A profound darkness enveloped him, a void so absolute that it seemed to press against his skin.
From within that black abyss, a melody began to rise—soft at first, like a distant whisper carried by an unseen wind. The sound grew richer, revealing the harmonies of a celestial choir, a myriad of voices.
Their voices blended in perfect unison, weaving a liturgical hymn that seemed both ancient and eternal. Each note resonated with a sense of sacred reverence, filling him with a strange sense of peace and renewal.
It was as if his very soul was being cleansed, each refrain stripping away layers of weariness and despair.
Yet, even as he basked in its soothing embrace, he was aware of a mystery: the source of the music remained elusive, its origin hidden somewhere beyond his understanding. The hymn carried an unmistakable sense of nostalgia, as though he had heard it long ago, in a life forgotten or a dream long past. It tugged at something deep within him.
Then, a sudden cold washed over him—a stark and unnatural chill that pierced him to his core. It jarred him from the tranquil melody.
With a gasp, he opened his eyes. The hymn faded into silence, leaving him trembling and breathless as he returned to reality.
He was surprised to find himself lying in the middle of a vast expanse of snow. The world around him stretched endlessly, a pristine white void beneath a pale, gray sky.
Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, their gentle descent at odds with the sharp, biting wind that stung his face. The chill he had felt now surrounded him, seeping into his very bones.
He struggled to comprehend where he was or how he had arrived there, his breath forming small, fleeting clouds as the hymn faded to an echo in his mind.
'Where am I?'
Then, he heard it—a voice, loud and clear, cutting through the silence. It spoke with the weight of age and wisdom, like an old storyteller weaving a tale by the fireside.
He froze, his senses sharpening, as the voice continued to recount a story that felt both foreign and strangely familiar, its resonance pulling at something buried deep within him.
Upon listening closer, he began to catch fragments of the story. He realized he had missed most of it, the earlier words lost in the haze of his confusion, but now, bits and pieces emerged with growing clarity.
"...ye of no renown. Arise now ye Seeker and claim what is yours."
The words rang out, resonating with an authority that seemed to shake the very air around him. For a moment, he was frozen with the weight of the declaration pressing down on him like an unseen force. The voice paused as if waiting for something—an answer, an action—but he remained still, his mind racing to understand.
The silence that followed was deafening, but before he could gather his thoughts, the voice spoke again, softer now but no less commanding.
"Long have ye slumbered, hidden from the eyes of the world. Forgotten by history, dismissed by fate. But the time has come. Rise, for the age of shadows is ending, and the dawn of reckoning is at hand."
The wind picked up suddenly, swirling the snow around him in a chaotic dance. The voice seemed to echo within him now, as though it were not only speaking to him but through him. He pushed himself up from the snow, his limbs trembling with weariness.
He looked around, still seeing nothing but the endless white expanse, yet he felt as though he were being watched.
The cold gnawed at his fingers and toes, but the unease clawing at his mind was far worse. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, forming fleeting clouds in the icy air. He spun around, searching desperately for any landmark, any sign of civilization, but there was nothing—just the endless expanse of white beneath a dull gray sky.
'Is this supposed to be some kind of human trafficking?'
Now he had just had it. He had been pushed too close to the wall and it was time to bounce back. The next words that came to his lips were spoken with raw emotion drawn from the depths of his guts. "Trevor! This isn't funny!"
His fiery glare and sharp tone made it clear that his sentiment toward this Trevor person was one of unrestrained anger, like he was ready to kill him.
He took a further look at his clothes, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of the night before, something felt off.
The fabric was rough, the material frayed and worn, with patches and stains. He ran his hands over his shirt, fingers brushing over the threadbare edges, and it hit him—this wasn't what he had worn last night.
There was no trace of the cozy, warm outfit he'd carefully chosen for Christmas, no sign of the soft, festive sweater and comfortable jeans he'd worn on his way to the party.
Instead, he found himself in what could only be described as... rags.
The sleeves were torn at the edges, the fabric faded and stained, plus, it reeked of time as though it had endured days—or weeks—of wear. His chest tightened with confusion and a growing sense of dread. How had he ended up like this? What had those bastards done to him overnight?
He would have assumed that his assaulters were somewhere hiding a recording him as they made jest of his misfortune, but there was no way they would be close by and he wouldn't see them.
'Tsk, I have to get away from here. How far am I from the city?' He looked around again.
His gaze drifted upward once more, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge the position of the sun beyond the pale skies.
The light barely pierced through the hazy canopy, leaving the landscape bathed in a dull glow and shadows seemed to blend with the grayness around him, making it nearly impossible to determine the time. Was it morning? Afternoon? He couldn't tell.
With no choice left, he resigned himself to the uncertainty and began to walk, setting off in the direction he guessed was east. The landscape offered no clear guidance, only an empty expanse that stretched out endlessly under the pale skies.
***
A man on a black horse rode steadily through the snow-laden path, the crunch of hooves muffled by the thick white blanket. Both rider and steed were well-equipped for the biting cold—the man clad in a heavy fur-lined coat, his face shielded by a scarf and hat, while the horse bore a sturdy blanket under its saddle and thick coverings on its legs.
Suddenly, the horse halted, its ears twitching forward, nostrils flaring. The man's gaze followed the animal's lead, and his eyes caught sight of a body lying still on the ground, partially buried in the snow. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the soft whisper of the wind. Then, the man's lips slowly curled into a smile.
He dismounted leisurely, his boots crunching into the snow as he approached. There was no urgency in his movements. Instead, his smile widened, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken satisfaction as he stood over the figure.
"Well, what have we here?" he murmured, almost to himself, as though the sight before him was a welcome surprise.
The man's smile lingered for only a moment longer as his eyes traveled over the body, taking in every detail. He was ready to loot, then, his gaze caught on something—a faint marking, just visible through the tattered clothing and frostbitten skin. A tattoo. His smile faltered, and his expression darkened.
He crouched closer, brushing the snow aside with a gloved hand to get a better look. The design was unmistakable, a symbol he recognized all too well. Worse, the person was still breathing. His frown deepened, his jaw tightening as a wave of unease swept over him.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, his earlier confidence gone. Whatever this meant, it was no longer the simple encounter he had anticipated.
***
He opened his eyes, the world around him a blur of dull colors and unclear shapes. For a moment, his mind struggled to process what he was seeing. The light was dim as if filtered through a haze that made it hard to discern where he was. Blinking a few times, he tried to focus, his vision slowly sharpening to reveal the unfamiliar surroundings.
The was a wooden desk across the room against a wall and right in front of it was a wooden chair. On the table was a medieval oil lantern and right by it was a metal dish, scratched and worn from years of use.
It was filled with remnants of a meal—half-eaten food that looked hastily abandoned. Bits of bread were scattered among a congealed stew.
Then, his stomach rang its hunger bell. Not to worry, dinner was set.
His eyes traveled across the room some more, absorbing all they could about this alien place where he had suddenly found himself. So was, waking up in the snow all just a dream? If so, where was he?
To the right of the table was what seemed to be a wardrobe and to the right of the wardrobe was a barrel and then the wall of the room.
The bed which he lay on took most of the space in the room and it was not a big one, telling of how small it was. The wooden frame creaked under his weight each time he moved. To the right of the bed was a small stool and a drawer and after that, was a door.
The room had no windows.
He sat up on the bed and tried to recall the events that occurred before he woke up here.
He was on his way to the Christmas gathering, and suddenly Trevor and his gang attacked him and he blacked out. He woke up in an empty, wide land full of snow and started trekking a long distance in the cold in hopes of finding the city again. He could have assumed it was a dream, but the feeling of cold that was left lingering was too vivid to have been a dream.
His stomach growled again, the sound echoing loudly like an alarm reminding him of his body's unmet need.
Eyeing the half-eaten dish on the table, his gaze lingered hungrily on the scraps of food left behind. He hesitated, straining his ears to pick up any sound, anything that might indicate someone was nearby but the air was still.
When he was sure no one was coming, he moved swiftly, driven by hunger, and claimed the dish in his hands. As he decimated the remains of the ungrateful soul who left this delicacy, he suddenly noticed something moving in the corner of his eye.
He turned his gaze to face the source of the movement. He jerked in the chair. His face was pale and his eyes, wide.
As he stared at the reflection in the mirror in absolute horror, the only thing he could say was:
"Who the hell are you?"