The city of Greenwalls lay cradled between towering pine forests and the snow-capped mountains beyond, a small English town already claimed by winter's slow conquest. Streets twisted like veins, lined with crooked streetlamps that flickered against the early dusk. Wood smoke drifted from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning pine into the crisp air. Children's laughter bounced off frosted lanes as they played, while shopkeepers shoveled snow from their storefronts, preparing for another ordinary day.
Greenwalls was quiet, simple, and strangely timeless—cut off from the chaos of the outside world. There were no clubs, no noisy bars. Only bonfires in town squares, warming hands, and the faint taste of banana milkshakes against the cold. Silence clung to the streets like the pine-scented wind.
But beneath the peace, something lingered. The forest watched. Its towering trees pressed inward, like silent sentinels guarding secrets the townspeople could not imagine.
Joey Grey's nineteenth birthday came quietly in Greenwalls, more a matter of family tradition than celebration. His home, a two-story redbrick and weathered-wood house, sat at the edge of town, wrapped in stubborn ivy that clung through the snow. It was the kind of house that carried history in its walls—windows framed by heavy shutters, a porch that groaned under weight, fireplaces that had burned for generations.
Inside, golden light flickered warmly across shelves stacked with old books and faded family photographs. Guests had arrived earlier, leaving gifts wrapped in colored paper and ribbon. The room still carried the faint scent of cake and vanilla frosting.
Joey, though, paid little attention. Dark hair fell over his forehead, his expression skeptical as ever. Restless and impatient, he tore open a parcel left by an unknown sender. Inside lay an old leather-bound book, golden etchings along its spine gleaming in the light.
He frowned. Books bored him—chains on a restless spirit, a prison for someone like him.
Joey tossed the book aside, barely a thought crossing his mind. Yet it seemed to linger on the table, heavier than paper had any right to be. His hands had gone cold when he touched it. His breath fogged unnaturally as he flipped through the blank first page.
Annoyed, he shoved it into the pile of gifts, deciding it wasn't worth keeping. But he already knew who should have it—his best friend, Nyx Gald.
Nyx wasn't like him, not in the slightest. Where Joey craved laughter and sport, Nyx devoured silence and thought. Books were air to him, food for his mind.
The next morning, snow crunching under his boots, Joey tucked the mysterious leather-bound volume under his arm and stepped into the narrow streets, making his way toward Nyx's house.
Nyx's home was nothing like Joey's, though both carried histories heavy with time. A tall, imposing house of cold stone and dark oak, it seemed untouched by a woman's hand. Portraits of men—stern fathers, proud sons, soldiers, and scholars—lined the dim hallways, their eyes following every step with grave intensity. Mothers, daughters, sisters—absent. This was a house shaped entirely by generations of men.
The air carried the sharp scent of aged wood and pipe smoke, with no trace of the sweet fragrances that softened most homes. Nyx lived here with his father and great-grandfather, men respected for their intellect and generosity, yet their silence filled every room like thick, heavy air.
Joey found Nyx in his room, shadows dancing across the walls from the fire. His friend sat by the chessboard, perfectly still, as though he had anticipated Joey's arrival before the door even opened.
The two friends faced each other across the chessboard, Nyx's cold, unreadable gaze meeting Joey's restless frustration. Joey never won against him—and today was no different. Laughter escaped Joey as he swiped pieces too quickly, masking irritation with his usual charm.
Determined, Joey reset the board and raised the stakes. "If I lose," he said with a grin, "I'll give you one of my birthday gifts."
Nyx arched a brow, a faint flicker of amusement crossing his perfectly sculpted lips, and nodded.
The game dragged on. Each move Nyx made was precise, calculated. Joey's hands trembled under the pressure, sweat beading his forehead, while Nyx leaned back like a predator certain of his victory.
Finally, the last piece fell. Joey exhaled in defeat. Reaching for the pile of gifts, he forced a half-hearted laugh and handed over the leather-bound book that had unnerved him the night before.
"Here. Take it. It's more your thing than mine."
Nyx studied the book in silence, fingers tracing the leather cover with an intensity Joey could never match.
Eighteen, but built like a man older than his years—muscular, chiselled, cheekbones sharp in the firelight. His fair skin seemed to glow, almost ethereal, like a shard of moonlight had settled on him. Stormy grey eyes scanned every detail, calculating, unyielding, framed by lashes too dark for his pale face.
His lips were thin, sculpted, usually pressed into a straight line, betraying nothing—neither joy nor anger, only the weight of constant thought. Nyx spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were sharp, precise, laced with irony. His silences, heavier than most people's words, carried their own power.
Always dissecting. Always calculating. Always finding patterns no one else could see. There was a detached sharpness to him, an intensity that unsettled even his closest friends. Nyx seemed to live in his own shadows, apart from the world around him.
The evening passed in quiet routine. Joey left, laughing at his loss, leaving Nyx alone in the heavy stillness of the house.
Dinner was served at the long wooden table. Nyx's father and great-grandfather ate in silence, the only sounds the scrape of forks against plates and the soft crackle of the fire. Words were scarce here; no one spoke unless necessary. Nyx matched their silence, finishing his meal with perfect composure.
To anyone else, the stillness might have felt suffocating. To Nyx, it was just life's rhythm—a language of muted discipline and restraint.
Yet beneath his calm exterior, something stirred. The book lay in his room, waiting.
Later that night, Nyx returned to his study and opened his schoolbooks, determined to finish his homework. But the leather-bound book sat at the edge of his desk, tugging at the corners of his attention.
Several times his gaze drifted to it. His hands itched to open it, to uncover whatever secrets lay within. But the cover resisted, pages sealed tight—as if bound by something far stronger than glue.
Frustration gnawed at him, yet curiosity kept him circling it, unable to look away. Finally, he forced himself to set it aside, finishing his equations before preparing for bed.
The book, however, was far from done with him.
The moment Nyx's head hit the pillow, darkness swallowed him whole. He stood alone in a vast cave, jagged walls closing in, the air thick with whispers of unseen demons. Shadows lunged from every corner, clawed hands reaching from the void, eyes burning red in the black.
He fought desperately—fists swinging, breath ragged, heart hammering—but no matter how many he struck down, more surged forward. Cold sweat soaked his body. The nightmare squeezed tighter, like a vice crushing his chest.
Nyx awoke with a violent gasp. His breath fogged in the icy air; the room felt colder, heavier. Hands trembling, eyes darting toward his desk, he froze. The leather-bound book sat there, silent, yet alive. Its surface seemed to pulse faintly, as if it carried a heartbeat of its own.
Without hesitation, Nyx grabbed his phone and dialed Joey. His voice, usually calm and collected, trembled with an edge of fear as he recounted the nightmare.
Joey, half-asleep, laughed it off. "Relax. It's just a bad dream. I'll meet you at school tomorrow," he said, his voice warm but dismissive.
But Nyx couldn't shake the weight in his chest, the unease pressing harder with every passing second. His eyes returned to the book, firelight flickering across its leather-bound cover.
And then he noticed it. The pages he had never touched… were open.