The city of Eryndral was rotting.The fog that coiled through its back alleys reeked of decay, soaking into the crumbling stone walls like an infection that had taken root. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled—a dull, choking sound, as if even the air had begun to suffocate.
Dr. Armon Vex moved through the narrow streets, his pulse hammering. His coat was damp against his back. His hands trembled in his pockets. He tried to steady his breathing. He had taken precautions. He had left no trail.
So why did it feel like something was watching him?A whisper slid past his ear.
"Do you hear them?"
He turned sharply, his heel skidding against the slick cobblestones.
The alley was empty.
Then the shadows moved.The mist parted, and a figure stepped forward as if peeling away from the darkness itself.It was taller than he expected. Cloaked in black. A shattered metal mask covered its face, but that wasn't what sent ice crawling up Armon's spine.It was the eyes.Or rather, the absence of them.
There were only two gaping voids, but inside them, something writhed—something shifting and pressing against the surface, as if trapped behind a thin sheet of flesh.Then the Wraith spoke.
"You helped them build the machine."
Armon turned to run, but the Wraith was already in front of him.A hand shot forward—but it wasn't just a hand.It was too long, too many joints, and when the fingers curled around Armon's throat, they didn't squeeze. They sank,cold. Not like ice, not like metal, but like rotting silk slipping beneath his skin.
Armon choked. He tried to pry the fingers away, but his hands passed through them.Panic surged through him, His knife.
With a shaking hand, he ripped the pocket blade from his coat and drove it forward.The blade sank into the Wraith's ribs— but there was no resistance.No sound of tearing flesh. No impact.Just a sickening, wet pull as the knife slid through, as if the Wraith's body was nothing but mist.Armon's breath hitched. He stumbled back, his grip on the blade going numb.The Wraith's head tilted, the shattered mask catching the dim light.
"You still don't understand."
Then the pain hit.A searing, horrific pressure bloomed inside his skull. He felt his veins coil inward, his muscles pulling against themselves. Something deep inside him was moving.Something was waking up.
His spine arched violently, a wet, choking gasp forcing its way from his throat. His vision blurred—not from tears, but because his own eyes were shifting.Then came the worst part.
He heard it, a voice.But not the Wraith's.Not his own.A third voice, whispering, giggling.
" Finally."
Armon's lips moved without his control. His own breath leaked from his mouth in short, broken gasps, but something else was breathing with him.Then his jaw snapped open, wider than it should.Not broken,not dislocated, Unhinged.Something spilled out.A second set of teeth.Too sharp, Too jagged. They chattered together, biting at the air, hungrily. Laughing.
"Oh, I like this one,"
The voice giggled from inside his throat.Armon wanted to scream, but he had no control anymore.
His own hands reached up to his face. His fingers dug into his own skin.
And then, as if his body were just another puppet on broken strings—he peeled himself apart.The last thing he saw was the Wraith watching, Still, Silent.And behind that shattered mask, something else was watching too.