Author's Note

Honest opinions are highly appreciated thank you. Hope whoever reads this enjoys. I will be adding tags as the story progresses.

Where does one belong?

What does it mean to be a great hunter? Is it the ability to stalk prey without them ever noticing you? Being able to track anything without ever being picked up? Or is it the fame that comes with hunting huge beasts? The truth is, no one knows. What is certain is Leandros isn’t good at hunting at all.

Up in a tree, overlooking a group of wild deer with his bow fully drawn. Taking a deep breath in. “Three,” steadying his aim. “Two,” the deer, unaware that death is looming. “O—”

The branch snaps, sending him tumbling down the tree. The deer, without even turning, bolt away, vanishing into the underbrush.

“I told you that wasn’t going to work,” comes a low, rumbling voice as a colossal brown Minotaur steps out of the underbrush. “If you had just listened to me, you wouldn’t be on the floor.”

“Mhmm,” Leandros mutters, clearly unimpressed, sitting on the ground as he brushes dirt off his clothes. Simple grey cloth trousers and a tunic. His arms and legs sting from fresh cuts.

“Next time, listen.” Torus extends a massive hand, helping the boy to his feet. Inspecting him first before hitting him on the head “Walk,” Picking up the bow and taking note of ice that formed on the grip. “We’re done here”

Leandros takes the lead, with Torus following close behind—his sharp eyes catching sight of something on the ground where Leandros had been sitting. A black blade, faintly glinting in the fading light. Torus frowns, picking it up without a word.

“I had them,” comes a whispered reply from Leandros. “It was going to work.”

“You keep believing that,” Torus says, his tone as stern as ever.

“It was!” Leandros spins around to face him, both stopping just before the edge of the forest. “If that branch didn’t snap, I would’ve been able to hit one.”

“The branch you decided to stand on,” Torus counters, his deep voice calm but pointed. “If you’d taken the shot from the ground, you’d have something on your back right now.”

“No, b—” Leandros begins, but the words die in his throat. Sighing in defeat, he turns and keeps moving, his steps heavy with lingering frustration, until he emerges from the forest.

The sight before them is nothing short of breathtaking. Snow-capped mountains rise like silent guardians, their peaks piercing the crisp autumn sky. The valley below, still untouched by winter’s full grasp, lies bathed in golden hues. Scattered patches of snow dot the grass and trees, a quiet reminder of the approaching frost.

Torus steps up beside Leandros, placing a firm hand on his back. “See the birds?” he asks, nodding toward a cluster of grey-feathered birds pecking at the grass for worms.

“Yeah?” Leandros replies, his brow furrowed in mild confusion.

“They’ve gotten bigger,” Torus says, his voice low and steady. “What does that mean?”

“Winter must be close,” Leandros answers confidently, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

Torus smiles, ruffling the boy’s snow-white hair. “Correct.” He strides past Leandros, motioning for him to follow.

Together, they ascend the hillside, their footsteps quiet on the cool, dry grass. At the top on the plateau,the boy turn around to see the valley stretches out before them, stark and serene. Far to their right, a waterfall tumbles into the river below, its icy blue waters mirroring the chill in the air.

Taking in a deep breath and exhaling with contentment, Leandros smiles. This never gets old.

“Come, we have work to do,” Torus says, already striding toward the house.

Leandros takes one last look at the valley, the cool air brushing against his skin, before turning to follow. In the distance, a grey house rests at the base of the mountain, its weathered walls blending with the rugged landscape. The mountain face behind it casts a looming shadow, and a thin column of smoke rises steadily from the chimney, curling into the crisp autumn sky.

Running to catch up with Torus, Leandros stayed close behind, patting himself down. Something was missing. Frantically searching his person, he begged silently that it was just misplaced. Anywhere but my belt...

“Looking for something?” Torus asked, his deep voice cutting through the sound of panicked movements.

“I... uh, no. Just checking something,” Leandros replied nervously, his heart pounding as he desperately hoped to find it before they reached the house. I’m fucked.

Hands on his head, he braced for the punishment he was sure was coming—until a small thud caught his attention. Looking down, he spotted his blade lying in the dirt.

“I’ve told you many times to take care of your knife,” Torus said, his tone unamused.

“I had it on me a mome—”

“Leandros…”

With a defeated sigh, Leandros moved ahead, lowering his hands—though he still earned a light smack on the back of his head. “Look after your equipment!”

“Sorry, Dad,” Leandros mumbled, rubbing the spot where Torus had hit him.

Once they reached home, both began checking themselves—and each other—to ensure nothing was missing. After brushing off the dirt and grime clinging to their clothes, they finally headed inside.

The aroma that greets them is nothing short of heavenly. Molocha, a cream-coloured Minotaur with warm amber eyes, stands in the kitchen. She wears her usual green-and-brown dress paired with a white apron, now dusted with flour and pastry dough despite her efforts to keep clean.

“Just in time!” she beams as the two enter. Spread across the table before them is an inviting array of food. “I made steamed mushrooms, carrots with olive sauce, and for you, baby boy,” she adds, glancing at Leandros with a grin, “I threw in some deer.”

“You thee, thon, thish ish why I married your mother,” Torus mumbles, mouth full of food, his deep voice slightly muffled by the meal.

“Thanks for dinner, Mom,” Leandros says, offering a small smile.

“Anytime, dear,” Molocha replies warmly.

She joins them at the table, sitting down to enjoy the meal herself. The atmosphere is calm, and everyone seems to be relishing the food. But Molocha glances at Leandros, noticing a faintly sad expression clouding his face.

“Leandros, what’s wrong?” she asks, her tone gentle yet concerned.

Leandros looks up from his plate, his attempt to mask his feelings betrayed by his deep blue eyes. “Nothing, just thinking,” he says, though the sadness lingers. “I just messed up, that’s all.”

“Messed up?” Molocha presses softly.

“I uhh, I lost my knife again,” he admits, his voice low.

“No use lingering on it now! There’s food in front of you, boy,” Torus belched before diving back into his meal.

Leandros finally picks up his fork, stabbing a piece of deer on his plate before inhaling it. Molocha, her smile soft, returns to her own plate, though her eyes linger on Leandros. That same sadness still clouds his expression.

She glances at Torus, who’s utterly consumed by his food. Nudging him slightly, she gets his attention. Torus looks down at her, a brow raised. Molocha tilts her head toward the boy, her eyes silently urging him to notice.

Torus raised his shoulders slightly, a subtle shrug of uncertainty. Molocha’s unimpressed glare bore into him, her expression sharp enough to make death itself proud.

Understanding dawned quickly. Torus gave a small nod, silently acknowledging her unspoken command. “Leandros,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet clatter of dinner. Leandros looked up from his plate, his mouth still stuffed with food. “I’ve got something to show you after dinner,” Torus added, giving a brief head bob before returning to his meal.

Molocha, now satisfied, smiled warmly and resumed eating, her earlier sternness giving way to contentment. The sound of clinking utensils and soft conversation filled the room as the three of them enjoyed their meal.

“Another wonderful meal,” Torus remarked, pushing his empty plate aside and reaching for the drink at his side. He raised the glass, and Molocha leaned over to refill it with amber liquid. Without a word, she took a swig straight from the bottle, a familiar habit that earned a faint smirk from Torus.

Leandros watched them for a moment, their laughter becoming softer as the alcohol took hold. A quiet sigh escaped him as he stood and slipped away from the table, leaving his parents to their revelry.

His room is modest but functional—a reflection of their simple life in the mountains. The bed, a humble frame stuffed with hay-straws, is softened by a well-worn cloth blanket. To the right, his small wooden table is cluttered with stacks of homework Torus and Molocha assigned him. Living so far from civilisation meant homeschooling was his only option. Mixed in with the books and papers, sketches of weapons peeked out—a testament to his admiration for his father.

Leandros paused, staring at one of the drawings. His chest tightened, shame knotting in his stomach.

“FUCK!” The word ripped out of him as he hurled the black blade across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, the tip embedding itself deep in the wood.

Pacing now, his fists clenched at his sides. His boots thudded against the floor as his thoughts churned like a storm. You idiot. You had ONE JOB! His breaths came shallow and fast, his frustration twisting into self-loathing.

You’ve gone over this again and again, and yet you can’t even look after a fucking knife. The thought burned in his mind, his fists clenching at his sides. His gaze darted around the room, searching for something to smash—but everything here mattered. Every item carried some piece of him, some memory, some meaning.

With a frustrated growl, he flung his arms in the air, his movements wild and aimless, as if throwing off the weight of his own failure. After a moment, his breathing slowed. His chest still rose and fell heavily, but the storm inside him began to settle.

He sank into the chair at his desk, fingers gripping the edge for a moment before reaching for a pencil. The familiar act of sketching soothed him. Each line drawn onto the paper grounded his thoughts, pulling him away from the chaos in his mind.

Weapons. Blades. He could almost see them coming to life under his hand. Leandros loved this—taking the ideas swirling in his mind and putting them onto the page. His people, the minotaurs, were masters of craftsmanship. It was in their blood, and his father embodied that legacy.

Leandros’ pencil paused mid-sketch. He wanted to be like him—to reach the heights his father had achieved. But how could he, if he couldn’t even take care of the knife he’d been given?

After sketching countless swords, axes, and warhammers, Leandros leaned back in his chair, stretching his stiff arms. The candle beside him flickered weakly, its flame barely clinging to life. He stared at it for a moment, realising he’d been drawing for hours.

Pushing himself up, he wandered into the living room. To his left, near the fireplace, the colossal form of Torus lay sprawled out, his chest rising and falling in soft, steady breaths.

“You alright?” came Molocha’s gentle voice from the kitchen. “You haven’t left your room all night. Something up?”

Leandros flinched slightly at her words, turning to find her cleaning a few dishes. “You didn’t even have dessert,” she added, her tone light but probing.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I… got a bit frustrated with myself, that’s all.”

“Really? Frustrated?” Molocha’s eyes flicked toward him, a knowing glint in them. “You sounded a bit more than frustrated.” She returned to her task, her casual tone an invitation rather than a demand.

Leandros sighed and wandered over to the dinner table. His slice of pie sat untouched, perfectly intact. “Made it just the way you like it,” Molocha said softly.

“Thanks, Mom.” He didn’t touch the pie, his gaze fixed on it as if it held answers he couldn’t find.

Molocha glanced over, noticing the familiar shadow in his eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter. “Leandros… what’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the fork before pulling back. “Mom…” His voice wavered slightly. “Am I a failure?”

The question caught Molocha off guard. She froze, the warmth in her expression fading into something unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fireplace and Torus’ steady breathing.

“I–I’m sorry?”

“Am I a failure?” Leandros shifts his gaze to Molocha, his voice trembling.

“Honey, wha–where’s that coming from? No, you’re not a failure.” Molocha moves closer, taking a seat beside him and brushing a strand of his hair back gently.

“I–I don’t know… it just doesn’t feel like I’ve done much,” he says, staring into her eyes.

Those deep blue eyes. What troubles you so? Her hands cup his face, her amber gaze searching his.

“Leandros, you’re seventeen. Of course you’re not going to have everything figured out.”

“But from the stories I hear about you and Dad—”

“That was a different time,” she interrupts, glancing toward Torus slumbering by the fire. “We don’t live like that anymore.” She pauses, her voice softening. “Well, your father still likes to think we do, but the world’s changed. Don’t beat yourself up by comparing yourself to others, Leandros. It steals your happiness.”

Leandros closes his eyes and leans into his mother’s arms. Her snout rests gently against his soft, white, puffy hair as she rubs slow, comforting circles on his back.

“It’s about the knife, isn’t it?” she asks softly.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why does it trouble you so much that you lost your knife?”

“I tried to impress him today. Climbed a tree, fell, and when I hit the ground, it slipped out of my belt.”

“So? You still have your knife,” she says, tilting her head slightly.

“Only because he picked it up and gave it to me,” Leandros admits, a faint edge of self-resentment creeping into his voice. His hands curl slightly into fists as he lets out a shaky breath. “He’s always told me to keep my gear in check, and yet I fail every time. I try so hard to be like one of you guys, but I always fall short.”

Molocha’s hand continues to rub his back, her touch steady and grounding. She doesn’t respond immediately, letting the weight of his words settle between them. Finally, in a voice as soft as the night, she asks, “Like one of us?”

“I try to walk like you, fight like you, think like you,” he confesses, his voice faltering. “But every time I try, it just doesn’t… it doesn’t feel… right.”

“Leandros.” Molocha gently but firmly props him up, her golden eyes locking onto his. It feels as though she’s peering straight into his soul. “I cannot imagine a world where you aren’t one of us. And even then”—she places a firm finger over his heart—“you are who you are. Don’t let anyone—anyone—tell you otherwise.”

Her words sink deep, filling the cracks in his doubt. Without a word, he leans forward, wrapping his arms around her in a hug that feels as essential as air.

“Thanks… Mom,” he whispers against her shoulder.

“Anytime, dear.” Her voice is soft, soothing. She ruffles his hair gently before releasing him. “Now, go get some sleep. I’ll make sure there’s some pie left for you in the morning.”

Leandros pulls away and stands, moving toward his door. “Love you, Mom,” he murmurs without looking back, closing the door softly behind him.

A faint sigh escapes as he leans against the door, his shoulders slumping. “I just want to be like you guys,” he whispers to himself. Looking at the black spiral markings on his arms.

He shrugs off his tunic, tossing it aside, and climbs into bed. The straw mattress creaks beneath him as the faint glow of moonlight filters through the window, casting soft shadows across the room.

Like one of you guys…

His gaze lingers on the ceiling as the thought loops in his mind. Slowly, his eyelids grow heavy, and the quiet hum of the night lulls him to sle-\

Knock… Knock… Knock…

“Come in,” he calls, opening his eyes and glancing toward the door. No further movement follows. Really? “Come in!” he repeats, watching expectantly, but the silence persists.

Why are you doing this?

Sitting up in bed, he mutters, “I know you’re trying to be funny.”

This time, three loud slams echo through the room. Fuck’s sake. He pushes himself off the bed and strides toward the door, the cold air biting at his skin. The icy touch of the knob doesn’t faze him.

“WHAT?” he growls, swinging the door open.

But all that greets him is an endless sea of frost.

What the f-

A sudden gust of wind howls through the opening, slamming the door wide and throwing him backward. The force hurls him through the wooden wall, splinters flying as the icy gale swallows him whole.

"Grrnnnn," Leandros groans, clutching his right side as pain ripples through him. Curled into a fetal position on the icy ground, his breath comes in short, sharp bursts, each one visible in the frigid air. His mind races, struggling to make sense of what just happened.

Blinking against the cold, he lifts his head slightly. Snow stretches endlessly in every direction, a vast, blinding expanse under the silvery glow of the moonlight—the only thing granting him even a sliver of visibility.

What is this? The thought claws its way through his panic as he scrambles to look around. His heart pounds faster with each passing second as his eyes dart through the frost and darkness, desperate to spot something—anything—that resembles home.

Standing, Leandros squints into the distance, searching for any sign of direction. There it is. A faint speck of light flickers in and out of existence, barely visible against the endless snow. It feels impossibly far, but it’s something.

As soon as he starts moving, the wind picks up, biting at his skin and howling in his ears. The snow grows deeper with every step, swallowing his legs until he’s hip-deep. Each movement is a struggle, the weight of the snow pulling at him, draining what little strength he has left.

“You bear the marks…” A voice echoes around him, disembodied and chilling. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The marks? He freezes, heart pounding as he glances around. But there’s nothing—nothing but snow stretching endlessly in every direction.

Turning back, his breath catches. The white light is no longer distant. It hovers right in front of him now, impossibly close. Suspended at head height, it pulses faintly, unconnected to anything, neither menacing nor inviting—just there, casting a faint glow against the frost.

Leandros stands frozen, at a complete loss for words. His mind feels eerily blank, as if wiped clean of any thought. The icy assault that had clawed at his skin moments ago vanishes, yet the relentless blizzard remains.

The being drifts slowly away, its movements deliberate and almost hypnotic. And then, it happens—an urge to follow, one he can’t resist.

Stop. The thought is sharp, desperate, but his body doesn’t respond. He’s no longer in control. It’s as though he’s become a spectator within himself, his limbs moving of their own accord, blindly trailing the light.

Snow crunches beneath his boots as the journey stretches on, until at last, the light leads him to a cave. But not just any cave. His breath hitches. This is Dad’s cave.

Recognition flares as his eyes dart around, trying to make sense of it. The walls are etched with strange runes, their intricate patterns glowing faintly purple. The light dances across them, casting shifting shadows on the stone.

“What… are… you?” The voice returns, curling around him like a wisp of smoke. This time, it carries a note of curiosity, almost probing.

“I don’t know what I am,” Leandros snaps, the words spilling out before he can stop them. He regains full control of his body now, his muscles tense and his mind sharp. Agitation creeps into his tone, his eyes darting around the cave as he braces himself, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Leandros stands just inside the mouth of the cave, his breath clouding the air as he hesitates. Glancing back over his shoulder, he eyes the swirling storm, its ferocity a stark contrast to the eerie calm within the cave. For a moment, he contemplates leaving, but the biting wind and impenetrable frost outside make the choice for him. With a quiet resolve, he steps further in, softening his footsteps.

“You… are… lost,” the voice reverberates through the cavern, the words bouncing off the stone walls and twisting around him.

Leandros pauses, his heart pounding, but his father’s foresight quickly comes to mind. He reaches for a torch mounted on the wall, its wooden handle smooth and worn from use. With a flick of the lighter built into its base—a design his father had crafted with meticulous care—the torch flares to life, casting flickering orange light against the cave walls.

What wouldn’t Starswirl give to find this? he muses. The thought lingers as his eyes adjust to the surreal sight around him. The glowing purple runes dominate the stone, their intricate patterns pulsing faintly. Interwoven among them, like veins of shadow, are black runes, twisting and curling in stark contrast. The sight is almost hypnotic, drawing him deeper into the cave.

He brushes his fingers along the walls as he walks, the rough stone cool beneath his touch. A strange energy hums beneath the surface, faint but unmistakable, like the thrum of a heartbeat.

“You… are… lost… child,” the voice whispers now, quieter, as though it’s leaning in close.

Leandros flinches instinctively, his shoulders snapping tight. “Uhuah… Don’t do that,” he mutters, shivering as the voice’s eerie tone lingers in his mind. It reminds him of the old stories his father used to tell—tales of spirits that wandered caves like this.

The path twists ahead, narrowing slightly, and he slows his steps. The faint crackle of a fire reaches his ears, its warmth just out of reach. Leandros stops at the final turn, his breath catching. The sound is too deliberate, too alive.

With measured care, he blows out the torch, plunging himself into shadow. Slowly, inch by inch, he creeps toward the corner, his movements silent and deliberate, every sense on edge.

Peeking around the corner, Leandros scans the space. His father’s workbench comes into view, cluttered with tools and scraps of equipment. Sacks filled with random odds and ends are stacked haphazardly nearby. The fireplace crackles softly, its flames fresh and lively, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Yet, there’s no sign of life.

This is exactly like the stories Dad used to tell me. The thought lingers, his mind beginning to churn.

Stepping cautiously out of hiding, Leandros approaches the fire. His eyes dart across the familiar scene. There’s no evidence of anyone entering the cave—no disturbed snow, no misplaced items. Everything looks exactly as it had two days ago when he last checked. Even the tripwire his father had rigged against intruders remains intact.

Paranoid much, Dad? The silent quip does little to ease the tension curling in his gut.

Leandros shifts his weight, his unease gradually lessening, though his guard remains high. His gaze never stops moving, sweeping the room for anything amiss. His voice, steady but tinged with suspicion, cuts through the crackling of the fire.

“What do you want?” The question hangs in the air, unanswered. The silence presses in around him, broken only by the low whistle of the wind outside.

“Actually…” he starts again, his voice firmer this time, though his unease lingers. “What are you?”

“What I am… is not… important,” the voice echoes, reverberating off the cave walls like a distant, disembodied hum.

Leandros exhales sharply, frustration beginning to rise. “Well, that doesn’t help me at all,” he mutters, his annoyance creeping into his voice.

A sudden hiss breaks the silence, sharp and unsettling. His gaze snaps toward the back wall of the cave, where the runes come alive, their glow intensifying. Pulses of light throb rhythmically, radiating an almost hypnotic energy.

At the centre of it all, the runes converge. The black symbols twist and coil, encircling a smaller cluster of purple markings. They form a perfect circle, drawing his attention to a single rune in the middle—a deep blue, wreathed in faint tendrils of black smoke, as though exhaling its own aura.

Leandros steps closer, his breath catching as recognition dawns. “Eyes…” he murmurs, the word slipping out almost involuntarily. It’s the symbol for eyesight in old Minoan—a language his father had taught him in passing.

Did Dad put this here? His thoughts race. If so, when?

The voice cuts through his mind once more, low and deliberate.

“You… wish to be… whole?”

Leandros flinches at the question, but before he can respond, movement above catches his eye. From the shadows of the roof, something begins to descend. Slowly, deliberately, it lowers—a suit of matte black armour, its polished surface absorbing the flickering light.

But it’s not just any armour.

“That’s Dad’s armour…” he whispers, disbelief etched into every word.

A knot of unease twists in his chest. The voice speaks again, more insistent, yet still calm.

“Where did you find that armour?” Leandros demands, his tone sharp, cutting through the charged air. His mind races with questions, but one thought screams louder than the rest: Where the hell did this thing come from?

Is this still a dream? It can't be, can it? Could it be? Leandros clutches his head, torn between disbelief and panic. The lines between reality and illusion blur. "This isn’t real. This—this has to be a dream." A strained laugh escapes him. "You’re not real. None of this is real."

"Oh… Leandros, I assure you… this is… real."

"Prove it," he says defiantly, his gaze locked on the glowing circle of markings. "Hah, prove this is real." Confidence flickers, as if he’s just cracked the code. Letting his guard slip for the briefest moment, he’s snapped back by the sting of a pebble striking the back of his head. The sharp pain cuts through his delusion. Too real to ignore.

"I am… not one to… toy around. I am… giving you an… offer." The voice grows heavier, the last word echoing as the runes flash brilliantly. A sudden gust extinguishes the fire, plunging the cave into shadow.

Leandros steps back, his defiance burning brighter. "You really expect me to believe you? After blowing me through my bedroom wall, hijacking my body, dragging me to this cave, and stealing my father’s armour?" His voice rises, unshaken. "I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m declining."

Silence engulfs the space. The storm outside hums faintly, the only sound filling the void. One by one, the glowing symbols fade into darkness. Leandros exhales sharply, his fists clenching. That’s what I thought.

Grabbing his head, Leandros winces as an alien presence worms its way into his mind—an intruder, something relentless, feeding him whispers laced with venom. The words are fragments, sharp and jagged.

“You do not belong.”
“Don’t you want to see?”
“They don’t know you.”
“You do not belong.”

“Stop!” The pain climbs, radiating from his skull to every nerve in his body. His voice cracks under the weight of it.

“You do not belong.”
“They are lying.”
“You need the truth.”
“You do not belong.”

Leandros collapses to his knees, the agony blotting out everything else. His vision swims, the cave’s dim glow twisting into a blur. He claws at his mind, trying to force the intruder out, drawing on every scrap of magic he’s ever practised—but it’s useless. The voices are relentless, multiplying until they’re a cacophony.

“Stop it! I…” Words fail him as the barrage crescendos.

“You do not belong.”
“Everything is a lie.”
“See the truth.”
“YOU… DO… NOT… BELONG.”

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain vanishes. Leandros curls into himself, gasping for air, his body trembling. The runes ignite in his peripheral vision, snaking along the walls in erratic, serpent-like patterns. The blue rune in the centre hums with a deep, resonant vibration, almost alive.

Leandros staggers to his feet, dirt clinging to his hands and knees, but he barely notices. Something beyond his control propels him forward, his body no longer his own. “I don’t belong…” he mutters, his voice barely audible, trembling with emotion.

As he moves closer to the glowing circle, the black and purple runes seem to slither toward him, wrapping around his presence like tendrils. The spirals on his arms—dark marks he thought inert—begin to pulse with the same blue light as the rune.

His vision blurs with unshed tears. “I… I want the truth.”

Reaching out with a trembling hand, Leandros touches the blue rune. A distant sound echoes in the back of his mind—like the toll of a church bell, low and ominous. He instinctively steps back, his eyes widening as the runes on the walls vanish. In their place, they etch themselves into his skin, intertwining with the black spirals already marking his arms.

“Gooood...”

Pain explodes behind his eyes, sudden and overwhelming. A guttural scream tears from his throat as searing heat blossoms across his face. He clutches his head, desperate to stop the agony, but the sound of sizzling flesh is unmistakable. Black tendrils ooze from the walls, twisting and writhing as they envelop the armour. The pieces lift as if alive, slithering toward him with dreadful purpose.

The armour begins to bind to his body, each piece bending and shifting to mould perfectly to his frame. The tendrils hiss as they meld the metal against his skin, forming a second layer—an unrelenting prison.

Leandros’s screams grow hoarse, his nails scraping against his face in a futile attempt to claw out the torment radiating from his eyes.

When the process is complete, the black metal encases him entirely. His body collapses to the floor, twitching as the pain wracks him, far too great for him to withstand. The voice returns, low and commanding, a promise laced with dread.

“You will be made anew.”