The world ended at the shoreline.
Not in fire or thunder, not with screams or banners falling—just water. Endless, breathing water, stretching beyond the horizon until sky and sea became the same dull blue. The Darkness Twin stood barefoot on the sand, the wind pulling at his cloak like it wanted to drag him back toward the land he had escaped.
Behind him: stone walls, iron gates, and the echo of a man's final scream swallowed by shadow.
Ahead of him: nothing.
His eyes glowed faintly, a soft purple hue flickering beneath pale lids. The awakening had burned itself into him, not loud, not violent anymore—settled. Heavy. Like a storm that had decided to wait.
He stepped forward.
The ocean did not resist.
Darkness unfurled beneath his feet, spreading like spilled ink across the water's surface. It did not splash. It did not ripple. The sea bent, unwilling or unable to deny him passage. With each step, the distance shortened, continents pulling closer as if the world itself was folding for him.
The wind changed.
The air grew hot.
Dry.
The smell of salt gave way to dust.
By the time his feet touched land again, the sky above him was mercilessly bright.
The city baked under the sun.
Stone buildings clustered together like they were trying to hide from the heat, their surfaces cracked and pale. Narrow streets twisted between them, filled with noise—shouting merchants, clanking chains, animals braying under too-heavy loads. The air was thick with sweat and desperation.
The Darkness Twin stood at the edge of it all, still and out of place. His shadow stretched unnaturally long across the sand-packed ground, twitching as if alive.
He watched.
Men in armor shoved people forward. Chains rattled. A line of slaves moved through the street, wrists bound, eyes downcast. Some were barely more than children.
One of them stumbled.
A boy—skin pulled tight over bone, ribs visible beneath torn cloth. His feet dragged, leaving faint lines in the dust. His eyes were hollow, not crying, not pleading. Just… empty.
A whip cracked.
The sound split the air like a gunshot.
The boy flinched but didn't scream.
Something twisted inside the Darkness Twin's chest.
The guard raised the whip again.
Before thought could catch up to action, the shadow beneath the Darkness Twin surged.
It moved on instinct.
A black tendril lashed out, slicing through the air. The whip didn't snap—it dissolved, breaking apart into drifting ash before it could strike again.
The sound echoed.
Silence followed.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the world erupted.
Someone screamed.
Not anger. Not challenge.
Fear.
"WHAT IS THAT?!"
The slave driver stumbled back, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. "D-DEVIL—!"
The Darkness Twin stepped forward.
The ground beneath his feet darkened, the shadows stretching and writhing like living things. Another pulse rolled out from him—not aimed, not controlled. It slammed into the guards like a wave, sending them flying into walls and carts, armor clanging as bodies hit stone.
People ran.
Merchants abandoned stalls. Mothers grabbed children and fled. A man fell to his knees, pressing his forehead into the dirt, whispering frantic prayers.
The Darkness Twin stopped.
This wasn't how it had gone in his mind.
The slaves scrambled away too, chains clinking as they crawled backward, terror painted across their faces. Some screamed. Some wept openly.
The boy—the skinny one—backed away until his heel caught on a stone and he fell hard onto the ground.
He raised his hands over his head.
"P-please," he sobbed. "Please don't kill me…"
The words hit harder than any weapon.
The Darkness Twin froze.
He looked down at his hands.
At the shadows coiling around his fingers.
This was power. This was what he had become.
And this—this fear—was what the world saw.
Slowly, deliberately, he knelt.
The shadows receded slightly, curling back like restrained beasts. He reached for the chains around the boy's wrists. The metal hissed, glowing faintly before melting and dripping away like liquid silver.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"He broke iron…"
"He didn't even touch it…"
"A curse…"
The boy stared at his freed hands like they didn't belong to him. His shoulders shook, breath coming in short, broken bursts.
"Why?" he whispered.
The Darkness Twin hesitated.
Words were still strange to him. Feelings even more so.
"Because," he said finally, voice low, rough from disuse, "I've been in chains too."
The boy looked up.
Really looked at him.
Not just the shadows. Not just the power.
Him.
"You're… not human," the boy whispered.
The Darkness Twin didn't deny it.
"Maybe not."
He extended his hand.
The boy didn't take it immediately. His fingers twitched, hovering inches away, fear warring with something else—hope, thin and fragile. In the end, desperation won.
He grabbed the Darkness Twin's hand.
It was warm.
That surprised him.
They walked away together, the crowd parting like water around a blade. Whispers followed them, crawling along the walls and streets.
"Monster."
"Demon."
"Living curse."
The Darkness Twin didn't look back.
They didn't speak for a long time.
They walked until the city thinned, buildings giving way to open sand and scattered palms. The sun dipped low, painting the horizon in fire and blood.
Finally, the boy broke the silence.
"What… what should I call you?"
The Darkness Twin stared ahead.
"My name is Mournveil."
The boy thought about that. Then he smiled—a small, crooked thing, like he wasn't used to it.
"Thank you," he said. "I owe you."
The Darkness Twin glanced at him, surprised.
The boy looked back, eyes still scared, still cautious—but alive.
They kept walking.
Two figures against the vast desert.
Behind them, fear spread like wildfire.
Ahead of them, something new was beginning.