Seeds of Doubt

The sunrise over Arathis did little to warm the chill that had settled in Leo's bones. The light spread over the barricade like a ghost, illuminating the scars of battle and betrayal.

The survivors gathered near the smoldering walls, their faces a blend of exhaustion and suspicion. Marin's treachery had left a wound deeper than any blade.

Leo stood at the center, his machete resting across his shoulder, the rune along its blade a dull glow. He'd cleaned the blood from the steel, but the memory of Marin's last breath clung to him like a curse.

Kara stood to his right, her rifle cradled against her chest. Her eyes were sharp, but the lines around them had deepened. "We trusted her," she said, voice low. "How many more are like her?"

Jarek's axe leaned against a broken crate. He was sharpening it again, the scrape of stone against steel a steady rhythm. "Trust is a blade that cuts both ways," he muttered. "We'll have to learn to wield it better."

Aícha's staff glowed faintly, her face pale with exhaustion. "We can't survive without trust," she said. "If we start seeing traitors in every shadow, we've already lost."

Rhys's hands shook as he reloaded his rifle. "But what if we're already lost?" he whispered. "What if the darkness is inside us now?"

Leo's breath caught. He looked at each of them—fighters, survivors, friends—and saw the same doubt reflected back at him.

Nara's blade rested across her knees as she sat near the barricade. "We can't afford to hesitate," she said. "Hesitation kills."

Leo's jaw tightened. "Hesitation also kills the wrong people," he said. "We're not butchers."

A hush fell over the survivors, the weight of the night pressing down on them.

A shout broke the silence—a young scout, eyes wide with fear. "They're coming again!" he cried. "From the south gate—dozens of them!"

Jarek's axe rose, his face hardening. "Then let's remind them we're not broken yet," he growled.

Kara's rifle snapped to her shoulder. "Let's move," she said.

Leo's machete flared as he gripped it tight. "Stay close," he ordered. "We hold the line."

The survivors scrambled to position, every face pale but determined.

And Leo stood at the forefront, the rune on his blade burning with a defiance he wasn't sure he still felt.

The south gate shuddered under the darkness's assault, the old steel groaning with each blow. Smoke curled from torches jammed into cracks along the barricade, casting the alley in shifting shadows.

Leo gripped his machete so tightly his knuckles whitened. The rune along its blade burned a defiant silver. Every breath tasted of smoke and sweat.

Jarek's axe swung in a wide arc, cutting down a twisted shape that lunged from the darkness. "They're faster now," he grunted, wiping black ichor from his beard.

Kara's rifle cracked in short, controlled bursts. "They're learning," she spat. "They're testing us."

Aícha's staff glowed like a beacon, holding back the darkness at the gate. Her face was pale, sweat streaking her forehead. "It's like they know," she gasped. "Like they know where we're weakest."

Rhys reloaded, his hands trembling. "They do," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "They were inside us. Marin knew everything—our patrols, our plans, our names."

A shape lunged at him from the shadows. Leo's machete swung, severing it in a spray of black. "We can't think like that," he shouted. "If we doubt each other, we're already dead."

Rhys flinched, his eyes wide and haunted. "But what if it's true?" he asked. "What if there's another traitor?"

Jarek's axe came down hard, splitting a shadow-thing that clawed at the barricade. "Then we fight them like the rest," he growled. "But we fight."

Aícha's staff flared, forcing back another wave of darkness. "If we let suspicion blind us," she cried, "we'll be too busy fighting ourselves to see the real enemy."

A shriek split the air—a scout's voice, high and terrified. Leo's heart clenched. "What now?" he shouted.

A runner stumbled into the torchlight, his tunic torn and bloodied. "The darkness—it's splitting us up," he gasped. "They're breaking through the old sewer tunnels—north wall!"

Kara's rifle swung around. "Damn it," she snarled. "They're flanking us."

Leo's jaw tightened. "Jarek, with me. Kara, hold this line."

Jarek's grin was a slash of teeth. "With pleasure," he said.

Leo moved through the smoke, every sense screaming. The north wall loomed like a dying fortress, its stone cracked and pitted. Shadows writhed there—alive, shifting.

Nara's blade flashed as she appeared from the darkness. "I'm already here," she said. "They're coming."

Leo joined her, his machete glowing. "Then let's make them pay," he said.

The darkness hit like a wave—shapes with too many eyes, claws that scraped the stone. Leo's blade danced, each strike a defiance. Nara moved beside him, her movements a blur of steel.

"Watch your back," she snapped.

Leo grunted as he parried a clawed hand, his own blade biting deep. "Always," he said.

But in the chaos, he saw them—survivors with eyes wide, weapons trembling, backs pressed to the wall. Fear had hollowed them out, made them brittle.

"Leo!" a voice screamed. He turned just in time to catch a blade aimed for his neck—Marin's blade, but wielded by another.

His machete swung, parrying the blow. The attacker's face was pale, streaked with tears. "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I couldn't—"

Leo's gut twisted. "Who made you do this?" he demanded.

She crumpled, the darkness seeping from her eyes. "They're everywhere," she gasped. "Inside us…"

Then she fell, lifeless.

Leo's heart pounded, the rune on his blade fading to embers.

Nara's voice was cold as death. "This is what doubt does," she spat. "It kills us from the inside."

Leo's hand trembled as he looked at the survivors, at the shadows that still clung to the walls.

The darkness wasn't just outside the gates. It was here—among them.

Smoke drifted like a living thing, curling around Leo's legs as he stepped back from the fallen girl. Her eyes were glassy, empty—a testament to the darkness's grip. He wanted to scream, but his voice caught in his throat.

Nara stood over the body, her blade still dripping. "This is what happens," she spat, voice raw. "Every time we trust, it costs us."

Leo's breath came in ragged pulls. "We can't fight the darkness by killing our own," he said.

Jarek stalked forward, his axe glinting. "What do you call that then?" he growled, pointing at the corpse. "She was going to kill you."

Aícha appeared at his side, her staff glowing weakly. "And she was a victim," she whispered. "The darkness didn't just kill her—it made her a weapon."

Rhys moved through the smoke, his eyes wide, hands trembling. "What if it's me next?" he rasped. "What if it's already in my head?"

Leo's stomach clenched. He'd thought it himself, in the long nights after Marin's betrayal. He'd felt the darkness's whisper—a promise of rest, of surrender.

A scream rang out from deeper in the ruins—a voice that rose and died in a single breath.

Kara's rifle was already raised. "We need to regroup," she barked. "We're too exposed here."

Jarek's jaw tightened. "If we pull back now, we lose the wall," he snapped.

Leo's eyes met his, the rune on his blade pulsing faintly. "If we break here," he said, "we lose more than a wall. We lose each other."

Aícha's staff flickered, her face pale. "The darkness feeds on our doubt," she said. "It wants us to turn on each other."

Nara's gaze was hard. "Then we give it a different meal," she hissed. "We stand."

Rhys shivered. "I don't know if I can," he whispered.

Leo placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. "Then I'll stand for both of us," he said.

The words were simple, but they felt like a promise. A fragile thread of hope in a city of ash.

Another scream, this one closer. Leo's heart slammed in his chest. "Positions!" he shouted.

The survivors fell into a loose line, weapons raised.

Shapes moved through the smoke—shadows that shifted and crawled. A voice rose from the dark, cold and mocking. "You can't save them all, Leo," it hissed. "Every soul you fight for will betray you."

Leo's machete gleamed. "Shut up," he growled.

The voice laughed—a sound like shattered glass. "Your own doubts will kill you faster than any blade."

Jarek's axe swung, carving through a tendril of black. "Let it talk," he rumbled. "We'll shut it up soon enough."

Aícha's staff flared. "Leo," she cried, her voice tight. "It's here."

The darkness surged—a wall of shadow that rose and fell like a wave. Leo's heart pounded. He met the tide head-on, his blade a silver scream.

The survivors fought like cornered animals—every cut, every bullet a prayer.

Through it all, Leo could feel the doubt, the whisper that maybe they couldn't win. That maybe Marin had been right.

But he buried it deep.

He met Jarek's eyes across the chaos. "We hold," he shouted.

Jarek's grin was blood and fury. "We hold," he echoed.

The darkness hissed, recoiling. The tide faltered.

Kara's rifle roared. Aícha's staff blazed. Rhys's hands steadied. Nara's blade danced.

And Leo felt something shift—some tiny, defiant spark that refused to die.

The darkness retreated, but the price was high. Bodies lay twisted among the rubble—some familiar, some strangers.

Leo stood in the smoke, his machete heavy in his hand.

"We can't let this break us," he said. "We can't."

Aícha's staff dimmed, her face drawn. "It already has," she whispered.

But Leo shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "We're still breathing."

And in the silence that followed, even the darkness seemed to pause.