Threads of Fate

Arthur stood frozen in the basement, his breath uneven, his mind whirling. The remnants of the vision still clung to him, a phantom weight pressing against his chest. His fingers tingled with residual energy from the black flame, and the book before him pulsed like a living thing.

"What... what am I supposed to do with this?" he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

The voice in his mind—his constant, haunting companion—responded with a slow, measured hum. "Understand it. Accept it. And when the time comes, wield it."

Arthur clenched his jaw. "I don't even know what 'it' is."

A chuckle, low and knowing. "But you will."

Before he could question further, a sharp knock echoed from upstairs. Arthur stiffened, his heart leaping to his throat. He wasn't expecting anyone—his father and Eleanor were visiting his mother at the asylum, and he certainly didn't have friends dropping by unannounced.

Cautiously, he closed the book, shoving it beneath the loose floorboards before making his way upstairs. The knocking came again, more insistent this time.

Arthur hesitated before unlocking the door. As it swung open, he found himself staring at a man he had never seen before.

Tall, draped in a long charcoal coat, the stranger had an unsettling presence. His eyes—deep, bottomless black—bore into Arthur with a weight that made his stomach tighten. A thin scar ran from his temple to his jaw, partially hidden by a few stray strands of jet-black hair.

"Arthur Winner," the man said, his voice smooth yet carrying an unmistakable gravity.

Arthur swallowed. "Who's asking?"

The man tilted his head slightly. "Someone who has been waiting a long time to meet you."

Arthur's grip tightened on the doorframe. Every instinct screamed at him to be wary. "I don't know you."

"Not yet." The man reached into his coat and pulled out something wrapped in dark velvet. He held it out. "But you will."

Arthur hesitated before slowly accepting the object. The fabric felt ancient, coarse beneath his fingers. He unwrapped it carefully—and felt his breath hitch.

A dagger. Unlike anything he had ever seen.

The blade was obsidian, its surface swirling with faint, violet embers that pulsed like a heartbeat. The hilt was wrapped in silver and inlaid with symbols eerily similar to those in the book. The moment his fingers brushed against the cold metal, a sharp sensation shot through him—not pain, but a recognition. A feeling of belonging.

His vision blurred for a fraction of a second. A flash—

Blood on his hands.

A battlefield drenched in darkness.

The sound of wings, vast and heavy.

Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. Arthur staggered, barely catching himself against the doorframe.

The man watched him carefully, his expression unreadable. "You felt it, didn't you?"

Arthur's breath came short. "What the hell was that?"

"A memory," the man said. "One of many locked inside you."

Arthur's mind reeled. First the book. The voice. The visions. And now this. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something enormous, something terrifying.

He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

The man gave a small, knowing smile. "A messenger. A guide. But most importantly, someone who knows what you are. And what you are becoming."

Arthur's fingers tightened around the dagger. He didn't know whether to throw it aside or clutch it closer. "And what, exactly, am I becoming?"

The man stepped back, his shadow stretching unnaturally in the dim light. "That, Arthur Winner… is for you to decide."

Then, before Arthur could respond, the man turned and disappeared into the night, leaving only silence—and a storm of questions raging in Arthur's mind.