He sat on the edge of the bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His breathing began to even out, although his heart was still beating anxiously. No anxiety. No panic. Everything was happening inside him. It was not an illusion. It was not a fever.
He slowly stood up, walked over to the mirror, took off his shirt, and froze.
The tattoo on his back had changed.
It expanded: now arcs like halos filled with small glyphs appeared around the main silhouette, a knight in black armor. Waves like wings, but not made of feathers, but of serrated blades and shadow tongues, extended from the shoulders. Everything pulsated. It breathed.
Ward.
The name sounded inside. Like an anchor. Like a vow.
He returned to the bed, fell face-first into the pillow. The body needed rest. And it took him almost immediately.
…
He was back in the Shadows.
The same dark dome above his head, only now there was light inside. Not real light, but red, dull light, coming from the many magical seals that floated in the air.
Wardes stood before him.
"Time passes," the knight said. "You are awakening. But for now, you are no more than a scratch on the flesh of the world."
"Better a scratch than dust," Kalen replied, stepping closer. "I feel... I'm becoming different. Stronger."
"Not only you. We're connected," Ward's voice was muffled, as if coming from deep within the earth. "When you suffer, I breathe. When you fight, I remember."
"Do you remember?"
"I am not the first. I am a part of the elder. A shadow of the ancient, the forgotten. We existed before your time began. You should not have awakened me. But you broke something. And by doing so, you earned it."
They stood facing each other. The void between them was filled with something: weight. Bonding. Power.
"How can I become stronger?" Kalen asked. "Not just in words. In action."
"Kill your weakness," said Ward sharply. "Kill your doubts. Kill... the old you."
A path opened up before him.
A staircase of stone, leading up into the darkness. Every step was a pulse of pain in his head. But Kalen walked on. Alone. Without screaming. Without fear. Behind him, Ward walked heavily but silently.
And with each step... he felt his body growing heavier. Not from fatigue, but from strength. From something new inside. As he walked, he felt his muscles pulling, his heart beating deeper. It was as if his flesh was... adapting to who he was meant to be.
In the dream, it grew.
And that power... was real.
At some point, he turned around.
- Ward.
— I'm here."
"Don't let me wake up the same way."
"I am your shadow. And shadows never forget who you were."
Kalen woke up. Slowly.
The feeling of a hard bed. The silence of the room. Outside the window, a light wind and the rustling of leaves. He sat up and looked at his hands.
For the first time, he felt that his body was slightly... different. More precise. Heavier in the right places. A slight shiver ran through his shoulders. He walked over to the mirror.
On his back, the tattoo expanded even more. It was as if it fed on his sleep every night. On his struggle.
He touched her.
A muffled voice sounded in my head:
— The next stage is waiting. Don't be late.
Kalen's smile was a little predatory.
"I'm already on my way, Ward."
***
The next day
Kalen was gasping for breath.
In the darkness, there was a metallic screeching sound. His hands were being twisted by something rough, like chains, but when he tried to move, his skin burned with pain. He was here again. In this place, where everything was foreign and disgusting.
The drops fell on the stone. Something warm was running down his body—blood? Sweat? Both?
He was stripped naked. His arms were twisted behind his back, and every breath was a torture. Silhouettes flitted around him. One, the largest, held a red-hot needle in his hand. Another held a clamp like a butcher's tool. The third simply watched, head bowed, face expressionless.
— Experiment 031. The subject shows increased adaptability. Continue stimulation.
The needle entered the eye.
Kallen didn't scream; he couldn't. The voice had disappeared by the third night. Or was it the thirtieth?
Something was being pushed into his mouth—first a living, squealing thing, then a cold, bony thing that smelled of rot. He tried to fight back. It was useless. He vomited all over the floor, but they just laughed.
"Fucking hell… how many times…"
The veins in his arms were throbbing. His back was flushed with color, and the tattoo had expanded, as if it were breathing on its own, covering his shoulders and part of his neck.
A light flashed in the distance.
He woke up gasping for breath.
Room. Ceiling. Dusk. He's in his bed. Next to him, on the other bed, someone moves. Reina.
Kallen stared at the ceiling. His forehead was wet. His hands were shaking. His shirt was soaked with sweat.
He sat down, slowly. His back was burning — the tattoo was coming to life again, the lines moving and pulsating as if they were about to burst out.
Something moved in the corner of the room.
"You've grown stronger," a familiar, deep-throated voice hissed.
A silhouette emerged from the shadows. Black as the night itself, with eyes the color of molten gold. It was the dragon. Only now its form was more defined—a horned head, a powerful chest, and clawed paws.
"You survived something that should have broken you. Amazing. But remember: if you hadn't, I would have devoured your soul without regret."
Kallen didn't even flinch. He just clenched his fists.
"Then you're out of luck. Because I'm not going to die."
The dragon chuckled as it disappeared into the mist.
On his back, the tattoo flared up, and new patterns appeared along his spine like scars.