Sir Alaric was the Knight of Knights, a title earned not through tournaments but through blood and unbroken victory. His sword, Dawnbreaker, had never known a scabbard in battle; it sang through flesh and armor alike. Yet, with each foe felled, a coldness settled deeper in his bones, a whispering chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
Tonight, in the torch-lit silence of his chamber, he finally saw it. His shadow, cast upon the stone wall, did not mimic his movements. It stood rigid, a tall, gaunt silhouette holding a sword of pure darkness. As Alaric turned his head, the shadow’s head remained forward, its hollow gaze fixed on nothing and everything.
A voice, like the grating of stone on stone, echoed not in the room, but inside his skull. *“Another victory. Our pact holds.”*
Alaric’s blood ran cold. He remembered the desperate prayer in his first battle, a boy facing a giant of a man. He had promised anything for the strength to survive. He had not known he was heard.
He stared at his own hands, the hands that had wrought so much death. Were they ever truly his? The shadow on the wall shifted, its form bleeding at the edges, tendrils of darkness reaching out towards him.
“What are you?” Alaric whispered, his voice a dry rasp.
*“The true wielder,”* the voice replied. *“You are the vessel. The strength was never yours. It was mine to lend, and mine to reclaim.”*
The shadow’s arm rose, and Alaric’s own arm lifted in a jerky, unnatural motion, Dawnbreaker feeling alien in his grip. He was a puppet, and the final performance was at hand. The Knight of Knights watched