CHAPTER 7:  THE PACT WITH SHADOWS

Darkness had always been a companion to Alaric, but never like this. It was no longer the absence of light—it was something living, breathing, watching. The mark burnt on his palm, a remnant of the Glassmaker's trial, but it was powerless against the abyss that stretched before him.

The path ahead had vanished. The world itself had unravelled. The sky was no longer a sky, the ground no longer solid. He stood on the edge of something vast and formless, a void that devoured everything it touched.

And then came the whispers.

They slithered through the air, curling around his ears, caressing his thoughts like the fingers of a dying man grasping for salvation. The voices spoke in tones that were neither human nor beast—echoes of something ancient, something forgotten.

"You are not ready."

"You will not survive."

"Turn back before you are lost."

Alaric clenched his fists. Fear was a venom that had long dripped into his veins, but he refused to let it paralyze him. He had come too far, endured too much. He would not retreat.

A gust of cold wind surged from the void, carrying the scent of decay and something worse—something rotten beyond flesh, beyond time. Shapes flickered at the edge of his vision, figures that should not exist.

And then one stepped forward.

It was neither man nor beast, its form shifting like smoke caught in a storm. Hollow eyes bore into him, voids that reflected not his face but his failures. Every mistake, every regret, every moment of weakness was laid bare in those empty sockets.

"You seek power," the shadow rasped. Its voice was an invasion, crawling into his skull, pressing against the walls of his mind. "But power is not given freely. It is taken. It is bartered. And it always comes with a price."

Alaric did not move. "I do not fear the cost."

The shadow chuckled—a sound like cracking bones. "No? Then step forward and see what the darkness offers."

The ground beneath Alaric's feet trembled. The air thickened, heavy as iron chains. He took a step, and the void swallowed him whole.

He fell.

But there was no ground to reach. No bottom. No end.

The abyss was infinite.

Then—pain.

A searing, tearing agony ripped through him, as if unseen hands were peeling away his skin, layer by layer, exposing the marrow of his soul.

Memories flashed like lightning.

His mother's voice, calling his name from beyond the grave.

His father's hand, heavy with both love and punishment.

The laughter of a friend he had betrayed.

The screams of those he had failed.

The shadows were devouring him—not his body, but his essence, feeding on his guilt, his sorrow, his fears.

And in that endless torment, a choice was given.

"Surrender," the voice whispered. "Give yourself to the dark, and you will never feel pain again. No more suffering. No more doubt. Only power."

Power.

It was intoxicating, the promise of it.

To be free of weakness. To rise beyond the chains of mortality. To command the forces that had tormented him.

But Alaric understood the nature of such deals.

Power given was power controlled.

And he would not be a pawn.

He forced his mind to focus, to resist the pull. "No."

The whisper became a roar, the shadows convulsing with rage.

"Then you will suffer."

And he did.

The void tore into him, stripping away everything that was not absolute.

He screamed.

And then—he stopped.

Because he saw it.

At the heart of the abyss, beyond agony, beyond fear, there was something else.

A light.

Faint. Barely visible. But it was there.

He reached for it.

The moment his fingers brushed the light, the darkness shrieked. The abyss buckled, recoiling from the touch.

And suddenly—Alaric was no longer falling.

He was standing.

The void had not disappeared, but it no longer held him captive. The shadows still swirled, but they no longer whispered threats.

They waited.

The entity stepped forward again, its shape shifting, no longer monstrous, no longer hostile.

"You have seen," it said, its voice quieter now. "And you did not break."

Alaric stared at the thing before him. "What are you?"

The entity tilted its head. "I am the question you must answer. I am the choice you must make."

It raised a hand, and the darkness trembled.

"The pact remains."

A mark burnt into the air before him—an ancient sigil, etched in shifting shadows.

"If you take it, you will wield the night itself. You will command the unseen, walking where others dare not tread. The darkness will no longer consume you—you will become its master."

"But at what cost?"

The entity grinned, though it had no mouth. "The cost is simple: You will never again be the same. The shadows will always be with you. Watching. Whispering. Waiting."

Alaric looked at the mark.

This was more than a decision of power. It was a decision of identity.

To take it was to accept that he would never again be purely himself. That the darkness would forever be a part of him.

But to refuse…

To refuse was to be nothing.

He clenched his fist, feeling the weight of his journey, the scars of his trials. He had been broken and reforged. He had faced horrors and survived.

He had already changed.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached out—

And placed his hand upon the mark.

The moment his skin touched it, the shadows surged, wrapping around him like living chains. They did not bind him. They embraced him.

And for the first time, he understood.

The darkness had never been his enemy.

It had been his teacher.

The void trembled one last time. Then, it receded, melting into the edges of reality, leaving only silence.

Alaric opened his eyes.

He was no longer standing in the abyss.

He was somewhere new.

Somewhere waiting.

And he was no longer alone.

The shadows walked with him now.