Sleep did not come easily.
Niko lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the old wooden frame of his cot. The book rested beside him, untouched since he had returned, but he could feel it—a presence that did not belong in the small, quiet home where he had lived his entire life.
The mark on his chest pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a cold reminder that he had changed. That the world had changed.
His father's words echoed in his mind.
"You don't understand what you've done."
"Now, you walk a path that no one can guide you through."
Niko clenched his jaw. He had always wanted knowledge, answers, but now that he had them within reach, they came with chains of uncertainty. He had expected wonder, power, maybe even fear—not this weight pressing on his soul.
With a slow breath, he reached out and placed his hand on the book.
Cold.
Not like before, not the biting chill that had seeped into his bones the moment he first touched it in the forest. This was different—subtle, patient, waiting.
A choice.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the tome.
The pages were impossibly old, yet they did not crumble at his touch. Symbols and scripts filled every inch of parchment, shifting as if alive, reshaping themselves the longer he stared.
At first, they were meaningless. Just black ink twisting into alien patterns.
Then, something clicked.
His vision blurred for a moment, his mind grasping at the knowledge offered freely, and suddenly, the words made sense.
"To command death is to understand it. The body is but a vessel, the soul but energy. Neither truly disappears—only transforms."
Niko's breath caught in his throat.
He turned the page.
"The first step is the sight. To see beyond life, beyond the veil, to witness what lingers."
As his eyes traced the symbols, the mark on his chest grew colder, his fingertips tingling with an unknown sensation. His vision darkened at the edges, as if the world was dimming, the air thickening around him.
Then, he saw it.
Not in the book. Not in his mind.
In his room.
Shadows that should not have moved twitched and shifted. The dim candlelight flickered, not from wind, but from something else.
Something watching him.
A shape, barely more than a silhouette, stood in the corner of the room. Tall, thin, its form rippling like smoke.
It did not move. It did not breathe.
But it was aware.
Niko's pulse pounded in his ears, his body frozen between instinct and curiosity.
Had it always been there? Or had he called it?
The book's text pulsed, the ink glowing faintly. The words had changed again.
"Do not fear the unseen. It has always been here. You are only now aware."
His breath was shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs. He should have closed the book, looked away, stopped.
But he didn't.
He turned another page.
The shape moved.
Not a step. Not a lunge. Just… a shift, a ripple in the air. The candlelight dimmed, the air thickened, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Niko felt a presence inside his mind.
Not words. Not emotions.
Just… awareness.
The book's text shifted again.
"The veil is thin. The more you see, the more you are seen."
Niko exhaled, forcing himself to calm his thoughts. He had done something, whether by reading the book, by touching it, or by merely existing as he did now.
He had opened a door.
But was it one-way?
The shadow did not come closer, did not reach for him. It only watched.
He swallowed hard.
"Who… what are you?"
No answer.
The candle flickered, and for a split second, the darkness twisted into a different shape. Not a monster, not a demon—a man.
Tall. Robed.
Watching.
And then it was gone.
Niko's body shuddered as reality snapped back into place. The air was lighter, the shadows normal once more.
The book lay open, the pages now blank. The words had disappeared.
His hand trembled as he reached to close it.
Had he imagined it? Had the book allowed him to see something hidden in the world? Or had it… brought something closer?
He wasn't sure which thought was worse.
Morning came too quickly.
The sky was overcast, the village streets damp from the night's rain. The smell of wet earth filled the air as Niko stepped outside, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. He needed to clear his mind, to put distance between himself and the book, even if just for a while.
But as he walked through the village, he felt different.
Not physically.
The people. The homes. The streets. They felt off.
He passed by Eldrin, the blacksmith, hammering away at his forge. Normally, the man barely noticed him. Today, however, his hammer halted mid-swing.
His gaze flickered toward Niko.
Not just a glance. A stare.
Suspicion.
Niko clenched his fists, quickening his pace.
Near the well, he saw Mirra, the herbalist, speaking with a group of townsfolk. The moment her eyes landed on him, her expression darkened, as if she knew—as if she sensed.
He heard the whispers.
"Something isn't right."
"Did you feel that last night?"
"Something's changed."
He swallowed hard, keeping his head down.
He had been marked.
Not just by the book. Not just by the power.
The village felt it, even if they didn't understand why. He was no longer just Niko, the quiet boy who loved old stories.
He had become something else.
And the world had noticed.
His father was waiting when he returned home.
The door was open, the man seated by the hearth, his expression unreadable.
"Sit."
Niko did as he was told, the weight of the morning pressing on his shoulders.
For a long moment, his father simply studied him. Not with anger. Not with disappointment. But with something deeper.
Finally, he spoke.
"You opened it, didn't you?"
Niko hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded.
His father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then it's begun."
"What has?" Niko asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
His father met his gaze, and for the first time in his life, Niko saw fear in his eyes.
"The path you've chosen."
He leaned forward, his voice grave.
"There is no turning back now, Niko. Whatever that book has given you, whatever it's awakened, the world will see it. And some… will try to stop it."
A chill ran down Niko's spine.
The village. The whispers. The way the people had looked at him.
They already knew.
And soon, others would, too.