Dark Whisperer

There, nestled among the towering oaks and shrouded in brambles, the shack loomed. The forest around it was still, the shadows deepening as the sun dipped lower, casting long, dark fingers across the clearing.

The wind shifted, rustling through the branches, and the door creaked open ever so slightly, spilling a sliver of faint, golden light onto the leaf-strewn ground. There, amidst the clutter of old bones, dried herbs, and dusty scrolls, lay Selis—his form hunched and small.

He was asleep, his breathing shallow, his hair, greying at the temples, clung in damp strands to his forehead. The leg—the crippled leg—was twisted at an awkward angle, a dark reminder of the pain and bitterness that had shaped his life.

But it was his face that told the true story.

His features, lined and careworn, were contorted in a grimace of agony and rage, his lips twitching soundlessly as if caught in some silent argument. His fingers, curled into the furs covering him, tightened and flexed in sporadic, jerking movements, like a man gripping the edge of a precipice. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the fire’s feeble light as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

There, in the shadows of his tiny, forgotten shack, the old shaman twisted and turned, caught in the grip of a nightmare that went far beyond mere dreams.

It began as it always did—with the forest.

Dark and endless, the trees towering above like the ribs of some great, slumbering beast, their branches clawing at the sky. He was running, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. The ground beneath him was uneven, slick with moss and wet leaves, and his twisted leg throbbed with every step, sending sharp, stabbing jolts of pain through his body.

But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

The shadows around him seemed to shift and ripple, closing in, as if the darkness itself were alive. He could hear it—the soft rustle of leaves, the snap of a branch somewhere to his left. And above it all, the sound of hooves, pounding against the earth like thunder.

Run, boy, a voice hissed through the blackness, low and mocking. Run faster.

Selis stumbled, his leg buckling beneath him, but he forced himself forward, his teeth clenched in a snarl of pain and desperation. He could feel the presence behind him—the stag, massive and terrible, its eyes glowing like twin embers in the gloom.

And over the thunder of its hooves, his father’s voice rang out, cold and derisive.

“Weak.”

The word struck like a blow, sharp and cutting. “Useless.”

Selis’s breath hitched, his chest heaving as he struggled to run faster, faster, the pain in his leg flaring, burning like fire. But no matter how hard he pushed himself, the stag was always there, its hooves striking the earth in a relentless, pounding rhythm that matched the frantic beat of his heart.

“A crippled son...” The voice seemed to surround him, filling the air, the trees, the very ground beneath his feet. “No better than the filth beneath my boots.”

“I’m not!” he screamed, the words tearing from his throat in a raw, desperate cry. “I’m not!”

But the stag only snorted, its breath steaming in the cold night air, and lunged forward, its antlers flashing like blades. Selis tried to dodge, his leg giving out beneath him, and—

The world fell away.

He was falling, the wind roaring in his ears, the darkness swallowing him whole. There was a moment of weightlessness, a fleeting sensation of freefall, and then—

Water.

Cold, black water, icy and unforgiving, closed over his head, dragging him down, down into its depths. He thrashed, his lungs burning, his vision blurring as the dark liquid filled his mouth, his throat, choking him. The pressure crushed against his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, the cold seeping into his bones.

And then, through the suffocating blackness, a voice.

Low and sibilant, it whispered from the depths, curling around his mind. “Power awaits... but you must claim it. Prove them wrong.”

Selis’s body stilled, his eyes widening in the murky darkness. He could feel it—the presence lurking just beyond the edge of his vision, vast and coiled, like a serpent in the deep. It watched him, its gaze heavy and unblinking, and he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that it was waiting.

“Do you want it?” The voice purred, soft and poisonous. “Do you want to be more than this... crippled shell? Do you want to be feared? To be strong?”

Selis’s heart hammered against his ribs, his thoughts a wild, tangled mess of fear and longing. The darkness shifted around him, pressing closer, the water cold and crushing. He could see it now—something, deep in the black, a shape too vast and terrible to comprehend. It pulsed with power, dark and alluring, the air vibrating with its presence.

“Yes,” he thought, the word a fierce, silent snarl. “Yes, I want it.”

The presence shuddered, the water around him rippling. “Then take it,” it whispered, its tone sharp and hungry. “Take it.”

The pressure mounted, the darkness closing in, and Selis felt his body begin to convulse. He reached out, his fingers clawing at the blackness, desperate to grasp it, to pull it into himself, to become it.

But then, with a jolt, the water vanished.

He gasped, his eyes snapping open, chest heaving, the firelight casting jagged shadows that twisted like mocking figures around him. The whisper still echoed, taunting, daring him.

"Take it..."

The words dug deep, sparking a surge of anger that spread like wildfire. He clenched his fists, pushing himself up from the cold, dirt-packed floor. He would show them. No more weakness. No more failure. He staggered to his feet, his leg quivering beneath him, a reminder of every taunt, every sneer, every scornful look cast his way.

Breath coming fast, he moved with newfound purpose, shoving aside old furs and reaching beneath a pile of worn cloth to uncover his tools. First, the bone dagger, its handle smooth and ancient, with runes carved deep into its blade. Then came the small idols, weathered and chipped with age, each carved to represent a different god. Finally, he grasped the pouches of powdered herbs, each one brimming with scents—sharp and earthy, bitter and sweet—that reminded him of the forbidden power he sought to unlock.

He wrapped them in a dark cloth, securing them tightly, and stood. A whisper within him, faint but pleading, called him to stop. “This is not you,” it murmured.

But the darker part of him overpowered it, fiercer and unyielding. "I won’t be weak," he muttered through clenched teeth, clutching the bundle to his chest.

Turning sharply, he threw open the door and slipped into the dusk, each step carrying him deeper into the dense forest. The air grew thick, charged with a strange expectancy, shadows lengthening with the sinking sun. He moved with a tense energy, each step pressing him toward the ritual site as though guided by an unseen hand.

Selis reached the circle just as the last light faded. The stones—tall, weathered, and crusted with patches of dark moss—stood in a rough ring around a shallow hollow in the earth. Four larger stones marked the cardinal points, each etched with spiralling symbols, their edges jagged and worn. Between them, smaller stones created a perfect circle, binding the space within.

Selis knelt, unwrapping the bundle with reverence, and placed the idols at each of the four points, aligning them to face the centre. He sprinkled the powders in concentric circles, the fine dust settling on the damp ground, forming an intricate pattern of spirals and lines, symbols stretching between the stones, connecting them with lines as fine as spider silk.

In the centre of the circle, he traced a larger rune with the dagger’s tip, dragging it slowly through the earth, each line precise and deliberate.

As he ran his thumb along the markings of the bone dagger, he felt the air thicken around him.

The ritual circle was ready.

The ritual was ancient, older than his own worn bones, passed down through generations of shamans who once held sway over nature’s depths. It was meant to be pure, a plea to the lake’s power for healing and renewal, a way to mend what was broken.

Selis drew a slow, steadying breath, feeling his heart pound against his ribs. Lowering the blade, he traced the lines of a looping rune in the earth, connecting the stones with a single, seamless line that caught the faintest shimmer of dusk light. Each stroke was practiced, precise, and he moved as if his very life depended on it.

“Focus,” he whispered to himself.

He could not afford mistakes. Not tonight. His fingers moved with meticulous care, following each curve, each ancient line. The blade cut through the earth like an extension of his will, the runes along its edge starting to glow, faint at first but growing bolder.

As the circle closed, Selis took a breath, then began to chant, the ancient words rough and cracked, as if drawn from the depths of his being.

“Anam na mara, spirit of the waters,

Lend me strength, as flesh to bone.

Let old wounds mend, and blood atone.”

The syllables felt foreign on his tongue, heavy with age and power. His voice wavered, worn from bitterness, but soon it grew, steady and strong, filling the forest like the low rumble of thunder before a storm.

“Heart of stillness, hear my call,

Bear my plea, break this thrall.

By stone and root, by ancient rite,

Return the power that is my right.”

He could feel it now—the pulse of the lake’s energy, flowing into him. It trickled like cool water, easing the ache in his leg, seeping into his marrow, warm, almost…healing.

“By blood and bone, by fire’s light,

I will claim my strength tonight.

Spirit deep, spirit old,

Turn my weakness into gold.”

This was it, he realized, his gaze softening as the words continued to pour from his lips. This strength—this certainty—was what he had craved all his life.

But then, a whisper. It slithered through his mind like smoke, dark and insistent. Why settle for this, when you could have more?

He froze, the chant wavering. His gaze fell to his leg, the familiar ache now stirring with something deeper—something hungry. The good, the last flickering light of restraint within him, pushed back, urgent and pleading.

This isn’t right, the good part of him whispered, almost desperate. What are you doing, Selis? You know this isn’t you. This path will twist you beyond all recognition.

He hesitated, his breath coming in shallow bursts. Twist me? he thought, nearly scoffing. Look at me—broken, crippled. They’ve already discarded me. Left me to rot.

There is still honour in you, the voice urged. The ritual wasn’t meant for this. Let it be enough.

A fierce hiss clawed back. They left you in this shack to waste away. You’re nothing to them—nothing but a failure. Take what’s yours. Make them fear you.

Turn back, Selis, the gentler side pleaded. Once you cross this line, there’s no return. This darkness will consume you.

Selis gritted his teeth, the weight of memory pressing against him like an iron grip. His father’s scorn echoed, sharp and merciless. Weak. Useless. The words coiled around him like chains, tightening.

His grip on the dagger turned white-knuckled, a low growl escaping his throat. "No,” he whispered fiercely, anger swelling. I am done with this… this prison of shame, of helplessness.

Don’t do this!

They threw you away. Prove them wrong. Show them what they unleashed by abandoning you. Embrace it, Selis.

A moment of stillness, a single, damning decision. Selis’s grip tightened, his voice unbridled as he growled, “I am done with weakness! I claim what’s mine!”

Then take my gift.

Reality around him warped. Shadows grew long and clawed, twisting at the edges of his vision, dark tendrils seeping into the symbols he had drawn in the dirt. The runes, once soft and glowing, darkened, bleeding into an inky blackness as if filled with a life of their own, the symbols writhing like serpents.

A chill shivered through his core, and for the briefest of moments, the dagger felt foreign, wrong in his grip—an echo of that gentler voice, faint and distant now, a light retreating deep into his mind, locked away, silenced.

He stared down at the ritual circle, watching as the clean lines of his runes twisted, merging into something darker, foreign, unrecognizable. But this time, he felt no horror. Only a dark satisfaction.

Yes, he thought, giving in completely, letting the power spill out of him like a river breaking its dam.

The chant resumed, but now, each word twisted and seethed with a corrupted resonance. He could feel the power coursing through him, raw and uncontrolled, binding him to the darkness he had called forth, pulling him deeper and deeper into its depths. And this time, he didn’t resist.

“Tír na beatha, heart of power,

Guide this soul in twilight’s hour.

Speak the truths that none may tell,

Light the path 'twixt heaven and hell.”

More, the voice urged, its tone edged with hunger. Push harder. Take what is yours.

“I’ll show you. I’ll show you all.”

Yes, it crooned softly, a shiver of triumph threading through the words. Let it in. Let it... consume you.

Slowly, deliberately, Selis turned to the West, bowing his head slightly as he whispered the incantation, each word slipping from his lips like a curse:

"Spirit’s mark and hunter’s pride,

Grant me strength where secrets hide.

Call the winds and wake the sea,

To show the path that none can see."

The air around him seemed to tighten, shimmering with a soft, eerie light. The runes etched into the dagger began to glow brighter. A thrill raced through him—a cold, shivering sensation that gripped his spine and made his teeth ache. But it wasn’t the smooth, gentle flow of healing magic. This was something else, something raw and biting.

He turned to the East facing the lake, bowing lower, his voice a fierce, unwavering chant:

"Blood of bone and breath of sky,

Bound in earth where gods lie.

Grant me vision, grant me power,

Bring forth truth in darkest hour."

His words hung in the air, reverberating through the stones. He lifted the dagger high, its darkened runes pulsing with energy that seemed to warp the air around it, twisting shadows and bending light. He held it there, suspended, his breath caught in his throat, as if standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground far below.

Then, with a growl of defiance, he plunged the dagger into his crippled leg.

Nothing.

No pain. No blood. Only an eerie, hollow silence. Selis blinked, his eyes widening as he looked down at the dagger buried in his leg, dumbfounded.

“What…?” The word slipped from his lips, barely a whisper, laced with shock.

Then, like a dam breaking, the blade exploded with dark energy, and black tendrils of magic poured into his leg. The force of it was so great that the dagger shot out, clattering to the ground. The flood of darkness twisted into his flesh, his muscles convulsing violently.

“Arrrrrrgggggh”

The power coursed through him like molten iron, writhing under his skin, spreading with a coldness that gnawed into his bones. The agony was relentless, brutal, clawing at every nerve. His leg began to warp, muscles bulging grotesquely, twisting as if alive.

“Stop!” he shrieked, his voice torn and frayed, but the power ignored him, surging deeper. He gasped as his veins blackened, dark tendrils spreading beneath his skin like roots of some cursed tree, each one pulsing with a life of its own. His flesh darkened, his veins turning an unnatural black, the corruption coiling and burrowing through his blood.

Snap.

The bones in his leg shattered, bending in unnatural angles, twisting into shapes no human limb was meant to take. He choked on another scream, his body buckling as the sickening cracks echoed through the clearing. The agony raged on, relentless, reshaping his leg with each brutal contortion.

“No!” Selis cried, his voice raw, desperate, as he felt his skin stretch and tear, bruising like rotting fruit, his leg bending backwards, curling into a hideous, malformed shape.

Through the pain, through the horror, something else burned within him—a fierce, consuming sense of purpose.

Yes. Let it take hold. Let it reshape you.

He could only watch, eyes wide, as the darkness invaded every sinew, every bone, his leg convulsing under the pressure. The muscles swelled grotesquely, his skin stretching and splitting as he fought to hold back another scream, and then—

The air itself seemed to tear.

The ground beneath him erupted, dark mist pouring out in a thick, roiling wave, coiling around him like the tendrils of some monstrous creature. It wrapped around his leg, binding to his flesh, seeping into the wound like a living thing. He screamed, the sound raw and desperate, his body buckling as the pain consumed him, fire and ice tearing through his veins.

And then, in an instant, it was gone.

He collapsed, gasping, his entire body trembling. The clearing was silent, the mist swirling softly around him, settling like a shroud over the earth. Selis lay there, his breath ragged, his vision swimming.

And then he saw it.

His leg.

It was no longer human. The skin was black and scaled, gleaming faintly in the dim light. His toes had elongated, ending in cruel, hooked claws that scraped against the ground. The muscles beneath the skin bulged, rippling with a strength that felt wrong, alien. His leg flexed, moving with a deadly grace.

But even through the horror, a dark, fierce triumph welled up within him.

“Yes,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent. “Yes.”

He rose slowly, the pain ebbing, leaving only a numb, throbbing emptiness. His leg—his new leg—moved easily beneath him, responding to his will with a terrifying strength. He flexed it, the claws digging into the earth, and a dark chuckle bubbled up from his throat.

He had done it. He had taken the power. And it was his.

The voice in his mind whispered softly, a dark, insidious promise: Break them. Make them fear you.

Selis smiled, a cold, sharp smile that bared his teeth. Yes. They would fear him.

And they would never laugh at him again.