The fog swallowed the industrial city. Narrow streets echoed with the clatter of old machines, gas lamps flickered dimly, and long shadows danced upon brick walls. The clock tower stood at the city's center, its hands frozen at twelve.
Frey walked trembling, the pen still clinging to his fingers. Hunter followed behind, silent, his eyes dripping black ink that crawled across the ground. Selene Arkwright appeared within the mist, her long white hair flowing, her silver eyes piercing Frey.
"Time has stopped," Selene whispered. "The Cult of Mist will come. They want the pen. They want you."
Frey swallowed hard. "Why me? Why not you?"
Selene smiled faintly, a cracked smile.
"Because you write. Because you opened the path. Because you are the Chronicle."
The whisper echoed in Frey's ears.
"Write the attack. Write your cult."
On the blank sheet that appeared in his hand, Frey wrote:
"The Cult of Mist attacks the city."
At once, the fog quivered. From within it emerged figures in gray robes, their faces veiled, their eyes gleaming with ink. Whispers spilled from their mouths, echoing across the city.
"The pen… the pen… the pen…"
Frey staggered back, trembling. "No… I can't…"
But Hunter stepped forward, staring at the cult. He did not speak, but his gaze pressed heavily, as if to say: you must write.
Selene drew closer, her voice trembling.
"Write your defense. Or vanish."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"Shadows rise to fight the cult."
At once, from the fog emerged creatures with blurred faces, their bodies drenched in ink. They attacked the cult, their whispers echoing across the city.
The battle began. The fog swallowed the streets, the gas lamps, everything. Screams echoed, machines clattered, ink dripped.
Frey staggered, trembling. He knew every word was disaster. He knew the shadows he had created attacked not only the cult, but the city's people.
In the distance, he saw a young girl running, her hair disheveled, her eyes filled with fear. She fell, and the shadows closed in.
Frey cried out. "No! Don't!"
He wrote frantically:
"The shadow stops."
At once, the shadow halted. The girl stared at Frey, her eyes wide with fear.
"What's happening? Who are you?"
Frey fell silent, tears streaming. He knew she was a victim of his writing. He knew every word was disaster.
Selene approached, gazing at the girl.
"Aurelia Crowe," she said. "A worker of the city. Now she is a witness. Now she is part of your Chronicle."
Frey staggered back. "No… I don't want this…"
Aurelia looked at him, her eyes trembling with fear. "You… you saved me. But you also created them…"
Hunter stood behind Frey, silent, staring at Aurelia. He did not move, but his gaze pressed heavily, as if to say: every witness is a price.
The whisper grew louder.
"Write the price. Write your attack."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"The Cult of Mist retreats."
At once, the robed figures withdrew, their whispers rising louder. The fog swallowed the streets, the gas lamps, everything.
Selene gazed at Frey, her silver eyes gleaming.
"You have denied them. You have fought. But the hunt is not over."
Aurelia stepped closer, trembling. "I don't know who you are… but I know you are different. You must leave. You must save the city."
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.