Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst
Chapter 81: Alone With the Dark

Chapter 81: Alone With the Dark

The candlelight flickered, casting shadows against the walls of my room. I sat at my desk, hunched over a stack of notes, rereading the same paragraph for the tenth time. The words blurred together, my mind refusing to absorb anything useful.

I exhaled sharply and leaned back, rubbing my temples. Focus Mara, focus on the stupid notes.

I had always been good at that—pushing through exhaustion, drowning out distractions, forcing my mind to bend to my will. But these past weeks had been different. Ever since... the ceremony.

Ever since then.

I clenched my jaw, my hand tightening around my quill.

I had seen things that night I couldn’t explain. Things I didn’t want to understand. The cult, the ritual, the power they wielded—it had burrowed into my thoughts like a disease, and no matter how hard I tried to scrub it away, it lingered.

Even now, alone in my room, I could feel it.

I inhaled deeply, forcing my hands to be still. If I just kept my head down, if I threw myself into my studies, I could pretend none of it had happened.

Pretend that Caidan wasn’t acting strangely. Pretend that Ronan wasn’t some unsettling shadow of a person. Pretend that I didn’t wake up most nights with the feeling that someone was watching me.

I shook my head. Enough.

I turned my focus back to my notes. The ink was smudged in places from where my hand had rested against the page for too long. I hated how slow I had become, and how difficult it was to concentrate. My professors had started noticing, commenting on my fatigue, and my lack of engagement.

I told myself I just needed time, and yet... I reached up, running a hand across my forehead. My fingers brushed against the skin where the cult’s sigil had once been drawn. It had faded, but it had never fully gone away.

The first time I noticed it, I told myself it was just my imagination. A trick of the light, or maybe I had scrubbed too hard when trying to wash it off. But now, weeks later, I could still feel it. Not physically, but in some deeper, more unsettling way. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. A presence I couldn’t shake.

I rubbed at my forehead again, harder this time. It did nothing, and then, for the first time in days, the whisper returned causing me to stiffen.

It was faint, so faint I almost convinced myself I had imagined it. But it was there—soft, beckoning, just beyond the edge of my thoughts. I turned my head slightly, listening, but there was nothing.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. Lack of sleep. Stress. That’s all this is.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. I had convinced myself I was imagining things before, that the residual magic of the cult had simply unsettled me. But lately, it had become more frequent, more persistent, and yet sometimes, I wasn’t sure it was only in my head.

I pushed back my chair abruptly, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. My heartbeat drummed against my ribs as I turned, scanning the room. The candlelight flickered, but nothing moved.

I had been avoiding sleep, taking longer walks between lectures, and sitting in the library until late at night just to avoid returning to my room, because when I was alone, the whispers grew louder.

I walked to the small washbasin at the far end of my room and splashed cold water onto my face, forcing myself to take deep, measured breaths. The icy sting helped, grounding me in the present, but as I lifted my head to look into the mirror above the basin, my breath caught in my throat. For just a fraction of a second—so quick I almost didn’t believe it—I saw it.

A shape standing in the reflection behind me, causing me to spin around, heart hammering... Yet nothing revealed itself, the room was still empty.

I swallowed hard, gripping the edges of the basin as my knees threatened to buckle. My pulse pounded in my ears, the rhythmic thrum now accompanied by something new—something deep within me stirring in response. It was then that I felt it, a tether, or a pull, it was something that was beckoning me to listen.

I stumbled back from the mirror, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. No. No, this is just stress. Exhaustion.

I turned away and sat back at my desk, gripping my quill tightly to steady my hands. If I could just focus, if I could just ignore whatever this was, it would fade.

It had to, but still, the whisper remained, it was faint, it was lingering, it was far more patient than I was, and I knew, it knew, that I would eventually be unable to resist it.

No matter what I did, the whispers wouldn’t stop. I told myself they were just remnants of my paranoia, that my mind was clinging to fear long after the ritual I spied upon had been completed, but no matter how much I tried to ignore them, they grew stronger.

They were fleeting at first, a hushed sound just beyond the edge of hearing. It was no more than a trick of the wind, a play upon my mind, but they became more persistent. I would be walking through the library, and a voice would slip through the silence. I would be preparing for bed, and a breath of sound would brush against my ears, and worst of all, they spoke my name, they knew who I was and what I wanted.

It’s not like I could tell anyone, who would believe me? The professors would chalk it up to stress. The students already whispered about my isolation. Really it was only Caidan who would believe me, but he was with that bastard Lucian, and Lucian left me alone. The one person I could trust above all else had left me to my own devices. He made a promise and he broke it, so what use would be the man that worked for him?

Instead, I suffered in silence, for these ceaseless whispers were only in my mind. It didn’t matter, my dreams would change, they would show me visions of memories past, fleeting impressions of my childhood. Still, they were changing, they were adapting to my life in the Academy.

Soon, I found myself standing in the temple, not at the Academy, not in my room, but in that wretched cult’s temple, the one I couldn’t remember, but couldn’t forget.

The walls stretched impossibly high, taunting me with those beautiful sculptures of that strange woman. A woman that could easily have been one of the trinity, but somehow emanated a grace, a power that far exceeded the gods that were worshiped here, now, in this golden age. Torches lined the vast chamber, their flames unnatural, twisting in hues of black and violet. Hooded figures stood in a perfect circle, unmoving, their hands raised in silent reverence, and at the center of it all was the altar.

The place where it had happened. The place where I had watched the ritual unfold, where I had felt the pressure of something greater watching me from beyond.

In the dream, I stood before the altar, unable to move. I felt cold. My fingers trembled at my sides, and my breath came in shallow gasps, but I couldn’t look away.

The whispers surrounded me. Not a single voice but a thousand, tens of thousands, all murmuring in languages I couldn’t understand. They spoke to my very soul, pressing beyond mere thoughts, filling all of the empty spaces in my mind.

The whispers shifted from nondescript mumbling to words, to commands. They beckoned me, they worked against my will until finally I felt the command.

"Come back."

I woke up gasping, my sheets were damp with sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. The candle beside my bed had long burned out, leaving my room in darkness that rivaled that disgusting inky substance from within the basin, the substance I willingly painted onto my forehead. Or was it willingness that drove me, did I even have a choice?

I bolted upright, pressing a hand to my chest, willing myself to breathe. "It was just a dream. Just a dream." I repeated to myself, trying to give myself confidence, to tell myself it was all going to be alright/

But deep down, I knew better.

The next morning, I kept my head low, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I skipped my first lecture, spending the early hours locked in my room, scribbling notes—anything to make sense of what was happening to me.

The sigil on my forehead ached with intense pain, though it wasn’t physical, there was no visible mark. Still, I felt it, a pressure beneath my skin, a weight pressing against my thoughts.

I gritted my teeth and pushed through it. I had spent years fighting against the odds, against expectations. I had clawed my way to the Academy with nothing but my own resolve, and I wouldn’t let this break me.

Still, the whispers knew, they assaulted me over and over again. They repeated the same phrase...

"Come back."

I slammed my book shut, breathing hard. The sound echoed through my room, but I barely noticed. I pressed my hands to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut.

"It’s not real. It’s not real." And then a knock at my door made me jolt. I couldn’t face it, so I stayed silent.

Another knock. Louder this time.

"Mara, it’s me," Caidan’s voice came through, muffled but clear.

I clenched my fists. He wouldn’t leave me alone. I needed to distance myself from him and his master. If I gave in, it would all be for naught.

Another knock. "Mara, I know you’re in there. Just let me—"

"I’m fine," I snapped before I could stop myself.

There was a brief moment of wonderful silence, and then, a slow exhale. "I don’t believe that."

I shut my eyes, my fingers curling against the wooden desk. I hated this. I hated that he was trying to reach out to me, that he was trying to ’fix’ whatever had happened. This couldn’t be fixed, not by anyone other than Lucian, and he was gone, abandoned me to live my life in solitude. To deal with our–

After a long pause, I heard him shift. "Okay," he said, his voice softer now. "I won’t push. But if you need—"

"I don’t," I interrupted, sharper than I intended.

Another pause. Then, footsteps faded down the hall.

I exhaled, my body slumping forward. Good. The last thing I needed was him digging into things I barely understood myself... But deep down, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could handle this alone.

That night, the dreams returned, the temple was clearer this time, more vivid. The figures in the circle weren’t just standing still anymore, they were moving, turning toward me, and this time, when the whispers spoke, I understood them.

"Come back, Mara. You were chosen."

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

The altar loomed before me, its surface glistening with something dark.

A figure standing at the edge of the shadows, just out of reach. A woman, her form shrouded in darkness, her presence suffocating.

Her voice was the loudest.

"Come back."

I jerked awake, gasping for air.

I scrambled to my feet, my pulse pounding in my skull. My breath came fast, too fast. The air felt thick, suffocating. I turned toward the mirror, and this time, the shape didn’t vanish, but rather, it stared back.

A woman, her face obscured in darkness, her eyes glowing with something inhuman, and my reflection wasn’t my own anymore. I screamed, though the sound refused to leave my lungs, and still the candle snuffed out as if in response to me.

The room became dark, impossibly so. I felt as though even if I were to light a hundred candles, no illumination would meet my eyes. In the silence that followed, the whispers spoke one final time.

"Come back."