The silence stretched between us like a noose.
The woman's eyes were steady, filled with something fierce — not quite hope, not quite despair — but something in between. The kind of determination born from losing everything and still having the audacity to keep moving.
Her offer hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning.
You don't have to do this alone. Come with me.
Her words echoed in my head long after she'd spoken them. I wanted to believe her. Gods, I wanted to believe that there were others like me — others who hadn't yet given in to the darkness clawing at our souls. But after everything I'd seen, everything I'd done, trust wasn't something that came easily anymore.
My hands trembled slightly, and I hid them in my pockets before she could notice. The hunger was back — quiet, but persistent, like a low hum beneath my skin. It whispered every few seconds, a soft reminder that her soul was right there. Warm. Bright. So close.
I forced myself to look away.
"Where are they?" I asked, my voice low, cautious.
The woman's gaze darted to the broken street ahead. "Not far," she said. "But we can't stay here. The dead roam this district after dark."
I almost laughed. After dark — as if there was a time when this world wasn't crawling with corpses. But I said nothing. I followed her.
Her movements were sharp and purposeful. She weaved through alleys, staying low, glancing behind us every few steps. I could tell she was used to this — surviving. She didn't hesitate, didn't linger, and every time a shadow moved nearby, her hand instinctively went to the blade strapped to her thigh.
"Who are you?" I finally asked, keeping my distance.
She hesitated before answering. "My name is Elara."
"Elara," I repeated, the name tasting strange on my tongue — too human for a world like this. "You said there are others. Survivors?"
She nodded once, her eyes flicking toward me. "Not just survivors. Fighters. People who still believe this world can be saved."
I almost stopped walking. "Saved?" I said, the word coming out as a bitter laugh. "The gods have abandoned us. The dead walk the earth. The air itself stinks of rot and ash. What could possibly be saved?"
Elara didn't look at me. "Not everything," she said quietly. "But enough."
There was a conviction in her voice that unsettled me — not because it was wrong, but because it reminded me of what I'd lost. That blind hope, that belief that there was still something left worth fighting for.
I envied her for it.
We moved through the remains of the city in silence. The streets were littered with the dead — some long decayed, others still twitching with the faint echoes of life. I tried not to look at them, but my eyes kept drifting toward the faint shimmer above their corpses. Souls. Dim, weak, but still there. I clenched my jaw and tore my gaze away.
I could feel Alekhan watching. Always watching. His presence slithered through my thoughts, curling around the edges of my mind.
You're wasting time, the voice murmured. Feed. Grow stronger. You cannot fight me while you are weak.
I gritted my teeth. "Get out of my head."
Elara turned, her brow furrowed. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just… thinking."
She gave me a long look, her eyes narrowing slightly, then turned away. "You'll want to save your strength," she said. "Where we're going… it's not safe."
That made me pause. "Not safe? I thought you said these people were trying to survive."
"They are," she said. "But survival has a price."
We reached what was left of an old subway station. The entrance was half-collapsed, the concrete cracked and blackened by fire. The smell hit me first — smoke, mold, and something else underneath. Something wrong.
"Down there?" I asked.
Elara nodded. "It's the only way."
I hesitated. The tunnel yawned before us, dark and endless, the faint drip of water echoing from somewhere deep below. Every instinct screamed at me not to go down there. But the alternative was staying out here, alone — and I'd already learned how that ended.
I followed.
The descent was slow and suffocating. The deeper we went, the colder it got. The light from the surface faded until there was only darkness, broken by the flickering glow of Elara's torch. I could hear the scurrying of rats, the whisper of wind through broken pipes, and somewhere — faintly — the sound of breathing.
We reached a metal door covered in rust and strange markings. Runes, carved into the steel. I didn't recognize them, but they pulsed faintly when Elara touched the handle.
"They're wards," she said, glancing back at me. "To keep the dead out."
I raised a brow. "Do they work?"
"Most of the time."
Not exactly comforting.
She knocked once, twice, three times — a pattern. For a moment, there was silence. Then, the sound of locks being undone, bolts sliding back, chains clattering. The door creaked open.
And the stench of blood hit me.
I stepped inside.
There were at least a dozen of them — survivors, just like she'd said. But these weren't the ragged, terrified refugees I'd imagined. Their eyes were sharp, their movements disciplined. Some carried weapons fashioned from scavenged metal, others wore pieces of armor stripped from dead soldiers. They looked more like a militia than a group of survivors.
A man stepped forward — tall, broad-shouldered, his face lined with scars. His eyes, however, were what caught me. They burned with an intensity I hadn't seen in years. He looked me up and down, then turned to Elara.
"Who is he?"
Elara bowed her head slightly. "A wanderer. I found him in the streets."
The man's gaze lingered on me. "You brought a stranger here?" His tone was low, dangerous. "You know the risks."
"He's different," Elara said quickly. "I can feel it."
The man took a step closer, his expression unreadable. "Different how?"
Elara hesitated, then looked at me. "Show him."
My pulse quickened. "Show him what?"
"You know what I mean," she said. "What you can do."
I froze. Every instinct screamed no. Revealing what I was — what I could do — was suicide. These people were survivors, yes, but they weren't fools. They'd seen what my kind could do — the Soulbearers, the ones Alekhan had touched. They were monsters to most. Abominations.
"I don't think that's a good idea," I said carefully.
The man's expression hardened. "If you're a threat, we'll deal with you now."
The room went still.
For a moment, no one moved. The tension was thick enough to choke on. My heart pounded in my chest, my pulse echoing in my ears. The hunger stirred again, rising with the pressure. The souls in this room — living, bright, alive — called to me.
"Fine," I said, my voice low. "You want proof?"
I raised my hand.
The air shimmered. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause. Then — the faintest flicker of light. A soul, torn from one of the corpses in the corner, floated up, swirling like smoke around my fingers. The survivors gasped, some backing away, others reaching for their weapons.
The man's eyes widened. "You're one of them."
I lowered my hand slowly. "Not by choice."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, to my surprise, the man's expression shifted — not fear, but something like understanding.
"Then maybe you're exactly what we need," he said quietly.
They led me deeper into the tunnels. The air grew colder, the light dimmer. Every few steps, I could feel something — a vibration, low and steady, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. The walls were covered in strange runes, similar to those on the door, though these glowed brighter, pulsing faintly with energy.
"What is this place?" I asked.
Elara glanced back. "A sanctuary. Of sorts."
"Doesn't look like one."
"It's not," said the scarred man behind me. "It's a prison."
I frowned. "A prison?"
He nodded. "For the souls we've taken. The ones who would have fed the god."
We reached a large chamber, and I stopped short.
Hundreds of glass orbs floated in the air, suspended by chains of light. Inside each one, a soul flickered — weak, dim, struggling. The air hummed with power. I could feel them — thousands of whispers pressing against my mind, crying out, begging to be released. It was like standing in the middle of a hurricane of pain.
"What have you done?" I breathed.
The scarred man stepped past me. "We're saving them."
"By trapping them?"
He met my gaze. "Better trapped than consumed."
I wanted to argue, but I couldn't. Because I understood. Every soul that was freed became fuel for Alekhan's rise. Every death, every act of feeding — it all strengthened him. These people were trying to starve a god.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.
"Since the first awakening," he said. "Since the gods turned their backs and the dead began to walk."
"And it's working?"
He hesitated. That was answer enough.
Hours passed. I sat in a corner of the chamber, watching the light shift across the floor. The hunger had dulled to a whisper, but it was still there. It always was.
Elara sat beside me, silent. I could feel her studying me, though she said nothing.
Finally, I spoke. "Why did you bring me here?"
She turned to face me. "Because I saw what you are. And because you still fight it."
"I don't know how much longer I can," I admitted.
She leaned closer, her voice soft but firm. "Then let us fight with you."
Her words were simple. But they hit harder than I expected.
No one had ever said with before. Always against.
Before I could reply, the air shifted. The light from the orbs flickered, dimming. The walls trembled. And then — a sound. Deep, guttural, echoing through the chamber. The survivors froze.
The scarred man swore under his breath. "They found us."
Elara stood, pulling me up with her. "We have to move. Now."
"What's happening?" I demanded.
"The dead," she said. "They're coming."
But even as she spoke, I knew it wasn't just the dead.
It was him.
Alekhan's laughter echoed through the tunnels, low and cold, vibrating through the stone. The air turned thick, heavy. Souls screamed inside their glass prisons, the orbs cracking one by one, spilling light into the air like blood.
You thought you could hide from me, the god's voice thundered. You thought you could cage what is mine.
I staggered back, clutching my head. The world blurred. My vision fractured — flashes of burning skies, oceans of corpses, divine figures turning their faces away.
And then — Alekhan's eyes. Golden. Unblinking.
"You can't have them!" I shouted, my voice raw. "You can't have me!"
He laughed again. "You already are mine."
The ground split open beneath us. Screams filled the chamber. Elara grabbed my arm, pulling me back, but the light was too bright, the power too immense. Souls burst from their orbs, swirling around us in a cyclone of agony.
And in that storm of chaos, I saw it — a figure forming in the light. Not Alekhan, not human, but something between. A shadow made flesh.
It reached for me.
And as its hand touched my chest, I felt my heart stop.