As he sat in silence, the wind changed — not blowing past him, but toward him, as if drawn to his presence. The air thickened, heavy with something unseen. For a moment, he thought he heard a voice within the rustle of dead leaves — faint, almost kind… almost.
Cain lifted his head. The world was wrong — still, yet breathing.
The silence pressed against his ears, thick and alive, like it wanted to speak but didn't know how. Then, faintly, from somewhere deep within the mist, came the first sound.
A whisper.
Soft. Distant. Unmistakable.
> "Cain…"
The name slid through the air like a memory trying to find its owner.
His chest tightened. The sound wasn't human — it was older, deeper, almost sorrowful. It knew him.
He stood, unsure if he was obeying the voice or being pulled by it. The fog shifted again, swallowing the horizon. Shapes flickered at the edge of his vision — shadows that disappeared when he turned.
Still, he walked forward, not out of courage, but instinct. Something beyond the mist was calling him — not for help, not for hope… but for recognition.
He rose slowly, unsure whether he was obeying the voice or running from it. The world seemed to tilt around him, the mist thickening as if it meant to hide what lay ahead. And yet… he felt drawn forward — not by choice, but by something older than memory.
The whisper stops. Cain looks at his hand or chest and sees a faint, glowing mark pulsing softly. He doesn't understand it, but it's familiar — like it's always been there.
Perhaps the world could no longer bear to watch him wwanderBecause one misty morning, when silence blanketed the peaks, a group of adventurers entered the mountains—came to hunt beasts.