The air around Eryndor Darkfire had grown heavier in the past few months, as though an unseen force lingered at the edge of his perception. His nights, once peaceful and filled with dreams of simpler times, had become plagued by vivid nightmares. Each time he closed his eyes, he was thrust into a realm of chaos, fear, and bloodshed.
It began subtly at first—faint shadows darting at the edge of his vision in his dreams, whispers he couldn't quite make out. But soon, the nightmares became more intense, more real. He would wake up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, his breaths shallow.
One night, as he lay in his small, secluded cabin, exhaustion claimed him faster than usual. Darkness swallowed his consciousness, pulling him into another vivid dream.
In his dream, he stood in a ruined battlefield. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the cries of the dying echoed around him. The ground beneath his feet was littered with shattered swords, broken armour, and lifeless bodies. The sky above was an ominous red, swirling with unnatural clouds that pulsed like a living heart.
Suddenly, a low growl sounded behind him. Turning, Eryndor saw a hulking creature emerge from the shadows. Its form was grotesque, an amalgamation of clawed limbs, glowing red eyes, and jagged teeth dripping with dark ichor. More creatures appeared, their twisted forms moving with unnatural speed and grace.
They charged.
Eryndor ran, his feet slipping on the blood-soaked ground as he dodged snapping jaws and razor-sharp claws. His chest burned as he sprinted, his mind screaming for him to fight back, but fear kept his magic suppressed. One of the creatures leaped at him, its claws aimed for his throat....
He woke with a startle, gasping for air. The cabin was silent, save for the crackling fire in the hearth. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his body slick with sweat. But as he sat there, trying to calm his racing heart, he noticed something unsettling.
Claw marks marred the wooden floor near his bed.
At first, Eryndor dismissed it as his imagination. Perhaps he had scratched the floor in his sleep, or it was some other mundane explanation. But the next day, as he hunted in the forest, he felt an unnatural chill. The trees seemed darker, their shadows longer.
He was tracking a deer when the forest grew eerily silent. The birds stopped chirping, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Eryndor felt it before he saw it, a creeping sensation of malice.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure. No, not a figure, a creature. Its body was shrouded in black mist, its glowing red eyes locked onto him. Eryndor reached for his bow, but the creature darted out of sight before he could react.
His heart pounded as he spun around, scanning the forest for any sign of it. For a moment, he thought it was gone. But then he felt hot breath on the back of his neck.
He whirled around, only to find nothing there.
The creatures, Nightborn, as he would later come to call them, were relentless. They haunted him day and night, their presence fleeting but unnerving. They never stayed long enough for him to strike back, always vanishing into the shadows just as he readied himself.
The nightmares worsened, bleeding into his waking hours. One night, he dreamed he was chained to a massive stone altar. Above him loomed a hooded figure, holding a dagger that dripped with black liquid. The figure raised the dagger high, its voice a guttural chant in a language Eryndor couldn't understand.
As the blade descended, Eryndor screamed and unleashed a surge of magic, shattering the chains and sending the hooded figure flying. But as the figure hit the ground, its hood fell back, revealing a face that made Eryndor's blood run cold.
It was Lyana, his sweet and gentle girlfriend.
"No!" he screamed, shaking his head. "This isn't real!"
Lyana's lips twisted into a cruel smile as her eyes turned black. "You can't escape your fate, Eryndor," she hissed, her voice echoing with unnatural power.
He woke up with a strangled cry, his body trembling. But this time, the terror followed him into the waking world. The air around him seemed charged with energy, and when he looked at his hands, faint wisps of black mist clung to his fingertips.
By the tenth month, Eryndor was barely sleeping. The line between dreams and reality blurred, and his body ached with exhaustion. He confided in no one, not even the firebird who had been his constant companion. He didn't want to burden anyone with the growing darkness inside him.
One night, the nightmares reached a horrifying climax.
He found himself standing in a grand hall made of black stone, its walls etched with glowing runes that pulsed like veins. At the end of the hall stood two thrones, and seated upon them were two figures dressed in regal but sinister attire. Their faces were identical, save for the colours of their eyes—one gleamed crimson, the other a chilling icy blue.
The realization hit him like a thunderclap.
"Your blood sisters," a disembodied voice whispered in his ear.
The figures rose from their thrones, their movements unnervingly synchronized.
"Brother," the one with crimson eyes said, her voice dripping with malice. "Did you think you could hide from us forever?"
"We've been waiting," the one with blue eyes added, her tone colder than ice. "The time has come for you to fulfill your role."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Eryndor shouted, his voice echoing in the vast hall.
The sisters laughed in unison, the sound echoing like shattering glass.
"You will," they said together.
The hall began to collapse, the stone walls crumbling into an abyss of darkness. The sisters disappeared into the void, their laughter fading as the ground beneath Eryndor gave way.
He jolted awake, his chest heaving. But this time, the terror didn't end. Shadows coalesced in the corners of his room, forming into the monstrous Nightborn. Their eyes glowed with malevolent intent, and their claws scraped against the walls as they advanced.
Eryndor leaped to his feet, his magic flaring instinctively. The energy surged through him, crackling in the air as he prepared to defend himself. But just as he unleashed a blast of power, the creatures vanished, leaving no trace behind.
He stood there, panting and disoriented. His home was silent once more, but the damage had been done. The Nightborn had not only hunted him—they had planted seeds of doubt, fear, and confusion in his heart.
Sinking to the floor, Eryndor buried his face in his hands. The visions of his sisters haunted him, their mocking voices echoing in his mind. What did they want? Why were they tormenting him?