"Alright, you are now an Awakener," Val said in a hurried tone. "You will be given a Mark of Identity."
He snapped his fingers.
At once, a radiant silver sigil appeared on Amon's palm. From its centre, intricate lines branched outward like roots, spreading across his skin in a network-like pattern. Within those patterns, triangles, spirals, and fractals twisted into one another. Tiny runes shimmered faintly along his fingers and wrist, while the sigil pulsed softly with a strange, living rhythm.
Amon smiled as he stared at his palm.
I got into an Order, he thought, unable to contain his excitement.
"Now," Val said in a commanding tone, "let us begin with your first task."
Snap.
The white space dimmed instantly. Its glow sputtered, then vanished altogether. In the blink of an eye, their surroundings warped, and they were no longer standing where they had been before.
They had arrived somewhere unknown.
Beneath their feet was a small black circular platform, floating without support, with no ground or foundation beneath it. Around them stretched an endless cosmic expanse, countless stars burning in the distance, galaxies spinning in vivid colour, constellations woven together in impossible beauty.
Not far away, seven more black platforms hovered in silence. Upon each stood a throne. Six were gold, gleaming faintly beneath the distant starlight, while the throne at the far end shone white, stark and solemn against the darkness. All of them faced away from Amon and Val, revealing only the back of their thrones and heads.
Then Amon noticed the fog.
A thick mist swirled through the space, a smoky veil clouding his vision. The constellations shimmered beyond it, but the fog obscured the thrones, hiding whatever, or whoever, sat upon them.
"Welcome," a voice echoed from one of the thrones, breaking the silence.
Amon could not tell where it came from. Still, he listened carefully.
"Let us begin. We do not have much time to waste."
"Tell me, veiled one, what my assignment is," Amon said cautiously, though even his own voice seemed to echo strangely through the vastness.
"There is an artefact we would like you to retrieve," the voice replied.
"How, what artefact, where is it?" Amon asked at once.
"Check your quests. Val will accompany you. Goodbye."
The voice fell silent.
Once again, the cosmic space dimmed. Its light flickered, then vanished completely. In the next instant, they were back before the White Spire, the boundless void replaced by towering structures and the distant chatter of people.
Without a moment's hesitation, Val strode forward, leaving Amon behind.
"Val, where are you going?" Amon shouted, breaking into a run after him.
"Stop talking and follow me," Val snapped, not sparing him even a glance.
"Urgh," Amon muttered under his breath. "This bastard."
| The Dark Expanse |
"If he truly is the prophesied one, may the artefact help him advance," one voice echoed from a golden throne, sending faint ripples through the fog.
"Indeed. If he truly is the one, nothing shall remain impossible for him," another voice answered.
"Yes, indeed," a third said. "Humanity's survival depends on him."
| Now |
Amon finally caught up with Val on the sidewalk. As they passed the guards, one of them greeted Amon with a smile. Amon turned back, raised a hand and called out, "One day we shall meet again. I am quite busy now, but when I have time, I will visit you."
"Hah, finally, you bastard, I've caught up with you, ah, what?" Amon was cut off by Val's sudden movement.
A carriage pulled up beside them. Two horses stood at its front while the driver held the reins in silence. The carriage doors swung open.
Val stepped inside at once.
Amon followed.
As soon as they settled into their seats, the door shut and the carriage began to move. No destination was spoken aloud, and no money was exchanged, yet Amon chose not to question it. Val's stern expression was enough to keep him silent.
A stretch of silence settled between them as the carriage rolled onward. The only sounds were their breathing, the steady rhythm of their hearts, and the measured clopping of the horses' hooves.
At last, Amon could not hold back any longer.
"Who were those people?" he asked.
He had to know. It was part of who he was. His curiosity would not allow such a thing to rest.
Val smirked faintly, his tone carrying a trace of amusement.
"Your curiosity truly knows no bounds."
Amon said nothing.
"They are the Ancients," Val replied at last. "That is all I can say for now."
At least he answered me, Amon thought. He could have ignored me, but he did not.
Still, the question remained.
What was Val so wary of that he would say nothing more than They are the Ancients?
Amon pondered it carefully.
But In the end, he dismissed the thought and cleared his mind.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
And at last, the carriage came to a halt.
The horses came to a halt. The wheels ground to a stop. Amon and Val stepped down, only to freeze at the sight before them. Behind them, the carriage slowly vanished into the fog, swallowed by silence as though it had never been there at all.
Before them loomed a house that seemed almost alive.
Four storeys rose into the mist like jagged teeth. Sixteen windows stared outward, blind, hollow, and accusing. The courtyard was choked with grey, tangled grass, while a rusted iron gate hung half-open, as though beckoning them inside.
Above the roof, bats and ravens burst from the shadows in a frenzy of black wings, the sudden motion feeling less like chance and more like a warning.
The air was thick and oppressive. Fog crept along the ground, curling around their ankles like living fingers. No life stirred within the walls, yet a dreadful weight pressed outward from the house, subtle, sinister, and watchful, as though unseen eyes tracked their every movement.
From somewhere within the mist came distant sounds: creaks, whispers, the faint scrape of something dragging or scratching. Together, they formed an unnerving rhythm, a low and quiet chorus that seemed to belong to the damned.
A chill crawled slowly up Amon's spine.
Words caught in his throat. When they finally emerged, they were hollow and faint.
Still, he forced himself to breathe. Slow. Measured.
Each exhale vanished into the hunger of the house.
"So," Amon said at last, his voice calm despite the cold winding through his nerves, "this is my task."
"Yes, indeed," Val replied. "Shall we begin?"
"Yes."
Amon stepped forward and walked toward the old, rusted gate.