2
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Year 95, Month 1, Day 3, Time 4:07pm
Location: The Mountain (Kisrad)
The wind had begun to grow stronger, and spirals of snow rose around them like white phantoms trying to hinder their progress. The mountain was starting to feel less friendly-harsher, more rugged. Tharos trudged behind his brother with great difficulty, lifting his legs as if the ground itself was clinging to him, urging him to turn back.
Suddenly, Tharos stopped walking. He looked at Lucan with half-closed eyes, fatigue etched deep into his face, and asked between ragged breaths:
"Do... do you have any food in your bag?"
Lucan slowly turned his head, his gaze scanning his brother from head to toe before responding with a mix of disbelief and suspicion:
"What? You finished yours already?"
Tharos lowered his head, clearly ashamed, as if the very wind was scolding him. He muttered in a near-whisper:
"Yes... but actually... I didn't bring much with me."
Lucan exhaled slowly, opened his bag, and took out a piece of bread wrapped in an old cloth. He handed it to Tharos, his tone tinged with reproach:
"Here. But don't drop it."
Tharos extended his trembling hand, but his fingers didn't cooperate. His hands were nearly frozen. As he touched the bread, it slipped from his grasp, tumbled down the snowy slope, and rolled rapidly across the rocky incline.
Tharos cried out in panic:
"The bread! No!"
He bolted after it, stumbling through the snow, his feet drawing erratic paths, his heart pounding with desperation-as if that piece of bread was his last hope for survival.
Lucan shouted behind him, his voice cutting through the wind:
"What are you doing?! Come back, Tharos!"
But Tharos didn't hear him. Or maybe he didn't want to. His eyes were locked on the bread, vanishing slowly into the thick fog.
And then, the fog consumed everything.
Tharos disappeared.
Lucan ran after his brother with all his might, calling out with desperation and fear:
"Tharos! Thharoos!"
No response.
The fog was dense-like a wall of white smoke. It had swallowed Tharos like a dream vanishes at dawn.
Lucan stopped, panting, spinning around to pierce the fog with his eyes. He screamed again, his voice lost between the wind and the snow:
"THAROOOS!"
But the mountain remained silent. As if it had chosen to devour him.
...
Somewhere on the mountain, where nothing could be seen from the sky but white ash, Tharos opened his eyes slowly. His hands were trembling. In one of them was the piece of bread he had chased after so foolishly... or perhaps, so desperately.
He rose with difficulty, shouted aloud, his breath rising in clouds:
"LUCAAAAN! Where are you?!"
But... no one answered.
He looked around. Nothing but frozen rocks and a forest of mist. Between two tilted boulders, he spotted a small opening-barely a cave.
He approached cautiously, slipped inside, and sat at the entrance, trying to shield himself from the wind, the silence... and the fear.
He stared into the mist, his heart whispering to itself:
"He'll appear now... He has to come out now..."
But he didn't.
The sentence repeated in his mind like a desperate incantation:
"He'll appear now... now..."
Nothing happened.
Suddenly, as his numb eyes watched the fog, he noticed something... a faint movement, distant, barely visible.
Something was moving in the snow.
Tharos froze.
His eyes widened.
For some reason, Johan's voice echoed in his mind, serious and quiet, whispering inside his head:
"First... if you see anything move, don't make a sound. Don't move."
His body trembled.
"Second... I'll give you this device. You must press the red button... only when you notice strange movement on this mountain."
He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the device. His hands were shaking, breath held, eyes locked on the shadow moving far off-something not of this world wandering through the mist.
He slowly extended his finger toward the red button...
And pressed it.
Nothing happened.
Tharos pressed it again. Waited...
No sound. No flash. No reaction.
The device remained silent-like a dead piece of metal.
Meanwhile, the creature... began to move.
It was crawling toward him.
A human-like body with no legs, coated in pitch-black skin-as if the night itself clung to it. No features, no eyes, no mouth, just a smooth face etched with strange symbols... symbols that shifted slowly, squirming beneath the skin like living worms. Its long arms dug into the ice, dragging it forward.
Its neck... was long. Disturbingly long. Unnatural. As if its head hung from a flexible string.
It crept forward on its arms, each movement accompanied by the soft sound of skin scraping ice. It didn't breathe, didn't make a sound. It didn't seem alive... nor entirely dead.
Tharos remained frozen.
He didn't move.
He didn't make a sound.
His eyes were wide open, every muscle in his body gripped by fear. Even his heart feared to beat too loudly.
The creature drew closer...
And closer...
Until it was right in front of him.
It stopped.
Slowly, it raised its long neck, its heavy head swaying unwillingly upward until it hovered inches from Tharos's face.
The head was lifeless... void of expression... eyeless.
Yet Tharos felt something strange.
That face-with no features-was staring at him.
Yes... not at the ground. At him.
Not at his face... but at his soul.
A strange feeling crept into Tharos's heart-as if the being knew him.
Knew his name.
Knew why he was here.
Knew his fears, his doubts, his flight... even something he had never told anyone.
Tharos didn't scream.
He didn't breathe.
All he did... was wait.
And the head... kept staring.
And the mountain... stayed silent.
For a moment, time seemed to stop.
The air no longer moved. The snow ceased to fall. Even Tharos's heartbeat felt like it belonged to another world.
Then... the moment shattered.
The creature moved.
It slowly extended one of its disturbing hands toward the small device frozen in Tharos's hands.
Its fingers-like charred branches-wrapped around the device with terrifying delicacy... and took it. Unopposed.
Tharos didn't move. Couldn't.
Then the creature raised its other hand-shaking, making strange sounds-and placed it gently over Tharos's face.
Its fingers covered his eyes. Cold as ice. Still as death.
It wasn't painful.
But it was... heavy.
As if the weight of time itself rested on his eyelids.
It lingered there for seconds. Then suddenly... it lifted.
And in that instant, the creature was gone.
No trace. No sound. No shadow. No warmth.
As if it had never been.
Tharos remained seated, unsure if he was breathing, unsure if what happened was real-or if he had lost consciousness.
He looked around... the device was gone.
The fog grew thicker.
But his face still felt the cold touch of that hand...
And it wasn't over.
From within the thick mist...
A shadow emerged.
Tharos stopped breathing.
His eyes locked on the approaching figure, his muscles tensed, ready to flee-or to die.
"Back... Is it back?!"
Tharos stepped backward, heart pounding wildly, eyes wide.
But then...
"Thharoos!!!"
A voice...
Not a strange screech, nor a dead whisper like before.
A voice he knew...
A voice from the real world-from the past, from warmth, from home.
"Tharos! Answer me!!"
It was Lucan.
His shadow tore through the fog, running, shouting, searching...
His face was pale, streaked with snow, but his eyes searched for his brother like a drowning man who spotted land.
He shouted again:
"Tharos! Are you okay?! Where did you go?! You just vanished!"
Tharos couldn't answer right away.
A lump in his throat, tears with no warmth gathered in his eyes.
He wanted to run. To hug him. To say "I'm here."
But he couldn't... As if something from that creature still clung to his chest, silencing him.
Lucan finally reached him, knelt down, placed his hands on Tharos's shoulders, shaking him gently as he gasped:
"You're crazy! Why did you run?! I thought you were-"
He stopped.
He looked at his brother's face.
Lucan froze.
His eyes-once filled with relief-widened in shock and quiet horror.
He whispered, disbelieving:
"Tharos... your face..."
Tharos didn't understand.
He raised his hand slowly to his left cheek... felt something strange...
His skin was rough, cracked... unnaturally warm.
Lucan ripped off his glove, leaned closer, gently held Tharos's face to see clearly through the fog.
There was... a mark.
A handprint.
A deep, distinct shape of five fingers... black and red-like a touch from living fire.
The skin beneath was scorched. As if it had kissed burning coal.