Page 15 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"The northern patrol, my lord," the scout gasps, blood decorating his mouth in fascinating patterns. "They found the message cache from Command. Lord Omer demands your immediate return to the Shadow Court. The eastern provinces have declared independence, and the Light Court has issued an ultimatum?—"
I turn slowly, shadows peeling from my skin with the enthusiasm of children let loose in a sweet shop. The scout's words continue, but they sound distant and remarkably unimportant compared to whatever keeps calling to my magic from that battered village below.
"Lord Omer demands?" I repeat softly, and my voice carries across the camp with the kind of quiet that makes intelligent men update their wills and consider career changes. "How absolutely precious of him."
"My lord, he says the realm burns while you chase phantoms?—"
The shadow that erupts from my hand takes the scout's head clean off his shoulders so quickly that his body stands there for three heartbeats, apparently unaware it's been terminated. When it finally crumples, the smell of burned flesh and severed souls fills the air—sweet and metallic and utterly intoxicating.
"Anyone else bearing delightful messages from the Shadow Council?" I ask pleasantly, stepping over the corpse with the casual grace of someone discussing the weather forecast."Because I find myself in such a receptive mood for political commentary and unsolicited career advice."
The remaining men exchange glances that speak volumes about their survival instincts and retirement planning. Captain Ozan, displaying either admirable courage or spectacular stupidity, meets my eyes directly.
"The men grow restless, my lord," he says carefully. "Five months of searching, and now this... calling that you feel but we cannot. Some whisper that you've become like your father in his darker moments, that?—"
The words hit something raw and festering in my chest. Like my father. The comparison I've spent centuries avoiding, the transformation I swore would never claim me. Yet here I am, executing subordinates for delivering unwelcome news, leaving a trail of devastation across my realm in service to an obsession I can't name or abandon.
When did I become Erlik?
The question claws through my chest as it’s a living thing, tearing at whatever remains of my conscience. When did I cross that invisible line between necessary darkness and consuming evil? When did I stop being the man who swore to protect innocents and become the monster who executes messengers for inconvenient truths? The transformation happened so gradually, so seductively, that I never felt myself drowning until the water closed over my head and I realized I could no longer remember what breathing felt like.
Memory crashes over me unbidden?—
The smell hits me first. Burned flesh and melted bone, sweet copper blood mixing with soot that tastes of crushed hopes. I'm ten years old, standing in what used to be the village of Gülköy, my fine silk shoes crunching on fragments of a blackened skull. Father's shadows writhe around the ruins as satisfied serpents,still feeding on whatever life force lingers in the corpses scattered across the cobblestones.
Bodies everywhere. A woman's torso twisted around a broken cart wheel, her face frozen in a scream that never had time to emerge. A man's hand reaching from beneath collapsed timber, wedding ring still glinting gold against charred flesh. Children, so many children, their small forms barely recognizable as human anymore.
And there, in the center of it all—a boy perhaps twelve years old, covered in soot and smoke, clutching a screaming baby to his chest. He kneels among the corpses of what must have been his family, his bare feet bloody from crawling across the broken stone. The baby's cries echo off the ruins, the only sound in a world gone silent.
The boy's eyes find mine across the devastation. In them, I see something that will haunt me for centuries: the recognition of one monster by another. He knows what I am, standing there untouched in my fine clothes while his world burns. He knows I watched Father do this and did nothing to stop it.
The baby's cries grow weaker. Thinner. By the time Father's shadows finish their work, the silence is complete.
I swore that day I would never be the monster standing untouched while innocents burned. Yet here I am, centuries later, painting my own realm in shades of destruction while telling myself it's justified. The boy in the ruins was right, I was always going to become this thing that devours light and calls it necessary.
My shadows surge outward without conscious thought, lifting Ozan off the ground with delicate care. I could crush him, watch his bones splinter, and his blood paint the forest floor in interesting patterns. The ease of it, the casual nature of the violence, should disturb me. Instead, it feels…natural. Expected.The response of a creature that's moved beyond morality into something far more honest about its appetites.
"Like my father?" I laugh, releasing him to watch him crumble, gasping to the forest floor. "Oh, my dear Captain, if I've become like him, then perhaps he understood something I'm only beginning to appreciate. Something calls to me from that village—something that makes my shadows sing with recognition and my dead heart remember what rhythm feels like."
I've become everything Isil feared I might become. Everything she died to prevent. The monster who destroys everything he touches, who leaves ruin and desolation in the wake of his desires. Her desperate words echo in my memory like a curse made manifest: "Promise me you won't become him. Promise me you'll choose light." I promised her in that final conversation, seeing the terror in her eyes as she recognized what I was becoming, and I've broken that sacred vow with every shadow I've embraced, every village I've burned, every innocent life I've snuffed out in service to my obsessions. No wonder Nesilhan fled—she saw what I was becoming long before I acknowledged it myself. She saw Isil's worst fears taking root in my soul and spreading like poison through my veins.
"Set up a perimeter around the village," I continue, my voice carrying the authority of someone who's long since stopped caring about collateral damage. "No one enters or leaves without my express permission. And if anyone else brings me messages from the Shadow Council, I'll use their intestines to redecorate the camp in seasonally appropriate patterns."
The pull in my chest grows stronger with each passing hour, the calling becoming more urgent, more impossible to ignore. Whatever waits for me down there seems to pulse with my heartbeat, drawing me toward answers I'm not sure I want to find. The signs of recent violence only add to my impatience—Ineed to know what happened here, and more importantly, what survived it.
"I'm going down there," I announce, pulling a rough cloak from my pack. I pull the hood up and keep to the shadows—simple enough to avoid recognition in a village focused on rebuilding rather than studying strangers.
"My lord, perhaps we should send scouts first?—"
"No." The word emerges harder than intended, darkness flaring around me with familiar petulance. "This is something I need to see for myself."
I leave the camp before anyone can offer more tactical concerns or reasonable objections. My feet carry me down the hillside through late afternoon shadows, keeping my hood pulled low as I approach the village outskirts.
The village moves with the grim determination of people recovering from trauma as I approach, staying to the side streets where shadow provides adequate cover. A merchant sweeps debris from his damaged stall. Women tend to bandaged neighbors while children help clear rubble from the streets. The aftermath of violence hangs heavy in the air, but life continues with stubborn resilience.
It's recovery, not normalcy—the kind of determined rebuilding that follows violence survived. Yet as I move through the streets, people step aside without conscious thought. A mother pulls her bandaged child closer. A merchant's hand moves instinctively to a weapon rather than his purse. The baker glances at me and suddenly decides his damaged storefront needs urgent attention indoors.
No cloak can hide what I've become. Centuries of absorbed shadow poison, of embracing my father's legacy, have marked me in ways that transcend physical appearance. I am darkness given form, death walking among the living, and some primalpart of them recognizes exactly what stands in their midst. How delightfully perceptive of them.
