The dawn's first light barely pierced the dense canopy, but Umbra's eyes gleamed with a cruel fire beneath the shadows that clung to him like a second skin. He didn't just sense danger — he welcomed it.
Sunny sat by the fire, tense and alert. "Something's coming," he murmured.
Umbra smiled, a dark curve that didn't reach his cold eyes. "Good. Let them come. Let the weak taste true fear."
Before anyone could respond, a figure slipped from the shadows — Lysara, her silver eyes sharp but wary.
"You've attracted enemies, Umbra. The Nightshades won't rest until you're broken."
Umbra's laugh was low and dangerous. "Broken? No one breaks me. Not anymore."
Sunny's hand twitched near his dagger, unsettled by Umbra's change. "You're not the same. What happened in the vault?"
Umbra's gaze hardened. "Power reveals truth. Weakness dies."
That night, the Nightshades attacked.
But Umbra did not hold back.
His shadows exploded in black storms, tearing through flesh and bone without mercy. He crushed enemies beneath tendrils that twisted their screams into silence. When a Nightshade begged for mercy, Umbra's blade whispered cold judgment — and ended it.
Sunny fought beside him, torn between loyalty and fear.
Lysara shouted commands, but Umbra barely heard her — lost in the intoxicating roar of his power.
When the bloodshed ended and the enemy fled, Umbra stood alone amid the carnage, his breath steady, eyes blazing with a terrible purpose.
"They will fear me," he said, voice cold as death. "And that fear will be my weapon."
Sunny approached cautiously. "This isn't the Umbra I knew."
Umbra turned, a shadow curling around his smile. "Then you will learn. Power is not a gift — it is a weapon. And I will wield it until the world bends to my will."