Sylas remained still long after the screen vanished.
The hospital room was quiet—too quiet. Only the faint hum of machines and the distant footsteps of staff reminded him that the world still existed outside his thoughts.
Divine skill…
Authority…
The words carried weight, but Sylas felt no excitement. Only caution.
He had survived by staying unseen. By enduring. By observing.
Power did not change that truth.
"If I expose this," he murmured to himself, "I won't live long."
The world he had glimpsed in the trial was brutal. Monsters, ancient souls, hunters stronger than anything he could imagine. A Divine-grade authority would not make him safe—it would make him hunted.
So Sylas decided.
Low key. Quiet. Invisible.
First, he needed understanding.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, toward the subtle warmth he had felt since awakening. Not forcefully. Not greedily. He reached out the way one might test cold water with a fingertip.
Shadow Authority.
Nothing happened at first.
Then—
The shadow beneath the hospital bed twitched.
Sylas's eyes snapped open.
The darkness pooled unnaturally, stretching slightly, as if listening. It did not obey a command; it approached, creeping along the floor with cautious curiosity.
His heart pounded.
So it's real.
He steadied his breathing, recalling every moment in his life when he had endured pain by remaining calm. Control came before action.
The shadow slid closer, thinning and thickening like living ink. It climbed the wall in a narrow ribbon, stopping just short of his bed.
Sylas raised his hand slowly.
The shadow rose to meet it.
No resistance. No backlash.
A faint chill brushed his skin—not cold, but familiar. Like something that had always been there, waiting for him to notice.
Minor authority, he reminded himself. Don't push.
He let the shadow retreat.
It obeyed.
Sweat beaded on his brow, and a dull ache bloomed behind his eyes. Mental fatigue—just as the description warned.
Sylas lay back against the pillow, exhaling slowly.
"So this is how it begins," he whispered.
No resistance.
No backlash.
The shadow hovered near his fingertips, wavering gently, as if awaiting intent rather than instruction.
A strange sensation followed.
Sylas's vision shifted.
For a heartbeat, the hospital room dimmed—then expanded.
He could still see his bed, the pale walls, the humming machine beside him… but layered over it was something else. A second perspective. Shadows stretching beyond the room's limits, slipping beneath the door, crawling along the corridor floor.
Sylas froze.
Through the shadows, he could see.
Not clearly—more like impressions than images. Movement. Shapes. The echo of footsteps before they arrived. A nurse pausing at the corridor junction, unaware that her shadow had already betrayed her presence.
His breath caught.
It's not sight, he realized. It's awareness.
The shadow beneath the door thinned, extending like a thread, connecting him to the darkness beyond the walls. He sensed distance, direction, even intent—faint, blurred, but unmistakable.
The door remained closed.
But the world outside was no longer hidden.
A dull ache bloomed behind his eyes, sharper than before. Sylas immediately withdrew his focus.
The shadows recoiled, snapping back into place as if nothing had happened. The room brightened. The second layer vanished.
Sylas slumped against the pillow, chest rising and falling.
Mental strain—severe.
"So this is part of it…" he murmured.
Not just control.
Perception.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and stared at the ceiling, forcing his heartbeat to slow.
I can't let anyone notice, he thought. Not now. Not ever.
Outside, footsteps passed again—closer this time—but Sylas did not look.
He already knew who it was.
The shadows had told him first.
And as the night deepened, Sylas closed his eyes, committing the sensation to memory.
In the dark,
he was no longer blind.