Ugh… My head throbbed like someone had taken a hammer to my skull.
The street was cold. Silent. Unforgiving.A place where lost souls wandered, and shadows murmured beneath broken lamps and crooked alleyways. The pavement, slick with rain, shimmered faintly under the dim glow of dying streetlights. I had awoken there—again. With no home. No family. Just this pain in my head that never seemed to leave.
Being on the streets had taught me many things.That silence can be louder than screams.That hunger claws deeper than a knife.And that shadows don't just follow—they watch.
Footsteps echoed softly behind me. Then came the voices.
"Hey, kid… What you got there?"A rasping tone—too casual to be kind."You seem a little more… refined than us folk. A bit of wealth in those bones, maybe."Another voice chimed in, sharper. "What's your name, kid?"
They were close now. Closer than comfort allowed.
I hesitated. The name caught on my tongue like a thorn. There was a part of me that wanted to stay silent—to melt into the darkness and disappear. But something deeper, older, whispered that names hold power… and silence holds suspicion.
"…My name is Night Moor."
The moment I spoke it, I regretted it.
There was a shift in their posture, a gleam in their hungry eyes. One of them grinned—a wide, hideous grin that didn't reach his eyes."So, Night… think you can help us out a little?"
I knew then. I had to run.
I turned before they lunged, sprinting down the wet pavement, heart pounding like war drums in my chest. The rain smeared across my face, washing away the grime but not the fear. Behind me, footsteps crashed through puddles, followed by ragged laughter and slurred curses.
But I didn't look back. I didn't need to.Because the truth was, I wasn't afraid of them.I was afraid of what I'd do to them.
This headache—it wasn't normal. It pulsed with something… deeper. Like something inside me was chained, but awake. And angry.
As I ran, my hand instinctively reached for something hidden beneath my tattered coat. A relic. A knife—old, worn, and etched with symbols I didn't recognize but somehow understood. I'd never used it. Not yet. But tonight… I was tempted.
Don't… not yet, I told myself, breath hitching.
I kept running. Down alleys swallowed in fog. Past flickering lights and windows too dusty to see through. Eventually, the footsteps faded. The laughter died. The city swallowed their presence.
And I was alone again.
What now?
I had no money. No home. No friends. Nothing but a name I barely remembered and a knife that felt heavier every time I touched it.
"Maybe I can find a job," I whispered, trying to sound hopeful, though no one was listening.
I wandered through the lower district—where the buildings looked like they had forgotten what sunlight felt like. Stone, rust, and mold made up their bones. Some had signs painted over, others broken windows like open wounds. I even passed a recruitment board for Seekers—those foolish enough to dive into ruins and return with either glory or madness. I considered it… but the thought passed like smoke on the wind.
Then I saw it.
A building—tall, elegant, and hauntingly out of place.
Its frame was sleek marble, untouched by the filth of the streets. Its windows glowed faintly, like lanterns in mist. And its name was carved in thin silver letters above the door:
Ravetale.
Something about it pulled me forward. The name rang in my mind like a forgotten lullaby. Not loud, but persistent. Familiar.
I stepped inside.
The door closed behind me without a sound.
And yet, in that moment, I felt it:
As if the building itself had just swallowed me whole.