A blinding flash of light filled the sky, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. The ground shook and buildings crumbled as a massive storm raged overhead. The battle was over, and though the cost had been high, victory had been achieved. But the cost had taken its toll on him. He knew what he had to do.
With a heavy heart, he spread his hands and a soft blue light flowed from them, washing over the arena. The light was calm and soothing, but he knew what it meant—a lot had to be done — and he knew he had come to the end of his journey, for now.
Lightning strikes, ice storms, blazing fire, sand storms, rampaging wind—chaos and destruction... but he felt calm and solemn. He felt his strength leaving him, and a sense of weakness creeping over him. With his last ounce of strength, he uttered a final statement before collapsing to the ground, "Ar wi ko mag'n."
---------------------
Robert woke up with a jolt. He was sure he heard a voice, yes, a deep otherworldly voice; as if it came from the very depths of the abyss. He peered around the poorly illuminated hostel, seeking it's source, but the darkness limited his vision, and he could hardly make out the boys snoring happily on their beds.
The silence of the night was deafening, broken only by the occasional snore from one of the sleeping boys. The two moons, suspended high in the sky, cast eerie shadows across the room. Robert lay awake, staring at the ceiling, when he heard a voice again, this time clearer than before. "Hey, child, can you hear me?!" It growled.
Robert sat up instantly, looking around the room wildly, but there was no one awake in sight.
"You must be hearing things," he told himself, but a nagging doubt remained in the back of his mind. What if the voice wasn't just a figment of his imagination? What if there really was someone—or something—trying to communicate with him?
He lay back down, closing his eyes and trying to convince himself that it had all been a nightmare.
He had the intuition that he just had a dream, a very vivid dream about a flash of blue light which he was struggling to remember. He waited for some time for the voice to call again but it did not. The piercing quietness of the night made him feel drowsy once again. He eventually succumbed to the hypnotic silence and within seconds, he fell asleep.
Alright, now's the time to take a deep breath.
Before we continue, it's important to orient you to the setting of the incident you just witnessed with your mind's eye. That event took place on a planet called Kreete. Now, when you view Kreete from a considerable distance you'd see a planet very much like the one you, the reader, inhabit at the moment. This one, however, is a bit smaller and hosts it's own unique geography. It has three continents and two polar ice caps, which you'd gradually explore as you read, but now our immediate focus lies on just one of these landmasses; Comset. The outline of this continent looks more like a crooked butt, although many of the planet's inhabitants would argue that it looks more like a heart. The civilization that thrives on Comset bears great resemblance to modern-day societies of the reader's planet, and as you'll soon discover, this similarity forms the bedrock of the larger conflict in this story.
Zooming in further, on the far southwestern edge of this continent, bordering a vast ocean, you'd find a modest city names Heiss. Within Heiss is a small, somewhat overlooked town called Axille, where our story truly begins.
Now, we proceed.
Nestled amidst the vast, sweeping plains of Axille, Solar Springs High School was the ideal educational institution for any student. It was the least place anyone would expect something strange to happen, as its flawless exterior made it seem perfectly ordinary at first glance. Its contemporary buildings shone in the sunlight, creating a striking contrast with the natural surroundings. The hostel buildings, sporting blue and white colors for male and female students respectively, were impeccably clean, from the large windows to the well-tended lawns. The classroom blocks and other facilities including a laboratory, a theatre, a chapel, lodging for the teachers, and a few others maintained the same level of cleanliness and modern design. Inside, the school was equally well-kept, from the pristine white walls to the gleaming floors. This was a school that took great pride in its appearance, and it was evident.
Robert was a student of this school since 7th grade. He wasn't a person of interest; yes, he was a tall, good-looking teenager with jet-black hair, white skin, and brown eyes—but he was just your average student, nothing special. Despite his introverted nature, Robert was surprisingly adept at navigating his social life at school. He was the type of student who was well-known but had few close friends, and he knew very well why;
Ever since he was a child, Robert had been consumed by a fascination with all things extraordinary, particularly feats that seemed impossible—leaping off a space ship, shape-shifting into animals, becoming invisible, traversing through walls, and more, all of which the average adult would dismiss as childish and implausible. In a way, this love for the extraordinary made Robert indifferent to social interaction. Even though he always yearned for extraordinary adventures, he never comprehended the eerie nature of such experiences until a voice had called out to him the previous night.
Following that night was a bright and sunny Nyxusday morning at Solar Springs High School. Students clad in crisp, checkered, dark-blue uniforms ambled leisurely towards the classroom block from the dining hall, the sound of their laughter and chatter rippling through the air. The grounds stretched wide, the grass a healthy green, yellow, and patches of plant-red, beautifully maintained, as you might expect, with an artful mix of trees—some tall and slender, others short and bustling with leaves of varying shapes, sizes and colours, all arranged in a manner that subtly attempted to mimic the appearance of an ideal, utopian school.
Amid this vibrant precession of students making their way towards the tall, dark-blue painted classroom building walked Robert, though his steps lagged behind the others, his pace slower, more hesitant. Unlike the rest, he was wrapped in thought, his mind looping over the haunting events of the night before. The voice had been too vivid to be waved off as a part of a very realistic dream, and every now and then, he'd hear the same low, deep, sinister voice rumbling within the depths of his mind, a clear evidence that the voice from the previous night had actually not been a dream. It was real, as real as the firm feel of the red tormount grasses beneath his shoes at the moment of this thought, and the gentle splash of the school's central fountain he had just walked past.
The voice was so jarring, it made him feel like his head was going to explode! He grabbed his hair and tugged at it in frustration. Whenever he least expected it, a booming voice would reverberate in his mind, uttering things he couldn't begin to comprehend. It was maddening, and he was at a loss for what to do about it. His arm felt limp from all the tugging he'd done in a vain attempt to calm his nerves. He shoved his hands into his pockets, only to have one of them seized by a soft, delicate hand, pulling him out of his thoughts.
"Hey Rob," a familiar voice cooed. A pair of delicate palms reached up to caress his face, their touch as soft as a summer breeze. Before him stood Dora, the girl with the dazzling red hair that caught the sunlight like flames and green eyes that seemed to sparkle, smiling up at him with an affectionate look. She tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile curling her lips. "You look all gloomy... missing your mama again, huh?" Her voice was like music to his ears, and her eyes shone with warmth and kindness.
Robert couldn't help but respond with a faint smile, giving his head a slow shake.
Dora's teasing softened into concern. "Then what's up? Why the face? Is it about Jackson?" she asked, her gaze searching his as they continued towards the classroom block.
"No, I'm fine," Robert replied, forcing a smile. He took her hand firmly but gently, as though trying to transfer some of his forced calm to her. The gesture was reassuring, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unrest that evidently had no plans of fading any time soon.
As they continued walking, Robert attention drifted momentarily to the right, where two brown haired boys on a bench were busy peddling newspapers amid a cluster of enthusiastic students. "Tom and Zarie," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Who'd still be buying their papers?"
"The juniors mostly," Dora answered with a light shrug. "They're still easily impressed by Tom and Zarie's antics," she shrugged. "Give them time, they'll grow out of it eventually, like most of our classmates did last year."
Robert nodded with a faint smile. "Yeah."
But Dora's gaze shifted to his face. "Still doesn't explain your troubled look," she said, slipping her hand in his.
The gentle touch would have had a soothing effect on Robert, but her words shifted his thoughts back to the haunting voice, and his expression turned depressed. "I'm okay, Dora. Really," he reassured her, attempting to sound convincing.
"Alright then," she said, suppressing her curiosity. She noticed that his hands were sandy, as if he'd been building sandcastles, but she decided not to pry. "How was your night?" She asked instead, trying to change the subject.
Robert hesitated, then shrugged.
"My night?" He asked, feigning ignorance. "I'm not a wizard, so I can't possibly know anything about my night," his frustrated expression gave way to a subtle mischievous smile. She would never forget that smile that always came before his fanciful explanations.
"Care to explain?" She asked out of habit, forcing a confused expression.
Robert inhaled deeply. "Well, I'm not a nocturnal spirit or some magic person who haunts people's dreams and roams the night while everyone else is fast asleep," he explained with a grin. "While people are asleep, they're not conscious of their surroundings, so they wouldn't know anything about the night," he ended, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. In truth, he wished he could believe what he just said. He wanted to dismiss everything that had happened the night before as a mere dream, but the voice that kept calling out to him from inside his head was a harsh reminder that it had all been real.
Dora shook her head and a soft chuckle escaped get lips. "Yesterday it was Jyops, dragons, and Basteraths, today it's nocturnal spirits and magical people," she said, amused. "Honestly, Robert, if that's the kind of thing that constantly races through your head, you might as well just drop everything and enroll in a magic school already." It is worth emphasizing that Dora did not say this with sarcasm or ridicule, quite the opposite actually.
"Magic school." Robert repeated under his breath with a self-depreciating smirk. "If only that's still a thing."
Dora caught his tone and raised an eyebrow, oddly awed. Yet she leaned in slightly, wearing a sly grin. "And why do I get the feeling you'd actually love to be one of those... um, magical spirits—flying around in the dead of night, cloaked in shadow and smoke and terrorizing people's dreams?" she teased, studying him as though searching for confirmation.
The mention immediately reminded Robert of the voice, making him wonder if it could have been a ghost that had haunted him the night before. The other students had often shared stories of ghost sightings on the school grounds, with one particularly infamous tale being about 'The Beast of Burden'— a horrific creature with the head of a man, and the body of an ox. As far as the myth goes, Robert remembered the monster was said to be a former experiment-crazed chemistry teacher, who currently roamed the food store and... probably had a deep, fearsome voice.
But wait... could it be that the tales were real? That it was the Beast of Burden that had haunted him the previous night? Robert thought, but quickly dismissed the idea as absurd. After all, the Beast of Burden was a fictional monster concocted by Tom and Zarie in 9th grade to kickstart their school newspaper business, called The Tazers. Robert had always found the duo annoying, as they would sensationalize trending student news and twist it into attention-grabbing articles. Although their antics had eventually led the principal to establish a policy against targeting specific students and teachers in their writings as well as spreading false information, Robert knew the Beast of Burden was nothing more than a fabrication.
"Now that I think about it," he said, opting to sidestep Dora's earlier question, "It might be possible that someone could have knowledge of the night while they sleep. Like, I dunno... subconsciously."
Dora groaned lightly and rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Robert, you keep doing this," she said exasperatedly. "One moment you're say something definite, and the next you flip completely and start exploring the exact opposite idea. It can be frustrating for us who listen but, classic you, I guess." There was a trace of affection in her tone, but also a weariness that came from being used to the unpredictability of his thought.
Robert gave a small smile and added, "I mean, imagine if someone's night was chilly, or maybe... they were hearing voices..."
"Okay, I get it," she cut in. "Hold on... did you just say 'hearing voices'?"
"Don't worry about it," Robert said quickly with a reassuring smile before she could press further.
Dora narrowed her eyes briefly, clearly tempted to ask more, but instead gave his hand a gentle squeeze and returned his smile. As they continued walking side by side as the neared the entrance door of the classroom block, Robert caught the morning sunlight glinting off her eyes, and he felt a warmth in his heart that he couldn't explain. The haunting weight of the voice seemed to dissipate with her presence.
Robert and Dora's friendship had blossomed since 7th grade, evolving from a chanced acquaintance to something more meaningful and subtly intimate. One could say they were a step above 'best friends'. Though they were in different academic tracks—Dora in sciences, Robert in arts—the duo shared a special bond, both being in the 11th grade.
After they parted ways that morning—Dora's classroom was right next to his — Robert made his way solemnly up the stairs to his classroom; the eleventh grade Art class. Same as everyday, as soon as he stepped into the classroom—neat, light-blue painted, typical—he slipped into his practiced routine: a few firm handshakes with the boys he was friendly with—during which he noticed a few grains of sand on his palm—and a couple of nods and polite smiles to the girls. Though he gave the impression of someone well-liked and socially balanced, it was easy to see he wasn't especially close to most of his classmates. His popularity felt more like a surface-level presence than deep camaraderie.
On his way towards his desk situated at the last column, Robert checked out his hands and noticed a dusting of fine brown sand clinging to his palm. He frowned slightly. Odd, he mused, rubbing his hands together and brushing off the sand without much thought.
As Robert reached for his chair, he became aware of hushed conversations. His name, Jackson's, and Vanessa's came up in low whispers behind huddled heads and turned backs. Robert could very well guess the topic of conversation. Fragments of the previous day's events were being pieced together by curious classmates, and though very few of them turned to look at him directly, it was clear that words were spreading fast.
But Robert didn't let that bother him. He let out a dismissive chuckle as he relaxed into his seat at his desk. It was all just noise to him.
Then, as if on cue, the classroom door swung open rigorously and in strode Jackson, a tall, smooth-skinned, black-haired, and remarkably handsome boy from the science class. He was every bit the charismatic figure, with a confident swagger that seemed almost choreographed. All eyes were instantly drawn to him.
The class erupted into cheerful greetings. Everyone reached out to clasp his hand, pat his shoulder, or exchange hurried words with one of the most adored students in the 11th grade. Jackson, basking in the attention, moved through the students like a celebrity on a red carpet.
Robert merely watched with a raised eyebrow and a scoff, unfazed by the scene. It was just another typical day at school, Jackson the center of attention while he sat quietly at his desk, watching. Even Jackson eventually came over to shake hands, but Robert barely acknowledged him, as his gaze immediately dropped back to his books.
Although Jackson and Robert had been classmates for what seemed like forever, the former had never once taken notice of the latter—that was, until a certain incident unfolded. Just a day earlier, the girl Jackson had long pursued publicly and unceremoniously rebuffed his advances in front of everyone right outside the boys' hostel building, unfavorably comparing him to none other than Robert.
Robert happened to be among the bystanders who witnessed the incident, leaving him perplexed as to why Vanessa would have drawn such a comparison. Why drag him into her complicated relationships? Why did she have to mention him at all? Why not compare Jackson to someone else? Since when was he gentle, humble, kind, and sweet? I mean, he kinda was but, arrgh!!
This unwanted attention was the last thing Robert needed, especially since it would have been exactly the kind of scandalous fodder that Tom and Zarie would have exploited if they hadn't been banned from writing about students. No doubt, they would have sensationalized the story, distorting the facts and disrupting the fragile peace Robert was trying to maintain at school.
In the present moment, just before Robert retuned his focus back to the books on his desk, Jackson briefly gave him a strange, probing, almost threatening look, just after their hands had parted from their customary greeting, before continuing to greet the rest of his classmates.
This brief, yet chilling, moment gave Robert a stark realization—the once-benign non-interaction between himself and Jackson was about to be irrevocably altered. Today, he knew everything was about to change. Having learned from life's trickery, he had realized that trouble always finds you, regardless of how hard you try to remain under the radar.
After taking the time to exchange greetings with nearly every student in the 11th grade art class, Jackson exited the classroom with a confident air. He gave a casual wave to a small group of females gathered in the hallway, clearly hoping to catch his attention. His steps were relaxed yet assured, echoing the certainty of someone used to admiration. But just as he reached the staircase leading down to the junior classrooms, his pace came to a sudden stop.
There, just a few meters away, walking up the same stairs was a strikingly familiar figure—one that momentarily took his breath away. Her sleek, raven-black hair cascaded down her back, each strands perfectly straight as if arranged with utmost care. The crisp lines of her perfectly ironed school uniform hugged her frame modestly yet elegantly, complementing the poised and composed way she carried herself. Everything about her—from the effortless grace in her steps to the quiet confidence in her eyes—radiated an almost regal charm.
The moment Jackson laid eyes on her, every smugness or pride in his demeanor immediately faded. He found himself captivated.
While Jackson's charm seemed to have won over every girl in the 11th grade, it had failed miserably with Vanessa. What made matters worse was that he found himself developing strong feelings for the girl. Despite his growing affection, Vanessa showed no sign of reciprocation. This was evident from the frown that instantly appeared on her usually radiant face immediately she laid eyes on him.
As she proceeded up the stairs with poised elegance, Jackson couldn't help but admired her graceful figure, her straight black hair, her face which one could only define as perfect—super model-worthy, the natural confidence that seemed to radiate from her every step, her slim and attractive physique even though she was only sixteen. For a fleeting moment, Jackson allowed himself to imagine what it might feel like to be with someone like her, but he knew, especially after everything that has happened recently, that it was nothing more than a pipe dream.
Just as she walked right past him, he reached out and gently caught her hand, halting her mid-step. She stopped, catching his eye abruptly before quickly looking away.
"Vanessa," Jackson began, scanning the hallway behind him briefly to ensure no one was watching. "Please," he urged, the desperation tinging his voice no fabrication. "I've tried everything—gifts, opening up to you, even begging. And yet, you keep shutting me down. I don't know what else I can do. Please Ness, just a chance... just one chance is all I ask!" He sounded genuinely emotional. Being rejected in front of the boys' hostel the previous day was, without doubt, the most humiliating moment of his life.
Vanessa had expected the question—truly, this wasn't the first time Jackson had cornered her like this, not the third or even the tenth. In fact, it had become so routine it barely caught her off guard any more, if anything, she was emotionally worn from the repetition. With a quiet sigh, she steadied herself and fixed her eyes on his. Back in 9th grade, things had been simpler—Jackson had been a genuine friend, a close one at that. They'd gotten along great, had a lot of similar interests, and could talk for hours on end about science and astronomy, old movies, and random school drama. It was easy, comfortable. But somewhere along the way, Jackson's feelings had shifted, and so had his behavior. He became more and more narcissistic. He began demanding more of her time, growing quite territorial, expecting her attention like it was owed. He'd seemed to develop a more romantic interest in her, but she just wanted to stay friends. It went unwanted and unreciprocated.
"Jackson, look, we've been over this more times than I can count," she began softly but firmly, voice tight with restraint. "And I hate that you keep putting me in this position where I have to be the one to shut you down—over and over again. I do NOT have feelings for you, and I need you to really hear it from me this time. It's not gonna happen. You remember what I said yesterday? About Robert? I wasn't joking, okay? I wasn't being dramatic. He has this quiet depth—he's thoughtful, sincere, and there's a calmness and sweetness to him that you just... don't have. You're... out there, you're bold, you always need to be seen. That's fine, nothing's wrong with that, but it's not what I'm looking for, and you know this yet you keep asking."
"Ness, look I..."
She cut him off. "And let's not pretend girls don't trip over themselves trying to get your attention, not excluding the seventh-graders. You've got no shortage of admirers in this school, Jackson. So why keep pressing the one girl who keeps saying no? And honestly, with midterms a few weeks away, I've got zero room for the kind of chaos that comes with dating someone like you." It was as if she'd rehearsed these exact words in her head for a long time.
With practiced grace, she pulled her hand from his, shot him a look that was equal parts exhausted and resolute, and proceeded forward. As she walked toward the eleventh-garde science class, her hips swayed with her usual confident flair and her steps carried a renewed lightness—as though releasing those words had unburdened her.
Jackson's jaw tightened as he watched Vanessa walk away, her confident stride only deepening the sting of rejection. His fists curled at his sides, simmering with frustration. He had hoped—perhaps even convinced himself—that her comment about Robert the day before had been a heat-of-the-moment jab, something said out of annoyance or to get under his skin. But now, it was clear: she meant it. He'd lost the girl to who? A nobody!
"Robert? Manwell? That guy?" Jackson muttered to himself in disbelief. "She's really into him now?" He pulled out a small mirror from his pocket and stared at his reflection, taking a moment to admire the face he was so certain everyone found irresistible. "I mean, seriously—look at me. I've got the looks, the charm, the whole damn package!"
He shoved the mirror away in irritation, his thoughts boiling over. "And what does she even mean by sweetness and calmness? Since when did being quiet and weird become attractive?!" With a frustrated grunt, Jackson slammed his fist into the railing beside him, the loud clang echoing down the stairwell as he stormed downward, fury rising with every step.
The brief exchange with Vanessa might have ended, and whatever slim hope Jackson had of being with her blown up in his face, but the bitter taste lingered, and with it, a new resentment was born—focused entirely on Robert. Robert had been his classmate since the seventh grade. He'd never paid much attention to the boy before, just another face in the crowd of students, but now, thinking about him, even hearing his name echo in his mind, grated on him like sandpaper. He'd started seeing him, not as a background presence, but as a rival—and an unworthy one at that.
Meanwhile, Robert remained oblivious to all of this, unaware of the turmoil that was brewing in Jackson's mind. And even if he had known, he probably would have shrugged it off (Yes, he had a habit of downplaying things just to avoid worrying about them), too wrapped up in his own life to worry about the drama of others. He literally had enough in his mind to worry about already.
The sun blazed high in the sky, its rays glinting off the windows of the school building like a watchful eye. The day passed by in a blur of back-to-back lessons and an ever-growing list of homework, and before Robert knew it, the final bell was ringing. Following that, students poured out of the classrooms like a swarm of bees, surging out of the block and making their way to the dining hall—located a the first floor of the boys' hostel building—for lunch.
The dining hall was a vast space, lined with long, polished wooden tables and benches, arranged in near rows that quickly became chaotic with the arrival of the chattering students. The room was buzzing with energy, and the rising tide of youthful voices—shouts, laughter, and overlapping conversations blending into a constant hum. Students gathered into snaking lines, slowly inching forward to receive their food at the far end of the hall, near a large open counter beside the serving area, where the cooks stood behind three massive metal pots set atop sturdy burners. The warm aroma of food wafted through the air as they ladled generous portions into identical, transparent glass plates. Laughter and chatter filled the hall as those who had already been served weaved between the rows of benches and tables, trying to find spots with their friends. Conversations erupted into bursts of excitement, clinking cutlery and raised voices blending into the familiar midday symphony of the school dining hall.
Eventually, after a little while of standing quietly in line, half-listening to the conversations of two 8th-grade girls in front of him—he had no real choice—about how dramatically short their skirts would be after the mid-semester break, Robert received his plate: a modest serving of mashed potatoes, a drizzle of brown gravy, and a piece of meat. Without a word to anyone, he made his way across the hall to his usual spot; the far corner bench, the one place in the dining hall where he could sit, eat, and think in relative peace, shielded somewhat from the swirl of adolescent noise.
While he ate, he found himself crunching on something hard in his mashed potatoes. He paid no mind, assuming it was a minor cooking mistake—nothing new, really. But this time, the sensation grew unbearable. He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, and glanced down at his plate. That's when he noticed them— tiny, unmistakable grains of sand scattered throughout the food. Confused, he turned his hands over and examined his palms, which were to his amazement, coated in a thin layer of fine sand.
He frowned deeply. That didn't make any sense. He had washed and dried his hands just before joining the queue to get his meal. So where had the sand on his palm come from? How did it get there?
Robert shook his head, trying to put it out of his mind.
When all of a sudden...
"ROBERT!"
The voice blared inside his head, deep and commanding, making him flinch so violently, he nearly knocked down his plate.
"What the hell..?!" Robert muttered, clutching his head. A wave of confusion and rising panic surged through him. Was he being haunted? Hearing things? Was he going crazy?
Each thought stabbed deeper than the last, and in a fit of frustration, he yanked his hair, a desperate attempt to ground himself. None of it made sense. Why him? Why now? What the heck was happening to him?!
The dining hall was filled with the clatter of forks and knives against plates, the scraping of benches, and the low hum of overlapping conversations, all of which drowned out any sign of Robert's frustration. The other students were too absorbed in their own conversations and meals to notice him. Even if they did, they might not have cared — it was just another afternoon in the dining hall; a time of the day students would give no attention to anything other than their meals or whoever they were conversing with. But for Robert, it was anything but ordinary. He longed for something—a distraction from the voice and the weight of dread it carried.
Then, without warning, the entire hall suddenly erupted into cheers, catching Robert off guard and snapping him from his thoughts. Confused, he scanned the sea of students, until his eyes landed on the figure drawing the attention — the school prefect in charge of games and sports, a well-built and athletic twelfth-grader, beaming as he exited the hall. Robert realized he must have missed an announcement, distracted as he was by the mysterious voice bothering him. He tapped the student beside him and asked what the prefect had said.
Tom's face lit up. "Springball match this afternoon! Our class versus the seniors — last game before midterms!" He let out a whoop, yelling across the benches, "Zarie, get the notepad ready!"
Robert's face broke into a wide, genuine smile. Being one of the standout players in the 11th-grade team, a familiar surge of adrenaline began to course through him—the unmistakable thrill that only the promise of an intense springball match could ignite. His unease melted away, pushed to the back of his mind by the electrifying energy buzzing in the air. He joined the eruption of cheers around him, though his own voice was lost in the joyous uproar. Still, he was elated—there was something really satisfying in that moment. His mind instinctively shifted gears, already running through plays and strategies, mentally readying him for the competition.
And just like that, from that sweet moment of anticipation and adrenaline, Robert forgot completely about the voice.