Izikel stood in the dimly lit study, gazing out into the vast night sky. He never used to care much for the stars, but now he understood why Isiel spent so much time staring at them. There was something mesmerizing about the celestial canvas above—something vast, eternal, and utterly beyond comprehension. The moons, three of them, hung in the sky like silent sentinels, glowing with an ethereal light.
It didn't make sense. How could there be three moons? Wasn't their existence governed by gravity and other scientific principles? The sight defied everything he knew, but then again—why would he expect the logic of his world to apply here? In this strange land, mortals could ascend to godhood, and the impossible was merely another part of reality.
Below, an enormous tree with thick, vibrant green leaves towered over the landscape. Its highest branches stretched beyond the manor's roof, despite the manor itself sitting atop a hill overlooking the village. From his vantage point, Izikel could see the neatly arranged houses below—orderly yet unmistakably rural, their warm lights flickering in the distance like fireflies in the dark. The scene was almost tranquil.
Until the door handle rattled.
A sharp jolt. Then another.
Something—no, someone—was trying to get in.
The handle twisted violently as unseen hands fought against the lock, their struggle growing more frantic by the second. Izikel remained frozen, his breath caught in his throat. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the attempt ceased.
For a moment, silence.
Then came the voice.
"My… lord…"
The words slithered through the heavy wooden door like a serpent, carrying with them a bone-chilling wrongness. The voice was warped—wet and shrill, like something that had crawled its way out of an open grave.
Then another.
"My… lord… are… you… in there?"
This one was deeper, heavier, its sound drenched in something unnatural, something… hungry.
Izikel's heart pounded against his ribs as he stood, listening. He willed himself to believe it was over—that maybe, just maybe, they had left. But the second he dared to hope, the scratching started. Then the banging. The voices grew louder, more frenzied, filling the air with a maddening cacophony.
He bolted under the table, pressing his back against the cool wood as if it could shield him from whatever horror lurked outside. His hands trembled, his breath came in short, rapid bursts. He needed something—anything. A weapon. A way out.
Then, as if responding to his desperation, a thought surfaced.
'I have a gun.'
The realization hit him like a jolt of electricity.
Summoning the revolver from his dream, he felt its cold, solid weight settle into his grip. He had no idea if it would work against whatever was outside, but just holding it steadied his nerves.
The door gave a final, deafening crack.
It shattered open, wood splintering as something forced its way inside.
"My… lord…"
The words dripped with decay, turning Izikel's blood to ice. The temperature in the study seemed to plummet as the figures lurched forward. Their feet dragged across the floor, knocking over books and sending papers fluttering into the air. They were searching for him.
Izikel remained hidden, his every instinct screaming at him to stay put. But fear and curiosity warred within him—what were they?
His mind clung to the tiniest hope that if they hadn't found him yet, maybe they wouldn't at all, reducing his initial fear. Plus no matter who it was, a gun wouldn't be easy to subdue.
His breathing calmed a bit allowing his thoughts to steady.
Just by listening alone he could tell that there were only two of them. If he timed it right, he could sneak out unnoticed.
But first, he needed to see them.
Slowly, cautiously, he raised his head above the table's edge.
His blood turned to ice, and he immediately regretted his decision.
The figures stood motionless, their twisted faces staring directly at him.
Their eyes were an unnatural, glowing red, leaking thick, inky tears of blood that streamed down their hollow cheeks and dripped from their chins. Their skin—pale, almost translucent—stretched tightly over their skulls, giving them a corpse-like appearance.
And yet… there was something horribly familiar about them.
Izikel's stomach twisted as realization struck him like a hammer.
They were the guards. The ones who had nearly uncovered the Altar cave. The ones Dremlin had killed.
But that was impossible.
They were dead.
A slow, grotesque grin split their bloodstained lips, stretching far too wide to be human. The sight of it made Izikel's insides churn with revulsion.
Then they charged.
Their movements were erratic—jerky, unnatural, as though their limbs were barely their own. They stumbled, their balance off, their bodies trembling like rabid beasts barely able to hold themselves together. One of them tripped, crashing to the ground in a heap of limbs and crimson drool.
Izikel didn't hesitate.
He ran.
He barely made it three steps before a claw-like hand snatched his wrist.
A sickening jolt shot up his arm as the grip tightened, cold and unyielding. Panic surged through him, but he acted fast—using the heavy chair as leverage, he wrenched himself free. The creature snarled, its mouth leaking thick, black-red saliva as it lunged again.
Izikel dodged, bolting for the door.
He barely made it out before slamming it shut behind him.
His pulse roared in his ears as he stumbled down the stairs, his mind racing.
What the hell was happening?
Not like he was happy about it but weren't those men dead?
And yet… they were here.
Calling for him. Chasing after him. Is this sort of thing normal in this new world?
He knew it wasn't possible but in the situation he was in, it's fair to believe nothing was impossible.
His pulse roared in his ears as he stumbled down the grand staircase, each frantic step carrying him closer to the exit. He needed to get out.
"Dremlin!" he called, desperate.
Silence answered him.
He reached the front door, clawing at the handle. Locked. He pulled, banged against it.
"Someone help me!"
The sound of shuffling footsteps drew closer. The air behind him thickened, humming with something unholy.
Then—click.
A second click. The lock turned.
Hope surged through him as the door swung open.
A man stood on the other side. Tall. Broad. A square face hidden beneath a thick black beard, with a ghastly scar across his left eye.
Relief barely had time to take root before the man's eyes settled on him, unreadable. In a single, fluid motion, he pulled out his blade—gleaming, razor-sharp steel—
—and sliced Izikel's head from his shoulders.
The world blinked out.
Izikel jolted awake.
His body trembled, drenched in cold sweat. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. The bright morning sunlight, pouring through his room window.