Aeron limped out of the shabby building, his breath hitching with every step. Each movement sent sharp tremors of pain rippling through his ribs, as though his body wanted to collapse under its own weight. The night air hit him like a wall, heavy with a strange mixture of damp earth and burning metal. It carried the stench of oil fires, rotten food, and human sweat—a blend so foul it made his nose wrinkle.
The streets stretched before him like a patchwork of two eras forced into coexistence. Uneven cobbled roads snaked between sleek metallic pathways, where hovering lanterns hummed faintly above weathered gas lamps. The strange architecture loomed over him, some buildings leaning with the exhaustion of centuries, others gleaming unnaturally as if built yesterday.
For a long moment, Aeron simply stood there under the dim glow of a cracked street post. The light pooled around him, casting long shadows that seemed eager to devour him the moment he moved. His memories were a haze, fractured shards of images that refused to come together. And yet, beneath the fog, instinct tugged at him, whispering which way to walk.
"At least I remember the shortcuts," he muttered under his breath, forcing his legs to carry him toward a narrow alley that seemed vaguely familiar. His tone was dry, masking the fatigue gnawing at his bones.
---
Every step was agony. His ribs burned, his muscles screamed, and his vision blurred whenever he pushed too far. To distract himself from the torment, Aeron turned to the one presence he could not escape—the voice of the book, the strange entity that had claimed him the moment he entered this twisted world.
"So," he rasped, forcing out a crooked smile despite the pain, "do I get a reward for surviving that little bloodbath? Or is nearly dying its own prize?"
The book's reply came instantly, its voice as calm and clinical as ever, though threaded with an almost mocking patience.
"Yes. You will receive a reward. But receiving it here would likely result in your untimely death. Would you prefer that?"
Aeron barked a weak laugh, which turned into a cough that racked his chest. "Wonderful. A gift I can't even use. That's just perfect."
"It is not a matter of convenience," the book replied smoothly. "It is survival. You are far from safe. Flaunt power here, and you will not last the night."
Aeron narrowed his eyes at the shadows shifting around him. His suspicion grew heavier with every word the book spoke. "You seem awfully invested in keeping me alive. If you're so concerned about my survival, why didn't you step in back there? Why let me nearly get split in two?"
"Because it was your first trial. Intervention would have defeated its purpose. You must prove your worth, or this partnership ends prematurely."
"Partnership?" Aeron scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. "Feels more like I'm bleeding for your entertainment while you sit back and enjoy the view."
The book chuckled. The sound was low, unsettling, and far too human for something that claimed to be nothing more than a voice.
"You are quite the combination—obsessed and reasonable. Few are both. This is going to be… interesting."
"Glad I amuse you," Aeron muttered, dragging himself past a group of drunks who staggered out of a tavern. Their laughter echoed into the night, but they didn't so much as glance at him. "But don't think for a second that I trust you. I don't even know what you are."
"Trust is irrelevant," the book replied, its voice fading to a whisper at the edge of his thoughts. "What matters is results. And in time, you will see I am your greatest ally."
---
The exchange kept his mind sharp, but it did little to ease the ache in his body. He moved through the labyrinth of streets with the caution of a hunted animal, sticking to the darker alleys where the lamplight thinned. The city never slept—it breathed. Distant shouts drifted through the night, mingling with the clatter of carts, the creak of rusted gates, and the faint wail of someone begging in the distance.
Aeron pushed forward, his hand pressed against his side, until the alley narrowed. The familiarity returned then, faint but undeniable. The leaning brick walls, the sour smell of stagnant water pooling in the cracks—this was close. His destination lay just ahead.
He reached a decrepit building, its door crooked on rusted hinges. Every instinct told him this was his refuge, even if he couldn't piece together why. Perhaps memory. Perhaps instinct. Either way, his body could endure no more.
With effort, he shoved the door open and stumbled inside. The room greeted him with silence. Dust thickened the air, disturbed only by his uneven breathing. The faint glow of a dying lamp revealed a single large wooden structure shoved against the far wall. His foggy mind told him it was a bed.
Without hesitation, Aeron collapsed onto it—only to regret it instantly. The "bed" was nothing but a splintered wooden slab, hard and unyielding. Pain flared through his body as if the wood itself had conspired to break him further.
"Never… in my life… have I regretted something so much," he muttered, curling onto his side and grinding his teeth against the pain.
"Consider it a lesson in assumptions," the book quipped, its tone light, almost amused.
Aeron let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan. Too exhausted to argue, he closed his eyes. Despite the discomfort, sleep pulled at him like heavy chains, dragging him into its depths.
But before darkness fully claimed him, one thought cut through the fog:
This world was cruel. Its rules were merciless. And if he wanted to survive, he had to master both the world and the voice bound to him.
Or die trying.