Frey opened his eyes. Darkness.
This darkness was not merely the absence of light. It pulsed, whispered, as if alive. The air around him was cold, damp, and carried the scent of old iron. The stone floor beneath his body was rough, its chill piercing to the bone. He trembled, as though dragged from a dream that had never ended.
"Where am I?" His voice cracked, barely audible.
There was no answer. Only the echo of his own words bouncing off the walls. Slowly, he rose, his eyes adjusting to the faint glow of an old lantern in the corner. The lantern swayed gently, as if moved by an unseen breath.
The room was empty, save for a single wooden table at its center. Upon it lay a pen.
This pen was different. Its body was pitch black, gleaming like obsidian, etched with fine patterns resembling veins. Its tip dripped ink, though no inkwell was nearby. Strangely, Frey felt as though the pen was watching him.
He approached, his steps heavy, his heart pounding. When his fingers touched the pen, a cold sensation spread through his body—as if he had touched a living creature.
The pen trembled. And then… it began to write on its own.
On the table, without paper, black ink seeped into the air, forming words:
"Write. Or vanish."
Frey staggered back, his eyes widening. "What… what do you want from me?"
No answer came, only a faint whisper in his head. A whisper not of human voice, but something deeper, older, darker.
He tried to resist, but his hand moved on its own. The pen clung to his fingers, forcing him to grip it. Before him, a blank sheet of paper appeared, summoned from nothingness.
His hand began to write:
"I awoke in a nameless room. Shadows watched me. And something was waiting."
As the words ended, the room trembled. Shadows on the wall stretched, forming a vague figure. It had no face, only black eyes dripping ink.
Frey collapsed, gasping. "No… this isn't real…"
But the figure stepped out of the shadow.
Panic mingled with curiosity. Every word he wrote became reality. He tried to stop, but the pen pulsed, forcing him. The whisper grew louder:
"Write your story. Or let the world rewrite you."
With trembling hands, he wrote:
"The figure approached, but stopped before the table."
And indeed, the shadow halted. Yet its eyes continued to drip ink, staring at Frey with a hollow gaze.
Frey felt as though he was no longer human, but a puppet controlled by the pen. Was he truly writing, or merely following a script already laid out?
The tolling of the clock tower echoed from outside. Twelve times. The shadow quivered, then transformed. From a vague silhouette, a real form emerged: a man in a silver mask.
His eyes dripped black ink. He was the Hunter.
Hunter did not speak. He only stood, staring at Frey, as if waiting for the next words.
Frey wrote frantically:
"Hunter does not attack me."
At once, Hunter stopped. Yet his gaze pierced through, stabbing into Frey's soul.
Frey tried to put down the pen, but his hand would not obey. The pen clung, pulsing, as if it had become part of him. He wrote again, unwillingly:
"Hunter approaches."
And Hunter stepped forward.
Frey screamed, trying to halt the words, but the pen kept moving. He realized: every word he wrote was not merely a story, but an unavoidable reality.
The room shook harder. The lantern extinguished. Darkness swallowed everything.
And in the midst of the void, the whisper returned:
"Welcome to your Chronicle, Frey Vaelborn."