A weak-looking young man—no older than 18—with porcelain skin and raven-black hair was walking through the streets of the Western Sector—this was quite a broad term, but then again, what would an illiterate orphan know of the world's geological affairs?
Slightly unfocused—and extremely sleepy—he looked down and walked down the streets under the pale moonlight—his eyes fixated on the floor and barely open.
'This damned world. Can't even sleep in peace.'
He felt something nudge him—nearly causing him to trip over. He looked up and saw a disheveled old man—probably in his 30s or 40s—with a stubby beard and a receding hairline.
"Watch where you're going, idiot!" he said to the man.
The man simply looked over in his direction, stared at him for a few seconds, then scoffed.
"Pathetic."
"What did you just say to me?" The boy retorted—frustration and anger visible in his deep crimson eyes.
"Watch your tongue, boy. Death is closer than you think," the man hissed angrily.
The boy smirked, "Hah! What death? Who even speaks like that?"
What he did not expect, however, was that in the next moment he would be on the floor—weak, dazed, unable to stand—and the man gone.
The boy felt blood seeping out of his abdomen.
He tried to laugh, but only a pained hiss escaped him.
'After all these years of clawing, surviving in the gutters, always one step ahead of death… and this is how it ends?'
'Sixteen years. Sixteen years of being no one, of being a ghost in a world that doesn't care. Not even a name to leave behind.'
'Not like I'll be remembered. No one to miss me. Maybe my sister—if she even knew I existed.'
'Damned Bearers.'
Bearers were the wielders of Marks, some sort of power they gained from something called a Fragment. The world had changed a lot in the last 50 years, with the Shardfall and everything—well, it's not like he knew much—it didn't matter anyway; he was going to die here after all.
It's ironic, all this time he has scavenged for survival, hunting from the shadows, and now he would return to the shadows—this time, albeit permanently.
His vision was starting to fade until, eventually, the light was snuffed from his eyes.
***
[Welcome Challenger, to Steps Of The Unsaid]
Lucien slowly opened his eyes to a foreign voice in his head.
[---Mark Is Being Granted---]
[---Failed To Grant Mark---]
[---Cause: Unauthorized Entry---]
'Wait, what?!' His thoughts, a crumbling mess.
[---Law is being created---]
He had heard stories about his current predicament.
[To ascend, you must forget the sky]
People would enter a Vestige—a trial of sorts—and receive a Mark—on their dorsal—and an Innate Revelation from a Fragment which would turn them into Bearers, superhumans of sorts that had powers beyond understanding, with some even being stronger than armies.
[One truth must die for each step climbed]
They would then go on to either complete tasks assigned by the Fragments in order to grow stronger or leave. Upon leaving the Vestige, they would be granted a new Revelation from the Fragment.
[You may speak no answer twice]
What was unheard of, however, was someone not receiving a Mark upon entering a Vestige; thus, it was assumed that either it was impossible, or those who failed to receive a Mark died.
[The lie you tell must be your own]
Lucien, however, was surprisingly calm; after all, he had just died and had still not come to terms with both dying and being alive since both seemed improbable.
[Climb not with faith, but with Uncertainty]
First, he had to figure out what the requirements of the Vestige were; however, without a Mark, there was no simple way to do so.
Usually, the requirements of the Vestige would simply appear inside your head—or at least that's what Lucien had heard.
'Well, I guess I'll figure it out like I've always done.'
He swiveled his head around to inspect his surroundings, but to his surprise, there was nothing.
Quite literally, there was nothing around him; it was as if he had been put in an obsidian box—if the box was endless, that is—until he looked deeper: right ahead of him was a tall, tenebrous spire.
'Well, this is…ominous. Wait, how can I even see right now?'
He had a sliver of an idea as to how this was supposed to play out; normally, he would have had to fight an Echo after being granted a Mark and an Innate Revelation.
'It was called a Whispering Ash or something like that.'
And the Vestige probably allowed him to see; otherwise, it would be nearly impossible.
But with neither Mark nor a Revelation, it seemed nearly impossible, to say the least, considering that the Echoes—even lesser ones—were considered stronger than any worldly predator, but then again, Lucien had never seen any worldly predators and as such expected the worst.
With no other option in sight, and mostly out of fear, he carefully made his way towards the spire with a measured gait.
As he reached the entrance of the spire, a feeling of impending doom crept upon him, the kind that kept him alive in the suburbs; it took him quite a lot of will to suppress the shouting of his instincts.
He pulled open the gate of the spire, and a gust of wind pushed out, forcing the doors to fully open.
Without considering what awaited him, he entered the spire.
***
[---Law is being enforced---]
The insides of the spire were completely dark, yet somehow he could see.
It was rather unnerving; he had half-expected to be drowned in fear inside the mysterious spire he stumbled across after death.
But it was rather bleak.
He scoffed. 'Who the hell designed this? Even I could've done better!'
Suddenly, the door behind him closed shut without making even a sliver of a sound.
'Now what?'
He didn't say anything, but rather he thought—even if he did, it's not like there was any sound coming out of his mouth, or anywhere for that matter. If he didn't know any better, he would've thought he'd gone deaf!
Lucien looked around the room he was in: most of it was empty; there were a few knight statues on the opposite end of the room, some empty chests that seemed like they were forced open, on either side of the room, and a spiral staircase going up through the center of the room.
'Might as well go up, not like I have anything to do here.'
As he took the first step of the stair, the voice once again spoke in his head:
[Climb, for the sky is no longer here]
"What's that supposed to mean?"
As he continued to climb, the voice continued to speak in his head:
[Each step a secret, each truth a fear]
[In the silence above, you may be whole]
[But here, at the start, you are but a soul]
Until he reached the first floor, the voice spoke out in a darker tone—almost threatening:
[Do you remember who you were before the darkness found you?]
'What kind of question is that? I am Lucien, and I have always been Lucien.'
Lucien ignored the question and tried to move upwards; however, the staircase was now veiled by a dense shadow.
The darkness around Lucien grew deeper and more threatening, as if getting ready to devour him whole.
Sensing this danger, he shouted:
"Yes!"
Although no sound made it out of his mouth, the shadows grew lighter—as if retreating—and the veil was lifted.
As he began to climb, now to the second floor, the poem once again spoke out in his head, in a deep and somber tone:
[The name you wore, the face you knew,]
[Faded by time, still clings to you]
[In every step, a shadow stirs]
[The past remains, though dimmed it blurs]
[The road ahead, it calls you near,]
[But memories whisper—doubt, and fear]
As he reached the second floor, the voice once again spoke out in his head, this time in a lighter tone:
\[Have you ever truly let go of the past?]
Lucien never had friends. Never had anyone, really. Just hunger and shadows. Memories weren't things he cherished—they were survival records. Faded, fragmented, forgotten. The only memories he had are of his struggle to survive; the only hope he had ever had to let go of was of his survival, when he bled to death, knowing his sister would never know of his existence, and he was content with it. 'He was probably better off forgotten.'
"Yes," he replied.
The veil once again lifted, and he continued his climb upwards.
[The chains have snapped, the weight is gone]
[The past dissolved like the fading dawn]
[Nothing clings, no ghosts to chase]
[Only the void, in its empty grace]
[Freed from the past, you stand alone]
[Yet something whispers: You are not whole]
As he now reached the third floor, the deep voice once again resounded:
[If the thing you want most began to want you back… would you let it?]
His entire life, all Lucien had needed was survival; however, want is vastly different from need: he wanted a good life, like those rich kids who eat what they want, when they want, who get to sleep on those comfortable things they call 'beds', and who get to unravel the mysteries of the universe in the thing they call school.
His answer to this question was:
"Yes, of course, you'd be pretty dumb not to."
He continued to climb, this time to the fourth floor, wondering about the implications of these questions and why they were this simple; he had expected to die quite a long time ago, when he entered the Spire, yet now, a sliver of hope had started to form in him.
[It reached with hands not made of flesh]
[A whisper wrapped in silken mesh]
[You smiled, and stepped into the flame]
[Now neither you nor it can name]
[Where one begins, where one must end—]
[Desire is a hungering friend]
Once again, the voice appeared inside his head and spoke:
[If promises are but fleeting whispers, would you dare to speak them aloud?]
"Yes," he responded; he was not beneath petty tricks and did not have something as fickle as honor; all that mattered to him was his survival.
He once again continued the climb, and so did the poem:
[You dared to speak though truth would fade]
[Your voice a blade that will not trade]
[Let lies tomorrow twist the thread]
[Today, your words are sung, not said]
[And so you built a fleeting tower]
[Of ash and breath and borrowed power]
As he now reached the fifth floor, he started to wonder whether any of this was even real.
The voice, however, did not give much room to his thought, as this time when it spoke—its voice resounded softly, echoing across the unending obsidian plane, even though it was only inside his head.
[Are you certain this is even real?]
The implication of this weighed on him; although he did not fear death, he did not desire it either, so where was he? Was it all a dream? Had he somehow gotten pulled into a newly formed Vestige? Or was it all a trick played by his mind in response to his impending death? Was even that real?
This time he was lost for words.
The shadows once again grew deeper and more threatening—wanting to devour him.
He tried to say "Yes"—but the word died in his throat.
He then tried to respond "No," but he could not.
Was it because he did not have an answer? Was it because his belief was not concrete?
A sense of fear grew inside him as he stood there—struggling to speak, yet being completely unable to—slowly watching as the shadows grew deeper and crept towards him from all directions.
Lucien stood, voiceless, uncertain.
And then…
They took him whole.
[---The Void Fragment Listens---]
[---Mark Is Being Granted---]
[---Mark Has Been Granted---]
[---Mark Attribute is Being Forced Upon You---]
[---The Fragment Grants You a Relic---]
***
[---Verse is Unraveling---]
[Death is the only truth, for in its silence even the tongue cannot weave a single lie]