The Whisper of the Black Moon
A faint whisper, almost ethereal.
"I love you…"
The voice drifted like warm mist into Zack's ear, rousing him with the gentleness of a pleasant nightmare. Beside him, buried in the blackened floor, lay "Black Moon"—his sword—throbbing like an open wound in reality. So dark it devoured all light, its silver hilt engraved with a rustic waning-moon symbol, as if the blade itself mourned endlessly.
Zack lay motionless, rigid as a fresh corpse, eyes wide in a trance as he searched the ceiling for the source of that voice. But there was only silence.
He drew a deep, rasping breath. The air was thick, almost putrid.
He turned toward the lone window—cracked and misshapen, hung with a filthy rag that fluttered like a forgotten sigh. Moonlight strained to creep in but was beaten back by grime and time.
Rising slowly, he fixed his gaze on the sword. It seemed to return the stare.
Not a weapon. A curse. A mirror. A pact.
In the dark room, lit only by a trembling candle, the word clawed its way out of his throat:
"Damnation…"
A pause. An almost reverent hush.
With violent force, Zack let his head drop to the floor.
Crack. The wood groaned.
His skull met the boards with a hollow thud.
Blood welled in his eyes.
In that moment, he hated himself more than anything.
But why?
Staggering upright, he shuffled to the broken mirror.
Blood trailed down his brow.
There he saw himself: white hair, tangled and stained with blood; skin as pale as diseased snow; oversized garments stitched from skins and feathers of hunted beasts. A twenty-five-year-old man shattered within, twisted without.
No purpose. No salvation.
A madman teetering on the brink.
The mirror spat back his image with contempt. Behind that cracked frame lay a bed of hay and rags, bathed in pale moonlight. And there—like a phantom—stood her:
A girl in white.
Hair golden as sin.
Eyes golden as promise.
Skin sweet as hazelnut.
And, as though under a spell, she whispered once more:
"I love you…"
Refuge in In Medias Res
The crooked-plank cabin, wedged between rusting metal shacks, was the perfect hideout for someone who wished to go unseen. In In Medias Res, rent was cheap enough to stay clear of the military—but too steep for anyone to call it "home." There, Zack Fair slept beneath a veil of indifference.
In this rotten quarter, brown and caramel eyes were the norm; black eyes, like his, went unnoticed. At night, the streets fell silent: no thefts, no killings—even in misery, there was law and respect. And Zack; he was law and respect.
A few alleys away, the high city glittered like a starry sky. On the horizon, the royal castle rose in unnatural hues—purple, white, and black, more precious than gold.
"A poor empire for a poor country," he murmured, fingers brushing the hilt of "Black Moon" at his waist.
No one dared greet him. A single glance could bring deadly silence; looking elsewhere was common sense. The fear Zack inspired lingered in every door and shadow.
He reached the "Leaky Mug" with a sharp rap:
knock, knock…
The wood creaked. A slit opened, and a hidden voice hissed:
"Password?"
"Purple pigs."
The door swung wide, and the hall erupted in raucous music, laughter, and cries. A bard struck fierce chords on his lute while the crowd—drunk on both joy and despair—sang, wept, and danced to exorcise hunger and fear.
When Zack entered, everything froze. All eyes turned to the hooded stranger. The bard's fingers stilled on the strings. Tension thickened like mist… until Zack lifted his arm in a nearly imperceptible gesture. In an instant, the hall burst back into revelry. The bard resumed his tune, and mugs clinked once more.
Zack slipped into a dark corner at the bar. Without a word, the bartender placed before him a steaming mug and a crumpled envelope. He drained the mug in one gulp, inhaled sharply, and murmured:
"What is it, K?"
Beside him, a woman in a black cloak lowered her hood. Dark curls framed a dusky face, and her eyes—red, deep—glowed like living embers.
"You're strange, Zack. How do you sense my aura so easily?"
He gave a wry half-smile, nerves humming beneath his skin.
"I don't know, K. Seems the training paid off."
K returned the smile—gentle, defiant.
"Then celebrate with me. We've a hunt tonight."
Zack raised an eyebrow.
"Where's that fool?"
"Sleeping, master," she said, her tone strangely maternal. "It wasn't easy to bring him here…"
K cast a wary glance at his mug.
"You spoil him too much."
With a soft laugh, she stepped close. Her scent—pepper and rosemary—made Zack shift uneasily. Without warning, K embraced him and pressed a brief, warm kiss to his lips, murmuring in his ear:
"He's just a child."
Zack said nothing. He blushed, smiled, and held her fiery gaze.
"I know."
Together, they slipped out without another word. Outside, the Void's putrid mist curled through the streets, reminding them that the hunt had begun.