The corridors of the Keep, at the heart of the Dark God’s realm, were a veritable labyrinth of shadow and stone, and he felt like he had walked them all countless times.
It had been days—weeks, perhaps?—since he had last seen the Dark God and whilst he was still not wholly comfortable around that mercurial figure, at least the other boy had provided some measure of companionship.
But now, even he was gone. And Genoes was alone.
Singing a sad little song, Genoes wandered through the endless halls, his small feet tracing paths through millennia of dust and grime. Strangely, he had felt much more comfortable in the dark woods covering much of the rest of the Dark God's realm than he did within this Keep. However, without this realm's master to control and alter the weather, a colossal storm had rolled in soon after he had last vanished, and Genoes had needed to seek shelter inside.
However, there was no light here, no warmth, no sound except the distant crashing of the wind and rain outside. The silence was so absolute that, to Genoes' mind, it became a monstrous being breathing down his neck, whispering hatred in his ears.
Thus, boredom had long since turned to uneasy restlessness, and now that restlessness was beginning to stir something else inside him—a frustration that twisted and coiled. This experience within the silent Keep was wholly alien to his life in the Village.
Back there, he’d never been without someone to chat to, an errand to grumble through, or—bless the Goddess—a bully to dodge. But here, this awful, gnawing silence seemed to sink its teeth into him, fraying his thoughts until they felt raw and bruised.
The stillness stretched on, too big, too quiet, and he didn’t feel safe wrapped up in it. He missed the noise, the background chatter, even the little squabbles. Most of all, he missed the feeling of safety, of knowing he had somewhere to belong.
From the first moment he’d laid eyes on the Lady Darkhelm—standing there in Master Cenwyn’s washroom, smeared with blood and looking every inch the terrifying warrior of legend—she’d made him feel safe.
It was laughable, really, the irony of it, finding comfort in the shadow of someone so fierce. But there was no other way to explain it. When she was nearby, he knew he’d never come to harm, not while she held her ground. And when she’d asked Eliud to watch over him while she went off to mete out vengeance on the Trellecs, he’d understood, even felt reassured.
But then Eliud had let the Dark God take him...
Genoes kicked a loose stone, watching it skitter across the cold flagstone floor. It bounced once, twice, clattering against the wall before the sound was swallowed by the heavy, endless silence. He scuffed his boot again, hoping for another stone, but found none. He’d already called out for help—again and again until his throat was raw. No one came. No one ever did.
This place wasn’t like the village or even the Trellec's dungeons; it was a world of shadows where voices drifted and vanished, where cries went unanswered, and even a simple sound felt like it dared to disappear.
Genoes slumped against the cold stone wall, sliding down until seated, fingers idly tracing patterns on the floor. He wished he had a stick, a toy, anything to occupy his hands. In frustration, he pulled back into his thoughts, seeking something—anything—to fill the silence.
And that’s when he felt it.
It was faint, like the ghost of a breeze in the deepest valley, yet unmistakable—a tingle at the edge of his awareness, hovering just out of reach. It felt strangely familiar, stirring memories of Eliud's cottage, where the Mage’s odd and often exasperating lessons had teased out these same sensations.
Genoes frowned, narrowing his focus, trying to pull the thread of awareness closer, to grasp it firmly with his mind. But the sensation danced away, slipping through his mental grasp like water, elusive and mocking. It was there, almost tangible, yet it remained just beyond his reach, stirring his frustration and his hope in equal measure.
What was he feeling?
He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the moment. He summoned up the sound of crackling wood he had experienced sitting in front of Eliud's hearth. The feel of Josul resting against his legs. The smell of the Pendragon's pipe.
But it was no use. It was like trying to remember a dream after waking; the more Genoes focused on it, the more the sensation seemed to fade into monochrome. Anger welled up inside him again, his hands scrunching up into fists, but he forced it down. He had seen the Dark God surrender to wrath far too many times during his captivity here.
Genoes was not prepared to fall into that trap. Not now. Not when this was the first thing he had properly experienced in days.
He let out a long breath, forcing himself to relax, to let his thoughts wander. Eliud had always told him that some things couldn't be forced, that tugging too hard at a thread would only snap it. "Let it slip back on its own," he'd said. "It’s the only way it knows."
So Genoes let his mind drift, imagining himself back at Eliud's cluttered cottage, surrounded by the Mage's endless piles of books and strange-smelling herbs.
And there it was again—the feeling, closer this time, as if it were creeping forward on its own. A whisper of warmth unfurling within him, just a little more real than before, like the flicker of a candle coaxed to life in the deepest dark.
Something was stirring within him, something he suspected had been there all along. Eliud had recognised it. Daine had known it. And, in some strange way, he thought the bullies who had dogged his every step in the Village had known it too. Had wanted to extinguish it before it had chance to come to life.
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Genoes sensed this . . . something was connected to the way in which he was able to remove himself from trouble and scrapes in a way that infuriated and delighted the villagefolk in equal measure. Whatever it was, this power was now pulsing in time with his heartbeat, a resonant rhythm getting louder and louder . . .
Without thinking too deeply about it, Genoes reached out with his hand, fingers spread wide. The feeling intensified, a strange warmth spreading from his chest down his arm, pooling in his palm. If he had to describe it, he would have said it was not unlike standing too close to a fire, the heat growing almost unbearable, yet he didn’t pull back. He couldn’t.
And then, just as he felt he was getting close, it vanished.
The warmth, the rhythm, the pulse—gone in an instant, leaving him feeling colder and emptier than before. Genoes gasped, his hand dropping to his side as if it too had lost its purpose. The aftershock prickled across his skin, a faint tingle that was almost painful, lingering like the ghost of something half-remembered, a shout cut off before it was ever fully voiced.
For a moment, he just sat there, staring at his hand, willing the feeling to return. But the silence pressed in once more, heavy and unyielding, swallowing the tiny spark that had given him hope.
What had happened? He stared at his hand, expecting to see some change, some sign of damage. But there was nothing there. Just his small, pale hand, trembling slightly. He clenched his fist, willing the feeling to return, but it didn’t.
Genoes pushed himself to his feet, the rough stone biting into his skin, and closed his eyes again. The power, if that is what it was, had come from somewhere inside him, he was sure of it. He just had to find it again. He slowed his breathing down in the way Kirstin had taught him was crucial when preparing to launch an arrow and he concentrated, searching for that elusive pulse.
Nothing.
Just the darkness behind his eyelids, heavy and unyielding, pressing down like an endless night. Genoes' shoulders slumped, frustration threatening to drown him. He was just about to surrender, to give up on that elusive warmth, when, faint and flickering, it came again—a spark, barely more than a glimmer at the bottom of a deep, endless well.
It called to him, and with a sharp inhale, he reached for it, stretching his mind towards that fragile light, the way he might stretch out his fingers in a pitch-black room, hoping to catch hold of something solid, something real.
But just as his grasp tightened around it, the spark shied away again, retreating like a shy creature that needed coaxing, not force.
The fragment of light flared, a brief surge of warmth shooting through his body. Genoes held onto it this time, refusing to let it fade away as it had done so before. The pleasantly warm sensation grew, spreading through his body like wildfire. His skin itched, his muscles cramping.
And then, true pain.
It struck him like a fist, sudden and brutal, knocking the breath from his lungs. His knees buckled, and he collapsed back to the ground, clutching his chest. The warmth had turned to fire, hollowing him out from the inside. He could feel it, quite literally, boiling his blood.
Genoes wanted to scream, but his throat would not respond. The pain was overwhelming, drowning out all remembrance of times past. It felt like something was trying to tear its way out of him.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the agony stopped. Genoes lay on the stone, gasping for breath and trembling. Sweat soaked his clothes, his skin clammy. He felt weak and drained, as though what had happened had burned away some vital part of him.
But beneath the exhaustion, there was something else. The sensation was still there, faint but persistent. A thrumming in his chest, a beat that rattled within his bones. It was weaker now than before, but it was there. He hadn’t lost it.
Genoes forced himself to sit up and, with a shaky breath, focused again, reaching for that pulse. It came more quickly this time, the warmth returning without the blinding pain. It was still uncomfortable, a pressure that built within him, but it was bearable.
Genoes opened his eyes wide, staring down at his hands in awe.
He could feel the strange, tickling warmth pooled right there in his palms, buzzing softly like a trapped insect. But what was he supposed to do with it? He scrunched his nose in concentration and flexed his fingers, willing that tiny spark to move, to besomething. For a long, disappointing moment, nothing happened.
Then, like the first flicker of dawn, a faint glow began to shimmer between his fingers. It was weak, barely a ghostly glimmer, but it was there. Genoes' eyes widened even more, his mouth falling open as he watched the tiny light tremble and pulse. He couldn’t help but grin—a real, lopsided grin, the first one he’d managed in ages.
The light was small, yes, but it was his, something he had made. It was a spark of hope, like a friend saying hello in the dark.
Excitement surged through him, overpowering the exhaustion. He focused harder, trying to make the light grow. The energy responded, and the light brightened and became more solid until it felt like he was holding a piece of the sun in his hands, its warmth and light spilling out into the dark corridor.
But, as before, the pressure grew too much. The light flickered erratically, then flared wildly out of control. Genoes’ hands shook, the energy slipping from his grasp. Panic seized him as the light turned blinding, its heat scorching his skin. And then it exploded. The force of the blast threw him backwards, slamming him into the stone wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and for a moment, everything went black.
When he came to, smoke was curled around him, the smell of burning filling the air. Genoes blinked, trying to clear his vision. The corridor was in ruins; the stone walls cracked and blackened, and debris was scattered everywhere. His hands were blistered, the skin red and raw, but somehow, he was alive. He groaned, pushing himself up on shaking arms. The energy was gone, spent in the explosion, but the pulse was still there, deep inside him. It was weaker now, a faint echo, but it was there.
And then Genoes laughed.
He wasn’t just a helpless child in this cursed place anymore. He had uncovered something he knew he could learn to control. It would take time, he knew. He could still feel the lingering effects of the blast, the toll it had taken on his body. His skin ached, his muscles throbbed, and exhaustion hung over him like a shroud. But beneath the pain, there was a spark of hope. A small, fragile hope, but hope nonetheless. And, in the corner of his eye, a little blinking notification said
Genoes had no idea how long he lay there, recovering.
Time had lost all meaning in this place in any event. But eventually, he forced himself to stand, his legs trembling. He stumbled forward through the wreckage, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The energy was dangerous, volatile, but it was his. He just had to figure out how to control it and shape it into something useful. He had to learn. The Skill Slot was open, but there was nothing formal occupying it as of yet.
As Genoes moved deeper into the labyrinth, his mind focused on mastering the new power within him, he was unaware of the eyes that followed him, an ancient hunger that had stirred in the darkness. He was not alone in this place, not anymore.
A pair of golden eyes were watching. And they were waiting.