Two weeks after the evaluation, Nolan's nightmares changed.
They'd always been bad—reliving his family's death, the werewolves, his father's dying words. But those were his memories, his trauma. Painful but familiar.
These new dreams were different.
He stood on battlefields he'd never seen, wielding magic he'd never learned, looking at faces with cold calculation instead of empathy. Watching cities burn and feeling... satisfaction. Pride in destruction.
And when he woke, gasping and covered in sweat, the emotions lingered. For just a few seconds before his own horror crashed back in, he would feel that alien satisfaction, that cruel pride.
Then it would fade, leaving him sick and shaking.
He didn't tell anyone. What would he say? I'm dreaming someone else's memories and enjoying atrocities? They'd think he was losing his mind.
Maybe he was.
The weight in his chest continued its patient silence, offering no explanations, no commentary. Just presence. Heavy. Constant. Growing.
"You look like death," Darion observed over breakfast one morning.
"Thanks. Always appreciate your tact."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you actually slept through the night?" The dwarf's expression was genuinely concerned. "You've got circles under your circles."
"Just nightmares. Nothing new."
"About your family?" Kaida asked gently.
"Yeah. About my family." Not entirely a lie. His family featured in the dreams sometimes—burning, screaming, dying over and over while dream-Nolan watched with detached interest, analyzing their deaths like a scholar studying insects.
He hated those dreams most of all.
"Maybe you should talk to someone," Selene suggested. "The Guild has counselors who specialize in trauma. After what you went through—"
"I'm fine. Just need better sleep." Nolan stood, grabbing his plate. "I'm going to get some air before training."
Outside, the morning was crisp and clear. Eldoria was waking up around him—merchants opening shops, workers heading to their jobs, children playing in the streets. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by darkness living in their chests.
Nolan found himself at the training yard behind the townhouse. The space was empty this early, just packed dirt and practice dummies. He drew his axe, needing to move, to fight, to do something physical that might quiet his racing mind.
The first swing felt good. Clean. His.
The second connected with the practice dummy's torso, blue energy crackling along the blade. Still his control, his power, his choice.
By the tenth swing, something shifted.
The movements became smoother. More efficient. His footwork adjusted without conscious thought into patterns he'd never practiced. The axe moved through forms he'd never learned, each strike perfectly balanced, perfectly deadly.
This isn't me, he realized with growing horror. These aren't my techniques.
But his body kept moving, muscle memory that wasn't his executing combinations he'd never trained. The blue energy flowed more smoothly than it ever had, responding to intent before he'd even formed conscious thought.
It was beautiful. Terrifying. Wrong.
He forced himself to stop, stepping back from the dummy, breathing hard.
"Impressive."
Nolan spun. Varrick stood in the doorway, morning tea in hand, watching with interest.
"How long have you been there?"
"Long enough to see that last sequence. Remarkable technique for someone who's only been training a few months." Varrick approached, eyes on the practice dummy. "Those weren't the forms Selene taught you."
"I... I was improvising."
"Improvising." Varrick smiled. "If that's improvisation, you have quite the intuitive grasp of combat flow. Those movements were textbook—advanced textbook, the kind taught to military officers and master warriors."
"Maybe I saw them somewhere. Books, or watching other fighters train."
"Perhaps." But Varrick's eyes lingered on him thoughtfully. "Or perhaps your late awakening came with unexpected benefits. Sometimes the mind compensates for lost time by absorbing information at accelerated rates. Muscle memory forming from mere observation."
It was a reasonable explanation. Almost believable.
If it weren't for the fact that Nolan knew exactly where those movements came from. Whose memories his body was accessing. Whose combat experience was bleeding into his own.
"I should get ready for my session with Master Lyra," Nolan said, sheathing his axe.
"Of course. But Nolan?" Varrick's expression grew kind, concerned. "If you're having difficulties—nightmares, stress, anything troubling you—my door is always open. You're not alone in this."
"Thank you. I'll remember that."
As Nolan headed inside, he felt Varrick's eyes on his back. Thoughtful. Calculating.
Or was that just paranoia?
Master Lyra's training session was brutal.
She'd moved beyond basic control exercises into combat applications—channeling power while under physical stress, maintaining barriers while dodging attacks, splitting focus between multiple simultaneous threats.
"You're improving rapidly," she observed as Nolan held a barrier against her sustained water blast while simultaneously shaping energy spheres. "Your multitasking was abysmal two weeks ago. Now it's merely poor."
"High praise."
"It's accurate assessment." She intensified the water pressure. The barrier flickered but held. "However, I've noticed something concerning."
Nolan's concentration slipped. One of the energy spheres destabilized.
"Your power flows too smoothly sometimes. Like you're not consciously controlling it—it's controlling itself." She released the water pressure, letting him rest. "That can be dangerous. Magic requires intent, conscious direction. If your power starts acting independently, even in helpful ways, it suggests your connection to it is becoming... complicated."
"What do you mean, complicated?"
"Magic is will made manifest. Your will should be the singular driving force. But sometimes, in cases of trauma or extreme stress, a mage's power can develop what seems like autonomous tendencies—acting on subconscious desires or fears." Master Lyra studied him carefully. "Has your magic ever done something you didn't consciously direct?"
During the evaluation. Hiding itself. Integrating deeper.
"Sometimes in combat it reacts faster than I can think. Defensive barriers forming before I realize I'm in danger."
"That's normal survival instinct. But if it starts acting contrary to your intent, or doing things you actively try to prevent..." She paused. "Report it immediately. That's a sign of control degradation, which can be extremely dangerous."
"I will."
"Good. Now, again. Barrier and spheres, but this time I'm adding a physical component." She pulled out her practice staff. "Maintain your magic while defending against direct attacks. Begin."
The session continued for another brutal hour. By the end, Nolan was exhausted, muscles aching, mana reserves depleted.
"Better," Master Lyra said. "You're developing combat instincts at an impressive rate. Keep training like this, and you'll reach Advanced Core classification ahead of schedule."
Nolan just nodded, too tired to respond properly.
As he left the Guild, he thought about what she'd said. Power acting independently. Control degradation. Dangerous.
She had no idea how accurate that assessment was.
The next mission came two days later—another escort contract, this one taking a scholarly expedition into the hills east of the capital. Five academics studying ancient ruins, needing protection from wildlife and possible bandit activity.
Standard work. Easy money.
Except nothing felt easy anymore.
The journey out was uneventful. The scholars were pleasant company—enthusiastic about their research, happy to explain the historical significance of the ruins they were visiting. One of them, an elderly human professor named Aldwin, took particular interest in Nolan.
"You have an unusual energy signature," he observed during a rest stop. "I've been studying magical theory for forty years, and I can't quite classify your power."
"Master Lyra calls it raw mana manifestation."
"Yes, yes, but that's just a label for 'we don't understand it.'" Professor Aldwin pulled out a small crystal device. "May I? Just a quick scan, purely academic interest."
Before Nolan could refuse, the professor waved the crystal near him. It glowed softly, displaying patterns that made the old man's eyebrows rise.
"Remarkable. Your mana doesn't just lack elemental affinity—it actively resists classification. Like it's..." He paused, frowning. "Like it's cloaked somehow. Deliberately obscured."
The weight in Nolan's chest pressed harder.
"Or maybe your equipment is faulty," Selene suggested, stepping closer. "Come on, Professor. Let's catch up with the others."
After Aldwin moved away, Selene lowered her voice. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just tired of being poked and analyzed."
"I get it. But he meant well. They're just excited about magical theory." She glanced ahead at the scholars. "Still, keep your distance. Academic types can get obsessive when they find something interesting."
They reached the ruins by late afternoon—crumbling stone structures half-reclaimed by forest, covered in moss and ancient carvings. The scholars scattered immediately, examining walls, taking notes, making sketches.
The Warriors Four took up defensive positions, watching for threats.
"Boring," Darion declared after an hour of nothing happening. "I vote we establish that escort duty is the worst kind of contract. Standing around watching scholars get excited about rocks."
"It pays well for minimal risk," Kaida countered. "I'll take boring over nearly dying any day."
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"It died somewhere around the third time we were almost killed this month."
Nolan barely heard their banter. His attention was on the ruins themselves. Something about them felt... familiar. Like he'd seen them before, though he knew he hadn't.
He approached one of the larger structures—a partially collapsed building with a doorway still intact. The carvings around the entrance were worn but visible. Symbols he didn't recognize but somehow understood.
Warning, they said. Sealed within. Do not enter.
How did he know that? He couldn't read ancient languages.
But Diablo could.
"Interesting, aren't they?" Professor Aldwin appeared beside him. "We believe this was a containment facility. The ancients sealed dangerous artifacts here, protecting them from those who might misuse their power."
"What kind of artifacts?"
"Weapons, mostly. Items of terrible power created during the Age of Shadows. The Thaelori helped seal many of them away, preventing them from falling into the wrong hands."
The Thaelori. The ancient race that had sealed Diablo. That had split his power and hidden it in two vessels.
"Did it work? The sealing?"
"For the most part. Though some seals fail over time. Degradation, damage, or simply the passage of centuries wearing them down." Aldwin touched one of the symbols reverently. "That's part of what we're studying—understanding how the ancient seals were constructed, so modern seal-crafters can maintain or repair them."
A thought occurred to Nolan—sudden, hopeful. "If you understood how the seals worked, could you... strengthen them? Make them permanent?"
"In theory, perhaps. Though seal-craft at that level is practically a lost art. There are only a handful of masters left who understand the principles, and none who can match the Thaelori's skill." The professor smiled. "Why do you ask? Planning to seal away something dangerous?"
Yes, Nolan thought. Myself.
"Just curious," he said aloud.
As the sun began setting, the scholars reluctantly agreed to make camp. They'd return tomorrow to continue their research, but traveling in darkness through these hills was foolish.
The Warriors Four established a camp perimeter while the academics set up their tents. Watches were assigned—Nolan drew middle watch with Darion.
Sleep came reluctantly, and with it, the dreams.
This time he stood in these exact ruins, but they weren't ruins. They were pristine, newly built, and he was directing workers in placing artifacts within the sealed chambers. His hands—not his hands, broader, stronger—traced sealing symbols in the air while he explained their function to apprentices.
This is how you bind power, dream-Nolan heard himself saying in a voice that wasn't his. Layer upon layer of containment, each seal reinforcing the others. The artifact becomes untouchable, unreachable, forgotten.
Until the seals fail, one apprentice said.
All seals fail eventually. We can only delay the inevitable.
Nolan woke gasping, Darion's hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, easy. Just a nightmare."
"Yeah. Nightmare." Nolan sat up, heart pounding. The ruins around them looked different now—not just through dream-memory, but with understanding of their purpose, their construction, their eventual failure.
Knowledge he shouldn't have. Couldn't have.
Unless it wasn't his knowledge at all.
"You've been having a lot of nightmares lately," Darion observed quietly. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Fair enough. But Nolan?" The dwarf's expression was serious. "Whatever's bothering you, whatever you're carrying—you've got people who care. You don't have to face everything alone."
"I know. Thanks."
But Darion was wrong. This burden, Nolan did have to face alone. Because telling anyone the truth meant exposing them to danger. The cult was hunting for the bearer of the seal. Anyone who knew Nolan's secret became a target.
Better they stay ignorant and safe.
The rest of the watch passed in silence. When dawn came, the scholars resumed their work with renewed enthusiasm. Professor Aldwin spent the morning examining the main structure's sealing symbols, making detailed sketches.
"Fascinating," he kept muttering. "The mathematical precision, the layered redundancy, the elegant efficiency..."
Nolan watched from a distance, feeling the weight in his chest pulse with each symbol the professor examined. Like the darkness within recognized these seals as kindred—fellow prisons, fellow cages.
And just like the professor said, all seals failed eventually.
The question was: when Nolan's seal finally failed completely, what would emerge?
They returned to Eldoria that evening, scholars satisfied with their research, Warriors Four paid for an uneventful job.
"See?" Selene said as they walked through the gate. "Easy money. No combat, no danger, no stress."
"Speak for yourself," Kaida muttered. "Professor Aldwin cornered me for an hour discussing mana theory. I thought I'd never escape."
"That's what you get for being smart," Darion said. "People assume you want to talk about smart things."
"A terrible burden."
They returned to the townhouse to find Varrick waiting with news.
"There's been a development," he said, his expression grave. "The Council received reports of a major cult gathering three days' ride northwest. Abandoned fortress, at least forty members, possibly more."
"A gathering for what?" Selene asked.
"Unknown. But the Council is organizing a response—multiple adventurer teams working with military units for a coordinated strike." Varrick looked at each of them. "The Warriors Four are being specifically requested. Your experience with cult activities makes you valuable assets."
"When do we leave?" Selene's voice was all business.
"Two days. Planning session tomorrow at the Council chambers. This will be dangerous—larger scale than anything you've faced before. But also an opportunity to strike a significant blow against the Eternal Flame."
After Varrick left, the team gathered in the common room.
"Forty cultists minimum," Darion said. "That's... a lot."
"That's why they're sending multiple teams and military support," Selene replied. "We won't be alone."
"Still dangerous though." Kaida looked thoughtful. "A gathering that size suggests something important. A ritual, maybe. Or a leadership meeting."
Nolan said nothing, his mind racing. Forty cultists. All gathered in one place. All searching for the bearer of the seal.
What if one of them recognized him? What if they had detection magic that worked better than the Guild's equipment? What if—
What if you stopped worrying, came a voice—sudden, cold, the first words in weeks—and trusted me to keep us hidden?
Nolan nearly jumped out of his chair. The others didn't notice, caught up in their planning discussion.
"You're back," he thought.
I never left. Just had nothing worth saying. A pause. Until now. You're afraid the cult will recognize you. Expose you.
"Shouldn't I be?"
*Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll protect us. As I did during the evaluation. As I've done every time something threatened our secret. The voice was silk-smooth, reasonable. I want to survive as much as you do. More, even. Your exposure means my exposure. Your death means my death. We're bound together.
"We're not together. You're a parasite. A prisoner."
Call it what you like. But when those cultists try to identify you, when their magic scans for my presence, I'll hide us. Just as before. A dark chuckle. You should be grateful. I'm the only reason you're still free.
Then silence again. Absolute. Final.
Leaving Nolan with the terrible knowledge that Diablo was right. The darkness keeping him hidden was the same darkness slowly consuming him.
Protection and corruption were two sides of the same coin.
And he had no idea which side would ultimately land face-up.