The air in the ossuary district was a physical thing, a wet, greasy chill that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones. It smelled of rust, stale urine, and the ever-present, cloying sweetness of decay from the mass graves that pockmarked the slum. Adam huddled in the lee of a collapsed coolant pipe, his threadbare coat pulled tight around a frame that was more wire and sinew than flesh. At sixteen, he was built of angles and sharp edges, a boy whittled down by hunger and the city's relentless indifference.
In his hand, clutched in a numb fist, was his prize. Not coffee—the very idea was a fantasy, a rumor from the world of the tall, well-fed people who lived behind the shimmering barrier walls. No, his prize was a gristly, grey piece of off-cut meat, purchased from a butcher who'd eyed him with suspicion. It had cost him a day's scavenging in the rust-fields, a handful of salvaged copper wire. It was cold, tough, and probably from an animal he didn't want to name.
But it was real.
He brought it to his lips, his teeth tearing at the unyielding fibers. The flavor that exploded in his mouth was overwhelmingly gamey, a pungent, metallic taste that made his gorge rise. He chewed once, twice, then his body rebelled. He spat the half-masticated lump onto the wet ground, a string of saliva connecting his lip to the rejected meal.
A wave of self-loathing washed over him. Idiot. Wasted it. Always waste it.
He forced himself to swallow the bile and the lingering taste. Then, with a grimace of pure will, he picked up the spat-out piece, wiped it roughly on his trousers, and shoved the whole thing back into his mouth. He didn't chew this time. He just forced it down, a hard, painful lump traveling to his empty stomach.
"Thank you," he whispered to no one, the words a hoarse habit. He was thankful for the substance, for the faint promise of energy it offered. On this particular day, he needed every scrap of strength he could get.
His life was coming to an end.
The thought wasn't dramatic, just a cold, accepted fact, like the perpetual twilight of the ossuary or the ache in his joints. It had started a week ago. The fatigue was different from the usual hunger-induced weakness. This was a heavy, seductive pull, a siren call from the depths of his own mind. Sleep wasn't a refuge anymore; it was a predator, waiting to pounce.
…not yet, little light, not here… the shadows have teeth here…
Adam flinched, his head snapping left and right. The alley was empty save for the dripping water and scuttling vermin. The voice had been clear, a woman's voice, soft and frayed at the edges. It was one of the many, the chorus in his skull. They'd been his companions for years, the reason his mother's eyes had gone from worried to fearful before she'd finally taken his sister and vanished into the crowded warrens of the slum. "The whispers will draw the monsters, Adam," she'd said, her face pale. "They always do." He was a bad-luck charm, a crack in the world through which bad things could seep.
He was a crazy slum rat, and now, he was a dead man walking.
"Shut up," he growled at the empty air though the voices barely talked anymore, slapping his own cheek. The sting was a fleeting, bright counterpoint to the pervasive numbness. "Just… shut up."
He pushed himself off the ground, his limbs feeling like lead. He had to move. He had a destination. The Public Safety Office, the PSO, the closest thing the ossuary had to a police station. The Third Special Directive was clear: all carriers of the Nightmare Spell were to surrender themselves. It was the law. For someone like Adam, the law was the only fragile shield against total annihilation. He would follow it, even to his own end.
He trudged through the narrow, refuse-choked streets, a ghost among the desperate and the broken. The towering, dilapidated hab-blocks leaned over him, blotting out what little grey light filtered through the smog. He crossed the invisible boundary out of the ossuary, the ground under his feet shifting from packed dirt and rot to cracked but solid permacrete. The air, while still tainted, lost its sweet-sickly edge.
The people changed, too. They were taller, their faces fuller, their clothes intact and clean. They moved with a purpose he couldn't comprehend, their eyes sliding over him with a mixture of pity and disgust. He was a stain on their orderly world, a reminder of the festering wound that was the outskirts. He kept his head down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
Finally, he saw it. A squat, brutalist structure of reinforced ferrocrete, bristling with external sensor arrays and heavy, manned gun nests on the roof. The Public Safety Office. It looked less like a place of help and more like a fortress. A fortress he had to willingly walk into.
He found a bench opposite the main entrance, its surface scarred and rusted. He sat, gathering his courage, watching the efficient, armored figures of PSO officers coming and going. He was so out of place. The voices in his head chose that moment to mutter again, a low, incomprehensible stream of nonsense that felt like static between his ears. He clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his focus on the building, on his purpose.
After what felt like an eternity, he stood. His legs trembled. With a final, steadying breath that did little to calm him, he crossed the street and pushed through the heavy rotating doors.
The interior was cold, brightly lit, and smelled of antiseptic and ozone. The walls were lined with reinforced armor plates, and he could see the discreet, dark apertures of internal turrets in the ceiling. A broad counter separated the public area from the operational heart of the station. Behind it, a scruffy, broad-shouldered officer with a permanent scowl looked up from his terminal. His eyes, hard and assessing, scanned Adam from his filthy boots to his pale, sunken face.
"You lost, kid?" the officer barked, his voice echoing in the sterile space. "Strays don't get fed here. Move along."
Adam flinched at the volume. He wrapped his arms around himself, a feeble attempt to seem smaller. He looked around, the clinical efficiency of the place overwhelming his slum-born senses.
"Hey! I'm talking to you, ossuary rat!"
Adam cleared his throat, the sound dry and rasping.
"Uh, no. Not lost."
He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit. Then, reciting the words he'd practiced in his head a hundred times, he said:
"As demanded by the Third Special Directive, I am here to surrender myself as a carrier of the Nightmare Spell."
The change in the officer was instantaneous. The irritation vanished, replaced by a rigid, hyper-alert wariness. His eyes, now sharp and piercing, raked over Adam again, no longer seeing just dirt and poverty, but a potential biohazard.
"Are you sure?" the officer's voice was lower, tighter. "This isn't some ploy for a warm bed and a meal? You know the penalty for false reporting. When did the symptoms start?"
Adam shrugged, a tired, hollow gesture. "A week ago. The sleep… it pulls. Hard."
The officer's face lost a shade of its color.
"Slag," he hissed, the curse a sharp exhalation.
Then, his movements suddenly hurried, he slammed his palm on a large red button on his terminal. A piercing, rhythmic alarm blared through the station.
"Attention! Code Black in the lobby! I repeat! CODE BLACK!"
The history of the Nightmare Spell was a ghost story every child knew, a catechism of fear. It had bloomed in the wreckage of a world already broken by cataclysm and war. At first, it was just fatigue, a global lethargy dismissed as a new plague. Then came the comas. Then, the deaths. And finally, the horror—the dead rising, their bodies twisting into things of fang and claw, the Nightmare Creatures that had shattered armies and plunged humanity into a final, desperate darkness.
Salvation, of a sort, came from the Awakened. The survivors of the Spell's first trials, who returned from their harrowing dreams with superhuman abilities, the power to wield magic, to bind echoes of the creatures they slew. They had carved out pockets of safety, built new cities behind great walls, and established a fragile, brutal new order.
For the wealthy, the scions of the great clans, the Spell was a dangerous inheritance, a trial they prepared for from birth with tutors, martial training, and ancestral weapons known as Memories. For them, it was a deadly rite of passage into power.
For Adam, who had fought for every crust of bread, who had learned to run and hide instead of fight, who heard voices that weren't there, the Spell was not an opportunity. It was the final, inescapable trap. A death sentence delivered directly into his brain.
The response to the Code Black was swift and violent. Armored officers swarmed the lobby, their weapons trained on him. He was shoved against the counter, his thin frame roughly patted down. No one spoke to him. They handled him like a live explosive.
He was marched down a series of sterile, echoing corridors, deeper into the bowels of the building. The air grew colder. They entered a room in the basement that was a chilling fusion of an operating theater and a prison cell. The walls were bare, polished ferrocrete, and a single, massive vault door dominated one side. In the center sat a heavy, menacing chair made of brushed steel and black polymer, studded with restraint points.
"Sit," one of the officers grunted.
Adam did as he was told. The chair was cold even through his trousers. They fastened thick restraints around his wrists, ankles, and across his chest. The polymer cuffs were snug, unyielding. He was trapped. A part of him, the part that had spent a life running, screamed in panic. The larger part, the part that was so, so tired, simply accepted it.
The armed officers took up positions along the walls, their faces grim masks under their helmet visors. Adam barely registered them. The pull of sleep was a physical weight now, a warm, dark ocean threatening to drown him. He fought to keep his eyes open, watching the play of light on the ceiling.
The vault door hissed, its locking mechanisms disengaging with a series of heavy thunks. It swung open to reveal a gray-haired policeman. He had a face like worn leather, etched with the lines of a thousand crises, and eyes that held no warmth, only a weary, professional assessment. He checked the restraints with practiced efficiency, his fingers testing the locks. He then glanced at a chrono on his wrist.
"What's your name, son?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
Adam blinked slowly, struggling to concentrate. "Adam."
The old policeman gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Just Adam?"
"Just Adam." Names were a luxury in the ossuary. He'd been lucky to get one at all. His sister had been named Dust. He didn't know where she was now. He hoped she was somewhere the voices couldn't reach.
The policeman grunted. "Do you have any family? Someone we should contact?"
Adam shook his head, the movement slight. "No. There's no one." The words were true, but they still left a hollow ache in his chest. The memory of his mother's retreating back, her hand clutching his sister's, was a fresh wound even now.
For a fleeting second, something dark and knowing flickered in the old policeman's eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by grim focus.
"Alright, Adam. How long can you fight it? How long before you go under?"
"Not… not long," Adam admitted, a yawn cracking his jaw.
"Then we don't have time for the full procedure. Listen to me. This is the most important conversation of your life, and it's going to be the shortest. Try to resist, and listen. Okay?"
Adam managed a weak nod. The room was starting to swim at the edges of his vision.
"How much do you know about the Spell? The real stuff, not the dramas and the recruitment vids."
Adam's thoughts were molasses. "You go into the Dream… kill monsters… complete the Nightmare… get powers. Become Awakened." It was the simple, brutal fairy tale.
The old policeman shook his head. "It's not that clean. Listen. Once you're under, you'll be in your First Nightmare. It's a trial. You'll see monsters, yes. But you'll also see people. Remember this: they are not real. They're illusions. Phantoms conjured by the Spell to test you."
"How…" Adam licked his dry lips. "How do you know? No one knows how the Spell works. So how can you be sure they're not real?"
The policeman's stare was hard, uncompromising. "Because you might have to kill them, kid. To survive. So do yourself a favor and don't think of them as people. Think of them as part of the test. It's easier that way."
"Oh." The implication settled in his gut, cold and heavy.
"A lot of the First Nightmare is luck. The terrain, the tools, the enemies… the Spell usually tailors it to the Aspirant. It's a trial, not an execution. Usually." His eyes scanned Adam's emaciated form, taking in his clear lack of training or resources. "You're starting with a disadvantage. But I've seen kids from the outskirts survive one i know of even survived their second nightmare. You're tough. You're survivors. Don't give up on yourself too soon."
"Uh-huh." The words were becoming distant, muffled, as if he were sinking underwater.
"About those powers… you get them if you survive. What you get depends on who you are, deep down, and what you do in the trial. But a part of it, your core Aspect, will be available from the start. The first thing you do, the very first thing, is to find it. Check your Attributes. Check your Aspect."
The lights seemed to be dimming. The policeman's face was becoming a smudge in the growing gloom.
"If you get a combat Aspect—Swordsman, Brawler, Archer—your chances go up. If it's reinforced by a physical Attribute, like enhanced strength or speed, that's a good roll. Most people get something combat-related. It's common."
Adam's eyelids were leaden. He could feel his consciousness fraying, the real world dissolving.
"If you're unlucky… if you get a utility Aspect, something to do with crafting or sorcery… don't despair. They're useful. You just have to be smarter. Smarter than the Spell. There are no useless Aspects. Well… almost none. So use whatever you get. Use everything. Survive."
…listen to the man, little light, he speaks true, survival is the only song… the woman's voice whispered, clear and urgent amidst the static.
"If you survive, you become an Aspirant, one step from Awakened. If you die in there…" The policeman's voice was the faintest echo now. "You open a gate. A Nightmare Creature comes through. Right here. Which means me and my people have to put it down. So… please don't die, Adam."
A flicker of something—gratitude?—warmed Adam's fading mind. Someone, even for a moment, had said his name and asked him not to die.
"Or… at least, try not to die right away. The nearest Awakened response team is hours out. We're not equipped to handle a gate breach on our own. We'd really appreciate the head start…"
'What?' The thought was a spark, instantly extinguished.
With that final, chilling piece of motivation, Adam surrendered. The last of his strength evaporated, and he fell, head lolling against the rest, into a deep and absolute slumber.
The world vanished into perfect, seamless black.
And then, in the profound silence of that void, a voice spoke. It was not one of his voices. It was crystalline, vast, and utterly alien, resonating not in his ears but in the very core of his being. It was a voice of absolute, impersonal power.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]