The wind cut through the aur like a thin blande as Victor Ravenswood ran along the dirt path leasing to the old abandoned curch.
The sky above him was heavy with dark clouds, as if London itself were holding its breath.
He was only twelve years old, but he knew something was wrong. He had always been different from the other boys in town: strange things happened around him. Objects moved on their own, shadows seemed to follow him, whispers in the wind that no one else could hear.
But that night was different. Someone was watching him.
He turned, his heart pounding in his chest. The path was empty. Only the skeletal trees bent under the wind, whispering silent words.
Then he saw it.
A tall, hooded figure stood at the entrance of the cemetery next to the church. It did not move. It did not breathe.
A chill ran down Victor's spine.
He took a step back. The figure slowly raised a hand, pointing a finger at him.
A word echoed in his mind, whispered by a voice that was not his own.
"Ravenswood."
The ground beneath his feet trembled. A shadow emerged from the soil, liquid and dark as ink. It coiled around Victor's legs, tightening in a cold grip. He tried to scream, but his voice died in his throat.
Then, suddenly, a violet light tore through the darkness.
The hooded figure recoiled, hissing like a wounded serpent. Victor fell backward, gasping, as the shadow dissolved into the air.
An elderly woman, wrapped in a long midnight-colored robe, had appeared out of nowhere. An unnatural light burned in her eyes.
"You have reached the turning point, Victor Ravenswood," she whispered. "It is time for you to discover who you truly are."