Arin's fever began quietly—just a dull ache behind his eyes, a tremble in his hands, a heaviness in his limbs that made each step feel like dragging chains. He tried to ignore it as he and Lyra climbed the stairs to their cramped apartment, but by the time they reached the door, his vision had already begun to blur.
Lyra tugged on his sleeve. "Arin… are you okay?"
He forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just tired."
But he wasn't fine.
The coin still burned faintly in his pocket, as if alive, as if whispering something he couldn't quite hear. And Lyra's earlier words—someone's watching—echoed in his mind relentlessly.
He shut the door behind them, leaning against it longer than he meant to. The room spun for a moment, tilting like a ship caught in a storm. His breath hitched.
Lyra's small hand slid into his.
"You're warm," she whispered. "Too warm."
He brushed her off gently. "It's nothing. Don't worry."
But she did worry—her silver-flecked eyes widened in a way he'd seen before, a way he'd begun to fear. Lyra sensed things. Felt things. Things no child should be aware of.
"Arin… something's wrong inside you," she murmured softly.
He froze. "What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. But you feel… different."
Different. The word rattled in his skull.
Maybe it was the coin. Maybe the symbol that flared on its surface wasn't meant for Lyra alone.
Maybe it was meant for both of them.
His legs buckled suddenly.
Lyra gasped. "Arin!"
The room spun violently, the walls melting into a haze of color. He stumbled toward the bed and collapsed, fighting to stay conscious. Sweat drenched his forehead. His heart pounded too fast, too hard.
Lyra climbed onto the bed beside him, her little hands pressing against his burning cheeks.
"Arin, please don't sleep," she whispered. "Something is coming."
But he couldn't fight it anymore.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
Arin fell.
Not into unconsciousness, but into something deeper—something that felt like sinking into a vast, endless sea of warmth and shadows. Voices hummed in the distance, too faint to understand. Lights flickered like stars underwater.
And then—
A voice cut through it all.
Soft. Warm. But trembling with grief.
"My son…"
Arin's eyes snapped open—yet he wasn't awake. He stood in a landscape made of swirling light, as if reality itself had dissolved into mist. He was barefoot, weightless, like walking on the surface of a dream.
The voice came again, clearer.
"My son… survive…"
Arin spun toward the direction of the sound.
"Who are you?" he shouted into the glowing mist. "Where are you?"
A silhouette appeared—vague, feminine, long hair flowing like silvery flame. Her face was blurred, hidden, but her presence radiated warmth that tugged painfully at his heart.
He felt… safe near her.
Safe in a way he didn't understand.
"Are you talking to me?" he whispered.
She lifted her hand, reaching toward him. Her fingers were made of light.
"You must survive."
The mist rippled. Her form flickered violently, as if something in the real world was tearing her image apart.
"Survive what?!" Arin demanded. "What's happening to us? Why my sister? Why me?!"
The figure trembled.
"One day… you will find us…"
Us.
Plural.
Not one person.
More.
A family? A clan? A race?
Arin stepped closer, desperate. "Please—tell me who you are!"
Her outline brightened, as if she were trying to force her way through a wall he couldn't see.
"My children… you were stolen from us…"
A cold shock ran through him.
Stolen?
By who?
By what?
The mist suddenly cracked like shattering glass. Shadows surged behind the woman—shadows with burning eyes, claws, snarls that echoed like thunder.
She whirled toward them. Reached out. Tried to shield him.
"Wake up—Arin, wake up! They—"
The voice cut off.
The world exploded into darkness.
Arin jolted upright with a gasp.
The room was dim, lit only by a weak lantern. His entire body throbbed, his skin cold and damp with sweat. He clutched his chest, struggling to breathe as fragments of the woman's voice echoed in his mind.
My son… survive… you were stolen… find us…
Was it a dream?
A hallucination caused by fever?
Or a memory that wasn't his?
"Arin?"
He turned.
Lyra sat beside the bed, knees pulled to her chest, her eyes glowing faintly in the shadows. She looked terrified.
"You screamed," she whispered. "I tried to wake you, but… you weren't here. Not really."
Arin's heart skipped.
"What do you mean?"
"You were gone," she said, voice trembling. "Your body was here, but your soul… wasn't."
Her gaze drifted to his pocket.
"The coin was glowing."
Arin reached into the fabric with shaking fingers. The coin was scorching hot—hot enough he almost dropped it. The golden symbol etched on its surface now pulsed like a heartbeat.
Lyra flinched.
"It wasn't like that before."
Arin held the coin tightly, feeling its unnatural warmth seep into his skin, burning him and yet somehow comforting him at the same time.
"Lyra," he said slowly, "that voice you said you felt watching us earlier… do you feel it now?"
Lyra's breath hitched.
"No…" She swallowed. "It's not watching anymore."
Then she looked up at him.
Her eyes widened.
"But something else is."
A sharp knock rattled the door.
Once.
Twice.
Soft.
Deliberate.
Arin froze.
Lyra grabbed his arm, trembling. "Arin… that's not the landlord."
The knocking stopped.
Silence stretched long enough to make the air feel tight.
Then—
A voice spoke from the other side of the door.
Low. Calm. Too calm.
"Open the door, Arin."
Arin's blood turned to ice.
He had never heard that voice before.
Cliffhanger: Someone—human or not—has found their home and knows Arin's name.