Chapter 10: River of Shadows
Chapter 10: River of Shadows
The Dance Forest was now a graveyard of ash and splintered bone, its once-suffocating presence reduced to embers beneath Jack's boots. He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold morning air—black at the edges, tinged with the remnants of Domu's devoured essence. His body thrummed with stolen power, veins darkening like roots beneath his skin before fading once more.
'Feast of Creation, what a fitting name.There's no more feast of a Thousand Eyes, its nolonger the same ritual. I've remade the ritual I've changed it in the most fundamental level so now it's name must also change'
The ritual had begun the moment Domu's last root had withered in his grip. Now, the demon's essence churned inside him, a storm of foreign memories and instincts fighting for dominance. It would take weeks, perhaps a month, to fully digest—to make Domu's power *his* rather than a parasite clinging to his soul.
Jack flexed his fingers, watching shadows ripple across his knuckles. *Unrefined. Wasteful.* He was still thinking like a man, not like what he had become. Daruga's instincts lurked beneath his consciousness, whispering of better ways to rend, to consume. He needed time.
But time was a luxury he didn't have.
"Scout," he commanded, and darkness peeled from his shoulders, taking the form of two crows. Their feathers drank the light, eyes gleaming with unnatural awareness. One burst eastward, the other west.
An hour later, the western crow returned, its mind humming with images—a river, clear and cutting through the land like a silver knife, and beside it, a dirt road bearing fresh tracks. *Human.*
Jack grinned. Civilization.
The second crow, the one sent east, found nothing of note, so he recalled it with a thought. The creature dissolved into smoke as it merged back with him, its memories absorbed in an instant.
Without hesitation, Jack's body *unmade* itself. Bones cracked, flesh dissolved, and where a man had stood, a crow now perched—larger than any natural bird, its wings edged in void. With a beat of its inky feathers, it took flight.
---
Ten kilometers south.
The river was alive, its currents whispering over smooth stones, fish darting like silver daggers beneath its surface. Jack landed on the bank, his form shuddering as he reassembled into flesh and blood. His clothes—tattered, bloodstained rags—peeled away as he stepped into the water.
The cold bit into his skin, but he welcomed it. Grime and old blood sloughed off, swirling downstream. He scrubbed with the remains of his shirt, nails scraping away the filth of battle and decay. When he emerged, he was raw, clean, *new.*
Naked, he draped his washed clothes over a sun-warmed rock and stood at the river's edge, studying himself in the reflection.
Bronze skin, tight with muscle earned from survival, not vanity. Black hair, cropped short, still dripping. Eyes that were no longer entirely human—pupils too wide, swallowing the light. And beneath it all, the thrum of something *other.*
He bared his teeth. The face staring back didn't flinch.
'Good.'
A sound cut through his thoughts—hooves on dirt, the creak of wheels.
Jack turned, senses flaring.
A carriage.
---
Lady Elara Veyne had seen many things in her nineteen years—the opulence of noble courts, the brutality of war mages, even the grotesque beauty of a demon's corpse hung from the gates of Lorian Academy. But she had *never* seen a man like the one standing bare as dawn beside the river.
Her carriage rolled to a stop without her command. The knights flanking it tensed, hands drifting toward their swords.
Elara leaned out the window, her black silk gloves tightening on the frame.
The man didn't move. Didn't cover himself. He simply watched them, head tilted like a predator considering prey.
And gods, he was beautiful.
Not in the polished way of courtiers, but in the manner of a blade left in the rain—sharp, unapologetic, edges honed by use. His body was a map of violence: scars crisscrossing his ribs, a fresh wound still knitting itself shut on his thigh.
"Milady," Sir Roran, her captain, growled. "We should move on. That's no ordinary man."
Elara ignored him. "You there!" she called, voice ringing with the authority of her bloodline. "Are you in need of assistance?"
The man's lips curled. Not a smile. A challenge. "Depends on what you're offering."
His voice was rough, edged with something dark. It sent a thrill down her spine.
Roran stepped forward. "You will cover yourself when addressing Lady Veyne."
The man glanced down at his nakedness, then back up. "Why? Does it offend you?"
Elara laughed—a bright, unexpected sound. "Not in the slightest." She turned to Roran. "Give him your cloak."
The knight stiffened. "Milady—"
"Now."
With a glare, Roran unclasped his travel cloak and tossed it. The man caught it one-handed, swinging the fabric around his shoulders with practiced ease. The dark wool draped over his frame, but did nothing to soften the danger radiating from him.
"Better?" he asked, mocking.
Elara's smile sharpened. "Marginally. Where are you headed?"
"Nowhere in particular."
"Liar." She tilted her head. "Men like you always have a destination."
"And what kind of man am I?"
"The kind who stands naked in the wilds after reducing a forest to ash."
His eyes flashed—surprise, then calculation. "You saw that?"
"Smelled it," she corrected. "Rot and power cling to you, stranger."
For the first time, something like interest flickered in his gaze. "Jack."
"Jack," she repeated, testing the name. "I am Elara Veyne, heir to House Veyne and a fourth-year scholar at Lorian Academy."
Recognition sparked in his eyes. *Lorian.* The most prestigious—and ruthless—academy for the magically gifted on the continent.
"And?" he prompted.
"And," she said, leaning further out the window, "I think you should come with us."
Roran hissed. "Absolutely not—"
"Why?" Jack interrupted, ignoring the knight.
Elara's grin turned wicked. "Because you're interesting. And Lorian Academy loves interesting things."
Silence stretched between them. The river murmured. The wind carried the scent of crushed grass and distant storms.
Jack exhaled, shadows writhing at his feet.
"Fine."
---
The knights were tense, their hands never far from their weapons as Jack climbed into the carriage. The interior was lush—cushioned seats, a small brass brazier glowing with enchanted warmth, shelves lined with books and odd trinkets.
Elara sat across from him, legs crossed, watching him like a scholar might examine a new specimen.
"You're not afraid of me," Jack noted.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
She shrugged. "Most people are fools." Reaching into a compartment, she produced a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Drink?"
He took the offered glass, watching as she poured a deep red liquid. "You invite naked strangers into your carriage often?"
"Only the intriguing ones." She sipped her wine. "Tell me, Jack—what were you doing in the remains of the Dance Forest?"
"Killing something that needed killing."
"A demon?"
His fingers tightened around the glass. "You're well-informed."
"Lorian teaches us to recognize the stench of dead gods and older things." Her gaze dropped to his chest, where the faintest outline of black veins still pulsed beneath his skin. "You swallowed its power."
A statement, not a question.
Jack didn't deny it.
Elara's smile widened. "Oh, they're going to love you at the academy."
The carriage rolled onward, the river fading behind them. Ahead lay Lorian—a place of knowledge, power, and knives in the dark.
Jack leaned back, shadows curling at his fingertips.
'Good.'
He needed sharper knives.