CHRISTOPHER ARGENT — THE ESCAPE
The forest was alive with the sound of footsteps—his own, pounding against the dirt, and the echo of others close behind. Branches whipped across Christopher's face as he sprinted, heart hammering like a war drum in his chest.
At fifteen, he should have been safe in the halls of the House of Argents, but safety had been a stranger for years.
Since the age of ten, assassins had hunted him relentlessly—poisoned wine, rigged carriages, hidden blades. Every attempt to snuff out the last heir of the once-mighty house had failed. So far.
Christopher's lungs burned, his legs screamed, but he didn't slow. He darted left around a fallen tree, nearly slipping in the mud. Behind him, the shadows of the assassins moved with unnatural precision—trained killers, relentless, determined to end the bloodline.
A narrow ravine appeared ahead. Without hesitation, Christopher leapt, landing hard on the other side, scraping his palms against jagged rock. Pain shot up his arms, but he forced himself forward.
His father, grandfather, uncles—all dead. Every predecessor gone, leaving him alone to carry the legacy of the Argents. If they caught him now, it would all be over.
Branches tore at his clothes and hair, the cold forest wind stinging his face, but he didn't look back. One misstep could be fatal.
And yet, even in the chaos, Christopher's mind worked fast. He calculated paths, memorized tree trunks, noted every stone and root. The forest was his ally if he could trust it.
A low whistle sounded behind him—one assassin closing the gap. Christopher ducked under a low-hanging branch, rolled, and twisted through a tangle of roots. The man misstepped, cursing as he tumbled forward. Christopher forced a grim smile.
You'll have to try harder than that.
But he knew it wouldn't end here. The hunters would keep coming. Always coming. And if they succeeded… the House of Argents would die with him.
Christopher pushed on, deeper into the forest, muscles screaming, eyes sharp, mind sharper. Survival wasn't just instinct—it was inheritance.
THE CAVE — SUMMONING
Christopher darted into the mouth of a jagged cave, heart hammering like a drum. His small frame allowed him to slip through a narrow opening that would have trapped anyone larger. He pressed himself against the cold stone, every sense alert, listening for the sounds of his pursuers. Footsteps. Shouts. Curses. They were close—but outside, for now.
Inside the cramped space, he crouched, knees pressed to his chest. Dust and moss coated the walls, the only light a faint glow from the cave entrance. He took a deep, steadying breath.
From a hidden pocket at his waist, he pulled a small, weathered satchel and opened it. Ancient symbols etched on parchment tumbled out. Candles, dried herbs, a shard of obsidian.
No one must ever know this… he thought, heart racing.
Christopher knelt, clearing a small patch of stone beneath him. He traced intricate runes into the floor with a piece of chalk, connecting them in an elaborate pattern. Then he opened his back pack fully, pulling out a small grimoire, its pages brittle, edges scorched.
He whispered the first incantation under his breath, testing the resonance, feeling the energy stir. The words were strange, guttural, older than any language spoken in his lifetime. The air around him thickened, the faint smell of sulfur curling in his nostrils.
The cave seemed to respond, the shadows twisting slightly, like watching eyes. Christopher's fingers trembled, not from fear, but from anticipation. Every movement had to be precise. One misstep—and the summoning could backfire.
He began the ritual in earnest, drawing symbols on his palms and chanting aloud. The air shimmered, and a low hum filled the cave, vibrating through the stone and through his bones.
Outside, the shouts of the assassins grew louder. They were closing in.
Inside, Christopher felt a dark presence answering his call. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, curling around the edges of the cave. A soft whisper teased the edge of his hearing, promising power… protection… vengeance.
His small chest rose and fell, eyes alight with both fear and determination. He pressed on.
If they think they can catch me… they have no idea what I'm bringing into this world.
The first figure began to manifest in the flickering candlelight—a form shifting, dark, and fluid. Christopher's lips moved faster, chanting louder, drawing the entity closer to the realm of the living.
The ritual had begun.