The days after the festival blurred into a quiet rhythm. The villagers returned to their work in the fields and workshops, repairing fences, tending to livestock, patching roofs before the autumn rains. Birmingham settled back into its ordinary life.
For Darrel, though, nothing felt ordinary anymore.
He still rose early, still fetched water from the well, still helped his father with chores—but each task seemed hollow, as though some invisible tether pulled his thoughts elsewhere. When he lifted a bucket, he remembered the stone leaping from his hand at the river. When he stacked firewood, he thought of the rush of unseen energy, the surge that had poured through him.
And always, Marcus's voice lingered.
Promise me… trust me completely… no hesitation.
It haunted him even as he tried to shake it off. He wanted to believe Marcus was only playing at games, exaggerating as he always did. But something inside warned him otherwise.
That unease deepened on the night Marcus asked him to meet by the mill.
The old mill crouched at the village's edge, its wheel broken and half-sunken into the stream. By day, it was a playground for children who dared climb its creaking beams. By night, it was a husk of shadows, the whisper of water the only sound.
Darrel arrived reluctantly, clutching his cloak tight against the chill. Marcus was already there, perched on a beam like a crow. His smile gleamed in the moonlight.
"You came," Marcus said softly.
"You asked me to," Darrel muttered.
"And you always do," Marcus replied, dropping lightly to the ground. "That's why you're different. You understand loyalty."
Darrel shifted uncomfortably. "What do you want, Marcus?"
"To show you something," Marcus said, his tone almost tender. He stepped closer, his eyes glinting. "Something important. But you mustn't flinch. Promise me that much."
Darrel's heart quickened. "What is it?"
"Look at me," Marcus whispered.
Darrel hesitated, but Marcus's voice had that familiar pull, smooth and insistent. His gaze lifted unwillingly to meet Marcus's eyes.
And then the world shifted.
The shadows of the mill seemed to fade, the night sounds dimmed, until only Marcus's face remained clear. His eyes were not merely blue now—they were endless, deep, swirling like pools of light and darkness together.
"Breathe," Marcus murmured.
Darrel's chest rose and fell, though he had not chosen to obey. His muscles slackened, his thoughts slowed, as though he had been wrapped in a heavy, warm cloak.
"That's it," Marcus whispered. "Easy. No need to fight."
Darrel tried to look away, but his gaze was trapped, held by something stronger than iron chains. A part of him screamed to resist, but the sound was faint, distant, muffled beneath Marcus's voice.
"You feel it, don't you?" Marcus said, his tone coaxing, almost affectionate. "The weight lifting. The burden gone. When you look into my eyes, nothing else matters. You don't need to think. You don't need to doubt. You only need to listen."
Darrel's lips moved sluggishly. "Listen…"
"Yes," Marcus breathed. "Only listen."
The world tilted. The mill, the stream, the night—all of it dissolved, leaving only Marcus's gaze. Darrel felt as though he were falling forward, deeper and deeper, into that swirling abyss of color and shadow.
"You are safe with me," Marcus said. "Safer than with your family, safer than with anyone. They laugh at you, mock you, dismiss you. But not me. I see your strength. I see who you truly are."
Darrel's heart thudded weakly. His thoughts flickered like dying embers. He wanted to protest, to remind Marcus that family was still family—but the words would not form.
"They don't deserve you," Marcus continued, his voice a steady current dragging Darrel further under. "But I do. We belong together, Darrel. You and I, brothers beyond blood. Do you believe that?"
Darrel's voice came faint, dreamlike. "Yes…"
Marcus's smile widened. "Good. Then you will do what I ask. Without question. Without hesitation. Because when I speak, it is not command—it is truth. My words are your truth."
Darrel swayed, nodding slowly. "Your… truth."
Marcus lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. The sound cracked through the haze.
"Lift your arm," he said softly.
Darrel's arm rose.
"Clench your fist."
His hand obeyed.
Marcus's grin sharpened. "Strike the beam behind you."
Darrel turned, his fist slamming against the rotten wood with a thud. Pain shot through his knuckles, but it barely registered. He blinked dazedly at the splintered mark he had left.
"You see?" Marcus whispered, stepping close. "Your body listens. Your will bends. And it feels right, doesn't it? To let go. To trust."
Darrel's lips moved sluggishly. "Feels… right."
Marcus's eyes blazed with triumph.
But somewhere deep, a flicker of Darrel's true self stirred. A spark of unease, small but persistent. His chest tightened, breath quickening. This isn't right. This isn't me.
Marcus leaned closer, his voice velvet and steel. "Look at me, Darrel. You will always listen. You will always obey. Say it."
The spark fought against the fog. Darrel's mouth opened, but hesitation quivered on his tongue.
"Say it," Marcus pressed, eyes glowing like twin torches.
Darrel's heart pounded. The fog pressed down, heavy and smothering, but the spark flared once more. His fists trembled. His voice cracked. "I… will listen."
Marcus's smile returned, satisfied. "That's enough for tonight."
He snapped his fingers again. The haze shattered like glass.
Darrel staggered, gasping as the world rushed back—the mill, the stream, the chill night air. His hand throbbed with pain. Sweat dampened his brow.
"What… what did you do to me?" he whispered, horrified.
"Nothing you didn't want," Marcus said smoothly, slipping back into his casual grin. "You trusted me. You let me in. That's all."
Darrel shook his head, trying to clear the fog still clinging to his mind. "I—I couldn't move. I couldn't think. You made me—"
"I showed you freedom," Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp now. "Freedom from doubt. From weakness. You think your family respects you? You think Marcus will ever see you as more than a fool? No, Darrel. But under my eyes, you will rise. You will become more than they could ever dream."
Darrel's breath shuddered. He wanted to run, to scream, to demand answers—but Marcus's gaze still held him in its gravity, even without the full force of hypnosis.
"You'll see," Marcus said softly, almost tender again. "One day, you'll thank me."
He turned, vanishing into the shadows of the path.
Darrel remained by the mill, trembling, his mind a storm. His hand still ached, splinters buried in his skin. He pressed it against his chest, as though trying to hold the pieces of himself together.
For the first time, he realized Marcus's games were no longer games.
They were chains. And he was already bound.