Chapter 1: The First Creation
The air in the small, dimly lit room seemed heavier than it should have. It clung to Silas like a burden he couldn't shake. The cracked walls whispered secrets of old tenants, and the flickering bulb above barely held back the shadows. But the weight Silas felt wasn't from the room. It was from within.
He stared down at his trembling hands. They still tingled, faint traces of golden light fading from his fingertips. The world had never taught him how to wield such a force. No manual existed for a power like his. Yet here he was, surrounded by the remnants of his latest creation.
A perfect apple, crimson and glossy, rested on the stained table. Silas had thought it. Willed it. And just like that, it appeared. It was real. He could smell its sweet tang, feel the slight give of its skin under his fingertips. But his gut twisted with unease. Because nothing came without a price.
He pushed the apple aside and stood, his legs weak. The effort of creation gnawed at him. The familiar ache dug into his chest, as though a piece of him had been carved away. Every time he brought something into existence, something else was taken. His breath. His strength. His memories. A cost he barely understood, yet one he could never ignore.
The price of this power wasn't something you could put on a ledger. You couldn't measure it with numbers or weigh it against a coin. But it always left a mark. Sometimes, it was his body—bone-deep fatigue that would take days to shake. Other times, it was his mind, slipping memories like water through his fingers, pieces of his past disappearing without warning. It was always something.
A knock at the door shattered his thoughts.
"Silas? You in there?"
The voice belonged to Mara. Steady, with a trace of concern. Silas swallowed hard, brushing away the cold sweat on his brow. He wiped his hands on his pants and shoved the apple further out of sight, as though it could hide the proof of his choices.
"Yeah, I'm here," he called, his voice barely convincing. He pulled the door open. Mara's sharp eyes scanned him, instantly reading the toll the night had taken. She didn't ask. She never did. But the worry lingered in her gaze.
"You need to stop doing this," she said quietly. "Whatever it is you're making, it's killing you."
Silas forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Not yet."
But even as he said the words, the truth gnawed at him. Not yet. But soon. And the next creation could very well be his last.
She stepped inside, her boots tapping softly against the creaky floor. Her gaze flitted over the cluttered room, as if already cataloging the signs of his descent into obsession. The table, still damp with the faint traces of his latest creation, gave away more than he was willing to admit.
Mara's gaze softened, but she didn't approach him. She simply watched him, as though waiting for him to explain himself. She had always done that—patient, never pushing. But Silas knew the silence in her eyes was as loud as any accusation.
"I can't keep doing this, Mara," Silas whispered. He looked down at his hands again, as if the weight of the power in them would suddenly disappear. "Every time I create something, I lose a part of myself. A piece of who I am. And it's getting harder to ignore."
"Then stop," Mara said, her voice gentle but firm. "If you know it's destroying you, then stop. We can figure this out. There has to be another way."
He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "There's no other way. I can't turn it off. It's not just power anymore. It's a part of me. It's all I have left."
Mara stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm. Her touch was grounding, a reminder that someone still cared. "You're not alone, Silas. You never have been. You've got me. You've got us."
For a moment, Silas felt the walls crack just a little, the weight on his chest easing as Mara's warmth seeped through his jacket. But then the memory of his last creation flooded his mind, and the guilt crept in, tightening around his ribs.
"I know you want to help," he said quietly, his voice rough. "But I'm already too far gone. I've already made my choice. And there's no going back."
Mara's expression hardened, her hand dropping away from him. "You're wrong, Silas. There's always a way back. You just have to be willing to find it."
Silas wanted to argue, to say that he had no hope of redemption, that he had crossed a line that couldn't be undone. But he didn't. The truth of his power—his curse—was sitting like a weight in the pit of his stomach, and no words could change it.
"I'm going to find someone who can help," Mara said suddenly, turning on her heel. "Someone who might understand what you're going through."
"Help? Who could help with this?" Silas asked, incredulous.
"I don't know," she replied, her voice quiet. "But I'm not giving up on you. Not yet."
And with that, she was gone, the door clicking softly behind her. Silas stood in the silence, his breath coming in shallow bursts as his mind churned. The room seemed even darker now. He was alone with his thoughts, with the power inside him that he didn't know how to control.
The apple lay on the table, still perfect. But Silas knew better than to touch it again. Not tonight.
Instead, he sat down, his back against the wall, eyes closing as the shadows crept closer. He didn't know what Mara was hoping for, but he knew one thing: no matter who she found, no matter how much help she thought she could offer, this curse was his alone to bear.
And it would be the end of him, one creation at a time.