A Week Earlier,
The room was warm, the fire crackling in the hearth, but Krycan still shivered as if trapped in winter's grip. A mattress was drawn over him, yet his body remained cold and stiff, his breathing shallow and uneven. Every breath was a battle, each one rasping faintly through his chest.
"Am I dying?" His voice was little more than a whisper, his lips pale as frost. Slowly, he reached for the frail hand of the woman beside him. His grandmother's face was streaked with tears, but she squeezed his hand tightly as though she could keep him tethered to life.
"No, my son," she murmured, though her voice trembled. "You are not dying. The priest is coming today. He will heal you. He carries God's light in his hands. He will not fail us."
Her husband stood behind her, his large hand resting firmly on her shoulder. King Luther, the man who had built an empire, wore a face that seemed carved in stone, though cracks of grief showed through. He had fought battles, won kingdoms, commanded thousands, but here before his grandson's deathly pallor he was powerless.
Krycan tried to smile, but his lips quivered too much.
He was tired. So tired. Deep within, he already knew the truth The priest was old, his powers waning like a candle nearly burnt out. Even if he came, Krycan doubted the man's strength would be enough to push back the shadows closing in.
His grandmother pressed her lips together, tears spilling anyway. Krycan's pale hand brushed her cheek. His touch was soft and icy, fragile like a child's.
"Don't cry, Granny," he rasped, voice breaking. "It hurts to see you like this. Please… I love you."
Her sob escaped her chest like a wound. "No… I love you more, my boy. You cannot die. You must fight! You will marry, you will give me grandbabies. Please, Krycan, please…"
His chest burned with pain. It wasn't just the sickness—it was the weight of their love, the cruelty of knowing he would leave them behind. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, where shadows seemed to crawl in the corners.
I'll
"I can't fight anymore," he whispered, his voice raw. "The shadows keep coming. Every night… they're here now. I'm too weak, Granny. I can't stop them. It hurts too much."
His grandmother froze, her eyes wide. "Shadows? What shadows? What do you mean, Krycan?" She turned sharply to her husband, her panic rising like a storm. "Call the priest! Quickly! Only he can drive them away. Only his light can fight such things!"
King wrapped his arms around her as she shook, her words breaking into sobs. "We'll call him," he said, his voice firm though his heart was heavy.
"But we must let Krycan rest. Your panic will only weaken him more."
"I cannot lose him," she wept. "I will not."
King held her tighter, his jaw tight. He knew the truth she could not bear—sometimes even divine light could not cheat death.
The priest was the last hope, but the man's power had grown thin with age. Still, he led her away, murmuring words of comfort.
"Let's send for him. Let us try."
The door closed. Silence fell.
And then the shadows deepened.
The lantern flickered out, plunging the room into suffocating darkness. Cold, unnatural and heavy, spread across the chamber like a tide.
Krycan's eyes fluttered open. He wasn't alone.
Two figures glided from the corners, their hoods drawn low, faces hollow and inhuman. No warmth, only the weight of an ancient, devouring presence. Their very aura stole the breath from the air.
Krycan's heart pounded, yet his voice
trembled out. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"
For a long, dreadful moment, they said nothing. Their soulless eyes glowed faintly red beneath their hoods. Finally, one tilted its head.
A voice slipped through the air, soft as a breeze, yet sharp as a blade.
"Do you want to live?"
The words struck him like a thunderclap, chilling him to the bone. His chest heaved as he stared back, powerless to look away.
In the back of his fading mind, he remembered something—a tale told long ago, whispered by the servants and dismissed as old folklore.
Every fifty years, a Saint was born. A vessel of divine power stronger than any priest, a beacon of light meant to banish darkness when it rose.
But Krycan knew the truth. That Saint had not yet come. The priest was old, his light dim. And Krycan was already out of time.
The shadows leaned closer, their crimson eyes boring into him.
Again, the voice asked, colder this time, "Do you want to live?"
Krycan's breath caught in his throat.
This was no dream. This was real.