________
Darkness. Not the kind born of night or shadow—but the kind that slithered inside the mind, wrapping around thought and memory like smoke.
Ren floated in it.
He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. Time had folded into itself, warped and dreamlike. He drifted through scattered fragments of light, whispers, and footsteps echoing in the distance. He saw flashes—a hand grabbing his shoulder, the sharp sting of cold water thrown at his face, the crunch of boots over gravel.
And then—
Pain.
He awoke to it.
A burning ache in his arms, shoulders pulled tight by coarse rope. His knees scraped raw, his back pressed against a damp wall of stone. He blinked against dim light, eyes adjusting to the flickering of a torch far above.
He was underground. A cell.
The walls were jagged, damp with moss, carved into a cruel imitation of shelter. Bars of steel loomed in front of him—thick, rusted, and far too real.
Ren tried to move, but a bolt of pain stopped him.
Everything hurt. His wrists were rubbed raw. His lip was cracked. His body screamed in protest with every breath.
Where… he tried to think.
But the memories only returned in fragments. The fire. The hooded man. The smell of his home burning.
His mother. His brother.
He jolted up with a strangled gasp, only to cry out as his bonds dug into skin.
"No sudden movements."
The voice came from across the cell.
Ren's gaze snapped toward the figure sitting in the shadows, quiet and still as stone. It was a boy—maybe a year older than him, draped in black robes that shimmered faintly with silver threading. His face was half-covered by a cloth mask, but the eyes behind it were calm. Too calm.
"You'll pass out again if you fight it," the boy said. "You've been unconscious for two days."
Ren's throat was dry. He tried to speak, but only a rasp came out.
"Why…?"
"You were taken," the boy said simply, standing now. "Marked."
Ren's mind reeled. "By who? Who are you?"
The boy stepped forward, light illuminating the faint tattoo at his neck—a crescent fang surrounded by chains.
"I'm one of them. But not by choice."
Them.
The assassins.
The ones who burned his village.
Ren's breathing turned shallow. "What do you want from me?"
The boy tilted his head. "They think you're useful. Special. Someone gave the order to bring you back alive."
Ren's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"I don't know. But I suggest you play along if you want to survive."
Silence settled between them like dust.
Finally, the boy sighed. "My name's Kael. You'll need someone to talk to in this hellhole. It might as well be me."
Kael turned to leave, his robes swaying like wind-blown shadow.
"Wait," Ren rasped. "What happens to me now?"
Kael paused.
"Training," he said without turning. "If you live long enough for it to matter."
---
The days bled together.
There was no sunlight underground. Only the clanging of metal, the barking of masked instructors, and the sound of bodies hitting stone.
They called it The Hollow. A prison and a crucible.
Ren, like many others taken from razed villages, was given two choices: learn or die.
He learned.
Not out of duty. Not out of strength. But out of necessity.
His body broke often, but he rose each time.
He was starved, beaten, and ridiculed. But each night, as he collapsed on the cold slab of stone they called a bed, his mind whispered one word:
Survive.
Because his brother might still be alive.
Because his mother might still be waiting.
Because something deep inside him told him he wasn't meant to die here.
Kael helped him where he could—quiet glances during sparring sessions, whispered warnings before evaluations. They weren't friends. No one was, in The Hollow.
But Kael was the only one who didn't want Ren dead.
It was during one of the endurance trials that Ren first saw her.
She stood above the training pit, arms crossed, eyes cold. Her hair was like midnight and her presence—undeniable.
They called her The Wraith. A high-ranking instructor. One of the few allowed to kill trainees without reason.
She watched him fight. She watched him bleed.
And when he collapsed after going five rounds without rest, she descended into the pit.
Her boots echoed.
She knelt.
Ren's half-conscious eyes locked with hers.
"You should have died three times today," she said, voice quiet.
Ren coughed, blood staining his lips. "Not… trying hard enough?"
Something flickered in her expression. Not quite amusement.
"Good," she said. "Then maybe you'll live long enough to regret it."
She stood, turned, and vanished into shadow.
---
That night, Ren sat against the wall of his cell, breathing raggedly. Kael sat beside him, silent.
"Why do they want me alive?" Ren asked finally.
Kael looked at him, then at the dark ceiling.
"Because you're not normal. You're remembering things you shouldn't. You move like someone who's already been trained. That scares them."
Ren frowned. "I don't remember being trained."
"You don't have to. Your body does."
Ren glanced at his hands—cut, bruised, trembling.
He didn't feel special.
He felt broken.
But the fire in him was only growing.
And soon…
He would burn brighter than all of them.