The cold stone pressed against Elias's hands, rough and uneven like jagged teeth. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, each exhale louder than it should have been in the oppressive silence. The sharp chill of the air stung his lungs, making each inhale feel like a struggle against ice. His heart pounded in his chest — fast, wild, and unrelenting — as if it knew something he didn't.
He crouched low, every muscle tensed to the point of pain, eyes darting through the darkness. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to move, to do anything but stay still. But something deeper — older — told him not to.
Wait. Watch. Listen.
The eyes were out there. Dozens of them. Gold pinpricks of light blinking in and out of view like stars behind a restless storm. Some hovered close to the ground, while others loomed high, where no eyes had any right to be. They didn't move. Not forward, not back. But stillness was never safe.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife until his knuckles turned white. The metal's cold bite against his palm anchored him. Every part of him ached from crouching so long, but he didn't dare shift. Not with them watching.
"What do you want?" he barked, his voice cutting through the suffocating quiet. The sound echoed, twisted, and came back to him, distorted like a hundred voices whispering the same question.
No reply.
The eyes blinked — all of them at once.
His throat tightened. He rose slowly, knees trembling as he stood. The stone beneath him was uneven, every shift of his weight making a faint scrape that sounded too loud in the quiet. His gaze never left the eyes. If he could just gauge how far they were… how close they might be… how real they were.
"I'm not afraid of you," he called, his voice sharp but unsteady. Lies tasted bitter on his tongue. "If you're going to do something, do it. No more waiting."
Silence.
Stillness.
Then, the hum began.
Not a song. Not words. Just a low, resonant vibration that seemed to come from the stone itself. It started distant, like thunder rolling far beyond the horizon. But it grew. It crawled up through the ground, snaking into his legs, his spine, and deeper still. It wasn't just sound anymore. It was weight. Heavy. Oppressive. The kind of weight that made it hard to breathe.
His ears popped. The pressure swelled in his skull like a building storm.
"Stop it," he muttered, his teeth clenched so tight his jaw throbbed. "Stop it!"
The hum stopped.
Silence returned.
But it was worse. His ears buzzed with the phantom ring of something missing. His breaths came hard and fast, sharp as broken glass. He stumbled back, heel scraping against the uneven stone.
Then, from behind him — a chuckle.
Not in front. Behind.
He spun around, knife raised, heart jolting like lightning had struck it.
Nothing.
Just fog. Thick, swirling fog that shifted in unnatural currents. The kind of fog that wasn't moved by air, but by something deeper. Shadows twisted within it — faint outlines that hinted at shapes, figures, limbs reaching and recoiling. A hunched figure here. The curve of a head there. But every time he blinked, the shapes vanished. Gone.
His breath came in shallow gasps. He turned back to the eyes.
Gone.
The emptiness was worse.
"I'm not afraid of you," he hissed again, though this time it sounded more like a plea. His fingers ached from gripping the knife, his hands trembling from exhaustion and cold. "Do you hear me? I'm not afraid."
The fog thickened, curling tighter around him. It pressed against his skin like unseen hands.
The hum returned. But it wasn't loud this time. It was soft, like a lullaby played on broken strings. A sound that didn't fit but refused to be ignored.
"Such bold words," a voice murmured, smooth as silk dragged over steel.
Elias froze. The breath caught in his throat. It wasn't behind him this time. It was everywhere. Around him. Beneath him. Above him. Inside him.
He slashed at the air with his knife, wild and frantic. "Show yourself!" he yelled, his voice cracking at the end. He spun on his heel, his eyes wild. "Stop hiding and show yourself!"
"Games?" the voice echoed, sharp and distant but somehow close enough to hear the curl of its grin. "No, little spark. No games. This is home."
The word echoed differently. Home.
It struck him in the chest, cold and sharp as a broken blade. It tugged at something old and raw inside him. A place he'd never known but somehow remembered.
"No," he growled, shaking his head, his breath fogging the air. "This isn't my home. I don't belong here."
"Don't you?" the voice asked, quieter now. Closer.
His breath caught. His heart lurched. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, every corner suddenly a place where something might be hiding. The fog grew thicker.
Then he felt it.
The mark.
The heat in his palm returned with a vengeance. No longer a dull ache. It was fire — molten, searing, alive. It wasn't just his hand. The burn climbed up his arm, creeping past his elbow, its heat so intense it made his whole body seize.
"Stop it," he snarled, grinding his teeth to keep from screaming. "Stop it!"
"Don't fight it," the voice crooned, soft as a mother's lullaby. "It's yours. It always has been."
No.
He shook his head, his breath ragged and shallow. "It's not mine," he hissed through gritted teeth, every word forced past the pain. He jammed the knife into the stone, bracing himself with it, using it to keep from collapsing. "It's NOT mine!"
"Then burn," the voice hissed, every syllable a crack of thunder. "Burn all the same."
Fire roared through him. His scream split the air, raw and guttural. It wasn't just pain. It was everything — fear, rage, defiance — bleeding out all at once. The glow from his palm intensified, shifting from blood-red to blinding white. It filled the world. His vision blurred with searing light. His whole body went rigid.
"STOP!" he roared, his voice breaking, hoarse and ragged. "STOP IT!"
The hum stopped.
The fog thinned.
Elias crumpled. His knees hit the ground first, then his forehead pressed against stone. His body felt hollow. Drained. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, every inhale more of a shudder than a breath.
The warmth in his hand was gone.
His fingers twitched. Slowly, he lifted his head. His vision swam with spots of white and gray, his limbs heavy as stone. But he saw it.
The marks.
Carved into the stone floor, faint blue light tracing the patterns. Spirals and swirls flowed like rivers, all of them converging on one point. He blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes, trying to be sure.
A figure stood at the center.
Tall. Thin. Wrapped in folds of fabric that rippled like water. No face. No eyes. No mouth. Just a hollow, endless void where a face should have been.
Elias froze. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. No. Not a shadow. Not a trick of the fog. It was there. It was real.
The figure raised one hand, fingers long and sharp like talons.
You.
The word wasn't spoken. It just was. It struck him with the weight of a boulder, forcing the breath from his lungs.
The mark on his palm tingled. No burn this time. No fire. Just a faint, electric buzz.
He could feel it.
The thread.
It stretched from his palm to the figure's hand. Thin, invisible, but there. Connected.
Pull it.
The thought wasn't his.
But his fingers moved anyway.
The thread shifted.
The figure tilted its head, slow and deliberate, like a predator watching prey do something unexpected.
His gaze locked on its hand.
Pull it.
He didn't know why. But he did.
The fog surged. The world vanished.
And everything went dark.