Breath: Ragged
Fire: Crackling
Shadow: Lingering
Asterion dropped to his knees.
The stone was slick beneath him—blood, ichor, and melting frost mixing into a treacherous film. His lungs burned as he dragged in air, each breath sharp with cold and pain. His body screamed from exertion, from wounds half-ignored, from the hollow ache left behind by the shadows he had fed.
Warmth clung to him still.
Blood—his and others'—coated his skin in a sticky sheen, already cooling in the biting wind.
Nearby, the corpse of the Spire Tyrant lay crumpled like a fallen tower.
Its massive limbs twitched faintly as black tendrils finished their work, crushing and unraveling what little resistance remained. Then, one by one, the shadows loosened their grip and dissolved into harmless wisps.
Ffffft.
Gone.
Asterion lowered his head.
A weak, breathless laugh escaped him.
"…I'm alive."
More than that.
He had commanded the darkness.
Turned its hunger outward.
Blue light shimmered into existence before his eyes.
[Eclipsed Tyrant Slain: Spire Tyrant.]
[Soul Fragment Absorbed. Soul Core Strengthened.]
[Flawed Divine Aspect Resonates.]
[New Ability Unlocked: Shadow Step (Level 1).]
[Echo Acquired: Tyrant's Resilience.]
[First Nightfall Progress: Critical Achievement.]
The runes hovered in the cold air, casting pale reflections across bloodied stone and shattered chains.
Asterion dismissed them with a thought.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
Shadow Step… an Echo…
So the Curse does know how to reward initiative.
The bonfire crackled nearby, flames snapping angrily as wind curled around the shelf. Its warmth felt fragile—temporary. Like everything else here.
He looked up.
The wiry slave and the scholar stood several paces away, still tangled in the snapped chain they'd used to bind the Tyrant. Both stared at him as if he might dissolve into shadow at any moment.
Fear.
Respect.
Something darker.
From the far side of the platform, the young guard limped back into view. His spear scraped along the stone as he walked, armor dented, blood seeping from beneath cracked leather. His face was pale—but his eyes were sharp.
Wary.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Only the fire dared to make noise.
Finally, the scholar cleared his throat.
"We… cannot flee," he said softly, gesturing toward the fire. "Not yet. Without that blaze, the cold will take us before dawn. Running now is death."
Asterion didn't answer.
He already knew.
He had seen this place buried beneath snow. Bones stacked where they now stood. The Tyrant had been the executioner in that vision—and now it lay dead.
But the mountain hadn't grown kinder.
The cold was still merciless.
Still hungry.
Still patient.
Asterion's gaze drifted to the chain.
During the chaos—when the Tyrant rampaged and slaves scattered—the line had snapped. A jagged break marked where their segment had been torn free from the main length anchored to the supply wagon.
They were no longer bound to the caravan.
But—
The shackles remained.
Sophisticated locks, etched with faint sigils. Made to endure thrashing monsters and desperate men alike.
The wiry slave tugged at his manacles, swearing under his breath.
"Still chained," he muttered. "Even if it's dead…"
The scholar sighed.
"The beast may have been the threat. Or merely one of many. The guards—what remains of them—may yet regroup. Staying offers a slim chance."
He looked at Asterion.
"Fleeing offers none."
Asterion huffed quietly.
Slim chance?
After what I just did?
He glanced at the Tyrant's corpse again.
It wasn't rising.
Its essence had already sunk into his Soul Core, a warm, steady thrum in his chest. The hunger of his shadows had dulled—for now.
The young guard stepped closer, eyes flicking between the carcass and Asterion.
"You…" he said slowly. "You commanded the darkness."
It wasn't an accusation.
Not quite.
More like awe—tainted by fear.
Asterion met his gaze.
Said nothing.
Let the silence speak.
The wiry slave finally managed to sit, staring at the Tyrant with hollow eyes.
"We're alive," he whispered. "But still not free."
Asterion tested his own shackles again.
Limited.
But looser.
Enough.
He pushed himself to his feet.
Shadows stirred subtly at his heels, responding to his movement like attentive hounds—present, but no longer draining him.
The fire flared as the wind shifted, sending long, twisted silhouettes dancing across the stone. For a moment, Asterion's shadow looked… wrong. Taller. Broader. Almost regal.
Somewhere far above—
Grrrrmmmm.
A distant rumble echoed through the spire.
Not thunder.
Not stone.
Something old.
Something aware.
The Nightmare wasn't finished.
But for the first time since he'd opened his eyes in chains—
Asterion felt the threads of fate bend.
Just slightly.
In his favor.
Fire: Holding
Chains: Fractured
Night: Watching