The silhouette did not move.
That was what unsettled Voryn the most.
It stood above the fractured skylight of the Shadow Market, tall enough that its outline distorted against the low clouds, as if the sky itself refused to frame it properly. No aura flared. No pressure descended. It simply existed, and existence alone felt like a threat.
Voryn did not flee.
Running was an admission of ignorance, and ignorance was fatal.
Instead, he let his shadows retreat inward, folding back into his body like obedient serpents. His breathing slowed. His pulse followed. Fear was a resource, not a weakness, but only when controlled.
Observe first. Decide later.
The figure tilted its head, almost amused.
Then it vanished.
No spatial ripple. No shadow displacement. One moment, it was there watching, and the next, the rooftop was empty.
The silence afterward felt louder than any explosion.
Voryn exhaled slowly.
"Great," he muttered. "Now the nightmares are getting bold."
The Black Oath stirred faintly, neither mocking nor warning. That alone was concerning.
A Calculated Retreat
Voryn did not linger.
Within minutes, he had crossed the rooftops, melted into the skeletal remains of an old transit district, and descended into a forgotten underground chamber, one of many contingency locations mapped long before tonight.
Stone walls. Old ritual markings. A natural convergence of shadow density.
Safe. Relatively.
He activated the Shadow Sigil of Concealment he'd acquired, feeling it bite into his essence like a cold hook. The price was immediate: a dull ache behind his eyes, a faint blurring at the edges of memory.
Worth it, he decided. For now.
Only once the world settled did he allow himself to sit.
And then...
He summoned them.
Multiple Chains, One Will
The air darkened.
Shadows detached from the corners of the chamber, thickening, condensing. One by one, figures emerged humanoid, half-formed, bound by glowing chains of void-etched script.
Shadow Slaves.
Three of them.
Voryn's jaw tightened despite himself.
Before tonight, controlling even two for extended periods had pushed him to the brink. The strain wasn't physical; it was existential. Each Shadow Slave carried remnants of will, instinct, and memory. Binding them meant suppressing echoes of lives that had once wanted something.
Power never erased that.
It only buried it.
"Form," Voryn commanded quietly.
The shadows obeyed.
The first was tall, skeletal, its movements unnervingly precise. A former awakened hunter, Stage 3, judging by the structure of its shadow-core.
The second was smaller, hunched, its edges frayed like torn fabric. Volatile, unstable. Useful for ambushes.
The third…
Voryn frowned.
It stood too still.
Too solid.
Its outline was sharper than the others, its presence heavier. The chains around it pulsed faintly, not weakening but reacting.
That's new.
Voryn did not panic. Panic wasted time.
Instead, he observed.
Testing the Limits
He began methodically.
Movement drills. Shadow displacement. Multi-angle perception.
The first two Slaves responded predictably, if sluggishly. Their chains drained him steadily, a slow bleed of focus, stamina, and something deeper. Every command carried a cost, like paying interest on a loan he hadn't finished taking.
The third Slave lagged.
Not in execution but in compliance.
"Advance," Voryn ordered.
It advanced.
A half-step slower than commanded.
A fraction. Barely noticeable.
But Voryn noticed everything.
"Again."
This time, the delay was clearer.
The chains flickered.
Voryn felt it then, a faint resistance, not external, but internal. Like pushing against a locked door that had once been open.
His fingers curled slightly.
Interesting.
Dark Humor in the Abyss
"Well," he said aloud, voice calm, "either you're defective, or you've developed opinions."
The Slave did not respond.
But the shadows around it trembled.
Voryn felt a sharp pulse in his chest, not pain, but pressure. The Black Oath stirred, alert but restrained, as if watching the interaction with cautious interest.
He suppressed the urge to immediately reinforce control.
Power wasn't about domination alone.
It was about understanding leverage.
"Hold position," he said.
The first two froze instantly.
The third hesitated.
Then stopped.
That hesitation cost Voryn more than the command itself. His vision darkened briefly, and he tasted iron at the back of his throat.
So this is the price, he thought grimly. Multiple chains don't just divide power; they multiply resistance.
Fragments of the Past
He focused inward, tracing the flow of shadow-energy through the chains.
And then...
Something bled through.
Not a memory. Not fully.
An emotion.
Rage.
Not wild. Not feral.
Cold. Focused. Personal.
Voryn stiffened.
The third Shadow Slave was not resisting randomly.
It was memorable.
Images flickered at the edge of his perception: a battlefield drenched in ash, a broken banner, a voice screaming an oath not to the void, but against it.
The Slave had once fought something like him.
"Ah," Voryn murmured. "That explains the attitude."
For a moment, just a moment, he considered releasing it.
Not out of mercy.
Out of pragmatism.
A resisting asset was a liability.
But then he felt it: the potential. This Slave was stronger than he'd calculated. Not in raw output but in structure. Its shadow-core was dense, layered, and adaptive.
Stage 4 potential.
Rare.
Dangerous.
And expensive.
Morality as a Resource
Voryn stood.
He approached the third Slave slowly, shadows curling protectively around his legs.
"Let's be clear," he said quietly. "You're not alive. And I'm not your savior."
The chains pulsed harder.
"But you're not a mindless tool either. That makes you… interesting."
He extended a hand not to touch, but to assert presence.
The resistance surged.
Pain lanced through his skull. His knees buckled slightly before he caught himself. Blood dripped from his nose, splattering against the stone floor.
The first two Slaves twitched, reacting to the instability.
Voryn laughed a short, breathless sound.
"Wow," he muttered. "You really don't like me."
The Black Oath whispered, sharper now: Control it. Or be consumed.
He ignored it.
Not completely, but enough.
A Calculated Compromise
Instead of reinforcing the chains, Voryn did something reckless.
He loosened them.
Just a fraction.
The chamber plunged into oppressive darkness as the third Slave's presence expanded. The shadows thickened, pressing against the walls, vibrating with restrained violence.
Voryn's heart was hammered.
One mistake, and he would lose control entirely.
But in that pressure, something shifted.
The resistance changed shape.
It focused.
Not outward.
Toward him.
A voice raw, fragmented, echoing through the void-link—brushed his mind.
"You wear chains and call them power."
Voryn's breath caught.
So. It could speak.
Interesting, didn't begin to cover it.
"Careful," Voryn replied internally, forcing steadiness. "You're in no position to negotiate."
"Neither are you."
The chains flared violently.
Voryn dropped to one knee, shadows writhing as he fought to maintain balance. His vision blurred, not from pain but from overload. Three chains. One resisting will. And the Black Oath, watching.
This is the cost, he realized. This is what mastery actually looks like.
Not domination.
Endurance.
The Breaking Point
He could end it.
A single decisive reinforcement would shatter the resisting core, reducing the Slave to a compliant husk.
Safe.
Predictable.
Boring.
Voryn wiped the blood from his lip and smiled faintly.
"No," he whispered. "Let's see where this goes."
He tightened control just enough to stabilize but not silence.
The third Slave straightened.
The chains held.
Barely.
Outside the chamber, something shifted.
A pressure not from within, but above.
The same presence from the Shadow Market.
Watching.
Waiting.
Voryn felt it then, clear as a blade at his throat.
This experiment wasn't just risky.
It was being judged.
The third Shadow Slave lifted its head.
Its eyes, once hollow, burned with dim, defiant awareness.
And then it said, clearly, unmistakably:
"It's coming. The one who broke me."
The chamber shook.
The ancient markings ignited.
And high above, beyond stone and shadow, something vast began to descend, drawn by chains, defiance, and a power that was no longer content to stay hidden.
Voryn grinned through the pain.
"Perfect," he said softly. "Let's negotiate with the past."