The shard burned cold in his palm, though no heat touched his skin. Kaelen stood in the void, staring at its glow, but all he saw were the visions it had forced into him—the Keepers, the battlefield, and the shadow that devoured them.
Fragments of their deaths… he thought, his stomach twisting. He was holding the memory of someone's last breath, their final defiance against the darkness. It felt wrong, sacrilegious, yet the Abyss inside him throbbed with hunger, as if rejoicing at the acquisition.
The whispers had always been there—faint, barely words—but now they were clearer. "More… gather… awaken…" They slithered through his thoughts, threading between his doubts like poison.
Kaelen pressed a hand to his temple, gritting his teeth. If I keep collecting these fragments… am I freeing the Keepers? Or am I feeding that thing?
Images from the vision clawed at him. The shadow's voice—so vast, so certain—echoed in his bones. He remembered how even dozens of Keepers hadn't been enough to stop it. And now… that same force lived within him.
The thought made his chest tighten. What if this was never about him being a savior? What if the Abyss had chosen him simply because he was weak enough to manipulate, a vessel it could bend until he cracked?
Yet… beneath the fear was a pull he couldn't deny. Power. Every time he touched the Abyss, it answered him. Every strike burned brighter, every wound healed faster. For the first time in his life, he wasn't powerless.
His fists clenched. He hated it. He needed it.
The shard's glow dimmed slightly, settling as though it had acknowledged its new host. Kaelen forced himself to tuck it away, but even as he did, the whispers persisted.
"More fragments… more truth… more power."
He closed his eyes, whispering back under his breath:
"Or more chains."
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