Rain pattered against the vacant streets, and roaring thunder sent powerful reverberations rolling through the deteriorating walls of an abandoned Caedari, the sound a far cry from the religious prayers of the structure's prime. It caused a stone shingle to slip off the crumbling roof, race towards the ground, and shatter into tiny shards that rebounded before rolling to a stop beside a boy. He hugged his knees in the corner and wiped tears cascading down his face as lightning streaked across the dusk. It illuminated his desolate form and billowing sobs as another shingle splashed into a puddle and made freezing water bite into his skin. Sniffling, he wrapped his fur coat tighter around himself.

The Gods had abandoned him. After what had happened, he knew that justice was lost and the suffering he had endured throughout his life was pointless. He was betrayed and mortified, so refusing to stand defeated under his father's dead smile any longer, he ran like a coward, a fool, crying all the more.

Thunder growled, and a shingle cracked against his head. Yelping, the boy rolled onto his knees and rubbed the hurt, dark vignettes clouding his vision. Black. Pitch black. It engulfed him, dragging him deeper and deeper into a bottomless chasm further and further. Depthless. Endless. Sadness.

* * *

He was utterly alone. The world evanesced, fading into shadow, as the boy grappled to feel the ground shrouded by the gloom, touch the pouring rain concealed from sight. But before he could anchor himself to a refuge, two enormous hands clapped and smashed him into an abyss.

Drowning. He was drowning in water—water too thick, too dark. Light glimmered from above, watery rays dancing before his eyes, but no matter how hard he swam, he only sank closer to death—to him.

Strands of his hair waved above him, his tunic rippling against the wind of rushing water as bubbles of air escaped his mouth. Dark specks blotched his vision, and death was upon him, gripping him with its demonic talons. There was a pounding in his ears—a pounding of drums, a striking of hollow metal. Chains clacked, whispers screamed, and invisible claws slashed his stomach. He was screeching or sobbing or begging or not making any sound at all.

Help me! Let me out!

His eyes searched for the light above. Only a twinkle, a glint, and hope was truly lost, stolen from his soul. A shadow loomed above him. Mouthless it muttered. Voiceless it screamed. And shapeless it strangled him with two mighty hands.

Help me! Let me out!

Tears climbed towards the speck of light, bubbles whirling behind them. Watching his fleeing tears, the boy lay still as the shadow's blood-red eyes obstructed his vision. There was a great roaring, different from the pounding smothering his ears, and the shadow cracked like glass. The shards dissolved, light ebbing through the fissures, and brightness swallowed him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw double. The Caedari and rain were twirling around him, and as he staggered to his feet, he was hit with vertigo. Swaying, he clutched his head and felt wetness—different from the rain. It was thick and sticky, and it had a smell, an odor.

Blood. There was blood tainting his skin. Blood that was black as night.

He lurched back as though to distance himself from his hand, and his back slammed against the wall. He was a monster, a demon, and as the thought seeped in, the world distorted. The sky became the floor, the floor the sky, and the rain fell upside down.

Nausea befell him, his stomach churning and bile rising. As he stared at his hands, at the demon he was, the tips of his fingers melted into black water that ascended to the sky. First, his fingers. Then his hands. And his feet melted, too.

He was screaming—screaming as his mouth melted, as he was—

* * *

He woke up with a start. Lying on his side, he stared at the slanted world as water droplets dripped on his cheek. Debris fogged the air, and dust danced in the faint light that illuminated the darkness. As he hoisted himself to his elbows, the world tilted so fast that his eyes strained with dizziness. He groaned, the sound joining the water drip-drip-dripping down a pile of rocks, and because his head spun, he felt like his body was swaying from side to side even though he wasn't moving.

Light glowed, flurries of debris swirling, as water dripped, a pebble fell, and he slowly rose to his feet. Tracing the light, his eyes scaled shrouded walls, and his neck craned as he stared at a hole high above. Rock crumbled from the edge of the ginormous hole, and raindrops fell through the opening. A cave. He had fallen into a cave.

Clearing debris with his arm, he faced darkness both to his left and right—darkness that snaked deeper into meandering tunnels, into the forgotten. There was no escape. The walls were too steep to climb, and wandering through a cave could get him lost. He sighed and listened to the reverberating echoes when a familiar whisper caressed his ear.

Help me. Let me out.

The whisper crescendoed, and a chill air licked his skin, trailing goosebumps in its wake. Eyes brushed his body from his neck to his arms and legs, and it was the eyes of something ominous, of something that loved him not. But the voice was alluring—urging him to stray into the darkness, into the unknown.

He gasped. Something was breathing—behind him, in front of him, all around him. The breath grew louder, closer before hot air reeking of death warmed his neck.

"Help me," the voice muttered. "Let me out."

The boy was glued to the floor, the word run screaming in his mind when a cold finger traced his spine. His back arched as his legs strained to break free, and tearing his feet from the ground, he bolted into the darkness. Rock walls clawed scratches into his skin as he bumped into them, blindly racing through the tunnel. He was sprinting into oblivion, but that thing was still lurking nearby, still breathing on his—

Metal boomed, and blood trickled from his broken nose. He rammed into a metal wall so hard that he collapsed, but that thing was prowling behind him, stalking him like prey. So despite his throbbing head, he jumped at the metal wall, pulling, pushing, banging, scratching. Death skulked behind him, its bony fingers freezing his skin. He was going to die. Any breath could be his last, and it was all because of the wall, because of this—

He froze. Metal? Backing away, the boy shook his head. Metal in a Caedari usually protected something sinister, unholy, but instead of running for his life. . .

Wheeling around, he came face to face with blood-red eyes towering over him. As he drew what could be his last breath, a wave of pure darkness crashed against his chest. His feet were wrenched off the ground as his back smashed into the metal wall, the waves of darkness unceasing. A low, creaking groan filled his ears, and the metal behind him exploded.

Darker dusk consumed him as he landed harshly against his back, performed two agonizing somersaults, and struck his head against a thick stone pillar. The thing neared, and a gust of brisk wind wafted the scent of must and mildew.

There was a sharp snap of fingers, and fire burst alive one by one on torches hung on walls carved with fading runes so ancient they probably predated Kartas itself. The firelight chased the darkness into deep recesses and illuminated massive marble columns that supported a long hallway where a twilight vortex whirred at the end.

Whatever this place was, it wasn't Kartas. There was rusted metal everywhere. Chains, spikes, pillories, stocks. All metal. All damaged. All archaic with dust coating their surfaces. It was horrid, and something. . . breathed, slept in a shallow slumber.

Hands seized a chunk of the boy's hair and forced him to face the vortex. His eyes were drawn to the darkness—to the evil—and he couldn't look away even as the air was stolen from his lungs, even as he coughed up blood.

Familiar emotions burst alive in his chest. Hatred. Rage. Betrayal. Like heat from a hearth, they exuded from something beyond the vortex that stirred from slumber, that touched and sullied his soul. He couldn't tell if he was screaming or crying, but he knew one thing: the presence beyond the vortex was wicked, vile. And he kept those words close to heart, mending the snapping bonds of his sanity until the burgeoning darkness brushed his skin, corrupting his mind and soul.

His blood froze into ice as his light waned into night, and all the happiness was leached from his heart, leaving a hollow shell in its place. Through this, the presence still watched, still whispered saccharine lies. This time, however, it didn't seem vile.

A wicked grin lit the boy's face as the voice flowed freely into his ears. It was right. The Gods were dead to him, and he was done listening to those damned pious Caists, to his heartless father, because he found something—someone that knew what he felt, that sought the same thing he did: revenge.