Chapter 5: The Echoes of Power

Zehroon's breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling as if he had just run miles without stopping. His vision blurred for a moment before clearing, and the weight of reality settled upon him. The scroll in his hand pulsed with a strange energy, as if alive. His fingers twitched, his instincts screaming at him to throw it away, yet something deep inside him refused to let go.

The words of the hooded figure echoed in his mind.

"You seek strength, don't you?"

The memory of his dream—no, the vision—was still fresh. The battlefield, the blood, the voice of the shadowy figure. It all felt too real. His fingers trembled as he slowly unrolled the scroll, his heart hammering in his chest.

The ink on the parchment was old, yet the letters burned into his mind as if they had always been there.

"The path of power is not for the weak. Blood must be shed, and chains must be broken."

His breath hitched.

Blood. Chains. Power.

The words wrapped around him like an invisible force, sinking deep into his bones. A sharp pain erupted from his neck again, the mark beneath his ear burning like fire. He gritted his teeth, his knees buckling beneath him.

"What… is happening to me…?"

The world around him shifted. The small, crumbling room he called home twisted into darkness, shadows stretching like living entities. A gust of wind howled through the room, though the window remained shut.

Then, he heard it.

The whispers.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of voices, speaking in a language he didn't understand. Yet somehow, he knew what they were saying.

"Break the chains. Embrace the mark. Become what you were meant to be."

His breath quickened, his hands clutching his head as the voices grew louder. The pain in his neck spread through his body like wildfire, his veins burning, his muscles tightening as if something inside him was waking up.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

Silence.

Zehroon gasped, his body drenched in sweat. He stumbled forward, his fingers digging into the wooden floor to keep himself steady. His breathing was ragged, but… something felt different.

His body no longer felt as weak as before. His limbs no longer felt like they would collapse under pressure. He clenched his fist, and for the first time in his life, he felt strength—true strength—flowing through his veins.

A sudden knock on the door shattered the silence.

He froze.

Another knock, harder this time.

"Zehroon!"

It was a familiar voice, but filled with urgency. It was Aryn, one of the only people in the town who had ever shown him kindness.

Zehroon staggered to his feet, still feeling the aftershock of whatever had just happened to him. He reached for the door, hesitating for only a moment before pulling it open.

Aryn stood there, her usual calm demeanor replaced by worry. Her bright blue eyes darted around, as if making sure no one had followed her.

"You need to leave. Now."

Zehroon frowned. "What? Why?"

Aryn grabbed his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.

"There's no time! The town guards are looking for you!"

His heart skipped a beat. "Looking for me? Why?"

She hesitated, biting her lip before finally whispering, "Someone saw you with the cloaked man."

Zehroon's blood ran cold.

"They think you're involved with the Blood Veil."

The Blood Veil. The very name sent shivers down his spine. They were notorious, a hidden group that existed in whispers and fear. Some said they were mercenaries, others claimed they were assassins. But the most terrifying rumor was that they dealt in forbidden powers—power that no ordinary human should possess.

"That's ridiculous!" Zehroon whispered harshly. "I don't even know who that man was!"

"It doesn't matter," Aryn said, eyes darting to the street behind her. "They're coming for you. If they think you have any connection to the Blood Veil, they won't ask questions. They'll just—" She swallowed, her voice dropping lower. "Kill you."

The weight of her words crashed down on him.

Run.

He had no choice.

"Come with me," Aryn urged. "I know a way out of the city."

Zehroon hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He grabbed a small satchel, stuffing in whatever little belongings he had. The scroll still pulsed in his hand, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he tucked it safely into his clothes.

Then, they ran.

The city was alive with the sounds of people going about their evening. Merchants were closing their stalls, children laughed as they played, and the scent of freshly cooked food lingered in the air. But none of it mattered.

All Zehroon could hear was his own heartbeat.

Aryn led him through the back alleys, avoiding the main roads. Every shadow felt like a threat. Every passerby seemed like a spy. He kept his head down, his heart hammering in his chest.

Then, voices.

"Check the lower district!"

"If you see him, don't hesitate—capture or kill!"

The guards were close.

Aryn grabbed Zehroon's arm and pulled him into a narrow alley, pressing their backs against the cold stone wall. She peeked around the corner, her breath shallow.

Zehroon clenched his fists. He wasn't strong enough to fight them—not yet.

But something deep inside him whispered otherwise.

"Let me take over."

A sharp pain pulsed from his mark. His vision flickered. The battlefield. The blood. The power.

Aryn's hand on his wrist brought him back.

"The eastern gate is just ahead," she whispered. "Once we get past it, we can escape into the forest."

Zehroon nodded, pushing down the strange sensation inside him.

They moved swiftly, sticking to the shadows. The eastern gate loomed ahead, barely guarded.

Freedom was so close.

Then—

"There they are!"

A voice shouted, and suddenly, everything erupted into chaos.

Four guards. Heavy armor. Armed.

Zehroon's instincts screamed at him to run, but something inside him refused.

The scroll.

The mark.

The power.

It pulsed, awakening something buried deep within him. His vision darkened at the edges.

One of the guards lunged at him.

Zehroon moved.

Faster than he should have.

His body twisted, dodging the blade with an agility he had never possessed before. His foot snapped forward, kicking the guard's knee—hard. A sickening crack echoed as the man collapsed, screaming.

The other guards hesitated.

Zehroon felt it.

The power.

It was no longer asleep.

Aryn's voice barely reached him.

"Zehroon… what are you—"

His eyes flickered to the fallen guard, the scent of blood filling the air.

The whispers returned.

"More. Take more."

His fingers twitched. His vision blurred.

And for the first time in his life, Zehroon felt truly alive.

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