The Weight Of Power

Ronan's body still trembled as he sat in the dirt, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The cavern, the void, the beast—it all felt real, too real, as if part of him had never truly returned. He clenched his fists, feeling the strange, pulsing energy within him. It wasn't like before. It no longer just lingered in the stone; it was inside him.

He had changed.

Doomfang's massive shadow loomed over him. The wyvern's golden eyes studied him with a knowing intensity, a predator watching something becoming.

You are different now, Doomfang said. The beast has marked you.

Ronan swallowed hard, his throat dry as he forced himself to meet the wyvern's gaze. "I saw something… a creature, or a force. It wasn't just a beast. It was something else."

Doomfang's tail flicked behind him. Not all power comes from the living. Some come from the forgotten. The Forsaken.

The word struck deep. The Forsaken. That was what they had called him. The ones in the hoods, the whispers in the void.

A shiver ran through him. "What does it mean?"

The wyvern let out a slow breath, his nostrils flaring. It means you are bound to something greater than yourself. Power like this is not given—it is earned. Claimed.

Ronan looked down at his hands. They felt the same, yet… not. His veins pulsed with something darker, something ancient. He could still feel the remnants of that otherworldly presence inside him, lingering just beneath his skin.

The weight of it pressed down on him.

And with it came a hunger.

A deep, gnawing hunger for more.

It terrified him.

Before he could dwell on it, the rustling of leaves drew his attention. Ronan's body tensed instinctively, his senses sharper than before. The shift in the wind, the subtle movement in the darkness—he could feel it, as though the world itself whispered to him.

Something is watching us.

Doomfang's head snapped toward the trees.

Then, from the shadows, they came.

Three figures stepped into the moonlight, clad in worn leather armor, their faces partially obscured by dark hoods. The leader—a tall man with a scarred face and a jagged blade strapped to his hip—locked eyes with Ronan and smirked.

"Well, well," the man drawled. "What do we have here? A lost little boy with a wyvern?" His tone was mocking, but his posture was tense. He was wary.

Ronan slowly pushed himself to his feet, keeping his hands loose by his sides. His heart pounded, but it wasn't fear—it was awareness. He could feel their movements, the way their weight shifted, the intent behind their steps.

This wasn't just instinct.

It was the mark of the beast.

"You're trespassing," Ronan said, his voice steadier than he expected.

The scarred man chuckled. "Trespassing? Boy, you're in the middle of the wilderness. There's no 'trespassing' out here." His hand drifted toward his sword. "But I'll tell you what—you hand over that fancy stone at your hip, and maybe we won't gut you."

Ronan's fingers brushed against the stone embedded in his belt.

Doomfang let out a deep, guttural growl, his massive wings spreading slightly. The bandits hesitated, but the leader stood firm. "Tch. Thought so. A tamer, then?" He rolled his shoulders. "Doesn't matter. We kill you, we take the wyvern for ourselves."

Ronan's blood ran cold.

They weren't just thieves.

They were poachers.

His grip tightened around the stone.

And something inside him answered.

The moment the bandit leader moved, Ronan's body reacted.

Faster than thought, he ducked to the side, the blade whistling past his ear. His body was faster—sharper. He felt the shift within him, the unnatural awareness of his surroundings. The hunger stirred.

The beast inside wanted blood.

Before the leader could recover, Ronan's fist lashed out, striking the man square in the jaw. The impact was heavier than it should have been—too heavy. The bandit staggered back, a look of shock flashing across his face.

"What the hell—?"

Doomfang roared. The sheer force of it sent the other two bandits reeling. The wyvern lunged, claws raking through one of them, sending him crashing to the ground in a spray of blood.

The leader's eyes widened, and he scrambled back. "Wait—"

Ronan didn't wait.

The beast was in his veins now.

His foot slammed into the ground, propelling him forward with a speed that startled even him. His hands moved on their own, a vicious, brutal efficiency guiding his strikes. His palm shot forward, catching the leader by the throat and lifting him off his feet.

The bandit choked, his hands clawing at Ronan's wrist, but it was useless. Ronan felt the strength coursing through him, raw and unrelenting. He could crush the man's throat with a thought.

And for a moment, he almost did.

The hunger in his blood, the thrill of the fight—it urged him forward.

End him.

Ronan's grip tightened. The leader's struggling weakened.

Doomfang watched, his golden eyes unreadable.

Then, at the last second, Ronan released him.

The bandit collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, scrambling backward on his hands and knees. "M-monster," he wheezed.

Ronan's breath was ragged, his body trembling—not from exhaustion, but from restraint.

The man scrambled to his feet and bolted into the trees, his companion following without hesitation.

Silence fell over the clearing.

Ronan looked down at his hands.

They weren't shaking from fear.

They were shaking because part of him hadn't wanted to stop.

Doomfang exhaled slowly. You feel it now, don't you?

Ronan clenched his fists. "Yeah," he whispered.

The power. The hunger. The beast.

It was inside him now.

And it wasn't leaving.