The streets twist beneath my feet. Every corner folds back on itself, alleys lengthening impossibly, buildings leaning just slightly differently each time I pass. The fog is thicker here, curling around my legs, pressing at my chest, swallowing sound until the world is nothing but gray.
Shadows stretch unnaturally, flickering at the edges of my vision. Faces appear and vanish—friends, strangers, fragments of memory or imagination. I can't tell which is real. Their silent gazes weigh on me, accusing, judging.
The whispers grow louder: "The heir… the choice… the cost…" I pause. Each misstep, every hesitation, seems to echo in the fog. The city isn't just watching—it's alive, shaping itself around me, probing my resolve.
I force myself forward. Pavement pulses faintly beneath my hands, almost warm, almost alive. The city mirrors my guilt, dredging up memories I thought buried. A child's cry twists into a voice I recognize, though I cannot place it, haunting me with raw intensity.
A narrow alley twists sharply. Shadows detach from walls, forming shapes that mimic movement—faces half-memory, half-imagination. They whisper accusations I can't understand, yet feel in my bones. My heart hammers. The fog coils around me, as if daring me to turn back.
I kneel to touch the cracked stone of the plaza ahead. Symbols pulse faintly beneath my fingers, subtle but alive. The city isn't just reacting—it remembers everything: choices, failures, fear. It tests me, pushing me to see how far I will bend before breaking.
I stand, shivering. The weight of unseen eyes presses down, relentless. Every street, every shadow, every flicker of fog is a challenge.
And still, I step forward. Because curiosity burns hotter than fear. Because the city is waiting.