The city pulsed with life, yet Alexander felt like a ghost moving through its streets. Neon signs flickered in the dim evening, their artificial glow reflecting off rain-slick pavement. He adjusted the hood of his jacket, ignoring the muffled chatter of people passing by. The world continued as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
His father was dead.
The funeral had been quiet. No extended family, no heartfelt speeches—just a simple burial in the outskirts of the city. His father had been a quiet man, always watchful, always careful. Yet he had died in an alley, a so-called 'accident' that made no sense. The police dismissed it as a mugging gone wrong. But Alexander knew better.
The unease gnawed at him. He had no proof, only a feeling in his gut that something was terribly wrong.
He returned to the small apartment he had once shared with his father. The silence inside was unbearable. Every object, every piece of furniture, was exactly as it had been before, as if his father would walk in at any moment. But he wouldn't. And Alexander was left with nothing but questions.
He sat on the couch, running his fingers through his dark hair, exhaling sharply. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but something inside told him that his father hadn't just died—he had been silenced. And if that was true, then there was a reason.
His gaze fell upon the small wooden box on the table. It hadn't been there before.
With a deep breath, he reached for it. The wood was smooth, unmarked, but as soon as his fingers touched it, a strange warmth spread through his palm. The lid lifted with a soft creak, revealing a single item inside.
A ring.
Simple, silver, and unassuming—yet it pulsed with an energy Alexander couldn't explain. As he picked it up, something flickered in his mind, like a whisper in the dark. And then, without warning, a rush of foreign memories flooded his vision.
He was no longer in his apartment.
Visions of another world unfolded before him—a land beyond anything he had ever imagined. Towering citadels of white stone, banners bearing golden sigils, and figures clad in armor that shimmered like the stars. He saw his father standing among them, younger, prouder, not the weary man he had known.
And then, the whispers became voices.
"The bloodline must be protected."
"They cannot know the truth."
"He must never return."
The images shattered like glass, and Alexander gasped, stumbling back, the ring slipping from his fingers. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to process what he had just seen.
What was this?
Who was his father?
And why did the name Valerius keep echoing in his mind?
The sound of knocking jolted him from his thoughts. He turned toward the door, dread curling in his stomach.
Someone was here.
And deep down, he knew—they weren't here to help.