Alaric stepped forward, his feet dragging through unseen resistance. The air hummed with a presence that slithered beneath his skin, whispering secrets his mind refused to comprehend. The mark on his palm still burnt, an eerie glow pulsing in time with his racing heart.
Ahead, the fog thickened.
It was no ordinary mist. It was alive, twisting, shifting, reshaping itself into phantom hands that reached for him, only to dissolve upon contact. The path ahead was veiled, obscured by layers of shifting grey.
But he knew—something was watching him.
A presence older than time itself.
A guardian? A curse? Or something worse?
The Hidden City lay beyond this barrier, but to reach it, he had to cross a threshold unseen, step into a realm where reality twisted, where the rules of the world bent to something else.
The silence stretched.
And then—
A voice, smooth as silk, cold as the grave.
"You are not welcome here."
The City That Should Not Exist
The mist did not part—it collapsed, sucked inward as though devoured by an unseen mouth. In its place, a vast landscape of darkness emerged.
A city.
But not one built by human hands.
The towers were jagged monoliths of onyx, rising toward the void-like sky at impossible angles. The streets were paved with stone that seemed to shift, rippling beneath his steps like liquid shadow. There was no sun, no stars—only a dull, pulsing glow that emanated from cracks in the buildings, as though the city itself was bleeding light.
A ghost town.
Or perhaps something worse.
As Alaric moved forward, his breath echoed—yet there was no sound of his footsteps. Only the deep, resonant hum that filled the air, a vibration he felt in his bones.
He was being watched.
And then—movement.
From the shadows, figures emerged.
They were not human.
The Forgotten Ones
They stood at the edges of the street, their bodies shifting like reflections in rippling water. Their faces were blurred, their forms neither solid nor transparent—caught in some eternal in-between.
Alaric's muscles tensed.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The figures did not answer. They only stared.
And then, one stepped forward.
A shape more defined than the others. Clad in what resembled tattered robes, the figure's head tilted, as if studying him. Its face remained indistinct, a smudge of features that refused to settle.
"You carry the mark," the figure said, its voice layered, as though a thousand voices spoke at once.
Alaric clenched his fist, feeling the heat of the symbol still etched into his palm.
"What is this place?"
"A city without time," the figure answered. "A sanctuary for those who should not exist. Those who were erased, yet remain."
A shiver crawled up Alaric's spine.
"Erased?"
"We were never meant to be," the figure said. "And neither were you."
The Truth Beneath the City
The weight of the words pressed into Alaric's chest. The buildings loomed higher, stretching unnaturally, as though the city itself had heard and was reacting.
"Why am I here?"
"Because you seek what should not be found."
The air grew thick, suffocating. The shadows stretched, curling toward him. The figures did not move, but the pressure of their gaze intensified.
Then—
A door.
It had not been there before.
Carved into the largest of the onyx structures, its surface was etched with symbols he had seen before—the same ones that had burnt into his skin when he shattered the mirror.
The voice of the figure softened.
"Enter, if you dare."
Alaric stepped forward.
And the door opened itself.
The Trial of the Forgotten
The moment he crossed the threshold, the air rushed past him, pulling him into a vast chamber.
The walls shimmered, shifting between solid and void. At the centre, a single object floated—a key, its surface forged from a material that seemed neither metal nor glass, pulsing like a living thing.
"The Key to Truth," a voice whispered.
But as Alaric reached for it—
The city screamed.
The walls cracked.
The figures outside moved, surging forward like a tide of shadows, their forms shifting, distorting. The chamber shook, and from the darkness, something rose.
Something that should have never woken.
A figure larger than the others. Colossal. Twisted. Its body was wrapped in writhing chains, its face obscured by a veil of black smoke.
"You are not meant to take it," the creature rumbled.
Alaric clenched his teeth. This was the test.
And failure was not an option.
He lunged.
His fingers closed around the key—
And reality shattered.
The Escape From the City
The moment the key left its place, the city collapsed.
The streets cracked. The buildings crumbled into the void. The figures let out inhuman shrieks, their forms unravelling like threads caught in a storm.
Alaric ran.
The air tore around him, the fabric of existence ripping apart. The key burnt in his grip, pulsing, sending waves of unbearable heat through his arm.
Ahead—
The door.
But it was closing.
With a final burst of strength, Alaric dove through the threshold—
Just as the city vanished into nothing.
The silence that followed was deafening.
He lay on solid ground, gasping, trembling. The sky above was no longer black—it was blue, clear, real.
He was out.
And
in his hand—
The Key to Truth pulsed.
But what it unlocked…
He would soon find out.