Night in Arsam's small house was always unnaturally quiet.
No rustling trees.
No chirping insects.
No whisper of wind.
Just stillness—like the world held its breath whenever he slept, waiting for something to happen.
Arsam lay on his thin mattress, exhaustion dragging him into unconsciousness the moment he closed his eyes. His arms ached from working on the farmland. His mind ached from everything else.
He wanted a dreamless night.
Instead, he fell straight into a nightmare.
---
The Dream — The Well of Voices
Darkness surrounded him.
Cold stone pressed against his skin. Damp air filled his lungs.
Arsam blinked, dazed. He was standing knee-deep in freezing water, staring up at towering walls.
A well.
A deep, impossibly old well.
Cracks ran through its stone like veins. Strange symbols—sharp, spiraling, almost alive—glowed faintly across its walls. The water at his feet reflected nothing, not even his own face. It was a black mirror.
"What… where am I?" Arsam whispered.
His voice echoed unnaturally, like a dozen versions of him whispered back.
Where am I?
I… I… I…
He stumbled and gripped the wall, trying to steady himself, but the stone felt warm—almost pulsing. His breathing quickened.
The water crawled higher.
Slowly.
Like hands rising.
"No—no, no," Arsam gasped, backing up against the far wall. "Stop—stop!"
The water rose to his waist. Its weight pressed against his ribs. Panic clawed its fingers into his throat.
"I… I can't breathe…" he choked, tears burning the corners of his eyes.
The more he panicked, the higher the water climbed.
"I don't want to die—someone—someone help me!"
His voice cracked.
Silence.
Then—
A creaking sound.
A rope dropped from above, swinging gently as if held by someone unseen.
Arsam stared at it, trembling, his breath fogging the air.
The rope was old and frayed… but glowing faintly with red runes, the same symbols etched into the well.
He hesitated only for a moment before grabbing it with shaking hands.
When he pulled, the rope surged upward—like something strong, impossibly strong, lifted him with ease.
As he ascended, water splashed violently below him. The darkness at the bottom of the well churned as if something was watching him leave.
His heart pounded.
Finally, he reached the top. A pair of hands—large, warm, familiar—grabbed his wrists and pulled him onto solid ground.
Arsam collapsed, coughing, gasping, shivering.
Then he froze.
Two figures stood above him, silhouettes against a burning red sky.
One was tall and human-shaped, draped in a dark cloak. His hair was long, silver at the ends, and a faint scar ran across one side of his face. His eyes glowed gold—not magical, but ancient.
The other figure was monstrous.
Demonic.
Its body was wrapped in black mist and bone fragments, its eyes burning crimson. Its form was humanoid but twisted, elegant and terrifying at once. Two long, curved horns rose from its head like obsidian crescents.
Arsam crawled backward instinctively.
The demonic figure watched him with an emotion he couldn't name.
Not hunger.
Not hatred.
Something else.
The human figure stepped forward.
Arsam tried to speak, but no sound came out.
The man knelt in front of him, lifting Arsam's chin gently with one finger.
"Look at me," the man said softly.
Arsam's eyes widened. The man's voice felt like a warm echo inside his chest—familiar, comforting, almost safe.
"You…" Arsam whispered faintly. "Who are you?"
The man smiled sadly.
"My grandson," he said, his voice deep and steady, "you are not alone."
Arsam's breath froze.
Grandson?
He shook his head violently. "No—no, that's not possible! I don't— I don't have—my family is dead. They're all dead!"
The man's eyes brimmed with a pain too deep to understand.
"You only know half the truth," the man whispered.
Arsam's body trembled.
He wanted to run.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted answers.
But all he could do was stare.
The man rose slowly, placing a hand on the shoulder of the demonic figure standing beside him.
"Revo," the man said in a solemn tone, "he will help you."
The demon bowed its head slightly in Arsam's direction, its eyes flickering like embers.
Arsam stumbled backward. "H-Help me? He—he's a demon!"
The man sighed softly.
"My child… there will come a time when demons and men must stand together. That time begins with you."
Arsam shook his head frantically. "I don't understand! Why are you calling me your grandson? How—how do you know me? Who are you?!"
The man took one step toward him.
The ground split.
Flames erupted between them.
The dream began to collapse.
The sky tore apart like shredded paper.
The man's voice echoed through the crumbling world—
"Find me before they do."
Another voice—deeper, colder—came from the demon Revo:
"Awaken, Arsam."
Arsam reached out desperately—
"WAIT—!!"
The world shattered like glass.
---
Awakening — Sweat and Shadows
Arsam shot upright in his bed, gasping for air as if he had been drowning all over again.
His sheets were drenched. His hair clung to his forehead. His heart thrashed violently in his chest.
The room was dark, save for the pale moonlight leaking through the cracked window.
He pressed a hand against his sternum.
"Grand…son…?" he whispered weakly.
The word tasted foreign. Wrong. Impossible.
He slid off the bed, stumbling to his feet. His legs trembled as he walked to the sink, splashing cold water on his face.
His reflection in the dusty mirror stared back at him—pale, wide-eyed, confused.
"That man… his voice…" Arsam whispered. "He felt familiar. Like I've heard him before."
But he hadn't.
He was sure he hadn't.
He gripped the sides of the sink, knuckles white.
"And Revo…" he whispered, remembering the demonic figure. "Why did he bow to me? Why… why did he look at me like that?"
Fear crawled up his spine.
The dream wasn't random.
He knew that instinctively.
Something about it felt real—too real.
His pulse throbbed again.
A faint cold surge spread through his chest.
He gasped, clutching his shirt. "Not again… no… please…"
The pulse faded slowly.
But it left something behind.
A whisper—soft but clear—echoed in his mind.
Awaken.
Arsam staggered backward, collapsing onto the floor.
"No… stop… leave me alone!"
But the voice didn't return.
Silence settled again.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, shaking.
Why now?
Why these dreams?
Why the same cold pulse as the demon attack?
And why would someone—anyone—call him grandson?
He didn't have a grandfather.
Or so he thought.
He wiped his face roughly with his sleeve.
"Who are you…?" he whispered into the darkness. "Who am I?"
His heart pounded, but beneath his fear…
Something else stirred.
Curiosity.
A fragile spark of hope.
Or maybe dread.
Because a part of him—the deepest, most hidden part—felt drawn to that man's voice.
As if it recognized him.
As if it had been waiting.
Arsam lay back down slowly, staring at the ceiling.
The dream replayed over and over behind his eyes.
Find me before they do.
Revo will help you.
Grandson.
Arsam's fingers curled around the blanket.
He didn't sleep again that night.
He simply waited—eyes open, breath shallow—for morning to come.
Because he knew…
Everything was about to change.