The room fell silent again after the visions of the past faded. The lantern in the corner swayed gently, its dim light reluctant to pierce the thickening darkness. Frey sat on the floor, trembling, his fingers still clutching the pen that pulsed like a living vein.
He stared at the blank sheet upon the table. Each page appeared out of nothingness, summoned from the void. And each time he wrote, the world changed. He began to realize that this pen was not merely a curse, but a door—a door to something that should never be opened.
The whisper returned, sharper, more piercing.
"Write the whisper. Let the world hear."
Frey covered his ears, but the voice pierced his mind. He screamed, tried to resist, yet words continued to flow from his hand.
"I hear the whisper."
As the ink touched the paper, the room trembled. The lantern dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls. The whisper grew louder, not only in his head but throughout the room.
"You are the writer. You are the victim. You are the Chronicle."
The shadows shifted, forming a vague figure. It had no face, only a mouth that whispered endlessly. The words were not human language, but the sound of dripping ink.
Hunter stood in the corner, silent, watching Frey. He did not move, but ink dripped from his eyes, forming faint words upon the floor:
"The whisper is the pen. The pen is the whisper."
Frey stared at Hunter, his breath heavy. "Are you… part of the whisper?"
Hunter did not answer. But the shadows on the wall quivered, shaping into an ancient symbol. The symbol glowed black, pulsing like a heart.
Frey wrote again, unwillingly:
"The symbol speaks."
The symbol shattered, releasing black light that engulfed the room. From within came voices—screams, whispers, broken prayers. Frey covered his ears, but the sound pierced his mind.
And from the fragments emerged a woman. Her hair was long and black, her face blurred by ink, but her eyes pierced Frey with unbearable intensity.
"Isolde…" Frey whispered, though he did not know where the name came from.
The woman smiled faintly, a cracked smile. From her lips came a sound not of human voice.
"You should not exist."
Frey staggered back. "No… you're not real…"
But the figure approached, her steps light, as though floating above the floor. She extended her hand, her fingers dripping with ink.
Hunter remained silent, as if a witness. The lantern died. Darkness swallowed everything.
The whisper grew louder.
"Write the whisper. Write the forgotten name."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"Isolde looks at me."
And the woman looked at him. Her eyes were hollow, filled with ink, yet within them flickered a trace of pain. As though she was not merely a shadow, but a fragment of an erased past.
Tears streamed down Frey's face. "Who are you? Are you… part of me?"
Isolde drew closer, her voice trembling.
"I am a fragment. I am the whisper. I am the past you erased."
Frey collapsed, his body shaking. He began to understand: every word he wrote not only reshaped the world, but also unearthed pieces of himself that had been erased. Past and future alike were bound to this pen.
Hunter stepped forward, approaching the table. He did not speak, but ink dripped from his eyes onto the paper. The ink spread, forming faint words:
"Write the whisper. Let the world hear."
Frey stared at the blank sheet, his fingers trembling. He knew that if he wrote the whisper, the world would change. He knew every word was disaster. Yet he also knew that if he stopped, Hunter would move.
Slowly, he wrote:
"The whisper becomes real."
The room trembled. Shadows on the wall shattered, releasing voices that grew louder. The lantern died. Darkness consumed everything.
And in the midst of the void, the voice returned:
"Welcome to your whisper, Frey Vaelborn."