Chapter 3


    Path of the Eater


    I am on the stairs, though I do not remember stepping onto them. They spiral upward and downward, stretching through impossible space. Something unseen draws me upward, something that tastes like copper on my tongue.


    Reality pulses around me. Metallic. Alive. Movement flickers—quick and sharp—at the edges of my sight. I turn, and they are there: figures that should not exist, their limbs bending wrong, faces fluid as mercury. Blue-green light ripples across their forms, like sunlight through deep water, but harder. Colder. More precise.


    The creatures notice me. Their heads tilt. A sound cuts through the silence—click, click, click—like obsidian knives against glass. Their approach is both fluid and broken, a dance of impossible angles. Their eyes catch the light, throwing it back at me in fractured patterns. Then comes the pressure against my mind: not words, but shapes, symbols, images, that slip from my grasp as soon as I try to catch them.


    Who are you?


    The question burns like frost. More shapes press against my consciousness, symbols that slice and fade, leaving ghost-wounds behind.


    Why are you here?


    They gather closer. Their chittering echoes off the rippling walls—a sound like grinding gears wrapped in silk. Their limbs twist into patterns that pull at something deep within me, something that recognizes their joy at my presence. I am their answer. Their revelation.


    Then—shift.


    Their faces crack. Curiosity bleeds into fear, sharp and sudden as a blade between ribs. They pull back, their movements jerky now, desperate. Metal scrapes against stone as they speak, their alien whispers rising and falling like broken glass in my ears.


    You should not be here.


    Erratic and broken, symbols splinter in my mind.


    You do not belong.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    They retreat, but their eyes stay fixed on me. Accusing. Knowing. I reach out—a gesture of peace, of understanding—but they scatter like mercury dropped on stone. Their forms twist, reality bending around them until they are barely holding together. Blood wells in their eyes, thick and dark, tracking down faces that no longer make sense.


    One steps forward. Its hand trembles as it reaches for me, then snaps back as if burned. A single word cuts through my mind, sharp enough to draw blood:


    "Eater."


    The word ignites something in me. Ancient. Hungry. Not mine, but woven into my marrow. The creatures scream—a symphony of clicking metal and breaking glass. They try to flee, but power surges through me, invisible chains dragging them back.


    One lunges. Desperate. Terrified.


    My hand rises without thought. My fingers curl around something essential, something inside it. The creature freezes. Horror twists its face into new geometries. Then—


    Rupture.


    Dark liquid pulses from its mouth. Veins blacken around its eyes, bulging, bursting. Its form collapses inward, folding into geometries that should not exist. The others watch, screaming, but they cannot look away. Cannot escape.


    Power floods me. Warm. Raw. Natural as breathing.


    The creature shudders one final time. What remains is barely matter—a quivering mass of flesh and possibility. The others stagger back, blood streaming from their eyes, that word echoing in their broken voices:


    "Eater... Eater... Eater..."


    Another attacks. Desperation made manifest. The force rises in me again, hungry and familiar. I reach out. The creature stops mid-air, its essence unraveling like torn silk. As it collapses, I feel its power flowing into me, filling spaces I never knew were empty.


    The survivors flee upward, their movements fractured and wrong. All except one. Smaller than the others, it stays. Sorrow fills its bleeding eyes as it points toward the dark throne above. Its final message cuts deep:


    "Is this what you are?"


    The creature dissolves into mist. Shadows curl around the throne, pulling me forward. The power inside me resonates with the darkness, harmonizing with a vision of myself seated there. Empty. Cold. Complete.


    I kneel before the throne. The stone surface reflects a truth I do not want to see: myself, but wrong. This version of me wears shadows like a crown. My eyes—winter stone, devoid of light. Power radiates from my future self, but something vital is missing. Something warm.


    The reflection''s lips move. The words come like ice in my veins:


    To rule is to consume.


    Shadows tighten their grip. The alien whispers persist: Eater... Eater... But another voice cuts through, warm and clear as summer light. Whatever happens, you''re my brother. Cyra''s words, a spark against the endless dark.


    I stare at my reflection. At the throne. At the hollow victory it promises. Power pulses in my blood, demanding action. But doubt holds me still, suspended between hunger and humanity.


    In that hesitation, reality fractures.


    The throne dissolves. The shadows retreat. I stand alone on the stairs, silence pressing against my skin. The vision fades like morning frost, leaving only the cold touch of the Veilstone beneath my palm and Cyra''s voice, steady and real.


    But the whispers remain, etched into my bones:


    Eater.