Ignoring his parents’ heated voices, Bren opened the door out into the hall. He flinched as he nearly ran into Archer who bolted upright and stepped away from where he’d been hunched over, ear pressed to the door and clearly eavesdropping. Bren snarled at him, quickly pushing past him as he stormed toward his room. 

He could hear Archer’s hurried footsteps following behind him, making Bren speed forward at a quicker pace. It was no use, Archer’s stride was far longer than Bren’s, making it easy for his brother to keep up with him. “Bren, look. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what happened tonight…”

The sincerity in Archer’s voice softened his harsh temper, Bren letting out an anguished grunt as he rounded the corner and muttered, “It’s fine, Archer. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” The dark corridors seemed to swallow him as he passed large ornate windows that were framed by heavy drapes, the night sky outside as equally oppressive. 

Archer refused to back down, leaning in to try to make eye contact as he stated, “We don’t hate you for what you are, Bren—”

“Oh so you hate me for different reasons?” Bren muttered under his breath, not really expecting Archer to hear it. His anger and guilt and fear were all twisting together into a toxic swirling form, eating away at his other emotions; it was just as parasitic as his rotten magic, spreading through his blood. 

Hearing Archer let out an annoyed huff, Bren glanced up to see him roll his eyes as he remarked, “I don’t hate you at all. No one does. It’s just…complicated. It doesn’t help that you keep us all in the dark and go off trying to solve things on your own. It’s just dumb luck you haven’t been caught yet—”

“I’m sorry, did you just say luck?” Bren halted midstride, Archer taking a few steps passed him before he stopped too, and turned to face his brother. Their eyes locked in opposition, both standing a few feet apart in the dimly lit hall. Fighting not to raise his voice, Bren let out a scorned hiss, his words dripping with derision as he uttered, “You’re right Archer. I’m so lucky. Lucky that I’m the only one in this family to be afflicted with corruption in centuries. Do you know how rare it is to have a Manos give birth to an Umbra?” 

There was a chill in the air, Archer—for the first time—stunned into silence. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes sharp as he stared at Bren.   

Bren shrugged, callous and sardonic as he said, “Most Umbris are born from the foul wombs of eldritch beings. I mean, Manos are those pure of blood, untainted by dark magic… What chance would they have to conceive a child infected by the dark arcanis?” It was a scathing, rhetorical question, both of them knowing the truth and yet Brennon was still compelled to say the words out loud. “Somewhere in our ancestry, our blood was tainted by a demon or some other creature of nightmares. And who paid the price?” Bren scoffed, swallowing down his burning bile as he gave his brother a sickly, gritted grin. “Oh that’s right. Lucky me.”    

Bren stormed past Archer, desperate to get to his room. He could feel the tears stinging his eyes, years of self-hatred and loathing bubbling up to plague him once again. He wanted a fight; he wanted to shout and scream and yell and let out every ounce of corrupted magic he had clawing its poison inside him… But all he could let out was bitter rage and regret. He didn’t want Archer to see how vulnerable and fragile he really was…he didn’t want his parents to be right. 

He’d thought so many times about saving them all the trouble and leaving Vitalos—to try and survive past the barriers of the city… But he was a coward. His mother’s voice haunted him, You’d never survive the Wastelands! No one does!

Lost in his turbulent thoughts, he’d almost forgotten Archer was still following him until they finally reached the door to Bren’s chambers. Just as he reached for the handle, he heard the strong voice of his brother call out to him as he pleaded, “Brennon.” The way he said his name froze Bren in place. 

He stopped walking, not moving to turn and face Archer. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to his boots that were speckled in blood; it was too dark to see the stains, but he knew they were there. “What is it, Archer?” he murmured, low and quiet in the eerie still of the hallway.  

“You’re not going to leave again, are you?”

He thought about it for a moment, his fingers slipping against the outside of his pocket to feel that the coin was still there; a cruel comfort. “Not tonight, Archer.” He clenched his hands into fists, stopping himself from reaching into his pocket as he muttered, “I’m too tired tonight. I just want to be alone.” He sucked in a breath and let it out with a deep sigh, his anger dispersing with it. Steeling himself, he looked up at Archer’s worried face, blue eyes still piercing even in the dim. “It’s an important day tomorrow. I don’t want to jeopardize it for you…or anyone.” He shrugged, guilt sinking into him like a dull knife as he said, “I’ve done enough of that already.”

Turning the handle, Bren stepped into his room, hesitating in the doorway. It was dark and unlit, like a wall of pure void. It reminded him of the Shadow Gate, making him shudder and turn around to face the dim candlelight of the hallway. 

Archer still stood there, hands in his pockets with a furrowed brow. Sympathy and concern were easy to read in his expression, his eyes staring at Bren in a way that made him feel too visible. “I’ll…let you get some rest then,” he murmured, a forced laugh leaving his lips in a breathy sound as he added, “It’s a big day for me tomorrow. It will be…good to have you there.”

Bren pressed himself up against the door as he slowly began to close it, sinking back into the shadows. “Yeah. Twenty-eight. You’re getting old.” He smirked as he saw a smile tug at the corners of Archer’s mouth. It was a small moment, hardly enough to lift the weight they both felt, but it was something… Something that Bren would hold onto. “Well, good night, Archer.”

“Night Bren.”

Firmly shutting the door closed, Bren found himself blind in the unlit room. The thick wood of the door and the stone walls surrounding the entrance felt like a cold prison, sealing Bren off away from the other members of the household. He turned, blinking in the obscure shapes of furniture as his eyes adjusted. Though a Manos would be able to light the whole room with a flick of their finger, Bren moved his hand out toward the wall. He gripped the large, brass knife switch and pulled it down with a solid snap, light glowing to life overhead. 

Unlike the rest of the Endrith Manor, Bren’s room was a mess and alive with vibrant color. Rich dark reds and deep blues and purples filled the room in an explosion of sunset hues. The fabrics of his large four poster bed and chesterfield were embroidered with the celestial patterns of the sun, moon, and stars, twinkling in golden thread. The brass, orb-like chandelier above gave the room a dark orange glow, shadows patterning the circular floor and walls from it, along with the glint of colored cut glass, hanging like jewels from above. 

Bren let out a deep sigh, dragging his feet as he walked up a few shallow stone steps, exhaustion finally hitting him. He made his way across the room, passing his bed and small sitting area. At the back of the room was a wall of glazed windows that were tipped in lancet arches and bowed to match the curvature of the turret. Bren ran his fingers over the heavy, velvet curtains as he neared the glass, holding his breath as he gazed outside. 

It was hard to see past his reflection, his hot breath fogging the glass as he leaned wearily against the carved stone sidings. Still, through the fractured light and translucent fog, he could see the lights of Vitalos…the city of safety and peace. He pressed his hand against the dark glass, feeling the icy cold against his unblemished skin. If he squinted he could see a shimmer far off in the distance; the barrier keeping the city sectioned off from the rest of the world… The Wastelands.   

Bren stepped back from the window, realizing that his heart was racing. He yanked hard on a gold, braided rope, closing the curtains with a long flourish and scrape of metal hoops across their rod. Grimacing as he looked down at his hands, Bren cursed himself. He’d been terrified that night, and not of getting caught… He’d been afraid of himself, the monster he’d no doubt become one day when the corruption finally ran its course. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

Trying to calm his breathing, Bren walked a few steps further to reach a wooden ladder that was affixed to the wall of the turret next to the windows. Pushing his cloak aside, he pulled himself up the rungs, his body heavy and sluggish as he ascended to the second level of his room, his favorite place… His study.

His heart swelled as he emerged on the second floor, stepping onto the dark wood planks as he looked at the gilded shelves that circled him, all mirrored and glowing with small, glimmering lights. They surrounded his desk, filled with tomes of magic and history, artifacts, and ancient relics; a collection of his most prized and obscure possessions. 

He walked forward to the farthest shelf, his footsteps making the wood creak as he neared the cluttered ledges. The objects on this particular shelf seemed like nothing of value. All of them sat charred and lifeless; black and crumbling objects that looked like they’d been salvaged from a fierce fire. Crystals, pens, pendants, rings, buckles, compasses, pocket watches… They were all the vessels that Bren had used over his lifetime—relics that were now void of any magic or protection. 

Swallowing down all the ill feelings that had been tormenting him, Bren reached into his cloak pocket…and brought out the coin. It was heavy in his hand as he looked at the black that rimmed its grooves. Though he was about to place it on the shelf with the other depleted vessels, Bren stopped himself. 

He examined the coin closely, rubbing his fingers over the edges until he felt the spark of connection run through him. This time, as a small crackle of lightning jolted from his fingertips across the surface of the coin, it didn’t hurt. His parents had healed him and had taken at least some of the corruption that had disfigured him… Could he risk using the vessel once more? 

Finally shrugging off his heavy black cloak, Bren turned away from the shelf and placed it on a wall hook next to his desk before he took his seat. Slouching in his high-back leather armchair, Bren kicked his feet up onto his desk, boots crumpling his scattered papers and nearly knocking over his quill and ink. 

He rolled the coin between his fingers, looking at it as if it were something alive.