Chapter 8: Voices in the Dark
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WHISKER
The room was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floor beneath him. Whisker lay on his makeshift bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind spiraling through the day’s events. Sleep wouldn’t come—not with everything he’d seen and done. Even the memory of his conversation with Tanaka, though it had brought a fleeting comfort, couldn’t quiet his mind.
His body held a quiet hum of tension, muscles coiled tight like he might need to dart into shadows at any second. Even here, every creak and groan of the floor beneath him sent ripples through his thoughts, sparking memories of glinting steel and the final cries of those he’d faced back in the marketplace.
But this tension wasn’t just in his limbs—it was deeper, a knot that seemed to have wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing tighter with each breath. The more he tried to relax, the more his mind threw fragments of the day’s horrors at him, like stones cast into still water, each memory rippling in his mind.
The weight of his choices pressed down on him, sharp and heavy. He could almost smell the lingering iron of blood, faintly metallic and wrong, like a stain he couldn’t scrub away from his thoughts. His instincts itched, urging him to flee, to hide—if only from his own mind.”
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of the battle: the sound of steel clashing against steel, the sickening screams, the weight of the unfamiliar magic he’d wielded almost reflexively. And, worse than all of it… the bodies.
The refugees, who had fallen so quickly, lives extinguished like candles snuffed out by a sudden gust. And the soldiers—the ones he’d… killed.
I killed people.
The words echoed, harsh and unyielding, each repetition gnawing at him, raw as a wound. A killer—a title that felt too heavy, too alien for someone who’d once only feared for his own skin.
The thought was raw, jagged, cutting into him with each repetition. Whisker closed his eyes, his breath catching as the reality of it settled like lead in his stomach. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t… this. Just a short time ago, he’d been a creature who scurried through the alleys, who ran from danger rather than meeting it head-on. He was a survivor, a scavenger. His biggest concerns had been finding food, avoiding predators, living one day at a time.
And now, here he was—human in form, bearing the weight of choices that he didn’t know if he was capable of making.
His hands clenched reflexively, and he could almost feel the stain of the lives he’d taken, like invisible blood he couldn’t scrub away. He rolled onto his side, curling up as if that might shield him from the onslaught of memories. But no matter how tightly he curled, no matter how much he tried to push it all away, the questions slipped through the cracks, creeping back into his mind.
Who am I now? Why am I here? Why am I… this?
The others, they had each been human once. They had shared experiences, a common ground to cling to. They grappled with strange new bodies and powers, but they still had some kind of anchor, a history they could remember and relate to. But Whisker? He had no such foundation. He’d awoken into this human form, a body that felt foreign and wrong, thrust into a world he didn’t understand with responsibilities he hadn’t asked for.
The questions lingered, looping over and over, even as his eyes grew heavy. Exhaustion seeped in, weighing down his limbs and clouding his mind. It had only been a day—just one day since he’d arrived in this world—and already it felt like a lifetime. His body yearned for rest, even as his mind fought it, afraid of what he might see behind closed eyes.
And yet, finally, sleep claimed him.
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The dream began slowly, a gentle, almost imperceptible shift in reality. At first, everything felt oddly familiar. He was back in the city—the one he’d known as a raccoon. The dark alleys and cluttered streets stretched out around him, each corner, each shadow a part of his old life. The distant hum of traffic, the echo of voices, the scent of garbage and concrete—these were things he understood, things that were real and solid in his memory.
But something was wrong. The world around him was dark, blanketed in a thick fog that clung to the air like smoke. Whisker found himself standing in the middle of a street, not the cobbled roads of Aetheria but the city streets he remembered, his old territory. Instinctively, he moved to scurry through the alleys, to dart between trash cans and slip unnoticed through the shadows. He felt his paws against the cold pavement, his fur bristling as he slinked along, searching for the remnants of food, a familiar comfort amidst the alien sensations.
But then, everything changed.
He wasn’t small anymore. He wasn’t a raccoon. He was standing—tall, unstable, on two legs. This shape, unnatural and heavy, seemed to trap him, limbs stiff and awkward. He missed the agility of his old form, the way he could vanish without a sound, the way his instincts had once been enough. His heart hammered, erratic, an unsettling rhythm echoing in his head.
This isn’t me.
His heart thundered in his chest, a heavy, irregular beat that felt wrong, foreign.
This isn’t right.
The fog was thick, cloying, wrapping around him with a strange familiarity that twisted into dread. The smell intensified, metallic and sour, like rusted metal left to fester, reminding him of the alleyways he once scurried through. It was the smell of danger—a warning he once knew how to heed but could no longer obey.
Darkness crept along the edges of his vision, stretching and shifting, as if they had a life of their own. The streetlights above flickered, their weak glow fading into the darkness until there was nothing but an endless, suffocating black.
Whisker’s steps quickened, his breaths coming shallow as he tried to push through the fog, his heart pounding louder with each passing second. He wanted to run, but his legs felt like they were trapped in quicksand, sinking deeper with each step. Panic clawed at his chest, an icy grip that tightened as he struggled to move.
Shapes moved in the dark, shadows shifting at the edges of his vision. They grew, twisted. He tried to back away, but his feet were stuck. The figures loomed closer. There was no way out.
He couldn’t see them clearly—couldn’t make out faces or features—but he knew they were there, watching him, observing his every move. Their figures were tall, imposing, stretching in ways that defied human proportions. Some twisted impossibly, others flickered like mirages, blending into the shadows that surrounded him.
Are these humans? Monsters? Or something else?
Suddenly, the ground beneath him shifted, and he was falling, tumbling through a void of pure, inky blackness. The air around him was thick, stifling, pressing in on him from all sides as he plummeted, weightless and helpless.
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Whisker could feel their presence, ancient and powerful, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. They moved around him, voices overlapping, speaking not to him but about him, as if he were a curiosity, a small piece in a vast game.
“He’s small, isn’t he Vaelith? (Scared, uncertain).”
The voice was warm, almost amused, as if relishing in some hidden joke.
“I’ll bet on the timid one—he might still surprise us yet. (A wildcard)I. Perhaps. He might still surprise us. Maybe a Dark Horse perhaps...”
A snicker followed, cold and dismissive.
“A wildcard? Look at him Nytheris—barely able to hold himself together. (Weak, fragile)... What a pitiful creature. Hardly worth the effort. (A Mere Token), it seems.”
The voice dripped with disdain, each word laced with contempt.
“But a token nonetheless,” the cold voice concluded, “a (Pawn) placed for amusement rather than significance.”
“Ah, but you underestimate the Power. The Power of the unexpected. Isn’t that the game? The Game’s beauty?” came a lilting, almost sing-song voice.
“The unassuming often have a way of slipping through the cracks, of doing the impossible. Haven’t we seen that before?”
The figure’s laughter echoed, drifting into a low, haunting hum that lingered in Whisker’s ears, like a melody gone sour. It was as if they found endless amusement in his helplessness
The voices began blending together. An eerie chorus of ancient beings with each adding their own thoughts.
“(WASTE OF TIME), I say. Those two who placed him here—(FOOLS) to make such a (GAMBLE).” Said a gruff voice, as it shifted its weight from one foot to the other.
“Oh, but Krynos, the game is always more entertaining with a dark horse in the running.” A figure mused, shifting closer. Whisker felt its presence pressing down on him, unseen eyes scrutinizing him with an intense, almost invasive curiosity. “And I do have a fondness. A fondness for games.”
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“You’ll regret that wager Meloria.” The sharp voice interjected. “I’d rather place my faith (in the Architects. This one… (He’s Nothing). He lacks the strength of will.”
“Oh, I disagree, Kyrnos” another chuckled, a dark warmth in the sound. “There’s something in him. Something intriguing. Besides, not all battles are won by force. Sometimes, the smallest piece can tip the scales. Can’t you see it?”
Whisker felt their gazes turn toward him, the weight of their attention almost unbearable. He tried to shrink back, but there was nowhere to go. One figure leaned close, its form shifting in and out of focus, almost impossible to look at directly. A shadowed hand reached out, tilting his chin up, forcing him to meet its gaze—or what he could perceive of it.
“You, little one… tell us. Who do you think will win?”
The voice was a whisper, dripping with mocking amusement, yet laced with a strange, sinister affection. “Do you even know the game you’re playing?”
Another figure moved closer, ethereal and shimmering, its voice low and almost tender. “He doesn’t even understand us, Lyria. (The poor thing). But that makes it all the more entertaining.”
It tilted its head, studying him with a strange mix of pity and interest. “Shall we see. See what he’s made of?”
“Oh, yes, I rather like him,” another voice chimed in, gleeful and almost childlike. “So much (Potential), hidden under all that (Fear). If you survive the trials ahead, I might even have a gift for you. Good luck.”
The shadows shifted again, their laughter echoing in the void, a twisted symphony of voices. Coins clinked in the darkness, the sound sharp and clear as they exchanged invisible hands, each figure placing their bet.
“They’re not coins, are they?” Whisker whispered to himself, though he didn’t expect an answer. But even in his confusion, something deeper told him these were not ordinary tokens—they held weight, intention, and perhaps even a strange magic beyond his comprehension.
“But they are not (Coins) in a way? You just may not recognize their (Price), but I can guarantee their trade is more than valuable,” said another mocking him.
The figures continued to speak, their voices blending together into a chorus that filled his mind, until he could hear nothing but their laughter, their betting, their dark amusement at his plight. Their forms blurred, flashes of light and color spiraling in ways his mind struggled to grasp, each shift more surreal and disorienting than the last.
One voice whispered, so close it felt like a breath against his ear. “I wonder… Wonder indeed. Will he survive? Or will he crumble? Either way, it’s bound to be an interesting game.”
“Well we have some time, Athlios. It’s not as though he’s leaving any time soon. Why don’t we play with him some more,” and cackled as they all began to gather around him, slowly, closer and closer.
Someone help me!
And in a swift moment, the darkness shifted once more, as a hand dragged him down into the void.
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He fell, weightless and spinning, until finally, he stopped.
Whisker found himself standing in a twisted forest, a place where reality itself seemed to shift with every glance. The trees were warped, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, the ground beneath him soft and alive, as though he were walking on something that breathed. The air smelled strange, shifting from one unidentifiable scent to another with each breath.
Where am I? It smells wrong.
And then, he saw it—a towering figure at the edge of the forest, impossible to define. It was there and not there, a shifting silhouette that seemed to exist in multiple forms at once. Its shape changed constantly, fluid as smoke, one moment solid and imposing, the next barely more than a shadow. Its eyes, bright and piercing, burned through the murk, locking onto Whisker with an intensity that rooted him in place.
A voice rippled through him, deep and heavy. With each word, his vision blurred, nausea twisting in his stomach. It was as though his very bones shivered under the weight of that voice, like they knew something he didn’t—something dark and inescapable.
“You are safe here from the others, little one. But I see you seek answers.”
Whisker took a step back, his heart hammering. He forced himself to speak, his voice a trembling whisper. “Who… who are you?”
The figure tilted its head, a slow, deliberate motion.
“I am many things,” it replied, its voice both ancient and ever-changing, a blend of whispers and roars.
“I am (Power). I am (Change). I am (Transformation) itself.”
The figure shifted, the air around it warping, as though it were made of the very fabric of change.
“I AM RUINIX.”
The words scraped against Whisker’s mind, carving something into his thoughts that he couldn’t shake. His heart raced, a deep dread sinking into him, the way prey felt when caught in the predator’s gaze. Ruinix wasn’t mortal, wasn’t even something he could comprehend. This being was beyond him, an embodiment of forces that defied understanding.
Ruinix stepped closer, and the very air around it grew dense, heavy as though pressed down by invisible weight. The ground beneath it rippled, warping in response, as if reality itself bent to Ruinix’s command.
“You were meant to be part of this,” the voice continued, dripping with an unsettling calm.
“The game has already begun, (Little One). You are a piece on the board, whether you understand it or not.”
“A… game?” Whisker’s voice broke with frustration, his body shaking with the weight of his fear and anger. “This isn’t a game! You changed me, brought me here—without any explanation! I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask to be… human. I didn’t ask to be… anything but what I was!”
The figure’s laugh was deep, a low rumble that seemed to shake the ground beneath him.
“Mortals rarely understand the actions of gods, of forces beyond their control. But know this, (Little One)—You were chosen. Marked by powers beyond your comprehension.”
Ruinix’s eyes gleamed, watching him with a curiosity that felt almost predatory.
“Your mortal life was done, or have you forgotten already? You clung to it, scurrying through your world, driven only by survival. But now… you have been given a new path, a new shape.”
The memory of his death flashed before him—metal crushing, the sound of a garbage truck’s grinding machinery. Whisker recoiled, squeezing his eyes shut, fighting against the surge of panic.
“Get out of my head!” he choked, his voice breaking.
Whisker’s fists clenched, anger boiling up within him, fueled by the helplessness that had haunted him since his arrival in this world. “Why me? Why bring me here, to a world I don’t belong in? I was just… I was just a raccoon. Why would anyone care about that?”
Ruinix’s form shimmered, shifting as it moved closer. It loomed over him, its presence suffocating, as though it were consuming the very air around them.
“(Little One), none of you belong here. That is the point. You are here because the scales demand it, because the balance must be (Tested).”
The voice softened, though it lost none of its eerie power.
“The question is, what will you do with the (Gift) you’ve been given?”
Whisker felt a chill run through him. The word “gift” sounded hollow, mocking. “This… this isn’t a gift. It’s a curse. You took everything I was and twisted it.”
“Is that so?” Ruinix tilted its head, a faint smile in its voice.
“The line between (Curse) and (Gift)… often blurred, little one. Change is seldom gentle. It is Necessary. I am the embodiment of change, and you… you are one of my (Chosen).” Ruinix’s voice deepened, as if the words were made of stone. “Do not make my (Wager) be in vain.”
Ruinix began to fade, its form dissolving like mist, yet its presence remained, pressing down on Whisker.
“Know this, Little One,” it said, voice soft and almost compassionate, but laced with something darker. “The sewers you are to enter hold more than corruption. Other forces, unseen and ancient, have their own designs. You must choose wisely.”
“What does that even mean?” Whisker shouted, desperation clawing at his voice. “Why won’t you just tell me?”
But Ruinix’s laughter echoed in the darkness, fading as the figure dissolved.
“Not everyone can be saved, little one. And the path you walk… may demand more of you than you are prepared to give.”
And with that, the ground beneath him crumbled, and Whisker was falling once again—into darkness, into a place where answers remained just beyond his reach as one thought kept running through his mind.
The words hung, cold and immutable, as if carved into his bones.
“Not everyone can be saved.”
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