The rain had started as a drizzle, inconsequential enough to be ignored, until it became a curtain of cold, sharp needles that soaked Voryn to the bone. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale a taste of iron as the city's underbelly closed in around him. Rusted fire escapes hung like skeletons above, the flickering lamps below casting elongated, trembling shadows across the cracked pavement. And then came the street thugs, three of them, confident in numbers, reckless in arrogance.
"Hand over your wallet, kid, or we break more than your face," snarled the tallest one, a lean brute with a jagged scar that ran from temple to jaw. His cronies laughed, the sound hollow and cruel, echoing off the brick walls.
Voryn squinted up at them, shivering not entirely from the cold. Really? You picked the wrong night, and the wrong idiot, he thought, a dark grin tugging at his lips despite the pounding in his chest. I mean, do they not know that thugs always forget the first rule of street attacks: pick someone who can't fight back?
One stepped closer, cracking his knuckles with an audible snap. Voryn took a slow, deliberate step back. Then another. Each step measured, deliberate, testing the space between him and impending violence.
Fine. Let's play their little game…
Before the first fist could swing, Voryn's hand brushed against something cold in his coat pocket. A relic he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. It pulsed faintly, almost alive, beneath his fingers. The moment he touched it fully, the world seemed to tilt, the sounds of rain and laughter distorting into a low, resonant hum.
A shadow detached itself from the relic, creeping along the wet cobblestones, bending light and dark in unnatural ways. Its voice was soft, yet impossibly close, threading through Voryn's skull.
"Touch. Accept. Bind. Or die."
Voryn's stomach turned. He had read about objects like this, forgotten artifacts that bore curses or powers too heavy for any human to wield. And yet, as he stared at the shadow curling around his wrist, he felt something stir deep inside: a spark of calculation, of curiosity, of daring.
"You want me to touch you?" he asked aloud, his voice almost joking. "You must be desperate. Or lonely."
The shadow hissed, impatient, a thread of darkness creeping up his arm like liquid smoke. Pain bloomed instantly where his fingers met the relic, a shockwave of heat and pressure that forced him to his knees. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, hot and metallic, and Voryn's grin faltered but only slightly.
Okay, he thought, teeth gritted. Not dying yet. That's promising.
The first thug lunged, wild-eyed, fists swinging in chaotic arcs. Voryn barely reacted, letting the man's momentum carry him past. The next one sneered, cocky, sure of his own dominance and immediately slammed into the wall, shadows bending and snatching at him, unseen but palpable, slowing his movements until he tripped over his own feet.
Voryn laughed softly, a dark chuckle that felt alien to him, tasting of both fear and exhilaration. "You boys really aren't bright," he murmured, stepping aside just as the final thug reached for his throat.
The relic pulsed again, sharper this time, and a tendril of black smoke wrapped around the thug, tightening just enough to leave him gasping and sputtering on the wet ground without causing permanent harm. It was like the relic knew exactly how far it could push, and Voryn had just enough sense to follow its rhythm.
But even as the thugs fled, yelping and screaming, Voryn felt a drain deep in his veins, a hollow ache where life should have been. He collapsed against the cold bricks, breathing hard. Power isn't free, he realized, dark humor hiding in his mind. Of course it isn't. That would be boring.
The shadow hovered closer, whispering again, now clearer:
"You are bound. Your blood, your will, everything is currency. Choose wisely, or everything ends."
Voryn's fingers tightened around the relic, his own pulse hammering against the steady, inhuman rhythm of the shadow. He felt alive, in a way that made his previous mundane, struggling existence feel pale, insignificant. The city around him no longer mattered; only the relic, the power, and the rules it whispered.
Rules… I like rules. Rules I can exploit.
He tested the shadow, willing it to move faster, to bend the world slightly in his favor. A small flicker of darkness extended from the relic, tracing the shape of a rat scuttling across the street. Voryn watched, fascinated, as the rat froze mid-step, then turned and disappeared into the shadows as if pulled by unseen hands.
Interesting, he noted in his mind, calculating probabilities. Control is subtle, control is precise. This could be useful.
But with understanding came fear. He could feel the cost already. The drain of energy, the odd whisper of hunger at the edges of his consciousness. He could taste it in his mouth, metallic, bitter, like iron and ash. One misstep and he might die, or worse, become something that wasn't entirely human.
And yet… the temptation was undeniable.
As he staggered to his feet, he realized the thugs hadn't returned. That wasn't the city's mercy. No, it was the shadows. And more importantly, it had seen him. Studied him. Tested him.
Voryn's mind, sharp and unyielding, raced through possibilities. Street gangs were predictable, yes, but the world beyond these alleys was not. And if the relic could bend even this small corner of chaos to his advantage imagine what it could do in a larger game.
He laughed quietly, the sound more a thrill than a relief. "Alright," he whispered to the relic, to the shadow, to whatever force had chosen him. "Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes."
A sudden wind swept through the alley, and the shadows writhed around him, not violently, but with intent, like water flowing around rocks. Voryn felt the pulse again, stronger, almost like the relic was taking more than it had before. His vision blurred for a moment, stars flickering at the edges, and then he saw it: a mark burning into his skin, dark as oil, intricate, alien.
Pain shot up his arm as he staggered back. The mark was a contract, and it whispered promises and threats in a voice that wasn't quite human.
"You cannot turn back. You are ours now. We are yours now. Do not falter."
Voryn gritted his teeth, clutching his arm, blood dripping down his sleeve. The thugs' screams echoed faintly in the distance, their fear a soundtrack to his new reality.
Not free power, he reminded himself. Strategic power. Calculated cost. Let's play the long game.
As he stumbled out of the alley and into the rain-soaked streets, his mind raced, cataloging every possibility, every risk, every advantage. Every ounce of pain in his body was a reminder: every action had a consequence, every contract demanded a price, and the world was bigger, darker, and infinitely more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
Yet beneath the fear, the exhaustion, and the whisper of darkness, Voryn felt a singular, undeniable thrill.
Finally, he thought, smirking under the rain, I am alive.