Kael could hear his heartbeat pounding inside his skull. It did not sound right. Each thud came with a faint echo, as if there were more than one heart beating. The sound of the crowd melted together until it became a single, humming wall of noise. He could not tell if they were cheering or screaming.
Calen stood across from him, breathing hard. His blade shimmered faintly with glyphlight, the sigils pulsing in steady rhythm. Kael tried to focus on that rhythm, on anything that would anchor him, but his mind would not stay still. Every thought stretched into ten, every memory pressed against the surface of his mind, whispering, flickering, demanding to be seen.
He blinked, and the arena vanished. He was back in the temple. The smell of incense, the flicker of ritual fire. He could feel the iron taste of blood in his mouth, the burn of sigils carved into his skin. The high priest's voice droned somewhere behind him, chanting that same phrase again and again. Let the vessel open, let the vessel be filled.
He blinked again, and the arena returned. The crowd shimmered like smoke.
Calen charged. The first strike came fast, slicing a line across Kael's cheek. He stepped back, parried, then countered. Their blades met again and again until his hands began to shake. He could feel something inside his arm stirring. It was hungry.
The runes burned. He felt the scar stretch, pulsing like it was alive. His breath came in ragged bursts. The pain was sharp, then sweet, then gone. A strange numbness spread up to his shoulder. He swung his sword and the impact sent Calen stumbling back several feet. He had not meant to swing that hard. The crowd gasped.
Kael froze. The world around him dimmed. He could see red lines weaving through the air, curling like smoke from his skin. They reached toward everything. Toward Calen. Toward the instructor. Toward Seret. He could see her in the stands, mouth moving, calling his name. He could not hear her.
His body felt too light. His feet were barely touching the ground. He moved before he thought. Each motion was cleaner, faster, sharper than he had ever managed before. His sword cut through Calen's defenses like paper. Blood hit the floor.
He stopped. The noise in his head grew louder. A voice, low and guttural, murmured something he could not understand. It came from behind his ribs. It came from the scar.
He dropped his sword and clutched his arm. The skin rippled under his fingers. He could feel the movement inside, like a heartbeat that was not his own. The world tilted.
The instructor shouted for the fight to end. Someone rang the signal bell. Kael tried to breathe, but the air felt thick. His vision darkened around the edges. The crowd looked like silhouettes, featureless and swaying. He stumbled forward, but his body did not obey. His limbs moved like they belonged to someone else.
He heard the voice again. Closer now. Feed.
The word hit him like a physical blow. He doubled over, choking. A rush of energy surged up his spine. Every muscle locked. The mark on his arm split open just slightly, a thin thread of light spilling from it. It did not feel like magic. It felt alive.
Calen had backed away, sword raised. He shouted something, but Kael could only hear his own pulse. The whisper grew louder, overlapping with the roar of the crowd. The two sounds became one endless, vibrating scream.
Kael's vision twisted. The arena floor turned dark and wet. He saw shapes crawling out of the cracks in the ground, their bodies half-formed, made of light and shadow. The whisper filled his head. You are hollow. Let me in.
He swung his sword wildly, screaming. The shapes scattered, then reformed. Each time he blinked they looked more human. Faces from the cult. The ones he had killed. The ones who had burned. Their mouths opened in silence.
He could not stop. He could not breathe. Every nerve in his body burned. He could feel something pushing through the scar, trying to tear its way out. His body convulsed, and he dropped to his knees.
The crowd was in chaos now. The instructor was shouting. Students were fleeing. But Kael heard none of it. All he heard was that voice, steady and calm inside his head. You were made for this.
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling violently. His veins glowed faint red beneath the skin. The scar was bleeding light. He pressed his hand over it, trying to stop it, but it only burned hotter.
He could feel the thing's heartbeat now, deep inside him. It pulsed in rhythm with his own until they became one. His mouth opened, and a sound came out that did not belong to any human.
For a moment, everything stopped. No sound. No light. Just silence. Then the world shattered.
The air exploded around him, throwing dust and debris across the arena. The walls shook. The spectators screamed. Kael's body jerked backward, then went limp. He felt nothing but cold.
His last thought before the darkness closed in was not of fear, but of recognition. He had felt this before. In the temple, in the blood, in the chants. It was never gone. It had just been waiting.
And now it was awake.