I just...will it.
I reach out with both hands.
And I rip the gathering Gloom out of the air around me.
It's a sickening, intimate feeling. Like plunging my hands into cold, viscous oil. I can feel its malevolence, its hunger, its ancient, alien consciousness.
And yet. It answers to me.
The very substance the lupine Dweller was preparing to launch—the dark, sticky projectiles of condensed despair—stalls in mid-air. It hangs there, shimmering, a constellation of tiny black spheres.
The creature lets out a confused yelp. It tries again to propel the Gloom forward, its body tensing with the effort.
The spheres don't move. They just hang there, defiant.
Then, with a thought, I twist them.
They elongate, stretching thin, the black goo writhing and knitting itself together. They become a net, a dense, tightly-woven web of pure Gloom, and I snap it forward.
It slams into the lupine Dweller with the force of a battering ram. The creature shrieks, a sound of pure, shocked agony, as the substance it knows as a part of its own being turns against it. The net tightens, cocooning it, squeezing. The Dweller thrashes wildly, its form blurring and distorting as it tries to phase through its own weapon, but my command is absolute.
"Run you fools!" That's Thomson again. His words are a lifeline. He's seen. He knows. But he's still fighting, still commanding. He's giving me the only cover I could hope for right now.
The others don't need to be told twice. Leah, sobbing, drags a stunned Archie away. The rest of the small group scrambles, a chaotic mess of flailing limbs and terrified gasps, pushing deeper into the forest.
Amelia's illusion still holds, confusing two more of the lupine Dwellers. Flynn has dispatched another, its shattered body dissolving into wisps of shadow and regret. But the Spidergloom, wounded and furious, has its target.
It sends a torrent of webbing at Thomson, far more than he can possibly dodge.
I act again. I rip the Gloom from the web, not just stopping it, but seizing it completely. I can feel the Spidergloom's consciousness through the goo, a dim, pulsating rage that tastes of rot and old pain. It tries to pull back, to reclaim its power, but it's like a child trying to wrest a prize from a titan's grasp.
I hold the massive strand of writhing Gloom in the air for a moment, a fat, black rope quivering with malicious intent. Then I lash out with it, not at the Spidergloom, but at the two lupine Dwellers still menacing Thomson's flank.
They are crushed against the trees, the impact so hard the ancient oaks splinter and crack. The Gloom holds them pinned, squirming helplessly, their gray eyes wide with a fear they were never designed to feel.
The forest has gone silent, except for the pained breathing of the Spidergloom and the pounding of my own heart. Everyone has stopped. Flynn is mid-swing, his golden-fisted attack frozen. Amelia stares, her illusion flickering and dying as her concentration shatters.
They are all looking at me.
At the dark, writhing rope of Gloom I am holding suspended in the air. A tool of the enemy, wielded by one of their own.
"Caden..." Amelia whispers, her voice a fragile, horrified thing. "What... what is that?"
I let the Gloom drop. It dissipates before it hits the ground, melting back into the air like a bad dream. The two pinned Dwellers slump to the forest floor, broken but not yet dead. The Spidergloom, seeing its pack decimated and its greatest weapon turned against it, lets out a sound of utter despair. It doesn't even try to fight. It just... dissolves. Its form wavers, then collapses in on itself, leaving behind only a patch of rapidly fading Gloom and the stench of ancient misery.
Silence.
Absolute. Crushing.
Thomson is the one who breaks it. He lowers his sword, the silver tip dipping to the ground. "We leave. Now."
But no one moves.
They are all staring at me. Flynn, his face a canvas of disbelief and dawning horror. Leah and Archie, huddled together, their eyes wide with the terror reserved not for monsters, but for traitors. Michael, pushing his cracked glasses up his nose, a look of morbid, academic curiosity warring with primal fear.
They see a Tainted Blood controlling the Gloom. The one substance that defines their enemy. The tool of their nightmares.
"What are you?" Thomas's voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and accusatory. He stands apart from the others, his Exorcist Lantern held up not as a weapon, but as a ward against me.
"...Tainted Blood. You said it yourself." My own voice is flat, dead. I feel hollowed out, scraped clean. There's no relief, no victory. Just the cold, hard reality of what I've done, and what they've seen.
"He saved us," Amelia protests, her voice shaking. She takes a step toward me, a small, defiant gesture. "He saved all of us!"
"He used their power!" Nicole shrieks, pointing a trembling finger. "He is one of them! That's why they left our rooms alone on the island! He's their spy!"
Panic ripples through the group. It's a contagious madness, fed by grief and fear. They need a monster to blame for the death of their world. And here I am. Conveniently monstrous.
An explosion of light interrupts the panic. Thomson holds up his Exorcist Candle, its brilliant, pure-white glare forcing everyone to shield their eyes. "Enough!" His voice cracks like a whip, silencing the rising hysteria. "If you wish to be devoured by the Gloom, remain here and fight. If you wish to survive, you will run. Now!"
He doesn't look at me. He just starts moving, a grim, purposeful stride into the deepening darkness.
Flynn is the next to move. He looks from me to the path ahead, his face a storm of conflict. For a terrifying second, I think he's going to side with the others. Then he lets out a ragged sigh and grabs my arm. "Come on, Stick." The old nickname, the one I've always hated, sounds different now. It sounds like an anchor. "Whether you're a monster or a miracle, you're not getting left behind."
He pulls, and I stumble after him, my legs feeling like lead.
Amelia follows, creating a confusing after-image of our path, a final, desperate illusion to cover our retreat. The other students, faced with Thomson's fury and the very real threat of more Dwellers, have no choice but to follow. They give me a wide berth, a small island of exile in our desperate flight.
I don't blame them.
I'd avoid me just as much.