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50 years
The tension between Dismos and his father had always been palpable, a constant hum of unease that permeated their every interaction. His father’s cruelty was a constant shadow looming over his childhood, but there had been one rare moment, strange and unsettling, where his father offered something resembling encouragement.
For his first fifty years, Dismos had been known as Astrid. A small, quiet girl, she spent much of her time trying to remain unnoticed. Meek and introspective, Astrid often shrank into herself, trying to escape the harsh gaze of her father. She would lie awake at night, staring up through the cracks in the roof at the stars, feeling lost in a world that never quite fit. The spirits had always been there, whispering in the dark. Some mocked her, calling her weak and unworthy, while others offered soft, cryptic words of comfort, speaking truths that she didn’t yet understand.
It was during one of those nights, curled up in her bed and drowning in the dissonance between who she felt she was and who the world saw, that Astrid began to understand the source of her discomfort. She wasn’t the daughter her father wanted, nor was she the girl the world insisted she should be. The realization was slow, creeping into her consciousness over the years like the spirits’ murmurs that never left her alone.
One night, when she was barely 50 years old and trembling with fear, Astrid finally gathered the courage to tell her father the truth. She had rehearsed the words over and over, her voice shaking as she stood before him in the dim candlelight of their small home.
“I’m not your daughter,” she had whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “I’m your son.”
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Astrid, now Dismos, braced for the worst. He expected anger, perhaps even violence. But instead, his father smiled, something so rare that it was almost more frightening than his usual fury. There was no warmth in it, no real joy, only the flicker of an idea, a twisted form of approval that Dismos couldn’t yet understand.
"A son..." his father muttered, as if tasting the words for the first time. His eyes gleamed with something that resembled pride, but felt more like possession. "Maybe you'll finally be of use to me."
It was the closest thing to approval Dismos’ had ever received. But even then, he knew it wasn’t true acceptance. His father didn’t care about his identity in the way Dismos had hoped. He didn’t care about the deep, personal truth that had taken Dismos’ years to understand. Instead, he latched onto the idea of having a son, a potential heir, a weapon, someone to mold into a tool to carry on his criminal legacy. The small flicker of pride his father showed was nothing more than a reflection of his own desires.
Dismos, starved for any kind of recognition from his father, felt a brief sense of relief. For a fleeting moment, it felt like he had been seen. That moment didn’t last long.
The very next day, the training began. His father’s "support" quickly revealed itself to be another form of cruelty. He was no longer the "meek little girl" who could hide in the shadows. Now, Dismos was expected to be strong. To fight, to steal, to kill. His father’s expectations were suffocating, pushing him harder and harder. Every mistake was met with punishment, every hesitation was an excuse for abuse. The physical training was brutal, but the emotional toll was worse.
“You wanted to be my son,” his father would sneer when Dismos faltered, “so act like one.”
The spirits whispered constantly during those times. Some praised him for stepping into his true self, telling him he was finally becoming the person he was meant to be. Others mocked him, their voices dripping with scorn, reminding him that no matter what he did, he would never be enough. They told him he would never escape his father’s shadow, that the name Dismos was just another mask to hide behind.
But despite the pain, despite the cruelty, Dismos clung to his identity. He wasn’t Astrid anymore, and no amount of violence from his father could ever change that. In the depths of his suffering, he found strength. A son was what his father wanted, but Dismos was not a mere reflection of his father’s desires. He was something else, something his father could never truly control.
From that moment on, Dismos embraced his name. Even as his father tried to mold him into a tool, Dismos began to sharpen himself into something far more dangerous. The spirits watched, their whispers filling the gaps between the blows, reminding him that one day, he would rise above the abuse.
70 years
The grip of fear in the mind of a child twists and warps experience into something far more terrifying than it should ever have to be. But this time, that fear becomes a cruel reality, shattering the fragile innocence of childhood and awakening Dismos to the cold, unrelenting truth: people can do truly despicable things when they choose to. Darkness lurks within the hearts of those fated to be wicked, and tonight, that darkness had found its way into his home.
Dismos is awakened in the dead of night by a muffled wail, his mother’s voice, and the unmistakable sounds of struggle. The rustle of furniture, heavy footsteps, and the sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh cut through the stillness like a knife.
Frozen with terror, Dismos lies in the loft of his parents' home, his body stiff and still beneath the thin blankets. He knows what’s happening, but his mind refuses to fully accept it. Desperately, he tries to stay quiet, as if silence alone might protect him from the storm raging below. He closes his eyes tightly, forcing his breath to stay shallow, willing the tears not to fall.
The option to flee flickers through his mind. He could sneak out of the loft window and fetch the guards. Maybe they could take his father away. But the thought is quickly extinguished; if his father found out, he’d kill him too. No, if he stayed still, maybe his father wouldn’t notice him. Maybe he’d be spared.
"You should take your chance to run, Ender... He's just going to keep hurting you if you don't," the spirits whisper, their voices slipping through the darkness like cold tendrils, pulling at his mind.
Ender… He hadn't yet claimed that name for himself, but the spirits already had. He hated the way they knew him, their voices creeping into his thoughts, never letting him forget they were there. He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block them out, trying to shut out the sounds below. But nothing could drown out the screams. His mother’s voice, hoarse and desperate, echoed in his head, filling him with an agony too big for his small body to contain.
There was nothing he could do. Each cry pierced his heart, igniting a furnace of helplessness that threatened to consume him. He wanted to scream, to rush down and pull his father away from her, to tell him to stop, but his voice felt trapped inside him, held hostage by the fear coursing through his veins. The world outside seemed so distant, so unreachable; all that mattered was the chaos unfolding below.
Then, a deep thud reverberated through the wooden floorboards, followed by a chilling silence. Dismos’s heart pounded in his chest, the sound almost deafening in the stillness. Had it finally happened? Had his father gone too far? The breath he was holding trembled in his throat as he braved the thought: What if he was too late?
The silence stretched, hanging like a noose, and the spirits began to murmur again, their voices now tinged with anticipation.
"It's time to claim your destiny, Ender. Embrace the darkness. Let it guide you."
In that moment, Dismos felt a flicker of anger surge within him, igniting a fierce resolve. No longer would he be a passive observer, a helpless child in the shadow of his father’s wrath. He would not wait for the inevitable, nor would he accept the fate handed to him.
With trembling hands, he peeled back the thin blanket and crept toward the edge of the loft, every fiber of his being screaming for him to stay hidden, to remain safe. But the screams had ceased, replaced by an eerie stillness that gnawed at him. It was time to confront the darkness head-on.
As he took his first step down the creaking stairs, the whispers of the spirits grew louder, urging him on, filling him with a strange sense of power. He had no idea what lay ahead, but for the first time, the weight of fear began to lift, replaced by an insatiable hunger for change, for control. Dismos would no longer cower in the shadows; he would rise from the ashes of this night, ready to forge his own destiny.
100 years
Older now, but still afraid, Dismos found himself bound to the harsh routine his father demanded. Thirty years of relentless training had toughened his body but left his mind frayed. His father had hammered stealth into him with brutal efficiency, every lesson taught in the early hours of dawn, before they would pack up and disappear into the shadows, always running from something that Dismos didn’t yet understand.
The training was unforgiving. Every mistake was met with punishment, every hesitation, a cause for more grueling repetition. But this morning, Dismos’ focus was slipping. The whispers of the spirits were louder than usual, their voices crawling under his skin, echoing through his mind with relentless force. They were sharper today, crueler.
“You’re weak, Ender… You’ll never survive this way.”
“Pathetic form, boy, just like always. He’s going to beat you for this again…”
His grip faltered, his footwork sloppy as he tried to shake the voices from his head. For years, Dismos had learned to drown them out or at least quiet their incessant chatter, but today they were too loud. Louder than his father’s barking commands, louder than the soft morning breeze rustling the trees around them.
Clang!
His rapier was knocked from his grasp again, the seventh time that morning. The sting of failure burned more than the ache in his wrist. He froze, torn between reaching for the weapon and shrinking away from the inevitable reprimand.
“FOCUS, BOY!” his father’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and venomous. Dismos winced. His father had stepped closer now, towering over him.
“You’ll never learn to control that gift of yours if you can’t get a hold of yourself and keep focused.”
“I…" Dismos started, but his words faltered. He pulled his hand to his chest, cradling his wrist where the blade had been dislodged so many times that it throbbed with pain.
“But they won’t stop talking, Dad... how do I make them stop?”
There was a brief pause. For a moment, his father’s gaze darkened, though whether it was from frustration or understanding, Dismos couldn’t tell.
“You can’t make them stop,” his father growled, stepping back, his expression hard.
“The spirits of the dead never stop talking. They’re always there, watching, whispering. They’re a tool, boy, one that can either tear you apart or give you strength. It’s up to you to control them.”
Dismos swallowed hard, glancing down at his weapon that lay discarded on the ground. The voices continued to hiss in his ears, growing bolder, laughing at his failure. He hesitated, unsure if he could silence them long enough to even hold his blade properly.
His father’s eyes narrowed, his patience thinning,
“Pick up your weapon again,” he ordered, his voice low and dangerous.
“You need to learn how to fight. The spirits are your burden to bear. Use them, or they will use you. And we’re not leaving this place until you can disarm me.”
Reluctantly, Dismos bent to retrieve his rapier, his hand trembling slightly. Thirty years of training had toughened his body but not his mind. The whispers, which had been a quiet murmur when his training began, now swirled like a tempest, sometimes guiding, more often tormenting him.
“You’ll never be strong enough… You’re not ready… You’ll fail again…”
The hilt felt heavy in his palm as he raised his weapon. He took his stance, though his form was loose, his focus scattered. His father lunged without warning, the tip of his sword cutting through the air with practiced precision. Dismos tried to block, but the spirits screamed in his ears, drowning out his senses. His father’s sword slid past his guard with ease, striking his weapon and sending it flying from his grip once more.
“Again!” his father barked.
Dismos’ chest tightened as he retrieved his blade. The spirits' jeering laughter echoed in his skull, mocking his every failure, eroding his confidence with each passing moment. The training dragged on, hour after hour, disarm after disarm. The sun rose higher, casting long shadows through the trees as the morning wore on, but still, his father pushed him, demanding more, always more.
By the time Dismos managed to hold his own for more than a few strikes, his body ached, his wrists bruised from the repeated disarms. But beneath the pain, there was something else, a flicker of understanding. He couldn’t silence the spirits, but perhaps… Perhaps he didn’t need to.
Maybe the voices weren’t there to mock him, but to push him. To keep him sharp. To remind him that failure was never an option.
His father’s blade came at him again, but this time, Dismos moved differently. His form was still rough, still unpolished, but his focus had shifted. He blocked the blow, the rapier vibrating in his hand from the force of impact, but he held firm. The spirits whispered, their tone shifting slightly, less cruel, more encouraging?
“Now, Ender… strike now…”
For the first time that morning, Dismos didn’t falter. He parried his father’s next strike and, with a burst of strength, forced his father’s weapon from his hand. The sword clattered to the ground between them.
For a moment, there was only silence. The spirits were quiet, their whispers fading into the background, almost as if they, too, were watching, waiting for his father’s reaction.
His father looked down at the disarmed weapon, his face unreadable. Then, without a word, he retrieved his blade and turned away.
Dismos stood there, breathing heavily, still clutching his rapier. The voices had returned, but this time, they were quieter, less biting.
“Again tomorrow,” his father said gruffly, already moving toward the camp.
“Same time. Same lesson.”
As his father disappeared into the trees, Dismos remained behind, staring at his reflection in the steel of his blade. His form was bruised and aching, but inside, something had shifted. He still had a long way to go, but for the first time, he had fought back, not just against his father, but against the spirits. He had won.
110 years
The moon hung high, its pale light casting faint shadows as two figures rushed through the narrow, labyrinthine alleyways of the city. The night was deep, but the promise of dawn loomed ever closer, pressing urgency into their steps. Summer was creeping in, bringing longer days and shorter nights. For Dismos and his father, this meant less time to move under the cover of darkness. The shifting seasons forced them to find new, faster routes to make their deliveries before daylight could expose them.
The weight of the goods on Dismos’ back made each step feel heavier. His heart raced as he struggled to match the pace of his father’s long, purposeful strides. Every alley they darted through seemed narrower, every shadow stretched longer. The city itself felt like a living maze, winding and twisting with no end in sight.
“Focus, Ender... Focus,” one of the spirits whispered, its voice low and mocking in Dismos' ear. “You need to stay quiet. Keep up with your father. If you fall behind, you know what happens. You’ll just get beaten again.”
The words gnawed at him, but he pushed forward. The dark alleyways offered no comfort, only the relentless demand to keep moving. His legs ached, his lungs burned, but slowing down wasn’t an option. If they didn’t make the delivery in time, his father’s wrath would be far worse than the spirits’ torment.
“Tick-tock, Ender,” another spirit chimed in, its tone taunting.
“You’re falling behind. Don’t you want to avoid the beating? Or are you doing it on purpose, just begging for punishment?”
Dismos grit his teeth, refusing to let the spirits get under his skin. His father hadn’t looked back once, his focus solely on the task at hand, his long legs carrying him swiftly through the winding streets. Dismos, smaller and less practiced, struggled to keep up. He could hear his father’s footsteps growing distant, swallowed by the night.
A soft, familiar voice cut through the noise of his mind,
“You’re almost there, little one. Just a little more. You’re doing well.” The female spirit’s voice was gentle, a rare comfort in the cacophony of mocking voices that haunted him. Whenever he felt himself lagging, she would whisper encouragement, urging him to keep going.
His legs wobbled beneath him, exhaustion creeping into his bones, but her words gave him enough strength to push through. They were almost there, just a little further, just a little faster.
Dismos summoned what energy he had left, giving one last desperate burst of speed. He nearly stumbled as he rounded the corner, but he didn’t care. His father was just ahead, nearing the destination. Dismos pushed harder, willing his legs to move faster, but it wasn’t enough. His body betrayed him.
As they reached the delivery point, Dismos collapsed to his knees just outside the entrance. His chest heaved, his vision blurred from exhaustion. His father didn’t stop to help him up, and didn't offer a word of acknowledgment. He simply turned back with cold, disappointed eyes before disappearing inside to complete the delivery.
The spirits swirled in Dismos’ mind, some laughing, others offering cold, empty sympathy.
“You’re pathetic.”
“You tried, little one. That’s all that matters.”
“Look at you, lying there in the dirt. You deserve every blow that’s coming.”
Dismos didn’t bother responding. His father had made the delivery, and that was all that mattered. Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet, legs trembling beneath him as he forced himself to stand. The walk home was silent. He trailed behind his father, barely keeping up, every step a reminder of his failure. The anticipation of punishment gnawed at him, but he didn’t dare complain. He had grown used to the way his father’s hand would rise when disappointment struck.
When they finally returned home, there was no warning, no words exchanged. As soon as they crossed the threshold, his father’s hand moved in a blur, and the next thing Dismos knew, he was on the floor, glass shards from a smashed bottle cutting into his cheek.
"You’re fuckin’ worthless," his father muttered, standing over him, the words filled with disgust. Dismos didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He had long since learned not to show weakness.
The spirits whispered, their voices swirling in his ears, each one taking its turn to offer its judgment.
“Maybe one day you’ll be strong enough… but not today.”
He lay there for what felt like hours, waiting for the sting to subside, waiting for the voices to grow quiet again.
120 years
Dismos took his father down with a sneak attack. The blow was meant to be harmless, just enough to startle, to gain the upper hand in their unending game of dominance. But his father fell back, his head colliding with the cobbled streets with a sickening crack. Dismos gasped softly, standing up quickly, already regretting his decision as the weight of what he had done crashed over him like a wave.
“C’mon, Dad, you have to get up…” Ender murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he held his hand close to his mouth, his heart racing. He hadn’t meant to hurt his father; he hadn’t meant to down him with the sneak attack. The boy knelt beside his father, the harsh cobblestones digging into his knees, eyes widening as his hand met a rapidly growing pool of blood, dark and unforgiving.
“Why so scared, Ender… Isn’t this what you wanted?” The spirits spoke in chilling unison, their voices echoing in the empty alley as the boy stared in horror. The shadows around him seemed to thicken, swallowing the flickering light from the nearby lanterns.
“Just face it, Ender,” they continued, their words laced with malice.
“You didn’t just hurt him. You killed him… You’re no different than he is; you’re a murderer now too. How did you not notice the blood pooling under his head right away?”
Ender shook his head vigorously, trying to banish the cruel whispers.
“No! He can’t be dead… He just can’t!” The words were a mantra, a desperate plea to deny the truth laid out before him. His father, despite all the pain, all the fear, was still his father.
“He’s gone, Ender…” the voices crooned, their tone shifting to something softer, more seductive.
“He can’t hurt you anymore, so why are you so scared? His blood is on your hands now. But hey, think about it this way, Ender… You’ve finally found something you’re good at. You killed him, and he didn’t suspect a thing… You have the skills of a true rogue.”
The spirits’ words swirled around him, intoxicating and dangerous, nudging him toward a dark acceptance. Ender’s heart raced as the finality of his father’s stillness settled in. In that moment, he felt a chilling realization take root, a cruel freedom.
The boy rose to his feet, a distant, glazed look in his eyes. He turned away from the corpse, abandoning it without a second thought. As he walked away, a heavy emptiness filled him, and it was then that Ender understood the path fate had laid out for him. The spirits whispered sweetly, urging him on as he took his first steps into a life he had long been prepared for.
His first order of business was to gather his things and prepare to deliver himself to his father’s boss, to take his father’s place in the smuggling ring. After all, crime was the only world he had ever known.
As he moved through the dimly lit streets, Ender felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through him, mixed with the remnants of dread that still clung to his heart. The shadows enveloped him, comforting and familiar, whispering promises of power and retribution. The smuggling ring was no longer just a part of his life; it was his destiny.
His father had ruled that world with an iron fist, and now, that fist would be his. The boy who had once trembled in fear now felt a spark of something new, an ember of ambition ignited by the chaos he had caused. The streets were filled with whispers of power, and he was ready to carve out his place among the shadows.
As he reached the entrance to the tavern that served as the front for his father’s operation, Ender paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The alley was empty now, the only evidence of the violent act that had transpired being the dark stain slowly soaking into the cobbles.
He stepped inside, determination lighting his path as he prepared to claim his inheritance. The weight of his father’s legacy hung heavy, but the chains of his past would not hold him back any longer. He was free, and in that freedom lay the promise of greatness.
The spirits surrounded him, and in their whispers, he heard the echo of his father’s approval. “You’ve done well, Ender. You’ve finally embraced who you are.”
And with that, he walked into the night, ready to embrace his destiny as the new main mule of the smuggling ring. With every step deeper into the tavern's dim interior, Ender felt the weight of his transformation settling upon him like a cloak of shadows. The flickering candlelight danced around the room, casting long silhouettes of patrons lost in their own dark dealings. As he moved through the smoky haze, he could sense the power shifting, the whispers of the spirits swirling in tandem with the hushed conversations of the criminals who had once bowed to his father. The world of shadows and deceit, once dominated by fear, was now ripe for his taking.
170 years
Haunted. That’s the only way to describe him now. Ender moved through life like a shadow, silent, efficient, and untouchable, but always with that distant look in his eyes. The look of someone who had seen too much, too young. The years had not been kind, each passing one layering more torment onto the man who once had only feared his father. Now, he feared the weight of his own actions, though he'd never admit it.
For fifty years, Ender had carried out his jobs without hesitation, without failure. The smuggling ring had become his life with its dark corners, secretive deals, and the violence that came with them. They were as familiar to him as the spirits who haunted his every step. He’d become the master of his craft, a rogue who moved through the underworld with the grace of a ghost, never seen until he chose to be. No matter how successful he became, no matter how powerful or feared, those eyes, his eyes, always betrayed him.
Tormented. The voices had never left him. In fact, they had grown louder. They mocked him, praised him, pushed him forward, and held him back, all at once. Every time he carried out a job, the voices would whisper in his ears, reminding him of who he had become.
“You’re doing well, Ender,” they’d say, with a tone somewhere between praise and mockery. “You’re just like him, aren’t you? A killer, a weapon, a tool, a monster carrying his legacy.”
No matter how deep the sting of those words, he pushed forward. Ignoring their taunts, he let the routine of his jobs consume him, each mission a form of escape from the noise. Every contract signed, every life ended, every dark deal made was another stone piled onto the grave of his humanity. He'd long since stopped questioning the morality of his actions. He had accepted the shadows as his only companions, and in the darkness, there was no need for conscience.
But the memories... they still clung to him. No matter how fast or far he ran from his past, it was always there. His mother’s screams, his father’s blood on his hands, the broken look in the eyes of those he'd killed or betrayed. They haunted him like the spirits themselves, following him from job to job. Sometimes, in a rare quiet moment, he’d catch his reflection in a window or a blade and not recognize the man staring back. His once-youthful face had become a mask of weariness, his eyes hollow, his expression always cold, calculated.
He’d tried to numb himself to it all, tried to bury the pain beneath layers of indifference, but it always came back. The voices would never let him forget.
“Ender, you’ve made him proud. Look at you now,” they whispered, their words wrapping around him like chains. And though they meant to torment him, some twisted part of Ender found bitter comfort in the idea that his father would have been pleased with the ruthless man he had become.
Ender had honed his abilities as a Phantom Rogue to perfection. The spirits, once a source of chaos, had become tools in his arsenal. He channeled their presence, using their voices to gather information from beyond the grave, to slip through walls of secrecy, to strike with supernatural precision. He had mastered death itself, manipulating it as easily as he breathed. He could call upon the knowledge of the dead, their whispers guiding his every move, making him a ghost among men.
Yet, despite the power he had gained, despite the success and wealth he’d amassed in the criminal underworld, Ender felt no sense of triumph. Each time he called on the spirits, each time he felt their presence wrap around him, he was reminded of the price. The dead demanded their due, and their whispers were constant, reminding him of the lives he had taken, the blood that stained his hands.
In the quiet moments, those rare instances between jobs when he was left alone with his thoughts, the weight of it all would crash down on him. He could feel it, every life, every sin, pressing down like a thousand needles into his soul.
It had been fifty years since he had killed his father. Fifty years since he had embraced the darkness and the rogue within him. And though he had become powerful, successful, even feared, the child within him, the one who had once hidden in the loft, trembling as his mother screamed, had never truly left. That boy was still trapped, still afraid, buried deep beneath the layers of the ruthless man Ender had become.
As Ender stood on the precipice of his next mission, the shadows clinging to him like old friends, he felt the familiar chill of the spirits’ presence. They whispered, as they always did, their voices weaving in and out of his thoughts.
“It’s time again, Ender. Do what you do best.”
With practiced ease, he moved forward, his hands steady, his heart numb. There was no room for doubt, no space for regret. Only the job. The darkness welcomed him as it always had, and with every step he took, the voices followed, whispering promises of power, threats of failure, and memories of pain.
180 years
Between work and his frequent trips to various taverns around the city, Ender spent very little time alone. He had learned to hate solitude, knowing that when he was by himself, the voices became louder, more relentless, and more real. The taverns provided a temporary escape, a chance to lose himself in the noise and chaos of others. Among the drunks, the gamblers, and the nameless faces of the underworld, Ender could blend in, just another shadow in the crowd.
The spirits, however, never let him forget his past. No matter how much ale he drank, how many card games he won, or how many strangers he bedded, the dead were always there. They followed him like a second skin, whispering in his ear even as the tavern filled with laughter and raucous conversation. Sometimes, he would catch himself staring into his drink, his mind drifting back to the faces of those he had killed, the blood on his hands, the memories of his father’s final moments.
The voices would mock him, twisting his thoughts,
“You’ll never outrun us, Ender. We’re with you until the end. You may have mastered death, but death has mastered you too.” And Ender, no matter how hard he tried to block them out, could never fully escape their grasp.
His skills had become second nature by now, refined to a deadly art over the last sixty years. He was known for his ability to slip into places no one else could, to steal what others deemed impossible, and to eliminate his targets without a trace. His reputation had grown to legendary status within the underworld, and even those who hadn’t worked with him knew his name. A ghost in every sense of the word, he was a figure of both fear and respect.
But with that power came a price. The more he used his abilities, the more he felt the toll it took on his mind. Channeling the spirits of the dead, summoning their knowledge, their strength, it wasn’t without cost. Each time, a piece of him seemed to slip away, consumed by the very forces he wielded. It was as if the line between him and the dead was growing thinner with each passing year.
He had long stopped seeing the world as the living did. Where others saw people, Ender saw potential spirits, future whispers in the chorus that haunted him. It made him detached, cold. Relationships were fleeting, shallow, and purely transactional. He couldn’t afford to care for anyone, not when the dead had such a strong hold on him. Not when he knew that anyone he cared about could become another voice in his head.
Despite this, the spirits were not his only torment. His own memories, the ones he’d tried so hard to bury, clawed their way to the surface on the darkest of nights. His mother’s face as she screamed, the look in his father’s eyes when Ender struck the fatal blow, the horror he had seen in the eyes of those he’d killed. It was all still there, buried under years of violence and survival, but ever-present.
He had become so entangled in death that it was hard to remember what life truly felt like. The taverns, the work, the fleeting company of others, these were all distractions, temporary barriers between himself and the abyss that threatened to consume him. Even when surrounded by people, Ender was alone.
One night, after a particularly dangerous job, he found himself in a familiar tavern, sitting alone at a table tucked away in the shadows. His drink sat untouched before him, and for once, the noise of the room couldn’t drown out the whispers. The spirits were louder than usual, their voices cutting through the din of the tavern as if they were seated right next to him.
“Ender... you’ve grown so much. But you know, don’t you? This won’t last. You can’t hide from what you are forever.”
He clenched his fist, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the untouched ale. He could feel the spirits swirling around him, their presence like a cold wind at his back. There were times when he could ignore them, push them aside, but tonight, they were inescapable.
One spirit, a voice he hadn’t heard in years, came forward, the familiar gentle whisper of his mother,
“Ender… it’s time to let go.”
His breath hitched slightly, beyond that, he didn’t react outwardly. He had long since stopped believing in comfort, even from the voice of the woman who had once held him close.
“You’re too far gone, mother,” he whispered under his breath, barely audible. “Way too far gone to save, mother.” The spirit didn’t respond, but the silence that followed was more oppressive than the whispers.
Ender drained his drink in one quick motion and stood up, his chair scraping against the floor as he left the tavern. The night air was cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of the tavern. The city stretched out before him, dark alleyways winding like veins through the heart of the underworld he had come to know so well.
The voices quieted, for now, leaving him in silence as he walked. But the weight of their presence lingered. He had spent a lifetime running, distracting himself with jobs, violence, and fleeting moments of indulgence, but he knew, deep down, that he could never outrun the dead.Ender may have been a master of the shadows, but in the end, the shadows had mastered him too.
200 years
He’d made enemies, he’d made mistakes. The weight of his past pressed heavily on him, a constant reminder that he could no longer linger in the shadows of his hometown. The whispers of betrayal and violence echoed in his mind, drowning out any remnants of the boy he once was.
He could blend into the crowd under the guise of his elven mask, the delicate features and charming facade allowing him to slip unnoticed through the throngs of life that bustled around him. But beneath that mask, his infernal traits lingered, sharp canines, pointed ears, and an otherworldly aura that marked him as a child of the Fotillas family, a lineage steeped in crime and cruelty.
He had to escape. He couldn’t be Dismos any longer. Dismos was wanted, a name that inspired fear and vengeance in those he had wronged. Ender, however, was an enigma. Ender was unknown. He would be an elf, a shadow among shadows, hiding from the legacy that had ensnared him for so long.
As he navigated the crowded streets, he felt the tension in the air, a palpable reminder of his past life that clung to him like a second skin. The alleyways and taverns whispered tales of the infamous Dismos, the rogue who had clawed his way to power but left a trail of destruction in his wake. But Ender was determined to shed that skin, to rewrite his story before the ink of his past could smear the pages of his future.
With each step, he moved further away from the life he had known, his heart racing at the thought of a new beginning. The streets of his childhood faded behind him, replaced by the promise of anonymity and the chance to forge a new identity. He would embrace the freedom that came with being a nobody, a ghost slipping through the cracks of society, where he could carve out a life unburdened by the weight of his family’s sins.
The spirits that had haunted him all these years felt distant now, their whispers growing fainter as he focused on his new path. But just as he thought he had left them behind, their voices emerged from the shadows, insistent and alluring.
“Ender,” they echoed, their tone a mix of reverence and mockery.
“You’ve finally accepted the name we bestowed upon you. The name that captures who you truly are.”
He felt a shiver run down his spine as their words wrapped around him like a dark cloak.
“You are not merely a rogue,” they continued, their voices swirling in a haunting harmony.
“You are a seer of spirits, an ender of lives, a reaper of souls. You will walk the line of life and death, someday you will walk the realm of spirits like us though you will be among the living. Each step you take draws you closer to the essence of what you’ve become.”
Ender gritted his teeth, grappling with the truth behind their taunts.
“Embrace it,” they urged, their whispers rising to a crescendo.
“You’ve shed the blood of the wicked and the innocent alike. You are a harbinger of darkness, and now, at long last, you wear your name with pride.”
The thrill of their recognition surged through him, mingling with the remnants of his fear. They were right. Dismos was a ghost; Ender was the embodiment of everything he had fought against and yet had become.
“Let go of the boy you were,” they hissed, their voices crackling like fire.
“Dismos was shackled to his past, but you, Ender, you are free to forge a new path, guided by the spirits that have walked alongside you.”
As the weight of their words settled upon him, Ender felt a flicker of acceptance ignite within. He was Ender, no longer just a name but a force to be reckoned with. The spirits, once tormentors, were now allies, their presence a reminder of the power he held within.
With a newfound determination, he turned away from the life he had known, his heart racing not with fear but with anticipation. Ender would no longer be defined by blood or circumstance; he would create his destiny, one step at a time, guided by the whispers of the spirits that had become part of his very essence. The horizon ahead shimmered with possibility, and he was ready to embrace it fully, a shadow destined to carve a new legacy among the living and the dead.
Today…
Life is long and torturous; I might as well take the time to make something of my life. A new path awaits, a journey toward gold and glory. The allure of a merchant's life tempts me, trading goods and gathering wealth while navigating bustling ports. Yet, the call of the pirate’s life whispers seductively in my ear, a siren song of freedom and adventure, where I could seize treasures from those who’ve wronged me. And what of the explorer? The open seas are vast, and the promise of uncharted lands stirs the wanderer within me.
Each possibility dances before my mind's eye, vibrant and full of promise. Perhaps I will set sail, letting the winds carry me to distant shores, forging alliances and collecting stories along the way. The sea has always been a wild companion, unpredictable yet full of wonder. It has the power to transform a man, to strip away the remnants of his past, and in its depths, I might find my true self.
As I stand at the edge of this new beginning, I feel the weight of my past lift ever so slightly, replaced by the thrill of what could be. With the horizon stretching before me, endless and inviting, I resolve to follow wherever the tides may lead. I will embrace the adventures awaiting me, crafting my legacy on the open sea, shaping my destiny in the winds and waves.
No longer a shadow of Dismos, I am Ender, a seer of spirits, an ender of lives, a reaper of souls, and soon, a legend in my own right. Let the journey begin.