Chains of the Godslayer

The morning light seeped weakly through the trees, its warmth failing to cut the chill lingering from the night before. The boy sat at the riverbank, his rusted blade resting on his knees. He stared into the water, watching the faint ripples distort his reflection. The glow of the chains beneath his skin pulsed faintly, their rhythm steady yet unnerving.

Behind him, the master leaned against a tree, arms crossed as he observed silently. Sylra stood near the hut, her silver hair catching the faint light as she prepared a steaming drink.

"Staring won't change anything," the master said, his voice carrying over the gentle murmur of the river.

The boy glanced back, frowning. "I wasn't staring."

The master smirked faintly. "You were. Be careful—stare too long, and it might stare back."

Sylra approached, holding a cup in her hands. She handed it to the boy without a word.

The boy eyed the drink warily before taking a sip. The taste was bitter, earthy, and almost unbearable. "What is this?"

Sylra's tone was even. "Strength."

The boy coughed, grimacing. "Tastes like dirt."

"Better than fear," Sylra replied, her expression unchanging.

---

The master stepped forward, unsheathing his blade with a quiet, deliberate motion. The weapon gleamed faintly in the sunlight, sharp and refined—a stark contrast to the boy's rusted sword.

"Yesterday, you looked inside yourself," the master said. "That was the easy part. Today, you're going to learn to fight with it."

The boy's grip tightened on his weapon. "How? I don't even know where to start."

Sylra crouched beside him, her sharp gaze locking onto his. "The power inside you isn't just sitting there, waiting to be used. It's alive. It'll resist you, fight you, because it doesn't trust you yet."

The boy frowned. "Doesn't trust me? It's my power."

Sylra smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Power isn't loyal, boy. It's wild. It'll tear you apart if you let it."

The master nodded toward the clearing. "That's what today is about. Learning to control it—or at least not letting it kill you."

---

Sylra motioned for the boy to follow her into the center of the clearing. The rustling trees and distant river faded into the background as she faced him.

"Draw your blade," she said simply.

The boy obeyed, pulling the rusted weapon free. It felt heavier than before, the glow of the chains beneath his skin brightening as he held it.

"Now listen," Sylra continued. "Power is like a river. Let it flow uncontrolled, and it'll drown you. But if you channel it, guide it—you can make it work for you."

The boy's chest tightened. He remembered the feeling from the river the day before: the weight of the chains, the surge of untamed energy that had nearly pulled him under.

"How do I know if I'm in control?" he asked quietly.

The master's chuckle was low and sardonic. "If you're still asking that question when it happens, you're already dead."

Sylra shot the master a glare before turning back to the boy. "Focus. When the chains tighten, don't resist them. Use the pull to ground yourself. It's not about breaking free right now—it's about finding balance."

---

The boy closed his eyes, gripping the blade tightly. He focused on the faint hum of the chains, letting their rhythm guide him. At first, there was only silence. Then, the glow beneath his skin flared, and a surge of heat spread through his chest.

His breath hitched as the chains tightened, their golden light burning brighter. The energy inside him felt like a raging storm, pulling him in every direction at once.

"Control it!" Sylra's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Don't let it consume you!"

The boy gritted his teeth, his vision swimming. The weight of the chains pressed down on him, and the power surged through his veins, raw and untamed.

"I can't!" he gasped, his knees buckling.

"You can!" Sylra shouted back. "Channel it through your blade!"

The boy's hand trembled as he raised the rusted sword. He swung it desperately, and with a flash of golden light, a wave of energy exploded from the blade. It carved through the air, sending a shockwave rippling through the clearing.

The boy staggered backward, collapsing to his knees. His chest heaved as the glow of the chains dimmed slightly, though their presence was still overwhelming.

---

The master approached, his steps unhurried. He glanced at the scorched line in the dirt where the energy had struck, his expression unimpressed.

"Sloppy," he said. "But you didn't die, so there's that."

The boy glared at him, though he lacked the energy to retort.

Sylra knelt beside the boy, her gaze steady. "You found it," she said softly. "Even if just for a moment. That's progress."

The boy shook his head. "It felt like it was fighting me the whole time."

Sylra nodded. "It was. It'll keep fighting you until you prove you're strong enough to control it." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "The chains aren't just holding back power—they're holding back fear. Every swing of that blade needs to cut through what's binding you, inside and out."

The boy looked at his trembling hands, then at the rusted blade lying in the dirt. "I'll get it," he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute. "I have to."

The master smirked faintly, his arms crossing over his chest. "Good. Because the heavens won't wait for you to figure it out."

---

That evening, the boy sat by the river, his blade resting across his lap. The golden glow within him pulsed steadily, its rhythm calmer now. He stared into the water, the reflection rippling faintly as he whispered to himself.

"I won't let it drown me. I'll make it mine."

From the edge of the clearing, Sylra and the master watched.

"He's learning," Sylra said softly.

The master nodded, his expression unreadable. "He'd better. The heavens are watching—and they're not going to like what they see."

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, the sound carried on a cold wind.