Kael's escape from Lord Valerius's manor was a blur of adrenaline and pain. He ran,
not caring where, only that he put as much distance as possible between himself and the
blaring alarms. His hand, where he'd clutched the enchanted box, throbbed with a
dull, persistent ache, a constant reminder of his folly. He eventually found himself deep
within the labyrinthine alleys of the Lower Districts, collapsing into a shadowed alcove,
gasping for breath.
The box, still clutched tightly in his injured hand, pulsed with a faint, internal light, a
soft, rhythmic glow that seemed to mock his predicament. He stared at it, his mind
racing. It was more trouble than it was worth, a magnet for unwanted attention. He
should discard it, throw it into the murky depths of the canal, and forget this whole
disastrous endeavor. But something held him back. A strange curiosity, a nagging feeling
that there was more to this simple wooden box than met the eye.
As he lay there, nursing his throbbing hand, a new sensation began to manifest. It was
subtle at first, like a faint breeze rustling through dry leaves, or the distant murmur of a
crowd. Whispers. Not audible words, not yet, but a faint, almost imperceptible hum that
seemed to resonate within his very bones. He dismissed it as fatigue, the lingering
effects of the adrenaline, or perhaps even a concussion from his hasty escape. He was
hungry, tired, and injured. His mind was playing tricks on him.
He tried to sleep, but the whispers persisted, growing slightly louder, more insistent.
They were formless, shapeless, like thoughts not quite fully formed, brushing against the
edges of his consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block them out, but
they were inside him, a strange, alien presence. He felt a prickle of unease, a cold dread
that had nothing to do with the chill of the night.
He opened his eyes, staring at the glowing box. Was it coming from there? He held it
closer, then pushed it away, but the whispers remained, a constant, low thrum. He was
starting to feel a strange detachment, as if his body was a vessel, and something else
was trying to communicate through it.
Suddenly, a fleeting image flashed across his mind's eye. A series of symbols, intricate
and glowing, like ancient runes, but unlike anything he had ever seen. They appeared for
a fraction of a second, then vanished, leaving behind a faint afterimage. He blinked,
rubbing his eyes. Hallucinations. Definitely hallucinations.
He forced himself to stand, his body protesting with every movement. He needed to find
a safer place, a place where he could rest and think. As he stumbled through the
darkened alleys, the whispers continued, a constant, low murmur in the back of his
mind. He passed an old, blind beggar, huddled in a doorway, muttering to himself. Kael
paused, a strange intuition guiding him. The beggar's words, though nonsensical to
others, seemed to resonate with the whispers in his head. "The threads… they weave…
the unseen… awakens…"
Kael shook his head, dismissing it. The old man was mad, like so many others in these
forgotten streets. Yet, a seed of doubt had been planted. The whispers, the symbols, the
old man's cryptic words – they were all too coincidental. He clutched the wooden box
tighter, a strange sense of foreboding settling over him. He didn't know what was
happening, but he had a terrifying suspicion that his life, already a constant struggle,
was about to become far more complicated. The whispers were just the beginning.