The rain came down in sheets, drumming against the moss-covered rooftops of Mirkvale Village, a remote settlement nestled at the edge of the Ossenwild Forest. Flickering lanterns cast halos in the misty air, their golden glow barely holding back the shadows that crept from the woods.
Sixteen-year-old Clare Vincenzo stood under the crooked awning of the local blacksmith's forge, clutching a worn leather satchel to his chest. The wind tugged at his threadbare cloak, but he ignored the cold.
He was watching.
Across the square, children his age were gathered near the town's central obelisk — a relic of the Sigil Era, etched with symbols glowing faintly in the stormlight. They were practicing. Their Sigils shimmered like tattoos made of fire, ice, or lightning, each more dazzling than the last.
Clare's arms were bare.
"Still hiding in the shadows, Hollow?" a voice sneered.
Clare didn't need to look to know who it was. Darrek, son of the village bailiff, sauntered up with a smirk that could slice wood. His Sigil — a bright crimson falcon — pulsed on his forearm, flaring with pride.
"Don't you have some sheep to feed?" Clare muttered, stepping aside.
Darrek laughed, motioning to the others. "He thinks he'll get into Phareiel Academy! Can you believe it? A boy with no Sigil wants to join the empire's finest!"
Laughter rippled through the square.
Clare's fists clenched. He turned his eyes back toward the glowing obelisk, where the imperial crest was carved into its base. Phareiel Academy — the Royal Imperial Sigil Academy — was where the strongest went. Where he would go.
Somehow.
---
That night, Clare sat by the hearth in his modest cottage. His mother had long since passed, and his father — once a respected Sigil researcher — had vanished during an expedition to the Sigil Wastes.
All Clare had left were his father's journals. Pages filled with rambling theories, symbols, and warnings about something he called the "Null Sigil."
"The Sigil that is not a Sigil," Clare whispered, tracing the faded ink. "The power to erase, to imitate, and... to shape."
He didn't understand it. He'd never even awakened a Sigil.
But he felt something.
A hum beneath his skin. A whisper at the edge of dreams.
That night, he dreamed of a void. A vast darkness.
And in the center, a symbol slowly igniting — a shifting, black flame forming the shape of a spiral-eyed eclipse.
---
The next day, the annual Sigil Awakening Ceremony was held in the village hall. A traveling Seer had arrived from the capital, bringing with him a crystal prism to reveal potential awakenings.
One by one, the youth touched the prism. Light flared. Sigils burned to life. Cheers erupted.
Then came Clare's turn.
He stepped up. Silent. Steady.
He placed his hand on the prism.
Nothing.
Whispers swept the room. Darrek snorted. The Seer frowned. "I'm sorry, child. No response. You are... Hollow."
Clare bowed his head.
But deep inside, something cracked.
---
That night, lightning split the sky as a Sigil Beast broke through the forest's edge — a twisted, multi-eyed monstrosity known as a Wightfang. Screams echoed as villagers fled.
Darrek and others tried to fight. Their Sigils faltered. One by one, they fell.
Clare ran toward the chaos.
He didn't know why.
His heart thundered. His mind burned.
The Wightfang turned its gaze on him. It lunged.
Clare raised his hands—
And something answered.
A symbol seared into the back of his hand. Black. Spiraling. Flickering like a dying star.
The air distorted.
The Wightfang stopped mid-charge. It staggered. Then screamed — a soundless, mind-rending shriek — before vanishing into dust.
The villagers stared.
Clare collapsed.
From the darkness of unconsciousness, a whisper echoed in his mind:
> "Null Sigil... registered. Subsystem: Imitation unlocked. Hidden core... dormant."
And thus, the boy with no Sigil became the bearer of the most feared power of all — one the world had long buried.
The Sigil of Darkness.
The Null Sigil.