Arlan ran until his lungs burned.
The fortress walls behind him faded into the fog of dawn, and the cobbled streets swallowed his footsteps. Each breath came with the taste of iron. He had escaped death — yet the weight inside him felt heavier than before.
The mark on his palm glowed faintly beneath the grime. Every few seconds it pulsed, like a living heartbeat. He kept his hand hidden under his cloak, afraid someone might see it.
He stopped in a narrow alley behind the old bell tower, where the noise of the city could barely reach. Water dripped from the roofs, collecting in shallow puddles. Arlan leaned against the wall and tried to steady his breathing.
"What have you done to me?" he muttered.
The world fell silent for a moment. Then a deep, smooth voice answered from nowhere.
"You accepted my power, mortal. You carry my mark now."
Arlan straightened instantly, eyes scanning the alley. "Show yourself."
The shadows near the wall shifted. They didn't move like normal darkness — they flowed. A human shape began to form, tall and thin, its edges constantly shifting, like smoke given shape. Two faint lights glimmered where its eyes should have been.
"Do not fear," the voice said, echoing from the figure. "I am the one who saved you from their blade."
Arlan clenched his fists. "Saved me? You burned my body alive."
"Pain is the price of rebirth. You asked for vengeance. I gave you the means."
He remembered the dungeon — the agony that tore through his veins, the feeling of something ancient crawling into his soul. He took a careful step back.
"What do you want from me?"
"A host. A vessel through which my will may act. In return, you shall wield my power."
Arlan's jaw tightened. "You're a god, aren't you? The one from the old scriptures — the forbidden one."
The shadow figure tilted its head slightly. "They called me many names. Demon, curse, shadow god. It no longer matters. What matters is the contract."
A faint circle appeared under Arlan's feet, etched in light. The same mark burned on his palm.
"With my essence, you will rise beyond mortality. But your will must remain strong, or you will be consumed."
Arlan looked at his reflection in a puddle. His eyes still carried that faint crimson glow. He remembered Kael's expression when he condemned him, Liora's screams as soldiers dragged her away. His hands trembled, but not from fear.
"What if I refuse?" he asked.
"Then the power will devour you from within. You will die again — this time without return."
The voice wasn't threatening. It was stating a fact. Arlan understood; the mark was already bound to his soul. Refusing now meant death.
He exhaled slowly. "Fine. Tell me what I have to do."
The shadow leaned closer, its form flickering. "Survive. Grow stronger. Hunt those who wronged you. Feed the mark with their blood, and it will evolve."
Arlan frowned. "Feed it?"
"Each life you take will strengthen our bond. The Empire built its throne on the corpses of the innocent. Take what is owed."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The storm clouds drifted away, and a pale sunrise painted the alley in muted gold. Arlan lowered his head, the decision already made.
"I'll play your game," he said quietly. "But my revenge will be mine alone."
The figure's light-eyes flickered with amusement. "So be it. You shall be my Shadow Reborn."
The air pulsed once, and the figure dissolved, leaving only the faint echo of its presence. Arlan stood there, breathing hard. His body felt heavier, but sharper — as if every sense had sharpened beyond human limits.
He could hear distant voices, footsteps from streets away, even the heartbeat of a rat hiding under a barrel. The world had changed around him.
He flexed his hand again. The mark on his palm seemed to hum in response.
He made his way toward the outskirts of the city. The alleys grew narrower, filled with the smell of smoke and rotting wood. He knew where he needed to go — the Black Market District, where criminals and deserters hid from the Empire's reach.
If he wanted to survive, he needed information, a weapon, and a plan.
The market was alive despite the early hour. Merchants shouted prices, guards turned a blind eye, and thieves brushed past travelers like shadows. Arlan pulled his cloak lower over his face and walked among them.
He stopped at a small stall stacked with blades. The shopkeeper — a bald man with a scar across his eye — looked up.
"Looking for something sharp, traveler?"
Arlan picked up a short dagger. It felt light, balanced. "Something silent."
The man grinned. "We don't ask questions here. Three silver."
Arlan reached into his torn coat and found the coins he had hidden days before the arrest. He placed them on the counter. The man counted them and handed over the dagger without a word.
When Arlan turned to leave, the man added quietly, "You should leave the city. The Empire's hunting for a fugitive — name's Arlan Voss. Execution failed last night."
Arlan paused for a heartbeat, then smiled faintly under his hood. "I'll keep that in mind."
He found shelter in an abandoned stable at the edge of the market. As he sat, sharpening the dagger's edge with a piece of stone, the voice returned — quieter now, almost like a thought inside his head.
"You will need to test the mark."
Arlan frowned. "Test it how?"
"Find a sinner. One whose death carries weight. The mark feeds on corruption."
He thought of the soldiers, of Kael's men. "The Empire has plenty of those."
"Then start there."
The voice faded, leaving him in silence again. He stared at the blade's reflection, seeing the faint crimson light flickering in his pupils.
By nightfall, he was ready. The city patrols were light near the slums — too dangerous even for the guards. Arlan moved through the shadows with quiet steps, his senses guiding him like instinct.
He heard a woman cry out in the distance — a drunken shout, followed by a struggle. Two guards dragged her into a corner, laughing. Their insignia bore the mark of Kael's regiment.
Arlan's pulse quickened. The mark burned faintly.
He stepped forward.
The first guard turned, barely catching the movement before the dagger slid across his throat. The second drew his sword, shouting, but Arlan moved faster — a blur in the half-light. The dagger struck again, deep in the man's chest.
Blood soaked the dirt. Arlan stood over the bodies, breathing heavily. The mark pulsed once, bright and red. He felt something rush through him — not warmth, not satisfaction, but raw strength.
He fell to one knee, clutching his hand. Energy coursed through his veins, wild and consuming. For a brief moment, he saw flashes — memories that weren't his. Battlefields. Screams. The laughter of something ancient.
Then it stopped. The light faded, leaving him trembling.
"Good," the voice murmured inside his mind. "The pact is sealed."
Arlan looked down at the corpses. The woman he'd saved ran into the darkness without looking back. He didn't blame her.
He wiped the blade clean, his expression calm. "If this is what it takes," he said quietly, "then so be it."
Far across the city, in the Imperial Fortress, Kael Draxen stood before the Emperor.
"Arlan Voss's body was never recovered," Kael reported. "The execution platform burned before dawn."
The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "You said he was dead."
"He was, Your Majesty. I saw it myself."
"Then find him," the Emperor ordered. "And if he's not dead — make sure he stays that way."
Kael bowed, but his mind churned. Deep down, he knew what that symbol on Arlan's body meant. The stories whispered among the old battlemages — the return of a god that should have remained buried.
He turned away from the throne, his face grim. "Arlan," he muttered, "what have you done?"
In the stable, Arlan sat beneath the broken roof, the moonlight falling on his face. The dagger rested beside him, still stained.
He didn't sleep. The mark on his palm glowed faintly, steady as a heartbeat.
He whispered into the silence, "Erebus... what are you planning?"
No answer came. Only the cold night wind.
But somewhere deep inside, the mark pulsed again — as if the god was listening, waiting for his next move.