His eyes flickered open, only to find himself swallowed by darkness.
There was no floor beneath him, no walls, no sound—only an endless, suffocating void that pressed in from every direction. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had gone blind.
Then he saw them.
Two faint glows stirred in the distance, soft at first, like dying embers. They drifted through the darkness with slow, deliberate motion, and as they drew closer, their shape sharpened into something unmistakable.
Eyes.
They burned brighter with every passing second, fixed entirely on him.
"You must be bold enough to call upon Kala Mogul."
The voice did not simply echo—it reverberated through the void itself, pressing against Henry's chest, vibrating through his bones as though the darkness carried its will.
"Now speak, for I may listen only once."
Henry's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, as though the air itself resisted him. He tried to form words, but they stumbled and broke apart before they could fully leave him.
"I… I seek your—"
The laughter that followed tore through the darkness.
It was deep, jagged, and endless, rolling outward like a storm with no horizon. The void seemed to tremble with it, and Henry felt his breath quicken as the burning eyes drifted closer, their light growing harsher, yet still revealing nothing of what lay behind them.
"You seek my help," the voice said, its tone shifting into something colder, sharper.
"Yes," Henry answered quickly, his voice unsteady. "I am… a member of the Third Eclipse Brotherhood."
"A warlock," the voice replied.
Henry swallowed, the motion dry and difficult. "Yes. That is what I am."
A pause followed, heavy and suffocating, as though the darkness itself was listening.
"I have slain a thousand warlocks who dared to disturb my slumber," the voice said, each word laced with quiet hostility. "And you have chosen to become the next."
"I'm sorry," Henry said quickly, bowing his head as though the gesture might shield him from what stood before him. "But my entire sect is gone. They were beheaded after the battle… and I am all that remains."
"Then there is no need for me to kill you," the voice replied, as the burning eyes slowly retreated into the darkness. "Your fate is already sealed."
"No!" Henry shouted, the word tearing out of him before he could stop it. "I only need one favor—just one—"
"To return to your family," the voice finished, its dimming eyes flickering faintly in the void. "But you already made a pact with me the day you accepted my power. You allowed me to write the story of your life, and this… is how I chose to write it."
Henry froze. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice strained and unsteady. "We made a pact to serve you. We were to preserve the stories of men for you and—"
"That is what they told you."
The voice let out a low, hollow chuckle as of it echoed from the depths of an endless pit.
"The true pact was far simpler," it continued. "You surrendered the path of your life to me in exchange for power."
The words settled heavily over him.
Henry exhaled slowly, his thoughts faltering as the truth began to take shape. He had never known. When he joined the sect, he believed he was choosing strength, choosing a better life for his family. He had not realized he was surrendering his fate to something that saw his life as nothing more than a story to be written.
Still, he forced himself to stand his ground.
He remembered the old customs, the fragments of knowledge whispered about the Storyteller—that it valued tales above all else, and that it would trade anything for one worth hearing.
"I can offer you a story," Henry said, his voice steadier now.
The eyes brightened.
They moved closer, slowly, deliberately, as though something vast was stepping forward from the unseen.
"An amusing attempt," the voice replied. "But I know every story that has ever been told. There is nothing you can offer me that I do not already possess, warlock."
That was a truth Henry could not deny. Still, desperation refused to leave him. There had to be something—some angle, some hidden weakness he could exploit.
His mind raced through countless possibilities, tearing through legends and memories alike. What could you offer to a being that already knew every story that had ever been told?
Then the realization struck him.
Wait.
All the stories Kala Mogul possessed were meant to be real—events that had already occurred within existence itself. That was the rule. A story had to have been lived, witnessed, or written into reality.
So what if he offered something that had never been real at all?
The smiling knight, Slayer of Devilkin? No. That battle had been etched into history centuries ago. The warlock who cursed the Coven of Witches? That, too, was truth recorded in blood and memory.
There was nothing left.
No story he could offer that the entity did not already own.
And then, like a spark tearing through the darkness, it came back to him.
A tale his mother used to whisper when he was a child—one she had called part of the forgotten stories, things spoken of but never recorded, never proven, never made real.
His breath caught.
"I will give you…" Henry said, his voice cutting through the void, "…the Ala Mareva."
Silence followed.
The darkness itself seemed to still.
Then the burning eyes flared brighter—so intensely that Henry had to squint, as though reality itself was straining under their gaze.
"The Ala Mareva," the voice repeated slowly, each syllable heavier than the last. "A tale from the Forgotten… meaning it was never real."
"No," Henry said sharply.
His voice cut through the void with sudden conviction.
"It was not just a tale. It was an old prophecy spoken in the days of the gods. They chose to bury it afterward—to turn it into a story of the Forgotten—because they feared what it meant."
The voice said nothing at first.
The burning eyes lingered in the darkness, unmoving, as though something vast was thinking through his words in silence.
Then, at last, it spoke.
"So let me understand this," it said slowly. "You believe you can be the one to inherit the crown of the gods?"
"Yes," Henry answered immediately, his voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. "I will write this story for you. I will make it your new truth. Just help me escape this prison."
A pause.
The eyes burned brighter.
"You drive a hard bargain for a boy standing at the edge of death," the voice said at last. "I will grant you your escape. But in return, I will ensure you do not forget the weight of our agreement."
Henry frowned. "What are you saying?"
A low, hollow laugh echoed through the void.
"To guarantee your loyalty, I will place a curse upon your family," the voice said calmly. "Should you fail me, they will not die. They will remain. Forever. Changed. Bound as creatures of the night, never again to touch humanity or see the light of what you call life."
Henry's breath caught.
"What?" he gasped. "That is between you and me—"
"You mistake me for something that bargains blindly," the voice interrupted, colder now. "You did not think I would leave obedience to chance, did you?"
The flames in the eyes flared, sharp and merciless.
"Fail me, and your family will live forever as proof of your failure, warlock."