Raizen jolted awake, breath catching hard, room swallowed in black. Shutters rattled soft—middle of the night, cold seeping through the cracks, prickling the sweat drenching his shirt. His chest heaved, shaky, tears already there, stinging his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks, cooling fast in the chill.
"W-what...what was that?" he whispered, voice trembling, small, barely cutting through the wind's low whine outside. Hands grabbed the blanket, twisting it tight—knuckles white, shaking like they'd crack. That dream—Horden's ash was bad enough, but this? Kids burning, hair sizzling black, scabbed knees kicking air, the noble's blood soaking gold threads—all stuck in his skull, heavy as wet dirt. Same fire, same hands—his hands, but not his. He kicked the bedpost, foot thumping loud, then again—wood creaked, stung his toes through his socks, didn't shake the weight loose, just left a dull ache.
The week crawled by after that, locked in his room—small, dim, walls pressing in tight, bed sagging under him like it'd give out any second. The gash in his side scabbed over, itchy under his crusty shirt, blood flaking off when he scratched too hard, leaving faint red smears on his fingers.
He'd sit there, knees pulled up, staring at the ceiling—beams warped and splotched with old leaks, spiderwebs dangling loose, swaying in the draft like ghosts. Couldn't stop thinking about it— that shadow in the dream, silver hair slipping free, red eyes glinting like blood under torchlight. Was it real? Some past he didn't know he carried? He'd see it every time he blinked—girl's dress curling black, boy's snotty wails, the noble's wet gurgles—all ash in a flash, looping in his head, relentless. Who was that figure, tall and cold, smirking sharp as he burned them? Why'd he do it—why those kids, that man, gone in bluish-purple flames? Raizen's stomach twisted, sour—he pressed his palms to his face, hard, trying to shove it out, but it clung, vivid, stinking of burnt cloth and flesh, thick in his nose.
He'd pace sometimes—three steps one way, three back—boots scuffing the worn floorboards, dust kicking up in faint clouds that scratched his throat. Servants slid trays under the door—stale bread, watery stew, a bruised apple once—but he barely touched it, just tore off crusts, let them crumble on the table, dry and gray like ash.
"Was that me?" he'd mutter, voice hoarse, staring at his hands—calloused, scratched, no fuel now, but he could feel it, slick and warm, like it'd never left. Was Kezess some shadow of him? Some old life creeping up from the dark? He'd slump back on the bed, springs creaking loud, blanket tangling around his legs—"Why'd he kill them?"—the noble's plea echoing, "S-spare my children—", and that shadow just hissed, burned them slow, watching like it was nothing, like it was easy.
Then the voices came—slithering, cold, slipping into his head like damp air through the shutters. "Kill." Soft at first, a whisper under the wind, making him freeze mid-step, head tilting like he'd misheard. He'd shake it off, mutter "stop," but they grew, overlapping, a nest of snakes hissing in his skull. "Monster." Sharper, digging in—same voice from the training ground, slick and mean, but now a chorus, piling on, heavy. "Die." Loud enough to make him flinch—hands clenched, nails biting his palms, leaving red marks he'd stare at later, dazed.
He'd pace faster—five steps now, corner to corner—boots thudding, dust swirling, muttering "shut up, shut up," but they didn't—"Kill, kill, monster,die"—twisting tighter, a cold knot he couldn't pull loose.
Nights were worse. He'd lie there, blanket knotted around his legs, staring at the dark, voices hissing loud in the silence. "You are me." that person's smirk flashed—red eyes, fuel dripping black, kids screaming shrill and jagged. "Burn them." He'd bolt upright, breath ragged, sweat sticking his shirt to his chest, cold now against his skin. Was it real? Some shadow of himself? He'd stumble to the window, shove the shutters open—cold air hit his face, sharp, but it didn't clear the voices. "Monster." He leaned his forehead against the frame, wood rough and splintered under his skin, eyes shut tight—"Die."—like a blade sliding slow between his ribs.
By the sixth day, he stopped pacing—just sat against the wall, knees up, head back, eyes half-open, staring at nothing. The voices didn't quit—"die, monster, kill"—slithering louder, a chorus now, cold and wet like they were dripping down his spine. He didn't fight it anymore, just let them roll over him, hands limp in his lap, mind spinning. That shadow—felt too real, too close, like a piece of him he didn't want to touch. Was it a dream? A past? His hands shook, resting on his knees—he could almost feel the fuel again, oozing, ready to spark.
Then, seventh night—room pitch-black, shutters rattling hard, wind howling low—the voices swelled, a slithering roar. "Face me." Raizen's head snapped up, eyes wide—then the floor dropped, or he did. Darkness swallowed him, yanked him down fast, a sick lurch in his gut. He landed—stone under his boots, cold and slick, air thick with rot and ash. A shape loomed ahead, tall, blurred—then sharp. Red eyes glowed, too many, set in a writhing mass—black fuel dripping, coiling like tendrils, a form that shifted, stinking of oil and burnt meat, alive and awful. The voice—louder, real—hissed, "Look. At. Me." Raizen stood there, frozen, breath shallow, staring—its true form burning into his eyes. It spoke, words slithering thick, but he didn't answer—just stood, silent, lost in the dark of his own head.