Darkside

Untitled Episode

The human world reeked of fear.

Theophilus walked in silence, boots crunching against gravel as the ruined shipping yard stretched out around him. Rusted cranes loomed like skeletal sentinels, their shadows jagged beneath the pale moonlight. To anyone else, the place would feel abandoned. But he knew better.

The scent of Malrik’s corruption lingered in the air, sharp and unmistakable.

“Pathetic,” Tamara drawled behind him. Her heels clicked against the cracked pavement, each step deliberate, as though the world existed simply to carry her. “Dragging us into mortal filth. The stench alone is offensive.”

“You should thank Malrik,” Tyberius replied smoothly, leaning against a rusting crate with the casual arrogance of a man who knew he was never truly off guard. His blade twirled lazily in one hand, catching the light. “At least he gave you a reason to leave your throne for once.”

Tamara’s glare could have cut glass. “Careful, Ty. That tongue of yours might get severed someday.”

Theophilus ignored them both. Their words were nothing but smoke—irritations he’d long since learned to tolerate. His focus was elsewhere. The air here was wrong, weighted, pressing down on his skin like invisible chains. Malrik was near.

He stopped at the edge of the yard, kneeling briefly to brush his fingers against the blackened concrete. The scorch marks still glowed faintly, traces of twisted souls torn apart and devoured. He closed his eyes, listening—not to the silence, but to the spaces within it.

“He’s here,” Theophilus said simply.

And the shadows answered.

A ripple passed across the yard, the night folding in on itself until a figure stepped free of the darkness. Malrik. His eyes glowed like embers, and his grin was too sharp, too wide.

“Well, well,” Malrik purred. His voice slithered into the air, taunting. “The great Eternals grace me with their presence. The Demon, the Blade, and the Queen. How flattering.”

“Spare us,” Theophilus said, rising smoothly, blade already in hand. The eclipse-mark across his chest flickered faintly beneath his collar, a cold light that made the shadows recoil. “You’ve left enough corpses behind. This ends here.”

Malrik’s laugh was jagged, wrong.

“Ends? No, no… tonight is only the beginning.”

The ground split with a groan, and shadows poured upward in a flood of writhing forms—twisted remnants of souls, chained together, their screams muffled as though strangled at the source. Rogue fragments. Malrik’s handiwork.

“Finally,” Tyberius muttered, his grin sharpening. “I was getting bored.”

Tamara sighed dramatically, summoning her weapon with a lazy flick of her wrist, though her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Theophilus raised his blade, his tone calm, absolute.

“Form a line. Nothing escapes.”

And then the shadows rushed them.

Steel met darkness. Sparks lit the night. Tyberius moved like a storm, unpredictable and violent, striking with both grace and cruelty. Tamara carved through the fragments with elegant precision, every movement practiced and cruelly beautiful.

But Theophilus—he wasted nothing. Each strike was surgical, final, his blade severing bonds of corrupted energy with a single, merciless cut. He wasn’t here to fight. He was here to end.

Malrik watched from the shadows, eyes burning with twisted delight. “Yes… struggle. Show me why the world fears you.”

Theophilus’s gaze cut toward him, cold as ice. “You mistake fear for order. When I finish here, you’ll understand the difference.”

As Theophilus's blade cut through the last of the rogue fragments, silence came crashing down in their wake. The yard was wreckage now, shadows dissipating into ash.

Only Malrik remained.

The rogue soul reaper’s grin widened, too calm for a man surrounded by three Eternals. “Efficient as ever, Theophilus. No hesitation. No doubt. Truly… the perfect weapon.”

Theo’s grip tightened on his blade. “I am no weapon.”

“Aren’t you?” Malrik tilted his head, ember-eyes narrowing. “You sever, you destroy, you obey. That is all you’ve ever done. That is all you will ever be.”

With a snap of his fingers, the air distorted—like glass shattering without sound. A rift opened behind him, swirling, unstable, pulling at the edges of reality itself.

Theo moved instantly, crossing the distance in a heartbeat, his strike aimed straight for Malrik’s throat.

Steel met empty air.

Malrik had already stepped back into the rift, shadows curling around him like an embrace. His last words echoed before the rift swallowed him whole:

“I’ll return soon… with something far more valuable than your corpses.”

The rift sealed, leaving only silence.

Tyberius spat, driving his blade into the ground. “Coward.”

Tamara crossed her arms, lips curled in disdain. “Predictable. He enjoys his games too much to die cleanly.”

Theophilus said nothing. His blade lowered slowly, eyes fixed on the place where Malrik vanished. His chest was still, his face unreadable—but inside, something stirred.

A flicker.

A pulse.

As though somewhere, far from here, a soul had just shifted out of place.

It was faint, but undeniable.

And Theophilus, cold and certain as stone, knew one truth:

Malrik was not running away.

He was running toward something.

Days passed, and still there was no sign of Malrik. No shadows, no rifts, no stolen souls.

Worse—nothing from the Eternal Bands.

The black-silver band on Theo’s wrist was silent. It didn’t hum, didn’t glow. Tamara had tried spell after spell to force it to respond until her hands shook. Tyberius had sworn and pushed them to search every corner of the Darkside.

But it made no difference. The bands stayed quiet.

Theo stood on the watchtower, staring out at the ruined horizon. His face gave nothing away, but inside, his thoughts turned cold.

Malrik wasn’t just gone.

He was hiding.

And if the Eternal Bands couldn’t find him, then he wasn’t only hiding.

He was waiting.

Theo touched his band, its silence heavy against his skin. It felt like the calm before a storm—too still, too quiet.

So they pulled back to the Darkside. For a while, there was nothing but silence, the kind that presses too hard, like the world was holding its breath.

Then it came.

A pulse. Sharp, raw, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Theo’s band burned against his wrist, light flashing in rhythm with his heartbeat. He turned his hand over, the glow searing across his skin. Across the chamber, Tyberius cursed and lifted his own glowing wrist. Tamara’s eyes widened as hers flared bright.

“He’s surfaced,” Tyberius growled.

But Theo already knew it wasn’t just Malrik. The energy wasn’t only dark and corrupted. It was mixed with something else—something bright. Pure.

His eyes narrowed.

“No,” he said quietly. “This is different. Something’s been taken.”

The air grew colder, the bands glowing brighter, a warning neither of them could ignore.

Malrik had made his move.