Will Incarnate

The streets of the small city were a labyrinth of shadows, and the raven-haired boy movedthrough them as if they belonged to him. He clutched a bundle to his chest, slipping betweenthe night stalls and ramming into anyone who made the mistake of crossing his path.

"Damn brat!" a merchant yelled after taking a shove.

The fugitive ignored the insults. Behind him, a swarm of black robes was hot on his heels. Known in those alleys, more than one passerby tried to trip him to halt his escape, but his reflexes were forged by habit; he leaped and dodged with the agility of a wild animal. Upon clearing the market area, he veered into a narrow alley and threw himself to the ground, hiding behind a dumpster.

Breathing raggedly, he brushed aside a sweat-dampened lock of hair that blinded his vision.

"I lost sight of him!" a hoarse voice echoed very close to the alley's entrance. "Damn it, split up! Search for him!"

The footsteps began to disperse, but the boy's instinct warned him that the threat had not vanished. He had to be sure. He peeked out for an instant, barely a second, and it was enough.

A heavy boot slammed directly into his face.

"So here you are, brat!"

The blow sent him flying backward. The bundle escaped his grasp, spilling a cascade of silver and gold jewels onto the dirt. Before his lungs could draw breath, the hooded man delivered a brutal kick to his stomach. The boy curled up, spitting blood, while the man slowly crouched down to retrieve the stolen loot.

Bruised and cornered, the boy interlaced his bloody fingers. A guttural growl, born of the purest rage, escaped his throat. The hooded man turned, surprised, only to be met with a sinister gleam in the young man's eyes.

Then, the alley awoke. The darkness itself began to swirl around the assailant, swallowing the light. A suffocating gravitational pressure crushed the man's body; his limbs disappeared into an abyss of pitch until only his wide, terrified eyes remained visible.

"You are…" the man babbled, terror strangling his vocal cords. "Soren… the cursed child…"

The shadows closed in completely, silencing his final words. Seconds later, the blackness dissipated, dropping an inert body. Soren, dizzy and exhausted, struggled to his feet. Under the faint, solitary moonlight, he gathered the jewels, while the silhouette of his own faceremained framed in absolute darkness before the half-open, empty eyes of his victim.

Soren fixed his gaze on the lifeless man, searching for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Upon confirming he was still breathing, he let out a held breath. He peeked around the edge of the alley; the street was deserted. With the back of the sleeve of his threadbare coat, he wiped the dried blood from his face and set off.

He wanted to run, but the lash of pain in his stomach forced him to hunch over. Every step was sheer agony. He dragged himself through a maze of narrow alleys until he reached the limits of an old sector fenced in by rotting wooden planks. He pushed one of the loose panels and slipped through the gap, completely ignoring the dense stillness that permeated the place.

He stumbled forward toward the skeleton of a ruined hovel. Weeds and gnarled roots had devoured the facade, turning it into a nest of shadows. Just as he extended a trembling hand toward the doorknob of the splintered door, Soren froze. A shiver ran down his spine. He let out a sigh heavy with weariness and, slowly, turned on his heels.

Leaning against the trunk of a withered tree, just a few meters away, waited another of the hooded men.

"Oh, so you sensed me. Worthy of your reputation, Soren," the man purred in a raspy voice, akin to the grinding of two stones. Slowly, he unfastened the heavy black robe, letting it fall to the mud to reveal arms as thick as tree trunks, crisscrossed with pale scars.

The leaden exhaustion threatened to buckle his knees, but Soren looked up at the starry sky. His ribs throbbed with every breath, giving him the answer immediately: a frontal assault, in his current state, was tantamount to suicide. Even healthy, that colossus would tear him apart barehanded.

"You're not going to leave me alone, are you?" the boy muttered.

The colossus planted his feet in the dirt, adopting a brutal, heavy combat stance.

"What do you think?" the man spat, baring his teeth in a cruel smile.

Soren did not raise his fists. His posture was strange, almost relaxed, as if waiting for something. High above, a thick storm cloud began to slide across the nocturnal luminary. The silvery light began to wane. A line of darkness descended from the rooftops, sweeping across the courtyard floor at high speed, devouring the distance between them.

The giant did not wait. He propelled himself forward like a battering ram, his fist cocked.

"Die!" he roared.

Just as the fist was about to shatter the boy's skull, the cloud completely eclipsed the moon. The courtyard was plunged into absolute gloom. A deafening crash shook the night; the wood of the hovel exploded into a thousand pieces under the impact of the giant's blow.

The muffled clinking of jewels echoed somewhere in the distance, followed by the creaking of collapsing foundations. When the wind pushed the cloud away and the pale light returned, the man had his arm buried up to the elbow in the shattered wall of the cabin.

Of Soren, nothing remained but the trail of his escape.

"You've got to be kidding me!" the colossus howled, tearing his arm from the rubble and kicking the remains of the wall with blind fury, making the earth tremble beneath his feet.

"You damn coward!"

Several streets away, shielded by the corners the moonlight could not touch, Soren continued his frantic sprint. His chest burned as if he had swallowed embers, and a thick taste of iron pooled in his throat. Only when the oppressive architecture of the city gave way to the thickets and loose dirt of the outer limits did he allow himself to stop.

He collapsed behind the ruins of a crumbling wall, gasping desperately for air. The cold night breeze caressed his sweaty face.

I can't stay here anymore, he thought bitterly.

He looked down at the bundle he pressed against his chest. With a knot of frustration and relief in his stomach, he weighed the clinking of the jewels.

"At least it was worth it," he muttered through gritted teeth.

With slow movements, he tied the pouch firmly to his leather belt. Then, he straightened his aching back and fixed his gaze on the horizon. Before him lay a winding path of dust and gloom that snaked across the wasteland; his only escape route to the next city. Without looking back, he took the first step.

After hours of a relentless exodus across the wasteland, Soren reached his destination:

Gaharra, the sinkhole of the exiled. A city perpetually choked by the smoke of its chimneys and vice, where the night was not a time of day, but a state of siege. He delved into the belly of the city, a labyrinth of alleyways where the faint light of oil lamps could barely pierce the blackness. The air reeked of rancid spices, rusted iron, and despair.

Courtesans with painted faces and famished smiles whispered hollow promises from the thresholds, while drunkards with murky eyes whistled at him from the shadows.

"Too young to wander the slaughterhouse on your own, kid," a toothless old man spat as he passed by.

Soren ignored them. He was used to being an anomaly, even among the scum. Clutching the bundle of jewels against his chest, he finally stopped in front of a shop with yellowish, opaque glass, protected by wrought-iron bars.

He was about to push the door open when a sound froze him. It came from the blind alley adjacent to the shop. They were raspy whispers, accompanied by the clinking of heavy links. The most unsettling part was not the noise, but the air. A gust of unnatural heat caressed his face, causing the natural shadows at his feet to instinctively recoil, as if they feared whatever awaited in that darkness. His survival instinct screamed at him to flee, but he gritted his teeth. He was in no condition to play the savior.

He pushed open the shop's door. A rusted bell announced his arrival. The interior was stifling. Unlike the cold street, the shop was an oven; the air vibrated with a dryness that parched the throat. Behind the counter, an old man with an impeccable white beard looked up. A jeweler's monocle magnified his left eye.

"Ah, Soren. You're still breathing, what a surprise," the old man purred, rubbing his hands together. "I suppose you bring dead weight to dispose of."

The boy walked in silence, loosened the knot of his bundle, and spilled the cascade of gold and silver onto the worn wood. The old man leaned in. At first, his eyes gleamed with greed, but upon detailing the circular engravings on the jewels—unmistakable symbols of a rising sun—his complexion paled. He swallowed hard and, almost reverently, brushed one of the golden chalices before hiding his trembling hand beneath the table. The heat in the room seemed to intensify.

"Old man, give me what's fair. I have no patience today," Soren warned, noticing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

"I'll give you seventy-five silver coins. Not one more," the old man dictated, avoiding eye contact.

"What?" Soren growled, clenching his fists. "The melted metal of this trash is worth triple that."

"Then melt it yourself, foolish boy!" the old man hissed, leaning over the counter, sweating profusely. "We both know where you get your merchandise. But stealing from the Fanatics of the Zenith is digging your own grave. And mine, if they find out I have this. Take them or get out."A grunt of frustration escaped the boy's throat. He knew the old man was right; carrying that heraldic burden was a death sentence.

"Give them to me. Before I regret it."

The jeweler sighed, relieved. He pulled a leather pouch from under the counter, tied with a surprisingly reddish cord, and tossed it to him.

"A pleasure doing business, Soren," the old man said, recovering his haughty tone, though a drop of sweat slid down his forehead. "Take care, kid."

Soren turned on his heels and stepped out into the frigid night air, the pouch of silver on his belt. But the old man's final words echoed in his mind just as the door closed behind him.

He had barely taken three steps outside the shop when Soren stopped dead in his tracks.

The shadows cast by the streetlamps did not obey the light. They twisted at his feet, stretching toward the entrance of a wide, adjacent alley, vibrating with a mixture of terror and fascination. A deep, unnatural magnetic pulse tugged at the dark core in Soren's chest. His every instinct screamed at him to run the other way, but his own body betrayed him; something very strong was calling him, making him venture into the blackness of the passage.

He walked with feline caution, melting into the wall, until he reached a wrought-iron gate that blocked the way into a clandestine inner courtyard.

Soren peeked through the rusted lattice and held his breath.

In the center of the courtyard, half a dozen men wrapped in black robes and others in crimson and gold—the Fanatics of the Zenith—surrounded a young man tied to a heavy steel chair.

The prisoner had messy brown hair and kept his head bowed, but what froze Soren's blood was the air around him: it curved and distorted like a mirage in the middle of the desert.

"Hold the chains! His lethargy is increasing!" yelled one of the cultists, whose skin was flushed and drenched in sweat despite the nocturnal cold.

Soren narrowed his eyes. The iron links binding the young man's wrists were not just hot; they were beginning to glow with an orange radiance. The metal was giving way, red-hot, melting against the prisoner's skin without causing him the slightest burn.

The bound young man raised his face. His eyes were not human; they were two amber eclipses overflowing with a volcanic pressure.

I have to leave, Soren thought, taking a step back.

It was too late.

A muffled roar escaped the captive boy's throat. The atmospheric pressure in the courtyard collapsed. The steel chains liquefied as if they were wax, and an expansive shockwave, composed of sheer blistering heat, erupted from his body.

The thermal impact incinerated the two closest cultists and struck the iron gate with the force of a battering ram. The hinges burst. The door was blasted into the alley, throwing Soren violently against the brick walls in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.

Coughing, dazed, and with his clothes smoking, Soren looked up. Through the burning smoke and the groans of the surviving fanatics, the amber eyes of the freed prisoner locked directly onto him.

The dense, scorching smoke blinded the alley. Through the curtain of ash, the prisoner's silhouette stumbled forward, it took one step, then another, his gaze empty and his chest rising and falling with inhuman violence. When he was less than a meter from Soren, his knees finally buckled. He collapsed forward, half-conscious, letting out a final feverish breath.

In the shattered courtyard, the groans turned into wrathful orders.

"Don't let them take him!" howled one of the fanatics, struggling to his feet and drawing a curved blade. "Catch him!"

I'm screwed, Soren thought.

Instinct took the reins. Soren extended his free hand toward the rusted dumpster lying in the street. His core resonated. A torrent of shadows as thick as pitch erupted from his fingers, enveloping the metal and debris of the alley. With a savage gravitational pull, he dragged the steel behemoth and smashed it against the frame of the blown-out door, sealing the exit and buying a few vital seconds.

"Get up, idiot!" he yelled at the barely conscious boy, pulling him up by the collar of his shirt. The boy barely grunted, disoriented. Soren, out of options, slung the stranger's arm over his own shoulders and hoisted him by the waist. The physical impact almost tore a scream from Soren. The skin radiated an infernal heat, boiling through the raven-haired boy's thick tactical jacket. Carrying him was like embracing a lit forge.

"Walk. If you stop, they kill us both," Soren hissed through his teeth, enduring the burn.

Leaning on each other, they began their escape.

They passed the yellowish glass of the pawnshop. Inside, the old jeweler watched them. Behind the lens of his monocle, his eye was wide with panic. His hands, resting on the wood of the counter, contracted into twisted claws, torn between loyalty to the doctrine he revered and the purest instinct for self-preservation. The tremors won out. The old man swallowed hard, took a step back, and let the two anomalies vanish into the fog of Gaharra. Seconds later, the fanatics tore down the barricade of garbage. Two of them burst into the jeweler's shop, coughing up ash.

"Where did they go, old man?" the leader demanded, grabbing the elder by the collar of histunic. "You saw the boy!"

"I-I... I haven't seen anything," the jeweler stammered, raising his trembling hands. "I was in the back room! I swear by the light of the Zenith!"

The leader released him with a shove full of disgust and walked out into the empty alley.

Hours later, long before the sun broke over the toxic horizon of the city, the belly of Gaharra lit up with a different glow. The pawnshop was now a roaring pyre. The flames devoured the rotting wood and shatteredthe yellowish glass, sending sparks into the night sky like dying fireflies.

Facing the inferno, at a safe distance from the scorching heat, a group of figures cloaked in crimson robes watched the destruction in sepulchral silence.

"The prisoner escaped..." murmured one of them, his face illuminated by the fire. "Andwhat's worse... he wasn't alone. He had an accomplice. Someone capable of manipulating shadows..."

The leader of the fanatics, half of his face covered in blisters from the bound boy's thermal explosion, clenched his fists.

"Find the ones at the port. Send ravens to the neighboring cities. They couldn't have gone too far. Find them!"