In the midst of a dark void in nowhere, two heavy, dark violet eyes opened.
Arin opened his eyes to find himself once again in the same place he always visited in his dreams — a still, endless dark land where nothing moved except for a blood-red moon hanging in a dead sky.
He stood silently, staring at the empty horizon, trying to discern anything in this absolute stillness.
For a month, this dream had been haunting him every night.
At first, he would freeze in fear, but gradually, he began to explore that silent land with cautious steps. The longer his journeys lasted, the deeper he ventured.
He took his usual steps through the darkness when he spotted something strange ahead...
An ancient, ruined castle stood amidst the desolation like a forgotten relic.
From afar, the castle appeared as a massive, eroded mass of stone, its walls slanted, its towers shattered, as if it had barely survived some ancient catastrophe.
The surrounding wall was crumbled in several places, and the land around it was barren, scattered with the remnants of broken statues and fallen columns.
Arin did not approach immediately.
He circled the castle cautiously.
His light steps pressed into the thick gray dust, his eyes examining every corner, every crack in the walls.
He passed by a shattered window, noticing that the interior was dark but did not seem completely empty.
Some windows still bore ancient stone frames, adorned with symbols worn away by the wind, and small side doors remained tightly shut, as if guarding secrets no one wished to uncover.
In a rear corner, Arin noticed a half-collapsed old well, surrounded by withered black plants, as if life itself had abandoned this place.
Despite the ruin, there was no sense of immediate danger.
Rather, there was a heavy silence... a silence that seemed to conceal something breathing, lurking.
After several rounds around the castle's perimeter, and after ensuring there was no sign of any creature, he gathered his courage.
He stood before the massive main gate.
Cracked stone doors, etched with faded symbols.
Arin pushed against the door with all his strength, and heard a deep creaking, as if the castle itself was groaning.
He entered cautiously.
Though the exterior looked devastated, the interior... was in relatively better condition.
The floors were covered in thick dust, yet they remained sturdy, and the walls stood with a certain grim majesty.
Shadows danced beneath the high ceiling, where rays of the blood-red moon shone through broken windows, casting a dim, bloody light across the grand hall.
And there, in the heart of the great hall, stood a massive statue.
A statue of a faceless man, standing proudly, gripping two daggers in each hand.
Around his neck hung a pendant — a crescent split into two halves: one pitch black, the other a beautiful, cold silver.
Arin approached hesitantly.
Every part of his body warned him not to touch it, but some strange force pulled him closer.
He reached out and touched the pendant.
The moment he made contact, a faint heat ignited in his palms.
Startled, he looked at his hands and saw:
On his right hand: a black crescent, dark as the depths of the ocean.
On his left hand: a silver crescent, shining with a deadly coldness.
Before he could think or even scream, the darkness swallowed him once again.
---
Heavy drops of water struck a rusty metal basin, echoing amidst the stillness of the room.
Drop... drop... drop...
It was as if time itself had slowed with each impact.
The room was small and suffocating, its walls eroded with dampness, peeling with faded paint.
A single broken window swayed its torn curtain in the cold night breeze.
The air reeked of mold, and the creaking wooden floor moaned with every step.
On the rickety bed near the wall, Arin lay curled under a threadbare blanket, his slender body shivering slightly.
His tangled black hair, streaked with beautiful silver strands, was scattered over the pillow.
His closed eyes moved restlessly beneath his lids, his body writhing as if fighting an unseen specter.
In his dream, the familiar scene: endless darkness, a blood-red moon hanging in the void.
Old footsteps clattering on non-existent ground, and vague whispers filling his head.
Suddenly, his body jolted violently!
He gasped, opening his dark eyes, staring at the decaying ceiling as if unsure where he was.
Cold sweat drenched his forehead, his heart raced madly, and the echo of distant drops still lingered in his ears.
He sat up heavily on the bed, panting, trying to gather the shattered pieces of his soul...
Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a faint gleam... a quick glance at his hands froze him in place.
Arin stared at his trembling hands, his eyes widening slowly.
On the back of his right hand was a dark black crescent shining faintly under the dim light, and on his left hand, a cold, icy silver crescent.
As he gazed at the strange marks, a sudden wave of pain surged through him, as if fire ignited in his very bones.
He gritted his teeth tightly, whispering hoarsely between clenched teeth:
"Damn it... that hurt."
He leaned his back against the cold wall behind him, trying to steady his breathing.
A few slow minutes passed as Arin sank into a whirlpool of thoughts.
He recalled fragments of the dream that had devoured him — that dark world, the blood-red moon hanging in the void, the ruined ancient castle, and the strange statue of the faceless man holding two daggers... and around his neck, the same pendant now mirrored in his hands.
What did it all mean?
And what had changed tonight that left a real mark on his body?
He slowly raised his head, his gaze heavy with unanswered questions...
Arin rose from his rickety wooden bed, the cold sweat still clinging to his brow.
With sluggish steps, he made his way toward the only window in his cramped room.
He opened the rusty window with a screeching sound and cast his gaze outward.
The street below was a picture of misery, houses as decrepit as his own barely standing on rotting wooden beams.
A heavy stench filled the place, a blend of mold, smoke, and sweat, forcing him to breathe shallowly.
He saw people moving among the shadows — their faces hidden beneath tattered cloaks — conducting shady dealings in the heart of the lawless night.
On both sides of the street, beggars lay like corpses, some groaning, others lost in restless sleep.
Arin raised his eyes to the sky and froze for a moment.
There, suspended in the blackness, was the moon... a blood-red moon, the color of ancient wounds.
A grim reflection of the moon he had seen in his dream.
A shiver crawled up his spine.
"Could the castle really exist?"
He muttered to himself, staring at the sky with a confused gaze.
"Maybe... somewhere, in this sick world, it waits for me to uncover its secrets..."
He clenched the pendant hanging from his neck tightly, his eyes burning with a determination he hadn't known before.
Heavy moments passed before Arin noticed the first threads of dawn creeping into the sky, slowly pushing away the night's darkness.
He exhaled deeply, as if all the weariness of the world left with his breath.
He did not have the luxury of surrendering to dreams or nightmares... work awaited him.
He returned inside and closed the rickety window, then made his way across the tiny room to a corner where a rusty water basin stood.
He carefully turned the tap, and water trickled out slowly — just enough to wet his hands.
He gathered what little water he could, quickly washing his face and body, treating each drop as a precious treasure.
Afterward, he pulled a pile of faded black clothes from under his bed, brushed off some of the dust with a trembling hand, and dressed quietly.
His outfit was extremely simple — rough trousers, an old shirt, and a worn-out pair of shoes barely protecting him from the cold ground.
He sat at the cracked small table where some pieces of dry bread and a small chunk of moldy cheese lay.
He ate his meager breakfast in silence, each bite a reminder of the harshness of life here... in this forgotten neighborhood.
As he chewed slowly, his eyes remained distant, thinking about that dream... that moon... and the pendant that now seemed to weigh around his neck like the burden of a destiny he could not escape.
When he finished eating, he stood slowly, grabbed his tattered coat, and prepared to start another day surviving in a world crumbling around him.
Arin wrapped his coat around his thin body and pushed open his room's door with a screech.
He carefully descended the creaky wooden staircase, each step making a faint protesting groan as if the building itself resented his presence.
He opened the building's main door and stepped into the street...
The usual stench of mold and garbage greeted him, mixed with the smell of burning wood from makeshift fires.
The street was narrow, riddled with muddy puddles that trapped the hurried feet of passersby.
On either side of the road stood rows of gray houses, their cracked walls and shattered windows barely holding together.
The beggars lying on the sidewalks were beginning to stir with the approaching morning, while drunks stumbled home in a daze.
Arin moved with steady steps through the decay, trying not to touch anyone.
He passed by a few wooden stalls where poor vendors were setting up their scanty goods — dry bread, wilted vegetables, and coarse cloth.
He turned into one of the narrow alleys, where the walls were so close together they almost choked the air.
These alleys were his usual path to work; shortcuts that were less crowded but far more dangerous.
At the end of the passage, a small, neglected two-story building appeared before him.
The facade was crumbling, and a crooked sign above the door read in faded letters: "Lavine's Old Library."
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, causing a small metallic bell to jingle inside, announcing his arrival.
Inside the library, the atmosphere was slightly better.
The scent of old books filled the air, mingling with the aroma of dust and aged leather.
The wooden shelves groaned under the weight of scattered books, and piles of paper littered the corners.
Despite everything, this place... was his refuge.
Arin closed the door behind him quietly, sighed in relief, and rolled up his sleeves, ready for another day among the pages of the past.
Upon entering, Arin spotted the old man sitting behind a small battered counter near the entrance — Lavine, the library's owner, a thin man with hair as white as scattered feathers and eyes sunken behind thick glasses.
Arin offered a small respectful smile and greeted him:
"Good morning, Mr. Lavine."
The old man nodded without lifting his eyes from the book he was reading, a gesture Arin had learned meant: "Get to work."
Quietly, Arin began his daily routine.
He grabbed an old broom and started sweeping the accumulated dust from the cracked wooden floors.
Then he moved on to cleaning the shelves, carefully brushing the dust off the ancient book covers as if handling sacred treasures.
Next, he rearranged fallen or misplaced books, ensuring everything was in its rightful place.
His work demanded patience and precision, but Arin found a strange comfort in it.
Time passed slowly, and every so often, he glanced through the small dirty windows to watch the changing sunlight.
When the sun neared its zenith, signaling noon with pale beams piercing the dust, Arin finished his tasks.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and made his way to a dark corner of the library — his favorite spot.
In this corner, where the shadows of the tall shelves intertwined, Arin always felt a sense of comfort and solitude.
He picked an old, tattered book from one of the piles and crouched on the floor.
He began flipping through the pages carefully.
Arin had taught himself how to read and write.
It had taken him six months of relentless effort — stealing moments of time here and there, learning the letters word by word, phrase by phrase, until reading became as natural as breathing.
In this poor part of the city, it was rare to find someone who could read at all.
Finding a job, even a simple one like his in the library, was considered an enormous stroke of luck.
For a full day of hard work, he earned two bronze coins — a meager wage barely enough for simple food and a place that could scarcely be called a home.
Despite the modest pay, Arin managed his affairs cleverly.
One bronze coin could feed him for two days, though the food was hardly luxurious — just dry bread or a watery soup with a few vegetables — but it was enough to fill his hunger and keep him able to work.
Arin managed his finances carefully.
Every month, he paid thirty bronze coins to rent his dilapidated apartment — that narrow room with cracked walls and broken windows.
After covering his rent and basic food, he managed to save fifteen bronze coins, which he hoarded cautiously.