The bed creaked like an old man's joints—tired, bitter, and too used to disappointment. Mildew clung to the damp stone, laced with rust and the quiet rot of forgotten dreams. From within the walls came a faint, insistent scratching—rats, or memories best left buried.
His temples throbbed. A dull, oppressive ache that seemed to pulse in time with his thoughts.
Think, Sylas. Focus. You didn't come here to die in some rat-chewed bedframe. There's a reason... isn't there?
He inhaled, slow and deliberate, but the stench did little to inspire clarity. Still, he pressed on.
You need power—yes. Resources, allies, gold.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. And perhaps more than anything, you need to remember.
He closed his eyes. Thoughts spiraled into a downward coil, a whirlpool of images that refused to stay still. A throne glimpsed from afar. Cold eyes in a mirrored hall. A silver goblet. A boy choking, white foam at the corners of his lips.
No... don't linger there.
Then, like the distant toll of a cracked bell, a name emerged from the mire of his thoughts.
Duskwick.
A village forgotten by fate, quiet and isolated, wrapped in a silence that felt like something was listening. It sat on the edge of Shenzara, where maps blurred into fog, folklore, and shadows that made torches flicker without wind.
To the north lay the Whispering Hollow, an ancient forest shrouded in mist, rumored to devour both sound and soul. Children were warned never to speak its name after dusk, lest it whisper back.
Sylas opened his eyes, the ceiling above him cracked and bowed with age. He stared at it as if expecting it to collapse just to spite him.
"This place practically screams poverty," he muttered, his voice dry, laced with disdain and the faintest trace of amusement. I'm beginning to suspect the mold thinks it owns the deed.
One of the unseen creatures in the wall scratched twice. A rebuttal, perhaps. Or an agreement.
He sat upright, ignoring the protest of the bed and the protest in his skull. His hands rested in his lap—calm, practiced, and deceptively still. It was a stillness learned not from peace, but from prison cells and auction halls, from poisoned courts and execution scaffolds.
Whatever threads had drawn him here—coincidence, destiny, or some god with a cruel sense of humor—he would find them, pull them apart, and reweave them into something he could wear like a crown.
A letter lay on the edge of the rickety table beside the bed, half-curled from the humidity that clung to the walls like rot. Its wax seal had been broken, but the creases remained sharp—too sharp.
Mother, huh...
The word surfaced unbidden, lodged itself in the hollow of his chest, and sat there—unmoving, unspeaking, unmourned.
Why did it always taste of iron and regret?
He exhaled slowly, the sound more a release than a breath, as though sighing could bleed out memory. Leaning back, the ceiling stared back at him, water-stained and indifferent.
I've carried this weight long enough, haven't I?
A name.
A word.
A feeling dressed as recollection.
It wasn't even a memory—not fully. It was warmth—the kind that clings to skin long after the fire's gone out. A kitchen, narrow but filled with life. The scent of spices, of broth bubbling on the stove. His hands—small, eager—mimicking hers as she cut vegetables with the rhythm of an old lullaby. Her laughter—light, silver, endlessly patient—spilled through the air like morning sun through a curtain.
His mother.
"The warmth of that memory... does it matter now?"
He asked no one. Not even himself.
It was cruelly funny. Even with a mind shattered, it still sought softness when everything else was glass and knives. Even when you begged it to forget.
His fingers brushed the edge of the paper, calloused fingertips catching on the fibers like they were trying to resist.
The letter unfolded with a whisper.
His eyes found a single name.
Stopped.
Evan.
The ink hadn't bled. The parchment was pristine. But the name—oh, the name—was anything but.
...Evan.
His gaze hardened.
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
Memories... flared up, uninvited.
The weight of them crushed his chest, but he forced them back.
Tch.
The sound cut through the quiet like a knife over silk.
"My predecessor... He certainly left me quite the inheritance, didn't he?"
A smirk threatened to rise, but never fully bloomed. It died somewhere between cynicism and fatigue.
Evan. The golden heir. The darling of the people. The Light's chosen.
Born of Ruo Ziyun—a name once spoken with reverence, now passed in whispers. Third wife to the king. The most beautiful. The most tragic.
Once, the pride of the Ruo Clan—refined blood, cold eyes, fingers trained for elegance and poison both. But that clan, like all pillars of power built on brittle pride, had fallen. Shattered under the weight of politics and time.
What did they do? Desperate? Yes. Like every fallen clan before them.
They sold their daughters in gilded boxes, wrapped with desperate smiles.
Ziyun...
A fruit basket offered to a starving wolf.
A king mistaking hunger for love.
How very... human.
He scoffed, low in his throat, as though the absurdity of it all still amused him.
The king, draped in silk and delusion, had believed himself in love.
Had believed that beauty meant devotion.
That obedience was affection.
Sylas leaned forward, his chin resting in his palm, the dim candlelight casting his face in uneven shadows. His gaze, distant yet merciless, never once blinked. It was as if the very act of blinking might betray him, might show weakness.
It's always the beautiful ones they ruin first, he mused in silence, his thoughts threading back to another life, another time.
A beat passed.
Then another.
The letter lay open before him, its words meaningless now. The true message had already been delivered—not in ink, but in something deeper, undeniable, and permanent.
Not in words.
But in memory.
And resentment.
And the weight of a name that refused to be forgotten.
She... His mind drifted back—to a girl, her laughter once lighting up his apartment. Bright, untainted, it cut through any darkness. So pure, he could almost taste it. Almost feel her there again.
Then, one day, it stopped.
The silence that followed... louder than any laughter could ever be.
Why did it stop?
He heard his mother's voice then—cold, distant, her eyes never meeting his. There was a tightness in her tone he hadn't understood, something he still couldn't name.
"Some women... don't get to choose."
He heard his mother's voice then—cold, distant, her eyes never meeting his. There was a tightness in her tone he hadn't understood, something he still couldn't name.
But this world had a way of teaching you things—slowly, cruelly, and without asking.
His mind wandered, lost in the quiet of the room.
There were always more important things to focus on.
"The Kingdom of Shenzara," he murmured, as if saying the name might make sense.
The kingdom was divided between two dominant powers—
The noble houses, who wielded mana drawn from their very souls, and the ancient cultivation sects and families, who channeled qi from heavens and earth.
The two factions, though very different, maintained a fragile alliance. Each had a seat on the Kingdom Council, but their cooperation was based on necessity, not trust.
"Great. It's like watching a bad wuxia crossover," he muttered, tucking the letter into his coat.
And Evan, his dear little brother, had awakened the holy power of Eluria, the Light Goddess worshiped across all of Shenzara, except in this forgotten village and a few distant nations.
The king and the noble council acted quickly. In an instant, they removed Sylas from his title and made Evan the new heir.
The original Sylas didn't handle it well. He threw a fit in the throne room, begging, screaming, and threatening, but none of it worked.
So, in a fit of desperation and pride, he did what all fools drunk on entitlement do—he plotted. Gathered a handful of bitter nobles, threw coin at mercenaries, and set a plan in motion to poison the golden boy.
Naturally, everything went wrong. His so-called 'allies' betrayed him, the golden boy survived, and Sylas was labeled a traitor.
"And now here I am—Exiled, babysitting the legacy of a moron who poisoned his career with actual poison."
He exhaled, long and loud through his nose as he rose to his feet.
What a headache.
It wasn't that he wanted to be the king—too many duties, too many eyes watching, and not enough freedom. But staying a prince? That would've been perfect. Close enough to power to enjoy its benefits, without carrying its burden.
But that opportunity was gone now.
Sylas walked over to the crooked window, his crimson eyes darkening.
Still... that didn't mean the path was closed. It would just take more time. Careful planning. And a few necessary sacrifices.
The warped frame creaked under his touch.
Outside, the forest greeted him like a painter's cruel joke—a fog-laden forest with only a sliver of sunlight, rotting fence posts jutting from the earth like broken teeth.
"Charming," he muttered. "If you're fond of plagues... and quiet despair."
He casually adjusted his collar with a flick of his fingers.
Time for a stroll, perhaps... or to find a few fools in need of salvation.
~~~~~~
The air was damp, and the ground felt soft under his boots as he walked. Fog curled around him like a creature sniffing out his scent.
Villagers peeked through cracked windows and open doors, whispering nervously. It wasn't often they saw outsiders or nobles in Duskwick.
Sylas walked calmly, head held high, each step deliberately placed. He caught fragments of quiet whispers, fleeting glances, and curtains moving as people peeked at him.
The villagers feared the forest.
Children were pulled back when they neared its edge. Elders spat prayers into the wind.
They called it the Whispering Hollow—a place said to hum with voices when the night grew still enough. Some believed it was cursed. A place where dead still listened… or spoke.
Perhaps there is something to the whispers... or perhaps it's just them feeding their own dread.
Lately, people or rather, children... had been disappearing.
Which made Sylas all the more curious.
He strolled further into the village, passing a tavern tucked between an apothecary and a chapel. Inside, villagers whispered over drinks, and outside, an old man sold bone charms.
"It smells of desperation. Is that why they sell trinkets like these? Bone charms. Hah."
Sylas eventually arrived at a small market, where old stalls and crooked tables crowded the square
A few sellers shouted, offering vegetables and dried meat. An old woman sold hard candies from a cracked glass jar. Children ran by, playing with wooden toys shaped like animals and birds.
Sylas walked through the crowd, his coat brushing past people as the noise around him swirled into a chaotic mess.
Everyone keeps moving, keeps pretending, but beneath it all, we're all looking for something. A way out. A way up. Just like me.
He spotted a small stall made of mismatched cloth, like a patchwork tent, tucked between a fish seller and a sweaty blacksmith shop.
He was already walking past, until a tug at his coat broke the silence.
A boy, no older than ten, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Brother, brother, could you buy something from the stall?" he asked, a half-melted candy sticking to his small fingers.
He stared at the child, motionless, as his mind drifted inward.
A faint memory, too faint to catch, stirred in the depths of his consciousness. It wasn't pity. No, not pity, almost like recognition, hidden deep under years of pretending.
A boy. Alone. Reaching out.
A faint memory.
Then it disappeared. His face became calm again.
He gave a faint smile and a soft chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. Absently, he ruffled the boy's hair, then turned to leave, but paused for a moment.
The stall… it did look out of place.
Something about the tent called to him. Was it curiosity? Boredom? Or both? A lingering unease nudged him toward the mismatched stall tucked in the corner of the market. It stood out among the mundane, and Sylas had always been drawn to the peculiar.
The shopkeeper, a thin man with a crooked smile, glanced up from his cluttered counter. His gaze lingered on Sylas, as if seeing through him, before a sharp, calculating smile tugged at his lips.
I haven't seen a noble in... what, a decade? The thought danced through the shopkeeper's mind, but he kept his words unspoken. His gaze flicked over Sylas, taking in the clothes that, while modest, couldn't hide the air of someone far above common folk. He carries himself differently. There's wealth in that posture—hidden, but there.
Sylas, aware of the scrutiny, scanned the display with feigned disinterest. Scrolls, trinkets, and dusty books caught his eye, none seeming worth his time. His fingers brushed a manual, its title revealing itself as the dust parted beneath his touch. A rare shiver of recognition ran through him.
Silent Pulse Vein-Threading Scripture.
He repeated the name softly, a thread of awe entering his voice despite himself. "A core manual..." His breath caught, for this was no ordinary tome. Even the faintest of his prior lives stirred, whispering of ancient techniques, long-forgotten secrets, and pathways to power.
The shopkeeper's eyes sharpened at the shift in Sylas's demeanor, watching with a calculating glint as the man crouched, a tender reverence in his touch. He knows what this is... But does he know its worth?
The moment stretched between them, suspended in the air as the shopkeeper's smile widened, slow and deliberate. If I play this right… The thought bloomed like a flower in his mind, its dark petals unfurling. The rewards could be endless.
He cleared his throat, his voice smooth like a serpent's hiss, drawing Sylas's attention. Leaning forward, he spoke with a coaxing tone, like a knife sliding from its sheath.
"Ah, a fine eye, sir. Rank 1 cultivation manual. Rare, one of a kind in these parts. Fifty gold coins. A true bargain, if I may say so."
Fifty gold? Sylas almost laughed. Did the fool think him a novice? His smile turned sharp. The shopkeeper had no idea what he was offering—or who he was dealing with. It wasn't the price that bothered Sylas. It was the man's ignorance.
Sylas straightened, his warmth vanishing. In its place—cold steel. He met the shopkeeper's gaze, voice low and heavy, each word a blade.
"Five gold."
The words hung in the air like an ominous portent, and the shopkeeper's crooked smile faltered.