The final toll of the clock tower still echoed in Frey's ears as the darkness slowly receded. The lantern in the corner flickered back to life, its glow dim and trembling like a candle about to die. Hunter still stood there, silver-masked, his eyes dripping black ink that fell to the floor, spreading into stains that crawled like roots.
Frey stared at the pen in his hand. His fingers trembled, not from cold, but from the fear pressing against his chest. The pen pulsed, as though it had its own heartbeat. He wanted to throw it away, but his grip was locked.
The whisper returned.
"Write. Or vanish."
Frey swallowed hard. He knew the words he wrote would become real. He knew each letter was a blade slicing into his sanity. Yet he also knew that if he stopped writing, something worse would happen.
His hand moved. Slowly, black ink dripped onto a sheet of paper that appeared from nowhere.
"Hunter stares at me, but does not attack."
Hunter froze. The figure remained standing, eyes dripping ink, but his body did not move. As though Frey's words were chains binding the monster.
Frey drew a deep breath. "So… I can control you?"
No answer. Only the faint whisper from the pen.
"You are not the controller. You are only the writer. And writers are never free."
Frey clenched his teeth. He wrote again, testing the limits.
"Hunter steps back."
At once, Hunter moved. One step backward, his shadow stretching across the floor.
Frey was stunned. Fear mingled with awe. This pen was not merely a curse—it was power. But power that demanded a price.
The shadows on the wall quivered. The lantern dimmed. From the corner of the room, a whisper rose—not from the pen, but from the shadows themselves.
"Every word is a door. Every door opens disaster."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"The shadow remains still."
But the shadow did not remain still. It shook harder, then shattered into fragments of black light. From within, glimpses of the past emerged.
Frey saw himself, younger, seated at a wooden table with a woman of black hair. She smiled, writing something in a worn book. Yet her face was blurred, as though black ink concealed her identity.
"Who are you?" Frey whispered.
The pen pulsed.
"A fragment. A past erased. You are writing it back."
Unconsciously, Frey wrote:
"The woman looks at me."
And the woman looked at him. Her eyes were hollow, filled with ink. The smile on her face cracked. From her lips came a sound not of human voice.
"You should not exist."
Frey dropped the pen, but his fingers remained locked. He screamed, tried to resist, yet words continued to flow from his hand.
"The woman disappears."
At once, the figure vanished. The shadow fell silent again.
Hunter still stood, watching Frey. The figure did not move, but his presence pressed against the air, chilling the room further.
Frey gasped. "What do you want from me?"
Hunter did not answer. But the ink dripping from his eyes formed faint words upon the floor:
"Write. Your Chronicle begins."
Frey sat on the floor, his body trembling. He began to understand: this pen was no mere tool. It was the master of fate. Every word he wrote opened doors to past, present, and future. Yet every door brought disaster.
He stared at the blank paper on the table. The lantern swayed, shadows danced upon the walls. The whisper grew louder.
"Write the first word. The word that will define your path."
Frey closed his eyes. He knew the first word would be the foundation of his Chronicle. He knew it would bind him forever.
His hand moved. The pen dripped ink.
"I am Frey Vaelborn."
As the words ended, the room trembled. Shadows on the wall shattered, forming an ancient symbol. The symbol glowed black, pulsing like a heart.
Hunter stepped forward, closer, then stopped directly before Frey. The figure bowed slightly, as though acknowledging the words just written.
Frey stared, his breath heavy. He realized he had just written his own fate.
But the whisper did not cease.
"Every Chronicle begins with a name. A name is a key. A name is a curse."
Frey gripped the pen tighter. He knew he could not stop. He knew every word to come would bring greater calamity. Yet he also knew that if he stopped, Hunter would move.
He wrote again, slowly:
"Hunter does not kill me."
Hunter froze. The figure remained standing, eyes dripping ink, but his body did not move.
Frey closed his eyes, tears streaming down. He understood now: he was trapped. This pen was not merely a curse. It was a Chronicle that should never exist.
And he was its writer.