The Price of Power

Riven's body ached. Every muscle, every bone screamed in protest as the Organization's soldiers dragged him through the halls of their stronghold. His vision swam, blurring in and out, but it wasn't from the pain. It was from something deeper—something pulling at the edges of his mind.

Selene's voice.

"You can't keep running from what you are."

His fingers twitched. The warmth of her presence felt so real, so close, but when he blinked, she was gone. Nothing but cold stone walls and the rhythmic stomp of boots escorting him deeper into the base.

They reached a holding chamber, reinforced with enchantments woven into the walls. The moment he was shoved inside, he felt it—an unnatural stillness settling over him. The same way a predator senses a cage being locked.

A test.

He didn't resist as they fastened thick restraints around his wrists, chains laced with binding sigils. These weren't ordinary shackles—they were designed to suppress power, to suffocate it beneath layers of runes. The guards exchanged wary glances as they finished securing him, as if uncertain whether even this was enough.

Then, the door swung open again.

Veydris stepped in, his expression one of quiet amusement. He had the air of a man who had expected this outcome all along, as if watching a chess match play out exactly as he had predicted.

"I knew you had potential," he said, pacing a slow circle around Riven. "But that… that was something else."

Riven remained silent. He focused on his breathing—slow, controlled, giving them nothing.

Veydris smirked. "You could have played it safe, remained hidden. But instead, you exposed yourself. And now, every faction with a stake in this war will be hunting you."

Riven's eyes flickered upward. "Let them come."

Veydris let out a low chuckle. "You really think you're untouchable?"

He gestured to the door. A second later, it opened again, and several high-ranking officials entered. Riven studied them one by one, noting the way they moved, the way they looked at him. These weren't just interrogators. They were decision-makers. Executioners, if necessary.

A woman with piercing golden eyes stepped forward first. "We need to understand what you are."

Her voice was smooth, controlled. But there was an undercurrent of something else—curiosity laced with fear.

Another figure—a tall man with deep scars lining his arms—crossed his arms. "And if you're a threat."

A third, older than the rest, leaned back against the table, fingers steepled. "You're either with us… or you won't leave this room alive."

Riven met his gaze. This was expected. He had known from the moment his shadows surged across the battlefield that this moment would come. He had known the moment Lucien Graves fled, whispering his warning into the night.

He had exposed himself.

And now, the vultures were circling.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken challenges. The golden-eyed woman studied him like a puzzle she was trying to solve.

"You weren't given this power," she finally said. "You were born with it."

The shadows inside him stirred, restless despite the suppression sigils. He had felt their hunger back in the fight—how easily they had consumed Lucien's chains, how eagerly they had risen to obey him. He had pushed himself farther than ever before, and for the first time, he wasn't entirely sure if the shadows obeyed him… or if he was simply riding the storm.

"I asked you a question," the woman pressed. "What are you?"

Riven exhaled slowly. Then, finally, he spoke. "I don't owe you answers."

The scarred man scoffed. "You're in no position to make demands."

Veydris raised a hand, silencing him. "No," he said smoothly. "Let him talk." He turned to Riven, eyes gleaming. "You're playing the long game, aren't you? You're not resisting, not fighting back—not yet. Because you know if you did, you might win… but not without cost."

Riven held his gaze. Let the silence be its own answer.

Veydris chuckled. "Smart. But you misunderstand something." He leaned in. "You think this is still your game?"

The golden-eyed woman moved closer, her gaze dissecting him. "You have an army," she said softly. "Every shadow you raise… is a soldier. We've seen your kind before."

Riven's muscles tensed. "You're wrong."

Her lips curled slightly. "Am I?"

The scarred man leaned against the wall. "Doesn't matter. If he won't talk, we'll find out another way." He snapped his fingers, and two soldiers stepped forward. One of them held a vial filled with a thick, dark liquid.

A memory extractor.

Riven's jaw tightened. He had seen what those could do—how they could rip through a person's mind, drag secrets to the surface, leave them hollowed out.

Veydris watched him carefully. "Last chance, Shadowborn. Give us what we want… or we take it."

The shadows inside him thrashed. The binding sigils burned against his skin, straining to contain the storm brewing inside him.

They thought they had him cornered.

They thought the chains, the sigils, the threats were enough.

Fools.

A slow, dangerous smile touched Riven's lips. "You don't understand what you're playing with."

The golden-eyed woman hesitated. Veydris's smirk faltered. Even the scarred man shifted slightly.

Then the lights flickered.

A ripple of energy swept through the room.

The sigils on the walls—ones meant to suppress abilities—began to dim.

And the shadows whispered.

Louder.

Hungrier.

The room grew colder. The soldiers flinched. The vial of dark liquid trembled in the interrogator's grasp.

Riven looked up, meeting Veydris's gaze head-on. "If you think you can chain me, you've already lost."

And then, the lights shattered.

Darkness fell.

And the real interrogation began.