The world had already forgotten Ethan Walford.
He walked through Lyca's crowded streets, invisible among thousands.
Umbrellas brushed past his shoulders, headlights painted the rain silver.
His phone stayed silent — except for the old messages he couldn't delete.
Lyra: "Don't wait for me, Ethan. You deserve better."
Lyra: "It's not about money. It's… complicated."
Complicated.
That word had ruined him more than the truth ever could.
Lyra was gone.
Not far — just gone from him.
People said she was dating Darren Voss, heir to one of Barthia's elite industrial houses.
Ethan didn't need to hear it; he'd seen her smile in that man's car once.
It was the same smile she used to save for him — cheap now, but beautiful enough to hurt.
He worked nights at a printing press near the docks, the kind of job that broke your back before it paid your rent.
Twelve hours for enough money to buy her gifts she never noticed.
Flowers. Silver bracelets. A watch she never wore.
He used to believe love could make him worthy.
Now he just believed in silence.
---
It was close to midnight when he left the press.
The city of Lyca shimmered with tired lights.
Neon signs flickered over rain-streaked glass.
Every sound felt distant, hollow — like an echo from another world.
He walked alone.
Hands deep in his coat pockets.
Pockets almost empty.
He stopped at a small café — closed for the night.
His reflection stared back at him in the window.
Same face. Different eyes.
Something had gone missing inside them.
Then his phone rang.
An unknown number.
He almost ignored it.
Almost.
He answered.
"Hello?"
There was silence.
Then a voice — old, deep, careful.
"Ethan Walford."
The name sounded wrong — too deliberate, too heavy.
"Who's this?"
"You can come back now."
He frowned.
"Back where?"
> "Home."
The line cracked — faint static like a whisper behind the words.
> "Your family has been waiting."
Ethan froze.
"My family?" he repeated softly. "I don't have one."
>"You do," the voice said. "And they've decided it's time."
The call ended.
No click.
Just silence.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the screen.
No number. No record of the call.
Nothing.
The wind shifted.
The rain stopped.
And somewhere in the city, a church bell rang three times — though no church in Lyca had a bell like that anymore.
---
Sleep didn't come that night.
He lay in his small apartment above the printing yard, staring at the cracked ceiling.
The hum of the machines below sounded almost like a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes — and for a second, saw a place that didn't exist.
A hall of marble.
A long staircase.
An empty chair made of black stone.
Then nothing.
When he woke, the world looked the same — but felt slightly wrong.
The morning light through his window was too pale, too still.
Even the air seemed to hesitate.
His phone blinked again.
No name. Just a message.
> "You will be fetched tonight. Do not resist."
Ethan's throat tightened.
He looked outside — the street was empty, yet he felt watched.
Somewhere, deep in his bones, something stirred.
A sense of returning.
He didn't know what he was returning to.
He didn't even know what "home" meant anymore.
But when the clock struck midnight again, a car waited outside his building.
Black. Silent.
The kind of car that didn't belong to this part of the city.
The driver stepped out — an old man in a dark coat, face lined with years and secrets.
He bowed slightly.
> "Mr. Walford," he said. "Your family sends for you."
Ethan didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Only watched the rain dripping from the man's hat brim, each drop echoing like a slow countdown.
"Who are you?"
> "A messenger," the old man said. "Nothing more."
Ethan's pulse steadied — calm, quiet.
He locked his apartment door behind him and walked toward the car.
No luggage. No questions.
The door shut with a sound like finality.
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and black as the car began to move.
He looked back once —
at the faint outline of the university towers through the fog.
At the place he thought his life would begin.
He didn't know that it already had.