"Quiet... cold... What is this... Where am I?"
The stillness pressed down like a suffocating blanket, and the darkness around him felt alive, shifting, encroaching on his thoughts. A chilling mist curled around his body, cold and damp against his skin. Within the silence, a voice pierced through, distant yet commanding:
"Wake up... Heaven needs you... Wake up as Silas Darkwynd."
His eyes flew open, and he jolted upright, gasping for air. Sweat clung to him in a cold sheen, soaking the thin sheets tangled around his legs. The mattress beneath him sagged, the fabric torn and stained. Golden sunlight seeped through the cracks of worn wooden blinds, casting fractured patterns across the room.
He sat there, panting, clutching his head as a sharp ache radiated from his temples.
(Silas? My name is Damien's)
The name echoed in his mind, unfamiliar yet eerily resonant, like a faint memory just out of reach. As the throbbing in his skull subsided, he took in his surroundings—a small, cluttered room with peeling wallpaper, warped wooden floors, and the faint smell of damp wood. Dust motes floated lazily in the sunlight, the only sign of life in the oppressive stillness.
The realization hit him like a wave:
"Where is this place?"
The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His voice, rough and strained, didn't sound like his own. His pulse quickened as he pushed himself off the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold, splintered floor. A sense of urgency gripped him as he scanned the room, searching for something—anything—that could anchor him to reality.
His gaze landed on an old, tarnished mirror propped against the far wall. He stumbled toward it, his movements unsteady, and froze the moment he stood before it.
The reflection staring back was unrecognizable.
Dark, tousled hair framed a sharp, angular face. Eyes the color of deep crimson stared back, their intensity both mesmerizing and unnerving. His complexion was pale, with faint shadows under his eyes giving him a haunted, restless look. He reached out, his trembling fingers brushing the mirror's cool surface.
The figure in the mirror mimicked his every move, but the disconnect between what he saw and what he felt was undeniable.
His breath caught in his throat, and a quiet, hoarse whisper escaped his lips:
"Is this... rebirth?"
Memories flickered like dying embers, pieces of a voice from the void resurfacing.
"Silas, yes... Silas Darkwynd."
The name felt foreign yet natural, as if it had always been a part of him, lying dormant until now. He let go of the mirror's edge, his hands dropping to his sides. His gaze shifted to the small wooden table by the bed.
A peculiar book rested there, bound in weathered animal hide and etched with strange symbols along its spine. It seemed out of place in the otherwise mundane room, exuding an aura of something ancient and forbidden.
His fingers hesitated before lifting the book, its surface rough against his skin. As he opened it, the brittle pages released a faint musty scent. The handwriting inside was jagged, uneven, as if written in haste or distress.
He began to read.
The entries painted a grim picture, fragmented yet vivid, like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be assembled.
Silas sat at the edge of the bed, the diary resting heavily in his lap. His hands trembled as he flipped through the yellowed pages. The handwriting within was jagged and uneven, as though the author had been in a constant state of unrest.
Each entry pulled him deeper into the life of the previous Silas.
---
"May 4th
Grandmother says we're safe here, but I know better. The whispers outside the house are growing louder every night. I hear them, even when no one else does. They call my name. Sometimes, I wonder if they're coming for me... or her.
I won't let anything happen to my sister. Not again."
---
His breath caught in his throat as he read those words. They carried an ominous weight, as though each letter bore a hidden warning. Who was the sister? What had happened before?
Turning the page, he noticed the ink smudged in places, the writing more frantic.
---
"May 11th
The dreams won't stop. A voice tells me to leave, to find the 'Ethereal Gate.' I don't know what it means, but the nightmares are becoming real. Shadows move in the corners of the room, even when the lantern burns bright. I can't tell if I'm awake or still dreaming.
My sister says I look pale. She's scared, though she tries not to show it. I promised her I'd protect her... but how can I protect her from something I don't understand?"
---
The air in the room felt colder, and Silas couldn't shake the creeping sense of unease. The diary felt alive in his hands, its contents resonating with the strange voice that had pulled him into this body.
---
"May 15th
Grandmother knows something. She's been acting strange, muttering about the Darkwynd bloodline and some 'ancient debt.' She won't explain, but I've seen the way her hands tremble when she touches her prayer beads.
And then there's the mirror in her room. It's old, cracked, and covered with runes. She says it belonged to our ancestors, that it's meant to 'protect us.' Protect us from what? She won't say.
I can't sleep anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the voice calling me again. It feels closer now. It knows my name."
---
Silas slammed the diary shut, his chest heaving. The weight of the words bore down on him, as if the diary were demanding something from him.
He glanced toward the corner of the room, where the shadows seemed unnaturally deep, almost alive.
"Who... was this Silas?" he murmured aloud.
The memories weren't his, yet they felt intertwined with his very existence. Was he meant to continue the previous Silas' journey? To uncover the mystery of the "Ethereal Gate" and the ominous whispers that had haunted him?
His gaze drifted back to the diary. One last line on the current page caught his eye:
---
"If you're reading this, it means I failed."
---
The words sent a shiver down his spine. Silas closed the diary and stood, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't sure what lay ahead, but one thing was clear: he wasn't just Silas Darkwynd.
He was Damien...
After reading the book for several minutes, Silas finally finished piecing together fragments of his past life.
He lived with his younger sister, Mia Darkwynd, and another child, Kael—both orphans like himself. Together, they shared the old, creaking house that had once belonged to Silas's late grandmother.
The diary in his hands painted a grim picture of his circumstances. Its words hinted at unsettling events: strange noises echoing through the night, shadowy figures prowling the corners of his vision, and a growing threat to his siblings. Each page seemed to thrum with an undercurrent of dread.
"Could such things really exist in this world?" Silas muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with doubt. He closed the diary and exhaled shakily, his gaze drifting to the window beside him.
From the second floor, the world below seemed blissfully unaware of the horrors he'd just read. Horse-drawn carriages rattled along the cobblestone streets, and throngs of pedestrians moved with purpose. It was a picture of normalcy, so starkly contrasted against the shadowy turmoil haunting his thoughts.
Then came the sound that broke his trance.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Brother! How long are you going to sleep?"
Silas jolted upright, his heart racing. The voice was sharp, impatient, and all too familiar. He scrambled to straighten his bed, every movement clumsy and rushed.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by Mia, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed in clear disapproval. Her expression was one of practiced exasperation, the kind reserved for a sibling who always seemed to test her patience.
"Come down—breakfast is ready," she said, her tone curt.
Silas hesitated. For a brief moment, he simply stared at her, the weight of his newfound identity pressing on him like a lead blanket. How was he supposed to play the part of her brother? He didn't even know if he could.
"...I-I'll be down in a moment," he stammered, his voice uneven.
Mia narrowed her eyes, her frown deepening. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion. "You're acting weird again."
Before he could respond, she sighed loudly and turned on her heel. "Just hurry up, will you? Kael's already waiting," she said, her voice fading as she descended the stairs, muttering something about her "hopeless brother."
Silas stood frozen for a moment after she left, the door still half-open. He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his messy hair.
"If this is how it's going to be... I'll have to adapt," he thought, his voice low and resolute. But the diary caught his eye again, sitting ominously on the desk. Its contents felt unfinished, a mystery he wasn't sure he wanted to solve but knew he had to.
Shaking off the unease, he grabbed a clean shirt and changed, readying himself for whatever waited downstairs.
---
On the First Floor
The old staircase groaned under his weight as Silas descended, each step echoing through the quiet house. The smell of breakfast wafted up to meet him, warm and inviting, but it did little to soothe the knot in his stomach.
When he entered the dining room, his eyes immediately fell on the table. It was laden with an array of dishes—freshly baked bread, eggs, and even a steaming pot of tea. The sight should have been comforting, but to Silas, it felt strangely out of place.
Mia sat at the head of the table, her fingers tapping impatiently against the wood. Across from her, Kael, with his ever-curious eyes, glanced up from his plate and tilted his head.
"Finally," Mia said, her tone sharper than necessary. "What were you doing up there? Writing a novel?"
"I..." Silas faltered, caught off guard. He forced a nervous smile. "Just... getting ready."
Mia didn't look convinced. "You're acting strange again," she muttered, her tone softer now, though her gaze lingered on him like she was trying to read his thoughts.
Kael, on the other hand, grinned. "Maybe he's hiding a secret," he teased, his voice light and playful.
"Don't be ridiculous," Mia snapped, though a flicker of unease crossed her face.
Silas sat down, his movements deliberate as he reached for a slice of bread. The scene around him was normal—almost too normal. Yet, beneath the surface, a sense of dread lingered, like the calm before a storm.
"How much do they know?" he wondered, stealing glances at his siblings. And more importantly, "How much am I supposed to know?"
While his little sister chattered animatedly to Kael about the perpetual chaos of his room, Silas sat in silence. His gaze was fixed on the bowl of soup in front of him as he tore off a piece of bread, methodically dipping it into the broth before taking a bite. He didn't look up, didn't laugh at their jokes, and didn't respond to the lighthearted banter filling the air.
Kael chuckled softly at something the girl said, but his eyes flicked toward Silas. The lack of reaction was telling—another sign of the distance growing between them.
Silas ate in silence, his movements mechanical, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Whatever burden he carried had drawn him far beyond their reach.
---
Silas finished his meal quickly, setting his spoon down with an audible clink before standing abruptly. Without a word, he left the table and climbed the stairs, his retreat swift and final.
Kael leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "He's been like this for weeks," he muttered, the hint of concern in his voice barely masked by frustration.
The girl sighed, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap as she watched Silas disappear down the hall. "I know," she murmured. "He's… different."
Kael exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. And whatever's bothering him, he's not letting us in."
Neither spoke again. They had tried before and been met with silence. Now, all they could do was wait—and hope the walls around Silas would one day come down.
---
In the Room
Back in his room, Silas shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as if to block out the world. The faint hum of voices from downstairs was barely audible now, replaced by the oppressive quiet of his sanctuary.
His gaze drifted to the battered leather-bound diary on his desk. It seemed to beckon him, the frayed edges and smudged pages a testament to the secrets it held.
Silas approached slowly, as if drawn by an invisible force. Sitting down, he hesitated for a brief moment before opening the diary, his hands brushing over the worn pages. The faint, musty scent of old paper filled the air as he began to read.
March 12
"Rudric and I uncovered something extraordinary today. A historical note in the city library mentioned devils and angels appearing in human form. The phrasing was cryptic, almost poetic, and we couldn't be certain whether it referred to actual beings or mere metaphor. But… it felt real."
Silas's brow furrowed. The words carried a weight he couldn't quite grasp. He flipped to the next significant entry, his pulse quickening.
March 15
"Supernatural things are real!"
The hastily scrawled words seemed to leap off the page. His fingers tightened on the edge of the diary, his mind racing. The abruptness of the entry struck him as strange, almost frantic, and wholly unlike the measured tone of the earlier writing.
"Supernatural… real," Silas whispered, his voice low, almost reverent. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "What did I mean by this? What did I see?"
He turned the pages again, searching for the elusive reference to the Ethereal Gate in May's entries. But before he could reach it, earlier lines stopped him in his tracks—phrases that now felt all too familiar.
Whispers. Shadows. A mounting dread that clung to the edges of his consciousness.
"The disturbances… the voices I heard back then—were they caused by the rituals I was attempting? Or was something already watching me, waiting for a way in?"
His breath quickened. The flicker of movement in the corner of his eye made him glance up sharply, but the shadows in the room remained still. Yet the feeling of being watched lingered, cold and unrelenting.
Silas leaned back, running a hand through his hair. His chest felt tight, the air around him charged with an invisible weight.
The Ethereal Gate.
The words hung in his mind, their meaning a puzzle he couldn't yet piece together. But one thing was certain: this was no longer about idle curiosity or forgotten memories.
The shadows deepened in the corners of his room, stretching just a little too far. Silas's grip on the diary tightened, his knuckles white as the whispers he had tried to forget brushed faintly against the edges of his hearing.
Posteri of Darkwynd Lingua foederis manebit debitum tuum.