Sion Marek sits alone in a cold chamber hall, while four figures in dark cloaks whisper behind a curtain of dense smoke. There is no candle burning in the room. The light comes from the floor — a faint, eerie glow radiating from a complex symbol etched into the black stone.
That is the only thing still not told to him: why he is sitting at the center of that symbol. And why his back remains cold the entire time, even though the walls let no air through.
He knows this is not an ordinary meeting.
"Sion Marek," says the deepest voice. The sound is like rocks collapsing under weight.
He does not answer. His eyes are red from sleeplessness, his hands bloodied to the wrists. He was brought here last night from one of the imperial prisons, where he was held for "aggressively resisting debt collection." He didn't kill the man, but he did throw him out a window. Nothing fatal — except for his record.
"Do you know why you are here?"
"Because my father didn't know when to die quietly."
The silence among the shadows thickens.
"He left no estate. No forgiveness. He left a debt. But it was no ordinary debt. Your father, Loran Marek, was a Bearer. And his contract was not with this world."
Sion leans back, but there is no chair. He falls, but catches himself on his elbows. He spits blood.
"Fuck you and his contracts. He was a drunk and a gambler. If he signed anything, it was on a poker table, not with gods."
Then one of them steps out of the shadows. Tall, hooded, with hands covered in runes. When he speaks, it's not a voice — it's a command:
"You are now the Bearer of the Voices of Kings."
The symbol beneath Sion flares. He cannot move. His legs go stiff, his eyes wide. Not because he doesn't understand — but because suddenly, he knows. Everything.
In a single moment, his thoughts fracture:
His father wasn't running from a gambling debt. He was running from a king who ordered him to slaughter his own son.
Bearers do not speak their own words — they carry the final commands of those who refuse to die in silence.
The contract is in blood. And blood travels by inheritance.
Then Sion screams. Not from pain. From hatred.
---
In the blink of an eye, he finds himself in another room. His clothes have changed. He now wears a dark coat with a high collar, military boots, and underneath — something that doesn't belong to this time. On his skin, a symbol smokes faintly. He can feel it, as if it pulses beneath his flesh.
"Now you know," says a second voice. Female, but cold as metal.
Sion turns. In the room stands a woman with black eyes and short-cropped white hair. In her hand, she holds a scroll sealed with wax.
"What is that?"
"The first command."
Sion hesitates.
"You didn't tell me how he — my father — even became part of this."
The woman looks at him without blinking.
"Because now you know. You feel it, don't you? A Bearer knows what the previous one didn't get to say. Fragments. Mistakes. Secrets not meant for death. Now you carry them."
Sion closes his eyes. Before them: a man in black, hiding a bloody dagger; a woman's scream; a palace in flames; a king dying, laughing as he gives an order to his father.
He opens his eyes. The scroll burns in her hand. But the flame does not consume the paper.
"Read it."
Sion takes the scroll. The seal breaks without his touch. The words are not written in ink. They appear, as if only he can see them.
> Name: King Aedor Silentrule.
Time of death: 89 years ago.
Soul status: unrestful.
Final command:
"Tell her... I did not forget. And that the grave is empty. If she starts looking for the body, she will die."
Sion closes the scroll.
"Who is 'she'?"
"That is for you to find out. The Messenger does not ask questions. He delivers. And sometimes — witnesses the consequences."
---
Outside, it rains. Drops hit the metal roof like war drums. Sion walks alone down the street. The scroll is tucked in his inner pocket. He still doesn't know where he needs to go, but he knows he will — soon. The feeling is in his bones. Like an itch that never fades.
Every Bearer has a gift. Not a power, but a curse of usefulness. His curse is simple: he knows where he must go — but only once he arrives.
And so he walks. Without a compass. Without a goal.
At the end of the street stands a little girl. She looks at him. Does not blink.
"Your eyes are not yours," she says. "The king borrowed them. Just for a while."
Sion approaches her. In her hand, she holds a flower that does not grow on this continent.
"Who are you?"
"I'm not important. But the one you must warn — she is. And she is coming. When the third moon falls."
"Why?"
"Because she thinks the body still exists."
The girl vanishes. Literally — as if she was never there.
Sion stands alone on the street. The rain stops. In the scroll — words that may one day kill a woman he has yet to meet.