YAZE22

He trod beneath a sky where seldom the sun glinted in on a day when it was bright, while walking in the shadow that memory cast but not the light itself: Reymond Steiner.

He was 10 years old when his brother was eaten by something with no name, no form, no pity. He had been called mad by everyone, saying there was never such a creature and condemned by his own blood. Locked in a "fix-it" facility designed for that which is beyond comprehension. His parents could barely margin their grief and shame; they soon disappeared into death, leaving Reymond really alone.

But, within these cold walls, he did not break; instead, he transformed into another kind of being. Silent, Patient, and Sharpened.

As they opened the gates, a woman in black stood waiting for him, her face concealed, her voice soft as wind on a grave. She does not bring solace. She offers purpose. And there is an affiliation: an order hidden in plain sight. They hunt what the world denies. They track the Unknown.

Reymond joins them, motivated by vengeance and a voice whispering in his ear: "It still watches you."

In a world drenched in shadow, Reymond would rise through blood and bone, through secrets and screams, until he stood before the thing that stole his past—and threatened to end his future. 

The Unknown is real. 
And it

Meet The Unknown

Ten years were not enough to dull the screams.

Reymond stood before the rusted gates of St. Cygnus,its walls tall and cruel,etched with the claw marks of forgotten minds.

The sky above was a bruised gray,choked with clouds that threatened rain,but never wept.

He held no suitcase, no goodbye letter,only the weight of memoryand the scars beneath his sleeves.

His release was quiet—no family to take him,no friend to hug him.Only silence and the hum of distant insects.

Across the road, shrouded in a cloak as black as drying blood,stood a woman.Tall. Still. Watching.

She did not wave.She did not speak.

Reymond's breath caught in his throat.

Her face—He couldn't see it,only darkness under the hood,as if the shadows themselves refused to reveal her.

But her presence…It screamed familiar.

He stepped forward."So... you're not here to bring me home."

The woman tilted her head.Her voice came like wind through a crypt.

"You have no home, Reymond. Only a path."

"Who are you?" he asked, fists clenched.

She turned, her cloak flowing behind her like ink spilled over stone.

"Someone who believes the Unknown is real."

Reymond followed.He didn't know why.He just… did.

They walked through a ruined district—buildings hollowed like skulls,windows like empty sockets.

The city had changed.No children played in the streets.No shops, no laughter.Only silence…and whispers in the wind.

She led him into an alleyway,and there—hidden beneath layers of illusion and rot—was a door.

Old, wooden, with a strange symbol burned into it:an eye, weeping thorns.

She knocked once.Twice.Three times.

The door opened, not with a creak—but a groan,as if the building itself were alive,and reluctant.

Inside, torches burned green.Figures moved in the dark,hooded, armored, armed.

This was not a cult.Not a church.Not a safe haven.

The woman turned to him once more.

"We are the Circle of Umbra.""We seek what hides in the shadows between worlds.""You are here because something once found you."

The cloaked woman stepped closer.Her breath chilled the air.

"Then you must become something it will fear."

Black steel.Cold to the touch.Humming with whispers that only he could hear.

"Let the boy prove himself.""Let him hunt... or be hunted."

He had no home.No family.No comfort.

And the first steps to meet the unknown.

The Cloaked One