The blade sang through the air, a silver arc in the dark—a whisper of death. It found its mark in the throat of a young man screaming a name I didn't recognize. Blood sprayed across the mossy stones, hot and bright, and still my hands moved, swift and sure, as if they knew the dance better than I did.
No. Not "as if."
They did know.
I was fighting for my life, but not like a hero would. The faces around me weren't monsters. They were terrified. Of me.
Steel clanged against steel, and a mace caught my left shoulder with enough force to spin me. The pain bloomed white-hot, and instinct—not training—made me drop low, sweep the legs of my attacker, and drive a black-handled dagger through his gut. He fell, eyes wide, mouth full of disbelief.
Then came the screaming. Not from the man on the ground, but from a woman behind him—short hair, blood on her temple, armor cracked. She charged me with a spear, but not to kill.
To avenge.
"Monster!" she shrieked.
I dodged the first thrust, caught the haft of her weapon with both hands, and pulled her close. Her face was full of grief. And hate. The kind that doesn't fade. My lips moved before I could stop them.
"I warned you not to follow me."
Her eyes widened. Not from fear—recognition. I'd said that to her before.
God help me.
I knew her.
Her name. It was there, just under the surface. Talia. Paladin. Captain of the Lightwardens. Devoted. Vengeful. Dead—supposed to be dead.
But this wasn't my story anymore. It was hers now. Hers and the others'.
And I was the villain in every chapter.
The battlefield stank of rot and rain. Corpses, some still twitching, littered the forest clearing. My forces were few but brutal—stitch-flesh revenants, armored shadows, and that thing that moved like a spider but smelled like a bonfire. I wanted to call them off, to stop this madness, but my voice had power now, and power in the wrong hands is always obeyed.
"Hold," I said, and they did.
Even the air paused.
Talia stumbled back, panting, unsure whether to run or drive her spear through my heart. She chose neither.
"You weren't supposed to be here," she said.
Her words were cracked glass—fragile and dangerous.
"You came to my doorstep with blades drawn," I replied, even as I tried to figure out who the hell I was. The voice was deep, edged like obsidian. Regal. Threatening. Nothing like mine. But it came from my throat.
"You cursed Vellridge," she spat. "You damned the river and blackened the crops. You turned children into things with teeth."
I wanted to scream that I didn't, that I wasn't him, but her eyes were full of too many memories. I had done those things. I had written every word of it. And now I was living them.
I am the Dark Lord Vaelith. The name came unbidden, unrelenting. My name, now. My curse.
A crack split the sky as the storm overhead roared, lightning revealing the full horror of the clearing. My undead legions stood still, eyes hollow, bodies twitching with unnatural life. The mortals who'd come to kill me were few and broken. And yet… the battle wasn't over.
One final figure emerged from the trees—tall, cloaked, blade gleaming with blue flame. His presence parted the dead like wind through fog.
Oh no. I knew him too.
"Darian Evercrest," I whispered.
Hero. Champion. The one meant to strike me down.
He looked older than I imagined. Tired. But his eyes—still bright with justice. With fire.
"Vaelith," he said, his voice cold steel. "You die tonight."
I had written those very words, a year ago, while sitting in a coffee shop trying to finish a second draft. He was supposed to say them on page 312. But now they echoed in my skull like prophecy.
"Be careful what you wish for," I muttered.
Then he charged.
He moved like judgment, sword humming with sacred fire. I raised my hand and cast a wall of shadow between us, but he cut through it like it was mist. Our blades met with a flash of light and void. Sparks rained. My arms trembled.
He was winning.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Vaelith was unstoppable. A force. A god of cruelty. But my body, though powerful, was hesitating. Pulling back. I didn't want to kill Darian.
But Vaelith did.
"Why hesitate, monster?" Darian roared, driving his sword closer to my throat. "Afraid to finish what you started?"
I wanted to scream: Yes! Yes, I'm afraid! I don't belong here—I'm not him!
But that scream never came.
Instead, a flood of memories hit me. Not mine—his. Rituals soaked in blood. Lovers betrayed. Castles built from bone and spellwork. I saw myself—Vaelith—binding a god in iron chains, laughing as kingdoms crumbled.
The truth hit harder than Darian's blade.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't a story anymore.
And I wasn't trapped in the villain's body. I was the villain now.
My instincts changed.
My grip tightened.
I twisted away from Darian's strike and summoned black fire to my hand, hurling it at the hero's chest. He blocked with his sword, but the force knocked him back into a tree. The trunk cracked from the impact.
Talia rushed to his side.
I should've finished them.
I didn't.
Instead, I called off my horde.
"Retreat," I said, voice echoing with dread.
The undead shivered, then melted into the woods like smoke. My war-beasts snarled in disappointment before following.
Darian struggled to his feet. "This changes nothing. I'll kill you. Even if it takes everything I have left."
"I know," I said.
And I vanished into the storm.
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And so, chapter 1 is done.
So here I am thanking you for taking your suoer and very very duper mega precious time to read this and your patience.
See you in the next one!