CRACK.
The desert did not forgive.
Every breath drew shards into his lungs. Every heartbeat pushed blood through the soles of his feet, leaving a dotted crimson trail that steamed in the cold starlight. The three suns had long sunk behind the horizon, but the cracked one still hung, bleeding slow light across the sky like a dying god refusing to close its eye.
Orion crouched in the lee of a black-glass monolith, knees drawn tight to chest, trying to make himself small enough that the world would forget he existed.
WHISTLE. CLINK.
It hadn't worked.
The wind carried voices: distant screams, wet tearing sounds, the occasional triumphant laugh of someone discovering murder granted temporary strength here. Each noise a needle under his skin.
He catalogued injuries with the detached calm of reading someone else's chart:
Feet: shredded, infection probable.
Right hand: three fingers broken.
Face: whip-cut oozing, glass dust embedded.
Soul: Flawed, Dormant, empty as a cracked bowl.
Resources: none.
Aspect: none.
Memories: none.
Hope: theoretical.
He almost laughed—but the motion would cost blood. So he swallowed it.
ROAR. Something huge screamed to the west; metal being flayed alive. The glass beneath him vibrated in sympathy. It was coming. Closer.
He closed his eyes.
He thought.
Cassius's words: survive until the Broken Sun rose. One night. Touch the Shard at dawn. Awaken with a soul core. Simple.
Except nothing here was simple.
The sand cut. The water tasted of rust and screams. The air tried to slice him from within. Other Awakened—armed, Aspected, dangerous—were already hunting.
He had seen the first pack an hour ago: five moving in perfect formation, steel glinting, mirrored cloak mocking the crimson light. Within fifty meters, they never glanced at him. Weak prey wasn't worth calories.
Weak prey.
The key. The Realm rewarded predators. Cassius survived thirty-two deaths because he bit harder than the things hunting him.
So how does sawdust learn to bite?
CLINK. SLICE.
The monolith beside him: obsidian, taller than three men, edges sharp enough to split hair. Wind had carved hollows and ridges like frozen waves.
He pressed a broken finger to the edge. Pain flared, bright, clean. Blood welled, thick and black. An idea slid in, slippery and vicious.
He worked.
Hours—or minutes. Time was a traitor here. He ground glass against glass until he had shards the length of his palm. Strips of pajama shirt became crude handles. Three knives. Pathetic—but weighted with intent.
The desert spoke. Not in words. In visions: a girl cutting her shadow free, a boy devouring a comrade's heart to gain his Aspect, an old man laughing as he walked into a sandstorm promising a new name. The Realm taught by force-feeding possibility.
When the weapons were ready, Orion stood.
Feet no longer bled; the glass had blackened them into scabbed armor. Pain became a dull song.
PURPLE HORIZON. Still hours until dawn. Good.
He walked—not away from screams, but toward them. Predators followed the herd; the herd followed water. Water here meant death in one spot. Perfect.
He found the oasis as the sky turned bruised-purple. A crater, hundred meters across, pool of dark liquid reflecting dying stars. Around it: bodies. Dozens. Some fresh. Some half-dissolved into glass. Weapons scattered: spear with blade of frozen scream, shield of turtle-shell, severed hand clutching curved sword.
Five living Awakened stood at the rim. Real gear, faintly glowing Aspects. One—the mirrored cloak—held a crystal vial filled with oasis water. Divine-grade. Enough to heal, and enough to profit.
Orion crouched behind a glass spine. Waited.
WHOOSH. CLATTER.
He hurled a fist-sized shard into the water. Splash.
Five heads snapped.
"Something's in the water," hissed Mirrored Cloak.
"Mirage Beast?" a woman said, bow at ready.
"Scavenger," said an axe-wielding man. "I'll check."
He descended alone.
NOW.
Orion staggered into view, hands raised, voice cracking:
"Please… water…"
Axeman sneered. "Flawed rat." Axe raised.
Orion dropped, head bowed. Axe came down.
He moved. Not fast—but precisely. The glass knife slid beneath the axeman's breastplate. Organ. Blood. Pain irrelevant.
Body crumpled. Sunniless twisted, rode the corpse down as shield. Arrows hissed; one buried in the dead man's back. He seized the axe in his good hand, hurled it sidearm—knee snapped, Mirrored Cloak fell.
Chaos erupted. Remaining three fanned. He didn't wait. Sprint. Bow-woman loosed arrow point-blank—he twisted, arrow tore shoulder, still came. Ten meters. Five alive. Dagger drawn, impact tangle, blade to eye. Still.
Two left. Fire-woman lunged, flame erupted, he rolled, arrow to throat. Last: Mirrored Cloak dragged upright, leg shattered.
CRUNCH. BLOOD. Orion headbutted. Nose crumpled. Blood sprayed. He took the crystal vial. Drank.
SLURP. CRACKLE. Liquid starlight. Wounds healed. Bones knitted. Whip-cut faded. Strength flooded.
System acknowledged:
[Soul Core Formation Detected]
[Aspect Awakening in Progress…]
[Calculating Compatibility…]
Letters burned gold:
Aspect: [Shadow Slave] (Divine)
Description: He who bare the faceless sun returns, wearing the forgotten's face. Shadows answer his call. Fate averts its eyes.
Core Attributes: [Shadow Step], [Shadow Manifestation], [Marionette of Fate] (locked), [birth of shadows] (passive)
Flaw: [Fated Calamity]
Hooks sank deep into his soul. Orion—no, that name felt too small—stared at his hands. Shadows coiled around fingers like eager cats.
Far above, the Broken Sun rose, cracked, bleeding gold.
He looked at the crater, the bodies, the empty vial.
Cassius's voice drifted on the wind. "Well done, little lamb. You've learned to bite."
Orion turned to the light.
The First Nightmare wasn't over. But the prey had become something else entirely.
He smiled. Shadows smiled with him.
TIME TO HUNT THE SHEPHERD.