The morning sun barely pierces the fog that clings to our street. The air is thick with damp, smelling faintly of rain and earth, but beneath that ordinary scent, I feel it—the subtle vibration of danger, almost like static against my skin.
I grip the notebook tighter than ever, the leather warm beneath my hands. Every nerve in my body tells me today is different. The man outside the house isn't waiting anymore. He's moving. Hunting. Closing in.
Lorean walks beside me as we move through the quiet rooms. Her small hand slides into mine, a desperate anchor to something familiar and safe. I try to reassure her, but my own fear is a shadow I cannot shake.
"I think he's here," I whisper. "Not watching. Here. Close."
Her eyes widen, and she nods, trembling. "What do we do?"
I take a deep breath. "We hide. And we prepare."
The notebook calls to me, faintly thrumming as if aware of my fear. My chest tightens. I can't resist its pull, not entirely. I need to write. I need to experiment. But I know the cost.
I flip open the first page, pencil ready.
I start small, careful:
The front door locks on its own, a sturdy bolt sliding into place.
The sound is satisfying, solid, final. A small comfort against the tension pressing down the hallway.
Next, I write:
A wall of mist rises outside the house, cloaking it from view.
The air shifts. A thin, silvery fog curls around the windows and door, drifting lazily, almost naturally. I can barely see the street beyond. Footsteps outside falter, and I hear a frustrated mutter.
Lorean whispers, wide-eyed: "It's working."
"Yes," I say, my voice tight. "But it can only buy us time. He's stronger than I imagined."
Then the first real attack comes.
A sharp, violent pounding at the front door.
The fog seems to vibrate in response, and I can hear the edges of reality bending—small creaks of the floor, a strange ripple in the air, like the world itself is bracing.
"Wren!" Lorean yells, clutching my arm.
I grab the notebook, my heart hammering. There is no hesitation. I write:
A shadow forms across the threshold, moving like liquid.
The door rattles. The shadow flattens, shifting and twisting, resisting the fog I created. A cold, palpable pressure presses from the other side. Then, almost impossibly, the figure forces its way through the mist.
I freeze, staring at the inky darkness seeping into our home.
It takes shape slowly: a tall, menacing figure, black coat whipping like smoke around him, his face half-hidden beneath a hood. Eyes—pale and calculating—glow faintly in the gloom.
Varek.
The man Aldren warned me about. The one who took our parents. The one who now hunts us.
"Wren…" Lorean whispers, terrified, "what do we do?"
I swallow hard. My pencil shakes in my hand.
I have to fight him. Somehow.
I write with desperate speed:
A barrier of light springs from the floorboards, a wall of gold and silver shimmer, shielding the room.
The light bursts outward, and the shadow recoils, hissing. Smoke curls along the edges, but the figure doesn't retreat entirely. He leans forward, twisting unnaturally, studying the barrier as if calculating the next move.
And then he laughs. A sound that chills me to the bone.
"You've awakened it," he says, voice like steel scraping stone. "And now… it belongs to me."
The room quakes with his presence. Objects rattle on the shelves. Lorean presses herself into me, shaking.
I realize, in that moment, the terrifying truth: the notebook is not just a tool. It is a beacon. Every word I write not only shapes reality—it draws him closer.
I have power.
But he has strength.
And he knows how to take it from me.
The barrier holds—for now. But I can feel it weakening. The longer I use the notebook, the more exhausted I become. My pencil scratches across the page in fevered urgency.
A second barrier rises. One of stone and silver, strong and unyielding.
The shadow lunges again, but this time it falters. His movement slows. His hands strike the barrier, and a screeching sound fills the air, but the light holds.
I collapse onto the floor, gasping. Lorean clings to me.
"He… he's coming back," I whisper. "And next time… he won't be alone."
The notebook lies open in front of me. Its pages glow faintly. Waiting.
And I understand something I have always known, deep down:
This is only the beginning.
Everything I create has a price.
Everything I write can be taken away—or turned against me.
And Varek… is only the first storm.