Shadow slave: In The Eye of The Beholder

Silas drifted from the depths of unconsciousness, the remnants of sleep clinging to him like a suffocating fog. His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with the weight of whatever slumber had claimed him. The room was dim, the light muted, casting long shadows across the walls.

For a moment, he lay still, disoriented and uncertain, the fog of drowsiness clearing as the memories of events prior came to his mind. Silas still leaning on the back wall straightened his posture immediately and immediately scanned the room.

Unlike last time he fell asleep, there was no monstrosity ready to bite his head off, instead he was met with the earie cold emptiness of the stone hallway, various wounds and gaps between the stone bricks let the breeze flow into the holes. 

Silas got up from the ground and gazed at the giant of a man's corpse beside him, the blood had dried, the smell of the corpse putrid also not horrible, it seemed the many maggots and rats that were present in the outskirts where not there, wildlife in the endless fields always felt minimal, yet the sight that betrayed his expectations left some Suprise. 

He would have taken the oversized shirt the man had, but it was stained with his own blood, along with its fabrics having cuts drawn all across it, so Silas decided to stay shirtless.

He moved his gaze to the man's nice boots, and then to his own feet, which were bare and bloody, his own shoes had perished from the agility he had performed while in a [Frenzy] Every step on the stone floor was cold and painful, so the boots would be fantastic. 

'Oh, wait their way too big for me' Silas figured sombrely, it seemed the bastard of his uncle left nothing for him to loot, no way for him to help his dear nephew.

Silas grumbled, the memory of the chaos of yesterday being repeated in his head, the stones, the frenzy, the return of her... and him slaying his uncle, though about that last thing made brought some attention, was he missing something. 

----

'Oh right I got a memory!' Silas downdraught expression turned bright again as he summoned the runes, the shimming lines appearing faintly. 

Memory:[Ashen Veil]

Memory Rank: Awakened

Memory Tier: I

Memory type: Garment

Memory Enchantments: [Way of Wind], [Ebony Silk]

Memory description: The giant of the plains once had a cloak dear to him, a dark grey cloak infused with the ash of a great tree, the happy memories of the time before the loop gone, this being one of them.

Enchantment description: The breeze of the endless plains has touched the cloak, the currents of the wind have infused with its very fabric, allowing the user to exert the expression of air.

Enchantment description: The ebony wood that hard been burned to ash and infused with the fabric has taken the property of soot, the more the wearer is covered by its silk, the lesser their presence makes.

Silas looked towards the runes with glee, a cloak to wear over his bear skin was just what he needed. along with the enchantments, while not as clear and straight-forward as the [Mad Cows Canine] they showed promise, along with no possibility of the cloak turning him insane.

He summoned the [Ashen Veil]. his back and shoulders with fantastical light, before solidifying into a lustrous dark cloak, intricate pattens of roots intertwined within the fabric, Silas grabbed the ends of the bleak cloth and pulled it together, hiding his chest from the cold unforgiving breeze. 

It felt as if the silk of the cloak was caressing his skin in its warmth, the feeling of security, that he was safer in its seam, such security he had never really had in his life, other than perhaps the embrace of his mother was something he had, but it had been a while... with here gone the cloak acted like some resemblance. 

He grabbed the dark fabric by its bottom and lifted to observe the intercity patters, the weave of the silk, it felt smooth and delicate in his fingers, yet when he tried to damage the fabric it pulled back, any attempts to rip or puncture it failed, it was an awakened memory after all, Silas had no chance in breaking it in his hands, it had been created by the spell, the art on intwined in it was merely an imitation, its creators intentions to perhaps immobilised the tree that had been burnt to ash and infused with the cloak being copied. 

The spell imitating the canvas that history had painted, carving into the block that had already been etched. for not the purpose of expression, but a system based of granting power, the only creativity and originality being the very tools and systems in which to weave and conjoin its afterimage.

To the man who had unwillingly gifted him this bounty—his uncle, now lying cold and motionless. The body had already begun to stiffen with rigor mortis, a sense of frigidity and emptiness radiating from it, making the scene even more unsettling.

The man's glassy eyes stared blankly upwards, seemingly seeking the heavens, only to be met with the oppressive stone ceiling of the castle. Something about the lifeless gaze, frozen in perpetual horror, disturbed Silas. Despite everything, the sight of his uncle's vacant, unblinking eyes left a lingering discomfort in the air.

It was well deserved, after all he had meant to kill him, along with faking the affection that he had missed in his life, it made him angry and betrayed, but to leave him like that still irked him for some reason, so he decided to the bare minimum 

Silas stepped closer, the soft rustle of his new cloak the only sound in the quiet hall. He knelt by the corpse, hesitating for just a moment before reaching out. his pale white fingertips closing the man's eyes, to let the man leave his attachments on the earth, let his glassy eyes witness what lie beyond.

'Your nightmare is over' Silas whispered, the darn saying appearing again, he had not heard of it, but he still remembered when the girl taught it to him, as well as the many other things his decrepit self was never aware.

He stood, the weight of the moment lingering for just a breath longer before he turned away. With a lightness that contrasted the sombreness of the scene, Silas moved towards the doorway, his new cloak billowing around him like the wings of a bird finally freed from its cage. For the first time in a long while, he felt as though he had something of value—something that was truly his.

The new cloak trailing behind like the tail of a phantom. The hallways were silent, the castle's cold stones seeming to absorb any sound. Silas moved quietly, the chill of the stone floor no longer biting at his feet, thanks to the [Ashen Veil]'s warmth. He looked up and attempted to pay attention to any noise of conflict from the terror.

Silas hadn't heard the clash on the top floor in a while, it had been a decent number of hours since he had slept, yet the monster hadn't come down and kill him, or even corrupt his mind, it should still be alive since he doubted the noble looking guy from before could kill it, yet if they were both dead the nightmare should of ended by now, by the words of the beholder. 

He reached the foot of a winding staircase, the steps spiralling upwards into the dimly lit tower. As he ascended, the air grew thinner, and the faintest breeze began to swirl around him, ascending the stars he experimented with the enchantment [Way of Wind], he gestured his hands to the limited breeze and air in the castle and motioned with his arm, the wind followed his hands, devotedly imitating the signed commands, like a musician to a conductor.

Silas flicked his pale fingers up, ordering the breeze to flow upward, and so it did, carrying the hood of [Ashen Veil] being pushed up from his back and onto his head, covering most of his grey locks from the outside world, Silas was just convinced that the cloak was truly perfect, such a boon could be incredibly helpful and convent once he got out of this cursed nightmare. 

'that's assuming that I kill a terror' Silas internally huffed, the claim seemed so impossible and dauntless that it made him want to burst out laughing, he would do the same to any other outskirt rat who spoke with such confidence to kill any nightmare creature, not even a terror! along with the fact his body was already fatigued and damaged from his last clash. 

 Silas smirked. 'of course, I would also think of my visions of grandeur are delusional, ive been told that all my life, whether directly to my face or by looks from others, but'. clenching his fist his once absent strength in his grip, tightening further

'The feeling i felt before, the will and desire, it feels like i can do anything, as he moved, the memory of that burning will, that unyielding defiance, began to surface in his thoughts.

He had felt it before, in the heat of battle, when the world narrowed down to the sharp edge of his blade and the singular purpose of survival. But this was different. Back then, his defiance was born out of desperation, a frantic grasp for life in a world that sought to crush him. Now, though, it was something more—a flame kindled not by fear, but by the realization that he could shape his fate, not just observe it, that his actions could carry weight beyond mere survival.

The sensation was intoxicating, like a fire roaring in his chest, threatening to consume all his doubts. It was as if the spell itself had recognized this defiance, amplifying it, feeding it with every ounce of strength he had ever buried deep within. such was [Empowerment]

Of course, the rush of emotions did not mean he was carless, the power was fantastical, overestimating its bounds could lead to his death at any second, overconfidence against the spell was the quickest way to feed a nightmare creature, yet at this point, if he died here, fuelled by his desire and hope, his passion, would it matter?

The ability to even convey the expressions he was unable to for all of his powerful life meant so much, if limited his use of them to be cautious against the threats, such a thing could be thrown away, by now the feeling was addicting.

Death was something that haunted his entire life, from tragedy, torture, and sickness, its blade constantly rested on his neck, going to its depths while empty was a lot more daunting then diving into its embrace with the spark of life instead of emptiness. 

If he lived through the nightmare, he would make the legacy clans pay for there crimes, adjust the government that abandoned him, and attempt to make himself known thought earth, a person from nothingness to greatness, to rise and prove himself, to show his expression of defiance to the world.

If he died trying, so be it. 

He was ought to be dead long, long ago, yet here he still was at it.

Living, by the skin of his teeth, fighting with everything he had. 

It was painful, hard and required every bit of effort he could not to crumble. 

though the feeling of fighting against his threats, sword in hand pumped with adrenaline, rather them succumbing to them helpless, was infinitely better.

The struggle, the desperate claw for survival, compared to the sadness that followed him for his whole life. 

It was invigorating. 

So instead of running away from the dreadful terror, he continued to climb the stairs further, ascension to something greater, or the stillness of death beyond, he continued to travel up, using the [Ebony Silk] to hide his presence, sneaking past the unnecessary mindless that wondered the halls, continuing further up to his true goal. 

Silas ascended the final steps, the air growing colder with each passing moment. The wind from the shattered windows howled through the open space, whipping around him as he neared the top floor. The dim lighting from below was replaced by the pale glow of the moon, filtering through the cracks in the crumbling stone.

Reaching the top, Silas paused at the threshold of what once must have been an ornate chamber. Now, it was a scene of utter devastation. The walls were obliterated, reduced to jagged remnants that jutted out like broken teeth. The ceiling was gone, leaving the night sky as a makeshift roof, its stars casting a dim light over the scene. Pieces of debris littered the floor, mingled with shattered furniture and torn tapestries.

In the centre of the wreckage, the terror loomed—is grotesque wheat covered gore splattering around, as if contained by a seal energy, its presence so overwhelming that it seemed to distort the very air around it. Yet, it did not advance. It was held back, as if trapped within an invisible barrier.

Silas's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the noble, the man who had appeared so composed before now reduced to a picture of desperation. He stood a short distance from the terror, one hand outstretched, trembling as it maintained the barrier. Sweat poured down the noble's face, his hair matted to his forehead, and blood trickled from his nose, staining his elegant attire. His entire body quivered with the strain of keeping the terror at bay, the toll of his aspect evident in the deep lines of pain etched into his face.

The noble's eyes, wide and frantic, darted to Silas as he appeared at the top of the stairs. There was no recognition, only a mad, desperate plea in his gaze. His breath came in ragged gasps, and with a trembling, bloodstained hand.

and reached toward Silas.