In the fog-choked alleys of a city that forgot the sun, Kael, a wanderer with no past, clutched a cracked amulet that pulsed like a dying heart. The streets reeked of ash and whispered secrets—names of gods long buried, etched into the cobblestones. His boots clicked against the stone, each step a dare to the shadows that writhed in the corners. They weren't just shadows; they were hungry.
Kael's hand rested on the hilt of a blade forged from something older than steel, its edge singing faintly when blood was near. He'd learned its song in the Undergraves, where he'd clawed his way out of a coffin with no name. The amulet had been there, too, pressed into his palm like a debt he didn't ask for. Now, it burned against his chest, guiding him to a door at the alley's end—a door that shouldn't exist, carved with symbols that made his eyes ache.
"Another trial," he muttered, voice rough as gravel. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of iron and regret. Something was coming. Something that knew his name.
Kael's fingers tightened around the amulet, its pulse quickening like a predator scenting prey. The door loomed, its carvings writhing under his gaze—symbols that twisted into faces, then claws, then nothing at all. The air grew heavier, pressing against his ribs, and the blade at his hip hummed louder, a warning or a plea. He didn't trust it, but trust was a luxury he'd buried long ago.
He pushed the door. It didn't creak; it *sighed*, exhaling a gust of cold that tasted of rust and forgotten promises. Beyond was no room, but a stairwell spiraling down into darkness so thick it seemed to drink the light from his amulet. The shadows behind him hissed, urging him forward. No going back. Never was.
Each step down echoed like a heartbeat, the walls pulsing faintly in rhythm. The stairwell wasn't stone—it was alive, veins of black ichor threading through cracks that wept when he brushed them. Kael's own heartbeat betrayed him, syncing with the amulet's throb. He didn't know where he was going, only that the thing calling him was older than the city, older than the gods' graves he'd robbed to survive.
At the bottom, a chamber opened, vast and wrong. Pillars of bone stretched into a ceiling lost in shadow, and at the center stood a figure cloaked in tattered starlight. Its face was a void, but its voice clawed into Kael's skull. "You carry my debt," it said, each word a blade scraping bone. "Pay it, or be unmade."
Kael's blade was in his hand before he thought to draw it, the song now a scream. The amulet burned, splitting his skin, blood dripping onto the floor. The chamber drank it, and the pillars groaned. "What are you?" he spat, voice steady despite the fear gnawing his spine.
The figure tilted its head, as if amused. "I am what waits. And you, Kael, are late."