Awakening of the Dead

Blood lines and shadows

Chapter Four: Bloodlines and Shadows

The Summons Beneath the Iron Tree

Elior drifted through the academy courtyard—a blurred ghost among living shadows—mind still reeling from the echo of fists and flame. That’s when the air thickened, and the day felt suddenly twice as cold. A voice, varnished with predatory calm, rippled through the crowd, slicing the world open with a single word:

“Elior.”

He froze. That voice was no louder than a whisper, yet every head bowed as if the world itself recoiled in deference. Beneath the ancient iron tree, Mr. Damon waited—dark robes flickering like funeral banners in a wind only he seemed to feel, violet eyes burning with secrets. Even Olivia, the fire-crowned bully, shrank back, his bravado leaking out in the presence of something far more dangerous than he could ever hope to be.

A silence heavier than any wound pressed upon the students as Mr. Damon’s command uncoiled—a simple, irrevocable:

“To my office. Now.”

Elior’s feet responded with hesitant obedience, legs quaking under the gaze of students whose contempt had soured into something like fear. The red glow from earlier was gone, but a crawling darkness clung to his skin, hungry and patient—a promise and a threat. As he passed under the iron tree, its twisted shadow curled over him like a prophecy.

Inside, the long corridor to Damon’s office yawed wide—an ancient, endless corridor carved from obsidian stone, walls etched with runes that pulsed when he drew close. Gargoyles stared with hollow eyes, and the flickering sconces cast monstrous, shifting patterns that seemed eager to spring, to speak, to drag him down.

Every step echoed, magnifying the panic he fought to constrain. Strange drafts wound around his ankles, bearing faint whispers—snatches of old hatred, laughter, the moans of victims lost to time. Each tapestry on the wall, faded and moth-eaten, appeared to twist with memories of violence and betrayal. His knuckles grazed the rock and came away dusted with cold gravel, as if he’d brushed a tombstone.

They know… They are coming…, the voice inside taunted, colder with each footfall.

He grasped for courage that felt thin as ice, as heavy as iron. Elior’s pulse battered his temples, sweat chilling his back. The ancient blackwood door at the end of the hall loomed massive, wreathed in glyphs that shimmered blood-dark. He raised his hand to the rune-engraved iron handle and felt a searing chill creep up his arm.

One last breath.

He pushed open the door.

The Office of Whispering Shadows

Elior entered a realm that felt less an office than a sanctum carved from the bones of things best left forgotten. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with scrolls that whispered and writhed in languages he could neither read nor comprehend. Blue flames sputtered in hanging lanterns, saturating the air with the sharp tang of old magic, burned parchment, and something metallic—blood, or fear, or both.

Mr. Damon sat behind a desk hewn from blackwood, perfectly still—a shadow among shadows, eyes like amethysts forged in cold fire. His presence dominated the space; even the candles seemed to shiver away from him.

Elior stood with trembling legs, feeling as if he’d stepped across the veil separating the living from the haunted.

Silence pressed against him—so loud his own breath recoiled from it.

“Sit,” Mr. Damon intoned. Elior obeyed.

Damon did not look up for a moment. When he finally fixed his gaze on Elior, every muscle in the boy’s body tensed.

“You do not know what’s inside you, boy.”

The words stabbed deep. Elior flinched as if struck.

“That thing… the power you tasted today... it is dangerous. Even for you. Especially for you.”

Damon stood—his robes barely seemed to touch the ground—and paced once, a panther in a cage made only of silence.

“It will drain your light. Manipulate your thoughts. Twist your heart. If you fail to master it... it will own you. What woke in you is older than this country. If you cannot bind it, it will unravel you, strand by strand.”

The blue flames flared, casting shifting visions along the wall: armies devoured by darkness, empires collapsing, souls clawed out by shadow.

Elior’s mouth dried. “But—this darkness… Lucifer’s power—wasn’t it shackled by ancient blood? It can’t just awaken in anyone…right?”

Damon’s mouth twisted—half sorrow, half something like fear.

“Exactly. That power sleeps only in those whose veins remember him.”

He produced a scroll, edges stitched with red thread, and unfurled it upon the desk. Written in blood-red ink: Elior Graves. Underneath, a sigil burned—a spiral of thorns identical to the living mark that sometimes writhed beneath Elior’s skin.

Elior’s skin crawled as the connection sank in. “My parents… died in a fire. I was told it was an accident. That there was nothing left.”

Damon clenched the edge of the scroll, knuckles pale.

“There are no accidents when his blood is involved. Fire is never just fire in these stories. You are not the first to bear it. Tell me everything—you must remember something. Anyone—a visitor, a letter, a warning?”

Elior shook his head, swallowing fear. “Nothing except shadow. And nightmares.”

Damon’s gaze hardened, the violet deepening to dusk.

“Someone awakened your inheritance prematurely. Someone who knows. And once awakened, that line calls to others—kin, hunters, the lost, and things that wear human faces only when it suits them.”

Threats Unveiled

The scroll pulsed, and the office grew colder. Shadows along the walls twisted, drawing closer, thickening.

Damon’s voice went low, breath misting in the chill:

“There’s something inside you that should not exist. And someone… someone out there knows you’ve awakened it. That’s why you were attacked. That’s why the dead now speak your name.”

As if in answer, the blue flames guttered. An unnatural darkness bloomed in the far corner—a shape crawling with slow, impossible motion. Rooted to the spot, Elior watched as the shadows themselves parted, revealing a form neither beast nor person. A tall, inhuman shape, eyes like embers—full of ancient hunger and recognition.

Rings of old runes on Damon’s desk blazed to life, filling the air with the stench of cedar, iron, and rot.

Damon stepped forward, his hands weaving ancient sigils in the air.

“Stay behind me,” he muttered, a current of power breathing through every syllable.

The thing at the window pressed a taloned hand to the glass—black lines spreading across the pane, sigils scattering.

A voice bled into the room, not spoken aloud but sinking into Elior’s blood:

“Blood calls to blood. The House of Ash knows your scent.”

The window frosted over, webbed with cracks.

“You are claimed, Elior Graves. The lost shall march. The old ones gather—the Hunger wakes.”

The thing shrieked, shaking the stone itself, and vanished in a cataract of shadow.

The Aftermath: Warnings and Omen

For a moment the only sound was Elior’s heartbeat hammering, echoing through marrow and stone.

Damon steadied him with a surprisingly human hand. His face, usually as unreadable as obsidian, now bore lines of worry, almost sorrow.

“This… is only the beginning. You must decide, and soon: be a pawn, a victim, or the forger of your own legend. Hesitate, and this kingdom will fall—starting with you.”

He pressed an obsidian talisman into Elior’s hand—a stone carved with runes that stung Elior’s palm and momentarily stilled the entity’s whisper.

“Keep this. It slows the fire. But every use draws you deeper in.”

As Elior looked up, Damon’s eyes seemed almost kind.

“I’ll teach you what I can. But remember, you are being hunted. From outside—by those who fear you. And from within, by what wakes each time you surrender to rage.”

Elior staggered from the office, the cold air outside a slap of reality. Around the iron tree, the sky had darkened to a bruise, red leaves falling—one, stained as if in blood, settling at his feet.

He bent, picked it up, and felt the mark beneath his skin respond—a pulse, eager and ominous.

The entity’s voice coiled softly:

“They will fear you, Elior. Let them kneel.”

From the windows of the academy, students watched in stunned silence, the word spreading that power, old and ugly and beautiful, had awoken in their midst.

As he stepped forward into the deepening dusk, the wind carried fresh whispers—

“He’s not just a boy anymore...”

“The bloodline is back.”

Far overhead, thunder rolled. In its shadow, Elior’s fate—twined with darkness, war, and legends older than memory—began to quicken, stained by new omens. Somewhere in the night, unseen enemies gathered, drawn to his awakening.

And within, the shadow-thing smiled—a promise, a warning, as his story pressed on into deeper gloom.