The city seemed quieter than usual that morning. A deceptive calm lingered over the alleys and rooftops, as if the streets themselves were holding their breath. Rain had left the pavements slick and shimmering, reflecting the pale morning light in fractured shards. But Voryn didn't notice the beauty or the danger. He was too aware of the weight on his chest, the lingering pulse of the relic, and the echo of the masked figure from last night.
He had spent hours analyzing, strategizing, replaying every move, every shadow, every scream that had brushed his consciousness. And while the thrill of power had intoxicated him, so too had the taste of cost: the screams of the soul, the subtle drain on his own life, the hum of the Oath's tether threading through him.
Voryn didn't flinch in pain. He flinched at the loss.
It was then that Thyraen appeared. Not suddenly, not a jump from the shadows, but with an elegance that suggested he had always been there, part of the city's pulse, woven into the architecture of danger and secrecy.
"Thought I'd find you here," the man said, voice smooth, almost teasing, but carrying the weight of experience and subtle menace. He moved with the grace of someone who had walked a hundred dangerous roads and emerged on the other side. Thyraen's eyes glimmered, sharp and calculating, and when he extended a hand, it was both an invitation and a test.
Voryn studied him. Carefully. Not human, he thought. Too deliberate, too controlled. Knows more than he shows. I know more than I want to know.
"You seek answers," Thyraen continued, "and the Black Oath demands more than curiosity. It demands commitment. You cannot play with power without paying its cost."
Voryn smirked faintly. "I've already begun paying, haven't I? I can feel the cost in my veins. The screams in the night."
"Ah," said Thyraen, inclining his head slightly. "Then you already understand the rules partially. You need guidance, but guidance is itself a test. A contract is more than words. It is flesh, blood, and will. Touch it lightly, and you die. Take it fully, and you may yet survive."
Voryn's fingers itched toward the relic at his chest. The black mark pulsed softly, almost impatiently. Touch it. Accept. Bind. Or die.
He exhaled slowly, letting the wind and early light wash over him. Every power has a cost. Is humanity worth it? The thought wasn't rhetorical; it was a calculation, a weighing of risks and rewards. And beneath it all, buried beneath the thrill of survival and intellect, a small voice whispered a human question: Do I still want to be me?
They walked together, Thyraen leading, Voryn following, silently assessing, noting every shadow, every turn, every passerby. Thyraen didn't speak much, and Voryn didn't need him to. Observation was enough.
Finally, they stopped in a courtyard at the city's edge. Abandoned, crumbling, silent except for the whispers of wind through broken stone. Thyraen turned to face him, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
"This is where the first contract is made," Thyraen said. His voice was calm, but carried the kind of authority that could fracture a man's confidence if he wasn't careful. "Here, the Oath will bind to your flesh and spirit. Here, you will see your own worth or the lack of it."
Voryn's heart beat faster, not from fear, but anticipation. He could feel the relic's pulse through the black mark on his arm, a living rhythm that matched his own heartbeat with subtle mockery. The shadows around him seemed to lean closer, curling and writhing like living smoke.
Thyraen held out his hand, and in it rested a thin blade dark as night, humming faintly with latent power. "You must draw your own blood. Willingly. And touch the relic fully. Only then does the Oath take its first claim."
Voryn's lips twitched with humor, dark and sharp. "Really? I draw my own blood? And if I flinch, die. If I hesitate, die. So subtle, so considerate."
Thyraen's only response was a slow smile, barely perceptible, and the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Voryn knelt slowly, as though performing some ritual choreographed by instinct. He took the blade, not trembling, not panicking. But he calculated, each motion deliberate, precise, as if he were choreographing a dance. One slip could cost him his hand or worse, his life.
He sliced a shallow line across his palm. Blood welled immediately, dark and metallic against his skin. The relic pulsed violently, almost impatiently. Shadows surged upward, licking his forearm, reacting to the living blood.
Voryn's breath hitched slightly as the mark burned, spreading pain through his veins. It was no ordinary burn; it was a violent, screaming heat that seared into his marrow, demanding obedience, acknowledging ownership. Yet he endured it, teeth gritted, mind sharp.
He felt the eyes of the world on him, though no one else was there. Strangers, hidden and watching, impressed, terrified, some frozen by the sight of a human daring to bind himself to darkness. It wasn't just pain, it was spectacle, calculation, and terror distilled into a single moment.
Interesting, Voryn thought. Fear is currency. Power is currency. Pain is currency. And I… am willing to pay.
As he pressed his bloodied hand to the relic, darkness surged, coiling, whispering, bending around him in ways that made the air taste bitter. The shadows responded, dancing violently, almost as if alive. The Oath was taking him, not just marking him, but testing him, pushing, binding. Every nerve screamed, but every thought was sharper than ever.
Voryn's mind raced: survival probabilities, contingencies, escape routes, potential allies and enemies, patterns in the shadows. He noted everything, cataloged every whisper, every flicker of light, every tremor in the ground. Strategy became instinct; instinct became advantage.
And then, finally, the searing pain subsided, leaving a lingering hum in his veins. The mark glowed faintly black, intricate and alien. He could feel the Oath's claim on him, subtle yet undeniable. The relic had accepted him or perhaps, merely begun its slow test.
Thyraen nodded, watching quietly, a hint of approval in his expression. "The first contract is made. You are bound. But remember, every action has a price. Every decision will demand more than you imagine."
Voryn flexed his fingers, testing the mark, feeling its pulse against his skin. He laughed softly, humor dark and sharp. "Oh, I know the price. And I will pay it… strategically."
He looked around the courtyard, noting the ruined walls, the patterns in the stone, the lingering shadows that seemed almost sentient. Something tugged at the edges of his consciousness, a subtle disturbance. Not immediate danger, but awareness. A whisper of eyes, hidden, watching, evaluating. Someone or something knew that he had taken the first step.
Good, Voryn thought. Let them watch. Let them wonder. Let them fear.
And yet, beneath the thrill, the strategy, the sharp humor, a small, human thought lingered: Am I still… human?
The Oath pulsed again, responding, alive, whispering promises and threats simultaneously. Voryn could feel it winding deeper, threading into his mind, twisting with the promise of strength and the certainty of cost.
He gritted his teeth, smiling through the pain. Every power has a cost… and I will pay it. But on my terms.
Hours later, he wandered the streets, testing the limits of the Oath, calling shadows, bending them, letting them whisper to the world in subtle, terrifying ways. Every action drained him slightly, but sharpened his mind. Every shadow, every flicker of movement, was a note in the symphony he now conducted.
And then he noticed something impossible. A faint mark on the wall, glowing black, not from the relic but from some external force. A sigil, ancient, layered, etched with precision that suggested intelligence far beyond any human. Voryn froze.
Thyraen's earlier warning echoed in his mind: Guidance is a test. A contract is flesh, blood, and will. Touch lightly, and you die.
This was not light. This was a challenge.
The shadows around him shivered, pulling back, and then the voice came—not Thyraen's, not human, deep, layered, mocking:
"So, you have begun, but you understand nothing. The first step is trivial. The true path begins now, and death watches closely."
Voryn's pulse quickened. He wanted to step back, to flee, but every instinct screamed forward. The thrill, the strategy, the challenge he couldn't resist.
And then, in the alley beyond, he saw movement: not human, not entirely shadow, a form coalescing from darkness, its eyes glowing with intent, its grin wide and impossible.
Voryn's hand shot to the relic. His heart pounded. Not free. Not easy. Not forgiving is perfect.
The figure stepped forward. And in that moment, Voryn realized: the true game had only just begun.