The book sat on my desk like a patient predator.
It didn't move. It didn't breathe. Yet the weight it cast over the room was heavier than stone. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it, unable to tear my eyes away.
All my instincts screamed at me not to touch it. But another voice — quiet, burning — whispered: This is the key. This is why you are here.
The night was cold. My clothes clung damp with the sweat of the nightmare. I rose slowly, like a man stepping into water he knew would drown him.
My fingers brushed the cover.
Warm.
It shouldn't have been.
The leather felt alive, pulsing faintly under my touch, as though blood ran beneath its surface. My hand trembled, but I forced myself to open it.
The first page was blank.
But as I stared, words began to appear, carved by invisible ink that glowed faintly in the moonlight.
"To the Bound One.The Heir of Thorns.The one chained between worlds."
The handwriting shifted between elegant script and jagged scratches, as if many authors had fought over the same words.
I swallowed hard and turned the page.
This time the letters were steady.
"You stand in the Third Era of Chains, under the calendar of this world — Year 1267. The people call this the Industrial Age, when steam, steel, and blood forge empires. Your eyes will see machines, your ears will hear the cries of factories, yet beneath it all, the chains of the gods remain."
I froze. Industrial Age? Year 1267?
My mind reeled. The lamps I'd seen, the carriages outside, the clothes — it all made sense now. This wasn't modern Japan. This wasn't the twenty-first century.
This was the Victorian Age. Or close enough.
Factories. Fog-choked cities. Nobility clinging to power. Commoners dreaming of more.
But above them — gods?
I read further.
"There are Seven Orders, each sworn to a face of the divine.
The Order of the Eye — watchers of secrets.
The Order of the Thorn — keepers of chains.
The Order of the Flame — wielders of sacrifice.
The Order of the Sea — guardians of tides and dreams.
The Order of the Coin — lords of fate and bargains.
The Order of the Mask — shapers of lies and identities.
The Order of the Ash — mourners of the end."
Seven Orders.
My hands tightened around the book. Every line burned into me, impossible to forget.
"Each Order draws power from the gods who shaped them. Yet the gods are silent now, lost beyond the veil. Their chains remain, and through them mortals draw strength. This strength is called the Path."
The Path.
My lips formed the word silently.
"You, Heir of Thorns, are bound to the Path of Chains. Its mark lies upon you. Its curse whispers in your dreams."
I shivered. The maze. The mist. The voice that had hissed Chains bind you.
It wasn't just a nightmare. It was this Path — this cursed inheritance.
I turned another page. Symbols covered it — circles, lines, words written in languages I had never studied yet somehow half-understood. They looked like diagrams, like spells torn from forgotten grimoires.
At the bottom of the page, faint text appeared:
"A Spell for the Initiate."
My breath caught.
I knew I should stop. I knew touching knowledge like this carried danger. But the hunger in my chest overpowered reason.
This book had pulled me here. This book had chosen me. And now, it was offering me something.
A spell.
The words below glowed faintly.
"By chain and by thorn, by word unspoken, bind what lies unseen."
The air in the room thickened. The moonlight dimmed, as though the world itself leaned closer to here.
I whispered the words.
"By chain and by thorn, by word unspoken, bind what lies unseen."
At once the letters writhed, twisting into the air, coiling like serpents of ink. They wrapped around my arm, cold and burning at once.
A weight pressed down on my chest, crushing, suffocating. The very air rattled with unseen chains.
Pain flared in my skull. My vision blurred.
I tried to breathe, but the spell dragged the air from my lungs. The book's pages turned violently on their own, fluttering like wings in a storm.
And then — silence.
Everything went black.
The last thing I felt was the chains tightening, pulling me down into darkness.