The mist of the industrial city still echoed in Frey's ears. The shadowed path he had opened now swallowed him into a world of towering clock towers, creaking factories, and narrow alleys reeking of iron and smoke. Gas lamps flickered in the distance, but the fog obscured nearly all sight.
Hunter walked behind him, silent, his eyes dripping black ink that crawled across the ground. Isolde appeared now and then within the mist, her face blurred by ink, her eyes hollow, her smile cracked.
The whisper returned, louder, sharper.
"Every word is a price. Every price is a loss."
Frey gripped the pen tighter. He knew every word he wrote would reshape this world. He knew every word was disaster. Yet he also knew he could not stop.
On the blank sheet that appeared in his hand, he wrote:
"The mist grows thicker."
The fog swallowed the streets, the gas lamps, everything. The whisper grew louder, echoing across the city.
Frey staggered back. "No… I can't…"
But Hunter stepped forward, staring at him. The figure did not speak, yet his gaze pressed heavily, as if to say: you must keep writing.
Frey wrote again, unwillingly:
"I see an old house."
At once, an old house appeared within the mist. Its walls cracked, windows shattered, door creaking. Frey trembled as he gazed upon it. He felt as though he had seen it before.
Isolde appeared before the house, her long black hair flowing, her face blurred by ink. She looked at Frey, her voice trembling.
"This is your house. The house you erased."
Frey staggered back. "No… I don't remember…"
The whisper grew louder.
"The first price is memory. You write, you lose."
With trembling hands, Frey wrote:
"I enter the old house."
The door creaked, mist spilling inside. The room was dark, smelling of dust and ink. On the wall hung a worn photograph. Frey approached, staring at it.
The photo showed a small child—himself—beside a woman with black hair. Isolde.
Tears streamed down Frey's face. "That… that's me…"
But the woman's face was blurred by ink. The whisper grew louder.
"The first price is memory. You will never remember her face again."
Frey screamed. "No! Don't take that from me!"
But the pen pulsed, forcing his hand to write:
"I forget her face."
At once, the photo cracked, the woman's face vanished. Frey stared blankly, tears flowing. He tried to recall Isolde's face, but could not. The memory was gone, erased forever.
Hunter stood in the corner, silent, watching. He did not speak, but his gaze pressed heavily, as if to say: the price has been paid.
Frey collapsed, trembling. He knew he had lost something precious. He knew every word demanded a price.
The whisper grew louder.
"The first price is memory. The next price is soul."
Frey shut his eyes, tears streaming. He knew he could not stop. He knew every word was disaster. Yet he also knew that if he stopped, Hunter would move.
Slowly, he wrote:
"I accept the first price."
The room trembled. The photo shattered, the mist devoured the house, devoured everything.
Isolde appeared again, standing within the fog. Her long black hair flowed, her face blurred by ink. She looked at Frey, her voice trembling.
"You have lost me. You will never remember my face again."
Frey collapsed, trembling. He knew he had lost something precious. He knew the first price had been paid.
Hunter stepped forward, staring at him. The figure did not speak, but his gaze pressed heavily, as if to say: the next price will be greater.
The whisper grew louder, echoing across the city.
"Welcome to your first price, Frey Vaelborn."