The world was broken.
Aeron could feel it—the way the air bent around him, the way the fabric of existence quivered at his presence, unable to withstand the hunger now unleashed within him.
He was unchained. He was raw.
He was starving.
The temple had been reduced to ruin, its sacred walls crumbling into dust, its torches long extinguished. The gods carved into the stone had been consumed, their faceless remains nothing but hollow whispers in the ether. Even the sky—the very sky—had cracked, as if recoiling from him.
And through the smoldering wreckage, his father stood.
Calm. Watching.
Always watching.
Malik had not flinched when the temple fell. He had not retreated when the air itself had been devoured.
Because he knew.
Because he had planned for this.
Aeron's breath came ragged, his hands shaking as his body adjusted to what had been buried inside him for so long. He had felt the void rushing through his veins, had felt himself expand beyond flesh, beyond mortality. His skin burned with the power—too much power.
This was why his mother had sealed him.
Because without that seal—
He was something else.
Something not meant for this world.
The hunger in his chest coiled like a living thing, its whispers thick with need. Every breath Aeron took was an agony of restraint. He could feel his father standing before him, the weight of his soul, the heat of his life force.
He could take it.
He could take everything.
A step forward.
The ground beneath him cracked.
Another step.
The void curled at the edges of his vision, warping the very air around him.
Malik exhaled, almost amused. "You are fighting it."
Aeron gritted his teeth, the heat in his chest growing unbearable. His fingers twitched, curled into fists—he needed to move, needed to act—
Malik only smiled.
And lifted his hand.
A familiar glint.
Aeron's heart stilled.
No.
The artifact in his father's grasp was ancient—wrong. A jagged, black gauntlet, its surface inscribed with shifting, ever-changing runes, writhing like wounds in reality.
The air screamed around it.
Xal'zyrath.
Aeron knew the name.
Every cursed tome, every forbidden scripture whispered of it—The Devourer's Chain.
A weapon. A prison.
A leash crafted for things like him.
Malik turned the gauntlet in his hands, eyes gleaming. "You think you are free, don't you?"
Aeron took another step forward. His body burned. The hunger roared inside him, gnawing at his ribs, begging to be unleashed. His vision blurred, the edges of the world fraying—
"Do not mistake a broken cage for freedom," Malik murmured.
And then—
He slammed the gauntlet against Aeron's chest.
A detonation of power.
Chains erupted—black fire, writhing runes, curses older than the stars.
Aeron screamed.
The force of it sent him sprawling, his back slamming into the fractured temple floor. His veins ignited, his bones splintering under the pressure—no, no, NO—
It was inside him.
The chains did not just wrap around his limbs.
They burrowed.
Through his flesh. Through his soul.
Aeron howled, his body arching as the hunger within him convulsed, fighting back. But the chains—
They were not meant for his body.
They were meant for what was inside him.
The void in his chest howled as the shackles took hold, dragging it downward, caging it. He could feel his power collapsing, folding in on itself, being forced into submission.
It was like trying to shove a wildfire into a bottle.
Like trying to chain a black hole.
His rage tore through him, his instincts screaming to destroy, to devour, to consume the very thing trying to suppress him—
But the gauntlet did not let him.
It was designed for this.
Malik knelt beside him, voice almost gentle.
"There."
The chains tightened.
Aeron's scream was torn from his throat as his body seized.
He could feel it. The hunger had been caged.
The unbearable, endless starvation that had driven him moments ago was now… muted. Still present, still there—but no longer free. No longer his.
Malik tilted his head, studying him. "Much better."
Aeron gasped, his vision swimming. His limbs felt like lead, his entire body burned from the inside out. His breath hitched—his hands clawed weakly at the ground, trying to push himself up—
Malik grabbed his chin.
Forced him to look up.
"You will fight me," Malik said. His tone was calm. Almost amused. "You will resist. You will rage against your chains."
A slow, cruel smile.
"But you will never be free."
Aeron's breath shuddered.
He could feel it—the gauntlet's curse sinking deeper, fusing with his very essence.
The hunger wanted to fight back, to break free, to devour the gauntlet, to consume everything—
But it couldn't.
Because his father had won.
The weight of it crashed down on him, cold and final.
Selene was dead.
His mother was gone.
And now, his freedom was gone, too.
His father had taken everything.
A sound tore from Aeron's throat—somewhere between a growl and a sob. He could feel himself shaking, his body struggling to adjust to the leash now placed on his very existence.
Malik rose to his feet, dusting off his robes. "You should rest, my son. We have much to do."
Aeron didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just breathed—ragged, shaking breaths—as the weight of the chains coiled around his soul.
His rage had no outlet.
His hunger had no release.
His grief had no voice.
And Malik—
Malik had taken all of it.
He had no power left to fight.
For the first time, Aeron felt something colder than rage.
Colder than grief.
Despair.
Malik turned, walking toward the temple ruins. "Now—"
A pause.
A glance back.
His smile was serene.
"Rise, my son."
The chains tightened.
The curse sank deeper.
And Aeron—
Obeyed.
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