The void did not let him fall.
It clutched him.
Jax tumbled through a boundless black that twisted like a living throat, space folding and refolding around his body. There was no up. No down. Gravity flipped and inverted, as if a mad god were idly spinning him between its fingers.
Reality glitched.
Snow-white bled into ink-black.
The rift's fog flashed a sickly, radioactive green.
Time stuttered.
Whispers slammed into his skull—not just from the flask, but from everywhere at once.
Thief… forget… failure…
They weren't echoes.
They were hands.
Jax tightened his grip on the green flask, knuckles white despite the numbness crawling up his arms. The relic vibrated violently, its faint glow the only constant in the chaos—an anchor in a sea that wanted to unmake him.
Hold on, he told himself.
The thought fractured before it finished forming.
Memories didn't surface gently here.
They were ripped open.
The void peeled them apart and rebuilt them wrong.
Flash.
The orphanage.
Post-outbreak. Post-everything.
Not a home—just a rotting concrete box in the slums where children survived on ration scraps and fear. Older scavengers cornered him in a dim corridor, shadows stretching long.
"Hand over the flask, runt," one sneered.
Young Jax uncorked it instinctively.
Shadows spilled out, swallowing him whole.
But the illusion twisted.
The shadows didn't hide him.
They devoured the bullies.
Their screams warped—morphed—into familiar voices.
"Why didn't you save us, Jax?"
His parents stood where the scavengers had been, faces blurring, eyes hollow.
Names slipped.
Gone.
The orphanage walls peeled apart, revealing endless void. Friends vanished mid-step, turning into blank husks that wandered away without recognition—without accusation.
That was worse.
Panic crushed his chest.
"No—" Jax gasped. "That's mine."
Memories drained like snow through clenched fingers.
If they took everything—what would be left?
The void pressed harder, amplifying the silence.
No Renn.
No watchers.
No voices at all.
Just him.
Alone.
Always alone.
You failed them. You'll fail again.
A bitter laugh tore out of his throat.
"Well, this is new," he muttered, sarcasm clawing its way up like a lifeline. "Interdimensional rollercoaster. Any chance of an exit? Or at least peanuts?"
The words echoed wrong—but they worked.
The flask hummed louder.
Stray wisps of void essence spiraled inward, absorbed greedily. Shadows condensed, forming fleeting handholds in the emptiness.
Jax grabbed one.
For a heartbeat, the darkness was solid.
Then it dissolved.
His spin slowed.
"…It's responding," he breathed. "To me."
Another illusion struck.
Starving nights.
Trading scraps.
Hiding from patrols.
The flask whispered hide—but now it grew grotesque, its green glow consuming him. Shadows rebelled, curling inward.
You're just a thief.
Not worth remembering.
Friends from the slums turned away, faces blank, names erased.
Jax screamed.
Pain exploded across his cheek.
His scar burned—white-hot—dragging him back into himself.
The brand.
An anchor.
"Focus," he hissed. "You're still here."
He uncorked the flask wider.
It fed.
Void essence rushed in with wet, greedy slurps. Energy surged through him, and shadows wrapped around his body like a cocoon, cushioning the chaos.
For one perfect, terrifying moment—
Clarity.
A whisper surfaced, ancient and vast, threading through the storm.
"The Thief of Shadows will claim the Core… or all eclipses will fall."
The vision shattered.
But this time, his parents stood beside him—not accusing.
Guiding.
Pointing.
Toward a distant, faint light.
The void thinned.
Gravity returned—violently.
Jax slammed into cracked pavement, air exploding from his lungs. He rolled hard, skin scraping against stone, before finally skidding to a stop.
The flask bounced free, cork popping loose—then snapping back into place with a quiet click.
Its glow dimmed.
Survive… steal…
Jax lay still, gasping, the world knitting itself back together in painful increments.
Humidity clung to his skin.
A metallic tang fouled the air.
No snow—only a chill wind whispering through ruins.
He pushed himself up, muscles screaming.
Bruises from Renn throbbed. The cut on his arm had crusted over. His scar pulsed in time with something unseen, itching fiercely as nearby shadows leaned toward him.
He looked up.
A city.
Crumbling skyscrapers slanted under an eternal twilight sky—no sun, no stars, only a diffuse glow that painted everything in gray and indigo. Shadowy vines crept along broken facades, pulsing faintly like veins.
Rusted cars lay piled like discarded toys.
Neon signs flickered overhead:
DREAM END
SPELL BREAK
Mocking. Forgotten.
"My hell," Jax muttered.
The slums, magnified and weaponized.
A Spell trial.
Survive the Nightmare—or be shaped by it.
He retrieved the flask, tucking it away, then checked his satchel. Echo shards intact.
Sarcasm bubbled up again. "Great. Vacation in hell. At least the view's free."
Shadows lengthened in response.
His scar burned.
"…Fantastic," he sighed. "You're listening now."
Isolation hit hard—no patrol fires, no human noise. Just endless decay.
He scavenged on instinct, ripping a rusted pipe from a collapsed wall. Crude, but solid.
A billboard loomed nearby, defaced with glowing runes.
He traced one.
The air whispered—not the flask.
"Thief… Core…"
Jax recoiled.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Get in line."
Deeper into the city, the decay thickened. Narrow alleys. Oily puddles reflecting neon. At a crossroads, a figure shuffled past.
Blank eyes.
Mumbling.
"Forgot… home… who…"
A husk.
Jax's stomach churned.
Then the shadows moved.
A Wraith emerged from a ruined storefront—more solid here, its translucent form rippling like disturbed water. Tendrils probed the air with deliberate precision.
Hunting.
Jax ducked into a collapsed building, heart pounding. From behind a toppled desk, he watched.
The Wraith latched onto the husk.
Light drained.
The victim went empty.
No struggle. No sound.
Just nothing.
"That's it," Jax whispered. "That's how it ends."
The Wraith turned.
His scar ignited.
Shadows pooled around him instinctively.
Hide.
The darkness deepened, swallowing his outline.
A tendril brushed inches from his face.
Passed.
The Wraith drifted on.
Jax exhaled slowly. "Note to self," he whispered. "Avoid ghostly hugs."
When the danger passed, he moved again—deeper, always deeper.
The city creaked.
Shifted.
In a ruined apartment, he finally stopped, sitting against a cracked wall beneath a dying neon tube. He uncorked the flask just enough for it to feed.
It glowed warmer.
Power lived here.
But so did the cost.
Whispers crept in—quieter, more personal.
Alone… fail…
Outside, distant echoes answered.
More Wraiths.
A pack.
Jax tightened his grip on the pipe.
"Alright," he muttered, standing. "Survival montage starts now."
The city watched.
And somewhere in the dark—
Something bigger watched back.