Chapter – 32

The greatest obstacle to control is human nature itself, curious, inventive, and endlessly defiant. Before I outlawed technological progression under my little religion, I was forced, every few hundred years, to snuff out some poor genius who threatened to disrupt the balance. A pity, really. Some of them devised truly fascinating innovations.

The most intriguing was a glyph, born from the mind of one of my own priests. A construct designed to siphon Gia from those unable to wield it, funneling their essence downward, just as the reservoir does. When I took his life, I took his creation as well, repurposing it for something far greater. Now, every major structure I build sits atop one of these glyphs. Like the containment fields, their power grows with scale. The larger they are, the stronger the hold.

Of course, I built a flaw into them. Without it, even I might fall victim to their effects. Within each glyph, there remains a sliver of untouched ground, ten percent of the whole, a sanctuary amid the siphoning tide.

On the final day, in the blood-soaked Colosseum, I will take my place in that untouched space. Once activated, only myself and the competitors will be unaffected. Even then, those competitors will be at the mercy of my Technum, drinking whole the influence of another entity. When the time comes, there will be no question. I will stand beyond reach. I will be untouchable.

The storm settled late that night, but the next day was too muddy to get anything done. The following day Quena and Kurt scavenged, tracked, and explored. On the third day they found the encampment belonging to the Metan militia. It was abandoned and had been for at least a week. They took most of their supplies but left behind the strangest things. A Vega token with a scratch down the center, an assortment of wooden carvings, spare clothes and the like. Kurt rummaged to find some hard bread, a proper cooking pot, and his father's special cutting knives.

“This is odd,” Kurt said to Quena as she was lifting some leather bags, she held them away from herself and was pinching her nose.

“The spoiled meat in these leather bags, yes, it is very odd.” She walked off to the side of the camp and heaved its contents out, bringing back the bag. “Here ya go, one travel bag.” She tried to smile, but the smell was obviously getting to her.

“Just set it down, I'll clean it out in a moment. Check this out though, these are my father's.” He picked up the leather roll and untied the strap at the end allowing the knives to be seen.

“Uh, nice knife set?”

“Yeah, a very nice knife set. My father wouldn't have left camp without these, he'd have left me behind before doing the same to his precious cutlery.”

Quena grimaced, looking contemplative.

“I have a feeling you're not telling me something.” He gave her a shifty eyed look, and she balked at it.

“I was worried about this.” She said but didn't sound confident. “If what you said is true, I think I know where they went.” Her mouth made a line.

“And that would be?”

“With the Kressians.” A corner of her mouth shot downwards, then she said, “I've only heard of one person that can do this. If I didn't believe you before, I believe you now.” She decided to busy herself by taking the stinking leather bag down to the nearby stream.

“Wait, what is that supposed to mean?” Kurt shouted as she walked away.

“The Grand Elder. What the-” Quena's voice shut off, and Kurt hopped up, discarding the knives and ran over.

There, gasping for breath on the ground, was one of Moder's children, a Kul. It had something in his chest, blackened blood covered the thing. Looking at his face, Kurt recognized him.

“Oh shit, Quena, you have to heal him!” Kurt shouted, but she was paralyzed. “Quena, now!” She was stunned, so Kurt moved to shake her by her shoulders, which is when he saw it. The thing that was around the Kul's injury was writhing, and he realized all the black wasn't simply dried blood, it was Shade, though it wasn't behaving like any Shade he'd ever seen. It dripped out, wiggling through the grass. Following the line, though it was incredibly fine, it stood in stark contrast to Quena's skin. It had worked its way up Quena's body and disappeared into her ear.

Kurt summoned his Gia, enveloping Quena and the Kul. Kurt was honestly impressed he'd summoned enough to encapsulate both of them, but stuffed the thought to the back of his mind. He purified the Gia, siphoning the Shade out of their bodies. No, not Shade, Kraken.

It felt wrong, like stealing a drink of stout from a fellow villager only to find it was brache spit. Kurt gasped at first but redoubled his efforts. It took much longer than usual, it was like the black gunk had a will of its own and was refusing to be consumed. Tension mounted, but finally it struggled no more and sucked into him like water down a drain.

Kurt took a long shuddering breath and found that he was on his hands and knees. He felt like he'd hurl at any moment, so he focused on his breathing, taking measured inhalations and exhaling as smoothly as he could. Which is to say, as smooth as a landslide. Regardless, Quena was back to her senses before Kurt was.

“Hey!” She shook him slightly. “Kurt, everything all right?”

“Just... heal... him.” He spoke each word after a breath and shook as he pointed over to the Kul.

Though Kurt couldn't see Quena's expression, he was getting better at which emotional response to expect, and at that moment he had a good guess as to what she looked like. “Just... do it.” He sat back on his backside and pulled his knees to his chest. He was fighting a mental battle and thought he'd lose it if he had to focus on anything but the gut twisting sensation he felt.

Quena walked over and laid a hand on the gnarled looking Kul, its rictus face frozen in a look of unease. His head began jerking back and forth, his nose long enough to noticeably wiggle, even at Kurt's distance. Watching helped him somehow, like finally hacking his way out of a thicket, he broke through. A relief washed through him and just like that, he was up and bounding towards the downed monster. He knew this one, it was little Turt, all grown up.

“Touk kretata Turt, ou kokos tien Moder?” Kurt said, as best he could. He hadn't picked up as much as he liked, but he remembered enough to get by. His accent made him sound like a rooster dying at the sunrise, and his understanding was about as good as bark is tasty, but he liked to think he made it sound convincing.

Turt looked him over, squinting his over-sized eyes. Eventually, he put his hand up to shield the light seeping in through the tree line. His eyes shot wide, with his hands flailing upwards he bounded over and picked Kurt up off the ground in an incredibly bracing hug.

The experience blurred in the details. The first revelation was understanding just how far Turt stood. He wasn’t as close as he seemed, and when Kurt stepped forward, a wave of vertigo nearly took him.

Turt had to be at least seven feet tall, lanky, his arms long and awkward, his frame still filling out but unmistakably solid.

What in the hell has Moder been feeding these things?

Then the shape of the head, the long musculature moving along each side of his head to its sagittal crest gave Turt an aspect the other Kul didn't have. His pronounced jaw muscles were prominent, even if his skin was as black as night.

“Turt like K-K-Kurt. Missed.” He nodded, his oversized skull bobbing up and down after he put Kurt back down.

“Kurt like Turt. Where is your Moder?” Kurt asked quickly.

“Moder? Ista kreta krak, ki nicktek.”

“Come again? I can't follow that quickly.”

“Moder is... ground? By k-human, k-k-Kressiak. With fire, with food.”

Quena stood next to Kurt giving him a quizzical look. He mirrored her, not because he felt quizzical but because he wanted to get her to relax. Seeing one of the Kul for the first time was an unnerving experience, one that most people didn't handle well. To his surprise, she turned and spoke, not even a little uncomfortable.

“Can you show? Take us to Moder?”

Turt looked down at Kurt, then to Quena, then back to Kurt. Kurt nodded once, and Turt agreed.

“Turt come here when big bad come, try to take k-k-Kraken, much new.” Turt's eyes glazed over momentarily, and Kurt knew the face he was making.

Not wanting to see a seven-foot-tall monster crying like a babe, Kurt put a hand up on his shoulder. Any taller and Kurt wouldn't have been able to. Looking him in the eye, Kurt said, “Turt do much good, Kurt proud,” Kurt put a thumb to his chest, then pointed the same hand at Turt, “of you.” Turt's chin quivered momentarily, but he steeled himself and turned.

“Kri-tetet, come, follow.” Just like that, Quena and Kurt had a guide.

The wooded path was relatively clean, though Kurt didn't like the idea of being so exposed. The sparse bushes and weeds growing intermittently were the only hindrance to their travel, even if spring was coming on with a quickness. The greenery was filling in, trees budding their flowers and weeds flourishing as quickly as ever, it was part of what made the Wilds so wonderful, the vibrant growth of life.

The thought caught him off guard, because it was usually a day like this, every year, that the trappers would head out. They would catalog any changes to their paths, set new traps, and do so in groups as the hungry predators would be on the prowl. The air was a bit chilly yet, but not so bad as just a few days before. It seemed the season was well and truly there, and Kurt couldn't help but grin at the simplicity of life before all of this began. He would be there again, lost in the endless woods or exploring with his little brother, finding all the wonders the Wilds had to offer was an endless yet fulfilling endeavor.

As his gaze wandered the surrounding path, he spotted a few broken branches and stopped. Tilting his head, he walked over to further inspect it.

“Kurt, what are you doing?” Quena asked from behind him.

“Just having a look at these, something passed this way. Just making sure we don't run into a great bear, or something equally terrifying.”

“I'm not worried about a wild animal, I can work my, what did you call it? Hoodoo?” She chuckled softly.

“I know, but it's better to avoid something like that. They're faster than you think, and I'd rather take a moment now than any of the alternatives.” Kurt bent down, picking up the broken branch, then spotted another nearby, except the other happened to be large enough to look like a sapling. He inspected further beyond the tree line, only to find that there were several larger limbs placed in such a way to look natural but Kurt knew better. “Hey look, I think there's a... Ah-ha!”

Kurt moved a few more limbs to reveal a well trodden path heading uphill slightly. The path headed over a small rise where it disappeared. “Hey, Turt, how far to Moder?”

“K-k-k-can't tell. Near, but not near.” He started walking through the brush and made a racket as he did. Kurt wouldn't be sneaking up on anyone with Turt around. “Okay, okay. We find Moder first, but we should mark this spot. Quena, do you see the scuffs here?” She nodded in acknowledgment, but didn't say anything. “That is a boot print, I have no doubt about it. Whether it was the men from my village or the Kressians, I'd wager this path will take us to them.”

“Okay, I'll grow us something to mark it.”

“If it's not too much trouble, I could go for some bitrus right about now.”

She shook her head, “how are you always hungry, and why aren't you fat?”

Kurt shrugged, “when the gods dreamt me up, they had to give me at least one flaw.”

“Uh-huh.” She rolled her eyes as she rummaged through her cloak finding the seeds. She placed one on the ground and put her hand over it, shutting her eyes. After a few seconds she frowned and tried again.

“Trouble getting it up?” Kurt said.

“That's not funny.” She replied, alarm creeping in to her voice.

“What's wrong?”

“Hang on.” She went to a nearby rock and put her hand over it. “Oh shit, we're in a containment field.”

“A whata-whata?”

“I can't use my primes. This isn't good, we need to get out of here.” Her eyes were wide, scanning everywhere and nowhere. “Now, we need to get out of here now.” Her voice, no longer casual, was a harsh whisper.

“Okay, okay. Lets move.”

Kurt spotted movement in his peripheral vision, a shadow at the crest of the rise just where the trail disappeared. Kurt swiveled his head to see several figures, more than six, staggering over. The newcomers had already spotted them, letting out a shriek and pointing.

Kurt turned back to Quena and Turt, only to find that they had already made their way back to the trail. So much for camaraderie.

Kurt bounded over the broken limbs, breaking through the tree line with all haste. Quena and Turt hadn't gotten so far ahead, and Kurt felt guilty because he knew they weren't going all out so that he had a chance to catch up. “Just go!” He shouted at them.

They picked up the pace, Turt moving faster than either of them. His bounds were long, the gate of something seven feet tall eating ground in a way Kurt couldn't imagine. Unbidden, the thought of little Dorian broke into his mind, and all the times he bitched about not being as tall as Kurt finally made sense. No, Kurt, not the time.

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Something shot past his head, a black blur that stuck to a tree in front of him. Its shape was that of something that slithered, and as he watched that's exactly what it did. It slithered out of the tree, down to the ground, then past him. He chanced a look behind himself to see four or five people gaining gradually. Their movements were oafish, like they knew they could run but it was the first time they ever had. Their arms didn't pump, and their strides were uncoordinated, but somehow, they were gaining on them. Kurt redoubled his efforts and found himself gaining on Quena before he knew it.

“Keep it up Quena, they're gaining on us!”

She was breathing heavily, her gate becoming just as lumbering as their pursuers. “Quena, what's wrong?”

“Not... used... to this,” she said between breaths. Then it hit him, she had no access to her abilities and had to rely on her body to do the heavy work. Several Shade bolts streaked passed them, and Quena slowed to return fire. Kurt joined her, blackness congealing in his hands, the dark light they emitted almost invisible as they came through a break in the trees. Turning in unison, they shot bolts back at their unknown foes. The black streaked through the air, two from Kurt and an impressive six from Quena. Two of them were struck and fell to the ground, another took a glancing blow at the shoulder but continued. Even at the distance their current distance, Kurt could make out the damage the glancing blow had caused, and it was disturbing. The arm had nearly been severed, the only thing keeping it attached a bit of loose flesh, and yet the man continued to run as though he couldn't feel a thing.

“Quena, there's something very wrong with this picture,” Kurt said as he grabbed her shoulder and ushered her to move along.

“You're not wrong, they're controlled.”

“What does that mean?” Kurt said as he hurdled a fallen tree. Kurt spotted Turt standing by a set of boulders, possibly an entrance? Just then, he heard a snapping sound followed by a gasp, then a scream. Kurt turned, Quena lay on her back grasping her leg. She swore through her scream and rolled back and forth.

Kurt started picking up speed, running to get Quena off the ground, but knew what he'd have to do. There's always a cost.

He summoned two Shade blades, elongated and sharp. A Shade bolt shot towards him, but Kurt wouldn't have it. Instead of a simple parry, he threw a cloud of Gia out in front of himself, absorbing the bolt before it could skewer him. He heard loud steps beside him, so he shouted at Turt, “take her to your Moder, tetet keenek tien Moder!”

He was nearly to Quena, but instead of slowing to get her, he bounded over her, vaulting the fallen tree. He stood at the ready as the group approached. Thankfully they weren't organized in any fashion, they came at him as quickly as they could without concern for tactics.

Now that they were close, he could make out their faces, and his heart sank. Each of them were from Metan, each of them he knew. Then his gut churned as he saw their eyes, black like the depths of a moonless night. He felt sick for what he knew he had to do.

Another bolt came, and he absorbed it. The enemy grew wise to this tactic, and from their hands came the slithering shape of a tentacle, the wicked edge they undoubtedly had sobered the mounting dread he felt.

“Jason, if you can hear me in there, I'm sorry!” Kurt shouted at the first of them that came at him, Jason's face stuck in an expression that was something between anger and surprise. Kurt swung low, his own blades sharp, he severed Jason's leg above the knee in a single stroke. He went down but was still swinging, Kurt had to parry the blow and hop back as the next opponent lunged at him. Kurt twisted, combining his two blades into a single staff. He brained the next one with a two handed blow, using the momentum to swing low at the next two. One dodged, but the other was caught at the ankle, falling to his back. Kurt never gave him a moment and thrust his staff through the man's face. Carl. That was Carl's face.

The others were now surrounding him, and he knew he couldn't let that happen. He spun his staff around him, sharpening the ends as he did. A small break in the formation led Kurt that direction as a few danced back away from his strikes. One stabbed at him and he parried but did so too hard. His parry threw off his footing and he stumbled, but instead of falling he used it to power a broad sided bash to his opponent's head from the middle of his staff. The man fell back, stunned, jutting blood from his nose.

Their pursuers, no longer concerned with Quena or Turt, finally turned their full attention to Kurt. As they did, he caught a glimpse of Turt bounding away, Quena's face looking back at him for a brief moment.

As a parting gift, she sent a volley of black crescents in his direction. The razor-sharp projectiles tore through the air, peppering their enemies from behind. One man took a shot clean through the skull and collapsed, twitching. But there were far more of them than Kurt had anticipated. His stomach churned as realization set in.

He knew what he had to do.

Summoning every ounce of strength he had, he called on his power. A green glow surrounded him, thickening into a swirling cloud. His Shade coiled at a single level, pooling into a dense mass before extending outward. He began spinning his staff above his head—not because he had to, but because it grounded him. Every time he wielded Gia without movement, vertigo threatened to take him.

The enemy hesitated, hovering at the edges of his storm. They were wary, but they hadn't fled. His skin crawled, his stomach twisted, his ears popped with the shift in energy. He was ready to unleash hell.

Then something small flickered at the edge of his vision.

A speck, no, a fist-sized blur, raced toward him.

The rock struck him hard across the temple.

Wow, he thought, right before everything went black. I really didn’t see that coming.

Kurt opened his eyes with the worst headache he'd ever had. It felt like there were drums beating away at the back of his head. He bore it for about two seconds before consciousness slipped away like the sun setting over the horizon.

You have to find me, Kurt.

He woke to a dull, pulsing pain in his head, nothing like before, but still enough to keep his thoughts sluggish. His vision swam, the world around him hazy and indistinct.

The tent flaps had been pulled back, allowing firelight to spill into the dim space. Outside, a campfire blazed against the night, its glow casting long, shifting shadows.

Then he saw them.

Dozens, no, countless, figures stood in absolute silence around the fire. Unmoving. Watching. A sickening unease crawled up his spine. Every instinct screamed at him to run.

He pulled against whatever held him, but his wrists and chest were bound, not with rope, but with something firmer, something that tightened as he struggled. He fought against it, twisting, wrenching, but it refused to give. He called to his Shade.

The moment it began to coalesce, laughter erupted, sharp, barking laughter that sent a fresh wave of dread through him. It wasn’t just one voice, no. Every figure around the fire laughed in perfect unison, the same tone, the same timing, like puppets pulled by a single string. The shadowy forms nearest to him parted. Firelight illuminated a single face. Kurt’s breath caught. It was his father.

His voice, undoubtedly his father, had a unique resonance to it, something unnatural. Whether it was the cadence or the rhetoric, Kurt was sure that it wasn't his father speaking.

“Good evening, Kurtis Hunt, I'm glad you could join us.” The smile that his father wore didn't meet his eyes, eyes that were black as the night silhouetting everyone else. He waved his hand, and whatever was binding him fell away. “Come and have a sit with us, we've been dying to see if you'd wake up any time soon.”

Two of the dark figures came into the tent, standing beside him. “Yeah, yeah, I get the hint.” Kurt muttered as he rubbed his wrists, a tingling sensation washing through his hands. He came out of the tent to see that the outlines of the people he had seen before were nothing more than a drop in the kettle. Countless bodies stood, all surrounding the campfire, all motionless. As he passed the ominous faces, he recognized a few of them, and the mounting dread he felt came to a crescendo as his father smiled mirthlessly at him. He gestured to a log, and Kurt took the seat, figuring if he fought now, it would only ensure his own demise.

“Sitting down for a little father son chat, are we?” Kurt asked flippantly.

Rand's head tilted, black eyes wide, the smile never left his face. “I think you and I both know that I'm not your father.”

“Oh, I meant religiously, Elder.” Kurt stared back at his sire, and though he felt sad for his father's state, he was glad to see him alive.

The Elder laughed and so did the rest of the people surrounding them. All in unison, cutting off at the exact same time.

“You have been speaking to someone, Kurtis of the Hunt, and I know something else.” His head rolled around gently, as though swaying with the wind or listening to the sound of soft music. “Who have you been speaking to?” He stopped and stared.

Kurt held the gaze, but Bacchus's eyes never blinked. “I've been speaking to a lot of people lately. Right now, I'm speaking to you. Just last week, I was speaking to your mother.” He winked.

Bacchus's expression went blank for a moment before a slow smile formed. “My mother has been dead for so long that her bones have turned to dust.” His head tilted, stare unwavering.

Kurt nodded sagely. “Ah. That would explain the silence on her end.”

Bacchus let out a slow chuckle. “And what does that say about you? That you're a fool playing at wit?”

“No, it says she still had better conversation skills than you.”

Bacchus straightened, then raised Rand's chin to look down his nose at Kurt. Kurt just grinned stupidly. Your move, asshole.

"Do you think this is a game, child?" Bacchus's voice was smooth, but beneath it lurked something jagged. "Do you think I would hesitate to drag you back to my Monastery? To lock you away until you cannot move for hunger? Until your throat cracks with thirst, and your mind frays in the dark?"

Kurt shrugged. “That depends. Why don’t you prepare my quarters first? I won’t settle for anything less than your finest accommodations. In fact, I’ll have yours.”

Bacchus laughed, and as if commanded by a single will, the others laughed with him. Their voices layered, hollow and wrong. "I dare say, you are an amusing one. The host will enjoy your memories once he sees them."

Kurt’s lip curled. “Wait, you’re not even the real one? I wasted my quips on a knockoff?”

"Knockoff?" Bacchus tsked, his grin widening, his teeth too white, too perfect. "No, no, no. I am more than your elder. More than you can comprehend. But most of me?" His head tilted, too smoothly. "Yes. Most of me is with the host. We will know in time."

“So, he doesn’t know yet?”

Bacchus’s expression soured. The air between them thickened.

"What do you think this is?" His voice dropped, deepened, as though reality itself was straining to bear its weight. "Do you even know who you speak to, worm?"

Kurt exhaled through his nose. "I know you’re an asshole. And you’re fucking with the wrong family. You want me to talk? Fine. Get out of my father, and maybe we’ll start a conversation. Until then, take your wiggly tentacles and go fuck yourself."

Bacchus sighed. A slow, deliberate thing. "Fine then. There is always... the other way."

Faster than thought, waves of black poured from Rand’s body, lashing out and surging toward Kurt. He barely had time to react before it enveloped him.

It was cold. Not the chill of winter, but something deeper—like the marrow of his bones had been hollowed out and filled with empty space. It burned at the same time, the way wind could strip flesh raw, peeling his sense of self away layer by layer.

It climbed him, slithered up his legs, his chest, his face. It pressed into his eyes, his ears, his very breath. Then it struck his mind. It clawed its way inside, slithering through his thoughts, filling every inch of him, drowning his will. He was trapped. He was taken. He was going to lose everything. Even himself.

He hovered there, in his mind’s eye, or perhaps in the depths of his subconscious. Nothing else touched him, nor did anything else come to the fore. He was nobody, nothing, a temporal moment in the blink of infinity, not even a drop in an endless ocean. He existed in a space beyond, transcending, or perhaps descending, time itself.

Something nudged him, nagged at him, ate at him. What am I? The thought surfaced unbidden, and he marveled at it. I am? Yes. I am something. I exist.

A cascading rockslide of sentience crashed down upon him, shaking him loose from the void. A soft whisper, no, not even that, there was no sound here, only the impression of words, the echo of something ancient, yet his own. It told him, Bask in the glory of the first gift, the first curse. You are.

The revelation came with an irresistible compulsion. To move. To act. He latched onto that desire, his mind reeling, and his universe shifted.

A vibration ran across his body, a shiver in overarching waves. He had touched something, touched infinity, and it had left him changed. He heard a sound, an animal sound. He felt his throat shaking, the sound he realized was his own voice, his feral growl only slightly drowned by the river of blackness passing through him. He mentally grasped that action like a drowning man clutching for air, and he put all of himself into it. His roar of rebellion may not have shaken the pillars of heaven, but he was certain it shook the thing before him, if not the the hell it came from. For as he felt the blackness leaving his body, he knew that filth such as this could only spawn from the underworld.

Some of the silhouettes around him had dropped, lying prone on the ground. Rand, however, still sat, unblinking.

“Now, isn't that a surprise?” He finally shut his eyes, and the bodies gone prone slowly rose. “That was quite the display.” He stood, the unbelievable size of the man before him put the fear of the Gods into Kurt. He was used to his father's scale, massive by all standards, but that form had never once shown sign of hurting Kurt. For the first time in Kurt's life, he feared his father.

Bolstering his fortitude, he looked into his father's face. He coated his vision in Gia, making his eyes glow green, when he saw the dark shadows flowing through his father. “Get out of my father, you disgusting wretch.” He whispered the words, doing his best to mask the snarl. He spoke in a way that would make anyone near listen more intently, the quiet solemnity in the vibrations of his voice offset to the crackle of the fire.

The entire crowd laughed and laughed, like they had before, but something was different this time. Was that fear? Is it scared of me? This thing?

“Your father has some very interesting memories... The pride he holds for... hmmm, Dorian is his name? Oh and you've been missing, how quaint. How about the shame he felt that you chose the Hunts over the Cooks. Oh yes, yes-.”

Gritting his teeth, Kurt said, “shut your mouth.”

An eyebrow went up, “my mouth?”

The echoing laughter boomed from around him again.

“Oh, that's just the start. How about his relationship with your mother, Rita. Yes, yes, did you know your parent's relationship is based on a lie?” Kurt was going to interject, but his father's voice spoke over him. “That's right, he's never told a soul, has he?”

The laughter again, but this time Kurt's anger was growing like a cascading firestorm. He held his temper, though he was struggling.

“He threw his match, oh yes, for two reasons. He bet against himself, intending to use the money to raise his family status. The other, for the heart of one of the two sisters, but which one was it? Was it Rita, or her sister, Brenda?”

Up to this point, he hadn't acknowledged the mounting rage he felt at the sight of his possessed father. At the very least, he hadn't focused on it. For all that he was his mother's son, Kurt loved his father and this creature was bent on slandering him. With Dorian gone, his mother running the entire village, Kurt was alone, homeless. This thing was going to take that from him, it was taking away his family. It's killing everyone I love, and it's laughing about it. Fine, I'll give you something to laugh about.

He felt it then, the spark that started the lightning strike. Gripped the essence of his soul, the fire itself, not just its light, and he roared with soaring heart.

“Bacchus! Daemon! You wish to take from me all that I hold dear?!” Gia broke every pore of his body, a cloud of white blocking out everything else, not even the campfire could compare to his brilliance.

Bacchus shot to his feet, his voice a thunderclap. “No! Filthy human, how dare you?!” Blackness surged through the light, consuming it, corrupting it.

“How dare I?!” Kurt roared back, pushing against the tide of darkness. “I am the King of the Wilds! This is my home, not yours! How dare you?!” His voice cut through the void, unrelenting, undeniable. He knew Bacchus could hear him, knew his words struck deep, despite the deafening roar in his own ears.

“You come to my land. You steal my family.” Fury broke through the suffocating black, a fire blazing in his chest. He pushed. The darkness resisted, clawing at him, but his rage had already taken root. He would not be broken. Not here. Not now. Not by him.

“You are nothing but a lost boy, you don't understand your folly! Child! I can show you the path, all is not lost-”

Something gave. A crack in the pressure, a moment of hesitation. Bacchus faltered.

Kurt surged like a storm. Grinning like a fool, he said, “Hey Bacchus, I’d tell you to eat me, but, well…”

The darkness recoiled. It shrank back, slithering toward the bodies it had claimed. Then, one by one, the possessed began to choke. Black bile spewed from their mouths, spilling onto the ground in writhing streams.

And then, Kurt’s light consumed it.

It devoured the abyss, pressing into the void, forcing it back. He pulled in slightly, just enough to gather his strength, then pushed again. Harder. This time, the bodies dropped where they stood.

His light deepened, shifting from pale green to something richer, darker, more alive. Holding on to it, claiming it, he swallowed the cloud of power, of madness, of pure, twisted will.

And he consumed it all.

Sinking to a knee, clutching his gut, he groaned, “By the Gods, that is awful.”

It writhed inside him, a sickening churn, like his insides had been dumped into a mixing pot and violently stirred.

His stomach lurched. He gagged, but there was nothing left to purge. Rolling onto his side, he thought, I’d rather eat a pine cone. Hell, I’d rather pass one.

The fire flickered, the only light in the encroaching dark. The vertigo hit hard. He knew what he’d done—pushed too far, too fast. But he also knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever price he paid, he’d pay it again. A hundred times over.

That was his last thought before exhaustion dragged him under, sinking him into the abyss of sleep.

When he woke, it was pitch black. He wanted to get up, feel around, but every muscle on his body shouted out when he tried. He let out a soft groan, then became alarmed when he heard movement.

“Who's there?”

The broken voice that answered sounded like a rockslide, the vocal cords straining to replicate the sound of a human voice. “Hello, little squire. You've done well. I had my doubts, but you've really done it. You will be needed soon because I have news of your brother. I hope you're ready, you'll be fighting in this year's tournament after all.” Despite the rocky voice, he was washed with a sense of comfort. He was ready to begin the next stage of his journey, he was ready to save his family.