The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It wasn't just physical—it was as if her very soul was being unraveled, thread by thread, and rewoven into something unrecognizable. The dark liquid the head cultist had injected into her veins coursed through her body like a wildfire, burning everything in its path. Her muscles spasmed uncontrollably, her bones felt like they were being ground into dust, and her skin prickled as though a thousand needles were piercing her all at once. She couldn't scream anymore; her voice had long since given out, leaving her with nothing but silent, gasping breaths.
The room around her blurred and twisted, the flickering candlelight warping into grotesque shapes that danced on the edges of her vision. The symbols carved into the walls seemed to writhe and pulse, their dark, viscous paint dripping like blood. The air was thick with the scent of iron and something else—something ancient and malevolent. It filled her lungs, choking her, suffocating her, until she felt like she was drowning in it.
She was strapped to the table, her wrists and ankles bound by thick, leather restraints that bit into her skin. She had stopped struggling hours ago; there was no point. The cultists had left her alone, their cold, clinical voices fading into the distance as they retreated to observe her from a safe distance. They were waiting, watching, eager to see what their experiment would unleash.
But she didn't care about them anymore. All she cared about was the pain. It consumed her, devoured her, until there was nothing left but the raw, unrelenting agony. She tried to retreat into the corner of her mind where she had always gone to escape, but even that was no longer safe. The pain followed her there, clawing at the walls of her mental sanctuary until it collapsed, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't endure it. She had to make it stop.
And then, something inside her snapped.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It was instinct, a primal, desperate need to survive. She reached deep within herself, into the darkest, most hidden corners of her mind, and found it—the eldritch power that had been growing inside her, waiting for this moment. It was a vast, incomprehensible force, ancient and terrible, and it responded to her desperation with a surge of energy that flooded her body like a tidal wave.
The pain didn't stop, but it changed. It became something else, something colder, sharper, more focused. It was no longer just agony—it was power. She could feel it coursing through her veins, merging with her blood, her bones, her very soul. It was a part of her now, and she was a part of it.
Her body began to change. The right side of her body, already marked by the cult's experiments, darkened, her skin turning black as night. Glowing red cracks spread across her arm, her shoulder, her chest, pulsing with an otherworldly light. Her right eye, already hollow and haunted, shifted, the sclera turning black and the iris glowing a deep, blood-red. Her hair, limp and lifeless, began to writhe and twist, as though alive.
The restraints holding her down began to strain and creak. The leather straps snapped one by one, unable to contain the force building within her. She sat up slowly, her movements jerky and unnatural, like a marionette controlled by an unseen hand. Her head lolled to the side, her glowing red eye fixing on the cultists who had gathered at the edge of the room.
They were watching her, their masked faces unreadable, but she could sense their fear. It radiated from them like a scent, sharp and acrid, and it filled her with a strange, savage satisfaction. They had done this to her. They had made her into this. And now, they would pay.
She raised her right hand, the blackened skin glowing with eldritch energy, and the shadows in the room came alive. They twisted and writhed, forming into tendrils that lashed out at the cultists with terrifying speed. The first one didn't even have time to scream before the tendril wrapped around his throat and snapped his neck. The others tried to run, but they were too slow. The shadows caught them, dragging them back into the darkness where they disappeared with muffled cries.
The head cultist was the last to fall. He stood his ground, his masked face betraying no emotion, but she could see the fear in his eyes. He raised a hand, muttering something under his breath, but it was too late. A shadowy tendril shot out, piercing his chest and lifting him off the ground. He struggled for a moment, his hands clawing at the tendril, but then he went still, his body slumping lifelessly to the floor.
She stood there for a moment, her chest heaving, her body trembling with the aftershocks of the power she had unleashed. The pain was still there, but it was distant now, muted by the eldritch energy coursing through her. She looked down at her hands, at the blackened skin and glowing red cracks, and felt a strange, hollow emptiness.
She had done it. She had survived. But at what cost?
The emotions that had once defined her—fear, anger, sadness—were gone, burned away by the pain and the power. All that remained was a cold, calculating emptiness, a void where her heart had once been. She didn't feel anything as she stepped over the bodies of the cultists, her bare feet leaving bloody footprints on the stone floor. She didn't feel anything as she walked through the dark, twisting corridors of the cult's lair, the shadows parting before her like loyal servants. She didn't feel anything as she pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the night.
The forest stretched out before her, dark and endless, the trees towering like silent sentinels. The air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the cult's lair. She took a deep breath, her glowing red eye scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. There was none. She was alone.
But not for long.
As she walked deeper into the forest, the sound of screams reached her ears. They were faint, distant, but unmistakable. A young girl's voice, filled with terror and desperation. She stopped, her head tilting to the side as she listened. The screams grew louder, more frantic, and she felt a strange, unfamiliar stirring in the void where her emotions had once been.
Curiosity? Concern? She didn't know. But something compelled her to move, to follow the sound. Her bare feet moved silently over the forest floor, the shadows parting before her as she made her way toward the source of the screams.
And then, she saw her.
A young girl, no older than she was, running through the trees with tears streaming down her face. Her dress was torn and dirty, her hair a tangled mess, and her eyes wide with fear. Behind her, figures moved through the shadows, their movements swift and predatory. Assassins.
The girl stumbled, falling to the ground with a cry, and the assassins closed in. She watched from the shadows, her glowing red eye fixed on the scene, her expression unreadable. The girl looked up, her eyes meeting hers, and for a moment, there was silence.
And then, the assassins attacked.