Fangs in the Dark

Chapter 3: Poisoned Beginnings

The cold mountain air bit at Lysander's skin as he and Korin finally reached the outpost. It stood as a relic of the past, half-forgotten by time, nestled deep in the mountains like a predator hiding from the world. Once built to house soldiers, it was now little more than a crumbling shelter, its stone walls cracked from years of neglect and weather. Vines crept up its facade, as though nature itself sought to reclaim the building. The outpost offered no comfort, but it was a place to rest—a place to plan.

Lysander and Korin had escaped the village, but that escape felt hollow. The vision of his father's bloodied corpse haunted Lysander's thoughts, and his mother's fate was still a mystery. Yet it wasn't grief that consumed Lysander as he stepped inside the broken remnants of the outpost. It was something else—something sharper. Power. The book he had found in the remains of his family home weighed heavily in his pack, its secrets whispering to him in the quiet spaces of his mind.

The outpost's interior was damp and cold. The remnants of broken furniture littered the floor, and what had once been a military barracks was now a ruin. Still, it would serve their purposes. Korin collapsed into a corner, his breaths heavy and ragged. He had grown increasingly paranoid on their journey, his eyes constantly flicking toward the horizon as if expecting the Holy Nation's Inquisitors to materialize from the shadows.

"We should be safe here," Lysander said, his voice low, almost detached. His mind was already elsewhere, already fixating on the next step.

Korin didn't respond. His exhaustion and fear had rendered him mute for the time being, and Lysander was grateful for the silence. Korin was useful, for now. A tool. But his usefulness was quickly wearing thin.

Lysander walked to the far end of the outpost, away from Korin, and pulled the old book from his pack. He hadn't dared to open it during their journey; there hadn't been time, and it wasn't safe. But now, in the relative security of the outpost, he could finally dive into the knowledge it held.

The book was ancient, its pages yellowed with age and brittle at the edges. The cover, adorned with a serpent coiled around a flower, felt cool under his fingers, as though it held a power beyond what he could yet comprehend. He opened it slowly, the leather creaking in protest. The first page was written in an old script, one he had seen only rarely in his father's notes. Yet, as Lysander stared at the writing, he found that he could read it, almost as if the knowledge had always been there, lying dormant within him.

The first few pages contained descriptions of his people—the Nirvathri. They had been a proud race, once. Masters of poison, both revered and feared. Their ability to manipulate toxins had made them both healers and assassins, capable of controlling life and death with a single touch. But that power had been their downfall. The Holy Nation had branded them heretics, and over time, the Nirvathri had been hunted to near extinction. Lysander's family had hidden their true nature for years, but it hadn't been enough. The Holy Nation had found them.

But now Lysander held the key to their legacy—the key to unlocking his true potential.

He turned the page, his eyes scanning the intricate diagrams and descriptions of various toxins. One particular passage caught his attention. It described the Gravebloom, a flower that grew in the wilds of the mountains. Its petals were toxic to the touch, and when crushed, they could be distilled into a venom that paralyzed its victim slowly, leaving them helpless but fully conscious. The passage detailed how to harvest the flower and prepare the venom, emphasizing the importance of precision. Too much, and the victim would die too quickly. Too little, and the poison would lose its effectiveness.

Lysander's mind raced as he read. The book was filled with such instructions—methods for crafting poisons that could kill, maim, or control. His father had never spoken of these things. He had hidden this knowledge from Lysander, perhaps out of fear, or perhaps out of some misplaced sense of morality. But Lysander saw the potential now. Poison wasn't just a tool for killing. It was a weapon of power—a means to control others, to bend them to his will.