The throne room stood silent, hollow in its emptiness.
Drake pushed himself up from the cold stone floor, his palms scraping against rough, ancient rock. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale shuddering through his chest like a sob. The crushing weight of the horned figure's presence had vanished—but the echoes of its emotions clung to him like a second skin.
Rage. Not the quick, hot anger of a sparring match, but something deeper, older—a fury carved into the bones of the world.
Sorrow. A grief so vast it made his ribs ache, pressing down on his lungs until he could barely breathe.
Hunger. Not for food, not for power—for something else. Something he couldn't name, but it made his fingers twitch, his teeth grind together.
Then—
Pain.
It hit him like a blade between the ribs.
One second, he was standing. The next, he was on his knees, his vision blurring at the edges. His hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair as he pulled, as if he could rip the agony out by the roots.
No—
His thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.
Something was inside him.
Something was pushing him aside, taking control of his mind and body as he rolled and tussled on the ground.
Drake's body moved—but it wasn't him moving it.
His fingers flexed, stiff and unnatural, like a puppet's limbs jerked by unseen strings. The entity—wearing his skin, his voice—let out a low, considering hum.
"Pathetic," it murmured, and the sound of his own voice twisted into something wrong made Drake's stomach lurch.
It took a step forward—and Drake's body betrayed him.
His muscles locked, trembling under a strain they were never meant to bear. His knee buckled, sending him crashing back to the ground. The entity snarled, forcing his body upright again, but the flesh resisted.
Cracks appeared.
Thin, glowing fissures split across his skin, starting at his fingertips and crawling up his arms like spiderwebs. Crimson light pulsed beneath them, searing hot, and Drake felt it—the way his body strained at the seams, the way his bones groaned under the weight of something they were never meant to hold.
The entity stared at the damage, its disgust a living thing in Drake's mind.
"This vessel is frail. Unworthy."
It collapsed to one knee, Drake's body failing, and for one terrible, hopeful second, he thought—
It's leaving.
Then—
"But it shares my blood." The voice softened, almost fond, and that was worse. "I shall temper it. Purge its weakness." A pause, heavy with promise. "And when it is ready... I will be reborn."
Then—release.
Drake gasped, his consciousness slamming back into his body like a drowning man breaking the surface.
Fear.
It coiled in his gut, thick and choking. His hands shook as he pressed them to his chest, his throat, his face—relearning the shape of himself, making sure he was whole.
He had been gone.
Something else had worn his skin. Moved his limbs. Spoken with his voice.
The violation of it left him hollow, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. His fingers dug into the stone beneath him, grounding himself in the pain of it, because at least that was real.
Then—the sword.
His gaze snapped to the throne. Resting against the obsidian arm was a blade—his blade, but alive.
The metal gleamed like freshly spilled blood, the dragon hilt's eyes glowing with an intelligence that sent a shiver down his spine. The carvings along the blade seemed to shift as he looked at them, twisting into patterns he couldn't quite follow.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the steel, it dissolved, swirling into crimson dust that spiraled into his skin. A jolt of energy—hot, possessive—flooded his veins.
He screamed—
—and woke up choking on the sterile air of the infirmary.
The ceiling swam above him, too bright, too white. His body ached, his skin still tingling with the ghost of those glowing cracks.
Winston loomed over him, his hazel eyes unreadable. Vanessa stood rigid at his side, her fingers twitching near the hilt of her dagger. Njdeka hovered by the monitors, her face pale.
Silence.
Drake's throat burned. "Wha—?"
"Enough." Winston's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "You're coming with me."
Njdeka stepped forward. "We need to run scans—"
"He's fine." Winston's gaze never left Drake. "Aren't you?"
Drake swallowed. His body felt different. Stronger. Wrong. The weight of the entity's presence still lingered in the back of his mind, a shadow he couldn't shake.
"...Yes."
Winston turned on his heel. "Then walk."
As Drake followed, unsteady but obedient, he caught Vanessa's whisper to Leo:
"The boy has changed."
Leo's reply was a blade in the dark.
"No. Something else has."