was faint, like the whisper of a breeze in the deepest valley, but it was there. A tingle at the edge of his awareness, just out of conscious reach. It reminded him of his time at Eluid's cottage and the lessons that eccentric Mage had begun to teach him. Genoes frowned, concentrating, trying to grasp hold of it with his mind. But the sensation slipped away beyond his notice, elusive, teasing.

What was he feeling? He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the moment. He summoned up the sound of crackling wood he had experienced sitting in front of Eliud's hearth. The feel of Josul resting against his legs. The smell of the Pendragon's pipe. But it was no use. It was like trying to remember a dream after waking; the more Genoes focused on it, the more the sensation seemed to fade into monochrome. Anger welled up inside him again, his hands scrunching up into fists, but he forced it down. He had seen the Dark God surrender to wrath far too many times during his captivity here. Genoes was not prepared to fall into that trap. Not now. Not when this was the first thing he had properly experienced in days.

He tried to relax, letting his mind drift away into memory. Sometimes, when you pulled too hard at a thread, it simply tore. The best thing to do was let it find its own way back into the needle.

Then the feeling returned, a little stronger this time.

Something was stirring within him, something he suspected had been there all along. Eliud had recognised it. Daine had known it. And, in some strange way, he thought the bullies who had dogged his every step in the Village had known it too. Had wanted to extinguish it before it had chance to come to life.

Genoes sensed this . . . something was connected to the way in which he was able to remove himself from trouble and scrapes in a way that infuriated and delighted the villagefolk in equal measure. Whatever it was, this power was now pulsing in time with his heartbeat, a resonant rhythm getting louder and louder . . .

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Without thinking too deeply about it, Genoes reached out with his hand, fingers spread wide. The feeling intensified, a strange warmth spreading from his chest down his arm, pooling in his palm. If he had to describe it, he would have said it was not unlike standing too close to a fire, the heat growing almost unbearable, yet he didn’t pull back. He couldn’t.

Then, with a sudden jolt, it was gone. The warmth, the rhythm, the pulse—all vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Genoes gasped, his hand falling limply to his side. The aftershock prickled his skin, the sensation lingering like the echo of a scream.

What had happened? He stared at his hand, expecting to see some change, some sign of damage. But there was nothing there. Just his small, pale hand, trembling slightly. He clenched his fist, willing the feeling to return, but it didn’t.

Genoes pushed himself to his feet, the rough stone biting into his skin, and closed his eyes again. The power, if that is what it was, had come from somewhere inside him, he was sure of it. He just had to find it again. He slowed his breathing down in the way Kirstin had taught him was crucial when preparing to launch an arrow and he concentrated, searching for that elusive pulse.

Nothing. Just the darkness behind his eyelids and the weight of the silence pressing down on him. Genoes was almost at the point of giving up when, faint and distant, he felt it again—a flicker, like a spark revealed at the base of a deep well. He reached for it, mentally stretching out, trying to take hold of it.

The fragment of light flared, a brief surge of warmth shooting through his body. Genoes held onto it this time, refusing to let it fade away as it had done so before. The pleasantly warm sensation grew, spreading through his body like wildfire. His skin itched, his muscles cramping.

And then, true pain.

It struck him like a fist, sudden and brutal, knocking the breath from his lungs. His knees buckled, and he collapsed back to the ground, clutching his chest. The warmth had turned to fire, hollowing him out from the inside. He could feel it, quite literally, boiling his blood.

Genoes wanted to scream, but his throat would not respond. The pain was overwhelming, drowning out all remembrance of times past. It felt like something was trying to tear its way out of him.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the agony stopped. Genoes lay on the stone, gasping for breath and trembling. Sweat soaked his clothes, his skin clammy. He felt weak and drained, as though what had happened had burned away some vital part of him.

But beneath the exhaustion, there was something else. The sensation was still there, faint but persistent. A thrumming in his chest, a beat that rattled within his bones. It was weaker now than before, but it was there. He hadn’t lost it.

Genoes forced himself to sit up and, with a shaky breath, focused again, reaching for that pulse. It came more quickly this time, the warmth returning without the blinding pain. It was still uncomfortable, a pressure that built within him, but it was bearable.

Genoes opened his eyes, staring at his hands. He could feel the energy pooled in his palms. But what was he supposed to do with it? He flexed his fingers, willing the power to move, to do something. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a faint light began to glow between his fingers. It was weak, barely more than a glimmer, but it was there.

Excitement surged through him, overpowering the exhaustion. He focused harder, trying to make the light grow. The energy responded, and the light brightened and became more solid until it felt like he was holding a piece of the sun in his hands, its warmth and light spilling out into the dark corridor.

But, as before, the pressure grew too much. The light flickered erratically, then flared wildly out of control. Genoes’ hands shook, the energy slipping from his grasp. Panic seized him as the light turned blinding, its heat scorching his skin. And then it exploded. The force of the blast threw him backwards, slamming him into the stone wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and for a moment, everything went black.

When he came to, smoke was curled around him, the smell of burning filling the air. Genoes blinked, trying to clear his vision. The corridor was in ruins; the stone walls cracked and blackened, and debris was scattered everywhere. His hands were blistered, the skin red and raw, but somehow, he was alive. He groaned, pushing himself up on shaking arms. The energy was gone, spent in the explosion, but the pulse was still there, deep inside him. It was weaker now, a faint echo, but it was there.

And then Genoes laughed.

He wasn’t just a helpless child in this cursed place anymore. He had uncovered something he knew he could learn to control. It would take time, he knew. He could still feel the lingering effects of the blast, the toll it had taken on his body. His skin ached, his muscles throbbed, and exhaustion hung over him like a shroud. But beneath the pain, there was a spark of hope. A small, fragile hope, but hope nonetheless. And, in the corner of his eye, a little blinking notification said .

Genoes had no idea how long he lay there, recovering. Time had lost all meaning in this place in any event. But eventually, he forced himself to stand, his legs trembling. He stumbled forward through the wreckage, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The energy was dangerous, volatile, but it was his. He just had to figure out how to control it and shape it into something useful. He had to learn. The Skill Slot was open, but there was nothing formal occupying it as of yet.

As Genoes moved deeper into the labyrinth, his mind focused on mastering the new power within him, he was unaware of the eyes that followed him, an ancient hunger that had stirred in the darkness. He was not alone in this place, not anymore.

A pair of golden eyes were watching. And they were waiting.