The wooden stairs creaked beneath his steps, the sound strangely loud in the quiet house.

Soren felt disconnected, as if the act of descending into the lower floor was something separate from him—something rehearsed.

The scent of fresh bread and black tea filled the air, warm and inviting. But there was something off about it, something distant. It was the kind of warmth that should have felt comforting.

It didn’t.

At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway stretched toward the kitchen. The house was small but well-kept, the wooden floors smooth from years of care. The wallpaper curled slightly at the edges, and the dim glow of gaslight sconces flickered softly against the walls.

His mother stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot. Amanda Blackwood—a woman of quiet strength, her dark hair pulled into a loose braid, strands streaked with silver.

She turned the moment she saw him.

“Soren.”

A breath of relief. But her face was too carefully composed, her dark eyes studying him the same way Tia had.

“Come sit.” She placed a bowl in front of his usual seat, next to Tia, who was already eating quietly. “You must be starving.”

Soren sat. He should have been hungry—but he wasn’t.

He picked up the spoon, staring down at the broth, golden and clear. The steam curled upward, but the smell was faint. His senses felt dulled, like everything was a step removed from reality.

Across the table, Tia watched him, silent.

He swallowed. “How long was I asleep?”

Amanda hesitated, ladling more soup into her own bowl. “Two days.”

The answer sent a prickle of unease crawling up his spine.

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Two days?

That wasn’t normal.

He exhaled slowly. “…What happened?”

His mother’s grip on the ladle tightened—just for a moment.

“You were sick,” she said, too carefully. “A fever. You were—” She stopped herself. Then smiled, small and tired. “It’s good that you’re feeling better.”

Soren didn’t reply immediately. He glanced at Tia. She quickly looked away, focusing on her meal.

Something was wrong.

But no one would tell him what.

His grip on the spoon tightened.

You don’t remember, do you?

Tia’s words from earlier.

A quiet realization settled in his chest: They weren’t telling him everything.

The question burned on his tongue—what aren’t you telling me?—but he forced it down. Now wasn’t the time.

Instead, he stirred his soup. “Did anything… happen? While I was sick?”

Amanda paused mid-bite. She was careful with her next words.

“No. Nothing at all.”

She was lying.

A flicker of something not quite human passed through his mother’s eyes before she looked back down at her food.

Later that evening.

The streets of Luthathel stretched before him, blanketed in the haze of the approaching night.

Soren pulled his coat tighter against the chill.

Gas lamps lined the cobbled streets, their flames flickering softly in the mist. The evening air carried the distant murmur of voices—shopkeepers closing for the night, the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages echoing against the pavement.

It was a city that felt frozen in time.

And yet, something about it felt… wrong.

It wasn’t something he could see, exactly. It was something beneath the surface—a quiet wrongness, a hum in the back of his mind.

The way the buildings stretched just a little too high.

The way the lamplight flickered, even when there was no wind.

The way some faces in the crowd looked too perfect—as if they had been painted there, slightly out of focus.

He kept walking, his boots tapping against the stone.

Then, he saw it.

A narrow alley, nestled between two brick buildings, its entrance shrouded in thick shadow. The gas lamp above it flickered erratically, casting long, unnatural shapes against the walls.

And there—etched into the cobblestone at the alley’s entrance—was a mark.

A sigil.

Soren’s breath caught in his throat.

It was simple, yet intricate, twisting lines that folded in on themselves. It looked ancient—as if it had always been there, long before the street had been built around it.

The moment he laid eyes on it, his pulse quickened.

A strange pull settled in his chest, an instinct he didn’t understand.

He stepped closer.

The sigil looked… alive.

Its edges hummed faintly, as if reacting to his presence. It wasn’t glowing, not exactly—but there was a feeling of depth, like it was more than just a carving on stone.

Soren’s mouth felt dry.

He glanced around. No one else seemed to notice it. People walked past the alley without so much as a glance, their eyes sliding past it like it didn’t exist.

A strange thought entered his mind.

Had this been here before?

His memory strained, trying to recall if he had ever noticed this alley before. But the more he reached for the answer, the fuzzier his thoughts became.

He looked down at his hand.

His fingers twitched.

The pull toward the sigil was stronger now, like an invisible thread drawing him closer.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out.

His fingertips brushed against the stone—

A sharp static pulse shot through him.

Soren staggered back, his breath catching in his throat. His vision blurred, the world tilting around him—

And then—

He heard it.

A whisper.

Faint. Just beneath his ears.

A voice that wasn’t his own.

Calling his name.

Soren’s pulse thundered against his ribs.

He stumbled back from the alley, chest heaving.

The sigil remained unchanged.

The whisper was gone.

But his hand—his fingertips still tingled, as if something had touched him back.

And for the first time since waking up in this strange, familiar city—

Soren felt truly afraid.