The village of Arico sat on a gentle slope, wrapped in a green cloak of forest. Wooden houses with sloped rooftops bore the passage of time with cracked paint, moss-covered walls, and wildflowers sprouting from pots balanced on windowsills. The air carried the scent of pine and damp earth—alongside the distant aroma of freshly baked bread.
The traveler moved steadily down the main path, his steps heavy but unwavering. Ever since his horse had escaped, he'd continued on foot, covering miles of forest trails. Though his body was exhausted, his eyes remained alert—constantly reading the village, the people, the mood.
A few townsfolk still out at this late hour cast curious glances his way, whispering among themselves as he passed.
At the village center stood a modest inn, two stories tall with a crooked chimney coughing smoke into the fading twilight. A wooden sign swayed gently above the entrance, creaking in the breeze. The man pushed open the door.
Warmth greeted him immediately.
The golden light of candles and the low crackle of a hearth gave the place a cozy, welcoming feel. A handful of villagers sat near the bar, murmuring over mugs of ale. Behind the counter stood the innkeeper—a stocky man with a clean-trimmed beard and thinning hair. His name was Joit.
Joit's smile was wide, but shifted to something more curious as the stranger entered.
"Welcome, traveler!" he called out, setting down a tankard. "What brings you to Arico? We don't get many visitors out this way."
The man stepped up to the counter and let his pack drop to the floor with a soft thud.
"One night. A room."
Joit nodded briskly, though he clearly wasn't about to let the conversation end there.
"Of course, of course. Passing through? Merchant, maybe? Or an adventurer?"
"Just... traveling," the man replied, offering nothing more.
Joit frowned slightly but pressed on, undeterred.
"Well, there's not much in Arico, I'll admit. A forest, a few hunters, and the occasional story to keep us all awake at night."
"I'm looking for quiet," the man said flatly—but not unkindly.
Joit raised his hands in surrender, though his grin never faded.
"That we've got plenty of. Though, lately... folks have been a bit on edge, what with the rumors and all."
The traveler's eyebrow twitched—subtle, but there.
"What kind of rumors?"
Before Joit could answer, a raspy voice cut in from one of the tables.
"The ruins!" barked an old man, cheeks flushed with drink, a wild beard hanging low over his chest. "They're cursed, I tell you!"
The traveler turned toward him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"What do you know about them?"
The old man swayed slightly as he stood, gripping a nearly empty mug.
"Out in the woods, northeast. Close to the mountains. But you don't want to go there. Something lives in those ruins. Something big."
He gestured wildly with his arms, trying to show its size.
"Big?" he asked calmly, though his heart was pounding harder.
"A serpent. A huge one…" the drunk muttered, his glassy eyes filled with a strange mix of awe and fear. "Came down from the mountains a few years ago. Tore my hunting partner in half before he could even raise his bow."
Joit let out a long sigh, shaking his head.
"Don't listen to him. Since his wife passed, he hasn't stopped drinking. Makes up stories to keep the attention on him. Gruth, you know it could've been a bear. Not unusual to see one in the forest now and then."
The old man, Gruth, ignored him and stumbled back to his seat, still muttering about dangers in the woods.
The foreigner looked back at Joit but said nothing. Instead, he picked up his bag.
"Where's my room?"
Joit led him up a creaky wooden staircase. The guest room was small—simple bed, modest wooden desk, and a window overlooking the dark treetops beyond.
At the door, Joit paused.
"If you need anything, knock on the back door downstairs—my room's right there. Washroom's out back. And… don't take Gruth too seriously. His mind's foggier than a winter morning."
The traveler nodded once and closed the door behind him.
Alone at last, he placed his bag on the floor and sat on the bed. Despite Joit's words, he didn't dismiss what he'd heard. Drunk or not, old stories always carried a sliver of truth. And in his experience, ignoring that sliver could be deadly.
As the fire downstairs faded and the village fell into silence, he sat at the window, his thoughts fixed on the ruins waiting in the shadows beyond.
***
The world shattered around him like broken glass. Each fragment reflected something familiar—the forest, the ruins, Elisa's face, sunlight filtering through leaves. But they floated in a dark void, distorted and twisted, trapped in a crystal that refused to break completely.
Aray tried to move, but his feet were stuck on some invisible ground, frozen in place. The weight of the air, thick and oppressive, made it hard to breathe.
"Hello…?" His voice echoed endlessly, like the void itself was mocking him.
No answer came. Just silence. And then a chill ran through him, starting in his marked arm—now glowing a deep, corrupted violet. The blackened veins beneath his skin twitched, pulsing like they were alive.
Then came a sound—soft, steady. Dripping. Like water falling onto something hollow. Each drop rang louder than the last, filling the space with a hypnotic rhythm.
He turned, searching for the source, and saw it: A shadow. At first, formless—but then it grew. It wasn't the basilisk. It was something worse.
A tall, humanoid figure stepped forward—thin and sickly, with dull white eyes that gleamed in the dark. Each footstep echoed like a heartbeat.
"Who... are you?" Aray tried to sound brave, but his voice trembled.
The figure said nothing. Instead, it raised one long, skeletal hand—pointing at his arm.
Pain exploded in his mark. Aray dropped to his knees.
"Agh—!"
The figure tilted its head, studying him like prey. The fire beneath his skin spread, and he felt something moving inside—something trying to break free.
"You carry what is not yours..." The voice came from everywhere at once—low, guttural, like stone grinding on bone.
"What... what does that mean?!"
The figure leaned closer. Cracks ran through its face like a shattered mask. Its grin revealed jagged, blade-like teeth.
"Give it back."
Aray tried to crawl away—but he was still stuck, bound by invisible chains.
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
The figure laughed. A sharp, fractured sound that echoed into madness. Shadows slithered toward him—coiling like snakes—wrapping around his legs, his chest, squeezing until he could barely breathe.
The dripping grew louder. Each drop now thundered like a hammer.
Aray struggled—but every move made the darkness tighten its grip.
Then... another voice.
"Aray…"
It was familiar. Distorted—but familiar.
"Elisa?"
The figure stopped. Its grin vanished. The shadows recoiled slightly, tensing as if the name itself had meaning.
"You… can't… protect them…" The words cut like blades.
Suddenly, the void filled with visions. Blurred at first—then terrifyingly clear.
Arico, engulfed in flames. People screaming, running as shadows flooded the streets. And Elisa—standing in front of their home—crying out his name as the darkness consumed her.
"No! Leave her alone!" Aray screamed, thrashing against the shadows.
But they only squeezed tighter.
The figure tilted its head again, smiling wide.
"You can't escape. You can't win."
The floor opened beneath him.
Aray fell—into endless black.
The cold swallowed him. The weight of shadows dragged him down.
He was falling, falling—yet never hitting the bottom.
The darkness clung to him—not like fog or mist, but like a second skin.
He could feel it. Breathe it. It was ice—and fire. Every breath filled his lungs with something black and alive.
"Come…"
The voice echoed again—softer now. Not the same voice as before. It was warm. Almost... gentle.
"Who… who are you?" He turned, trying to locate the sound.
The shadows began to shift—spiraling around him, forming strange shapes that danced in the void.
And then, he saw it. A faint light. A flickering ember trying to stay alive.
"Come…" Closer this time.
Aray reached for it. As he did, he felt something awaken within him—something dark, ancient… familiar.
"What do you want from me?" His voice was barely a whisper.
The answer didn't come in words. It came in visions.
The ruins. Floating in the void. Alive. Breathing. Pulsing with dark energy. Calling him.
Beneath his feet, the ground reformed—not stone, but liquid shadow, rippling with every step.
"You must come…" Now a woman's voice—gentle, but hollow.
"Why?" His heart pounded.
"Because you are one of us…"
Aray froze.
Images flashed—of the basilisk, its fangs, the pain. The mark on his arm ignited again, and the burning made him scream.
"I don't want this! Let me go!"
No reply. The light vanished.
The shadows returned—this time with faces. Dozens. Hundreds.
Twisted grins. Empty eyes.
"You belong to us…" They chanted in unison.
Aray backed away—but his feet wouldn't move. The shadows climbed his legs, wrapped around his chest, his arms, his throat—
"No…"
Then the woman's voice returned—soft and inescapable.
"You can't run from what you are."
The darkness within him stirred. He could feel it—writhing in his veins, flooding his lungs, his heart.
It wasn't invading him. It was already part of him.
"What's… happening to me?" He gasped.
The ruins appeared again—closer this time. He could hear something moving inside—something waiting.
"Come… find what you've lost."
"Lost? What have I lost?!"
"Yourself…"
The mark pulsed in sync with the words. His body trembled as energy surged through him—wild and uncontrollable.
His feet moved forward—against his will—toward the ruins.
"Stop—STOP!"
But the voice only whispered promises. Power. Truth. Answers.
And despair.
He reached the ruins. The air grew heavy. A sound—claws scraping stone—froze him in place.
"This is where it began… and where it will end."
The voice faded.
Silence swallowed him.
His legs gave out.
Something pulled him into the dark.
"You can't escape…" The shadows whispered—Just before everything went black.
***
Dawn came too soon.
The first rays of sunlight had barely touched the horizon when Aray was already awake, sitting at the edge of his bed. His arm was freshly bandaged, but the same eerie tingling beneath the wrappings still haunted him—like a whisper crawling beneath his skin. He'd had that awful nightmare. The voice—and the terror it left behind—still echoed in his mind.
Muffin stood at the door, watching him with wary eyes. He didn't hiss, but the distrust in his gaze remained.
"Relax, furball. I'm not going to eat your breakfast… not yet." He tried to joke, but his voice came out weaker than he intended.
With effort, Aray stood, bracing himself against the wall as a wave of dizziness passed through him. He dressed in simple clothes, then threw on his cloak, making sure it covered his left arm entirely. If Elisa saw him sneaking out, there would be too many questions—and no answers.
He moved to the window, carefully opened it, and climbed out. His landing was less than graceful; he hit the ground with a thud that nearly brought him to his knees.
"Brilliant, Aray… One injury wasn't enough, huh?"
He glanced back at the house one last time.
"I'll be back before you notice, Elisa. Promise."
Without another word, he headed for the forest—jaw clenched, eyes set with quiet determination. He had to return to the ruins. It was the only place where answers might be waiting.
And something was driving him to that place, irresistibly.
***
The sky was just beginning to lighten when the traveler stepped out of the inn.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of wet soil and pine. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and checked that his scimitar was still secure at his belt.
Gruth—the drunk from the night before—was slouched on the porch, half-empty mug in hand, staring out into the trees like a man haunted. When he noticed the other man, he lifted his head slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused.
"You... the outsider…" he mumbled.
The foreigner didn't respond immediately. He locked eyes with the old man, cold and sharp.
"What did you say last night? About the beast."
Gruth gave a dry, bitter laugh and took a long swig from his mug.
"The beast… damn serpent... came down from the mountains…" His eyes sharpened suddenly, as if clarity returned for a brief second. "Bet it went after the boy too."
Our man tensed.
"What boy?"
Gruth waved a hand through the air, as if swatting at thoughts he couldn't catch.
"Young… a kid. Days ago… they found him lying near the woods. Alive—but barely. Must've been her. Had to be…"
"Where?" the foreigner stepped forward, voice calm but pressing. "Tell me what you know."
Gruth stared at him for a moment—but the spark of focus in his eyes faded as quickly as it had come. He slipped back into muttering nonsense about shadows and death, chuckling quietly to himself.
The traveler clenched his jaw. Something wasn't right. That creeping sense of danger was growing stronger by the second.
He turned and began walking toward the forest with a hand on his scimitar, his steps silent but swift—like a shadow answering a call.