Author's Note
Hey, it's been a while.
After years away, I'm finally back to continue Dark Morpher in a new light. Life got in the way, but the story never left me and now, I'm ready to bring it to life the way it was meant to be told.
You may notice major changes: the world is sharper, the lore runs deeper, and the tone has matured. But the heart of the story remains the same. If you've been here since the beginning, thank you for your patience. If you're new, welcome to Alcraya.
Let's dive back in.
Saturnring.
Chapter 10: Whispers from the Grove
Sleep didn't come easily anymore.
Since the Iron Shrine, Aleister had returned to his corner of Whispersteel with more questions than answers. He barely spoke. Barely ate. His mind kept looping through the soundless voice he'd heard beneath the shrine. The name it had shown him, unspoken but undeniable now flickered in the corner of his vision like an afterimage every time he blinked.
He couldn't pronounce it. But it was his.
And now he couldn't escape it.
That night, the Grove came back to him.
Not as a memory, but as a dream that didn't feel like dreaming.
The forest rose around him in silence. The blackroot trees were too tall, too twisted, stretching upward into a sky without stars. The same stone masks from before watched him from the trunks, their features eroded and unreadable. But their presence was undeniable. They saw him.
He stepped forward, and the ground gave way to soft ash.
A voice followed.
"You are not a cardbearer," it said.
Aleister turned. No one was there.
"You are not a mistake," it said again. "You are the thread they failed to cut."
He tried to speak, but his throat caught.
"You walked where none should walk. You heard what none should hear. That is the first sin. But not the last."
Then the trees moved.
Not swaying. Not bending. Moving, as if shifting position. Rearranging.
In the center of them, twelve figures stood once more. The same masked ones from the Grove of Third Names. Only this time, their robes were frayed. Their masks cracked. The mirrored one had a jagged line running through its center.
"You've stepped past the veil," one said.
"You've seen the root beneath the rune," said another.
"You will break, or you will bloom," said a third.
Aleister backed away. "Why me?" he asked. "Why any of this?"
The ground beneath him split. Not violently, but gently. Like a wound reopening. A flower of white ash rose from the fissure. Its petals glowed with faint veins of energy, and the moment he saw it, his card lifted again without the glove, without command.
"You are the cost," whispered the weeping mask. "The one they buried when they rewrote the rules. The Grove remembers."
He didn't know what to say.
"You seek truth?" said the smallest mask. "Then ask your card."
Aleister held it up. "What are you?"
No voice answered.
Instead, the card darkened.
The shadow on its surface stretched outward, and for a heartbeat, he saw lines form beneath the rune. Geometry older than any glyph he'd studied. A circle inside a square inside a broken triangle. Each shape pulsed like a heartbeat.
And then the forest spoke, not in voices, but in pressure.
He fell to his knees.
He felt things. Not memories. Not images. Concepts. Emotions. A burning city. A child forgotten. A black river that whispered names. A war that never ended, only changed names. A body without a face. A mirror that reflected nothing.
"You are not a Morpher," the forest said.
"You are not a Summoner."
"You are not even a Dark."
"You are the memory they erased."
And then he saw it.
Not clearly, not fully.
But enough.
The cards, those sacred runes that governed every nation, every house, every college, they were never meant to limit. They were meant to suppress. Not a system of growth, but of quarantine. Created not to awaken, but to contain something far older and more dangerous than arcane power.
Aleister.
Whatever he was.
Whatever this card had been.
It was not born of Alcraya.
It was born to break Alcraya.
And now the seal was cracking.
He awoke with a scream.
Sweat soaked his collar. His hands trembled. His card sat on his chest, motionless. The white flower he'd tucked beside his cot was gone. In its place sat ash.
He stared at the ceiling of the old crate he called home, trying to slow his breathing.
The forest hadn't just whispered.
It had shown him something.
Something real.
And he didn't know if it was prophecy or warning.
But one truth remained, pulsing under his skin like fire.
He was not meant to have a place in this world.
He was meant to end it.