Part 1: The First Breath
Aedric Dray awoke to the sound of silence. Not the comforting hush of night, nor the stillness of dawn, but something heavier—an unnatural void, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
His fingers twitched against cold, damp stone. The scent of ashen air and old decay filled his lungs as he pushed himself upright, his head throbbing with a dull, pulsing ache. His body felt stiff, as if he had not moved in days—or perhaps longer.
Where was he?
His eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings. The walls were weathered stone, cracked and veined with something black that pulsed faintly under the surface. The air carried the faintest echoes—whispers, too soft to grasp, too distant to place.
Then came the first, terrible realization.
He did not remember how he got here.
His heartbeat quickened as he struggled to recall anything before this moment—his last memory, his last action, something to ground himself. But there was nothing. Just fragments. A name. A face. A feeling of being watched.
Then, as if called by his thoughts, a shadow moved in the distance.
Aedric inhaled sharply, forcing himself to his feet. His boots scraped against the stone, the sound foreign, unfamiliar. His body moved on instinct, a fighter's stance settling into place—as if he had done this before.
But had he?
The whispers grew louder. And the shadow stepped closer.
His breath hitched. He took a cautious step back, the weight of his body feeling unsteady. Aedric's fingers brushed against his hip, searching for something—a weapon, a keepsake, anything that might offer reassurance. But his belt was empty, and the absence sent a shiver through him.
The whispers became words.
"You have woken... again."
Part 2: The City of Echoes
Ravengarde.
The name surfaced in his mind, unbidden yet certain. A city of long-dead kings and forgotten wars, its ruins built atop ruins, a place where the past refused to stay buried.
Aedric stumbled forward, emerging from the broken chamber into a street lined with flickering lanterns that cast too-long shadows. The city was empty. No voices, no footsteps, no life.
And yet, he could feel them.
Eyes that were not there. Echoes of things unseen. A city that had not been abandoned—only quieted.
He exhaled, his breath visible in the frigid air. He needed to move. To find something familiar. Someone who could explain what was happening. Someone who could tell him why his name felt foreign on his own tongue.
A gust of wind carried the scent of burned parchment and damp earth. It should have been unremarkable. But something in his bones told him he had smelled it before.
Then, in the distance, he saw it.
A figure—hooded, unmoving, standing at the far end of the street.
Watching him.
His fingers curled into fists. He considered calling out, but something in his chest tightened, an unspoken warning. The figure did not move, did not shift. It stood perfectly still, as if waiting.
Aedric took a cautious step forward, and the air grew heavier. The lanterns flickered, as if shying away from what lurked beyond the veil of mist. He swallowed hard, his pulse a steady drum in his ears.
Something about this city was wrong.
Something about himself was wrong.
Part 3: The Stranger in the Mist
Aedric did not move. Neither did the figure.
The mist curled around its form, obscuring features, bending the light unnaturally. Something about the way it stood was familiar—not in recognition, but in instinct.
As if he had faced it before.
The figure raised a hand. A beckoning gesture. No words, no sound, only the pull of something unseen.
Aedric's breath hitched.
A choice.
To step forward—or to run.
He had the strange sensation that either decision would lead him to the same place. That the path was already written, the destination unchangeable.
But who had written it?
His fingers twitched at his sides. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, as if the stone itself was shifting beneath his weight. He took a slow, measured breath, tasting the damp air, feeling it coil in his lungs.
"Who are you?" His voice sounded foreign, as if it belonged to someone else.
The figure did not answer. But the shadows around it stirred, rippling outward like disturbed water.
Aedric clenched his jaw. His body, despite the uncertainty in his mind, was already preparing—muscles coiled, breath steadying, heart slowing to a hunter's rhythm.
Then the whisper came again, curling around his ears like an unseen hand.
"You have woken... again."
A chill slid down his spine.
The figure stepped forward.