Archetypes were never whole on their own; that was the first truth anyone learned, though most pretended otherwise.
They carried their own corrupted, warped counterparts, shadows that lingered behind the true form, waiting to seize it the moment a weakness appeared, like a second, unwanted silhouette.
If an archetype was purpose, instinct, identity, then the Shadow was what happened when that purpose twisted into obsession, when instinct rotted into self-destruction, when a clear path collapsed into something unrecognizable.
A Shadow wasn't born from evil, but It was born from imbalance.
It surfaced when an archetype lost emotional stability, when the archetypal ideal grew too intense and overwhelmed the mind, clouding thoughts until nothing rational remained.
That kind of mental eclipse usually belonged to higher ranks, Authority, Icon, though it could, on rare occasions, strike someone far lower.
Some Shadows twisted their hosts into monstrous things.
Others hollowed them out from the inside, leaving something still human in shape but stripped of morality until only a cold, echoing shell remained.
And the Shadowed were always more vicious, violent in ways their human selves could never be, willing to tear through anything to sate impulses they once kept buried.
For example, someone with the Orphan Archetype, like me, might fall into its Shadow:
paranoia, emotional void, isolation madness… the kind of silence that swallows you whole, and promote kind of world-itching thoughts instead of pushing them into the farthest corner of the mind.
Though Shadows weren't exactly rare, just uncommon enough that most people prayed they'd never cross paths with one as a single shadowed individual could warp the atmosphere of a town just by existing.
That was the reason the Churches existed in the first place.
Not mainly for worship, not for devotion, but for control, containment, if one was being brutally honest.
They stood across kingdoms like quiet watchers, stitched into the spine of civilization with old stone, heavy doors, and the kind of silence that made people straighten their backs.
Each Church belonged to a single Archetype, mainly seven types, built over centuries of failures and far too many towns ruined by a single archetype descending into shadow.
Their purpose was painfully simple to say, but never simple to uphold...stop an Archetype from collapsing into its Shadow.
They monitored new awakenings, and stabilized unstable ones.
They stepped in the moment an Archetype's pressure began to warp into something vicious and unsteady.
And if none of that worked… then they handled the rest swiftly, before the world could remember what it looked like when a Shadow roamed free, basically slaining them.
Because everyone knew the truth, one Shadow was enough to rewrite the shape of a town, or the rules of a road, or the sanity of anyone unlucky enough to breathe the same air.
And, the Church of the Rebel was indeed infamous for producing some of the most violent Shadows, as well as hunting them with the same enthusiasm.
A contradictory duality, fitting for an institution built on defiance itself.
"Sigh… Though I said it's a small distance, isn't it actually considered big?"
I muttered, dragging the words out as exhaustion clung to me.
It wasn't the kind of tiredness that settled in your muscles and left.
It sat somewhere deeper, as if lodged behind the sternum.
Still, it felt like it should have faded by now.
Leaving all that aside, I finally entertained the thought that the sun was already up, spilling its light through the narrow windows of the room, soft, almost mocking.
With a reluctant groan, I decided it was time to move.
But before I even took a step, my gaze drifted once more toward the bathroom.
A ridiculous thing to hesitate over, really… but the place was absurdly luxurious.
Marble, brass, enchanted faucets, far too fancy for someone like me.
And truthfully, I didn't know why I kept staring at it like it was the most important structure in the building.
Maybe it was the vivid memories I had acquired. Maybe it was the echo of someone else's habits bleeding into me.
Rael… yes, Rael liked bathing.
Loved it, even.
That would explain the unnecessary luxury.
I exhaled, rubbing my temple.
"…Great. Now even my hygiene preferences aren't exactly mine."
Eventually, the scratching of my quill slowed, my thoughts drifting too far from the page to bother pretending I was still writing, and yeah, before i had realized i already found myself in this position.
With a quiet exhale, I pushed the chair back and rose from the desk.
The motion made my clothes shift, and instantly I regretted it.
A sour, heavy smell hit me in the face like a physical slap.
"…Great," I muttered, pinching the sleeve between my fingers with all the disgust of someone handling a cursed artifact.
"Absolutely wonderful. I smell like a Shadow had a mental breakdown on me."
It wasn't even an exaggeration.
The fabric felt stiff in places, damp in others, and carried a mixture of dust, sweat, smoke, and something indescribably awful that I refused to investigate further.
If misery had a scent, my clothes had bottled it perfectly.
I straightened, sighed, and glanced toward the bathroom door.
"Alright. Before I meet a single living soul today, this needs to be fixed."
The moment I stepped inside, a subtle warmth greeted me, the kind that settled on the skin before the water even ran.
Luxurious, almost excessive for someone who had never considered bathing anything more than an occasional obligation.
Rael, however… his memories practically pulsed with an obsessive appreciation for long baths, fragrant steam, and unnecessary relaxation.
"Fine," I grumbled to no one, eyeing the polished marble floor and the enchanted valve glowing faintly on the wall. "Maybe this is one habit I can tolerate inheriting."
I peeled the clothes off, each layer releasing a new assault on my senses until I tossed the foul pile into the corner like it deserved a funeral.
Turning the valve sent warm mist flooding through the room, curling around me like a soft, coaxing fog.
The first splash of water hit my skin, and I caught myself letting out a quiet, exhausted breath, one that felt like it had been trapped in my ribs from the time I woke up here.