Chapter Six: The Vessel’s Awakening
665 Words
Shunter ran.
The night air burned in his lungs as his boots pounded against the pavement, the distant wail of sirens growing louder behind him. His fingers clenched tightly around the straps of his stolen bag, his latest haul pressing against his chest. He darted into an alleyway, his breath ragged, heart hammering.
"Stop! Police!"
Shunter didn’t stop. He never did. He had spent too many years running—running from hunger, from the past, from the relentless weight of a life that never seemed to give him a fair chance.
His mind raced as he skidded around a corner, nearly knocking over a stack of crates. He needed to get home. Needed to disappear before they caught him. The shack he called home wasn’t much—just a collapsing structure on the edge of the city, surrounded by broken glass and forgotten souls. But it was his.
Another turn. The sirens faded. He could lose them if he just—
A dog barked sharply to his left, startling him enough to miss the pothole ahead. His foot caught, and he went sprawling onto the pavement, scraping his palms. The bag of stolen goods tumbled from his grip, landing just inches away.
Shunter cursed under his breath, scrambling to grab it. His hands shook as he pushed himself up, but he forced himself forward, ignoring the dull throb in his ankle.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he reached the shack. The police were nowhere in sight. He had made it.
Shunter shoved open the creaky door and locked it behind him. His home was nothing more than wooden walls barely held together, a single lightbulb swaying from the ceiling. The air smelled of damp wood and old cigarettes. He tossed the stolen goods onto his rickety table and limped toward the cupboard.
His fingers brushed against cold bread and half-eaten burgers from the afternoon. He grabbed one and sank onto the floor, exhaustion crashing over him.
Then, the memories came.
**Four years ago.**
The house had been quiet when he arrived home. Too quiet. His parents usually argued this time of night—his father always complaining about money, his mother snapping back with sharp words. But that night, there was nothing.
"Mom? Dad?"
Silence.
His stomach twisted as he stepped inside, his shoes squeaking against the polished wood floor. The smell hit him first—coppery, thick, wrong. He turned the corner into the living room—
And the world shattered.
His parents lay on the ground, their lifeless eyes staring into nothingness, their bodies drenched in crimson.
A symbol had been carved into the wooden floor beneath them, a shape he didn’t understand but felt down to his bones. His hands shook as he took a step back, bile rising in his throat.
His gaze darted to the wall.
The words were written in something dark, smeared and dripping.
**"YOU ARE THE VESSEL."**
Shunter couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
He didn’t know how long he stood there before his body finally responded. He ran. He ran to the police station, stumbling over his own feet, screaming for help.
When he returned with the officers, the house was spotless.
No blood. No bodies. No symbol.
His parents were simply… gone.
They called him unstable. Said he must have imagined it. But he knew what he saw.
From that night on, the dreams started.
Dreams where he stood atop a dark throne, an endless army kneeling before him. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, their voices chanting his name in a language he didn’t know but somehow understood.
Dreams where power coiled through his veins, where gold and riches surrounded him.
Dreams where fire and darkness obeyed his every command.
At first, he thought they were nightmares. But sometimes—just sometimes—he woke up with the taste of power on his tongue, and it felt *right*.
Shunter’s grip tightened on the half-eaten burger.
He wasn’t crazy.
And one day, he would prove it.
- Writer
