The noise of the world seemed to fade as they neared the Watcher's Tower. In the sky, the clouds no longer drifted freely in the wind — they were woven around a silence that felt imposed. Within that silence, Albert walked with a calm that came not from weariness, but from understanding. Enira and Kara followed a few steps behind, each sensing that the world itself was holding its breath.
— "It's no longer just a destination," Enira murmured. "It's a point of convergence."
Albert didn't reply immediately. He was gazing ahead, toward the increasingly visible silhouette of the Tower — not tall, but ancient. Its structure didn't seem built but remembered in stone, as if carved from the memories of a forgotten god. Its walls were streaked with living lines, symbols from a language no longer spoken by any tongue.
— "You're right," he finally answered. "We're not here to investigate. We're already being watched."
Kara frowned.
— "By who? What's inside?"
Albert lifted his hand slightly, and a spiral of ashen light formed around his fingers, dissipating silently. A simple gesture, but a sign that someone — or something — had just tried to read him.
— "There's nothing inside. That's exactly the problem."
Before them, the Tower's gates opened without a sound. No visible mechanism, no guards, no barrier. Just a silent but insistent invitation.
Albert stepped in first. With every step inside, the walls grew darker, and the air heavier — not with dust, but with anticipation. Along the main corridor, tall mirrors captured reflections that didn't belong to the present: a child running, a woman crying in silence, a man holding a burnt book.
— "Memories of those who are no more?" Enira asked.
— "No," Albert replied. "They're versions. Versions of reality that were lost… but still try to manifest."
Kara stopped abruptly. One of the mirrors reflected her silhouette — but in the image, her hair was white, and her eyes empty.
— "What does this mean?"
— "That you could have become that. Or that you already are, somewhere… in a world we cannot touch."
Albert halted before a mirror that reflected nothing.
— "This one's mine."
Enira stepped forward, but Albert raised his hand.
— "No need. It's just a reminder. In a world without me... there would be no world at all."
At the top floor, where the staircase ended in a circular platform, stood a strange altar — constructed of liquid metal floating slightly above the ground. Upon it was engraved a single word — but not in any known language.
— "Do you recognize the symbol?" Kara asked.
Albert blinked. A flicker of red and green shimmered in his eye.
— "Yes. It's… a forbidden word. It means 'the summoning of those who must not be summoned.'"
Enira shivered.
— "And still... who left this here?"
— "Someone who tried to stop a tragedy. Or to bring it faster."
Albert approached the altar and placed his hand on its floating surface.
In that instant, the entire Tower trembled.
The tremor that seized the Tower wasn't physical—it didn't shake the stone, but rather reality itself. The floor beneath their feet seemed to sink for a heartbeat, then return, as though the entire space was recalibrating after Albert's touch. Enira drew in a breath, but the sound vanished instantly, as if absorbed by an unseen force. Kara instinctively stepped back.
— What did you do? she asked, her voice barely audible beneath the pulsing air.
Albert didn't answer right away. His hand remained on the altar's surface, and his fingers sank gently into the liquid metal, as if time no longer applied there. Around the altar, the air thickened, turned translucent—like a curtain of rain that never touched the ground.
— I recognized a key, he said at last. One that was never meant to exist.
Kara gripped her sword hilt tightly. — Is it a trap?
— No, Albert replied calmly. It's a message. From someone who saw what's coming and tried to leave a warning.
Around the altar, the light began to curve, giving birth to a projection—not a hologram, but a living memory, a shard of reality torn from another time. A tall, masked figure stood with both arms raised toward the sky of another realm. The sky was fractured, filled with red eyes blinking like sickly stars.
— "The Uncalled do not sleep. They await a wrong voice," the figure spoke with a double, broken tone, as if two entities were speaking through one body. "One wrong word. A failed invocation. An... unworthy touch."
Then the figure vanished.
Albert withdrew his hand, and the altar closed again like calm water. Kara and Enira exchanged uneasy glances. But Albert didn't seem disturbed. His eyes moved slowly, analyzing the walls, the structure, the traces left in the space.
— That wasn't a threat, he said. It was a plea.
— A plea from whom? asked Enira, her voice nearly a whisper.
— From someone like me. Or... from a version that didn't succeed.
From the back wall of the chamber came a faint sound—like a forgotten heartbeat. Then, in the gray surface, a vertical fissure appeared. It wasn't a door, but neither was it a normal crack. It was... a threshold.
— Who opened that? asked Kara, already feeling the strange energy leaking through.
Albert closed his eyes for a moment. In that instant, red and violet shimmered beneath his eyelids.
— No one. But it was opened for me.
Beyond the fissure, there was no darkness. There was an inverted world—trees growing upside down, skies beneath the ground, and shadows with no source. It was a world that should not exist.
— We're not going in there, are we? Enira asked.
Albert stared ahead.
— Yes. But only I am.
Without another word, he stepped through.
The fissure sealed behind him—like an eyelid refusing to let light enter.
Beyond the Tower:
In another corner of the world, far from the Watcher's Tower and the gathering shadows, a different reality followed its course in silence. In a vast hall carved from black glass and liquid gold, eight figures stood around a circle of suspended light. Each wore a different mask — some simple, others adorned with symbols long forgotten.
— He has entered, said a deep voice. The fissure responded only to him.
— It was expected, murmured another. When an entire world begins to rewrite itself around a single name, the forbidden gates no longer stay shut.
A third member of the circle rose, their slow movement reflecting a burden that was not only physical.
— Do we intervene?
— No, answered the tallest silhouette. Not yet. He must see. Choose. We cannot hasten a choice that does not belong to us.
A heavy silence fell over the council.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the light in the center of the circle distorted. For a moment, the outline of a blue eye with shades of black flickered in its reflection. No one said a word, but all understood: Albert knew. Not just that he was being watched — but who was watching him. And where they were.
Elsewhere, in a port city shaken by waves and the scent of rain, a figure in a red cloak moved through shuttered market stalls. Under the hood, their eyes glimmered faintly — a marbled gray that trembled with each step.
— Tell me, the figure whispered to a crystal held in their palm, how do you stop something that cannot be understood?
The voice from the crystal, old and cracked, replied:
— You don't stop it. You follow it... until its choice becomes the world's.
And beyond all this, beyond cities and lands, in a zone where time was broken, a massive creature with eyes of flame stirred from its slumber. Its name had not been spoken in millennia.
But in its mind, a single word rose with a force greater than fire, steel, or history: Albert.
The Ancient Hands of Destiny:
In a library without end, hidden beneath the roots of a tree so vast that no map dared mark it, a woman in a blue mantle sifted through tomes untouched by time itself. On the desk before her, a single parchment lay unrolled, its letters rewriting themselves with each heartbeat of the universe.
An old man in simple robes, bearing a staff forged from fragments of dead stars, entered without a sound.
— You felt him, didn't you? he asked.
— I didn't just feel him... I held him, she replied. For a moment, knowledge itself refused to flow. That's when I knew: he truly touched the altar.
— The Calling has begun, the old man whispered. And we are not ready.
— We never will be. But he... he is more than a choice. He is what a choice becomes when rules no longer exist.
---
In a place where there was no sky, no ground — only a bridge suspended between unfinished ideas — a being with two faces gazed downward. One of its faces wept, the other laughed cruelly.
— The child of infinity dances his step with grace, hissed the smiling face.
— And yet... so alone, said the other. When will he learn of the Uncalled?
— When he himself wishes to be summoned. Only then will he understand that not all witnesses are silent.
---
Elsewhere, in a long-forgotten sanctuary, a statue began to bleed. The priest who had kept vigil there for centuries slowly rose from his knees. His tears mingled with the golden dust falling from cracks in the walls.
— May the oath be remembered, he spoke.
And behind him, the walls parted on their own — like a book in the hands of a forgotten will.
---
Across every corner of the world, in the hush of hidden magic, in the ignorance of the powerful, a single truth began to crystallize:
Albert was no longer merely a presence.
He was a sign.
A sign that the world would change — not because it wanted to,
but because it no longer could remain the same.
For a moment — or an eternity — there was nothing.
Albert floated in a space where time didn't flow, where thought was only the echo of an unfinished reality. The world beyond the threshold had no color, but neither was it dark. It had no sound, yet every fiber of existence vibrated.
Then, the outlines of an inverted forest began to settle around him. The sky was beneath his feet, and above, a ground that pulsed slowly, like a giant sleeping heart. Trees with glass-like branches hung upside down, entangled in reflections of a sun that no longer set. Shadows moved on their own.
Albert walked. Each step sent ripples that altered the geography of the place — a lake appeared to one side, a reversed waterfall on the other. But he didn't seem disturbed. This place couldn't control him. It couldn't harm him.
A silhouette formed from the shadows. It was tall, dressed in robes made of liquid symbols. It had no face — only a broken mask, identical to the one seen in the memory at the altar.
"You came," the figure said.
Albert said nothing. He only tilted his head slightly.
"You are the one who was never meant to be summoned. And yet, you arrived."
"Because I've always existed," Albert replied. "You forgot that."
The figure bowed slightly.
"We didn't forget. Others did. They thought they could replace absence with order."
"Why did you call me here?"
"We didn't call you. Your space overlapped with ours because someone spoke a forbidden word. You were drawn in, not invited."
Albert stepped closer. With every meter, the figure began to tremble, as if it couldn't withstand the weight of his presence.
"Then why didn't you close the threshold?"
"Because... a part of you is already here."
Albert paused. His eyes shimmered subtly in blue and violet, then dimmed.
"I understand."
"You'll have to choose," the figure said. "Whether to keep that fragment of yourself here… or take it back. If you take it, the balance breaks. If you leave it, your world will begin to forget who you are."
Albert reached out. In his palm, a sphere of gray light formed — small but heavy, vibrating with impossible memories.
"I never forget. Ever."
The figure nodded.
"Then take it. But don't return here again. A second time… the world might shatter with you."
Albert stepped back, the sphere in hand. The inverted forest began to unravel. Everything twisted, dissolved, fled from him.
Then the threshold reopened — and he stepped once more into the real world.
When he materialized in the altar chamber, Enira stood up quickly, and Kara reached for her sword. But Albert's eyes were calm. The sphere was gone — fully absorbed into his being.
"What did you find?" Enira asked.
Albert gave a faint smile.
"A version of me that couldn't choose. I chose for him."
Kara sighed.
"Was it dangerous?"
"Not for me," he answered. "But for the world? Yes."
They slowly turned toward the exit of the tower. But before they left, Albert paused and glanced toward a small mirror in a side hallway. In it, an eye — red, unwavering — stared back at him.
But it wasn't his reflection.
Albert said nothing. He simply blinked once.
And the image vanished.
The three descended silently from the Watcher's Tower, their steps leaving no trace in the dust packed between the ancient stones. The sky above hadn't cleared, yet it did not seem hostile — it was like stretched skin over an unhealed wound. Enira walked beside Albert, but kept a respectful distance. Kara, trailing behind, hadn't removed her hand from her weapon's hilt, even if no danger was present.
"Was it real?" she finally asked. "Everything you saw in there?"
Albert didn't respond right away. He kept walking forward, but in his right eye, a faint dark blue shimmered, with black reflections — a sign that echoes from the other world still pulsed within him.
"Yes. But it was only real for me."
Enira lowered her gaze.
"Did you bring something back?"
"More like... I found a part of myself again. A version that was supposed to be forgotten, but waited for me."
In the distance, the footsteps of the others returning from the nearby village could be heard. Beyond the forest, a silhouette floated on a hilltop, silently observing the Tower. It did not move. It had no face. It was a summoned projection — one created to mislead.
Albert stopped. He slightly raised an eyebrow.
"They're watching us again."
"Who?" asked Enira.
Albert raised his right hand and, without uttering a word, his eye glowed briefly in a pale green hue. Around the area on the hill, a dense fog began to form, and the silhouette vanished. Not destroyed — merely hidden.
"I'm sending them a mirror. So they no longer believe they're watching unseen."
Kara gritted her teeth.
"Can't we strike back?"
"Not yet," Albert replied. "They're too high... and we... haven't shown everything we know."
At that moment, Leon emerged from the forest, accompanied by Kaelya and two other members of the group.
"Did you feel that?" asked Leon as he approached. "There was a massive distortion in space-time. Stronger than anything we've seen before."
Albert nodded slightly.
"It was a calling. But not for all of us. Only for me."
Kaelya stared at him for a long moment. She said nothing. Instead, she gently placed a hand on his arm — a gesture that spoke volumes.
Albert straightened his back, and around him, space began to subtly vibrate. The ground didn't shake, but the leaves nearby fell in circles, as if gravity itself was resetting.
"We'll move differently," he said. "It's too risky to travel on foot."
With a nearly imperceptible motion, he created a spiral portal — not of light, but of pure silence. Each member of the group was enveloped in a gentle vibration, like the deep call of a dimension that demanded no tribute.
"Spiral teleportation?" Kaelya asked, surprised.
"Safer than anything else," Albert confirmed. "And impossible to track."
"Where are we going?" Leon asked.
"To a place where stories are not just stories. Someone is waiting for us... someone who doesn't yet know they will meet us."
Without another word, the group vanished into the spiral. And the Watcher's Tower remained behind, empty, yet aware — as if it, too, was trying to understand what had been awakened in its heart.
When the spiral of silence unraveled, the group had already arrived in an unknown zone — a gray plain, with grass so thin it seemed painted by brush over a canvas of memories. In the distance, a massive structure without a clear form pulsed with a dim light, like a heart that no longer had the courage to beat.
Albert descended first, his gaze sweeping the horizon as if searching for something specific. But it wasn't orientation — it was confirmation.
— We're in the place where the "Spiral of the Lost" was first uttered, he said. This is where their return began.
— Whose? Enira asked, stepping carefully on the quiet grass.
Albert didn't answer immediately. He stopped and tilted his head, listening. There was no sound. But his eyes glowed, briefly, with blue. The Eye of Complete Truth.
— Those who were never called, but were born from the mistakes of others. Those whose names are not in this world's books. They have begun to awaken.
Kara approached, staring at the structure in the distance.
— Is that... a citadel?
— No. It's a tomb that was never filled. And in it... don't lie the dead, but possibilities.
Kaelya, silent until then, spoke:
— I know this place. I dreamt of it as a child. In every dream, I heard a question: "What would you have done if you were forgotten?"
Albert turned to her, a faint smile on his lips.
— It wasn't a dream. It was a calling.
The ground began to pulse. A deep rhythm, rising from below, making reality ripple in gentle waves. In that vibration, in that tempo, a silhouette rose from the earth. It had no face. It was made of shadows and unspoken words. But it had a human form. And around it, other shadows began to rise.
— It's them, Enira whispered. The Uncalled.
— No, Albert replied. They are echoes. A part. An introduction.
The silhouette approached. It didn't seem hostile. Words echoed from it, though no one saw a mouth move:
— You weren't meant to come. But you came anyway. You are the perfect mistake.
Albert stepped forward. Not with fear. Not with defiance. But with understanding.
— Yes. I am. And precisely because of that... I can give you a name.
The shadows stopped. The entire plain seemed to freeze. The word "name" wasn't spoken as a title — but as magic.
Kara whispered, stunned:
— You're... giving them existence?
— I'm not giving it, Albert said. I'm acknowledging it.
And with those words, the world shifted again. The line between what had been and what could be grew thinner. The shadows drew near, but not to attack — to listen.
Albert closed his eyes, and in that all-encompassing silence, he began to speak a name that had never existed.
A name... for those without a calling.
Echoes from a World That Began by Mistake:
In the heart of a continent unknown to those who live under the current laws of reality, a city was rebuilding itself upon ruins that had never been destroyed. A forgotten civilization, made up of beings with semi-transparent bodies and fragmented memories, had gathered around a faintly pulsating artifact — a shard from a mirror that reflected nothing.
— "It has begun again," said the eldest among them. "The line has shifted."
— "And the Unnamed One?" asked another.
— "He has given names to those who were never meant to exist. He has broken the threshold. Again."
Silence fell over the temple made of living stone. In its center, an ancient altar changed its shape with every heartbeat of reality. Inside it, an eye was sealed — not a biological one, but symbolic — a fragment from an entity exiled before time had been born.
In another corner of the world, in a zone where time flowed backward only at sunrise, a woman with a white mask and a silk cloak stopped before an invisible wall. She traced a line in the air with her finger, and the symbol of the Nine Lines appeared beneath it. The outline of an eye stretched across the sky of reality, and her voice — cold — echoed only in the minds of those who knew how to listen:
— "He knows he's being watched. Not because he sensed us, but because he foresaw us. Albert... is becoming inevitable."
From the shadow, a second voice, deep and heavy, answered:
— "Do you think he will confront us?"
— "No. He will allow the world to write its own condemnation. He will only watch. Until nothing can be hidden from his gaze."
At the Northern Academy, in an abandoned testing chamber, a trembling apprentice stared at a symbol that had spontaneously appeared on the floor: a spiral with eight corners. Her instructor, a veteran of sacred magic, bent down suddenly, recognizing the engraving.
— "Who did this?" he asked, voice strained.
— "No one, sir... It just... appeared when I wrote the word 'truth.'"
Inside the Church of the Shard of Light, in the forbidden catacombs sealed even to the highest clerics, a prelate stood frozen before a broken artifact: a divine compass pointing in all directions at once.
— "We can no longer track anything. He... no longer follows a path. He is the path."
And somewhere, in the place where only the Eternal Council may enter, one chair remained empty. But behind that place — where even words cannot reach — an ancient voice spoke:
— "He stepped among the Uncalled... and left with a name. Soon, our time will come as well."