*******************

Virgil 'Wraith' Boone

"I can show you much. They hide from you, the secrets. Simply open your eyes. Let me take a peek inside."

I twist and find that the figure speaking to me is the proctor, only it is a world away in difference from what I remember. Tentacled purple light emerges from the mask on its face as it speaks to me, the words coming from the light. They branch out like shivering lacerations upon a deceased corpse. My mind shrieks with warnings, the instincts built upon years telling me to run. But I can't. I can't go anywhere.

And as it communicates to me in its bizarre way, smoke begins to waft off its form, gradually siphoning away substance.

What the hell?

"Listen. Open your eyes!"

The tentacles surge toward me as I leap backward via instinct ingrained in my bones, tumbling over Dennis' dead corpse. Is it desperate? That voice... it was Prix, right?

Are they helping me?

Shifting in reverse, I aim the Colt at the being, hoping to fight against it, but the thing speaks again. The very essence of its words shakes my mind and blurs my vision as it pursues me.

"WE CAN GIVE YOU SO MUCH! LET ME IN YOUR PUPIL!"

I fall to a knee, my free hand grasping upon my face as it gnarls itself in pain. Footsteps tear through the haze of pain rapidly, however, and I rear my head to gaze upward.

No longer does the mask exist.

Pain wracks my very being as I quickly remove my gaze from its face. Trembling, unable to move or speak, I feel a leathery, nearly scaly hand tighten onto my shoulder.

And, as it holds onto me, my head moves without my guidance, shifting up toward the being's face.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as pain radiates through my body from merely peering upon the face of the twisted monstrosity, dominated by writhing tentacles that writhe and pulse like serpents from a realm beyond comprehension with purple pus staining each end. The pus has holes within it, bubbling even further with hidden eyes within the liquid. Blood rapidly dyes my clothes, and the dusty ground beneath me wets with crimson from a nightmarish liquid leaving all of my orifices. The world around me seems to blur and sway in a haze of agony with nothing to focus on but this deformity. I struggle to keep my grip on the Colt at my side, my fingers slick with sweat and shaking with the effort.

But there's no respite for the wounded, no moments of reprieve. As if summoned from the deepest depths of my nightmare, the pain, loss, and hurt of Dennis and Vernon strike me repeatedly, as if they were just killed. My instincts scream danger, but I can't move or even shift the target of my pupils as sadness, pain, hurt, depression, and every negative emotion I had at the death strike with power more significant than the original.

The replay of killing Vernon myself replays within my mind a seemingly infinite number of times as the body before me ripples into a different form. Shadows and flesh twist into a grotesque fusion of humanoid and aberrant. This being has no eyes, but the place where they should be gleams with a malevolent intelligence that sends shivers down my spine.

Its grip on my consciousness is undeniable, a psychic force that tugs at the edges of my mind with an almost magnetic pull. However, it cares not for my thoughts. It only wants my darkest memories.

I scream out in pain as it rips up the many people I've killed, replaying all my regrets before my very eyes.

"STOP!"

I try to raise my Colt, my fingers trembling as I attempt to line up a shot. But my movements feel sluggish, as if I'm wading through thick molasses, and the creature's influence prevents me from even raising my hand a half-inch.

The presence looms over me, a suffocating weight that threatens to crush my spirit. Its tendrils twitch and writhe, each motion sending ripples of unease through the air around us as it gradually nears the serpentining figures toward my face. Its voice echoes in my mind, a chilling whisper that speaks of domination and a hunger for knowledge that transcends human comprehension.

"THEN LET ME IN!"

Its grip tightens, its influence penetrating the very core of my memories as if peeling back the layers of my identity. I struggle to hold onto my sense of self, my fingers clenched around the Colt as if it were a lifeline to reality. But this being simply does not care.

The force is unrelenting, a tidal strength threatening to sweep me away into the abyss of its desires. My vision blurs, my consciousness teetering on the precipice of surrender.

NO! I can't. They said to fight. I have to. Come on, Virgil! Fuck!

The tentacles reach my face, slathering that pus atop my skin as it burns deep into me, the agony worse than being tortured with the branding iron. The pus runs into my veins, staining my innards as the being shouts at me, every tentacle speaking for the being without a mouth, eyes, or nose.

"OPEN!"

A final memory is pulled, the one that I've harbored in the darkest part of me for the longest time, not daring to look.

Long ago, I starved nearly every day to feed my siblings. I'd eat maybe once or twice a week to ensure they were provided for. And it did numbers to my mind. And my body.

Standing in front of the sleeping Aron, Nora, and Victor, who all used to share a small room in the abandoned house I found, I hold a dagger, the blade pointed toward their sleeping form.

It shakes, wriggles, and trembles as I contemplate my decision.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

If I kill—put them out of their misery— I'd get to eat. I'd get to live, to rest, to... enjoy myself. They wouldn't have to worry about their following meals either or what might happen while I'm gone on a mission.

They'd all be at peace.

Indeed, the Devil would judge such poor children kindly. He would care little for me, but that's a worry for a later time.

Taking a deep breath, I raise the knife, held by gaunt and starved hands covered in scars. But before I even move it down an inch, unsure of who to send first to the Devil for judgment, a creak in the floorboards behind me elicits a pivoting step from me. Instantly, I rear the dagger to strike, assuming it is a robber or bandit. I don't even hesitate, all my weeks of training ruining my nerves.

"Brother. I thought you wouldn't be home until tomorrow?"

Standing in the doorway, wiping his eyes of sleep, is Vernon. My little brother. They are all my siblings, of course, but Vernon is different. We spent time together before our parents died, even if he might have been too young to remember it. But I do.

The knife trembles in my hands as I struggle to decide.

"Do it. Open yourself to the void. You know you want to. It is the only choice where you are all happy."

A shadowy voice eats into the back of my mind as tendrils wrap around my hand, driving it forward. The knife quickly sinks into Vernon's chest as the young boy widens his eyes, broken by the betrayal.

I try to speak, to say anything at all, to tell him that it's not me, that something is controlling me, but I can't. No words leave my throat as the tentacles rip the dagger out of Vernon's body and turn to the other three.

But as I move, my mind can't leave Vernon's saddened face, the heartbreak.

"Stop."

I step against the bed, hovering over it with the bloodied knife.

"Stop!"

The dagger rises into the air, preparing to lunge down into Aron, the one sleeping the closest to me.

"FINE! COME IN! YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE IT!?"

Finally, I break, unable to watch any longer, and the monstrosity from another plane releases my arms and legs as all the tendrils dive into my eyes. I attempt to squint and close my eyes, but the tendrils dive through, somehow painlessly but incredibly uncomfortably. As it does, smoke continues to emerge from its arms. My anger reaches heights I've never known as my life-long depression sinks to a new nadir. It dives into me, devouring these emotions and branding me with crippling pain.

Yet abruptly, the smoke deepens as a guttural scream comes from the being. Its grip loosens on me momentarily as I take the chance to fight back, unwilling to wait a single moment. The searing hatred has been eaten into, but there is a reason why I resonate so closely with that of the Nightowl. I was born on a moonless night during a Skinwalker attack. Even my first moments were not of peace and tranquility. Grabbing the tentacles driving deeply into my eye, I twist and throw myself against the nearby wall. Again, it grunts in pain as it releases itself a tad. Tendrils fall out of my eyes, and I continue to beat them against the ground with all my might as smoke and shadows surge out of the being.

Gradually, fewer and fewer tentacles touch my skin, instead writhing upon the floor of the abandoned house as smoke wafts from them. And I continue to assault them while I'm not controlled, dishing out the anger rising deep from the torture it inflicted upon me. It devours my darkness, rejuvenating itself with every gulp, but I have far too much simmering for it to handle. It was looking for a mind filled with negative emotions to devour. It chose a man with too many.

And the moment that no more tentacles ground me, I open my eyes.

The train reveals itself to me, with Prix performing a ritual with some kind of expensive materials and Wyatt watching. Aron and Victor aren't far either, neither is Johnny, but the man is obviously blind, the light in his eyes gone.

And as I glance around the room quickly, shouts of relief come out, but I focus on the billowing figure above Prix's head. It doesn't seem as though she can see it. Tentacles writhe from its face, emerging even from the ends of the bizarre robe it adorns.

Pupils... by doing what it did, I can see them now. Was that the purpose? To attempt to make me some kind of agent after taking my emotions?

I don't care. I'm going to kill it.

Grunting, I pivot and leap off the cot, a Nightwhip thrusting me over Prix as I Flicker, knowing instinctively that I can't hit it otherwise. And I'm right.

I Flicker right through the smoke entrapping the creature as I enter the smoke of the Otherworld. But during that in-between state, I clench my hand around a tentacle and wrap a leg around it as I tackle it, clinching its body.

The being fights back, but my Nightwhips form as we stay in this between-state unusual of Flicker. The people around us can't see us, but we can partially interact with objects and them. Rolling the being as tendrils wrap around me, I follow it in tune, doing the same. Mine are made of darkness, while theirs are of flesh.

But as we fight, a radiance glimmers deep within me. All the pain, struggle, and torture occurred under a realm without a sun.

Tightening my jaw, I rip my arm from a collection of tentacles holding me as all my skills push my strength past the physical might of this mental being, and I arrange my palm against its head. Then, the light appears. Illuminate burns a path of terrifying heat through its tentacled crown as the being quickly slumps, all its tentacles going limp.

I breathe heavily, sitting in this between-state as the radiance of Illuminate had no effect on the train. Wyatt, Prix, and Johnny are freaking out while I kneel off the being's body as they can't manage to find me. My brother and sister are nearly hysterical, but I can't get up. Everything hurts.

Falling back onto the wall of the train, I'm surprised to feel my body stop against it and not Flicker through. This state is odd. It's like a half-Flicker. Did I manage it by watching the creature do it, or have I always been able to do this? If I could, that would have saved so much pain.

I sigh as I look upward momentarily, taking a second to rest.

Long ago, I thought of killing my family to save all of us from pain, misery, and effort. I only stopped back then because Vernon was awake, and I couldn't do it to him while he was conscious.

For a long time, I held that thought, simply waiting for a moment. I've never told anyone this. Nor will I ever. But... at least I'm not the only one to ever know.

And... now, I know, I would never do it. The pain... I'd stop mid-swing. I know it. I know I would. I always wondered, but now I know. I'm not that evil. I'm dark, but I lie there for a reason.

My vision pulsates as I come to this conclusion, and I quickly find myself within the bounds of a surprising room. One bleak and surrounded only by wood with a tome in the middle.

An Absolution? What? No way. It can't be that easy, right? Or... maybe it is.

I'm between worlds right now, not entirely under the hold of the Mother Below, and not quite not. Perhaps, Absolutions aren't meant to be such grand, monumental, near-death awakenings. Maybe... they are simply reflections of the past of becoming better and that the most potent forms, ones that not even the bitch below can hide from us, are those near-death ones.

Inhaling a deep breath, I step forward. My hand reaches for the tome as lights and sounds come outside The Cabin. Ignoring them, I read the shimmering shapes on the book that deliver knowledge.

Congratulations, my Nightshade. You have displayed an overwhelming pure resonance to the aspect of the Fellmind.

You have achieved another Act of Absolution in your attempt to overcome your own limits. But the second is different from the first. To Absolve once means you are Powerful, and the Powerful are Worthy. To do it twice means you are Virtuous, and the Virtuous are Honorable. A diamond emerged once from the amalgam of man and Sigil. To Absolve oneself again is to shatter the diamond and reform the splinters. And so, may you, the Beguiling Nightshade, reconstitute as a dimming jewel, one that glows with a never-ending darkness, for you, the soon-to-be Fellmind, have performed,

The Fellmind's Absolution.

You have prematurely resonated with a future step along your path, and as such, your current Sigil shall shift its Absolute Form to match it, just as it shifts to better match you. It will never be the same again, and neither will you, Beguiling Nightshade.

From the Beguiling Nightshade you once were, now, you are the Nightshade, The Depthed Omen. One who emerges from the depths of any darkness, regardless of the realm of origin. Never will you be caught. Never will you be seen. Never will your night be quenched. One moment, there is darkness. The next, there is you. And within that darkness, dwells a hidden light that cannot be extinguished. Should one see this light, then they are to know your deepest secrets.

With this new form, your Sigil shall grant a new strength. A new aid to you in your long journey. One that fills your Virtue with meaning.

You are now Virtuous, and your Virtue holds true under any light, underneath any inquisition, and beneath any darkness. Never will your Virtue fade unless the soul is extinguished. The planes bind most like fickle shackles, unable to ever be released from. Now, you may step between the realms unimpeded. A single footfall means a dozen in another domain. The depths of any realm cannot hold you. Not even those where the deepest terrors lurk, for, in the dark, you are an omen of the dawn.

Though, your form is insufficient for a Virtue, and as such, only a Merit can bloom. Any more, and you will succumb. For a Virtue to blossom, a shred of Divinity and Power is needed to sustain it.

The form of your Sigil shall now be revealed to you, as it is more pure and effervescent than ever before.

A long, drawn-out sigh leaves my mouth as I contemplate what my Virtue means.

One footfall means a dozen? Does that mean when I'm in the Otherworld, I move twelve times faster for when I reappear? Is that what was happening before with the fight against Sequester? Wyatt thought it was teleportation, but sufficiently high speed is almost indistinguishable from teleportation.

But... that also means I move twelve times the distance in the Otherworld while in the real world. So, getting caught by anything will be much, much more challenging. Most of the time, the beings get close because I Flicker too often without walking away from them. That's how this all came about.

Smiling, I reach forward, tapping my hand upon the tome as I can't wait to show this to Wyatt. He's the reason I got my first Absolution, after all. Plus, I'd never have gotten this one without the nature of the first.

Before I exit, I take a quick peek at the form of my Sigil, and it isn't much of a surprise. Many tendrils of shadow encapsulate a newborn ember. They caress the light, egging it to grow, to devour them and emerge even more potent a light than they are dark. It reminds me of training Vernon after his time with the Hunters. Teaching him always felt... right, like I was adding fuel to a brilliant light. And here I am, with a light hidden in the depths of my Sigil.

I hope I can make that light emerge into a brilliant Sigil, one bright enough to make Vernon proud.