Kresor woke like an animal caught in a trap. His eyes flew open, sharp and wide, dragging the world into focus in a single violent snap. Light slammed into his vision. Sound rushed in a breath too late. His body, however, did not follow the command to move. It lay still, heavy and unresponsive, like it no longer belonged to him.
Air tore into his lungs in a harsh, broken gasp. It burned all the way down, scraping through his chest as if his ribs were lined with rusted blades. His throat seized, coughing the breath back out before pulling another in, faster, thinner, desperate.
His hands moved on instinct. They clawed at the sheets beneath him, fingers curling and digging as if into flesh or dirt, searching for something solid. A blade. A handle. A trigger. Anything familiar. Anything sharp enough to keep him alive.
There was nothing. The fabric twisted under his grip, bunching uselessly in his fists. Soft. Too soft. That realization sent a fresh jolt of panic through him. His eyes darted across the room, taking everything in at once, searching for threats that weren't there. The room was small.
Wooden walls closed around him, old and smooth, their grain worn flat by years of use. The wood was warm in color, like dried honey or old sunlight trapped beneath varnish. The ceiling sloped slightly, beams crossing overhead with quiet strength. Nothing here was polished. Nothing shone. Everything felt used, lived with, touched by hands that worked more than they fought.
A single window sat to his left. Sunlight poured through it in a clean, solid block, cutting across the floor and up the side of the bed. Dust drifted slowly in that light, tiny specks floating without direction, rising and falling as if the air itself was breathing.
The sight confused him. Sunlight was never this clean. The smell hit him next. It was wrong. No metal. No smoke. No blood. No oil, no heat, no sharp tang of ozone that clung to Ironvale like a second skin. The smell is wrong, he thought, his mind racing to catch up with his senses. No ozone. No burnt grease. It smells like… nothing.
His chest tightened. It smells like the end. Panic surged through him, fast and violent, flooding his veins. Kresor rolled off the bed. The movement tore pain through his body all at once, a brutal reminder of wounds he couldn't yet remember earning. His stitches pulled tight, dragging fire across his skin. A sharp, broken sound ripped from his throat as he hit the floor on his knees.
The impact rattled his bones. The world spun hard, tilting sideways. His vision darkened at the edges. He reached out blindly and caught the edge of a small wooden table, knocking it sideways with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the quiet room.
A ceramic pitcher slid from the table's edge. Time slowed. The pitcher tipped, rotated, falling mouth-first toward the floor. Kresor reacted without thought. His hand shot out and grabbed it mid-air. For a heartbeat, it was intact in his grip. Then he slammed it into the floor himself.
The ceramic shattered with a sharp crack that split the silence wide open. Shards skidded across the wooden planks. Water splashed outward, soaking into the gaps between the boards. Kresor snatched up a jagged piece of ceramic, gripping it like a dagger. The edge bit into his palm, slicing skin. Blood ran down between his fingers, warm and slick, dripping onto the floorboards below.
He barely felt it. His eyes were sharp now. Wild. Scanning every corner of the room, every shadow, every space where something could be hiding. "Show yourself," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "I know you're there."
The words echoed back to him, thin and empty. The door creaked. The sound was slow. Careful. The handle turned, and the door opened just enough to let light from the hallway spill into the room. A man stood in the doorway.
He was large, broad-shouldered, filling the frame without trying to. His arms were thick and corded, scarred like old tree roots that had split stone over time. His hands were rough, stained faintly with dirt and oil. His hair was dark, cut short without care, and his face was weathered but calm, lines carved deep by sun and wind rather than worry.
In one hand, he carried a wooden bucket filled with water. The surface trembled slightly from the movement, catching light in dull ripples.He stopped when he saw the shard. He didn't reach for anything. Didn't step back. Didn't drop the bucket. They stared at each other. Kresor's breath came fast and shallow. His chest burned. His arm trembled as he held the shard up, ready to strike.
"Who sent you?" he demanded. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw by panic and pain. "Kael? The Sentinels?" His grip tightened on the shard, blood running freely now.
"Tell me how many pieces of silver my head is worth today." The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question carefully. "Silver is heavy," he said at last. His voice was deep and steady, unhurried. "It doesn't grow in my fields. And I can't eat it when winter comes." The words didn't land.
They didn't make sense. Kresor's fear twisted, turning sharp and angry. "Don't lie to me!" he snapped. "Everyone wants something. The Light feeds on the Dark. That is the only law." The man stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with his foot. "That is a law for men who live in cages," he replied evenly. "Out here, the wind doesn't ask your name before it cools you. The wheat doesn't care if you're a saint or a murderer before it fills your belly."
He took a step closer. The bucket swayed gently in his grip. Kresor lunged. His movement was sudden, desperate, driven by instinct more than strength. The shard slashed forward, cutting across the man's rough linen shirt. Fabric tore with a soft rip.
But not skin. The man didn't flinch. Didn't raise his voice. Didn't strike back. He just looked down at Kresor's shaking hand. "You're shaking," the man said. "Not from fear. From weight." The words hit harder than the failed strike. Kresor's arm burned. His strength vanished almost instantly, draining out of him like water from a cracked cup. The shard wavered, then dropped slightly. "Tell me, boy," the man continued, "who are you when you aren't a weapon?"
Kresor swallowed. His throat hurt. His mouth was dry. His thoughts felt tangled, pulled tight by pain and exhaustion. "I am a Vessel," he said. His voice cracked despite himself. "I am the heir to the Dark." The man studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded once. "You're a guest in my house," he said. "And right now, you're a guest who's bleeding on my floor." Footsteps sounded behind him. Soft. Light.
A woman walked past the man and into the room. She was smaller than him, her movements quiet and sure. Her hair was tied back, strands slipping loose around her face. Her hands were steady as she carried a wooden tray. On it sat a bowl of soup, steam rising gently into the air, curling and fading.
The smell reached Kresor before she spoke. Warm. Simple. Vegetables, herbs, something filling. She didn't look at the shard. Didn't look at the blood. Didn't look at Kresor's eyes, which still flickered with broken light.
She set the tray down on the table with care. "The wind is turning," she said calmly. "It'll be a cold night." She glanced at the man. "Arthur, make sure the draft under the door is blocked." Kresor stared. He was a God's heir. A walking disaster. The grass had died under his touch. And she was talking about a draft. "I could kill you both," Kresor said quietly. "Before you finish your next breath."
The woman met his eyes for the first time. Her gaze was steady. Not brave. Not foolish. Just present. "Then you'd be a very hungry murderer," she said. Her voice was simple. Direct. "Eat. You can kill us tomorrow when you have the strength to hold that shard properly. Today, you're just a boy who needs his mother."
Something broke. The shard slipped from Kresor's fingers and struck the floor with a dull clatter. The tension inside his head—the constant buzzing, the pull of power, the sharp edge that never dulled—snapped.
Not exploded. Snapped. Kresor swayed, his vision blurring, then collapsed back onto the bed. The mattress creaked softly under his weight. His body felt hollow, like someone had scooped the inside of him out and left only skin and bone behind. "Why?" he whispered. "I am the Dark. You saw what I did to the grass in the ditch. I killed it just by touching it."
Arthur leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "I've seen fire burn a forest to ash," he said. "A year later, the soil is richer because of it. Everything has a place. Even the things that destroy." "I don't have a place," Kresor said. Arthur nodded slowly. "Then you'll build one," he said. "Starting with that bowl of soup." He turned to leave, then paused.
"My daughter found you," he added. "She thinks the world is a place where things can be fixed. Don't prove her wrong today. It would be a waste of a good sunset." The door closed with a soft click. Silence returned. Kresor lay still, staring at the bowl. Steam continued to rise from it, steady and patient. The spoon rested beside it, metal worn smooth by years of use.
He reached for it. The spoon was heavier than he expected. Solid. Real. For the first time, he thought, the God inside me is quiet. Not defeated. Just silent. Not because he has lost… but because he has nothing to say to a man who has no enemies. Kresor lifted the spoon.
And ate.