Shadows and Echoes
The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the sound of his footsteps on the wet pavement. Then—shadows moved ahead. Four, maybe five figures stepped out, blocking his path.
"Oi, look what we got here," one sneered, voice sharp, hungry.
"Kid's out alone in the middle of the night. Must be carrying something," another said, circling closer.
Alan froze, his pulse quickening. The street was empty. His eyes darted around for an escape. I can't… I won't let this happen.
"Wallet, Phone, Whatever you got," the first man growled, pulling out a rusted blade.
Alan's throat tightened, but his body moved before his mind caught up. He pushed forward, elbowing one in the ribs. The man let out a grunt of pain. Alan kicked at another's knee, making him stagger back.
"Get him!" someone shouted.
Alan bolted. His feet splashed through puddles as he ran down the alley. Behind him came curses, footsteps pounding after him. His chest burned, breath ragged, heart slamming against his ribs.
He darted into an old, ruined building. The roof was half-collapsed, the windows shattered, the smell of mildew heavy in the air. Alan pressed himself against a wall, forcing himself to stay still, silent.
"Don't breathe. Don't make a sound".
But then—something strange.
A flicker. A flash of colour at the edge of his vision. The sound of whispers—low, inhuman, curling through the walls. The rain outside grew louder, pounding against the broken roof like a drum. His hands shook. His chest rose too fast.
What is this…?
A brick crumbled under his foot. The noise echoed.
"There! He's inside!" one of them shouted.
Alan's heart dropped. The men stormed into the ruin. He swung at the first who came close, his fist connecting with a jaw. Another rushed him—Alan shoved a splintered beam into his chest, knocking him back. For a moment, adrenaline carried him, his body fueled by desperation.
"You...!" One of them shouted.
But then, in the chaos, steel flashed.
"Agh—!" Alan cried out.
One of them had lunged too close, and the blade sank into his side. The man froze, horrified at what he had done.
Blood spread across Alan's shirt. He fell to the ground, his hands clutching at the wound, pain exploding through his body. His voice came out raw, shaking:
"Please… help… I'm… I'm bleeding… don't leave me…"
The thieves stepped back, pale, trembling.
"Shit… we didn't mean—"
"He's gonna die!"
"Run! Before someone sees—just run!"
They fled into the storm, their footsteps fading into the night. Alan was left alone, sprawled on the cold floor of the ruined building, rain dripping through holes in the roof.
"Please…" he whispered again, weaker this time. His tears mixed with the rain. His breath grew shallow, heavy, ragged. His vision blurred.
And then—it began.
The air shifted, trembling like water struck by stone. Strange lights flickered across the walls. Voices, echoes, whispers rose in his head, louder, overlapping, pressing against his mind. His body convulsed, pain and terror twisting together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
The rain hammered down harder, drowning the night. Alan's chest heaved. His trembling hand reached out toward the dark.
"What… is… happening…?"
His words vanished in the storm. His vision flickered. Then everything went black.
And in that endless dark, a voice spoke—calm, deep, otherworldly:
"Do not fear… You are chosen."
The silence that followed was absolute.
And thus, the story of Arathen began.