Page 48 of Scourged

Andrian cocked his head in curiosity as he stared at the image of himself in the glass. His reflection staring back at him was just as perplexed.

His shirt and black trousers were dirty, as if he’d fallen and pushed himself up more than once. Etched on his chest, just over his heart, was his Mark, the roaring dragon with flames leaping from its maw. At the center of the tattoo, just over where a solid black line had once bisected the Mark, was a shallow cut—thesource of the blood staining his clothes and smeared across his skin.

The longer he stared at that tattoo, the more those feelings of being only partly there grew and intensified. His attention focused on the cut. He didn’t know how it had happened, but he felt as if the memory lingered, just out of reach. He pushed against the wall, stretching out his mind, grasping for more … but nothing. Only whispers of a half-forgotten dream, tinged with the scent of eucalyptus and jasmine.

As far as he knew, dreams could only harm the mind. Never the body.

An acquainted darkness crept up within him, its talons and claws tearing at the other half of his mind. That darkness was all he’d known while trapped in his dreams, a lingering malevolence he was unable to escape.

Perhaps that was what had given him the cut. Nightmare turned flesh for just a moment.

The beast in his mind clawed at him, even as Andrian sharpened his focus on his chest, on the Mark that adorned it, on the blood that spilled from it. The raging of his living nightmares faded to a dull roar, and he watched a bead of blood well to the surface of his skin. It cut a track down his chest, dripping to the floor.

When it splashed against the tiles beneath his feet, he felt something else stir.

It wasn’t the horror that had kept him trapped for as long as he could remember, locking him in memories of a life he couldn’t recall or was even sure was his. It was still dark, still wreathed in the shadows of the world, but it was familiar. Comforting, even. Something in his blood that made him feel at home, that made him feel less like an amalgamation of memories and more likehimself.

Whoever that was.

The comforting darkness spread through him as he watched his reflection in the mirror. Slowly, tendrils of shadows pushed from his shoulders, weaving through his unbuttoned shirt. They formed into ropes of shade, twisting and dancing in the air above his head.

The sinister presence in his mind thrashed. But something had clicked, shifted. Andrian could keep that monster locked down, shut out, as he watched the shadows of his soul weave a tapestry in the mirror's reflection.

Without warning, the delicate strands of darkness plunged back beneath his skin, wrapping themselves around his heart, his pulse stuttering. His vision sharpened, tongue going dry as adrenaline and whatever else flooded his system.

For the first time in weeks—for as long as he could remember—he felt alive.

Andrian inhaled a gasping breath, taking a shuddering step forward and bracing himself against the mirror. He lifted his head again, meeting his stare for three more heartbeats, before the shadows—his shadows—moved again.

They unwound themselves from his heart and again jumped from his skin. This time, instead of drifting in the air, they pulled him toward the door with a gentle tug on his ribs. Andrian tapped his chest, his fingers smearing the blood.

He turned and followed his shadows to the door.

The monster screamed. He ignored it.

His shadows led him to a cavernous, unfamiliar hallway. Turned him left, pulling him down long, dark, winding corridors. There was a lingering chill in the air, and the air smelled sickly sweet, as if too much perfume and cologne had been sprayed to mask the scent of death and decay and despair.

Andrian wasn’t sure what this place was, but he hated it.

The shadows took him to a steep staircase, tugging him down the treacherous steps. Fangs dragged against his mind as the monster grew desperate.

Andrian took the first step down the stairs, knees shaking.

At the bottom of the steps, severalallumelamps hung from the walls, plugged in by theirlunestairchains. He took a lurching step toward them, but the tug in his chest halted his movement. He turned to where his shadows lingered, urgent and restless, a few feet in front of him.

With a jolt, he realized he could see, even without the light of theallumelamps. He could somehow feel where the shadows touched, could sense everything they enveloped. He was far from blind—in fact, he felt far more aware than he ever had before.

Andrian followed his shadows forward, deeper into darkness.

It was even colder here, even fouler. A thick layer of pain and sadness hung heavy in the air. With those strange senses he was just remembering, he felt another, there in the bowels of their prison.

It was a girl. A woman. Curled tightly on a disgusting mattress, desperate for any warmth she could create for herself.

His steps quickened as he chased his shadows through the dungeons toward the woman held captive, miserable and alone.

He saw her in a cell, one of many in a long line. Her dark hair fanned around her head, body concealed by a thin, stained blanket.

She must’ve sensed his arrival. Her body shifted, going rigid, and she shot up in bed just as her eyes blinked open.

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