The room was no longer the same. After Isolde's whisper faded, the stone walls that had once stood firm began to crack, as though ink seeped from their fissures. The old lantern swung wildly, its dim light reflecting off the floor, now glistening black.
Frey stood trembling, the pen still clinging to his fingers. He tried to draw breath, but the air was heavy, thick with a mist that smelled of iron and ink. Hunter remained in the corner, silent, his eyes dripping ink that crawled across the floor toward a door that had just appeared.
The door had not been there before. It rose from shadow, towering, carved with ancient symbols that pulsed like a beating heart.
The whisper echoed again.
"Write the path. The shadowed path. The path to your Chronicle."
Frey swallowed hard. "The shadowed path… what do you mean?"
The pen pulsed, forcing his hand to move. On the blank sheet that appeared upon the table, he wrote:
"The door opens."
At once, the door creaked, black mist spilling from its cracks. Faint voices seeped through—whispers, screams, broken prayers.
Frey stepped back. "No… I can't…"
But Hunter moved. The silver-masked figure stepped forward, gazing at the door, then turned to Frey. His stare was empty, yet heavy with pressure. As if to say: you must enter.
Frey gripped the pen tighter. He knew if he stopped writing, Hunter would act. He knew each word was disaster, yet also his only means of survival.
He wrote again:
"I step into the shadowed path."
The door swung wide. Black mist engulfed the room, swallowing the lantern, the table, everything. Frey stepped inside, trembling, his heart pounding.
The corridor stretched long and dark, its walls layered with ancient symbols glowing black. The floor was damp, reeking of ink. Whispers echoed from every corner, as though the corridor itself spoke.
"Each step is a word. Each word is a path."
Frey walked slowly, his eyes fixed on the symbols. They pulsed, shifting shape, alive. He felt the corridor was not merely a place, but writing itself being born.
Hunter followed behind, his steps heavy, his eyes dripping ink. He did not speak, but his presence pressed against the air, suffocating Frey.
Midway through the corridor, Frey saw another shadow. A woman stood there, her long black hair flowing, her face blurred by ink. Isolde.
"Isolde…" Frey whispered.
The woman looked at him, her eyes hollow, filled with ink. Her voice trembled, woven with whispers.
"This path is not yours. This path is shadow. You are only rewriting ruin."
Frey staggered back. "No… I only want to escape…"
Isolde drew closer, her steps light, as though floating above the floor. She extended her hand, her fingers dripping ink.
"Every path demands a price. What you write will consume you."
Frey shut his eyes, tears streaming. He knew every word demanded a price. He knew this path was not merely a corridor, but part of a Chronicle that should never exist.
The whisper grew louder.
"Write the price. Write your path."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"The shadowed path extends further."
The corridor lengthened, its walls trembling, symbols shifting form. From the shadows emerged vague figures—beings with blurred faces, their bodies drenched in ink. They whispered, their voices echoing through the corridor.
"You are the writer. You are the victim. You are the Chronicle."
Frey ran, his body shaking. Hunter followed, his steps heavy yet swift. Isolde remained, her cracked smile fixed upon him.
The corridor did not end. Each step opened a new path, each word stretched it further. Panicked, Frey wrote:
"I find an exit."
At once, another door appeared at the corridor's end. Tall, layered with ancient symbols, glowing black. Mist seeped from its cracks, whispers growing louder.
Frey ran toward it, trembling. Hunter followed, his heavy steps echoing. Isolde remained, her broken smile unchanging.
Frey opened the door.
Beyond it lay another world. An industrial city shrouded in mist, filled with clock towers, old factories, and narrow streets. Gas lamps flickered dimly, mist cloaked the roads, machines groaned in the distance.
Frey staggered back. "This… the outside world?"
The whisper answered.
"This is the shadowed path. The world you have written. The world that should not exist."
Hunter stood behind him, silent, gazing at the city. Ink dripped from his eyes, staining the ground, crawling into the streets.
Frey looked at the pen in his hand. He knew every word he wrote would reshape this world. He knew every word was disaster. Yet he also knew he could not stop.
He wrote again:
"The mist grows thicker."
Mist swallowed the city, devouring gas lamps, streets, everything. The whispers grew louder, echoing across the city.
Isolde appeared once more, standing within the mist. Her long black hair flowed, her face blurred by ink. She gazed at Frey, her voice trembling.
"You have opened the path. This path cannot be closed."
Frey collapsed, trembling. He knew he had unleashed something that could never be sealed. He knew this shadowed path was part of a Chronicle that should not exist.
Hunter stepped forward, his gaze heavy, pressing upon Frey. As if to say: you must keep writing.
Frey shut his eyes, tears flowing. He knew he could not stop. He knew every word was disaster. Yet he also knew that if he stopped, Hunter would move.
Slowly, he wrote:
"I accept the shadowed path."
The mist quivered. The whispers grew louder, echoing across the city.