The night draped itself across the valley like a cloak of liquid shadow, pressing down on the world with an oppressive weight. Each gust of wind whispered through the crooked trees, carrying the faint scent of damp earth, fading smoke, and something metallic—iron long forgotten. The air was thick, sticky with silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Arin stood at the village gate, frozen. The wooden arch, blackened with rot, groaned under its own age, splinters protruding like jagged teeth. Beside it, the stone stele engraved with the village's name shivered, dust falling like pale rain. The letters were already fading, ashamed of being remembered.
Behind him, the village unraveled.
A house at the edge shook violently before dissolving into fragments of wood and clay. The roof collapsed inwards, a silent sigh escaping from the timbers as they crumbled. Another home followed, its walls turning to dust that the wind carried into the dark sky. One by one, fences, carts, tools, and even the central bonfire vanished. Each disappearance was quiet, almost respectful, as if the village knew that it was being erased from reality itself.
Arin did not cry. He did not scream. He only stared, hollow-eyed, as if his body were no longer entirely his own. The cold gnawed at him, seeping into his bones, yet the emptiness within was colder still.
They are gone. All gone.
Voices, laughter, grief, warmth—they all dissipated into nothingness. Faces blurred and vanished, leaving only faint impressions that faded as quickly as they came. The world was hollow, yet the shard in his hand burned with impossible weight.
The black shard his mother had left him pulsed like a heart of darkness. Twisted symbols writhed along its surface, moving with life, glowing faintly as though alive. Blood from tiny cuts in his palm dripped onto it, and the symbols seemed to feed on it, writhing faster.
Her words echoed in his memory:"Not all that is erased is lost… Seek the Eighth."
He had never understood them. And now, the meaning seemed both urgent and terrifyingly distant.
A sudden crack split the silence—the stone stele trembled violently, dust falling to the ground. The engraved characters were fading even further, some almost imperceptible.
Arin's throat tightened, his voice hoarse. "Why… why am I the only one who can see this?"
No answer came. Not from the wind, not from the shadows, not even from the insects. The world held its breath.
Then, a voice pierced him.
Not through the air, not spoken aloud, but inside his skull, rattling bones and marrow with its presence.
"Child… do you wish to forge a pact with Secrets?"
The stars flickered and dimmed. The air itself froze. Even the wind seemed to pause, hesitant.
Arin staggered backward, gripping the shard tighter. The symbols writhed faster, glowing brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat that was not his own. Blood dripped freely now, yet he did not release it. The shard seemed to drink the crimson, thriving on it, communicating with him in a language older than time.
"Who… who are you?" he rasped, words swallowed by the night.
No reply came, only the shard pulsed with steady insistence, echoing through his chest and into his very soul.
The last hut disintegrated completely. The well cracked and fell into rubble. The stele split further, shards of stone spilling onto the dirt path.
Then, he felt it—a tug at the core of his being, deeper than thought or flesh, pulling at him as if the universe itself were beckoning. Memories crashed through him: his mother's trembling face, her warm hand clutching his, whispers of her last words. Faces he had never seen, crying and smiling, flickered before his eyes. Shadows moved behind them, amorphous, sinister, yet familiar.
"Forge the pact… or be erased like them," the voice whispered again, tender yet merciless.
Arin froze, every muscle trembling.
Erased? Like them?
Understanding struck like a cold blade. The village wasn't just disappearing—it was being erased from memory, from reality itself. And he remained. Or was cursed.
The shard pulsed violently, symbols writhing faster than ever. Tiny eyes appeared within the carvings, hundreds, thousands of them staring into him, into the depths of his being. The weight of their gaze pressed down like a physical force, trapping him in place.
"This… this is madness," he whispered, though deep inside he knew the shard spoke a truth older than the stars themselves.
Pain flared in his hand as the shard pulsed again, hotter, alive with an intelligence he could barely comprehend. And in that pain, understanding began to creep in—not full comprehension, but a shimmer of knowledge. The shard was not an object; it was a key, a living fragment of a power far beyond his world.
And now, it was choosing him.
A tremor ran through the ground. The air thickened, vibrating with an unseen frequency. His memories fused with the presence of the shard—the warmth of his mother's hand, the faces of those who had been, and the void left in their absence. Each heartbeat of the shard echoed with whispers: knowledge, power, temptation, warning.
Arin's knees buckled. Sweat mixed with blood on his palms, and still he did not release the shard. The symbols crawled across it, twisting and forming patterns he could almost understand. A voice, both terrifying and intimate, resonated through him:
"Do you accept, or do you vanish?"
Time stretched, each second fracturing into dozens of possibilities. He saw himself erased, a hollow shell where the world forgot he had ever existed. He saw himself bound, wielding power beyond mortal comprehension, standing alone against the void that had consumed his village.
And yet, fear clawed at him. Every instinct screamed to flee, to drop the shard, to deny the voice.
"…Yes," he whispered finally, voice trembling like a dying flame.
The shard erupted in searing heat, melting and fusing with his palm. The symbols flared with brilliant light, hundreds of eyes opening at once, staring into the void and into him. Pain surged, yet a strange exhilaration followed, like awakening after centuries of sleep.
"Then you are mine," the voice rumbled, echoing across the valley and through his bones.
The village, now completely gone, left nothing but a void. The stars, the moon, the air itself—everything vanished into blackness.
Arin felt himself pulled forward, through darkness, through the void of erasure, into something else. The world as he knew it was gone, replaced by a liminal space, suspended between existence and oblivion. He was alone, yet connected to something vast, ancient, and infinitely powerful.
The shard throbbed in his palm, alive, communicating without words. Knowledge flickered at the edges of his mind—rules, patterns, fragments of the universe beyond understanding. He was chosen, bound, and yet only beginning.
The pull intensified, tugging him not just physically, but spiritually. Memories, visions, emotions, and possibilities merged into a torrent that threatened to drown him. The voice echoed once more, patient and eternal:
"Child, the world begins anew with you. You are both anchor and key. Do not falter."
Arin's vision blurred. Darkness pressed in from all sides, yet he felt a seed of determination grow. Fear remained, yes, but beneath it, something stronger: the instinct to survive, to understand, and to wield the power now bound to him.
As the last remnants of his village dissolved, and the void swallowed everything, a single thought burned in his mind:
"If all is lost, then I will remember. I will endure. I will seek the Eighth."
The black shard pulsed one final time in his palm, a heartbeat that resonated through the emptiness. And then, as if the void itself exhaled, light began to form around him—dim, flickering, uncertain. A new world awaited, one of shadows, secrets, and unimaginable power.
Arin stepped forward into the unknown, clutching the shard, and the voice whispered, almost reverently:
"The game begins."
And so, in the silence of a world forgotten, a story began.