Wind: Howling
Stone: Groaning
Time: Unraveling
Asterion dreamt of a spire.
It rose alone against a broken sky—tall, forsaken, and impossibly vast. Like a blade of obsidian driven through the heavens, it dwarfed the jagged remnants of an ancient citadel chain crumbling at its base.
Above it hung a fractured moon.
Its cold, silvery light washed over the spire's scarred stone, illuminating cracks that ran like veins through dead flesh. The light felt… wrong. As if it whispered secrets not meant for the waking mind.
A narrow path spiraled around the spire's body.
Not a road—not anymore. Just the memory of one.
Weathered flagstones jutted from layers of ash and frost, clinging stubbornly to existence. On one side, the world simply ended—a sheer drop into an abyss of swirling void. On the other, sheer cliffs rose like the walls of a divine prison.
The wind screamed.
WOOOOOOOO—
Relentless. Furious. Powerless.
Then—
The moon fell.
Not set. Not sank.
It plummeted beneath the horizon.
From the wrong direction, a blood-red sun tore its way into the sky, streaking unnaturally across the heavens before vanishing just as violently.
Ash lifted from the ground.
Not drifting.
Reversing.
Asterion felt a chill deeper than cold.
Time was moving backward.
The frost receded. Stone darkened. The road healed itself beneath his gaze. Scattered bones—human—materialized across the path, strewn like forgotten offerings.
Then they vanished.
In their place—
Chains.
Slaves.
A procession marched backward up the spire, shackles rattling in defiant clamor.
Clink—clank—clink—
Time hesitated.
Shuddered.
Then snapped forward into cruel normality.
[Aspirant!]
[You have been claimed by the Eclipse Curse.]
[Prepare for your First Nightfall.]
What… what the hell is this?
Step.
Step.
Another step.
Pain throbbed through Asterion's feet—numb, frostbitten, barely his own. Cold gnawed at his bones, relentless and intimate.
His cloak—if it could be called that—was nothing but ragged scraps flapping uselessly in the wind.
But the worst pain came from his wrists.
Iron manacles bit into raw flesh, frozen metal grinding against torn skin with every movement.
Burning.
Grinding.
Clink.
What kind of screwed-up start is this?
Asterion lifted his head.
A chain stretched endlessly before him, binding dozens of gaunt figures together at cruelly short intervals. Slaves. Hollow-eyed. Starved. Broken.
In front of him, a burly man trudged forward, shoulders webbed with lash scars.
Behind him, a wiry man muttered curses in a harsh tongue Asterion had never learned—
—and yet understood perfectly.
Of course I do.
From time to time, mounted figures passed along the outer edge of the path. Armored riders on lean, cruel-looking steeds. Ancient plate glinted coldly as they stared down at the procession.
Predators inspecting meat.
No matter how you cut it…
This was abysmal.
Strangely, Asterion didn't feel panic.
Resignation, yes. A dull, heavy acceptance.
Most Aspirants woke with something. A blade. A battlefield. A chance. Even the unlucky ones had room to move.
This?
Chained. Half-frozen. Helpless.
The worst possible draw.
Still…
The Curse was cruel—but fair in its own twisted way. It tested. It didn't execute.
Which meant—
To balance this hellish beginning…
—I should have something good.
A strong Aspect. Something broken. Something unfair.
Come on, then. Show me.
Asterion focused inward, recalling half-forgotten slum legends.
Status.
Self.
Information.
The world shimmered.
Ancient runes bloomed before his eyes—symbols he couldn't read, yet understood instantly.
His gaze dropped to the Aspect section.
And froze.
Name: Lost Asterion
True Name: Asterion Nightfall (Hidden)
Rank: Aspirant
Soul Core: Marven
Memories: —
Echoes: —
Attributes:
• destined Anomaly
• Shadow-Touched
• Mark of the Fallen Night
Aspect: [Nightfall Slave]
Aspect Description:
A slave is a worthless creature, devoid of notable strength or skill.
A nightfall slave is rarer still—bound eternally to the devouring dark, yet harboring forbidden potential.
…
A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"Of course."
Useless.
With a name like that?
The Curse really does have a sense of humor.
Lost in the revelation, Asterion missed a step.
The chain snapped taut.
"Gah—!"
The wiry man behind him stumbled.
"Filthy cur!" he snarled. "Watch your feet!"
Asterion recovered quickly, dismissing the runes—but not before the chain jerked again.
"I'll gut you for that, runt!"
The burly man ahead chuckled darkly.
"Save your breath. The weakling won't last till dawn."
He didn't bother turning around.
"This spire takes the frail first."
A pause.
"…It takes us all eventually. Just slower."
The wiry man spat. "I'll survive."
Asterion said nothing.
Charming company.
A calm voice drifted from farther down the chain.
"This pass is usually milder during eclipse season. Unfortunate timing."
Asterion listened carefully.
"And I'd advise against harming the boy."
The burly man snorted. "Why?"
"Look at his markings. Temple slave. Dedicated to the remnants of the forgotten God."
Silence followed.
"The last hidden shrine was razed recently," the voice continued. "That's likely how he ended up here."
"So what?" the burly man growled. "A dead god's trash?"
"The Citadel bows to the Dawn Sovereign now," the voice replied evenly. "They burn shadows without fear."
A pause.
"But we have no patron."
"…You really want a forgotten god's attention?"
The burly man said nothing more.
Hoofbeats approached.
A young guard rode up alongside the chain, mounted on a sleek black steed. Reinforced leather armor. Spear at his back. Gladius at his hip.
Heroic.
Annoyingly handsome.
"What's the disturbance?"
His tone held concern.
When no one answered, the scholarly slave spoke.
"Fatigue and cold, my lord. The march is harsh—especially for the young one."
The guard's gaze softened as it fell on Asterion.
Don't pity me.
He pulled a waterskin from his belt.
"We'll camp soon. Here—drink."
Asterion reached—
CRACK!
Pain exploded across his back.
Blood soaked through cloth.
He staggered as the chain yanked violently.
An older guard rode past, whip still raised.
"What idiocy is this?" he snapped.
"I was only—"
"He drinks at camp!"
"But he's—"
"Silence."
The older guard sneered.
"These aren't people. Treat vermin like men, and they forget their place."
The younger guard hesitated… then lowered the waterskin.
"…Yes, sir."
"Don't let me catch you sympathizing again."
The whip cracked once more for emphasis.
The older guard rode ahead.
Asterion watched him go.
Cold hatred settled deep and quiet.
I'll see you break first.
Somehow.
Then his gaze shifted to the younger guard, now riding behind them, eyes lowered.
And you…
Second.
Wind: Endless
Chains: Rattling
Shadow: Watching
The spire loomed above.
And the descent had only begun.