Chapter Five: Whispers Beneath the Skin
Lucian awoke before dawn, heart pounding in the hush just before morning, limbs slick with sweat, muscles trembling from another night ravaged by dreams. The bunk room was silent apart from the low, bronchial cough of the old man in the corner, the mumbles of broken souls trapped in restless sleep. Outside, the wind howled against the stone, rattling the battered shutters, but within, another storm brewed—one that no mortal eye could see.
The demon's voice was louder now—pressing, whispering, hunched behind Lucian's every heartbeat.
Take it. Destroy them. Make them BLEED.
Lucian's fists clenched so hard the bones creaked. He focused instead on the memory of his brother's small arms wrapped around his waist, the trust in those tired eyes. For that, he would not give in. He would choose what this power did—if it killed, it would be with purpose, not impulse.
He rose, barely disturbing the filthy straw, and glanced quickly to the mat in the next row: the healer boy—Tyren—lay curled, eyes closed, but Lucian sensed he was awake. A sliver of candlelight glimmered between Tyren's lashes, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.
Their alliance had formed like fog, unspoken but necessary. Tyren knew what Lucian was now. He'd seen it in the haunted glint of Lucian's eyes, in the way bruises vanished too fast, and the darkness sometimes flickered under his skin. Tyren had never asked questions with words, just with quick glances, small acts of kindness, and fear-born loyalty. In a world where secrets could kill, that was all Lucian dared trust.
Hidden Hours
The work day dulled into a gray blur: washing heaps of rotten vegetables, scrubbing stones slick with misery, hauling buckets of filthy water beneath the jeers of sadistic guards. Lucian kept his face blank, movements measured and unassuming, never lifting his gaze when the soldiers barked, never showing the volcanic strength boiling beneath his flesh.
But in stolen moments—when shadows pooled behind the kitchens, or in the cracks between patrols—he trained.
He started as a child again, relearning his body. Each morning, he clawed control back from wild instinct, forcing the darkness to obey. He flexed his fingers, willing forth the strange, inky mist that curled in his palms, then demanded it return, disappear, become nothing. He pushed the energy down into his belly, locking it in a pit of iron discipline. Sometimes it fought, surging up like a scream, and Lucian bit his own tongue bloody to not let it free.
He learned to blend the darkness with old lessons: breathing as he had when learning to wrestle his brother as children, grounding his feet, channeling anger safely. But every power, every flicker, carried a taste of guilt—the memory of shadows smashing men against stone, the way terror lingered in the eyes of slaves whenever he passed.
They will all fear you in the end, Lucian. Let them.
At night, when the others were too tired to see, Tyren would slip into the narrow alley behind the latrines. He would press bruised poultices into Lucian's hands, whispering herbed wisdom:
"Channel it. Don't fight the strength—shape it, like clay."
"No one learns power alone," Tyren whispered one night, voice soft as moth wings. "My own healing… it started with pain, too."
Sometimes, Tyren pressed glowing hands to Lucian's arms, trying to sense the root of the demon's energy. But the force within Lucian was slippery, hungry, barely contained by human will.
Lucian bared his soul in shadows. He called forth the dark, just enough to swirl smoke between his fingers, then shut it down. Practice by practice, he gained slivers of mastery.
But the more he controlled, the louder the demon screamed for release.
The Keeping of Secrets
As the days passed, Lucian perfected the art of hiding. He learned to mask the way his wounds healed, to mimic pain when a guard struck him, to feign awe and terror just like any other slave. He kept his head bowed, hands steady, only letting darkness spill forth in deepest shadow.
But each night, as he lay beside his brother, he heard the devil's voice sharpen:
You waste this gift, boy. Look at them—cattle for slaughter. I can GIVE you vengeance!
Lucian grit his teeth, focusing on his brother's warm weight, the fragile hope breathing beside him.
Not yet, he told himself. I will wait. I will plan.
Questions for Arave
Lucian's mind became a knife—seeking and cutting where needed. He stayed close to Arave by day, never showing how his own strength grew with every secret breath.
When no one watched, he began his next campaign—not with power, but with words.
"Tell me about the guards," Lucian murmured, low as possible, as they scrubbed grime from the castle's east wall.
Arave shot a suspicious glance, but Lucian's manner was patient, almost bored.
"I want to know who to avoid. If I ever dream of surviving… I need to know enemies."
Arave grunted. "Most are brutes, but some are worse. See the one with the wolf-cut scar by the ear? That's Soldier Keal. He likes to make people scream. Hurt your mother bad. Likes hurting women and boys even worse."
Lucian's heart pounded—a cold flame, not furious but deadly calm.
"Keal," Lucian repeated, the name burning itself into memory. "What else?"
Arave listed names—whose tempers flared, which were lazy, the ones who delighted in others' humiliation. Lucian mapped their routines: saw how Keal patrolled the far yard, how he always drew water near dawn, how he sneered at even other guards.
Every detail slotted into Lucian's mind like a blade being hammered into shape. He watched Keal, memorized his stride, the twist of his lips, the way he fondled his club with casual cruelty.
Devil's Pressure
Each night, as exhaustion battered at Lucian's body, sleep brought no rest.
Visions clawed through the black refuge of his mind: burning villages, children screaming, Lucian himself a shadow among the slaughter. He saw flashes of the past—other Dark Lords kneeling in blood, the devil standing grinning behind every throne.
And through it all: the voice—velvet, hungry, insidious.
Let us out, Lucian. Let us feed. Make them bleed. Your revenge is deserved.
Slit their throats in the dark. Burn their souls in silence. START WITH KEAL.
Lucian's jaw ached from how tightly he clamped it shut. Over and over, he bore the whispers, feeling the shadow worm deeper under his skin.
No, he answered each time. Not blindly. Not yet. We do this on my terms.
The demon's rage battered his soul, but still, Lucian waited.
Training in Darkness
Weeks passed.
Lucian's training became sharper, more deliberate. Tyren guided him in secret—even as he feared the thing Lucian was becoming.
"Your control is impressive," Tyren whispered, voice shaking one midnight as Lucian shaped the dark into a whip of shadow, then reabsorbed it without a flicker of panic. "But I can feel something else in you. A hunger."
"It's not mine," Lucian muttered, sweat on his brow. "But I will master it."
He practiced breathing exercises, resistance, using pain to root the energy and keep it from swelling past his control. He built his endurance, sparred with Tyren in empty storerooms until their arms ached. He learned to lash out only in defense, to withdraw and wait, to gather information before striking.
He even forced himself to talk to the other slaves, to remember their names, to see people, not prey. For each smile from his brother, for every rough joke from Arave, he nurtured a spark of real humanity, refusing to become what the devil whispered he already was.
But each success was met by rage from the darkness. Sometimes, Lucian would wake with his own hands clawing his chest, blood beading his skin. Shadows curled beneath his eyes.
Let us free!, the demon screeched. You are cutting away your own destiny!
Lucian would mutter, "Not yet. Vengeance is a patient meal."
The Target
It was after another midnight lesson—his body weary, mind sharper than ever—that Lucian knew he was ready.
Standing in the filthy corridor, cloak of night wrapped tight around him, Lucian stared across the moonlit yard.
There, on patrol, was Soldier Keal—the man who shattered his mother, broke his family, and laughed while doing it. Keal's figure looked almost small in the pale light, but Lucian's rage saw him as a colossus—an idol to be toppled and ground underfoot.
A chill rippled through Lucian. The demon within thrashed, gnashing in eager anticipation.
He is the first. The first to bleed. The first to beg.
Lucian didn't snarl. Didn't shake.
Instead, he breathed out slowly, calm and lethal.
Now, he thought. Now I begin.
He stepped into the yard's shadow, eyes locked on his quarry. A pulse of shadow slipped down his arms, swirling at his fingertips, coiling and ready, nothing like the feral bursts before—this was honed, silent, patient.
As Keal passed, Lucian's gaze narrowed. Every ounce of the training, every day of pain and humiliation, every whispered promise fueled him.
Soldier Keal... by the time I'm done, you'll wish you never touched my family.
From somewhere deep in his bones, the demon howled approval and hunger.
Let us out, Lucian. Kill them all.
Lucian smiled—a thin, wolfish grin—before melding with the night.
This is how it begins, he thought.
Tonight, a new nightmare rises… and he wears my skin.
As Lucian melts into the shadow, the camera of narration lifts to the high tower where the devil—a void-eyed silhouette—watches, fangs glinting, the wind hissing through the broken glass. Tonight, darkness gets its wish.