The bench was a scab of rust and flaking green paint, a lone, decaying tooth in the otherwise pristine mouth of the city square. Across the street, the police station stood like a fortress of polished steel and tinted glass, its surface reflecting the hurried, well-dressed citizens who flowed around the small park like a river parting for a particularly unappealing rock.
On that rock sat Alistar.
He was a stark silhouette against the bright, clean world, a smudge of grey in a panorama of vibrant colour. His frame was lean to the point of gauntness, all sharp angles and taut skin stretched over bone. A faded, patched-up jacket, several sizes too large, swallowed his torso, and his trousers were worn thin at the knees. But it was his face that truly marked him as an outsider. Pale, almost luminous skin was underscored by deep, bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes, a testament to too many sleepless nights and too few nourishing meals. He looked like a ghost who had forgotten to fully depart.
Cradled in his hands was a cup of cheap, synthetic soup. It was the kind of nutrient-slurry they served in the communal dispensaries in the outskirts—beige, vaguely salty, and thick with artificial fillers. It cost him a quarter of his daily earnings, a frankly idiotic expense when the dispensary provided a basic version for free. But today wasn't a day for basic.
Today was the day he was going to die. Or, with a sliver of a chance, be reborn.
Might as well have a last meal, he thought, a wry, internal smirk twisting in his mind. Even if it's this garbage.
He brought the cup to his lips, the synthetic material warm against his chilled fingers. He took a cautious sip and immediately grimaced, his whole face contorting.
"Ugh. Tastes like boiled dust and regret."
He glared at the cup as though it had personally offended him. "all the money i saved,all of it for this. I could've bought a half-decent protein bar. Or saved up for a flicker of real light in my cube." He shook his head, a short, sharp motion. "No. No point saving anything now. Drink up, Alistar. It's fuel. Nothing more."
He forced himself to take another gulp, swallowing past the instinct to spit it out. It was warm, at least, and the heat spread through his hollow chest, a poor imitation of comfort. He watched the people of the inner city stride past, their postures erect, their clothes clean and well-fitted. They moved with a purpose he could only envy, their bodies nourished and strong. He felt their glances, quick and dismissive, like shards of ice. He was a flaw in their perfect landscape, a piece of debris that had blown in from the slums.
Look all you want, he thought, his jaw tightening. I'm not here for you. I'm here for me.
A tall man in a long coat gave him a particularly wide berth, his nose wrinkling slightly. Alistar met his gaze for a second, refusing to look away. The man quickly averted his eyes and hurried on.
Yeah, that's right. Keep walking. Alistar's internal monologue was a constant, defensive stream. You get three meals a day and a bed that isn't a damp mattress on a concrete floor. Of course you're tall. Of course your skin doesn't look like parchment. Must be nice.
He finished the last of the soup, the gritty residue coating his tongue. He stood up, his joints protesting with a familiar ache. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the empty cup towards a nearby public waste bin. It sailed through the air, clipped the rim, and bounced pathetically onto the immaculate pavement.
"Fantastic," he muttered aloud, the sound of his own voice strange in the open air. He strode over, the worn soles of his boots making soft scuffing sounds. He bent down, picked up the cup, and placed it carefully inside the bin. "Wouldn't want to offend the delicate sensibilities of the polished folk."
He didn't just feel their eyes on him now; he invited them. Let them see. Let them watch the slum rat follow their precious rules. A grim, determined smile touched his lips. He turned and walked deliberately across the street, not hurrying, not slowing, a lone figure marching towards the steel-and-glass fortress.
The air inside the police station was cold, smelling of antiseptic, ozone, and thinly veiled tension. It was a different kind of cold from the outside; this one seeped into your bones and carried a threat. The walls were reinforced with dull grey alloy plates, and Alistar's sharp eyes, trained by a life of looking for threats, picked out the subtle seams in the ceiling where retractable turrets were housed. Some things were universal, no matter what part of the city you were in. Oppression just had a nicer facade here.
A duty officer looked up from his terminal, his face a roadmap of long shifts and low-grade cynicism. His eyes, set deep in a fleshy face, scanned Alistar from head to toe, lingering on the threadbare jacket and pale complexion. The distaste was immediate and unconcealed.
"You," the officer grunted, his voice a low rasp. "Lost your way, kid? The shelters are back in the outskirts."
Alistar didn't flinch. He let his gaze wander around the lobby one more time, taking in the details, storing them away. *Two visible exits besides the main entrance. Camera in the upper left corner is the newest model. The officer's sidearm is a standard-issue Glock 9, holster strap is unfastened. Sloppy.*
He cleared his throat, meeting the officer's weary stare.
"Not lost," Alistar said, his voice calm and clearer than he expected. He scratched the back of his head, playing the part of the nervous outer-city youth. It wasn't hard; the mannerisms were ingrained, even if the fear wasn't. "I'm here to turn myself in. As per the Third Special Directive."
The officer's bored expression didn't change. "Turn yourself in for what? Spitting on the sidewalk? Look, if you're looking for a warm cell and a meal, there are procedures—"
"I'm a carrier," Alistar interrupted, the words dropping into the room like stones. "Of the Nightmare Spell."
The change was instantaneous. The officer's lethargy evaporated. His body went rigid, his eyes sharpened, and his hand moved subtly closer to his unfastened sidearm. The air in the room seemed to get several degrees colder.
"Say that again," the officer commanded, his voice low and tight.
"I'm infected with the Nightmare Spell," Alistar repeated, enunciating each word. "Symptoms started showing a few days ago. The fatigue. The… the urge to sleep."
The officer's face lost a shade of its colour. "Shit." The word was a soft exhalation of pure dread. Then, movement. His hand slapped down on a large red button on his terminal. A piercing, rhythmic alarm blared through the station.
"ATTENTION! CODE BLACK IN THE LOBBY! I REPEAT! CODE BLACK!"
The history of the Nightmare Spell was a story told to children to scare them into obedience, but for Alistar, it had always been a lesson in reality. Decades ago, as the world was limping its way out of the Resource Wars and the Great Collapse, a new affliction appeared. It started subtly: people complaining of endless tiredness. Then came the unnatural sleep—a slumber from which many never woke. By the time the dead began to rise, twisted into things of horror and hunger, it was far too late for armies and governments to stop the tide.
Humanity was saved, after a fashion, by the Awakened. They were the survivors of the Spell's first trials, the ones who had ventured into the Dream Realm and returned with powers beyond human understanding. They built the new order, a world stratified not just by wealth, but by power. Real, tangible, supernatural power.
For most, being chosen by the Spell was a terrifying lottery. A chance at god-like abilities, or a horrific death. Children in the inner cities trained for it in state-of-the-art academies. Scions of the great Awakened clans were born with advantages—inherited weapons called Memories, and bound spirits known as Echoes, tools to give them an edge in their first Nightmare.
For Alistar, a orphan from the rust-strewn outskirts, it was none of those things. It wasn't a lottery. It was a final, brutal exam for a life that had been nothing but a test of endurance. He had no family legacy, no combat training, no store of knowledge. All he had was a feral will to live that had kept him breathing through hunger, cold, and violence. The Spell wasn't offering him an opportunity. It was issuing a challenge. And Alistar had spent his entire life learning how to fight for scraps. This was just the biggest scrap of all.
The next few minutes were a controlled, sterile panic. He was rushed from the lobby by a team of officers in full hazard gear, their faces hidden behind visors. They didn't manhandle him, but their grips were firm, impersonal. He was taken down a stark, white corridor into a basement room that felt more like a vault than a medical facility.
The walls were solid alloy, a foot thick at least. The only door was a massive circular hatch that hissed shut with a sound of finality. In the center of the room stood a heavy chair, all reinforced straps, metal clamps, and embedded sensors. It looked like a cross between an electric chair and a dentist's nightmare.
"Alright, son, into the chair," one of the faceless officers said, his voice muffled by his helmet.
Alistar didn't resist. He sat, the cold metal seeping through his thin trousers. They fastened thick straps across his chest, waist, and limbs, pinning him securely. The clamps clicked shut with a series of definitive thunks. He was trapped. Around the room, other officers took up positions, their rifles held at the ready, pointed not at him, but at the empty space in front of his chair. Their job was clear: if he failed, the thing that came out of him would be met with a hailstorm of bullets.
A profound weariness was beginning to press down on him now, a heavy blanket smothering his senses. The cheap soup felt like a lead weight in his stomach. He fought to keep his eyes open, the struggle becoming a physical effort.
The vault door hissed open again, and a new man entered. He was older, his hair a steely grey, cut short. His face was a landscape of weathered skin and sharp lines, but his eyes held a grim, experienced clarity. He dismissed the other officers with a nod, and they filed out, leaving the two of them alone in the armored room, the only sound the hum of the ventilation system.
The old policeman checked Alistar's restraints with practiced efficiency, his hands moving with a soldier's precision. He then glanced at a chronometer on the wall and let out a slow breath.
"What's your name, kid?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"Alistar," he replied, his own voice sounding thin and reedy in the cavernous room.
"Alistar," the policeman repeated, as if testing the weight of it. "Strong name. Better than some I've heard. You from the outer sectors?"
"Sector Seven," Alistar said, trying to keep his focus. The pull of sleep was a siren song, sweet and irresistible.
The old man grunted. "Tough place. Makes tough people." He paused, his stern eyes studying Alistar's face. "You have anyone? Family we should notify?"
Alistar gave a slight shake of his head, the movement feeling sluggish. "No. There's no one." It was the truth. His mother was a fading memory, his sister… gone. He was a solitary creature, and had been for a long time.
The policeman's expression darkened for a fraction of a second, a shadow of something that might have been pity, but was quickly replaced by professional resolve. "Alright, Alistar. How much longer can you fight it? The sleep."
"Not… not long," Alistar admitted, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The lights seemed to be dimming at the edges of his vision.
"Then we're out of time for the full briefing. Listen to me. This is the most important conversation of your life, and it's going to be the shortest. Pay attention."
Alistar forced his eyes wide, blinking rapidly. "I'm listening."
"How much do you really know about the Spell? Not the hero stories. The truth."
Alistar licked his dry lips. "You go to sleep. You go to the Dream Realm. You survive a trial, kill monsters, and if you win, you get powers. You become Awakened."
The policeman gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "Survive a trial. Kill monsters. It's not that clean, kid. Once you're inside your First Nightmare, you'll find a world. You'll see people. They'll look real, sound real, feel real. But they're not. They're illusions. Phantoms created by the Spell to test you."
"How… how can you be sure?" Alistar pressed, a spark of his defiant curiosity flaring through the fog. "No one knows what the Spell is. So how do you know they aren't real?"
The old man's gaze was unwavering. "Because you might have to kill them, Alistar. You might have to do worse. So for your own sanity, you will believe they are illusions. It's the only way to make it through. Do you understand?"
A cold knot tightened in Alistar's gut. "I understand."
"Good. The First Nightmare… it's a test of potential. It's supposed to be calibrated to the aspirant. The tools you find, the situation you're in, the enemies you face… they should, in theory, be something you can handle. It's a trial, not an execution." His eyes flicked over Alistar's gaunt frame. "You're at a disadvantage. No training, poor nutrition. But like I said, Sector Seven makes survivors. Use that. Your will to live is a weapon. Wield it."
You have no idea, Alistar thought, the desire to live burning in his chest like a cold fire. It's the only weapon I've ever had.
"Now, the powers," the policeman continued, his voice beginning to sound distant, as if he were speaking from the end of a long tunnel. "You get them at the start. The moment you arrive. The first thing you do, the very first thing, is to find out what they are. You check your Attributes and your Aspect. Your Aspect is your… your role. Your class. If you get a combat Aspect—Swordsman, Brawler, Archer—your job is simpler. If you have a physical Attribute to back it up, like enhanced strength or speed, even better. Most people get something combat-related. The odds are in your favor there."
The room was swimming now. The policeman's face was becoming a blur.
"If you're unlucky," the voice was fading, "if you get a utility Aspect, something to do with crafting or knowledge, or… or something useless, don't you dare give up. You get clever. You get ruthless. There are no useless Aspects, only useless people. Almost. You use whatever you have. You survive."
Survive. The word echoed in Alistar's mind. It was the only prayer he had ever known.
"If you succeed, you come back a hero-in-waiting. Halfway to being Awakened. But if you die in there…" The policeman's voice hardened. "If you die, you tear a hole between worlds. A Nightmare Creature, a real one, comes through. Right here. And my men and I get to deal with it."
For the first time, a flicker of something other than determination crossed Alistar's mind. It wasn't fear for himself, but a sudden, sharp awareness of these men, trapped in this room with him, waiting to see if he would become their doom.
"So," the old policeman said, his final words barely a whisper, "do us all a favour, kid. Try not to die. At least, not too quickly. The nearest Awakened response team is hours out. We're not equipped to handle a high-level incursion on our own."
Well, shit, was Alistar's last, coherent thought. No pressure.
The darkness finally rushed in, a warm, velvety, absolute blackness that consumed sight, sound, and sensation. He was gone.
And then, from within that nothingness, a voice, devoid of source or location, cold and resonant as a chime from another dimension, spoke:
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]