It hurts."
That was the first thing I knew. Not where I was. Not who I was. Just that something inside my head hurt—badly.
The pain wasn't sharp enough to make me scream. That would've been simpler. Instead, it sat there, heavy and relentless, like my skull had been overfilled. It felt as if slow creatures were crawling through my brain, taking their time, making sure I noticed every inch they passed.
I tried to move and immediately regretted it. My hands came up on their own, clutching my head as if that might keep it from splitting open. Honestly, it felt like the only thing stopping my skull from bursting like a dropped watermelon was the pressure of my own arms.
Time stopped behaving normally after that. Seconds dragged. Minutes stretched. Maybe hours passed. Pain has a way of making clocks useless. Eventually—slowly, grudgingly—the pain eased. It didn't disappear. It just loosened enough for me to breathe without feeling like I was being punished for it.
That's when I noticed something else.
Cold.
Not the kind you shake off. This was the kind that crawls up your spine and settles there, making you feel watched even when you're alone.
I opened my eyes.
Darkness. Thick, uncomfortable darkness. Not empty—never empty. A faint, weak light leaked in from somewhere I couldn't see, just enough to show shapes around me. Furniture, maybe. Old. Broken. Rotting. Moss clung to wood that had long since given up pretending it was still useful. A few broken legs lay nearby, detached like they'd decided to escape.
Great. Haunted ruin vibes. Exactly what I needed.
Then I noticed the door.
It didn't belong with the rest of the room. Tall. Solid. Covered in deep engravings that looked deliberate, careful. Someone had spent time on it. The moment my eyes focused on it, my chest tightened.
Nope.
That wasn't a thought. It was a feeling—raw and instinctive. Every part of me agreed on one thing: going near that door was a terrible idea.
I stayed still for a while, letting my breathing slow, letting my heart stop trying to punch its way out of my ribs. Then memory caught up with me.
Studying. Late night. College entrance exams. Books everywhere. Me, exhausted, face-first on the desk.
I must've fallen asleep.
"…Then why the hell am I here?" I shouted.
The words echoed far more loudly than I'd intended.
Nothing answered.
The silence that followed felt heavy, like it was judging me. I immediately wished I'd kept my mouth shut. Yelling in an unfamiliar, creepy place wasn't exactly a smart survival strategy. It felt like I'd just announced my location to anything that might be listening.
Nice job.
Panic crept in, and before I could stop myself, I started praying.
Which was ironic. I didn't believe in God. I never really had. I'd never prayed properly in my life. If there was a god watching this situation, he was probably annoyed at best.
Still, I figured hypocrisy was better than dying quietly.
Nothing happened.
After waiting long enough to feel embarrassed, I stood and forced myself to explore the room. The walls were thick stone, carved with patterns worn down by time. A large fireplace sat unused, scorch marks staining the stone like old scars. The floor held scraps of what might once have been a carpet, now reduced to dust and fragments.
The whole place felt medieval. Old. Forgotten.
I moved carefully, trying not to make noise, checking corners more often than necessary. When I was done, I dragged a few broken pieces of furniture together and sat against the wall, forming a crude little shelter.
It wasn't much, but it made me feel slightly less exposed.
Now what?
I really didn't want to go near the door.
Every time I looked at it, my stomach twisted. My hands shook. Part of me wanted to curl up and scream for help.
Then I remembered movies.
In movies, the person who screams without thinking always dies first—usually eaten by something with too many teeth.
I wasn't interested in being that guy.
The headache was fading now. Normally, that would've been good news. Right now, it wasn't. The pain had been keeping my fear in check. As it faded, the dread from beyond the door rushed in unhindered.
So I moved.
I stepped through the door.
A long corridor stretched out on both sides, disappearing into darkness. The same engravings lined the walls. Beside the door I'd just exited, a small nameplate caught my eye.
I didn't recognize the language.
And yet, somehow, I read it.
Lucian.
I picked a direction and started walking.
More doors followed, each with its own nameplate: Melric. Vaelthorn. Draven. Nyxara. Kharvos.
Names without faces. Names without answers.
The farther I went, the more my body trembled. Then came the pull—subtle at first, like a pressure in my chest. It felt as if something was calling me. Not loudly. Just persistently.
After several minutes, the corridor opened into a massive stairway. Two sets of stairs spiraled downward into shadow. Another pair climbed upward.
Standing there, I felt absurdly small—like a mortal stuck choosing between heaven and hell.
The pull strengthened.
It came from above.
At the same time, dread poured up from the lower floor—the same feeling the door had given me earlier. I didn't argue with my instincts.
I went up.
Somewhere along the way, I started running. Quiet didn't matter anymore. Reaching the source of that pull did.
The room I entered was darker than the rest. Damp stone and rot filled the air. Crimson fungi crept across the walls, twisting into shapes that almost looked intentional—like runes someone had grown instead of carved. Melted candles littered the edges of the room.
At the center stood a raised platform.
Black chains hung in midair, binding something made entirely of darkness.
Water dripped somewhere far away.
Then a voice spoke.
"SO YOU ARE HERE AT LAST."
It didn't echo. It didn't need to. It felt like it came from everywhere and nowhere at once, crushing the air from my lungs.
I stood frozen longer than I'd like to admit before forcing myself to speak.
"Who are you… and where am I?"
"I AM YOUR FATE. YOUR FUTURE BURDEN. AND YOU ARE MY ESCAPE."
A name surfaced in my mind without warning.
"Lucian."
Silence followed.
"THAT IS NOT MY NAME. IT DOES NOT MATTER. TAKE THE KNIFE AND KILL ME. YOUR FATE WILL BE GRANTED. YOU WILL BECOME ONE OF THE WHISPERED NAMES."
I didn't want power. I didn't even know what that meant.
I wanted answers.
But my body didn't wait for my permission.
I climbed the steps toward the altar, crossed a stream of black liquid, and stopped before the blade. It looked like obsidian, its surface reflecting a face that didn't quite feel like mine.
I stepped into a ritual circle of ash and dark liquid.
"BEFORE YOU STRIKE," the voice said, "LISTEN WELL."
"THE WHISPERED NAMES WILL BE DRAWN TO YOU."
"THE WHISPERS WILL GUIDE YOU."
"MISFORTUNE AWAITS."
That was the beginning of the War of Broken Wishes.
I thrust the blade forward.
Darkness rushed into me. For a brief moment, I saw a man bound in chains—handsome, middle-aged, eyes filled with madness, hatred, and strange relief.
In his eyes, I saw myself.
But it wasn't my face.
It was some unkown face which I have never seen before.
The darkness consumed me.
First came murmurs. Then whispers. They crawled through my mind, scratching at my thoughts like madness itself.
With the whispers came memories of someone which I have never seen before.
But the whispers were is dragging me into madness.
Before they could overwhelm me—
I lost consciousness.