"A book?"

The words slipped from my lips, barely audible as I stared at the object before me. It rested atop the ancient pedestal, the soft glow surrounding it pulsing gently like a heartbeat. The cover was unlike anything I’d ever seen—dark, weathered leather that seemed to drink in the light, yet its surface shimmered with intricate patterns of gold leaf and silver inlay. Symbols—delicate and alien—wove across the surface in twisting, organic arcs, glimmering like strands of liquid light. They seemed alive, shifting faintly as I watched, as though they responded to my very presence.

I took a step closer, and the air thickened around me, tingling with warmth that pricked at my skin. The smell of the place grew more intense—earthy, ancient, with a faint metallic tang, like the scent of old coins mixed with freshly turned soil. My fingers hovered over the book’s surface, trembling as the energy emanating from it pulsed stronger. The hairs on my arms stood on end, and for a moment, I hesitated.

But curiosity won over caution, and I let my fingertips brush the leather. It was warm—far warmer than it should have been—and it sent a jolt up my arm, not painful, but enough to make my breath hitch. Swallowing hard, I flipped the cover open, the ancient hinges creaking softly.

The pages inside were a marvel. They carried the texture of something impossibly old, rough yet supple, etched with intricate symbols and vibrant ink that hadn’t faded a bit. My fingers brushed over the unfamiliar script, flowing across the parchment in sweeping arcs and sharp, deliberate strokes. It was an ancient language I couldn’t decipher, but it radiated a quiet power, as if the words themselves held a significance beyond their meaning.

The illustrations were mesmerizing, each one more fantastical than the last, alive with a vividness that seemed to reach beyond the page. On one, a mountain range towered into the skies, its jagged peaks carved with massive faces. Not statues or mere carvings, but something far grander—expressions of beings that felt both ancient and eternal. Their eyes seemed to watch over the world below, gazing down at vast plains where tiny figures moved, wielding spears that glowed like captured starlight.

Another page opened onto a forest unlike any I could imagine, its crystalline trees refracting light into cascading rainbows. Within the trees, shadowy forms moved, half-hidden and shapeless, as though the creatures of that place resisted being fully seen. The air around me felt cooler as I gazed at it, a sensation that made the hair on my arms stand on end, as if the image itself carried the essence of the place it depicted.

But the book didn’t just show landscapes. There was a story buried in the pages, though I couldn’t grasp it fully. The images felt deliberate, each laden with meaning that eluded me but tugged at my mind nonetheless. On one page, a sun and a moon swirled around each other in a spiraling dance, their beams colliding over a fractured world below. The light they cast created jagged shadows that seemed alive, stretching out across a city in ruin. Was it destruction? Renewal? I couldn’t tell, but the image made my pulse quicken, a weight pressing on my chest.

On another, shadowy figures loomed beneath a sky split by a vortex of swirling darkness. Their hands were raised high, not in prayer, but in what felt like defiance or desperation. Behind them, the horizon folded into itself, a void that seemed to devour everything it touched. My stomach twisted as I stared at it, an instinctual dread crawling under my skin. The figures didn’t seem panicked, though. They stood firm, their faces obscured, but their stance carried purpose—as if they had chosen to stand before the vortex, knowing what it meant.

The more I turned the pages, the more the book seemed to speak without words. Each illustration resonated with something deep inside me, whispering truths I couldn’t quite grasp but felt all the same. The pictures weren’t just pictures—they carried layers of meaning, connections between them that hinted at a greater purpose. The sun and moon, the looming figures, the crystalline trees—it all felt connected somehow, like a story unfolding piece by piece in a language older than memory.

And yet, I didn’t understand. Not fully. My mind kept circling back, trying to unravel the threads between the images. My eyes lingered on the symbols beside them, the text I couldn’t read. Was this a prophecy? A warning? A history of something I wasn’t supposed to know? The longer I stared, the more I felt the weight of its significance pressing down on me.

This wasn’t just simply a book. It was like a doorway, a connection to something far greater than myself. Something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

And then, my breath caught. I froze, my hands trembling as I turned the page. The next image hit me like a lightning bolt.

It was our apartment.

Not a vague resemblance or an artistic interpretation—it was exactly our apartment, rendered with unsettling precision. Every detail was there: the chipped paint near the window, the mismatched furniture, even the coffee mug I had forgotten to move from the table that night.

Leo sat on the couch, controller in hand, his face lit by the faint glow of a screen just out of the frame. The lazy sprawl of his posture and the way his brow furrowed in concentration were unmistakable. Across the room, Sam stood at the kitchen stove, stirring a pot with that same quiet focus he always had when cooking.

And there I was. Crouched on the floor by the console, screwdriver in hand, leaning so close I could almost hear myself muttering under my breath. The scene captured me perfectly—down to the crease in my jeans and the way my hair fell over my eyes as I tinkered with the mysterious device.

But it wasn’t just the familiarity of the scene that sent chills through me. It was the way the illustration seemed alive, the air within it humming with energy. A faint, otherworldly light surrounded the console, the same light I remembered from that night. The console’s surface glowed subtly in the drawing, as though the artist had somehow captured its pulse of power, its sense of barely-contained potential.

My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at the page, unable to tear my eyes away. This can’t be real. How could this be here? I could feel the blood rushing to my ears, a cold sweat breaking out on my palms. The memory of that night was already strange enough, the moment the world seemed to tilt and everything we knew dissolved into the impossible. But to see it now, here, in this ancient, otherworldly book—it defied explanation.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The image seemed to vibrate in my vision, an unnerving echo of the energy I had felt that night. It wasn’t just a memory. It was a warning, or perhaps a message. A shiver ran through me as the realization settled in: this book didn’t just tell a story. Somehow, it knew.

What is this thing? My mind swirled with possibilities, each more implausible than the last. Could it be some kind of artifact, imbued with ancient magic? The images it showed me—our apartment, the console—were far too specific to be coincidence. But what did it mean? Was it a record of events, written long before they occurred? Or was it something else entirely, something capable of creating these moments, manipulating reality itself?

My fingers traced the edge of a page, feeling the slight roughness of its texture. Even its materials felt wrong—too old to exist in perfect condition, too vibrant to have weathered the decay of time. Yet here it was, flawless and intact, waiting as though it had been crafted solely for me.

I thought about the images I had seen so far: the apocalyptic landscapes, the sun and moon locked in their dance, the swirling vortex, and finally, the hauntingly familiar scene from our apartment. They weren’t just illustrations. They were threads in a tapestry I couldn’t yet see in its entirety. Each one seemed to hint at a larger truth, a puzzle I was only beginning to piece together.

Could it be a warning? The thought sent a chill through me. Or was it a guide, a tool meant to help me navigate this strange world I had been thrust into? Either way, it was clear the book wasn’t ordinary, and it wasn’t done with me yet.

At the center of the final page, nestled within a drawn socket, was something more than ink and parchment. A ring.

It wasn’t glowing like the book had been, not in the same steady, pulsating way, but it possessed a different kind of radiance—an otherworldly, shifting glow. The colors seemed to flow and change, cycling through deep emerald greens, fiery ambers, and stormy blues, each hue blending seamlessly into the next. It was mesmerizing, like the light was alive, breathing with its own rhythm.

The edges of the ring weren’t just smooth—they seemed to ripple faintly, as if distorting the space around them. The more I gazed at it, the harder it was to focus on its exact shape. It was as though reality itself blurred at its boundaries, bending to the ring’s presence. The metal-like material was unlike anything I had ever seen, gleaming faintly with an ancient beauty that felt timeless, as if it had existed before time began and would continue long after it ended.

Something about it called to me, a quiet pull at the core of my being. It wasn’t just a piece of jewelry. It felt like more, like it held a purpose I couldn’t yet understand. The air around me felt heavier, tingling with an electric energy that seemed to radiate from the ring itself, brushing against my skin like an unspoken invitation. My hand hovered over it, trembling as though drawn forward by invisible strings.

Should I?

My breath caught as my hand hovered above the ring, the air around it humming with an almost magnetic pull. Every rational instinct screamed for me to stop, to leave it alone. Don’t do this. But the deeper part of me—the same one that had driven me to open the book in the first place—knew this moment was inevitable. Like a thread of fate pulling taut, there was no going back.

Before I could think it through, my fingers closed around the ring.

The instant my skin touched its surface, the world seemed to crack open. The ring flared with an incandescent light that surged outward, so bright it felt like staring into the heart of a star. My vision dissolved into a searing whiteness, and I cried out, stumbling backward as heat shot through my hand. It wasn’t just heat—it was fire, sharp and alive, coursing up my arm and igniting something deep inside me. The pain was unlike anything I’d ever felt, not just physical but... deeper. It felt as though the ring was digging into the very essence of who I was, burning its way into my being.

I squinted against the overwhelming brightness, desperate to see what was happening. Through the glare, I saw the ring—it was changing. The metal, so solid and ancient just moments ago, seemed to liquefy, flowing like molten silver. It twisted and coiled, shimmering as it dissolved into a series of intricate, glowing lines. These lines raced across my skin, etching themselves into my flesh with a precision that defied explanation.

I gasped, frozen as the transformation unfolded. The glowing tendrils formed a runic pattern—a swirling, geometric design—encircling my finger. The light pulsed one final time, brilliant and blinding, before sinking into my skin. When the glow faded, the ring was no longer metal. It was a part of me now, a tattoo etched in deep, inky black.

I flexed my hand, staring in disbelief at the intricate markings. They weren’t static—faint glimmers of light danced along the edges, shifting subtly as though the tattoo itself was alive. My skin still tingled with the phantom heat of the transformation, a lingering reminder of the connection that had just been forged.

And then I felt it—that indescribable shift, like a door opening inside me. It was subtle at first, a gentle stirring at the edges of my mind. But the more I focused, the more I sensed it: a presence, or perhaps a power, humming softly within me. It wasn’t overwhelming, not yet, but it was there.

Something had changed.

My heart pounded as I staggered back, my gaze dropping to the book now lying facedown on the floor where I had dropped it. The air around it seemed heavier, charged with an energy that made my skin prickle. Carefully, I knelt and reached out to pick it up, my fingers trembling slightly.

When I turned it over, my breath caught again. The cover had changed. The flowing, ancient script I had been unable to decipher before now shimmered into clarity. I blinked, certain my eyes were playing tricks on me, but there it was:

The Last Prophecy.

The words felt like a thunderclap in my chest, resonating with something deep inside me. I ran my fingers over the title, the raised lettering warm beneath my touch. It wasn’t just a title—it was a declaration, a warning, a promise.

I flipped the book open, eager—or perhaps afraid—to see more. But as I turned the pages, my breath faltered. Every single one was blank.

The vibrant illustrations and impossible script that had once filled the pages were gone, replaced by emptiness so stark it felt almost accusatory. I rifled through the book frantically, each page more frustrating than the last, yet none of them offered an answer. It was as though the book had revealed all it could—or all it would—for now.

The blank pages felt like a challenge, as if daring me to uncover what had been hidden, to seek out whatever truth lay buried beneath their emptiness.