Kiaran's feet felt leaden as he trudged back toward the guild. Lead-heavy, hard-fisted, with a kind of odd, strange energy thrumming beneath his skin like an echo of the raw, bounded power that lay so nakedly within the dark relic. His senses were honed to an unnatural degree, a refinement of perception from which he caught every sound and flicker of movement out there in the dim corridor's flat light.
The very moment he stepped into the guildhall door, he felt it: uncertainty in the air, heavy and palpable. Members of the guild turned to look at him, their stares filled with suspicion and fear, as though he were some outsiders who'd slipped by without noticing. Whispers began to fan through the room, but he kept his eyes fixed ahead, never looking at anyone directly, pretending he could not feel the change in their stance.
Back already? " a familiar voice sounded, low and edged with suspicion. Lirael stood by the doorway, her stance rigid and her eyes narrowed. She had never been one for idle pleasantries, but this felt different—a wall rising between them. "Word spreads quickly," she continued, her voice hard. "I heard the relic has… changed you."
"Lirael," he murmured, his voice carrying the faint rasp of exhaustion, "I am still myself.
"Are you?" she parried, her eyes yielding a challenge. Her gaze lingered over his hands and he could feel the unusual heat rising from his skin, a reminder of the strange energy he now harbored within him. Others stood nearby, their faces twisted with doubt and suspicion, and for the first time, Kiaran felt like an outsider in his own guild.
Arrin stepped forward, filling the silence with his usual warmth though there was a tremble in tone. "You have been through quite a lot, Kiaran. Maybe all you really need is to get some rest. It could … work to your advantage."
He nodded dully, then changed direction he was heading in as if he felt their constrained gaze. Even Arrin and Thrain now nervously turned to meet him.
He retreated to his chamber, hoping to shake off the lingering tension from the guild hall. Kiaran's mind replayed the glances, the stifled whispers, each one an accusation that he couldn't quite shake. He understood the risks of handling the relic; however, the shift in his comrades' demeanor unnerved him.
Inside, dim light cast deep shadows over stone walls. He clenched his fists, feeling the pulse of that ancient power thrumming beneath his skin. The essence of the relic had spread into his veins and bonded in a way he couldn't really fathom. Every beat of his heart seemed to call up a dark surge, low in frequency, promising power if he dared to go seeking for it.
But something else, he saw when Kiaran closed his eyes. Something it shouldn't be—a presence lurking, like a cold hand grazing the edge of his mind. He flinched, instinctively pressing his hands against his temples. There was a voice, faint but sharp, like a whisper on a bitter wind.
"Power always comes at a price…"
It hissed its words into his thoughts, one by one, scorching each sentence into his consciousness.
It was a hook that pulled him into the mire. And now, with his eyes blurring from the weight of the pull, he was no longer in his room; he was standing in an empty field, the sky pushing down onto him storm-filled and full of ominous-feeling clouds, and shadows danced in the corners of his eye. Figures stood up for him, faceless and warped to fit the sacrifices that the relic had demanded over the centuries. A creeping dread crawled up his spine as he realized they were all past wielders - fallen to ruin by the very power he now held.
He jerked back, his mind rebelling to tear free from the impression. The relic's hold was unyielding, but Kiaran forced his mind forward again, smoothing his breathing until the shadows receded and he sat once more in his own bedchamber. Sweat ran cold down his brow, and his heart pounded in his ear.
This was no gift. It was a cage, tightening on him with every tick of the clock.
A rap on the door shook him out of his thoughts. "Kiaran?" it came, low and smooth, but unmistakably Arrin's voice. "Can I come in?"
Kiaran hesitated, then breathed out, steeling himself to speak without his usual inflection. "Of course, Arrin. Come in."
Arrin stepped inside, closing the door and letting his eyes roam round the room as if he still expected to see things snooping in the darkness. He relaxed a little, but caution danced in his eyes like it hadn't before.
"You are okay, then?" Arrin asked, his voice almost too casual, too formal.
Kiaran smiled, a thin line of tension. "As much as I can be. But I can sense the unease in everyone. Including you."
Arrin's eyes dipped, and he sighed. "It's true. This… thing inside you—it's more than we know how to handle. People are scared, Kiaran. And they have every reason to be."
"I didn't choose this," Kiaran said, the edge of frustration sharpening his tone. "But I intend to master it. I won't let this power consume me."
Arrin's gaze met his, a flicker of sympathy mingling with doubt. "I believe you mean that. But intentions can only carry us so far. I've seen men lose themselves too far less."
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For an instant they stood there in silence; only the faint crackle of the torch outside the door broke the stillness. Then Arrin reached inside his cloak and produced a small vial full of silvery liquid which seemed almost to catch and hold the light.
Here, he said, pressing it into Kiaran's hand. This is an elixir made by our alchemist. It's not a cure, but it may help control … whatever it is that's binding itself to you.
Kiaran stared down at the vial, the liquid inside almost hypnotizing. He uncorked it, and the faint scent of crushed herbs and metal hit his nostrils, and he felt firmly embedded in reality. "Thank you, Arrin," he whispered, feeling an odd thrill of gratitude.
Arrin lingered, throwing one last look of warning. "Just remember, Kiaran—power like this rarely gives without taking something in return. Be careful."
And with that, he spun and left; the door closed softly behind him, clicking shut.
Kiaran stood there, staring at the place where the door had just closed, the weight of Arrin's words settling inside him like leaden weights. He knew the dangers, better than he knew his own name. But he also knew he could not walk away now. Not when he was so close to his goal.
He set the vial down and sank to the floor, breathing slowly and steadily, holding onto whatever shreds of self-control remained. All he could do for now was cling to what he still had.
As the night passed, Kiaran slipped into the strange, crooked sleep that accompanied the relic's power—a restless half-sleep full of shadows and whispers clawing at the edge of his mind. Images blurred together: memories mingled with dreams, and visions he couldn't quite place.
He saw a woman in darkness standing alone in a windy field. Her face is obscured from view, but he can feel the sheer power emanating from her, raw and unbound. She reaches out a hand and speaks low and commandingly.
"Grasp it, Kiaran. Power does not take prisoners—it creates them."
Kiaran's heart thumped in his chest as he reached out, motivated by some unseen force. His fingers brushed hers, a jag of pain shooting up his arm, choking him with a flood of searing energy. He gasped, wrenching himself awake and sitting bolt upright, his heart racing.
For a moment, he sat there wheezing for air and echoed her voice in his head. Was it just a dream, or was it more?
Morning had come in a haze, and as Kiaran walked through stone corridors within the guild, he still felt the glances of his comrades hadn't softened. Whispers echoed him, eyes watching him with equal parts of fear and awe. He was a stranger now to those whom he once fought beside.
He was drilling in the training yard, his movements sharp and precise, each strike holding a power he never had before. But that was not enough. He could feel the crawling energy raging beneath his skin, itching to break free.
"Impressive," a voice called out.
He turned to see Alaric, the grizzled veteran who had helped numerous professionals from the guild achieve their goals. Alaric observed him, his face unreadable.
"I see the relic has left its mark on you," Alaric said, his eyes focused intently.
Kiaran lowered his blade, swiping at his forehead, wiping away the sweat. "More than I care to admit," he replied, his voice cautious.
Alaric came across, crossing his arms. "Stronger, perhaps, but it is strength without control that may lead one to ruin. The relic's power is seductive, Kiaran. Does not give freely, binds, corrupts. Men with less power have lost themselves utterly."
"I won't let it control me," Kiaran replied, his voice defiant. "I'll master it.".
Alaric's face softened; a respect mixed with caution. "Then remember this: the power inside you will test you, push you to the edge. But your greatest battle won't be with others. It will be with yourself."
Kiaran held Alaric's gaze, and the weight of his words sank in. He knew that the man was right, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was already in too deep.
Later, Kiaran went into the quiet nook in the guild library to seek answers about the relic. Ancient tomes and scrolls filled the rows of shelves, lines which held forgotten knowledge and forbidden magic. He scoured a dusty manuscript detailing relics of power, one forged in ages past by beings lost to the world.
As he read, the dark truth revealed itself to him. This relic was no source of power, but a conduit, a string to darkness hanging beyond mortal veil. Those who used it too freely ran the risk of becoming vessels for something far older and far worse than human imagination dared deem.
The hairs at the back of his neck stood up as he read the warnings scrawled in faded ink. For this relic had slain many souls, its powers feeding on ambition, corrupting even the most disciplined of souls. There were tales of warriors who had risen to greatness to fall into madness and ruin.
It's when he closes the book that a chill sets in. He can't handle the might of the relic; he is a tempest waiting to engulf him if he doesn't make it.
Despite the creeping fear, a spark of defiance bubbled up inside. He had gotten this far, and there was no way he was going back now. The relic could challenge him, but he was ready to meet that challenge head-on.
That night, as the sun dipped into the horizon, Kiaran returned to his chamber, lit only with one candle that flickered shadows across the walls. Cross-legged on the floor, he sat, clasping tight the relic in his hand. Cool to the touch was its surface, yet under it he felt the vibration of power, a storm held in waiting.
He closed his eyes and let his mind sleep into his soul, stretched out towards the relic to touch the power that pulsed within. He felt the darkness swirl around him; this was a void that could only keep stretching out endlessly. The voices grew louder: urging him to let go, to surrender, to give in, to give up his control.
But Kiaran battled, forcing his mind to keep steady, to keep his thoughts. He could feel that relic was battling him, its energy a wild, untamed thing that pressed back against the confines of his will.
The visions returned, vibrant and overpowering. He saw flashes of battles, cities consumed by fire, a world lost in darkness. And in the heart of it all, he stood alone, his eyes glinting with a power that was terrible and magnificent.
"You can have it all," a voice whispered, soft and seductive. "Strength beyond measure, power unmatched. All you must do is surrender."
Kiaran's heart pounded. Temptation tugged within him. But he curled his fists, letting his resolve ground him in.
"I am not your puppet," he whispered. His voice was steady. "I will wield this power—but I will not be consumed by it.".
Darkness shivered; the whispers faded since he clamped his defiance onto it. He felt their resistance within the relic but did not yield. There, slowly, settled the power, a grudging respect displayed within the air.
The room fell silent, a warm relic in his hand. He had won, at least for now. But he knew this was only the start. Another battle stood ahead, a test of his strength but more so of his very soul.
He stood up, weary but resolute. The decision he'd made bore down on him, like it was crushing him under the weight. He was on a path now, one fraught with danger and loss. Still, he would tread it, no matter what.