A soft mist hung over the courtyard as Elior trained, the thin morning light cutting through in hazy streaks, rendering everything in shades of muted gray. His movements were precise, blade whispering through the air, each strike a lesson in control rather than power. He was alone now—Kael had slipped into the forest nearby, yet Elior could still feel the creature's presence, as steady and reliable as his own shadow.
This morning, silence was his companion. It had been days since the duel with Orin, yet fragments of it still lingered in Elior's mind, his thoughts tracing back to the way his control had frayed, almost snapping under the Well's pull. Even now, he could feel the mark pulsing under his skin, its rhythm subtly mismatched with his heartbeat, reminding him that he carried a darkness that was neither friend nor foe.
He moved with careful focus, bringing his sword down in a diagonal arc. His breath was controlled, but his mind wasn't—it looped back to the image of Orin's face, the fear mingling with resentment, his gaze hardening as Elior had lowered his weapon, restrained himself. The decision to hold back had left him with an unexpected hollowness, a gnawing thought that somewhere inside him, he had wanted to give in, to release that darkness entirely.
But he knew now that such a release was a trap.
The Well wasn't just a wellspring of power. It was a hungry thing, a shadow waiting to spread, to latch onto his weaknesses. Elder Marin's words haunted him like a whisper: *Power that demands too much will take more than it gives.* Elior had thought himself immune, steady. Now he knew better.
As he completed the final movement, Elior paused, letting his sword rest by his side. The mist thickened, and with it came a feeling—a prickling awareness in the air that warned him he was not alone. He turned slowly, his grip tightening on the hilt, and found a hooded figure standing a few paces away, their form still, like a shadow carved out of the morning mist.
"You've gained a reputation, Elior," the figure said, their voice low, laced with the faintest hint of disdain. "And that mark—" they gestured at his wrist "—it's only the beginning, isn't it?"
Elior's gaze narrowed. This wasn't a fellow Watcher, nor a simple observer. Their stance was too poised, too practiced. He stayed silent, waiting, and after a moment, the figure continued.
"Orin was right, in a way. A mark from the Well, that's no ordinary feat. But for one so… untested… it's a dangerous prize to hold."
The figure's voice had an edge, something intended to provoke. Elior felt his muscles tense instinctively, his eyes flicking over the figure's cloak and boots, noting the small signs of wear that marked them as someone accustomed to travel—and perhaps to conflict.
"Who are you?" Elior asked, his tone neutral, though his grip on the sword remained steady.
The figure's lips curved in a faint smile. "Names are slippery things, don't you think? But if it eases your mind, you may call me Shade. I come from beyond the borders of this city, beyond the Watchers' domain."
Elior resisted the urge to scoff. He didn't need riddles this morning. He had enough of those on his own. But he knew better than to dismiss Shade outright; people from beyond the Watchers' boundaries often brought dangerous knowledge with them, fragments of truths that the Elders preferred to keep hidden.
"What do you want, Shade?" he asked, his voice low.
Shade inclined their head slightly, the smile not leaving their lips. "Curiosity, that's all. You've returned from the Well marked, and yet, here you stand, restrained. Curious, isn't it?"
Elior's jaw clenched. Shade's words danced around the very doubts that had plagued him since the duel with Orin, that persistent gnawing sense of his restraint as a fault rather than strength.
"Perhaps," Shade continued, taking a step forward, "you're wondering if that restraint is a weakness. Power held back is power wasted, after all."
The words stirred something within him, an echo of the Well's darkness, that whispering promise of unchecked strength, unbound by caution or consequence. Elior fought to steady his breathing, remembering Elder Marin's warning.
"And power unleashed is often power wasted, too," he replied quietly, his tone cold.
Shade stopped, their gaze scrutinizing. "An answer worthy of the Watchers. But tell me, Elior, do you truly believe that's enough?"
The question lingered between them, and Elior realized Shade wasn't simply here to provoke him; they were looking for something—someone who could match their intent, someone to test. Perhaps even to challenge.
"If you doubt the answer, test it," Elior said, his voice calm but unwavering. The mist curled around them, silent witnesses to the charged tension. Kael emerged from the shadows behind Elior, its eyes fixed on Shade, its posture alert and predatory.
Shade's smile widened, eyes gleaming with something like approval. "Very well, then."
They moved with startling speed, closing the distance in a single, fluid stride. Elior's sword was up before he'd fully registered the movement, his instincts sharp, honed. Shade's blade was slender, almost delicate, but their strikes were swift and unyielding, like a river that concealed its depth until it swept you under.
Elior blocked, parried, each strike demanding more precision, more focus. Shade's technique was relentless, aiming to disrupt, to unsettle him. And in the shadow of each movement, Elior felt the Well's pulse, urging him to abandon restraint, to let his blade move faster, harder, fueled by the darkness that slept within him.
But he resisted. He focused instead on precision, allowing his strikes to flow without giving in to the wellspring of power within him. Shade's eyes narrowed, sensing Elior's refusal, and their movements grew sharper, more pressing.
"What are you afraid of, Elior?" Shade's voice was a low murmur between blows. "The Well's mark is a gift, but only if you're willing to embrace it."
Elior's grip tightened. "It's not a gift—it's a burden. One I intend to carry, not let carry me."
The words fueled his movements, each strike holding a subtle defiance that disrupted Shade's rhythm. They hesitated for a fraction of a second, their composure slipping, and in that instant, Elior struck. His blade cut a clean arc, coming to a stop just inches from Shade's throat.
They were both breathing hard, their gazes locked. Shade's smile returned, faint but genuine this time, lacking the earlier disdain.
"Interesting," they said, stepping back slowly, lowering their weapon. "You might be more than I expected, Elior. But remember—control is only as strong as the will behind it."
Shade sheathed their blade with a swift motion, their gaze appraising, thoughtful. "There's more beyond the Well's power, Watcher. When you're ready to see beyond what the Elders have told you, you'll know where to find me."
Without another word, Shade turned, vanishing into the mist with a silent grace that left no trace of their presence, as if they'd been nothing more than a shadow in the fog.
Elior lowered his blade, the tension in his body slowly easing. Kael moved to his side, pressing its warm, solid weight against his leg, grounding him. He could still feel the Well's pulse, quieter now but lingering, waiting. But Shade's words had left a new thread of thought, something to unravel, a question that would need answering.
The mist began to thin, and with it, a sense of clarity settled over him. He would master the Well's power, not as a gift but as something to be shaped, controlled. But there was a vastness beyond it, a mystery he hadn't yet touched.
And he would find it.