The Sons of Gods

Sorin’s eyes fluttered open, his mind sluggish as the remnants of unconsciousness clung to him. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed through his body, his muscles stiff and aching. His first instinct was to move, but when he tried, he realized he couldn’t. Straps—thick, unyielding leather—bound his wrists and ankles to a cold stone surface beneath him. He struggled weakly against his restraints, but the effort only made his body ache more, the wounds from the battle with the undead fresh and unforgiving.

His mind raced, and then it came back to him in flashes—the undead, the monstrous creature with chains, the fight, and finally, the brutal slam into the cobblestone streets that had knocked him out. Sorin’s heart pounded as he realized where he must be. He had been captured and brought to the place he had been trying to reach: Wuthum’s tower.

Forcing himself to stay calm, Sorin glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings. The chamber was dimly lit, illuminated only by the flickering light of torches mounted on the walls. Shadows danced across the stone, casting eerie, jagged shapes that moved like restless spirits. The walls were rough-hewn and cold, built from dark, ancient stone that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Chains dangled from the ceiling, their metal links glinting faintly in the firelight, and the air was thick with the scent of damp stone, rusted iron, and something far more sinister—blood.

Beneath him, the stone slab was cold and unyielding. Runes were etched into its surface—dark, twisted symbols that pulsed with a faint, malevolent glow, sending a shiver down Sorin’s spine. The slab itself was slightly tilted, keeping him restrained in an upright position, allowing him to see the rest of the chamber. Across the room, an array of torture instruments lay scattered on a nearby table—rusted knives, jagged hooks, and implements whose purpose Sorin didn’t want to imagine. The entire chamber seemed designed to break the body and the mind.

To his right, a small, dark pool of stagnant water collected in a corner, the liquid reflecting the dim light like a black mirror. Chains hung from the walls, some still attached to rusted shackles, stained with the grime of past victims. In the far corner, iron bars marked the entrance to what looked like a cell—its door slightly ajar, the darkness within impenetrable.

The room was silent, save for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling and the faint hiss of burning torches. The oppressive atmosphere of the place pressed down on Sorin, but his mind stayed focused. He needed to find a way out before Wuthum—or worse, the undead—returned.

Sorin frantically looked around, searching for any possible way to escape. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. It was dark, so dark. Why? Sorin’s heart raced as panic began to build in his chest. Why couldn’t he see? Ever since becoming an Acolyte, he had been able to pierce through the darkness with the Eye of Discernment, yet now his vision was utterly useless. The realization hit him hard—his power to see in the dark was gone.

Desperation surged through him. No, no, no. He tried to summon his Shadow Control, but nothing happened. Again, nothing. His mind raced as he attempted every spell every ability in his arsenal. Veil of Vesperos. Echoes of Fear. Even the faintest flicker of power. None of it responded. Sorin was powerless.

Fear clawed at him as he thrashed against his bonds, muscles straining as he tried to break free. The leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles, refusing to budge no matter how hard he struggled. The runes on the slab pulsed with a sickly glow, mocking him with their strength.

Sorin refused to be powerless again. He could not stand the feeling of uselessness. His lack of strength is what killed Magnus. He could not go back to being the useless boy he had been. Sorin had to escape!

And then he heard it—a sound. Faint at first but growing steadily louder. The rhythmic scrape of something, the low, guttural moan of the undead accompanied by heavy dragging across the stone. Sorin’s breath caught in his throat. The sound echoed through the chamber, cold and menacing. He strained his neck, looking toward the entrance as the noise grew closer.

A hulking figure emerged from the darkness—an undead monstrosity, towering over even the doorframe as it lumbered into the room. Its flesh was rotting, barely clinging to its massive, deformed bones. Thick, black stitches ran across its body, holding together mismatched limbs, and its eyes glowed with the necromantic magic that animated it. The air grew colder as it entered, filling the room with a suffocating sense of dread.

Sorin froze, heart pounding. The creature’s head twisted toward him, its eyes locking onto his with a hollow, soulless stare. For a moment, Sorin was sure the beast would lunge at him, tear him apart in one brutal motion. But it didn’t. Instead, the creature lumbered to a corner of the room, where it stood silently, its massive frame casting a long shadow across the chamber.

Sorin’s breath came in ragged gasps. His entire body trembled, the helplessness of his situation sinking in. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t fight. And now, he was being watched by this monstrous sentinel.

The door creaked again. Another figure entered, this one human—although it appeared so sickly, it could have been mistaken as undead. It could have been none other than Wuthum.

The necromancer was ancient, his skin paper-thin and stretched tight over his skeletal frame. His hair was long, unkempt, and gray, hanging in tangled clumps down to his hunched shoulders. Dark circles ringed his sunken eyes, which burned with a feverish intensity, darting about the room as though he were seeing things only he could perceive. Once perhaps ornate, his robes were now tattered and filthy, smeared with blood and dust. The smell of decay clung to him, an odor of death and rot that followed him like a second shadow.

Wuthum’s hands twitched as he moved, his fingers grasping at invisible objects or tracing nonsensical symbols in the air. His lips muttered incoherent words, broken phrases slipping out in a near-constant stream of madness. The necromancer’s eyes finally settled on Sorin, and a wide, crooked smile spread across his gaunt face. His teeth, yellowed and cracked, were bared in a grotesque mockery of joy.

“Awake, are we?” Wuthum crooned; his voice was high-pitched and raspy, like nails scraping across the stone. He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Sorin’s face, his movements jerky and erratic, like a puppet with frayed strings. “Good, good… I wondered how long it would take for you to open those eyes.”

Sorin stared at the madman, his mind racing as he tried to think of anything to say or do. But his body remained still, trapped in fear, his thoughts swirling with the realization that this was the man he had come to face.

Wuthum’s wild eyes darted across Sorin’s face as if searching for something only he could see. His lips twitched, pulling into a sneer.

"A spy," he hissed, stepping closer. "A filthy Light Pantheon spy, here in my tower. How dare you!"

His fingers flexed, and Sorin could see the dark magic swirling beneath his pale skin. "You thought you could come here, free the power of Beacon, the Deity of Guidance and Inspiration, that I’ve kept buried in the altar and slip away unnoticed?"

Sorin's mind raced. "I’m not a spy," he said, his voice calm despite the fear gnawing at him. "I destroyed the power in the altar. It looked like it would eventually break free. I’m—"

"LIAR!" Wuthum shrieked, his voice rising to a piercing wail. His bony hands jerked in the air as if grasping at something invisible. "You freed it! You, like all the others, come to steal my secrets, to undermine my work!"

"They send spies, always spies, to tear down what I’ve built. Beacon’s power was supposed to stay dormant, kept under control. But you... you let it loose!" His voice shook with fury, eyes blazing with madness.

Sorin tried again, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I’m telling you the truth. I’m no spy. I destroyed Beacon’s power. I serve—"

"Lies!" Wuthum shrieked, cutting him off. His movements became erratic, his hands twitching and clawing at the air as if he could pull the truth from it. "They all lie! Every last one of you! You invade my domain. I think you can fool me with your tricks and your words, but I see through it all!"

The necromancer leaned in closer, his breath rancid, his crazed eyes gleaming. "But don’t worry," he whispered, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "All spies sing in the end. You’ll sing too, just like the others. You’ll tell me everything once we’ve made you pliable... once you’ve had a taste of what happens to those who dare trespass in my domain."

His fingers twitched again, and the heavy leather straps binding Sorin seemed to tighten around his limbs, digging into his skin.

Wuthum’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight as he stepped back, spreading his hands wide. Dark energy crackled at his fingertips, the shadows in the room deepening as he muttered a low incantation under his breath. Sorin's heart raced, panic clawing at him. He struggled uselessly against his restraints, his muscles already aching from the strain.

Wuthum’s voice rose, and with a flick of his wrist, the first wave of agony hit. A searing, burning pain shot through Sorin’s body as if his skin were being peeled away layer by layer. He screamed, his back arching involuntarily as the necrotic magic tore at him. The sensation was unlike any blade—Wuthum's magic stripped the flesh from his body with sickening precision, leaving patches of raw, exposed muscle. Sorin gasped, his mind swimming in agony as the pain threatened to swallow him whole.

"Tell me who sent you," Wuthum hissed, his voice laced with venom. "Tell me why you're here!"

"I'm not a spy!" Sorin choked out between ragged breaths. "I told you—I destroyed the power in the altar! I—" His words were cut off by another wave of searing pain as Wuthum’s magic flayed more skin from his arms and chest.

"You dare lie to me!" Wuthum screeched, his fingers twitching again. Another spell rippled through the air, and Sorin’s skin began to rot. The stench hit him first, the smell of decaying flesh as his skin blackened, shriveled, and oozed with putrid liquid. The sensation was unbearable—the slow, creeping horror of his own body decaying while he was still fully conscious. He screamed again, his voice hoarse and broken, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Please... I’m telling the truth!" Sorin’s voice cracked as the words spilled from his lips. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into the cold stone beneath him as he fought against the rising waves of agony. "I’m not... from the Light Pantheon... I’m not your enemy!"

Wuthum grinned wickedly. "They all say that. But we both know what you are. You’ll sing, boy, just like the rest of them. You’ll tell me what I need to know—whether you think you will or not."

With a flick of his hand, Wuthum changed tactics. The dark energy coiled around Sorin’s legs, and then there was a sickening crack. His bones shattered with a force that sent him convulsing in agony. The pain surged through him like a tidal wave as his legs buckled inward, the bones splintering and breaking.

Sorin screamed again, louder this time, his entire body trembling under the strain.

"You can’t lie forever, spy," Wuthum said, his voice almost conversational. He raised his hand and, with a grim smile, began to heal the bones. The magic worked quickly, reforming them in a matter of seconds—but before Sorin could even process the relief, they shattered again with another wave of dark energy. The cycle repeated, each break followed by excruciating healing, the agony never-ending.

"I swear, I’m telling you the truth!" Sorin gasped between tortured breaths, his voice barely audible. "I’m not from the Light Pantheon! I destroyed the power in the altar... it was taking over... I’m not—"

"Lies, lies, lies!" Wuthum shrieked, his face twisted with rage. "All of you lie! But that’s alright. I’ve broken the will of better men than you. And once your bones have snapped enough times... you’ll beg to tell me the truth." He leaned in closer, his breath hot and rancid against Sorin’s face. "They all do."

Sorin’s mind swirled in a storm of pain and desperation. His body screamed with every fracture, every strip of rotting flesh, but even through the agony, he kept a tight grip on his secret. Should he reveal who he truly was—the son of Vesperos, the God of Darkness? Would Wuthum even believe him? He had no way to prove it.

He gritted his teeth through the torture, forcing himself to speak despite the agony coursing through his body. "I... I’m not a spy," he rasped. "You’re wrong... but I can help you. I’m not here to fight you. I can—"

Wuthum’s laughter cut him off, high and shrill. "Help me? *Help me?! Oh, child... you’ve already helped me by coming here. Now I’ll take everything you have. Every. Last. Secret. I’ll pick that little brain of yours and learn everything that is happening outside of my domain."

Sorin’s vision blurred, the edges of the room dimming as the next wave of pain crashed over him. He gasped, struggling to keep his mind focused, his sanity intact. He needed a way out. He had to survive. But as Wuthum's dark magic tore at him again, the path forward grew darker, and hope seemed to slip further and further away.

Wuthum suddenly halted the torture, his eyes going wide as if he had seen something that wasn’t there. His hands froze in mid-air, the dark magic dissipating instantly, leaving Sorin panting in pain and confusion. The necromancer’s face twisted in alarm, and his body jerked violently as though he was trying to fend off an invisible attack.

"No... not again... not now!" Wuthum shrieked, his voice filled with panic. He staggered backward, hands clawing at the air in front of him as if to ward off some unseen threat. "They’re here... they’re attacking me again!"

Sorin blinked, his breath ragged. He had no idea what was happening, but the sudden shift in Wuthum's demeanor sent chills down his spine. The necromancer cowered, his wild eyes darting around the room, focusing on figures that only he could see. His hands twitched, and his face contorted with fury.

"Light Pantheon filth!" Wuthum screeched. "You won’t sway me! I’ll never betray the Dark Pantheon. Mortis... Mortis will protect me!" He spun on his heel, flinging his arms toward the empty air, casting powerful, erratic spells at whatever hallucinations plagued him.

Sorin flinched as one of Wuthum’s spells—a bolt of necrotic energy—whizzed past him, striking the stone wall beside his head and leaving a scorch mark. Another spell flew past, a sickly green tendril of magic that snaked through the air, narrowly missing Sorin's shoulder before dissipating. Sorin strained against his bonds, his heart racing as he struggled to comprehend what was happening.

"Leave me alone!" Wuthum screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "I’ll never join the Light Pantheon! You... you think I’ll give up Mortis? Think I’ll surrender the gifts of death and decay? Never! Your Gods are nothing in front of Mortis The Decayer." His hands moved frantically, casting dark spells into the empty space around him, each one wilder and more uncontrolled than the last. The tower shook under the barrage but miraculously did not break. The walls were cracked, and several rocks fell, but the walls of the tower held.

Sorin watched in horror as Wuthum raged against his invisible attackers. The necromancer was clearly lost in his own mind, hallucinating some imagined assault by the Light Pantheon. His body twisted and jerked as he flung spells at enemies only he could see.

One of the blasts of magic struck the slab Sorin was strapped to, causing the stone to tremble beneath him. Sorin clenched his fists, certain the next spell would hit him. But by some miracle, each one missed him, tearing through the air just inches from his body.

"Light Pantheon scum!" Wuthum screeched, his voice rising in pitch. "You want me to betray Mortis? You want me to forsake the god of death for your false promises? I’ll die before I join you!"

Wuthum’s face contorted in rage, his whole body trembling as the hallucination seemed to intensify. He swung his arms wildly, sending another spell crashing into the far wall, the blast shaking the room. Sorin could only watch, helpless and bewildered, as the mad necromancer fought enemies that weren’t there.

Suddenly, the hysteria stopped. Wuthum's chest heaved, his face pale and drenched in sweat. He stood still, his crazed eyes slowly regaining focus as the hallucinations faded. His arms fell to his sides, and for a moment, he stared blankly at the space around him as if unsure whether the nightmare had truly ended.

Without a word, Wuthum turned away, his shoulders hunched, and shuffled toward the exit. The hulking undead sentinel that had been standing in the corner lumbered after him, its chains clinking softly in the silence. The door creaked open, and Wuthum, still muttering under his breath, disappeared into the darkness, leaving Sorin strapped to the stone slab in stunned silence.

Sorin lay on the cold stone slab, every muscle in his body aching, his mind racing as he desperately searched for a way out. He had been trying for what felt like hours—pulling against the leather straps, twisting his wrists in a vain attempt to slip free. But the bonds were unyielding as if reinforced by some unseen force. He tried to focus his energy again, reaching out for his powers, but nothing responded. The room remained dark, his magic silent. He even bit at the leather binding his wrists, his teeth scraping against it, but it was like biting into stone. The leather straps, though they looked ordinary, felt impossibly hard, as though they had been turned to iron.

Frustration built in his chest. His jaw ached from trying to gnaw through the bonds, and his vision swam with exhaustion. No matter how much he struggled, the restraints held firm. Eventually, his body gave in. With no way out and no strength left, Sorin’s eyes grew heavy. The deep, oppressive silence of the chamber pressed in on him, and despite the pain, he slipped into a restless sleep.

When Sorin awoke, it was to the sound of the door creaking open. His heart leaped in panic, his mind still foggy from the torment of the previous day. Wuthum was back.

But this time, the necromancer was different. He entered the room in silence, his gaunt face expressionless, his wild eyes now cold and calculating. There was no manic outburst, no shrieking accusations. Wuthum raised a single, bony finger, his lips moving in a silent chant. Dark magic filled the air, suffocating the chamber with its presence. Sorin tensed, bracing for what was to come, but nothing could have prepared him for the horrors that followed.

Without a word, Wuthum cast his spell, and the world around Sorin shifted. The stone walls of the chamber faded, replaced by a barren landscape shrouded in darkness. Sorin blinked, confused, his mind struggling to understand what was happening. But then it hit him—the sharp, gut-wrenching sensation of death.

He was dying.

Sorin gasped as an invisible force stabbed through his chest, pain exploding through him as blood poured from his body. He looked down, horrified to see his own flesh tearing, bones breaking beneath the onslaught. But it wasn’t real. His mind told him that, but his body reacted as if it were happening all the same. The pain was excruciating, unbearable, yet it continued, drawing out every agonizing second of his death.

And then it happened again. He was alive—only to die once more. Each death was more horrific than the last, his body torn apart, burned, drowned, crushed, every method more grotesque, more painful. He screamed until his throat was raw, begging for it to stop, but the visions continued. The deaths cycled over and over, each one feeling real, the pain never ceasing.

As Sorin's mind began to fracture under the weight of the tortures, the vision shifted again. He found himself standing in a familiar place—his childhood home. But something was wrong. The air was thick with decay, and the smell of death permeated the room. Sorin’s heart sank as he saw them—figures he recognized, shambling toward him from the shadows. His loved ones, their faces rotting, their bodies decayed. His brother, his mentor Magnus, and the villagers from the Abil Mountains—all risen as undead abominations, their hollow eyes glowing with a sickly green light. Their decaying lips twisted into sneers, their voices a chorus of accusations.

“You let us die, Sorin,” Magnus hissed, his voice dripping with malice. “You failed us.”

“We trusted you,” his brother’s decayed form rasped. “And this is how you repay us?”

The words struck Sorin like a physical blow, guilt, and horror clawing at him as the undead figures advanced. He screamed again, trying to convince himself it wasn’t real, but their voices wouldn’t stop, each word digging deeper into his mind. Their accusations echoed in his ears, drowning out all sense of reason.

Just as Sorin thought he couldn’t take any more, the scene shifted again. This time, he found himself in a small, cold cell. The walls were bare stone, and a single, dim light flickered above him. Time passed—or so it seemed. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, and yet he was alone. The silence gnawed at him, the loneliness pressing in like a weight on his chest. Occasionally, Wuthum’s voice would cut through the silence, taunting him, but even those brief moments of cruelty were better than the endless solitude.

But the worst part wasn’t the loneliness. It was the feeling that time itself had become twisted. Sorin had no way of knowing how long he had been trapped. Was it hours? Days? Years? The passage of time-warped around him, each moment stretching into eternity. The weight of the endless isolation bore down on him, breaking his spirit piece by piece.

Suddenly, the cell door swung open, and for a brief, glorious moment, Sorin thought he had found his escape. He ran—his heart pounding with hope as he sprinted through the corridors, the sounds of freedom beckoning him forward. But just as he reached the light at the end of the tunnel, the floor gave way beneath him, and he plummeted into the darkness. He jolted awake, back on the stone slab, the dream of escape shattered. Wuthum had tricked him again, toying with his mind, breaking him piece by piece.

It happened again. And again. Each time Sorin thought he had escaped, he would wake up in the same place, strapped to the stone, his hope crumbling more with every cruel illusion.

Wuthum’s tortures didn’t stop there. He offered Sorin freedom, but he finally believed that Sorin was not a member of the Light Pantheon and that he would be set free. But each time, as Sorin’s spirit lifted with the thought of release, Wuthum shattered it, laughing cruelly as he revealed the lie. The mental anguish of hope being snatched away was almost worse than the physical pain. Sorin’s body trembled, his mind fraying at the edges, as every flicker of light was torn from his grasp.

Hours passed. Or perhaps days. Sorin didn’t know anymore. But by the time Wuthum left the chamber, silent and cold as ever, Sorin lay broken on the slab, his mind teetering on the edge of madness.

Sorin’s mind, already teetering on the edge of sanity, finally shattered under the relentless weight of the torture. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the words spilled from his lips, desperate and broken.

"I’m... I’m not a spy," Sorin rasped, his voice hoarse from screaming. "I’m... I’m a Demigod. My father... is Vesperos, the God of Darkness. My brother... my twin... he’s the son of Solarius... the God of Light."

The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, but Sorin couldn’t stop now. "Magnus, my mentor... he’s dead. He died because of me. Because I didn’t stop it. And I came here... all the way from the Abil Mountains... I came to you to... to plead with you. To bring him back. To resurrect him. That’s why I’m here, Wuthum."

Sorin’s chest heaved with the weight of his confession, his eyes wild and desperate. He had revealed everything—the truth he had fought so hard to keep hidden. He had nothing left. He was at the mercy of this madman.

Wuthum stood still, his gaunt form casting a long shadow across the chamber. His face was unreadable, his expression frozen as he stared at Sorin, unmoving. The silence stretched on, thick and oppressive, the only sound the faint crackling of the torches on the walls.

Then, finally, Wuthum spoke.

"Lies," he whispered, the word barely audible but laced with venom. "More lies."

Sorin’s heart sank, the hope he had clung to slipping away like sand through his fingers. "No... no, I’m telling you the truth," he croaked, his voice breaking. "I swear, it’s the truth—"

"Lies," Wuthum repeated, his voice soft but firm. "You think I would believe such a tale? You think your words will save you?"

Wuthum stepped forward, raising his hand. His fingers twitched, dark magic swirling at his fingertips once more. Sorin’s breath quickened as he realized what was coming.

"You will break," Wuthum said, his voice cold and detached. "You all break. And then you’ll sing the truth."

Without another word, Wuthum flicked his wrist, and the familiar, sickening crack of bone breaking filled the chamber. Sorin screamed as his leg shattered beneath the force of the dark magic, the pain ripping through him like fire. The necromancer’s face remained impassive as he watched Sorin writhe in agony.

The bone reformed, only to snap again. And again.

Each break was worse than the last, the pain so intense that Sorin’s mind began to splinter further, the edges of his consciousness dimming as he was plunged back into a nightmare of pain and despair. Wuthum watched in silence, the only sound the endless breaking of Sorin’s bones.

Time had become a blur for Sorin, an endless stream of pain and suffering. Every moment felt like a lifetime, each new day dragging him further into the abyss of torment. He no longer knew how many days had passed since his capture. The only constants were the agonizing tortures, the twisted spells that tore him apart and put him back together, and the cold, dark chamber where Wuthum’s madness ruled.

Sorin lay strapped to the stone slab, his body weak, trembling from exhaustion. His mind, though battered and fraying, clung to the hope that somehow he would survive. But then, one day—if it could be called that—Wuthum stood over him, his face contorted with a sneer of indifference.

“I’m tired of you,” Wuthum spat, his voice colder than usual. “You bore me. I thought there would be more to you, more secrets, more truth. But all I see is a liar. A disappointment.” His bony fingers flexed, and dark energy crackled at his fingertips. “I think it’s time you die.”

Sorin’s heart pounded in his chest, fear gripping him with a force he hadn’t felt in a long time. The finality of death—after everything he had endured—was too much to bear. Desperation clawed at him, and he struggled against his bonds, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the spirit within him, dormant for so long, but no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t respond.

No! Not like this!

Wuthum raised his hand to strike the killing blow, but then, as if struck by some invisible force, the necromancer staggered back. His eyes widened in panic, darting wildly around the room.

“They’re here again!” Wuthum shrieked, his voice laced with terror. “The Light Pantheon! You brought them, didn’t you?” He pointed a trembling finger at Sorin. “You’ve brought them to me!”

Sorin blinked, confused and terrified, as Wuthum descended further into his madness. The necromancer was seeing things—hallucinations, no doubt—but this time, the fear in his voice was palpable. Wuthum lashed out at the air, throwing spells at phantoms only he could see.

“You’ll never take me!” Wuthum screamed. “I won’t betray Mortis! I’ll never join Beacon’s service!”

Sorin’s heart raced. This was his chance—his only chance. Desperation pushed him to try once more. He reached deep within himself, grasping at the last remnants of spirit left in his body. He focused on his powers, willing any of them to activate. His head throbbed, his body screamed in pain, but he refused to give in.

Suddenly, his vision darkened. A deep, suffocating blackness poured into his eyes, and for a moment, Sorin thought he was blind. But then, the darkness began to leak out, like shadows spilling from his gaze, sweeping across the chamber. The pain was immediate and excruciating, burning through his skull as if his very eyes were being torn apart.

Sorin gasped, but as the shadows poured from his eyes, something incredible happened—wherever his gaze landed, Wuthum’s hallucinations began to melt away. He could see them—figures from the Light Pantheon, twisted, terrifying images conjured by the necromancer’s curse. But they dissolved, unraveling into nothingness the moment Sorin’s darkened eyes locked onto them.

Wuthum froze, staring in disbelief as his nightmares vanished before him. The phantoms that had haunted him for so long, the specters of his madness—they were gone. His face twisted in shock, then awe, and finally, something resembling joy.

“You... you’re doing it,” Wuthum whispered, his voice trembling. “You’re banishing them. You’re... the answer.” He took a step closer, his wide, crazed eyes fixed on Sorin. “The Light... they’ve tormented me for so long. But you... you can stop them.”

Sorin, his entire body wracked with pain, could barely comprehend what was happening. The darkness continued to pour from his eyes, sweeping away every last trace of Wuthum’s hallucinations. The necromancer, now standing over him, no longer looked at Sorin with disdain. He looked at him with something resembling hope.

Wuthum walked to Sorin, his face twisted with awe as he gazed at him like a man beholding a savior. The realization of what had transpired over the past weeks began to creep into Wuthum’s eyes—slowly at first, then with increasing clarity. His fingers twitched as if grasping at invisible pieces of a puzzle that now clicked into place.

"You... you’re a Demigod," Wuthum whispered, the words trembling in his throat. "What you said... about Vesperos... about Solarius." His gaze flickered back and forth, as though he were reliving every moment he had spent torturing Sorin. "You weren’t lying... you couldn’t have been. Not under all of that..."

Wuthum staggered back, his legs buckling beneath him as he fell to his knees. His hands reached out in desperation, trembling as they pressed against the cold stone. "Forgive me," he muttered, bowing his head low. "I... I didn’t see. I couldn’t see through the madness, through the Light’s torment. But now... now I can think, I can see clearly. You... you’re the one who destroyed Beacon’s power in the altar. You freed me."

Sorin, still in agony, watched as Wuthum, the very man who had inflicted unimaginable suffering upon him, bent low in supplication. The necromancer’s voice cracked with a mixture of regret and panic, his mind no longer clouded by the hallucinations that had plagued him for so long.

"You are a son of Vesperos," Wuthum continued, his words spilling out in a rush. "A being of shadows and death... I was blind, foolish! How could I not have seen it after you destroyed the power of Beacon? I swear, I’ll make it right, I’ll do anything—anything to make it up to you."

Wuthum scrambled toward Sorin, his gnarled hands reaching for the leather straps that had bound him for what felt like an eternity. "I’ll free you," Wuthum promised, his voice trembling. "I’ll give you whatever you desire—power, riches, immortality, anything. Please, forgive me... I was lost, but now I see."

With frantic hands, Wuthum began to undo the straps that held Sorin to the stone slab, muttering apologies under his breath, as though his very life depended on Sorin’s forgiveness.

Sorin slipped free from the bonds, his body too weak to resist as he slumped forward into Wuthum’s bony arms. He didn’t speak, didn’t even think. The world blurred around him, the overwhelming exhaustion crashing down like a wave. His limbs felt like lead, his mind fogged from endless torment. Without a word, his consciousness faded, and everything went dark.