"Again."
Aniel's voice cut through the dim chamber.
Cyron stood at the center of the training floor, arm raised, breathing uneven. The crimson mark along his forearm pulsed like a second heartbeat—slow… heavy… watching.
He clenched his jaw.
"I am doing it."
"No," Aniel replied calmly. "You're surviving it."
That stung more than it should've.
Cyron steadied his stance. "Then tell me what I'm doing wrong."
Aniel didn't answer right away.
Instead, the shadows at his feet stirred—rising slightly, like a tide responding to something unseen.
"You're treating it like an enemy," he said finally. "Something to suppress."
Cyron let out a dry laugh. "Because it is."
A pause.
Then—
"Is it?"
Silence.
Cyron's grip tightened. "It literally tried to destroy an arena."
"Correction."
The voice slipped in smoothly.
"I did destroy an arena."
Cyron flinched. "Not helping."
Aniel's eyes narrowed slightly. "There. That reaction."
"What about it?"
"You're splitting yourself."
Cyron frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," Aniel said, stepping closer, "you're acting like the bond isn't yours."
The mark pulsed harder.
Cyron looked down at it.
"…It doesn't feel like mine."
"That's because you haven't accepted it."
"I don't want to accept it."
"Then you'll never control it."
Simple.
Brutal.
True.
Cyron exhaled slowly. "…So what, I just let it run wild?"
"No."
Aniel raised a hand.
The shadows around him sharpened—forming thin, jagged lines across the floor.
"You meet it halfway."
Cyron blinked. "Halfway?"
"Synchronization," Aniel said. "Not domination. Not submission."
A beat.
"Balance."
Cyron looked at his arm again.
The mark flickered—almost… expectant.
"…And how do I do that?"
Aniel's gaze sharpened.
"By letting it in."
Cyron stiffened. "That sounds like a terrible idea."
"It is," Aniel said flatly.
"…Great."
"But it's the only one that works."
Silence.
The air felt heavier.
Thicker.
Like something was waiting for his answer.
Inside his mind—
A quiet whisper.
"Finally."
Cyron closed his eyes.
"…Fine."
"Focus," Aniel instructed. "Don't fight the flow. Follow it."
Cyron nodded slightly, breathing slow.
In.
Out.
In—
The mark flared.
Pain surged instantly—sharp, burning, invasive.
"Ghh—!"
"Hold it," Aniel said.
Cyron's knees buckled slightly, but he stayed standing.
Inside—
It wasn't just pain.
It was… movement.
Something spreading.
Crimson flooded his senses—not color, but feeling. Heat. Pressure. Hunger.
Images flickered—
Shattered battlefields.
Broken bodies.
Endless red skies.
Cyron gasped. "What is this—?!"
"Memory."
The voice was clearer now.
Closer.
Not outside him.
Within.
"Mine."
The hunger intensified.
Not physical.
Something deeper.
A craving.
Violence.
Destruction.
Cyron's breathing turned ragged. "No… no, this isn't—"
"This is what I am."
The pressure surged again.
His hand twitched.
Fingers curling.
Like they wanted to grab something—
Break something—
"Cyron!" Aniel's voice cut through. "Stay with it!"
"I'm trying—!"
"Why resist?"
The whisper slithered through his thoughts.
"You felt it before."
The arena.
The power.
The moment everything bent.
"You liked it."
Cyron's eyes snapped open.
"…Shut up."
The mark flared brighter.
The chamber lights flickered.
Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls.
Aniel's expression hardened.
"Control it. Now."
Cyron's arm trembled violently.
"I can't—!"
"Then don't."
The hunger spiked.
His heartbeat synced with the mark—
Faster.
Heavier.
Louder.
Everything felt sharp.
Too sharp.
The air.
The ground.
Aniel—
A target.
Cyron's fingers curled fully now.
Claw-like.
"Stop," he whispered.
But his body didn't listen.
It moved.
Fast.
A burst of crimson energy propelled him forward—straight at Aniel.
Aniel didn't dodge.
Didn't flinch.
The shadows around him rose instantly, forming a barrier just as Cyron's strike hit.
The impact cracked the floor beneath them.
"Good," Aniel said calmly.
Cyron froze.
His fist—stopped inches from Aniel's face.
By shadow.
By control.
Cyron's breathing was wild now.
Unstable.
His eyes—
Not glowing.
But wrong.
Focused too sharply.
Like he was looking through things instead of at them.
"Look at yourself," Aniel said.
Cyron glanced down.
His arm—
Covered in spreading crimson patterns, far beyond the mark.
Alive.
Crawling.
Hungry.
"I told you," Aniel continued, voice steady, "you're not facing an enemy."
Cyron's hand trembled.
Then pushed harder.
The shadow barrier strained.
Cracked.
"Yes."
The voice sounded pleased.
"More."
"No…" Cyron growled. "Not like this—"
"Then stop it," Aniel said.
"I CAN'T—!"
Silence.
Then—
"Wrong."
Aniel stepped forward.
Into the pressure.
Into the force.
The shadows tightened, locking Cyron's arm in place.
"Don't suppress it," he said quietly.
"Direct it."
Cyron's breathing hitched. "How—?!"
Aniel's eyes locked onto his.
"Choose something."
"What?"
"Anything."
A beat.
"Or it will choose for you."
The hunger surged again.
Stronger.
Closer.
Cyron's vision blurred.
Everything screamed—
Break.
Destroy.
Take—
"No."
The word came out hoarse.
But it was there.
A choice.
Not to stop the power—
But to guide it.
Cyron's gaze shifted.
Not to Aniel.
Not to anything living.
The ground.
Empty.
Safe.
"…There."
The crimson energy twisted.
Resisted.
Then—
Moved.
Cyron roared as he forced it downward—
His fist slammed into the floor.
The explosion wasn't outward.
It was contained.
Focused.
The ground shattered in a tight radius—cracks spidering outward, but stopping short of the walls.
Silence.
The pressure vanished.
Cyron collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The crimson patterns faded—slowly retreating back into the mark.
His arm trembled.
But it was… his again.
"…Good."
Aniel stepped back, shadows settling.
Cyron looked up, breathing hard. "That… didn't feel good."
"No," Aniel agreed. "It won't."
Cyron let out a weak laugh. "Great."
A pause.
Then—
"…But it worked," Aniel added.
Cyron glanced at the cracked floor.
Controlled damage.
Not destruction.
"…Barely."
"Barely is enough to survive."
Silence settled again.
He looked at his arm.
The mark pulsed.
Quieter now.
Watching.
Inside his mind—
The voice returned.
Soft.
Thoughtful.
"…You refused."
Cyron swallowed. "…Yeah."
A pause.
Then—
Not anger.
Not mockery.
Something else.
"…Interesting."
Cyron exhaled slowly.
Still shaking.
Still tired.
But alive.
In control.
For now.
Aniel turned away slightly. "We'll continue tomorrow."
Cyron groaned. "That was just day one?"
Aniel glanced back.
"Yes."
A faint pause.
"…Try not to lose yourself before then."
He walked toward the exit.
Cyron stayed where he was, staring at the fractured ground.
At what he almost did.
At what he could do.
Inside—
A quiet whisper lingered.
Not hungry.
Not raging.
Just watching.
"Show me more, Cyron Vale."