Gabe_D_aka_Psalm

The sky fractures like brittle glass, and the stars—those cold, distant sentinels—are swallowed whole by a darkness I cannot name. I hear the echoes of voices long silenced, their cries stretching across eternity. I feel the weight of something far beyond me, pressing down, shaping my steps, guiding my hand to a fate I do not yet understand.

But I know, deep in my bones, that this is not a fate I can escape.
I am a pawn in a game played by gods, pieces moved across a board older than time. Perhaps I was always meant to be this—a harbinger, a vessel, a sacrifice. I do not know who I was before. I do not know if I was ever given a choice.
And yet, they expect me to choose.

To build or to destroy. To save or to end. To hold onto the fragile strings of a world I do not remember, or to sever them and let it all collapse.

They tell me I have power. They tell me I am at the center of it all. But what is power to a puppet? What is choice when every path leads to ruin?

The people I meet, the ones who take my hand, who call me friend, who look at me with trust and hope—I wonder, when the final moment comes, will they curse my name? Will they see the truth of what I am, or will I hide it from them until the very end? I do not know which is the greater cruelty.

I dream of an answer. Of a different path. But the vision never changes.

The world will burn.
And I will be the one to set it alight.

Fractirea | Faraway Paradise

This had all the hallmarks of a setup.

And if there was one thing I hated more than getting caught in the middle of someone else's bad decisions, it was getting caught in the middle of someone else's bad decisions without being warned first.

The old merchant shuffled ahead of me, his hunched frame swaddled in layers of wool and furs. He was muttering under his breath, something about luck and gods, his fingers twitching against the straps of the pack he carried. I had half a mind to shake him and demand answers, but I already knew what I'd see in his eyes—fear, guilt, and worst of all, the sinking knowledge that he had dragged us into something we wouldn't be walking away from easily.

Behind me, Kvatz moved with a grace that belied his bulk, his boots crunching softly in the snow. He was a good fighter, better than most, but even he had gone quiet. That alone set my nerves on edge.

"So, what's the call?" Kvatz asked, voice barely more than a murmur beneath the howling wind. He didn't look at me, just kept scanning the ridgelines like I was. Smart. "We keep going, or we ditch this old bastard before we end up dead in a ditch?"

I hated when he said things like that—like they were options.

My tongue ran over my lower lip, the cold making it crack. The ridges loomed above us, heavy with the weight of old snow and silence. That was the part that bothered me the most. No wind-blown caws of birds. No distant creaks of ice shifting. The air was thick with something unnatural, something watching. The kind of quiet that only came when predators were already in position.

"We keep moving," I said, keeping my voice low. No point in panicking the merchant more than he already was. "But stay sharp. I don't think we're alone."

Kvatz's expression hardened. No jokes now. He simply nodded once and adjusted his grip on the axe strapped to his back.

The merchant kept muttering. His breath fogged the air in short bursts, his steps uneven, almost frantic. He knew. He knew exactly what was out here, and he hadn't told us.

Hours passed, and the snow began falling again, light at first, then heavier, turning the world into a swirling void of white and gray. Visibility dropped. Every step forward was a gamble, every crunch of snow underfoot too loud in the quiet.

The merchant called for a break, his voice cracking with exhaustion, but I shook my head.

He looked ready to protest, but I didn't give him the chance. My gut twisted with a feeling I had learned never to ignore. Something was wrong. We had to keep moving.

Then, just as I opened my mouth to say it, Kvatz's hand shot out and gripped my arm—tight. His fingers dug in through the fabric of my coat, enough to sting.

"Lanni," he breathed, his voice barely audible over the wind.

I followed his gaze, heart slamming against my ribs.

Someone—or something—was up ahead, moving parallel to our path. The prints were wide, uneven, as if whoever left them was dragging something. My hand found the hilt of my blade, fingers tightening, breath slowing.

The merchant saw them too. He stopped dead, all the color draining from his face.

"Oh, no," he whispered, voice shaking. His gaze darted to the trees, the ridgelines, the path ahead—searching. "They found us."

A howl—not a wolf's, not human. Something between a shriek and a war cry, raw and unnatural, laced with hunger.

Gut Feeling