Rakhal tried to laugh but it came out hollow. “They’ve changed,” he said. “They don’t listen.”
“They listen,” Azfar murmured, moving closer. “You’ve simply forgotten how to hear.”
“My blood…” Rakhal hesitated. “They carved their light into me. It braided.”
Azfar made a soft, approving sound. “Ah.”
He raised one hand—unhurried, deliberate—and pressed his palm flat against Rakhal’s sternum.
The shadows erupted.
They poured from beneath Rakhal’s skin like smoke dragged fast through a door, coiling up his arms, around Azfar’s wrist, over his shoulder. Light bent away, fleeing their touch. The air went cold and bright all at once. The orcs staggered back; Shazi cursed under her breath. Only Eliza stayed still, her breath shallow but steady, watching.
Azfar did not flinch. The shadows climbed his arm and licked at the old scars that patterned his skin. He watched them with a scholar’s focus, unafraid.
“Blood and shadow,” he murmured. “Not a stain—a braid. The pure strand was never meant to take warmth this way.” His eyes lifted. “You fed it, boy.”
“They were dying,” Rakhal said. “I needed strength.”
“And they needed a throat.” Azfar’s tone was soft, but it held iron. “You gave them one. Now they sing through you.”
Rakhal could hear it then—the faint hum beneath the forest’s breath. Not words, but a chorus ofintent.The sound of every battle the earth had ever swallowed, of men and orcs leaving their heat behind for the soil to drink. It pulsed through him, low and endless.
For an instant, the shadow was beautiful. It arched between them in a slow curve, rippling with pinpricks of starlight—like constellations reflected on dark water. Shapes moved within it, half-formed: a wing, a woman’s hair, a spear’s broken edge. Eliza drew in a sharp, involuntary breath.
Then the beauty turned wrong. The shapes stretched too far, mouths yawning open. The hum became a thin keen that scraped against the bones of the living. The forest’s patience bared its teeth.
Azfar withdrew his hand.
The shadows retreated like reluctant smoke, slipping back under Rakhal’s skin. Cold filled the hollow they left. His muscles trembled, but he held himself steady.
Azfar studied him. “You’ve gone beyond me.”
The words were meant as observation, not flattery. They chilled him. He’d feared as much—that whatever he had become was something no one could guide.
“If it goes further,” he said, “what will I become?”
Azfar tilted his head. “Not a demon. We give too much poetry to rot.” His gaze flicked to the trees. “Every root feeds on the dead. Every seed grows from something that failed to go on. The shadow isn’t evil, Rakhal. It’s simply what remains when the light moves on.”
Shazi made a disgusted sound. “You sound like a priest.”
“If I were a priest,” Azfar replied evenly, “I’d sell you cheap answers and keep my hands clean.”
Rakhal’s jaw tightened. “You’ve changed.”
“The shadows stripped me down to the parts that don’t make noise,” Azfar said. His calm was absolute. “It offends the warlike. It offended you once.” His gaze sharpened. “Now you’ve walked further into the dark than I ever did. If you try to sit on the throne you find there, it will unmake you.”
“And you’ll teach me how not to?”
“I’ll try,” Azfar said, voice low. “Because I’d like to see what happens when a man learns to live with his hunger instead of feeding it to the world.”
Eliza spoke then, quiet but edged. “You’re curious.”
Azfar turned his head toward her. “Curiosity keeps me honest. Affection makes liars of everyone.”
Shazi’s nostrils flared. The orcs shifted uneasily, their distrust a tangible weight in the air.
Rakhal ignored them all. “Tell me how to stop it.”
