There was no light.
No warmth.
No breath.
Only the weight of emptiness, pressing against him from all sides. Aeron's consciousness drifted in the void, unmoored, detached from the body he no longer possessed. He tried to think, to cling to some memory of flesh, of form, but even his thoughts bled away, like echoes swallowed by an endless cavern.
Then came the whispers.
At first, faint murmurs. Indistinct. Like the hush of wind through a graveyard. But they grew sharper, louder, until they were a cacophony, voices overlapping, speaking in tongues both alien and familiar.
"He's here."
"Another seeker."
"He'll break like the rest."
"No… perhaps this one will endure."
Aeron wanted to shout at them, to demand answers, but he had no mouth. No lungs. No voice. The void devoured his frustration, his fear. He was nothing here—less than nothing.
Then a single voice rose above the others. Deep, resonant, calm as still water… and yet every syllable seemed to vibrate through his very essence.
"Aeron Kahl. You have sought eternity, and eternity has answered."
Aeron's consciousness jolted. Before him, something materialized. Its form was wrong—constantly shifting, as though it couldn't decide what it wished to be. One moment it was a cloaked figure, the next a beast with too many eyes, the next a column of writhing shadow. Its mere presence pressed on him like the weight of a collapsing sky.
"Who… who are you?" His words weren't spoken, yet they rippled through the void as if the question had been torn from his very being.
The figure tilted its ever-changing head. Its shape blurred, then steadied, amused.
"I am a keeper of paths. A guardian of choices. And you, mortal, stand at a crossroads."
Its form leaned closer. Aeron felt as if the void itself bent around the figure, dragging him into its orbit.
"Do you wish to live?"
"Yes."
The word was ripped from him before doubt could form. It was not a plea. It was a vow. Desperation clung to his answer like a parasite.
The figure stilled. For the first time, its edges sharpened, almost solid.
"Living is not the same as existing. You crave something greater. Immortality."
Aeron's essence quivered. Hope flared, tempered by suspicion. "Can you grant it?"
The figure's laughter filled the void. It was not the sound of joy—it was a dirge, a chorus of graves opening. At once soothing and menacing, like a lullaby sung by something that had never been human.
"I can grant you… the chance. But eternity has a price. A crucible. You must prove your worth. Body. Mind. Soul. Fail, and you will not die. You will… unravel."
The whispers shrieked at once.
"Don't do it."
"Fool! You'll regret this."
"He doesn't know what he asks for!"
"Run. Run before it binds you."
Aeron clenched—if he had teeth, he would have ground them. He silenced their noise in his mind. "I have spent my entire life chasing this. I will not stop now. Whatever it takes—I'll endure."
The figure extended a hand, long and dark, its edges fraying into smoke. Fingers stretched like talons, dissolving into the void.
"Then take my hand, Aeron Kahl. And know: once this pact is sealed, there is no turning back."
The whispers turned to wails, frantic, desperate.
"Do not touch it!"
"You'll be damned."
"There is no return!"
Aeron hesitated only a breath. Then, without another thought, he reached out and seized the hand.
The void shattered.
*****
When the world reformed, it was blinding. A stark, sterile white, stretching in all directions. The walls around him pulsed faintly, like the interior of some colossal, living creature. The air buzzed with unnatural energy, stinging his lungs with every breath.
He stumbled forward—and froze.
He had lungs. A body. Trembling hands, bare feet pressing against the slick floor. He looked down, and his reflection stared back at him from a puddle of blood-red liquid.
The face was not his own.
Gone was the gaunt visage of Aeron Kahl, aged and weary. In its place was a stranger's face—young, pale, fragile. The skin clung too tightly to the bones, the limbs frail and untrained. A body far weaker than the one he had left behind.
"This…" he whispered, staring into the reflection. "…this is my vessel?"
The figure was gone. But its voice lingered, disembodied, woven into the air.
"Your first challenge awaits. Survive, and you will take your first step toward eternity."
The walls of the white chamber began to melt, dissolving into crimson mist. Slowly, the space reshaped itself into a vast arena, its ground cracked and soaked with blackened blood. Chains rattled in the distance. The scent of iron and rot filled the air, suffocating.
Aeron's heart pounded—too fast, too fragile in this frail body.
Then came the footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate. Each one striking like a drumbeat of doom.
From the shadows at the far end of the arena, a figure emerged. A towering man, his face hidden behind a helmet of jagged iron. His armor was pitted and stained, his presence radiating menace. In his hands he carried a blade longer than Aeron's new body was tall, its edge gleaming with the promise of violence.
The voice returned, calm and merciless.
"Survive."
The warrior began to walk, then to stride, then to charge.
Aeron's mind raced. He had no weapon. No training in this weak shell. But he had something else. His mind. His will. The same relentless obsession that had carried him through decades of failure, through whispers and mockery, through death itself.
As the warrior's blade descended, Aeron clenched his trembling fists and whispered, not to the void, not to the whispers, but to himself:
"This is the price of eternity."
And he moved.
The fight for his immortality had begun.