Morning arrived reluctantly over Greenwalls. A pale sun lingered behind a veil of clouds, its light dull and distant, as snow descended in slow, unhurried spirals. The city seemed suspended in time, softened and silenced beneath white—streets muffled, rooftops buried, the usual rhythm of life reduced to a breath held too long. Even the wind moved with restraint, as though it feared disturbing something unseen.
It was Nyx Gald's nineteenth birthday.
In all the years before, the day had passed without distinction—quiet, restrained, obedient, like everything else in his life. Yet this morning felt different. The change was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it lived beneath his skin, a restless awareness he could not explain. Something inside him had awakened early, alert and impatient, refusing to settle.
For the first time, Nyx skipped school.
It was a minor act of defiance by any reasonable measure, yet for him it felt momentous. He remained within the heavy stone walls of the Gald household, wandering its corridors as though they might reveal something new if he looked long enough. The house felt older today, its shadows deeper, its silence heavier—less a home, more a waiting place.
In the dining room, Raym Gald greeted him with his customary restraint. His father placed a firm, quiet hand on Nyx's shoulder, the gesture practiced, controlled.
"Happy birthday, son," Raym said.
The words were simple, but something in his tone lingered, unfinished.
Old Gald followed soon after, leaning on his cane, his presence filling the room with an ancient gravity. His blessing came in a gravel-deep voice, solemn and deliberate, more invocation than celebration. It carried an implication Nyx had felt all his life—that his existence was bound to something far larger than himself.
Nyx thanked them politely, his expression composed, his posture straight. Outwardly, nothing betrayed him. Inwardly, his heart beat faster than it ever had on a birthday. This day did not feel ordinary. It did not feel accidental.
It felt promised.
Nyx had never wanted celebration. He had never asked for attention, for gifts, for noise. Yet today he allowed a small gathering—not because he desired it, but because Joey had refused to take no for an answer, and Bob had followed with his usual quiet loyalty.
They gathered in the old dining hall, where a modest cake rested beneath flickering candlelight. Shadows danced along the walls, illuminating the stern faces of ancestors captured in oil and age. Their painted eyes seemed to watch the living with silent scrutiny, as though measuring whether Nyx was worthy of the name he carried.
Joey laughed loudly, as he always did, filling the space with careless energy. Bob smiled softly, content to observe. Nyx participated just enough to appear present, his responses measured, his smile restrained. Yet his gaze betrayed him. Again and again, it drifted upward—toward the staircase, toward his room, toward the desk where the book lay waiting.
It felt like another presence at the table. Silent. Patient.
When the cake was cut and the candles extinguished, the warmth faded quickly. The house slipped back into its natural state—quiet, heavy, introspective. Raym sat near the fireplace, tea untouched in his hands, his gaze fixed on flames he did not seem to see. Old Gald muttered beneath his breath, lost in thoughts that had followed him for decades.
Nyx noticed the change in his father. He always did on this day. Every year, Raym's eyes softened, then dulled, as though memory pressed against him from all sides. But tonight the weight felt greater. Raym's silence stretched longer, deeper, as if a door long sealed had cracked open against his will.
Raym's thoughts drifted backward, pulled into years that refused to stay buried.
Venna.
Her laughter had once lived in these halls, bright and unrestrained, filling corners now claimed by silence. Raym remembered the day she told him she was pregnant—how her eyes shone, how her voice trembled between joy and disbelief. The house had responded in fragments. Old Gald, burdened by prophecy and old dread, had called it a curse. Olro, Raym's father, had laughed openly, already imagining the child he would carry through the corridors.
Venna had celebrated every month as though it were already a birthday. She spoke to the child in whispers, sang to him at night, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. Yet beneath her joy, unease lingered. Raym had felt it—an unspoken certainty that this birth would demand something in return.
The night came wrapped in storm.
Lightning split the skies as a blizzard swallowed Greenwalls whole. Roads froze solid. Carriages failed. No doctor reached them. Inside the old house, Venna labored through pain and terror, her cries swallowed by wind and thunder.
Raym knelt beside her, powerless, praying to anything that might listen. Old Gald paced like a restless spirit. Olro clutched Venna's hand, whispering encouragement through tears.
Then Nyx was born.
For one fleeting moment, joy eclipsed everything. Venna smiled—a soft, peaceful smile Raym would never forget. Nyx's eyes glowed faintly even then, reflecting something unnatural, something awake.
Within hours, Venna's breath stilled.
Olro collapsed soon after, as if bound to the same fate.
Two lives ended the night one began.
Raym and Old Gald stood frozen, unable to decide whether to mourn the dead or celebrate the living. The house never recovered. Silence replaced laughter. And the truth—too heavy, too cruel—was buried alongside the dead.
Nyx was never told.
Back in the present, Raym's gaze lingered on his son. Nyx sat at the head of the table, nearly grown, his expression unreadable. There was a distance in him tonight—a subtle awareness, as though he sensed the gravity of secrets pressing in from all sides.
The gathering ended soon after. Joey nudged Nyx playfully, joking about age, while Bob teased quietly, their presence briefly cracking the house's gloom. Yet Nyx's patience thinned. His thoughts were no longer with them.
They were upstairs.
Before leaving, Joey leaned close, his voice low and serious.
"Tonight. You open it. Alone. Some things aren't meant for crowds."
Nyx nodded once. His grip tightened around his fork.
Midnight arrived without ceremony.
Snow tapped softly against the windows. The house slept. In his room, Nyx sat at his desk, the book placed carefully before him. Moonlight spilled across its worn leather cover, and for the first time, the book responded.
The cover opened without resistance.
Words lifted from the parchment, twisting in the air like living things. They glowed faintly before slamming against the mirror across the room. Nyx froze as the reflection rearranged itself into legible script.
The World of Blood.
The book revealed a realm that existed beside his own—a Mirror World, gothic and eternal. No sun touched its skies. An emerald moon ruled instead, feeding black castles and endless forests with its unnatural light. Vampires ruled there, sustained by blood, burning under sunlight.
Other creatures prowled its shadows—werewolves, morphins, witches, faceless tricksters. Rivers ran red. Water had vanished centuries ago. At the center of it all was a faceless god—the Lord of Hunger—feeding his followers with his own blood to keep madness at bay.
The pages vibrated. The air thickened. Nyx's room felt foreign.
Then came a knock.
Nyx snapped the book shut as Old Gald's voice cut through the door.
"Sleep, boy. Nothing good waits for those who pry into the night."
"Yes, Grandfather," Nyx replied.
The footsteps faded.
Nyx lay awake long after. The book rested silently on his desk. His pulse echoed with emerald moons and rivers of blood.
By morning, his face was calm again.
By morning, he would lie.
If you want, next we can: