It was as if the universe itself had grabbed him by the spine and shoved him into a body that didn't belong to him. Fire surged through his veins, acid gnawed at his nerves, and his chest convulsed under an unseen weight. But the worst of it—the most unbearable—was the spiritual pain. It was like his soul was being dragged across broken glass, reshaped, remolded to fit a vessel that resisted his presence.
He opened his mouth to scream but only a ragged gasp came out. His lungs burned.
He felt agony—raw, indescribable agony.
It was a double-edged pain, not content to torture his soul alone. His flesh ached as though he had been dragged across molten stone, every joint dislocated and reset without care. But deeper than the torn muscles, deeper than the bruised bones, there was a burning ache in his soul—a corrosive pain like acid gnawing at something essential inside him. The body rejected him. The soul resisted staying.
His breath came in shallow rasps. The stench of rot, iron, and mildew assaulted him. He lay on a slab of stone slick with cold moisture. The dungeon around him was dimly lit by green rune-lanterns embedded into the cracked stone walls. They pulsed softly, suppressing all ambient Aether, blanketing the chamber in a lifeless stillness. There were no windows—only iron-barred doors and rusting chains bolted into the walls.
He tried to sit up. Lightning lanced down his spine.
His scream never came. Only a hoarse cough, and a mouthful of blood.
It was then, through the haze of pain, he heard it—a gasp, sharp and feminine. He looked up just in time to see a maid drop her basket of linen. She was young, maybe sixteen, dressed in plain gray servant's garb, her purple hair braided tight behind her. Her eyes locked onto his glowing green ones, and whatever blood remained in her face drained in an instant.
"He's awake—" she whispered, horrified.
She turned and ran, skirts whipping behind her, her scream echoing up the corridor:
"Guards!! The dead one! The dead one's awake!!"
He blinked, disoriented. Dead one...?
Moments later, heavy bootsteps echoed down the hall.
Two guards appeared, their armored silhouettes flickering in the sickly green light. One was broad-shouldered, helmetless, with a bald head and a jagged scar across his cheek. The other was leaner, wolfish, with narrow amber eyes under a polished steel helmet adorned with the sigil of the Ambrose Clan—a leviathan.
They stopped just outside the cell door.
"...No. That's not right," the bald guard muttered, voice hoarse with disbelief. He stepped forward, gripping the bars with gloved hands.
'I remember this one,' he thought, his contenance darkening. 'He was Lord Valek's lastborn. We brought him here. They accused him of treason— trying to perform some nasty things on the third daughter of the royal clan. I saw him tortured. I saw his body burn.' His eyes narrowed.
"He's supposed to be dead." His shaking voice betrayed the composed expression he was trying to maintain.
The lean guard's hand moved toward his sword. "Then what the hell is he doing breathing?"
"Look at the colour of his soul, weren't it supposed to be like the Eclipse just like the rest of his clan" the bald one whispered.
Both guards leaned closer.
They could see a mist, the Mist which once hoarded the soul, a mist once in the colour of eternal twilight, but now it was blaring red. Almost like it was bleeding.
The lean guard recoiled. "That's not him. That's neither a shade or a rift Spawn with the abilities of a shade. Something else is wearing that boy's skin."
Zephyr opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a rasping exhale and a cough thick with blood.
The lean guard stepped back fast, drawing his blade with a hiss of metal. His armor—a blackened cuirass engraved with suppression glyphs—shifted as he moved, thin and agile for fast combat. His fingers were trembling, despite the weapon.
"Quick. Inform the Crownkin," he snapped to his companion. "They'll want to see this with their own eyes."
The bald one hesitated. "And what if it attacks?"
"I'll keep watch. Just go!"
The broader guard ran off, footsteps fading.
Now, only Zephyr and the lean one remained.
The guard stood at the edge of the bars, sword lowered—but his expression wasn't anger. It was something colder. Calculating. Curious.
He tilted his head.
"You're not screaming. Not attacking. Possessed souls sought to escape. But you... you look like you're thinking." His eyes narrowed. "Whatever you are, you're not the same boy we killed. By the decision of the crownkin I will Excorsist you."
Zephyr coughed again, then slowly pushed himself upright on trembling arms.
The pain was unbearable. But so was the hunger.
He wanted to talk, to plead for water, his throat was dry and aching, but all that he was able to accomplish was to provoke an intense raw pain from his throat.
The guard took a step back.
And somewhere, far above the dungeon, the alarm bells rang. The Crownkin of the royal clan had been alerted, and so have the envoy of clan Demios and all other clans representative.