The storm raged on the edges of dusk, turning the sky to darkened slashes of violet and crimson. Far below, hidden in the folds of mist and rain, the city of Nyx lay like a slumbering beast, tucked into the jagged cliffs that plunged down to the Whispering Sea. Its skyline was a lattice of spires and arches, looming under the grey clouds that seemed stitched into the heavens, each lightning flash drawing faint outlines of the twisted architecture. And amidst the winding alleys and secluded plazas, an ancient scent of salt and sulfur filled the air.
Elior stepped out from the crumbling shelter of an abandoned stone shack. His boots sloshed against the wet cobbles, each step swallowed by the sounds of the storm. Though young and lean, his eyes held the kind of darkness that only those who had glimpsed beyond the surface world could bear. Under his damp cloak, he felt the familiar weight of the Mark etched into his skin, just above his heart—a faint, unholy brand. In this city, it was a symbol of something both reviled and revered.
The Mark was a cruel gift, the legacy of an ancient pact known only as the Contract of Echoes, binding its bearer to a realm of shadow, mystery, and voices from beyond. For Elior, it was both his weapon and his curse, a direct link to a world where ordinary light dared not tread. He was one of the "Tethered," those who bore the Mark, souls torn between realms, neither fully living nor fully dead. And as he traced his path through the city's back alleys, his shadow stirred, almost in anticipation.
The Tethered rarely survived long. Most of them succumbed, either driven to madness by the whispers that accompanied the Mark or simply falling prey to the many who hunted them. But Elior had always been different. For one, he didn't listen to the Mark's temptations; he controlled it. And second, he knew more than the average Tethered about what lay behind the Mark's origin. His ancestor, a mysterious figure whose name had been erased from history, had been one of the pact's original forgers, binding the family line to this fate.
The contract was more than an oath—it was a door, opened only by the Mark, into the world of *Myrmidia*. A place where shadows could be commanded, and even the faintest thought could turn lethal. For Elior, the Mark granted him entry into Myrmidia, and, more importantly, the power to summon and bind those phantasms, the denizens of that realm, to his will. Though each summoning came with a price, a toll on his very soul, he had learned enough to be cautious. After all, no Tethered would want to be consumed by the very shadows they wielded.
His footsteps halted outside a tavern at the farthest edge of the street. The sign read "The Moon's Maw," its letters worn and battered, barely legible. Within its dim, amber-lit interior, the air smelled of damp wood and sour ale, laced with the faint scent of herbs that Elior knew could only come from the southern swamps. The tavern was nearly empty. A few lone patrons nursed drinks by themselves, hunched over tables in dark corners, each drowning in their own kind of despair.
At the bar, a thin, wiry man in an oil-stained apron looked up, his narrow eyes gleaming under thick brows. Without a word, Elior approached, his gaze cold and steady, betraying no hint of hesitation. The man grunted, nodding his head toward a door at the back.
"Ye sure ye wanna go through with this?" the barkeep muttered, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Elior's only response was a thin, crooked smile as he disappeared behind the door, his shadow trailing him like a faithful hound.
The room beyond the door was small, its walls painted in charcoal and sage. Flickering candles set into blackened brass holders lined the stone shelves. Standing in the center was a figure cloaked entirely in black, their features obscured by the hood that cast a hollow shadow over their face. Their gloved hands held a small box, its surface carved with intricate symbols that pulsed faintly in the darkness.
"I expected someone… older," the figure whispered, their voice like cracked glass.
"Disappointed?" Elior replied coolly.
"Not at all," the figure responded, extending the box. "But I would be careful, if I were you. The price for what you seek is heavy. This is the *Key of Obsidian*—not something for a Tethered who values his life."
"I know the cost," Elior murmured, reaching out to touch the box's cool surface. The instant his fingers brushed it, he felt a wave of power ripple through him. It was a hunger—a pull from Myrmidia, that shadowed realm, as if it could sense the one who bore its Mark.
He shut his eyes, letting the dark hum of the box's power seep through him, entwining with the Mark above his heart. In his mind's eye, he could see Myrmidia more vividly than before, a place where his true strength lay bound, awaiting his command. A realm of endless shades and a sky painted with ash and crimson, where beings of immense malice lurked, beings that had never touched the light.
He opened his eyes, focusing on the figure before him. "This is more than a key. It's a bond."
The hooded figure tilted their head, a gleam of satisfaction visible within the shadow of the hood. "Indeed. With this key, you could become more than just a Tethered. You would be an *Echo Sovereign*, a lord of shadows, a conduit to Myrmidia itself. But remember, power has a hunger all its own. Feed it, or it will devour you."
The warning lingered, but Elior's mind was already wandering, tracing possibilities, seeing the paths that stretched before him. Power, real power, lay within reach. He gripped the box tightly, feeling the weight of a thousand lives coursing through his veins, memories of those who had dared to seek dominion over Myrmidia—and failed.
But Elior was not like them. His past was carved from shadows; his future would be forged by them.