A Prison Without Chains

I stand before the tall obsidian mirror, stripped down to my waist, my body lean but carved like something chiseled by pain. My fingers curl and raise and l the black veins respond.

They bulge beneath my skin, writhing like hungry snakes.

My right arm grows heavier, thicker—powerful beyond reason.

And then… I shift it.

The black veins slither across my torso, plunging into my left arm. My muscles swell. The skin stretches. The Vahl obeys.

I exhale.

Control is getting easier.

I've learned four truths about the thing inside me.

First—it's a parasite. Not born of me. Not truly mine.

But bound. And it hungers only for Vahl. It can change the Vahl to something else something Anazor can control.

Secondly unlike others users of Vahl who can't control Vahl at well so it only spreads in their body evenly, I who could control it can focus it. All of it. Into one limb.

My legs. My arms. Even my spine.

Speed, strength, resilience. Even regeneration.

But it comes at a cost.

I turn to the wall behind me.

There hangs a painted hide—stretched and nailed to wood. A woman stares back.

My mother.

She stares out from the painted fibers with unblinking eyes, just as she used to in life.

Cold brown hair—not just the color, but the way it was always tied back tightly, never a strand out of place. Like warmth itself had been combed out.

Her eyes were dark, almost black, and they held nothing. No spark. No softness. When she looked at you, it felt like the world stopped breathing.

Her skin was pale, the kind of white that never blushed in the sun, like she was born in shadow and raised by frost.

Her mouth didn't curve. Not up. Not down. It just… was.

She had the face of someone who gave orders and expected kings to obey.

I look into those painted eyes, waiting—hoping—for something to stir.

But there's nothing.

No anger. No warmth. No pai.

I raise my arm again, channeling the black Vahl. It gathers at the elbow before erupting from my forearm—a jagged blade of living shadow tearing from the flesh.

My skin splits. Blood spatters the floor.

I feel… nothing.

Not pain. Not sorrow. Not hunger.

Even food tastes like ash now.

The wound seals quickly. The parasite is efficient. I stare at the last drop of blood vanishing beneath healed skin.

"It's not all about emotions," I whisper to her portrait.

"I will take your revenge, Mother."

I wrap myself in my training cloth—woven with the markings of my House—and step outside.

Nisrin stands outside my door.

Or rather, what remains of her.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't blink. Her once-fluid grace is replaced by something unnatural. Mechanical.

Her body is no longer hers. It's mine.

The fourth truth:

The parasite can be shared.

Transferred.

And in doing so, the parasite in me dominates the Vahl in them.

Nisrin's body moves when I will it. Her eyes twitch only when I allow it. But she's still in there.

I see her.

Behind those blank eyes… a sliver of the old Nisrin remains. Watching. Suffering.

I don't dwell on it.

We walk. Servants line the path, backs pressed against the walls, eyes downcast. The older ones make signs with their fingers. Protection charms. Desperation.

Their whispers no longer mock.

"Did you see his arm? It moved like liquid..."

"He looks… wrong."

"And Nisrin… she walks like the dead."

Yesterday, their eyes held hatred.

Today, they hold fear.

Fear is better.

We reach the training yard—an open circle of sand and bone. Skulls mark the edge, resting on wooden spikes. Above us, woven cloths flap in the wind—each dyed with House colors, the symbols of ancient victories.

I face Nisrin.

The Vahl surges into my legs. The earth cracks beneath my heel as I launch forward.

Fast. Direct.

My arm floods with power—black Vahl pumping through every cell. I throw a punch that should shatter bone—

She dodges.

Effortless.

Her fist slams into my chest, and I stumble back, coughing, my ribs screaming.

Not enough.

The night I bonded with the parasite… I was more. The being inside me—it—fought for me. Took control. Crushed Nisrin with ease.

But me?

I'm still learning to stand in its shadow.

I clench my fists.

This isn't just training.

It's conquest.

Because just as I can feel and mold my own Vahl, I'm learning to command Nisrin's too.

But hers is... different. Like trying to move through mud.

Controlling my Vahl is like flexing a hand.

Controlling hers is like pulling meat through a needle.

Suddenly, the stillness of the yard was broken by a hesitant voice.

"Young Master."

I turned. A maid stood at the entrance, her posture tight and uneasy, hands clasped as though to steady herself. Her eyes didn't meet mine—they rarely did these days.

"The First Commander of the Northern clan has come to visit you. He's waiting in the reception hall."

Achraf.

One of the Five Pillars of the Northern Clan. My mother's former right hand. And now, the one who'd taken her place.

The Northern Clan was one of the four great clans that formed the foundation of our tribe—each guarding one direction from the chaos of the wild tribes and enemies beyond. Ours protected the north. My mother, had been more than just the chief's wife. She had been the Overlord of the Northern Clan, feared and respected across the entire tribe. Her power had been unmatched, her voice second only to the Chieftain himself.

Our tribe followed a strict hierarchy, forged in centuries of survival: Cub, Fang, Drake, Guardian, Commander, Overlord, and at the summit—Chieftain every member of the tribe has a rank.

Overlords led their clans, either through inheritance or election by the council of commanders. Achraf had claimed the position after her death, but he wasn't born of her blood. He lacked the right to inherit her title.

I exhaled slowly, letting the Vahl within me settle. Then, without a word, I turned and left the yard. Nisrin followed, silent as ever.

In the reception hall, Achraf sat like a mountain. His massive body was draped in layers of fur and scale-woven armor, ceremonial yet intimidating. His arms were thick as tree trunks, and his belly rested heavily on his thighs. He looked shorter because of his bulk, but his presence filled the room like smoke in a closed hut—heavy and suffocating. His face was broad, marked with tribal tattoos that had dulled with age, and his small eyes studied me with a mix of recognition and something else… uncertainty.

He had once bowed his head to my mother. Now, he sat on her throne.

I entered the room, keeping my stride confident and gaze steady. Nisrin remained behind me, unmoving.

Achraf's gaze flickered—confused. He had expected someone else. The quiet boy who used to avert his eyes. The one who flinched when spoken to.

But I was no longer that boy.

His confusion faded into a smile. "How are you, Anazor? These past few days must've been difficult."

I didn't answer.

I walked past the firepit in the center of the room, its embers still glowing faintly, and took the seat across from him.

"You wanted to see me?"

His smile thinned, not used to my directness. "I did. I came to speak of the clan's future—the position your mother left behind."

I cut him off. "The title of Overlord is passed by blood or by vote. I'm the rightful heir. But because I showed no 'significant results' in the Rite, the council are hesitant to acknowledge my claim. You saw your chance. And took it."

Achraf's jaw tightened slightly. But I kept going.

"And now, you're here… because even with her gone, the clan isn't truly yours. Some of the commanders still whisper. You're not the tribe's choice—they only follow because they're uncertain. But if I were to give you my support…"

I leaned in slightly.

"Then the balance would tip. I am right ?"

For a brief moment, silence reigned.

Then Achraf gave a low chuckle. "It seems I underestimated you."

His voice lost its warmth.

"So what do you intend to do?"

"I won't give up my mother's title."

He leaned back, expression hard. "Then you'll have to prove you deserve it."

"And how?"

"The Ranking Trial," he said at once. "Win it. Take first place."

Of course.

I tilted my head slightly. "It's in three months. I'm average at best. Others are already ahead—Lisa, training under the Western Overlord. Lucas, the Lament of the Decade, raised by the Chieftain himself. You expect me to defeat them—without support?"

Achraf's lips curled. "If you can't, then you don't deserve to lead the clan."

A trap. One he was sure I'd fall into.

"Fine," I said after a pause. "Then I want a trainer."

Achraf rose. "I'll send you a list."

The Next Morning

Breakfast was tasteless, as always. I ate only to fuel the body. My eyes scanned the scrolls and parchment spread across the table—trainer profiles sent by Achraf.

Exactly as I expected.

All second-rate. Some barely reached the Fang rank. None remarkable. Achraf had given me permission but nothing of worth. A hollow gesture.

That was fine.

I had already decided on the martial art I wanted to learn.

One name stood out. The scroll bore the image of a middle-aged man with hollow eyes, hunched posture, and a scarred lip. His expression seemed perpetually bored—or broken.

But what caught my eye was the title beneath his name:

"Master of the Wind Slap Martial Art."

Perfect.