The city of Duskreach never knew daylight. At least, not for centuries. The sun was a story told by the old and the mad, a tale of warmth and radiance so distant that even the Church whispered its name only to condemn it. Instead, the city breathed under the pale haze of gaslight and soul-lamps, the iron towers casting long, clawing shadows across cobblestone streets slick with rain and soot.
Elias Varn walked slowly down Hollowlane, the wheels of his cart creaking like the lungs of a dying beast. The night was thick with fog, curling around spires and chimneys, swallowing the weak lamplight into an endless gray. Each step he took sounded muffled, almost swallowed by the weight of the city's silence.
Inside the cart lay the dead. They were always the dead. Wrapped in gray linen, the bodies were his livelihood, a necessary and unpleasant business in a city where life was cheap, and death was cheaper. Elias had long stopped counting how many he had delivered to the Church over the months. He no longer cared about names, faces, or the whispered prayers their families might have offered. Death had a smell, and he had grown accustomed to it.
He paused at the edge of the ruined chapel at the end of Hollowlane. Its spires leaned toward the sky like crooked fingers, and the broken bells swayed gently with the wind, chiming thirteen times in uneven rhythm. The Church had declared the chapel desecrated years ago, but Elias had learned that ruins often hid truths the Church preferred forgotten.
And tonight, the chapel seemed… different.
The fog hung heavier here, almost tactile, as though the air itself had memory. He knelt beside a body that half-slumped from under a pile of broken beams. The linen was torn, and the edges were charred, curled as if kissed by flame.
Elias frowned. Burned. In Duskreach, nothing burned. There was no fire capable of such work except the lamps, and they never reached the corners of the ruins. No sun had touched this city for centuries. Yet, the corpse before him bore marks that were impossible.
He gingerly pulled the cloth aside.
Beneath it, the skin shimmered faintly, not blackened ash, but golden — like sunlight trapped in flesh. The color pulsed briefly, as if something within the body still remembered the warmth, before fading to a dull, unnatural glow.
Elias stumbled back. His heart began to hammer against his ribs. He had delivered corpses for years, seen the results of plague, starvation, and violence. He had seen things that would drive lesser men insane. But this — this was something else entirely.
"Do you remember the Surface, child?"
The voice was faint, almost a whisper, carried on the damp air. Elias froze. The corpse's lips moved, barely, but enough for sound to escape. Smoke-like breath curled upward from its mouth, glowing faintly like the last embers of a dying sun.
"The Sun remembers you."
Then the glow died. The corpse was once more just a body, cold and inert, as if it had never spoken.
Elias swallowed hard, his throat dry. Something deep in his chest twisted, a mixture of fear, awe, and a curiosity he could not resist. The Church had always said that knowledge was dangerous. That light — the light of the Surface — was sin itself. Yet here it was, tangible, undeniable, and staring at him in the dark.
He dragged the cart closer, his hands trembling, and laid the body more carefully atop the others. He needed to report this. The Church would know what to do. They always did.
But as he turned back to leave, a shadow shifted in the fog. Long, impossibly thin, stretching across the cobblestones like a living crack in reality. Elias's heart skipped. The lamps flickered violently, and for a heartbeat, he thought the city itself had shifted — that the spires had moved, bending toward him.
Then the shadow was gone.
He shook his head. Fatigue, perhaps. The nights were long, and the city wore heavily on those who walked its streets alone. Still, he could not shake the feeling that something was watching, waiting for him to leave the ruins.
Elias hurried back toward the street, dragging the cart. The smell of damp iron and burned cloth clung to him. He did not notice the small figure perched on a broken gargoyle, watching silently from above. Only the faintest glimmer of black and gold light in its eyes betrayed its presence before it melted back into the fog.
By the time he reached the Church gates, the city was quiet again. The lamps burned steadily, oblivious to the terror that had brushed the ruins just moments ago. Elias took a deep breath. He was about to enter the hallowed hall, report the body, and wait for judgment.
And yet, something in him recoiled. A voice whispered at the edge of his mind, a memory he did not recognize.
"You cannot hide from the light. It remembers you."
Elias shook his head and forced the gates open. Inside, the Church smelled of incense and iron. Shadows twisted against the walls, flickering as the oil lamps sputtered in the high ceilings. The priests were already gathered, murmuring among themselves, robes brushing the stone floors.
"Varn," one called. "What have you brought this time?"
Elias swallowed. He could not tell them. How could he explain that one of the bodies had… remembered the sun? That it had spoken? That something unseen had touched him in the ruins?
Instead, he nodded and gestured toward the cart. The priests approached, their faces hidden beneath hoods. One touched the corpse and muttered a prayer. The linen glowed faintly under his fingers. He stepped back, eyes wide.
Elias held his breath.
The Church had seen many things. But would they believe this?
A sudden chill crept along his spine. The black sun had risen somewhere beyond the city — or at least, he imagined it had, glowing faintly in the void beyond the iron ceiling. And somewhere in the darkness, a voice laughed.
A voice only he could hear.
The Church's great hall was a cathedral of shadows. The ceilings arched high above, blackened with age, and thick columns of carved stone twisted upward like skeletal trees. Oil lamps hung from iron chains, their flames flickering, casting grotesque shapes that crawled along the walls. The air was heavy, scented with incense and the iron tang of blood long forgotten.
Elias guided his cart into the center of the hall, the wheels squealing against the stone. The priests parted silently, a hollow obedience in their movements that made his skin crawl. At the head of the hall, a man in a heavier, darker robe regarded him from beneath a hood. This was Father Malchior, Archreverent of the Deep, a man whose gaze could strip a soul bare.
"What is it you bring, Varn?" Malchior's voice was low, deliberate, echoing through the hall like a tolling bell.
Elias hesitated. How could he describe what he had seen? A corpse that remembered the sun, speaking in whispers of a world long forgotten… His voice faltered.
"Bodies, Father. The usual," he said, forcing calm into his tone. "From Hollowlane. Three, maybe four."
Malchior's gloved hands steepled beneath his hood. The hall's other priests leaned forward, murmuring among themselves. They were always alert to anomalies. That was their way — to sniff the slightest corruption in the Depths.
Elias unclipped the linen from the first corpse, presenting it carefully. The priest examined it briefly, muttering prayers under his breath. His fingers brushed the flesh. For a fleeting moment, the corpse's skin shimmered again — golden and alive, faintly glowing beneath the priest's touch.
A sharp intake of breath echoed across the hall. One of the younger priests recoiled, clutching his rosary.
"Impossible," Malchior whispered, his voice tight. "It should not…"
Elias swallowed hard. Impossible — that was exactly what he had thought. But now, it was in the hall, undeniable.
"Do you see it?" he asked quietly, his own voice trembling despite himself. "The… the burn, the light…"
Malchior's hands trembled slightly as he withdrew, casting a long shadow across the floor. The priests' murmurs turned to alarm, and a chill ran through Elias. The Church had rules for anomalies like this. He had seen what happened to those who drew too much attention.
"Varn," Malchior said finally, his tone sharp, almost a growl. "You do not know what you have brought here. This is no ordinary corpse. You have crossed the line of sacred law."
Elias's heart pounded. He had obeyed the Church for years, always following orders, always delivering the dead without question. Yet here he stood, accused before the Archreverent for witnessing what no mortal should have seen.
"Father, I swear, I do not understand—"
"Silence!" Malchior's voice echoed like thunder in the hall. "You have allowed the taint of the Surface to enter this sacred place. The Light… it is forbidden. It poisons the mind, corrupts the soul. And you, Varn… you have seen it."
Elias felt the walls closing in, the air thickening as if the hall itself sought to punish him. He looked down at the corpse once more, its linen now dull, its shimmer faded. And yet, the memory of light burned inside him — a warmth that made his chest ache with longing.
A young acolyte approached, trembling, holding a tome of laws written in ink black as coal.
"Archreverent, the Codex forbids contact with Light remnants… the penalty—"
Malchior waved him silent, though the young man's lips quivered. Elias realized that the Church had long feared not the dead, but knowledge of the world above.
"Do you understand, Varn?" Malchior asked. "The penalty for heresy is not mercy. The penalty is… transformation."
The word struck Elias like a blow. Transformation. He had heard rumors — whispered tales of men who sought forbidden truths, who delved too deeply into the Echoes. Their bodies twisted, their minds shattered. Some became something not quite human, not quite monster.
And now, he felt it creeping toward him. The faint pulse in his chest, the echo of the corpse's words — the sun remembered… the sun remembered… It whispered in his mind, a sound both terrifying and beautiful.
Malchior extended a gloved hand.
"Varn, you will come with me. We will examine the body in the sanctum below. If you resist… the Church will consider your soul forfeit."
Elias nodded, voice tight. There was no choice. Resisting the Church in Duskreach was the fastest path to death — or worse.
He followed the Archreverent down the winding stairwell that led beneath the cathedral. The walls were carved from black stone, etched with sigils that seemed to shift under the torchlight. Each step echoed, hollow, as if the city itself watched their descent.
The sanctum was smaller, claustrophobic. The air here was colder, thick with the scent of incense and something older, metallic, almost alive. At the center stood an altar of obsidian stone, its surface etched with concentric circles that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Malchior placed the corpse on the altar. Elias watched as the Archreverent traced the symbols with a finger, murmuring prayers that seemed older than the city itself. The air shimmered faintly, and for an instant, Elias thought he saw the corpse's chest rise, a pulse that had no reason to exist.
"This is not merely dead," Malchior whispered, almost to himself. "It carries the memory of what has been lost. The sun… it touches this body. And perhaps… it has touched you as well."
Elias felt it then — the warmth, the whisper of light brushing his skin, not from the corpse, but from somewhere deep within himself. The memory of sunlight, golden and impossibly distant, made his vision swim.
He stumbled backward, gripping the altar for support.
"Father… I feel it," he said. "I feel… something… inside me."
Malchior's hooded head tilted slightly. The faintest glimmer of curiosity, or perhaps fear, flickered in his eyes.
"Good. Or perhaps… dangerous. Very dangerous. The Church has long awaited one such as you. But beware, Elias Varn. The deeper you go, the less human you will remain. The echoes of Light do not forgive."
A gust of wind rattled the torch sconces. Shadows danced along the walls. The corpse remained inert, but Elias could not shake the feeling that it was watching him, and that somewhere, the black sun burned silently above the city, waiting.
Elias did not yet understand the truth. Not yet. But the die had been cast. The journey into the forbidden had begun.
And in the heart of Duskreach, where the light never reached, the first tremors of madness stirred.
The sanctum's air pressed against Elias's lungs, thick with incense, iron, and the memory of death. His hands shook as he stepped back from the altar, but his eyes remained fixed on the corpse. It lay still, yet every fiber of the room seemed charged with a presence that was older than the city itself.
Malchior moved slowly, chanting in a tongue older than any living man, tracing intricate symbols over the obsidian stone. The golden shimmer that had touched the corpse earlier flickered faintly again, a pulse in the dark, and Elias felt it resonate in his chest. The whispering returned — soft, haunting, and impossibly warm:
"You are remembered… you are remembered…"
Elias staggered, clutching his head. The light, the warmth, the memory of the sun — it clawed at him from the depths of his mind.
"Silence!" Malchior barked. The Archreverent's voice cut through the whispers like a blade. "Do not let it touch you further!"
But it was too late. The warmth had already invaded him. He saw fragments of light in his mind — vast fields under a sky of fire, cities bathed in sunlight, oceans sparkling as though composed entirely of molten gold. Each vision was unbearable in its beauty, and Elias doubled over, gasping.
"You see it, Varn," Malchior said, voice calm now, almost clinical. "The forbidden truth. The Light. Few have glimpsed it and lived without the Church marking them as heretics."
Elias wanted to speak, to demand answers, but words failed him. The visions subsided, leaving him trembling and hollow-eyed. In their place lingered an ache — an emptiness where the memory of light had touched his soul.
Malchior extended a gloved hand.
"You will undergo the Rite of Binding. Only then will we know if the Light has corrupted you, or if it merely calls to what is already within."
Elias's stomach knotted. He had heard whispers of the Rite — an ancient procedure meant to seal those tainted by the Echoes or forbidden knowledge. Failure was not an option. Survival was not guaranteed. Yet something deep inside him rebelled at the thought of being bound, of having the memory of sunlight chained and suppressed forever.
Before he could respond, a scream shattered the sanctum. The walls trembled as if echoing the sound of distant thunder. Torches flickered violently, casting monstrous shadows that danced across the stone.
From the stairwell came a figure, twisted and elongated, its form barely human. Its skin was pale, stretched over jutting bones; its eyes glowed with a black fire, reflecting the two suns above — the golden memory and the black void. The Wraithborn had come.
Elias froze. Malchior's voice was calm, but every syllable carried the weight of command:
"Do not falter, Varn. This is your trial."
The creature hissed, a sound like grinding stone. It lunged, claws scraping the obsidian floor. Elias reacted on instinct, raising his lantern. The dim golden light flared, casting a circle of warmth that made the Wraithborn recoil. Its eyes narrowed, hissing, before it retreated into the shadows of the sanctum.
"It recognizes the Light," Malchior murmured. "And so it recognizes you."
Elias's chest heaved. The warmth in his hands, the lingering whispers in his head, the black void above the city — everything pressed down on him, threatening to crush his reason. The Church had warned him of this, yet nothing could have prepared him.
"You have seen too much, Varn," Malchior said quietly. "The Light marks you. The Echoes answer. From this moment, the Church will watch you, and so will those beneath the city. You are… a heretic."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence. Elias felt the weight of it settle over him. Heretic. Damned. Branded by knowledge he did not choose, yet could not unsee.
The Archreverent drew a dagger from beneath his robe, blackened steel etched with twisting runes. With precise movements, he traced a symbol on Elias's palm. Pain flared, sharp and burning, yet he did not cry out. This was not punishment — it was a mark, a seal binding him to the Church, binding him to the Depths, binding him to the truth he now carried.
"Remember this, Elias Varn," Malchior intoned. "The Light is dangerous. The Echoes are older than men, and older than gods. You are only the beginning. There are forces beneath this city, forces older than our faith, and they have taken notice of you."
Elias's vision swam. The golden shimmer of the corpse, the black sun bleeding in the sky above, the whispering warmth in his mind — all of it coalesced into a single, overwhelming certainty. His life had changed. There was no turning back.
He left the sanctum that night marked, both by the Church and by the Light that lingered within him. The streets of Duskreach were empty, save for the fog curling between towers and the faint hiss of the lamps. Somewhere above, the black sun glowed faintly, an impossible twin to the golden warmth that now haunted his mind.
He knew, in that moment, that the city was watching. And beneath the streets, in the shadowed veins of the Depths, something ancient had stirred.
Elias Varn walked on, lantern in hand, the corpse's whisper still echoing in his mind:
"The Sun remembers you."
And as the black sun rose silently above Duskreach, he realized that in seeking the truth, he had already begun his transformation.
The city slept, but the Depths were alive.
And for Elias, the nightmare had only just begun.