Shadow Slave: The Four Horseman of Deviants

The dining hall was quiet, save for the crackling fire in the corner. Dim light from a low-hanging chandelier cast long shadows on the heavy oak table, its polished surface gleaming faintly under the flickering flames. The air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats and warm bread, the kind of hearty fare that beckoned memories of laughter and togetherness.

The child—or rather, Damon—paused at his steps as he looked through the large portraits, fingers brushing against the frames as if grounding themselves. The journey home had been long, but this was a different kind of weight. A different kind of anticipation. The hallway stretched behind them like a void, yet every step forward seemed heavier than the last.

He sat alone at the head of the table, the father. His black hair with silver strikings beside his temples, caught the glow, making him look both regal and weary. His figure, once broad and commanding, seemed diminished under the weight of time, but his gaze was steady, piercing. It was not the gaze of a man who had mourned quietly—it was the gaze of someone who bore the silence like a shield.

His son stepped forward, each stride deliberate. Their boots scuffed against the tiled floor, a sound that echoed louder than it should have. The father's eyes shifted, meeting theirs for the first time in years. No words yet, only the shared language of fleeting glances and old memories.

"Sit," the father finally said, his voice even but heavy with unsaid things. He gestured to the chair closest to him, the one once occupied by the mother.

Damon obeyed, lowering himself into the seat with a hesitance that felt foreign, awkward. They glanced at the spread before them—succulent meats glistening with juices, vegetables roasted to perfection, a bowl of steaming soup that smelled of nostalgia. It was all so familiar, and yet… it wasn't.

"You've been gone a long time," the father said, reaching for his glass. He swirled the dark wine inside, not drinking, just watching it. "Too long."

Damon opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. What was there to say? An apology felt insufficient, explanations too selfish. Instead, he picked up the silverware, his hands trembling slightly, and began to eat.

The father watched, quiet, his own plate untouched. There was no scolding, no pointed questions. Only the heavy air of understanding—an unspoken grief shared across the table. The silence was no longer oppressive but intimate, a reflection of what had been lost and what was still there to be salvaged.

Here's a polished version of your scene, with some adjustments for flow, clarity, and emotional depth:

"You've grown," the father said after a time, his tone softer now. His faint smile barely lifted the corners of his lips, but it was enough to ease the tightness in Damon's chest. "And yet, here you are. Back at my table."

Damon hesitated, the weight of his guilt pressing against him like the dim light in the dining hall. He placed his fork down, his voice low and uncertain. "Dad… I apologize for being like this. I know I caused you plenty of problems over the past few years—joining that evil cult, losing my memories, the house arrest… making you pay for all my irresponsible actions." He paused, taking a steadying breath. "I'm sorry for being selfish."

The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. Damon returned to his meal, though the taste of the succulent food felt muted now, drowned beneath the bitterness of regret.

And yet, even as he spoke, he knew the man sitting across from him was not truly his father. Not the father of Lee, at least.

But there was a part of Damon within him—a part that remembered the respect he felt for his father. A part that knew, with quiet certainty, how deeply Damon had been nurtured, disciplined, and loved in this household.

Lee understood that too. Damon's father had raised his son to be a good-hearted boy, just as Lee's father had done for him. The parallels ran deep, intertwining their shared experiences.

Lee swallowed hard, his thoughts turning to the strange duality within him. He was both Damon and Lee, their memories and experiences layered together like fragile threads. Greedy, perhaps, to claim both lives. But undeniably real.

Yes, to have this much love, this much care from a parent—it was something a child could only dream of. A parent who disciplined not out of anger but to guide. Who pushed not out of demand but out of belief in their child's potential.

For the first time, Damon—Lee—looked his father in the eye. Truly looked.

The father's gaze was stern, as it had always been, yet softened by something gentle. Something patient.

Lee's voice broke the silence, informal but sincere. "I'm really sorry for all the trouble I caused," he said quietly, bowing his head.

The father chuckled, shaking his head. "There's no need to apologize again, son. You're sugarcoating it now."

He leaned back slightly, his tone firm but warm. "You don't have to be nervous with me. I'm your father. It's my job to take care of things like that. You don't need to feel guilty—I know you work hard. I know you try your best."

His father smiled then, his hand resting briefly on Damon's shoulder. "And I'm proud of the man you've become."

The words settled over him like a balm, mending wounds unseen. Damon—Lee—closed his eyes for a moment.

Here's the refined continuation:

He wasn't just Damon or Lee. He was both. And that duality, fragile yet powerful, was something he knew he had to maintain. If he wanted to survive, to thrive, he needed to improve—not just for himself, but for the people who mattered.

"Dad…" He hesitated, then steeled himself. "Can you teach me how to wield a sword?"

His father exhaled deeply, a thoughtful sigh that carried both pride and regret. "I know you want to protect yourself, son. The future is uncertain, and the dangers ahead are real. But I'm afraid I can't help you there. Our family has always practiced smithing and using our abilities to bend metal, not wield weapons."

"Oh…" Lee's shoulders sagged slightly, disappointment flickering in his expression.

"But," his father continued, his voice firm with resolve, "I do know someone who can teach you. She's skilled, one of the best. I'll send her a letter and arrange for her to train you properly. If this is what you need, I'll make sure you get it."

Lee's disappointment faded, replaced by determination. His fist clenched under the table as his thoughts raced.

'With this, I can protect myself. Both in the Nightmare Spell and the real world. Even if it's grueling, I'll do whatever it takes. I'll conquer this Nightmare.'

His jaw tightened, the words ringing in his mind.

'For the boys!'

…..

Here's a revised and polished version of your scene:

Walking through the streets of Markarth, Niro pulled his coat tighter against the chill. A thick fog blanketed the city, a mix of the cold season's dampness and the steam rising from the factories and machines scattered throughout the area.

The city was alive with activity. Carriages rattled along cobblestone roads, their wheels clattering in rhythmic echoes. Workers bustled about, some hauling supplies to construction sites, others engaging in lively conversations. Nearly every corner of the city seemed to be under development, scaffolding hugging buildings as the city expanded at a breakneck pace. With Awakened Engineers driving its progress, Markarth's economic and technological growth surged ahead faster than anyone could have predicted.

Amid the chaos, a young man moved with purpose. Dressed in formal clothing, his white hair stood out starkly against the gray fog. His lean frame weaved through the crowd as he made his way to the police station. He was meeting with Woody—the young boy he'd helped the other day.

As Niro neared his destination, a familiar figure caught his eye. It was none other than Awakened Colero, the well known Engineer who captured him and Mason.

Colero noticed him too, a smile spreading across his face as he approached.

"Niro," Colero greeted, extending a hand. They shook firmly before Colero gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Nice to see you again. I hope you're staying out of trouble."

Niro chuckled lightly. "I'm in my best behavior so far." He smiled softly.

Colero's grin widened. "And your friend? I hope he hasn't gotten himself into another mess."

"He's fine," Niro replied. "He went to visit his father recently. I'm not sure when he'll be back."

"Ah," Colero said thoughtfully. "Visiting to make amends, I assume?"

"Perhaps."

Colero nodded, then shifted the conversation. "So, what brings you here, Niro?"

"I'm meeting with someone inside," Niro said, offering a small smile. "I just hope he's still there."

"Well, I won't keep you, then," Colero said, stepping back. "I was heading back to the station myself. Take care, Niro. I'm sure we'll cross paths again."

Niro inclined his head politely. "Likewise, Mr. Colero. Take care."

With that, Colero strode off into the mist, leaving Niro to continue towards the police station. The bustle of the city faded slightly behind him.

….

Niro pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by a pair of small arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

"You came! You really came!" Woody exclaimed, his voice filled with joy.

"Of course I did," Niro replied, ruffling the boy's hair. "I promised, didn't I? I hope the officers treated you well while you were here."

"They did! They gave me lots of delicious food and even new clothes!" Woody twirled in place, making the hem of his new shirt flutter as if to show off.

Niro smiled. "Those are some nice clothes. You're looking like a proper young man now."

Woody stuck his tongue out playfully. "I don't want to look like that!"

Niro chuckled. His lighthearted laugh seemed to ease the lingering tension in the room.

The two stepped out of the police station, heading toward their original goal—finding Woody's home. The outskirts of Markarth were a stark contrast to the bustling heart of the city. The air was heavy with neglect, the streets scattered with makeshift shelters and abandoned debris. Hobos lay slumped against walls, either asleep or too drunk to care.

Children darted between the shadows, their energy an odd juxtaposition to the somber surroundings.

Niro felt Woody's grip tighten around his hand. "What's wrong, Woody?"

Woody's gaze dropped. "Can we hurry back home? I don't like it here."

Niro studied him for a moment, unsure. Woody was always lively around adults, even wary thugs, but something about this place unsettled him. Without another word, Niro knelt down and hoisted Woody onto his back.

"Better?" he asked softly.

Woody responded by wrapping his arms tightly around Niro's neck, resting his chin on his shoulder.

"I'll take that as a yes," Niro said gently as he began walking again.

A while later, Niro found a lead. One of the squatters recognized Woody and directed him to a rundown house nearby. He thanked them and followed the instructions, eventually arriving at the shabby home.

Niro knocked on the door. Silence.

He waited a moment before trying again. Still nothing. Without hesitation, he pushed the door open.

The interior was worse than he'd imagined. Trash littered the floor, mingling with the remains of dead rodents. The stench of decay lingered in the air, but Niro paid it no mind. He found a small bedroom, barely large enough for a child, and laid Woody on the tattered mattress. He tucked the boy in gently, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

"You're home now, Woody," he whispered. "Looks like your parents aren't back yet…"

His gaze fell on a broken wooden figurine on the floor, its splintered edges telling of years of neglect. Niro picked it up, setting it on the side table before attempting to piece it back together. His efforts were in vain. With a soft sigh, he set it down and stood.

Just as he turned to leave the room, two figures burst out from the shadows. A woman wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to choke him, while a man swung his fists repeatedly at his torso.

The attacks were laughable. Niro barely flinched, their blows more pitiful than painful. These people were malnourished, their strength a pale shadow of what it once might have been.

He grabbed the woman's wrists and wrenched them free, throwing her to the ground with ease. Then, with a swift knee to the man's abdomen, he sent him staggering back, clutching his stomach in pain.

"Are you two Woody's parents, by any chance?" Niro asked, his tone eerily calm.

"Who the fuck are you?!" the man shouted, struggling to regain his breath. "You think you can just barge into someone's house?!"

Niro raised an eyebrow. "Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn't ignore Woody's needs."

"Fuck you!" the man spat, his voice laced with desperation. "What gives you the right to—"

Niro cut him off. "Tell me… were you two members of the cult Dailexia? The one that worships the Daemon of Chaos?"

The color drained from their faces.

"H-how do you know that?" the woman stammered, her voice trembling.

Niro smiled faintly. "I'm the branch leader of Dailexia here in Markarth. My name is Niro. And I know about the relic you stole—the Amulet of Fate. You tried to sell it, but no one wanted it because of its cursed nature. This city's appraisal system ensures no mystical items slip by unnoticed. The amulet's daemon aura gave you away. Some even reported you to the authorities, didn't they?"

The couple remained silent, their fear palpable.

"Luckily for you, I retrieved the relic. Your child, Woody, stole it from you in an attempt to sell it himself. He wanted to provide for you both, to make you happy. But instead, he ended up hurt by thugs. He wanted to fix what you couldn't."

The man swallowed hard. "What do you want from us?"

"Rejoin the cult," Niro said, his tone brokering no argument. "A ceremony is approaching. We will summon the Avatar of the Daemon of Chaos into this world. You're going to help me."