The village's defense was crumbling.Aloysius had bought them moments nothing more. The marauders regrouped quickly, their leader barking orders in a guttural tongue. Shields locked, they began to push toward the chapel in a relentless advance.
Aloysius stood in their path, the weight of his sword steady in his hands. He could feel the sweat tracing lines down his temple, the sting of smoke in his lungs.
Then the voice spoke again, no longer a whisper but a low, resonant thrum inside his skull.
You are wasting time.
"I told you," Aloysius muttered under his breath, "I don't need you."
Do you call this victory? You bleed, you tire, and they still come. With me, they would be ash before the next heartbeat.
He blocked the first blow, the shock of impact jarring his shoulder. The second attacker nearly slipped past, only to be cut down with a precise riposte. His movements were sharp, but each strike felt heavier than the last.
You feel it, don't you? the voice pressed, silky and unrelenting. Mortality. The ache in your arms. The slow burn of fatigue.
A spear scraped along his side just a graze, but the sting lit every nerve in his body. He faltered for a fraction of a second.
The voice surged forward like water breaking a dam.*Say the word, and I will make you limitless.
Aloysius's jaw tightened. He thought of the child in the red cloak, the trembling hands clutching the chapel door. He thought of the promise he had made long ago to protect without becoming a monster.
"Not your way," he hissed, forcing his stance lower.
The marauders pressed harder. He could almost feel the voice smiling.
Then you will break. And when you do, I will be there to put the pieces together.
Lightning-fast, the enemy leader lunged, the tip of his blade slicing dangerously close to Aloysius's throat. Instinct screamed for him to let go, to open the gate and drown the world in power.
Instead, Aloysius stepped in, caught the leader's wrist, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's jaw with brutal precision. The leader crumpled.
The others hesitated just long enough for the villagers to surge forward and drag the wounded to safety.
But Aloysius knew the truth. The victory wasn't his. It belonged to the restraint he barely managed to hold and to the darkness that was still waiting patiently, certain that one day, it would win.