Draemhold never truly slept. Even past midnight, the harbor lanterns burned steadily, and the distant voices of sailors drifted softly across the water like ghost songs. But on this night, the city felt different—quieter, almost unnervingly so, as if something unseen had stolen its very breath.
Nelly walked alone, the others having parted ways hours ago. The moon was a sliver, thin and fragile, barely lighting the rooftops, but the shadows stretched thicker than they should have. He tried not to notice them. He told himself it was exhaustion, nothing more than fatigue.
Then he heard it.
A whisper. Too close. Too sharp. Nelly… vessel… chosen.
He froze instantly, heart hammering painfully against his chest. The street was empty, eerily silent, yet his own shadow rippled against the cobbles, rising, twisting—shapes forming and unforming silently in the darkness. For a moment, he thought he saw an eye blink from within the blackness itself.
"Nelly?"
The voice wasn't a whisper this time. It was Nathan's. He jogged from the corner, light faintly glowing at his fingertips like a tiny beacon. "You vanished so fast—I figured I'd catch up," he said breathlessly.
The glow chased back the darkness, scattering the whispers, dissolving them into nothing. But before they completely faded, one last murmur clung stubbornly to the air: He stirs.
Nelly forced a laugh, but it cracked faintly. "Just… just tired," he muttered, almost too quickly.
Nathan didn't believe him. He glanced around, the glow on his hands flaring a little stronger, as if on instinct, as if sensing danger before seeing it. "Something's wrong here," he said quietly, voice tense.
Elsewhere, Courage lay awake in his tiny room, staff leaning carefully against the wall. His muscles ached, but not from training, not this time. He felt… watched. He clenched his fists, muttering under his breath, "Then come out already, cowards." But the night gave no answer, only the rustle of wind outside the shuttered window.
Divine, meanwhile, was at his desk. He had drawn a dozen circles, runes looping meticulously across parchment. And in the center he had written one word: Cult. The ink smeared slightly as his hand trembled. He hadn't told the others, not yet, but he'd uncovered fragments in old, dusty texts. Cults of the Black Sun. Synods whispering of return. His instincts screamed that their powers were not blessings—they were shackles forged long ago.
He whispered to himself, voice low, "The Ancient One… these marks… they're not coincidence. They're design."
And far below Draemhold, in a chamber sealed by stone and time, hooded figures gathered silently around a sigil of writhing black. Their leader, voice smooth as silk yet laced with menace, intoned clearly:
"The vessels are stirring. The boy of Shadows has awakened."
The chant rose steadily, echoing off the walls like a storm about to break, filling the underground with power and dread.
Back on the surface, Nelly lay in bed, tossing slightly, but he could not sleep. For the first time in his life, he was certain—something was coming for him. Something vast, patient, and ravenous, waiting beyond the edges of the known world.
And in the corner of his room, the shadows smiled quietly, knowingly, as if they had been waiting all along.