Chapter 24 – Secrets in Shadow
By night, the world belonged to fire and stone.
The forge burned deep into the hours, its light painting the Flintclaw Tribe in gold and blood.
Each evening, Zac stood among the refiners, breathing in the heat and absorbing the invisible tide of essence that drifted from the Desolate Core.
The Yellow Amethyst pulsed within his chest, drinking in both the pure violet energy and the faint, deadly blue threads that curled through the smoke.
He never pushed too far now. After learning his limits, Zac let his veins fill until that pleasant "full" sensation bloomed in his chest, then stopped.
Patience was cultivation too.
When dawn came, he wiped the soot from his face and slipped away into the forest.
By day, Zac became a shadow among the living.
He'd learned the routines of the warrior preparation camp — when they trained, when they rested, when they boasted around their fire pits.
The camp wasn't forbidden. Merchants and children often passed nearby, carrying tools or fetching water. As long as Zac moved naturally and stayed silent, no one questioned him.
He blended in like dust.
That was how he came to watch Varrin Kael, the Dominion warrior who had taken over the camp's instruction.
Varrin was tall and broad, his presence commanding without effort. When he demonstrated the Stone Serpent Flow, even the air seemed to coil around him.
The ground cracked under each strike, his motions fluid yet terrifyingly sharp — like a living beast dancing through stone.
Zac watched every movement, every correction Varrin barked at his students.
"Not force, flow!" Varrin's voice thundered across the yard. "A serpent does not strike in anger—it strikes in rhythm!"
Those words branded themselves in Zac's mind.
At night, he would whisper them to himself as he moved through the forms alone, carving them into muscle memory until his body understood.
This double life became his rhythm.
Night — absorb essence, quietly strengthen his veins.
Day — watch, listen, learn the arts of warriors far above his rank.
Dusk — retreat to the back mountains, cultivate in solitude.
The cycle was brutal, yet perfect.
Within days, Zac's mastery of the Third Vein of Resonance deepened. His essence moved through his body as easily as blood.
His stamina grew monstrous.
He could hold his breath underwater for twenty-five minutes, his heart slowing to match the rhythm of still water, his veins glowing faint gold beneath his skin.
Sometimes, as he meditated by the river, fish drifted near him, sensing the calm energy pulsing from his body.
He felt untouchable — like he was slowly outgrowing the tribe that had once buried him.
But the forge did not rest.
Each day, the Desolate Core burned lower in the cauldron. The heat grew stranger, colder even as the flames blazed brighter.
And one by one, the refiners began to fall.
It started subtly—a cough here, a dizzy spell there. Then came the fever, the pale skin, the rashes.
Another outbreak of "typhoid," the elders whispered.
Zac's stomach sank. He knew the truth.
No matter how much of the toxic essence he absorbed, some always escaped him—those faint blue motes that drifted into the others' lungs, their veins, their hearts.
The sickness was not random; it was radiation in flesh.
He clenched his fists in guilt. "It's my fault… I should have absorbed more."
But the Yellow Amethyst had its limits. His veins were already near bursting every night. To take more would be suicide.
The Patriarch, pretending calm, handed out more of those "miracle pills."
They worked — for a while. The sick stopped coughing. Then a few days later, more collapsed.
The tribe whispered, hope fading like smoke.
Zac knew he couldn't stay in the forge much longer. His strength was too steady, his skin too healthy.
If he remained untouched while others wasted away, suspicion would come.
So he made a choice.
On the next rotation, when Garrin barked for the night refiners, Zac staggered forward with a pale face, coughing weakly.
He soaked his skin in cold river water, smeared a little ash around his eyes, and forced himself to tremble.
When Garrin looked his way, he grunted. "Heh. Looks like the brat's finally catching it. Guess even rats can't dodge the plague forever."
Zac didn't answer, only gave a faint, convincing wheeze.
Inside, his veins pulsed quietly with golden light. The Yellow Amethyst's cool energy kept him steady even as he faked the shivers of sickness.
"Good," Garrin muttered, walking away. "One less mouth for meat."
Zac straightened slowly, wiping the false sweat from his brow.
He couldn't risk returning to the cauldron for a while.
But that was fine.
His reserves were full, and his third vein still sang with power.
It was time to refine that strength in solitude — away from eyes that saw only weakness.
He turned toward the mountains once more, whispering under his breath:
"Let them think I'm dying. The dead are invisible."
And under the moon's cold light, Zac vanished into the forest, his faint golden veins glowing beneath the dirt and ash.