Twilight bled across the sky on the third day of his journey, and Allan was nearing the edge of the South West province. Exhaustion was a stone in his boots, but movement was a comfort. He'd tried to buy a horse before leaving town, but the price was a king's ransom for a man like him. One purchase would have devoured his entire travel purse.
So, he walked. His backpack was light, carrying only a few changes of clothes, his precious brushes, paints, and canvas. In his hand, his easel, cleverly collapsed to serve as a walking stick. In his heart, he carried the one thing that weighed more than all the rest combined: Lulu.
His mission was simple, and impossible. Find her. Saniya, the capital of Mega Kingdom, was a swirling vortex of humanity, a place where fortunes were made and lives were lost. It was the most likely place to find someone who had disappeared. And so, alongside his artist's tools, he carried a desperate hope.
Hope was the shield that had guarded his heart for years. It deflected the advances of other women, whispering that his true love was out there, waiting. It was a shield that blocked the venomous thoughts: that Lulu might have forgotten him, that she might be in the arms of another, or worse, that she might be dead. Hope can make a man immune to reason. It can make him a pilgrim, or a fool. And for that hope, Allan was leaving a life he knew for a world he didn't, damning whatever awaited him.
The road stretched on, a lonely ribbon flanked by skeletal trees. With no shelter in sight, he pushed onward, wanting to cover more ground before the darkness consumed everything.
Suddenly, a mild tap on his left shoulder.
He turned. A hunched silhouette stood there, a man swallowed by the deepening gloom. His clothes were ragged, draped with a cloak that hid his face in shadow. A twisted stick, nearly twice his height, supported his weight.
"What are you doing out here, boy?" The voice was like gravel scraped from a tomb, sending a shiver down Allan's spine.
"I'm a traveler. Just passing by," Allan said, forcing a smile he didn't feel.
"I see." The figure nodded, a slow, creaking gesture. He waved a dismissive hand up the road. "Then you'd best find shelter before the night truly takes hold. There's a village ahead. An inn. Usually full by this hour, but if you hurry, you might find a room. Go."
Allan nodded his thanks and turned. He took a single step before a prickle of unease made him glance back.
The road was empty. The man was gone.
A knot of ice formed in his gut. He scanned the trees, listening to the wind. Nothing. The man had simply vanished. Shaking his head, trying to dismiss it as a trick of the failing light, Allan forced his feet to move. The danger he'd been warned of was surely worse than a phantom.
He'd only taken a few more steps when he felt it.
A pull. A strange, compelling current trying to drag him back the way he came. He fought it, planting his feet, but the invisible force grew stronger with every yard he gained, an unseen tide he could no longer resist. He didn't understand it, but some instinct screamed at him to obey.
The moment he turned, a voice seemed to whisper on the edge of his hearing, soft as dust: Wise.
He walked for fifteen minutes, the phantom pull leading him on, when the voice returned. Left.
He was on the main road, a wide path beaten by merchant carts and horses. To his left was a narrow track that pierced a thicket, vanishing almost immediately into a menacing, predatory darkness. Without a second thought—or perhaps, because he was no longer allowed a thought of his own—he took it.
The darkness felt solid, its coldness a physical touch against his skin. He trembled, a deep, primal fear rising in his throat. But no matter how his mind screamed to run, his legs kept walking, deeper and deeper into the black. It was a horrifying realisation: his body was no longer his own. He had become a puppet, carried along by unseen strings, and all he could do was watch where they were taking him.