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Chapter 1: The River Beneath the Light
Cold.
That was the first thing he felt.
He was floating—or maybe sinking—through a dark river that made no sound. The water pressed against his chest like thick air. Every breath tasted of metal and ash.
Something brushed against his legs—maybe a current, maybe something alive. The river itself glowed faintly, like moonlight trapped beneath glass.
He tried to swim toward the light above, but then it came—
a sudden drag, like an invisible hand gripping his ankle. The current twisted him around. He reached for the light, but it slipped further away.
Then everything turned white.
No sound. No breath. No thought.
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Arthur's skull felt like it was splitting in half.
A shrill ringing drilled through his ears as he forced his eyes open. The ceiling above him was cracked and water-stained. Damp wood. Mold. Every inhale stung.
He was lying on a straw mattress that creaked under his weight. A crooked lantern swayed overhead, its weak flame throwing slow, dizzy shadows across the room.
He looked around. Strange symbols were etched into the floorboards at the four corners of the bed—faint, hand-drawn, but purposeful. They almost pulsed when he stared too long.
He sat up, throat dry. His clothes were rough and alien—coarse fabric tied with string. The air bit cold against his skin.
> "What... the hell?" he muttered.
The last thing he remembered was the board game.
The occult club in the library's back room, joking about summoning spirits.
He'd laughed. Said it was all nonsense.
He went home with a splitting headache. Took too many painkillers.
Then—nothing.
He ran a hand through his hair and winced. His fingertips brushed something cold. When he looked, black dust clung to his skin. It shimmered faintly before fading, like smoke sinking into air.
> "Great," he whispered. "Hallucinations too."
The room had no windows, only thin gaps where wind sighed through the planks. A broken table leaned against the wall, beside an overturned kettle and a pile of cold ash.
The air smelled like rain—and death.
Then came the sound.
Screaming.
Arthur froze. The voices grew louder, echoing through the fog pressing against the shack's walls.
He crept toward a crack in the wood.
Outside, torchlight painted the mist a burning orange.
A mob had gathered in the square below—men, women, even children. Pale faces, wide eyes. All staring at the man kneeling in the mud.
The old gravekeeper.
His robe was soaked in blood. His hands were bound. Yet somehow, he smiled—lips cracked, eyes burning with something close to joy.
A guard kicked him down.
> "Confess, you filthy heretic! Beg the Light for forgiveness, or your soul will rot with your corpse!"
The old man spat blood onto the guard's boot.
> "Forgiveness?" he rasped. "You think they forgive? You think they even hear you?"
The crowd hissed. Some crossed themselves. Others cursed.
Then the man raised his head and spoke louder, his voice slicing through the noise:
> "Humans shout to silent entities they call gods—but do they even need your exhalation?"
The words froze the crowd.
> "They punish you, and all you give in return is devotion!"
"You kneel before the silence that devours you—and call it faith!"
The guards rushed to shut him up, but he twisted his neck, grinning, blood spilling down his chin.
> "What you call heresy is truth," he whispered, voice lowering to something that almost sounded like prayer.
"For those who open their eyes wide enough to see the frame—not just the corner they were caged in."
A woman threw a rock. It struck his shoulder. Blood spattered the mud, but he didn't flinch.
> "Burn me!" he barked, laughing hoarsely. "I've touched more graves than you've said prayers! I've seen what your saints really are!"
The guards hesitated. The murmurs in the crowd grew sharp, frightened.
> "He's one of them," someone whispered. "A corpse-binder."
> "A necromancer," said another. "From the old sects."
The guard who had kicked him spat. "The Graven Circle, I bet. Those rats never die."
Arthur's heart thumped. That name lingered in the air—heavy, ancient, dangerous.
He could feel it too now. A pulse beneath the ground.
Something listening.
> "Enough!" the captain barked. "Prepare the stake! The laws of Elyndra show no mercy to the marked!"
The name struck him—Elyndra. So that's what this place was called.
The gravekeeper lowered his head, chuckling low and wet. Then his gaze lifted, locking straight on Arthur's.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
> "H-how is he still alive?" the man whispered, eyes widening. "You shouldn't be here…"
Arthur's breath caught in his throat.
Then the guards dragged the old man away. The mob followed, torches swaying like restless stars. The noise faded—leaving only the faint echo of laughter.
But before silence could settle, a new voice rose.
It was calm, deep, and heavy with ritual.
A priest stepped forward, robed in silver and black. The symbol of the Solar Dominion glimmered on his chest—a circle enclosing a burning sun. Around his neck hung a vial of clear oil.
He moved with deliberate grace.
When he spoke, even the torches seemed to waver.
> "By decree of the High Cathedral," the priest intoned, "this soul is forfeit. The Light shall unmake what darkness has claimed."
He raised his hand. Another guard handed him the oil. The priest poured it over the kneeling man's head. The gravekeeper's laughter echoed through the mist.
> "Even your god burns," he whispered.
The priest didn't stop. He began to chant, words rolling like thunder.
> "O Light, O Sanctum Flame, purge this vessel of sin."
The air trembled.
A white brilliance split the fog like a sword.
A pillar of radiance crashed down from the heavens, swallowing the old man whole. His body burned to ash in seconds—but his laughter didn't stop. It grew louder, more unhinged, echoing through the square like a curse.
> "Even your heaven burns," he said again, before his voice vanished into smoke.
When the light faded, the crowd knelt. Some prayed. Some wept. The priest stood still, eyes half-closed, muttering a final benediction.
Then silence.
Arthur stumbled back from the crack, chest tight. His hands were shaking. His head pounded, worse than before.