Shadows Beneath the Skin

Damian's heart thundered in his chest, each slow beat echoing through his ears like a distant drum. His vision blurred between light and shadow—colors sharper, sounds louder. His body felt both alive and alien at the same time.

The taste of his own blood still lingered on his tongue—sweet, powerful, forbidden.

He gripped the edge of the wooden table, his knuckles white.

"What... what is happening to me?" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lucian stood in the shadows, his icy blue eyes gleaming. His face was unreadable, but there was a trace of something hidden beneath the surface—satisfaction.

"You've taken the first step," Lucian said quietly. "Your blood is no longer sleeping... it's beginning to awaken."

Damian's chest heaved as the fire in his veins twisted through him. It was unlike anything he had ever felt—both agony and pleasure.

The hunger gnawed at him, deeper than before—no longer a distant itch, but a burning ache lodged beneath his ribs.

His eyes flicked toward Lucian, fear and rage flickering behind them.

"You tricked me," Damian growled, his voice sharper than before.

Lucian's expression didn't change.

"No, Damian... I set you free."

Damian's fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. His senses were sharper than ever—he could smell the damp stone walls, hear the faint creak of wood beams overhead, and the subtle shift of Lucian's heartbeat, steady and calm.

Every sound, every scent... it was like the world had opened itself to him.

But beneath that power, there was something darker.

Something hungry.

"You feel it now, don't you?" Lucian stepped forward, his voice low. "The strength... the hunger... the curse."

Damian's breath caught as the word hung in the air.

Curse.

His pulse quickened. "You should've warned me."

Lucian's gaze hardened. "Would you have listened?"

Damian clenched his jaw, his mind warring between anger and fear. He wanted to deny it—wanted to fight the pull inside him. But the truth was written across his own skin.

He could feel the change now.

Every beat of his heart was slower... more controlled. His wounds didn't ache like they should. His breath no longer came in gasps, but smooth, measured draws—like his body was adjusting to something new.

"I don't want this," Damian muttered, shaking his head.

Lucian's voice was cold.

"It doesn't matter what you want... it matters what you are."

Damian's heart thudded painfully in his chest.

He staggered back, pressing against the cold stone wall.

"I'm not like you." His voice trembled.

Lucian's lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

"No... not yet."

Damian's breath quickened. His mind raced, searching for a way out—any way to escape the darkness clawing at his insides.

But deep down, he already knew the truth.

There was no going back.

"You asked me to teach you how to fight," Lucian said softly, stepping closer. "But before you learn to fight the Elders... you must first fight yourself."

Damian's heart pounded harder, sweat slicking his palms.

"You want me to control this?"

Lucian's eyes flicked to the faint cut still healing on Damian's palm.

"No." His voice was a whisper.

"I want you to master it."

Damian's throat tightened.

He could feel the hunger thrumming beneath his skin—alive, waiting.

It terrified him.

Lucian circled him slowly, his presence like a wolf stalking wounded prey.

"You think this curse will break you..." Lucian said. "But bloodlines like yours? They were made to survive."

Damian's eyes darted toward him.

"What bloodline?"

Lucian's smirk faded, his gaze turning sharper.

"You are not just any half-blood, Damian." He leaned in close, his voice a low murmur.

"You are the last son of House Valtor."

The name hit Damian like a hammer.

He had never heard it before… and yet, something deep inside him stirred at the sound of it.

A memory he couldn't reach—like a whisper buried beneath centuries of silence.

"I... I don't know what that means."

Lucian's cold smile returned.

"You will."

Damian's mind reeled. His breathing quickened, panic rising in his chest.

He felt the hunger clawing at him again—stronger this time.

"You want to run from this," Lucian said. "Every half-blood does at first. But no matter how far you run, it will always find you."

Damian clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms until fresh blood welled up.

Lucian's eyes flicked to the crimson drops—his pupils dilating ever so slightly.

"Control it," Lucian murmured.

Damian squeezed his eyes shut.

The hunger howled inside him.

Every instinct begged him to give in—to taste again.

His breathing quickened. The world blurred at the edges.

Lucian's voice cut through the storm.

"Master the hunger... or let it master you."

Damian's eyes snapped open.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

Slowly, he forced himself to unclench his fists—letting the blood drip to the cold stone floor without touching his lips.

Lucian's eyes gleamed with something like approval.

"Good."

Damian's chest heaved as the hunger receded—just barely.

But it was still there, lurking beneath his skin.

Waiting.

"You'll fight this battle every day for the rest of your life," Lucian said softly. "Some lose. Some become monsters."

His gaze sharpened.

"But those who survive... become something far worse."

Damian's breath caught.

"What?"

Lucian leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Legends."

The word sent a chill through Damian's bones.

He felt the weight of his bloodline pressing down on him—ancient, powerful... and deadly.

In that moment, he realized there was no running from what he was.

He could fight the hunger. He could cling to his fading humanity.

But in the end—

The blood would always win.

Lucian stepped back into the shadows.

"Rest now, Damian." His voice echoed through the dark. "Tomorrow... we begin your true training."

Damian sank against the wall, his breath ragged.

The hunger stirred inside him, whispering in the dark.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow...

He would fight.

Even if it meant losing everything he had ever been.

Even if it meant becoming something he could never undo.