Damian's POV

"My end is his beginning."

—Damian Stark

"Again!" Old Wrinkle shouts—the dark Blue, the name I gave him since he refuses to give me one himself—and I stumble over the hardened ground, Red blood oozing from my hand.

I twist my legs, vaulting into motion as stones the size of heads hurtle toward me. I barely dodge. My legs ache. Hours pass like minutes. My body is raw. Blood drips from my nose; a few drops spatter my face.

"Now!" he screams. It's the command not to dodge, but to strike. Still, it feels unnatural. The blood flows from my cut palm. Numbness crawls through me, but the burn soon follows.

I kneel, then rise on my right leg, lifting my left arm. Power courses through it—as if a single unseen force pushes upward—and with it, the blood twists and forms a jagged spike. My fist drives against the stone's head.

"Again!"

The boulder doesn't split, but its force halts. Its weight presses into the floor, a small crack spidering where my knuckles connect.

More stones follow. I dodge, barely, sweat burning my eyes.

…

Hours bleed into each other. I empty my stomach for the third time, leaning over a jagged stone sink that empties into darkness. The first time, meat chunks; the second, less. Both times, I missed the hole and heard Old Wrinkle grumble this morning. This time, only water swirls in the abyss below.

They feed me twice a day—Old Wrinkle, mostly. The only other person I've seen is a giant, fleetingly, speaking in low tones to him before disappearing again each morning and night.

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Now, I'm alone.

The mirror deep in the corner barely reflects my silhouette—not a mirror, not really, but a rough, yet polished slab of black crystal. Unlike the ones on the ceiling, these don't flicker or shift. They remain fixed, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it, but I can still figure out my appearance from it.

My Brows are thick, not quite a unibrow, though I used to trim the edges back in my rented apartment in Mannheim. My hair, once a pale blonde, now hangs dull, dark, like ash-drenched strands, edging toward brown.

My eyes—no glasses—are sharp, unshielded, feeling both strange and correct. My sight has improved. The crystal is rough, imperfect, yet I see clearly.

My body is… different. Neither filthy, nor scarred—but transformed. I was never strong; I never put on much weight. But now, lean muscle is defined everywhere. Not bulk, but precise strength. I can see each tendon, each sinew, each fiber, moving in sync with me. The starvation hasn't dulled it—it has honed it.

Knock. Knock.

Two sharp knocks echo through the chamber, a few hundred square meters of hollow stone, at least a dozen meters high. The sound vibrates throughout the whole cave. Somewhere near the entrance sits a chair, ordinary, like one in a doctor's office, waiting for me later to take more blood.

There's a small library in the corner, filling nearly a third of the chamber, shelves stacked with books I sift through alongside Old Wrinkle, trying to grasp the basics of the powers I've consumed.

To my right, behind a jagged rocky wall, lies the largest portion of the space—the training area. A narrow hole at the end provides passage to the rest of this place, serving as an entryway to anywhere beyond.

For a moment, I almost feel free—if it weren't for the door at the entrance, sealed tight, as if mocking me.

My steps from the mirror echo against the knocks, and I spit into the black hole below, barely wide enough for two arms. Yesterday, I tried to reach into it while he was gone, but there was nothing to hold, only air and the stench of vomit and shit.

"Ram, where are you hiding?"

The knocks turn into Old Wrinkle's playful and crooked voice. Lately, he's been combining my name with Red. Therefore Ram. Sometimes just Red, or Redhead. Rarely Dam. Never Damian.

"Here," I say.

I think about escaping, even killing him, before my first training here. It is meant to challenge my blood—the way I pump it—so I can move more lightly. I am, and still remain, faster than ever.

Still, when we first sparred, he—with his wrinkles, old age etched into every crease—surpasses me in any regard. Even now, he would. No, that's an understatement. He holds back, and he can go even further if I am to challenge him again, if I dare to try and kill him, if I even could with my hands.

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