Into the Darkness

Chapter 4: Into the Darkness

Lucian stood motionless, his legs trembling, eyes locked on the lifeless body before him. The air around him grew colder with every passing minute, the silence of the forest pressing in, suffocating. His thoughts spun out of control—a storm of anger, guilt, sorrow, and fear. Nothing made sense, yet everything felt painfully clear. He was the villain they had feared.

You killed him. Elise's voice echoed in his mind, those three words like chains, heavy and binding. They pulled him down, into the darkness he had tried so hard to escape. His breath hitched, the reality of his actions settling deeper. The night felt endless, like the darkness itself was swallowing him whole.

Eventually, his legs gave out, and he collapsed beside the body, his knees sinking into the cold dirt. The man who had attacked them—he was no stranger, no faceless bandit. His hands trembled as he reached for the hood, pulling it back slowly, dreading what he might find.

A choked gasp escaped his throat.

It was Jaron.

Lucian recoiled, bile rising in his throat. Jaron, the boy he had grown up with, who had shared meals with him, who had played swords with sticks beside the fields. They had once been friends, brothers in every way but blood. But now, Jaron's pale, lifeless face stared blankly at the stars, eyes frozen in death.

Why? Why had Jaron come after him? Lucian's chest tightened as the answer clawed its way to the surface: the prophecy. The village believed he was the villain, and Jaron, like the others, had chosen to act on that belief. To kill him. To rid the world of the threat they thought he would become.

And now Jaron was dead because of it.

Lucian's hands shook uncontrollably as he stared at the blood smeared across them. His vision blurred with tears he couldn't shed. He wasn't a killer. He didn't want to be a killer. But no matter what he did, it was as if fate itself had already decided.

No matter how hard he tried to fight it, fate seemed determined to prove him wrong.

The shadows around him grew thicker as the moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds, and the world darkened. Lucian scrubbed his hands against the grass, trying to rid himself of the blood, but the feeling clung to him like a second skin. He could wash the blood from his hands, but not from his heart. Something had changed inside him—something that couldn't be undone.

Jaron's death weighed heavy on his chest, but worse still was the memory of Elise's wide, terrified eyes. She had looked at him not as her brother, but as the monster the world claimed he was. That look... it broke something in him. The one person who had stood by him had run away in fear.

Lucian's breath came in ragged gasps as he clutched at his chest, the weight unbearable. He had tried so hard to deny the prophecy, to cling to the idea that he was not the villain they wanted him to be. But now, with blood on his hands and Jaron's body at his feet, it felt like fate was laughing at him.

His thoughts grew more chaotic, fragments of memories flashing before him—playing swords with Jaron as children, pretending to be knights defending their village, laughing as they fought with wooden sticks. How did we end up here? How did everything go so wrong?

A sharp, pulsing pain throbbed beneath his shirt, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. The mark—always hidden beneath his clothes—burned beneath his skin. With trembling fingers, Lucian unbuttoned his shirt just enough to glance at it. The symbol, once dull and faint, now seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, as though feeding on his despair.

He quickly buttoned his shirt back up, his hands shaking. He couldn't bear to look at it. That mark had been with him his whole life, but now, it felt like a curse. A constant reminder of the fate he had tried to run from, and a symbol of the darkness that lay ahead.

He couldn't erase it. But he could control how the world saw him. He could choose how he responded to the cards fate had dealt him.

Lucian rose to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. He looked one last time at Jaron, his heart aching with the weight of it all. His childhood friend, dead at his hands. He didn't want to be this person. But maybe the world was forcing him to be.

He turned away from the clearing, his steps heavy, and began walking deeper into the forest. The path ahead was unclear, shadowed by trees, by doubt, by danger. His heart pounded with each step, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't look back. There was no turning back now.

The prophecy, the bloodshed, the mark—they were all part of the same cruel story. But maybe, just maybe, he could write the next chapter on his terms.

---

Lucian stumbled upon a small stream, the cold water reflecting the pale moonlight. He knelt, splashing the icy water onto his face, trying to wash away the blood, the guilt. But as he stared at his reflection in the dark water, he didn't recognize the boy looking back at him. Hollow-eyed. Pale. A stranger.

Is this what it feels like to be the villain?

The question hung in the air, unanswered. It had only been a day since his world had turned upside down, since the village had labeled him as the villain. And yet, it already felt like an eternity. He had barely had time to process it, barely had time to grasp the weight of the prophecy. But now, after everything that had happened—the attack, Elise's fear, Jaron's death—denying it felt futile.

Maybe it was time he stopped running. Maybe it was time he embraced what they saw in him.

He clenched his fists, his fingers digging into his palms as he stood. He couldn't keep pretending to be the boy he once was. That boy was gone, buried with Jaron. What remained was someone who would fight back, someone who would no longer bend to the will of fate.

If the world wanted him to be a villain, then he would become one.

But not on their terms.

He would find his own way, forge his own path, no matter how dark it became. The bloodshed tonight had been an accident, a tragedy. But now, with every step he took away from the stream, the cold resolve in his heart grew stronger.

---

Just before dawn, Lucian emerged from the trees onto a narrow dirt road, the faint outlines of a small village visible in the distance. Exhaustion weighed heavy on his body, but he pushed forward. He couldn't stop now. Not when there was so much at stake.

The village was quiet, smaller than Greywater, its streets deserted. He kept his hood pulled low, avoiding the eyes of any early risers. His mind raced as he approached a small inn at the edge of the village, its windows dark, but the glow of embers visible through the cracks.

Lucian pushed the door open and stepped inside. The warmth of the room hit him, the smell of smoke and old wood filling the air. An older woman dozed behind the counter, her head resting on her arms. Lucian cleared his throat, and she stirred, blinking sleepily at him.

"What can I do for you?" she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Just looking for a room," he said quietly, keeping his voice steady. "And something to eat, if you have it."

The woman nodded, gesturing to a table near the hearth. "Take a seat. I'll get you something."

Lucian sat, his muscles aching with exhaustion as he leaned back in the chair. His body screamed for rest, but his mind remained sharp. He couldn't afford to let his guard down. Not yet.

As he ate, his thoughts drifted back to Greywater, to Elise, to Jaron. His chest ached with the weight of it all, but he pushed the pain aside. There would be time to grieve later. For now, he needed to survive. He needed to become stronger.