In a narrow alley, between two crumbling buildings, sat a boy covered in dirt and snow. Cold wind gnawed at him like worms in rotten fruits. He barely clung to life.
His skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent—it made you wonder if there was any blood left inside of him. It shimmered faintly, like the glitter of stars in the night sky. But at the same time, it looked—wrong—shadowy, as if the darkness itself embraced him. His hair was black, but with the right angle of light there was a sheen to it, the same you could see on his skin. He was unhealthy thin, the kind of thin that makes you ache just by looking at it.
And under his skin… veins.
Black, jagged lines crawled up his throat, branching down his arms and disappearing into rags that might once have been trousers. If you looked long enough, you could see them pulse—it was faint and slow. As if trying to remember it was alive.
The boy stared at them with glazed eyes and gave a sound that might have been a laugh. It was dry and brittle, like frost breaking underfoot.
"Hah… Still ugly."
His voice was hoarse, barely carrying over the wind.
"At least they match the rest of me."
The black veins, were called the Black Omen, and had descended a few decades ago. It was both a blessing and a curse at the same time. Thanks to the Black Omen, humanity awakened powers straight out of a fantasy novel. If they survived their trial, of course. Those who didn't became cracks in space, giving birth to grotesque creatures.
But the Black Omen didn't come alone. It didn't just bring opportunities—it also brought destruction.
In the end, it was thanks to the Awakened that humanity managed to survive. They pushed the abominations back, gathered what remained of humanity, created cities—the last fortresses of humanity— and restored order. Safe havens for every survivor. That was why the Awakened were so highly respected in society.
And Nyx had them for days now. The black veins—the sign that the trial was about to take him.
For most people, it was the beginning of a carefully monitored countdown. Quarantine. Training. The luxury of knowing you'd have a bed to sleep in before you were dragged into a nightmare.
For him?
No bed. No training. No food. No luxury of anything except the kind you got from freezing half to death before your big day.
He tilted his head back against the wall, taking in the thin strip of sky overhead. A few stars hung there, dim and far away.
"Should've put me in quarantine, huh? Can't have me coughing a gate open on the street,"
he muttered to no one.
"But I guess when you're already trash, no one cares if you explode into monsters."
He grinned at the thought, teeth chattering between words. It wasn't a happy grin.
The truth was that he could barely feel his fingers, toes or legs anymore. He'd gone past the kind of cold that made you shiver—now it was just a deep, gnawing numbness, as if parts of him were quietly dying away without permission.
Food would've helped. Not much, but enough to keep the body from eating itself. But food cost money, and money meant people, and people…
His grin slipped.
"People,"
he muttered, almost spitting the word.
"Better off starving."
He'd tried. He really had. Tried to trust. Tried to help. And each time, the result had been the same: betrayal.
The streets had a way of stripping even the smallest kindness down to a weapon, and he'd learned too slow.
The last time, it had been someone he'd thought was like him—cold, hungry, clinging to whatever was left of his decency. He'd shared what little he'd scavenged, only to wake up with a knife at his throat and his food gone.
Not that it mattered now. The black veins made him untouchable, but not in a way he preferred. Anyone who saw them knew he was infected and would have stayed away as far as possible. No one wanted to risk being near the spot where a gate might open if he failed.
"Fail,"
he whispered to himself, tasting the word on his tounge.
"Yeah. That's the bet, isn't it? Me against whatever hellhole I get thrown in. Odds are… I'm not making it back."
The thought should've scared him… But it didn't. Or maybe he was too tired to feel it anymore.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of footsteps somewhere down the alley.
Slow and hesitant.
He didn't bother looking. Whoever it was, they'd take one look at him and decide he wasn't worth the risk.
His head tipped forward, chin nearly touching his chest. His breath came shallow, misting faintly in the air. The edges of his vision were starting to blur, the darkness crawling inward in soft, lazy waves.
He wondered if this was it—if he'd die here, in the cold, before he even got the chance to attempt his trial. It would be funny, in a pathetic sort of way.
The family would love it. One less embarrassment breathing their air.
"Bet you'd like that, sister,"
he muttered, words slurring slightly.
"Sorry to disappoint. Might just ruin someone else's day first."
A shadow fell across him.
He blinked, slow and unfocused. The outline of a figure stood just beyond his numbed reach, framed against the dim light from the street.
A voice followed—warm and gentle, almost too soft to belong to in this harsh world.
"You're freezing,"
she said.
The sound of it slipped under his guard in a way nothing had in years. Was she an angel, come to escort him to heaven?. He tilted his head, trying to make out her face, but his eyes wouldn't focus.
"Freezing?"
he croaked.
"Nah. Just… trying out a new look. Frostbite chic. Should catch on soon."
She didn't laugh. But she didn't leave either. The figure knelt and he felt the faintest brush of fingers against his sleeve—careful, as if she was touching something fragile.
"You've got infected,"
she said quietly.
"Since when?"
He huffed a weak laugh.
"Couple days ago, maybe. Time's fuzzy."
His head lolled back against the wall.
"Been waiting for the reaper to drop by."
She hesitated, then:
"What's your name?"
The question caught him off guard. It had been a long time since anyone had asked that and meant it. His lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace.
"Nyx,"
he muttered after a pause.
"Nix… you know, like nothing. Fitting huh?"
His lips twisted into a dry and broken smile.
She didn't answer right away. His hearing fading in and out like someone was turning a dial.
Then.
"Hold on, Nyx. Just a bit lo—"
The rest blurred into nothing. Her voice dissolved into nothing, the cold vanished, and the weight of the world fell away.
Darkness closed over him, not the kind you slept in but the kind that came to end.
Somewhere inside this vast darkness, a whisper that wasn't hers slipped past his thoughts.
[Trial of origin Initiated]