The shallow cave behind the mossy waterfall became Kaelen's world. The constant, low roar of water was a blanket of sound, muffling the unsettling noises of the Gloomweald and providing a fragile sense of security. For two days, he did little more than sleep, eat sparingly from Elara's travel-bread, and drink from the cold, clear stream. The physical exhaustion of his ordeal in Duskhaven was deep, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil within.
The Vokai's essence was no longer just a cold pool in his gut; it was a seepage, leaking into the cracks of his mind.
At first, it was subtle. A fleeting image of a battlefield he'd never seen, the taste of copper and ash on his tongue when he ate. Then, the emotions came. They would rise unbidden, sharp and alien. A wave of bitter resentment towards the sun—a thing he could barely remember—for daring to exist above the canopy. A sudden, irrational fury at the steady drip of water, a fury so intense his knuckles would turn white around his knife until the feeling passed as quickly as it came.
*This isn't me,* he would think, gripping his head as a headache pulsed behind his eyes. *These aren't my memories. This isn't my anger.*
But the line was blurring. His own justified bitterness over his treatment in Duskhaven began to feel amplified, twisted into a more general, misanthropic hatred. When he thought of Roric's sneering face, the cold energy within him surged, and he didn't just remember the humiliation; he fantasized about the sound of Roric's bones breaking, the look of terror in his eyes. The fantasy was vivid, satisfying, and it horrified him.
He was trying to think, to plan, but his thoughts were like fish in a muddy pond—hard to grasp and quick to slip away. He knew he needed to understand his power. It was the only tool he had.
"Okay," he whispered to himself, the sound swallowed by the waterfall. "You absorbed it. It's inside you. How do you use it?"
He remembered the pulse he'd sent out, the way it had felt the forest and the creature nearby. That had been a reaction, an instinct. How did he do it on purpose?
He sat cross-legged on the cave floor, closing his eyes. He focused inward, seeking the cold, swirling energy. It was easy to find now; it was always there, a second heartbeat. He tried to push it, to will it to extend beyond his body as he had before.
Nothing.
He strained, gritting his teeth. He imagined a wave of force, a shield, a weapon. The energy remained stubbornly inert, a cold stone in his soul. Frustration boiled up, hot and sharp. *Why won't you work?* The thought was a snarl. The Vokai essence seemed to feed on the frustration, making it burn brighter. He slammed his fist against the cave wall, the pain a brief, clean sensation that cut through the mental static.
*I'm doing it wrong,* he realized, panting. *I'm trying to command it like a tool. But it's not a tool. It's a part of me now. A part I don't understand.*
He thought back to the moment of absorption. It hadn't been about force or will. It had been about… acceptance. A desperate, terrified opening. He had been a hollow vessel, and the power had rushed in.
Perhaps he couldn't *push* it. Perhaps he had to *allow* it.
Taking a shaky breath, he changed his approach. Instead of trying to command the energy, he simply observed it. He let the coldness flow through him without resistance. He stopped fighting the alien emotions and instead acknowledged them. *This is the Vokai's rage. This is its despair. It is here, but it is not me.*
As he relaxed his mental grip, something shifted. The cold energy began to move more freely, not as a directed force, but as a natural current. He felt it seep into his muscles, into his senses. He didn't push it outward; he simply let it enhance what was already there.
He opened his eyes.
The world was different. The gloom of the cave was no longer oppressive but clear and detailed. He could see the subtle variations in the stone, the individual threads of moss hanging like emerald curtains. His hearing sharpened; he could distinguish the individual droplets of water in the cascade outside. The scent of damp earth and rot was overwhelming, but he could now pick out the faint, musky trail of a small animal that had passed by the cave entrance hours ago.
It was a predatory awareness. It felt… right. Natural. And that feeling was the most dangerous thing of all.
This was the power's effect on his mind. It wasn't just showing him memories; it was reshaping his perception, making him more comfortable in the darkness, more attuned to the savage rhythms of the forest. It was making him less human.
He needed to move. The travel-bread was almost gone. He couldn't stay here, slowly losing himself to this spectral parasite. He had to find food, a more permanent shelter, or some sign of civilization that wasn't intent on killing him on sight.
Using his enhanced senses, he ventured out from the cave, moving with a new, instinctual caution. He was hyper-aware of every shift in the wind, every snapped twig. He found a patch of edible, if bitter, roots he recognized from stories, and his stomach clenched with a hunger that was no longer entirely his own. As he dug them up with his knife, a sudden, sharp memory flashed behind his eyes—not his, but the Vokai's: a field of grain under a burning sun, a scythe in his hand, the feeling of brutal, satisfying labor.
He shook his head, dispelling the ghost of a life that wasn't his. The roots were food. They were survival.
As dusk began to deepen into the true, absolute night of the Gloomweald, Kaelen found a sturdy, hollowed-out log to use as a temporary den. He curled inside, the Vokai's essence a cold comfort against the forest's chill. The plan, such as it was, had crystallized into a simple, grim directive: head south, skirting the deepest parts of the forest, hoping to find a trade road or a fringe settlement that might tolerate a stranger. He would use this cursed power to stay alive, to sense danger, to hunt. He would feed the monster inside him just enough to keep it from consuming him entirely.
It was a fragile, desperate balance. And as he drifted into a fitful sleep, the whispers of the Vokai's past lives mingled with his own dreams, weaving a tapestry of fear and fury that felt more like home with every passing hour. The boy from Duskhaven was fading, and what was emerging in the twilight was something else entirely—a creature of instinct and shadow, clinging to the ghost of a purpose.