The rain was relentless, drumming against the cracked windows of the rundown library like an impatient visitor. Aiden Volke sat in the dimly lit corner, his fingers absentmindedly flipping through a dust-covered book he had no interest in reading. The light from a single flickering bulb overhead cast long shadows, the perfect atmosphere for his increasingly cynical thoughts.
He hated this town. Small, suffocating, and devoid of purpose. Nothing ever happened here except the occasional gossip about who was failing at life faster. Aiden was convinced that his name was at the top of that list. Orphaned at fifteen, mocked as the "bad omen kid," and now scraping by doing odd jobs that barely kept him fed.
What was the point of trying, anyway? Fate seemed to have already written him off.
His tired eyes wandered from the book to the corner of the library. There it was again. That sense. The strange, almost magnetic pull he had felt the moment he entered the room. It wasn't the first time he had felt it, but tonight, it was stronger. Like a whisper brushing against his mind, urging him to look closer.
He stood, ignoring the irritated glare of the elderly librarian, and walked toward the far end of the room. The shelves here were old, forgotten, with books that looked as though they hadn't been touched in decades. His fingers traced along the spines until they stopped—without meaning to—on one book in particular.
The cover was unlike anything he'd seen before. Black leather, its surface marred by jagged lines that looked like veins. In the center was a symbol, a circle with intricate patterns inside it, glowing faintly crimson under the dim light.
No title. No author.
Aiden hesitated. Something deep inside told him to walk away, to leave this thing untouched. But curiosity, that insidious force, overruled his caution. He pulled the book off the shelf.
It was heavier than it looked. Cold to the touch, as if it had been left outside in the dead of winter. He opened it, and the faint smell of iron wafted up, sharp and metallic. The pages were thick, almost like parchment, and covered in strange, crimson writing that seemed to shimmer and shift as he looked at it.
"Bloodscript," he whispered, the word slipping from his lips unbidden.
His breath hitched. The symbols on the first page rearranged themselves, forming a language he could read.
"The script of fate is bound in blood. Those who read it shall know, and in knowing, shall suffer."
Aiden frowned. Suffer? What kind of warning was that? He glanced around, but the library was empty now except for the librarian, who seemed entirely unaware of his discovery.
Curiosity gnawed at him. He turned the page.
The first word hit him like a lightning bolt.
His head snapped back as a searing pain lanced through his mind. Images flooded his vision—people, places, events he had never seen but somehow knew. A man arguing with his wife in a city far away. A child crying over a broken toy. A woman standing at the edge of a bridge, her face twisted with despair.
And then, his own face. Standing in the middle of a burning city, the flames reflected in his wide, horrified eyes.
Aiden slammed the book shut, his chest heaving. The visions stopped immediately, leaving him drenched in sweat and trembling.
"What the hell was that?" he whispered.
He stared at the book, its black cover now pulsating faintly, as if alive. For the first time in years, Aiden felt something other than apathy. Fear. And excitement.
The walk home was a blur. The book was hidden under his coat, clutched tightly against his chest as the rain continued to pour. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half expecting someone—or something—to be following him.
By the time he reached his tiny apartment, his nerves were frayed. He locked the door, slid the bolt into place, and set the book on his kitchen table. The single lightbulb overhead buzzed softly, casting its faint glow on the ominous object.
He sat down, staring at it.
"What are you?" he muttered.
The book didn't answer, of course. But something inside him, some instinct he couldn't explain, told him that it held power. Real power.
He reached out and opened it again. This time, the symbols didn't shift. Instead, they seemed to invite him, beckoning him deeper into their mysteries.
"The script binds all things. To read is to know. To know is to shape."
The words filled his mind, and for a moment, he felt a strange clarity. What if this wasn't just a book? What if it really did hold the truth of fate?
On the next page, there was a single line:
"To rewrite is to rebel."
Aiden's hand trembled. Could it be possible? Could he rewrite fate itself? Change the miserable course of his own life?
The idea was intoxicating. But deep down, he knew that power like this never came without a cost.
As the hours passed, Aiden couldn't pull himself away from the Bloodscript. The more he read, the more he understood. The book wasn't just showing him the world—it was showing him how to manipulate it.
Small changes at first. A name written on a page, and the person would experience a sudden shift in their path. A shopkeeper would close early. A stray dog would cross a street at the perfect moment to avoid an accident.
But as Aiden tested its limits, the weight of what he was doing began to settle on him. This wasn't just coincidence. This was control.
And with control came responsibility.
Or perhaps, temptation.
The final page he read that night was blank, save for a single question scrawled in crimson:
"Will you write your own story, or be a pawn in someone else's?"
Aiden stared at the words, his mind racing. Somewhere deep within, he knew that opening this book had set something into motion. Something he couldn't stop.
For the first time in years, his life had direction. A purpose.
He picked up a pen.
And with a trembling hand, he began to write.