"The conquest of the earth… is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much."—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
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Something was wrong long before I saw it. A taste in the air. A silence behind the drums. The kind of silence that listens back.
My heart felt it first. It begged me to turn aside, but I buried the sound beneath the empire's hymns. Their promises were bright enough to blind. They called me chosen. A hero. A light against the dark. I wore the title like armor until it cut my skin.
Every step after became heavier.Every victory rang hollow as a cracked bell.I thought I could finish the task and go home. I thought there would still be a home to return to.
But the road ahead has no gates, no border stones.
Only a widening dusk. I carry the empire's words in my mouth and they turn to ash before I can swallow.
The truth was there from the beginning in the stench of burned fields,in the eyes that would not meet mine,in the way the land itself held its breath.
Now there is no road back. Only the echo of what I agreed to be.
A hero, they called me.
Do you believe that?I'm not sure I ever did.
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The door groaned as it yielded, a sound like rusted chains dragged through water.
A thin blade of moonlight slipped across the floor, spilling into a vast hall long since claimed by silence and nature as chairs line up still neatly stack even in the obvious decay.
Once it must have been a citadel of splendor. Now the marble was fractured and veined with moss, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and rotting leaves.
Ivy curled over toppled columns like black veins, and trees outside pressed their roots through broken tiles, their pale tendrils seeking the warmth of forgotten blood.
At the far end, the statue waited. A goddess of an age no one remembered her face eroded by centuries of rain, yet still faintly luminous in the cold light. Ferns had nested in the folds of her stone robes. A crown of briars circled her head, grown by patient seasons until it seemed she wore a wreath of thorns. Water dripped from the high vaults and traced her cheeks like tears.
Through the open door came a figure. Boots rasped across the damp marble. A sword scraped a harsh path behind leaving a thin trail of red liquid, its steel smeared dark. Each step echoed into the hollow chamber, a rhythm older than heartbeat. His armor, once bright, was the color of dried blood. His cape torn and worn out drenched in red hiding the true color it once had. He walked between the chairs in a slow steady manner the metal of his boots rang across the room like purposeful dreadful melodic music.
His eyes were empty as the hall around him.
He halted at the base of the goddess and slowly knelt, the blade's tip kissing the stone. His head bowed, shoulders trembling. When he spoke, the sound was no louder than a dying ember.
"…I'm sorry."
No answer only the hiss of dripping water and the slow groan of roots shifting in the dark. The statue's eyes stared down, unblinking, as the rain thinned to crimson, streaking her cheeks like tears of blood. It made her stone face seem even more sorrowful as she watched the lone figure kneel before her.
"…I know it changes nothing." The voice broken and defeated.
"Take what's left of me."
From the archway, the darkness thickened until it seemed to breathe. Shadowy figures emerged tall, thin, their limbs bending at uneasy angles.
They glimmered faintly, as if their skin were polished obsidian slick with rain, swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it.
Each movement was deliberate yet fluid, like dancers who had forgotten the steps, swaying to a rhythm only they could hear. A soft hiss followed, countless whispers layered together, almost words, almost laughter, sliding through the hall like smoke.
They drifted closer, circling the kneeling man with patient inevitability, and the marble floor seemed to shiver beneath their soundless feet.
As they reached him, he did not move. He simply let the darkness devour him.
I woke with a start, heart hammering, sweat clinging to my skin.
My chest felt tight, and my head throbbed as if the nightmare had left something heavy behind.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to sit up. It had been… strange. Vivid, unsettling but just a dream. Nothing real. Nothing that could hurt me.
I glanced around my room. Small, tidy, everything in its place the bed neatly made, my clothes folded, the faint smell of polish lingering from yesterday. The morning light spilled in softly through the window. It should have felt comforting. It should have felt normal.
But it didn't. Something was off.
The shadows in the corners leaned a little too long, stretching toward the ceiling in ways they hadn't before. My chair sat at a slight angle, though I knew I hadn't moved it. The blanket on the bed looked flatter than I remembered, the pattern on the rug seemed… strange, as if I was noticing it for the first time. Nothing major. Nothing I could point to and say was wrong. Just… wrong enough to unsettle me.
I ran a hand over my face and shook my head, trying to ground myself. Weird dreams always left a trace like this like the world had shifted slightly while I slept.
I leaned back against the wall, letting my legs dangle over the side of the bed. The room felt ordinary, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't quite mine. That something about it, some small detail, had changed without me noticing.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my breathing, and told myself it was just a dream. Just a nightmare. But the lingering unease clung to me, subtle, quiet, and persistent.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself, and the images came rushing back anyway. The dragging sword scraping across cold stone. The statue, its face streaked with blood. The shadows moving, swaying, whispering, circling.
My heart pounded with each flash. Each time it felt… too real.
I tried to shake it off, to tell myself it was nothing, just a dream. But the more I tried, the harder it was to push away. My chest tightened, my hands trembled, and a cold knot of unease settled in my stomach.
It shouldn't have felt this way. It was just a dream.
And yet… I couldn't let it go.
I opened my eyes again. The room was still the same small, tidy space. Everything was quiet. Everything was normal.
And yet, it wasn't.
I took a deep breath, shaking my head hard, trying to force the images out. Enough. I wasn't letting some stupid dream control me. I pushed myself off the bed, letting the cool floor press against my feet.
"I'm Lucien Marr," I muttered to no one, almost like saying it out loud could remind me who I was. A young man with brown hair, nothing remarkable, nothing anyone would notice. A simple life, a mundane job, a quiet routine. That was all I had and all I wanted.
Or thought I wanted.
I got up, made my bed, brewed some coffee, and went through the motions. Work was the same as always: emails stacking up, phone calls pinging at predictable intervals, paperwork that never seemed to end. The usual greetings with my coworkers, the small talk about the weather or last night's TV shows, the occasional joke that barely made me smile. Lunch at the same little cafe down the street sandwich, coffee, same corner seat I always took. Then back to the office. Repeat.
Evenings were no different. I came home, cooked something simple, and settled into my routine. A quick dinner, the glow of my laptop, scrolling through forums and social media, reading my novels, catching up on shows. I went to bed, only to wake up and do it all again. Every day felt like a faint echo of the last.
At first, I told myself it was fine. Safe. Comfortable. I had a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and a steady paycheck that covered bills and left just enough for small indulgences. I had my little comforts stories, shows, games and they were my escape. They made it bearable. They made me feel like I was living, even if it was only in someone else's adventures.
Sometimes I caught myself thinking that maybe this was all I needed. A simple life, a steady rhythm. Predictable, manageable. No risk, no chaos, no surprises. It was fine. Everything was fine.
But every now and then, a thought would slip in, tiny and fleeting: Is this it? Is this all there is? I'd shake my head and push it aside, because comfort was easier than change. Because the unknown terrified me more than the dull ache of repetition.
But one day, something small changed.
I was scrolling through videos on a whim when I came across a vlog. Some guy traveling to different countries, climbing mountains, wandering through forests, diving into rivers, tasting strange foods, meeting people, seeing things I'd only ever read about in books. He laughed at the camera, fearless, alive.
I felt it then a tiny flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time. Envy, maybe. A yearning. A whisper that maybe… I wasn't living at all.
And it scared me.
Honestly… I had thought about it before. Leaving. Going on some adventure, breaking away from the monotony. But the fear always held me back. Leaving meant leaving everything familiar, stepping into the unknown. I had come from nothing an orphan, scraping through life, learning to survive when nobody would help. Comfort, no matter how dull, was all I had.
Still, the urge never fully went away. Even as I went through the same day over and over managers scolding me for minor mistakes, coworkers laughing about plans I wasn't invited to, friends calling to chat about weekends I didn't have the energy for I could feel it again. That itch. That whisper in my chest that maybe… something could change. Maybe life could mean more than this.
And then it did.
It happened suddenly, impossibly. One moment I was trudging home with the weight of the same routine pressing on me, and the next… I was somewhere else.
A grand room, larger than anything I had ever seen. Light glimmered off polished stone and gilded walls. People dressed in the finest clothes moved around me, their voices rising in cheers. Bells rang. Music swelled, unfamiliar and grand. The air smelled of incense and wax and celebration.
And I… I felt it. That yearning, that hunger for something beyond the ordinary.
It had changed.