The note in his hand was real.

His own handwriting. The same ink, the same style. But the words were foreign to him.

> You must not look too soon.

The paper was dry, crisp, as if it had been written only moments ago.

Soren swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around it. The street was empty—just the flickering gaslamps, the cold evening air, the distant echo of footsteps far beyond his sight.

He shouldn’t be afraid.

And yet, his heart was hammering against his ribs, breath coming in shallow gasps.

This wasn’t normal.

He knew that.

But he also knew that acknowledging it—truly acknowledging it—would mean accepting that something was happening to him.

Something he could not explain.

Soren clenched his jaw, forced himself to fold the note, and shoved it deep into his coat pocket.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Then, without looking back, he walked home.

The Blackwood house was warm, the smell of lavender and candle wax drifting faintly through the air.

Tia sat curled up in a chair near the fireplace, a book resting open in her lap. The pages flickered in the firelight, and for a brief moment, Soren swore they moved on their own.

His stomach twisted.

He blinked, and the pages were still.

Tia glanced up at him. “You’re home late.”

Her voice was casual, but there was something behind it. Something hesitant.

Soren shrugged off his coat, pretending not to notice. “Work ran long.”

She frowned, studying him. Then, quietly, “You’re different.”

Soren exhaled sharply. “You’re imagining things.”

Tia’s fingers curled over the edge of her book. She didn’t look convinced.

He turned away before she could say anything else.

That Night.

Soren couldn’t sleep.

The shadows stretched too far in the corners of his room. The old grandfather clock ticked just a little too slowly, its rhythm uneven.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the note burning in his coat pocket across the room.

He should throw it away.

He shouldn’t think about it.

But something deep in his chest told him that he couldn’t ignore it forever.

At some point, exhaustion took him, and he drifted into uneasy sleep.

He dreamt of the sigil.

Not carved into the cobblestones. Not glowing faintly in an alleyway.

No.

It was in the sky.

Massive, stretching across the dark heavens above Luthathel, its intricate lines glowing pale yellow, shifting like something alive.

Below it, the city stood still.

No people. No carriages. No sound.

And standing at the very center of the empty streets, beneath the sigil’s glow, was a man in a pale yellow mask.

His long coat billowed, untouched by wind.

He raised his hand.

Soren tried to move.

He couldn’t.

The man tilted his head, and though his face was hidden, Soren felt him watching.

Then—a whisper.

Not from the man.

From the city itself.

It came from the streets, from the buildings, from the very air—a voice without a mouth, a presence without a form.

And it said—

"You are not ready to see."

The dream shattered.

Soren woke with a gasp.

His heart pounded. Sweat clung to his skin, cold against the night air.

He sat up, breathing hard, his mind racing.

The dream had felt too real.

The sigil. The masked man. The whisper that had come from the city itself.

His fingers dug into the sheets.

He couldn’t ignore this anymore.

Something was happening.

And he had no idea how to stop it.