The first drop of black blood fell onto the parchment…
and the universe held its breath.
Ereos—once called Aether, the Nameless—pressed the bone knife against her palm. The runes carved into her arms burned with the same violet glow as her eyes as she whispered words no human should ever speak:
"Þanir'is älithir, Qel'vethra valür…"
The ground trembled.
Broken mirrors hanging from the ceiling reflected something that was not there—
a creature of writhing tentacles and countless eyelids, whispering in a language of dying stars.
The God of Doors had accepted her offering.
"Give me a daughter," Ereos demanded, her gaze unwavering before the horror.
"One who will unite both worlds."
The god laughed—
a sound like shattering glass.
A claw extended toward her.
"She will be born from your left rib…
She will drink the tears of a witch…
And her destiny will be written in her pupils."
A pause.
"But you, Ereos…
You will weep black blood every time you remember the price."
She did not hesitate.
The blade sank into her own flesh.
The pain was so absolute…
that even the sky bled.
When she awoke, she held a newborn in her arms.
A child with eyes of gold and darkness, softly babbling in Luminari.
"Eclipse," she whispered.
Like the phenomenon that devours suns.
She gave her a name that carried both her past and her sin:
Ereos Aether Eclipse.
"You will be my redemption."
She lied.
And the first black tear slid down her cheek.
In the reflection of the broken mirrors…
something moved.
Something that was not her daughter.
And it whispered:
"In one hundred thousand years…
the one who will close the doors shall be born.
And you, witch… will be the one to kill him."
125,000 Years Later
The summer wind stirred the leaves of the Tree of Thar'nöth—
its roots buried deep in the soil where gods had once waged their first war.
Beneath its shadow sat a boy.
Pale as winter snow.
Black eyes like the night itself.
Hair dark as the void between galaxies.
And on his left cheek—
a strange birthmark, like roots or flames spreading from behind his ear.
He turned a worn page of an old book.
The Horror of the Unnameable.
"If humans truly knew what hides beyond the stars…" he murmured,
"…they would claw their own eyes out."
"Then why write about it?"
The voice made him look up.
She was already there.
Tall. Draped in a black coat that seemed to swallow the light of the setting sun.
A strand of golden hair fell across her left eye.
In her hands—
the same book.
But hers was pristine.
Elegant. Signed in gold.
"You have good taste," she said softly, a faint smile touching her lips—though not her violet eyes.
"Though that edition is… questionable."
A pause.
"I own all of the author's works. Signed, of course."
He closed his book slowly.
"Collector," he replied, "or just pretentious?"
She laughed.
A distant sound—like glass breaking somewhere far away.
"Just an enthusiast."
She leaned closer.
For a brief second…
something moved inside her pupils.
"I'm the new literature teacher at the Night Preparatory School."
A whisper.
"Natasha Eleipsi."
A chill ran down his spine.
"Nighthos Dark," he answered. "I study there."
She straightened, slipping her book into a bag that seemed woven from shadows.
"What a coincidence," she murmured.
"We'll see each other in class."
And then—
she was gone.
Not walking. Not leaving.
Just… gone.
Dark stared at the place where she had stood.
Then lowered his gaze to his book.
A stain had appeared on the cover.
Black. Wet. Pulsing faintly.
Like spilled ink…
or old blood.
"…I don't like this," he muttered.
But the wind carried his voice away—
into the same abyss where, long ago, a witch had wept for him.
The shadows beneath the tree stretched.
Twisted.
Moved.
He rubbed his eyes.
Migraine?
Maybe.
But the air smelled like copper… and sulfur.
Then—
faces emerged from the foliage.
A woman with hair like tangled night, eyes hollow, her white dress soaked in crimson.
A man with broken wings, a gaping wound in his chest where something like a crystalline heart flickered.
Dark tried to speak.
Failed.
Their skeletal hands reached toward him.
Their lips moved silently.
SON… RUN
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
The world collapsed.
Tree. Sky. Shadows—
all twisted into a spiral of sickening green and black.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his head as visions tore through him:
A bone knife piercing flesh.
A tower filled with broken mirrors.
A being with a thousand eyelids laughing.
"Stop—!" he gasped.
But no sound came out.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Too fast.
Too loud.
Air refused to enter his lungs.
Sweat drenched his skin.
His fingers trembled violently as he clawed at his chest, his throat, his own hair—
Panic attack.
With shaking hands, he pulled a small vial from his pocket.
Pills.
He swallowed two without water.
The bitterness burned his tongue.
Ten minutes.
Ten endless minutes.
Curled against the tree, gasping, shaking, barely holding himself together.
When the medicine finally took effect, hunger hit him like a blow.
"…damn it…"
He pulled out a chicken sandwich wrapped in foil.
Took a bite.
Then another.
Still not enough.
"I should've brought two…"
He leaned back against the tree, breathing slowly.
Trying to exist again.
His eyes drifted back to the book.
The black stain pulsed.
And within it—
symbols.
Moving.
Alive.
𖦌𖤠'𖤕𖥶𖤤 𖤱𖥾𖦆
Zyn'darel ünvar
Judgment without mercy
A chill ran down his spine.
Hallucination…?
Or—
her?
"Who were they…?" he asked the empty air.
The answer came from the roots beneath him.
A whisper.
Clear.
Wrong.
"Your parents, Nighthos…
the ones who died protecting you from her."
He stood up abruptly.
"Who the hell is there?!"
Silence.
Only the wind.
Then—
a dead crow.
At his feet.
Its eyes violet… and red.
When he touched it—
it crumbled into black dust.
Forming words in the air:
THE WITCH IS COMING FOR YOUR SOUL,
CHILD OF THE FALLEN ANGEL
And then—
something else appeared.
A shadow.
Floating above the ground.
Black hair.
Glowing red eyes.
"I want to tell you something, Dark."
Its voice echoed from somewhere deep. Somewhere endless.
"That book… those stories…"
"They are written with blood."
"And souls."
He stepped back.
"What kind of sick joke is this…?"
It smiled.
Too wide.
Too sharp.
"She is coming for you."
"She harvested those souls… including the ones you saw."
Dark froze.
"Who…?"
The shadow tilted its head.
"That is your mission."
"To find out."
A pause.
Then—
"She is a witch."
"A very old one."
"The Witch of Greed."
It vanished.
A cloud of smoke.
Rotten roses.
Blood.
Dark collapsed against the tree.
Again.
His heart racing.
His hand reached for the pills.
Empty.
"…this is bad…"
He looked up.
Three moons were rising.
Watching.
The roots whispered again:
"Run, Nighthos…
today, she only wanted to scare you."
"Why…?"
"So tomorrow…
when she asks about the book…
she will see the fear in your eyes."
He clutched the book tightly.
The black stain pulsed.
Like a heart.
And everything went dark.
When he woke, the sun had shifted.
"…I passed out…"
He looked around.
Everything… normal.
"…just a dream. Or hallucinations…"
A pause.
A breath.
"…whatever."
He stood up slowly, still dizzy.
Grabbing his bag.
"I should head home… first day of school tomorrow."
He walked away—
unsteady.
Unaware…
that the nightmare had already begun.