Knock. Knock. Knock.
Silas rapped on the door, his trembling fingers barely able to produce a steady rhythm against the wooden surface. The icy wind of the night cut through his threadbare coat, biting at his exposed skin and leaving him shivering. The darkness around him seemed alive, pressing in with the weight of unseen eyes. He prayed silently for the occupant to answer swiftly, his breath misting in the frigid air.
His prayers were answered when the door creaked open not long after, the sound echoing unnaturally in the still night.
A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light of the room behind him. His disheveled hair fell over sharp, angular features, and his piercing eyes scrutinized Silas with an intensity that bordered on predatory. Though his youthful appearance suggested he might be in his mid-twenties, the cold, calculating darkness in his gaze hinted at a soul weathered by years of experience.
"What business do you have here?" the man asked, his voice low and sharp, like the whisper of a blade unsheathed.
Still trembling, Silas stammered, "H-Harold Grant... he sent me."
The man froze for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing as they roved over Silas's haggard appearance. There was a flicker of recognition—or perhaps something deeper—at the mention of the name. Harold Grant was clearly not a name to be spoken lightly.
After a tense silence, the man stepped aside, the movement smooth and deliberate. He gestured for Silas to enter with a slight tilt of his head.
"Come in," he said curtly. "Quickly."
Silas hesitated, casting a glance over his shoulder at the desolate street behind him. The icy wind at his back offered no sanctuary, and the oppressive silence of the night seemed to grow heavier with each passing second. Gritting his teeth, he stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor.
The room was dimly lit, illuminated by the flickering glow of a single oil lamp perched on a cluttered table. Papers, vials of strange liquids, and an array of brass instruments covered the surface, glinting faintly in the weak light. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment, metal, and something faintly acrid, like burnt herbs.
The man closed the door behind him with a decisive thud, bolting it with a series of complicated locks. The intricate mechanisms clicked and whirred in a way that seemed almost mechanical, yet too fluid to be purely mundane. Silas felt the weight of the locks settle over him like chains, a subtle reminder that leaving would not be as simple as entering.
"Harold sent you," the man repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism. He moved to the table, his fingers deftly picking up a small vial filled with a thick, crimson liquid. The contents caught the light, swirling unnervingly as though alive. "Do you have proof?"
Reaching into the pocket of his coat, Silas retrieved a business card, its edges frayed from nervous handling. The faintly embossed name, Harold Grant, glinted under the lamplight. He handed it over with trembling fingers, his breath hitching as the man took it from him.
The man studied the card in silence, his sharp eyes scanning every detail. He flipped it over, revealing an engraved symbol shaped like an eye. The symbol pulsed faintly, its eerie glow resembling the slow blink of a living creature.
"An Eye of the Sleeper," the man muttered, his voice tinged with unease. "What kind of mess has Harold dragged me into this time?"
He looked back at Silas, his expression cold but curious. "The name's Red," he said flatly.
"Red?" Silas thought, the single syllable striking him as both underwhelming and ominous. Still, he nodded politely. "I'm Silas. A pleasure to meet you."
Red didn't acknowledge the pleasantry. Instead, he dragged a chair from the corner of the room and sat down, pouring a measure of the crimson liquid into a small glass. The light caught the fluid's surface, making it shimmer unnaturally. He took a slow sip, his gaze fixed on Silas with unsettling intensity.
"So," Red began, his voice low and edged with disdain, "what kind of trouble are you in that Harold Grant of all people would send you to me?"
Silas hesitated, his throat dry. He forced the words out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Join Vermilion."
Red froze mid-sip. The glass paused at his lips, and for the briefest moment, his composure cracked. His hand twitched as he set the glass down with a controlled yet audible thud.
"Vermilion?.. Join?" he repeated, the word heavy with disbelief. His eyes searched Silas's face, as though trying to determine if this was a cruel joke. "Harold doesn't send people that lightly."
He leaned forward, the light casting shadows across his sharp features. "Who told you that name?"
"Mr. Harold," Silas replied, his voice steadier now, though the tension in the air was almost suffocating.
Red leaned back, exhaling slowly. He rubbed his temple, his expression darkening. "Unusual," he muttered, almost to himself. "Very unusual."
After a moment, he reached for a stack of papers from the cluttered table and slid them toward Silas. The pages were filled with arcane symbols that seemed to writhe and shift under the lamplight, resisting comprehension.
"Sign this," Red instructed, his tone brooking no argument.
Silas scanned the pages, his stomach tightening as he deciphered fragments of the plain text interspersed with the runes. The terms were vague but ominous, hinting at danger, secrecy, and irrevocable consequences.
Despite the unease curling in his chest, Silas forced his hand to move. The pen felt unnaturally heavy as he scrawled his name at the bottom of the page.
Red's lips curled into a faint smirk, though his eyes remained cold. "Good. Tomorrow your next step is to go to the Church of the Eternal Flame in District 2. That's where the path begins."
Silas opened his mouth, questions swirling in his mind, but Red silenced him with a sharp gesture.
"No more questions," Red said firmly. "Not here. The answers you seek... if you're bold enough to face them... you'll find them at the church."
With that, Red turned away, his focus returning to the crimson liquid in his glass.
Left with no choice, Silas tucked the contract into his coat and stepped back into the frigid night.
.....
Silas trudged toward the spot where the carriage was usually stationed, his thoughts a tumultuous storm of doubt. Had he made the right choice? The weight of the decision pressed heavily on his chest, each step echoing with the question that refused to leave his mind.
When he arrived, the carriage stood waiting like a shadowy sentinel in the dimly lit street. Without hesitation, Silas climbed in, settling into the cushioned seat before giving the driver his destination in a voice that barely masked his unease.
The driver, a wiry man with a weathered face partially hidden beneath a dark cap, nodded wordlessly and flicked the reins. The horses neighed softly, their breaths visible in the cold night air, before the carriage began to move.
Inside the warm confines of the carriage, Silas leaned back against the worn leather seat, his trembling hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to steady himself. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones served as a faint balm to his frayed nerves.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, whispering assurances under his breath. This is for them... for my family... The mantra repeated in his mind, a fragile shield against the creeping doubt. Yet, no matter how often he repeated it, the faintest whisper of unease lingered in the corners of his thoughts, like a specter waiting for its moment to strike.
The carriage continued its journey through the quiet streets, the faint glow of gas lamps casting fleeting shadows across Silas's face as he stared out the window. In the distance, the city seemed to slumber.
---
Upon reaching the house, Silas alighted from the carriage, his movements measured and deliberate. He handed a handful of coins to the driver without a word, then turned toward his home, his footsteps crunching softly against the cobblestone path.
The sound of his boots reverberated in the stillness of the night, accompanied only by the occasional flicker of the dim streetlights. His gaze wandered skyward now and then, drawn to the pale moon that loomed over the silent world.
Yet, the sight that greeted him above was disquieting. The stars, which should have adorned the heavens like scattered diamonds, were absent—erased from existence.
Silas paused mid-step, his eyes lingering on the vast expanse of darkness.
"On Earth, this could be blamed on the blinding haze of light pollution," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "But here... where even pollution is a rarity?"
A faint unease stirred within him, but he pushed the thought aside, resuming his stride toward the house.
When Silas opened the door, a familiar figure came into view. His sister, Mia, was clearing the dining table, her movements quick and efficient. One plate remained untouched, steam faintly rising from the food it held.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, her brow arched in question. "Where have you been?"
Silas faltered for a moment, his mind scrambling for an answer. "The city," he said finally, his tone deliberately even.
Mia's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion passing through them before she turned back to the table. "Your food's on the table. Eat it before it gets cold."
Silas nodded curtly, retreating to his room to discard his belongings. Moments later, he returned and took a seat at the table, his gaze lingering briefly on the plate before him.
As Mia ascended the stairs, she called back, her tone light yet teasing, "Don't forget to wash your dishes, okay?" She punctuated the remark with a playful wink before disappearing from view.
Silas watched her retreat, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Once she was gone, the weight of his thoughts returned, pressing against him like an invisible burden.
He picked up his fork, the warmth of the meal a fleeting comfort against the chill of the room. Each bite brought with it a pang of guilt that twisted in his chest.
This isn't my body. This isn't my life. This isn't my family.
The words reverberated in his mind, an unyielding reminder of the truth.
Even so... I will protect them.
With each bite, he thumbed through the pages of the old diary left by the original Silas, the words within weaving a tapestry of forgotten history and whispered prophecy.
---
June 21 —
The Meilith Empire, contemporaneous with the ancient Zein Empire, remains shrouded in obscurity.
Today, Rudric and I ventured into the aged library within Tibur City. Among its decaying tomes, we unearthed a book titled Vengeance and Glory, which chronicled the Zein Empire's evolution into a force that defied the Meilith Empire.
Yet, curiously, the era of the Meilith Empire's formation eludes even the most learned scholars.
On the same day, another relic was uncovered—a manuscript buried amidst the crumbling shelves.
Its pages spoke of an ancient war… a conflict that spanned centuries, relentless and unforgiving.
The accompanying illustrations were grotesque yet mesmerizing—angels and demons locked in mortal combat, their forms twisted by the ferocity of battle.
---
June 23 —
The ruins of the Meilith Empire were discovered in a valley near the Tibur River. There, intricate carvings adorned the remnants of stone walls, telling tales of a colossal war between celestial and infernal forces.
One particular carving dominated the largest wall. A radiant, winged figure wielding a sword stood in defiance of a colossal shadow, its horns jagged and wings fractured.
Beneath this depiction lay an inscription etched in an archaic tongue, its meaning obscured by time. Rudric, drawing upon his extensive knowledge, managed to decipher fragments of the text:
"When the stars no longer illuminate the world, darkness will rise, and the era of chaos shall begin. The heir of the Red Kingdom will return."
We argued over its significance. Rudric dismissed it as mere myth, a tale spun to inspire fear or false hope. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that these words bore a heavier truth—an inevitability waiting to unfold.
What are stars?
The concept confounds us, for they are alien to our skies.
And what, pray tell, is the Red Kingdom?
---
Silas closed the diary with a soft thud, his fingers lingering on the weathered cover. The name Red Kingdom reverberated through his thoughts, a haunting refrain that refused to fade.
Not my body. Not my life. Not my family… but perhaps my destiny, he mused, the thought filling him with a mix of dread and resolve.
The last bite of his meal was consumed in silence. Rising to his feet, he meticulously cleaned his plate, his actions mechanical and deliberate.
As he placed the dish on the rack, a soft sound broke the stillness—the gentle patter of footsteps descending the stairs. Mia emerged, clad in her pajamas, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands.
"You were taking your time," she remarked, her voice tinged with sleepiness. "Aren't you tired?"
Silas forced a faint smile. "Just... caught up in my thoughts."
She moved closer, settling onto the dining room chair, her gaze probing. "You've been different lately. Is there something you're not telling me?"
For a moment, the air seemed to still, her question hanging between them like an unspoken accusation. Silas—no, Damien—felt his chest tighten, but he masked his unease with practiced ease.
"Nothing to worry about," he said lightly. "Just tired. Thank you for the meal, by the way."
Mia exhaled softly, a look of reluctant acceptance crossing her face. "Alright. But if something's wrong, you'll tell me, right? You're still my brother."
Her words cut deeper than she likely intended. Silas could only nod as she smiled faintly and ascended the stairs once more.
Once alone, he returned to the diary, its presence a silent reminder of the enigma unfolding around him. The words echoed in his mind, relentless and foreboding:
"When the stars no longer illuminate the world..."
He turned his gaze to the window, to the impenetrable darkness beyond. The starless sky loomed overhead, a reflection of the growing questions within him..