Prologue
The relentless rain drummed against the windows of the Berlioz home, a small, two-story brick house tucked into a nondescript corner of Sercadia’s sprawling cityscape. The streetlights flickered weakly, their amber glow swallowed by the oppressive gloom that seemed woven into the city itself. It was Simon’s twelfth birthday, though the boy sat alone at the kitchen table, the uneaten remnants of a modest dinner still on his plate. His wooden toy horse, worn smooth from years of handling, sat in front of him. The air in the house was thick, suffocating, as though it shared in the weight of unspoken things.
Simon’s mother, Ava, moved about the dimly lit kitchen with mechanical precision. She wore her usual muted attire, but tonight she had applied a touch of rouge to her cheeks and tied her hair back with an ornate clip, its gilded edges a sharp contrast to her otherwise practical demeanor. George lingered by the front door, staring at the rain-slicked street outside. His face was gaunt, a far cry from the charismatic stage actor the city once adored.
“Eat your dinner, Simon,” Ava said, her voice clipped with a forced warmth. The knife in her hand trembled as she chopped an apple into thin slices. She avoided looking at her son.
“Are we doing anything special tonight?” Simon asked, his voice quiet but hopeful. His bright, inquisitive eyes darted between his parents. “You said we might, remember?”
Ava’s hand faltered, the knife slipping and nicking her finger. She hissed under her breath but didn’t answer. George glanced over his shoulder, his jaw tightening.
“Of course, we are,” George finally said, though his tone carried no joy. “It’s a… a family thing. You’ll like it.”
Simon perked up, his small face breaking into a smile. “Really? Are we going to see a play? Or maybe—”
“Finish your dinner,” Ava interrupted, her voice sharper now. “We’ll leave soon.”
The boy’s smile faded, but he nodded, obedient as ever. George turned back to the window, his fingers gripping the frame so hard his knuckles turned white.
They left just after dusk, Simon wrapped in a thick coat that was a size too large for him. The streets were nearly deserted, the few pedestrians hunched under umbrellas or rushing to escape the chill. The Berlioz family moved in tense silence, their footsteps splashing through puddles as they made their way toward Sercadia’s industrial district. The boy clutched his toy horse tightly, his breath fogging in the cold air.
“Where are we going?” Simon asked after several blocks. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of unease.
“You’ll see,” Ava said, not meeting his gaze. She held his hand firmly, her nails digging slightly into his skin.
The journey ended beneath a sagging bridge on the edge of the industrial district. Rainwater dripped from the rusted beams above, creating an incessant patter on the cracked pavement. A heavy, corroded door was set into the bridge’s concrete foundation, its surface pockmarked with rust and scrawled with graffiti so old it was barely legible. George hesitated, his breath visible in the frigid air as he stared at the handle, which gleamed faintly with grease and condensation. The door seemed to absorb the light from the nearby streetlamp, a dark, gaping fissure daring them to enter.
Ava nudged him forward, her voice low and sharp. “Do it, George.”
Reluctantly, George gripped the handle. It felt cold and slimy, as though something alive had touched it before him. He pulled, the door groaning open with a sound like tortured metal. Beyond was a narrow corridor, its walls slick with moisture and lined with corroded pipes. A faint, sulfurous smell wafted out, mingling with the damp stench of decay.
The family stepped inside, the sound of their footsteps echoing unnaturally against the stained metal grates that formed the floor. Overhead, exposed pipes dripped oily water into dark puddles. The air grew colder as they moved deeper, the industrial hum of the city above fading into silence. Simon clung to Ava’s hand, his toy horse pressed tightly against his chest.
“Where are we going?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“Not far now,” Ava replied, her tone brittle. She avoided looking down at him.
The corridor twisted and turned, narrowing in places where the pipes bulged out like veins. Pools of stagnant water gathered in the dips of the floor, reflecting the dim, flickering light of occasional bulbs caged in iron mesh. A strange, rhythmic sound echoed through the space, like distant machinery grinding to life.
They passed a rusted sign bolted to the wall, its faded letters warning of dangers long forgotten: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Below it, a newer scrawl read: THE HUNGRY WILL BE FED.
Simon hesitated as they crossed an intersection where multiple corridors branched off into darkness. “It smells bad,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s just the way down here,” George said, his voice tight. He glanced at Ava, whose expression had hardened into something unreadable.
At last, they reached another door, this one heavier than the first and reinforced with thick, riveted iron plates. A faded sigil was etched into its surface, barely visible under layers of grime. Ava stepped forward, producing a key from her coat. She inserted it into a rusted lock that seemed far too ancient for the modern industrial surroundings. With a series of heavy clunks, the mechanism released, and the door swung open with surprising ease.
The cavern beyond was immense, the air damp and cool. Its walls, rough and uneven like natural rock, arched high above, disappearing into shadows. The floor was worn stone, uneven and slick, with rivulets of water coursing down into unseen drains. Flickering candles formed a wide circle at the center of the space, their flames casting jagged shadows across the walls.
In the middle of the circle stood a stone altar, ancient and weathered. Its surface was carved with intricate symbols that seemed to ripple and shift when looked at directly. Around it, cloaked figures moved with precise, solemn purpose, their faces obscured by deep hoods. The flicker of candlelight caught on their robes, revealing stains of old blood and smudges of ash. The air was thick with the pungent scents of incense and rot, an oppressive miasma that clung to the lungs and skin.
Simon’s eyes widened, his grip on his toy horse tightening. “Who… who are they?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Friends,” Ava said, her voice hollow. But her trembling hand betrayed her words.
George approached the nearest figure, his posture stiff. He held out a small pouch, the contents rattling as he passed it over.
The hooded figure accepted it, the gesture strangely formal, almost ritualistic. The stranger turned away, adding the pouch to a pile on a rickety wooden table pushed against the cavern wall. The collection was varied, its contents glinting in the dim light: jewelry, coins, even a stack of neatly bound paper bills.
Suddenly, fire sparked, casting the room in a warm, orange glow. Torches blazed to life along the walls, revealing more hooded figures standing in watchful silence.
The altar burst into flame, its surface alight with a strange, unnatural glow. A low, guttural chant rose from the assembled strangers, a primal sound that seemed to echo and reverberate from every direction.
“Mazhelzulth sangai fasorthai, Helzulth drauv uthnai qorth.”
One of the figures stepped forward, their hood falling back to reveal a woman with sharp features and hollow cheeks. Her Saskontoban accent was crisp, her words cutting through the stillness like a knife.
“The boy,” she said, her gaze fixing on Simon with an intensity that made him shrink back. “Bring him.”
George swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “Do we… do we have to—”
The woman silenced him with a glare. “You made your pact, Berlioz. There’s no turning back.”
Two other cultists approached, their cloaks parting to reveal pallid faces and hands that bore strange, ritualistic scars. One of them was missing several fingers, the stumps blackened and twisted. They reached for Simon, who clung to Ava in panic.
“Mom, Dad—what’s happening?” Simon’s voice rose in fear.
Ava flinched, but didn’t meet his gaze. She gently detached him, her face a mask of despair.
“You’re special, Simon,” she said, her voice trembling. “You’re going to do something incredible tonight.”
Before he could protest, the cultists seized him, dragging him toward the altar. Simon screamed, thrashing against their grip, but he was no match for their strength. They strapped him down with thick leather bindings, his small frame dwarfed by the imposing stone slab, stained with old blood. The chanting grew louder, filling his ears, pressing against his mind until it was all he could hear.
Tears welled in his eyes, his chest rising and falling in ragged sobs. “Please, let me go,” he pleaded.
The cult leader stepped forward, the ancient book cradled in her hands like a sacred relic. Her face emerged from beneath the hood, gaunt and pale, the skin stretched tight over angular bones. Her eyes gleamed unnaturally, catching the light of the candles like twin shards of glass. Her thin lips parted, and her voice slithered through the cavern, commanding and chilling.
“Behold the sacred text that heralds Yon Wauter,” she intoned, her Saskontoban accent sharp yet strangely melodic, like a blade slicing through frost. “Tonight, through the boy, He shall step into this world once more.”
The cultists chanted louder, their voices now frenzied, as if her words had unlocked some primal fervor. The leader moved with deliberate grace, her fingers brushing the air as she gestured toward Simon. A faint smirk played on her lips as she looked down at him.
“Kelthar vorash uth zanthi, Nyshka sanghel uthlai vorath,” the cloaked figures sung, the second part in their strange language.
As the voices grew louder and louder still, Simon writhed in desperation, his eyes pleading with his parents. George turned away, his face pale and drenched in sweat. Ava clutched his arm, her own face a mask of anguish.
“Do not be afraid, child,” she said softly, her voice dripping with mockery. “You are a vessel, chosen for greatness.”
Simon whimpered, his small frame trembling against the straps. He tried to turn his head, to look at his parents, but her presence seemed to hold him in place. Her fingers trailed over the book, tracing the alien script with reverence.
“Talai fasang kelthar qorthai rakhalan, ianai fasang helai rakhalis zanthesh vorathai velkai!“
As she began to speak these words in a sing-song, the air grew dense, heavy with an unseen pressure. The symbols carved into the altar flared to life, their green glow pulsating like a heartbeat. The ground beneath their feet trembled, and a low hum reverberated through the cavern.
Then the rift opened.
The vortex tore through the air above Simon, its edges crackling with chaotic energy. The swirling black and red void was unnatural, a wrongness so profound it felt alive. The cultists fell silent for a moment, their heads tilting as if entranced by its pull. Then the first tendril emerged.
Slick and wet and made of pure darkness, it uncoiled from the void like the arm of some impossibly large creature. It reached downard, caressing Simon’s face with a grotesque intimacy. He tried to pull away, but it held him fast. The tempature plummeted, frost forming on the edges of the stone slab.
Simon screamed, thrashing against his bonds, but the tendril pressed firmly, almost gently, against his chest. The boy’s body arched violently as it plunged into him, and the cavern erupted into chaos.
The cult leader’s triumphant smile faltered. Her eyes darted between the book and the vortex, her fingers trembling as the alien script began to shift on the page.
“This… this is not right,” she whispered, her voice thin with panic.
The altar cracked with a deafening sound, the split running jagged down its center. The vortex widened, its edges fraying as though reality itself were being torn apart. A guttural roar erupted from the void, the sound so deep and resonant it seemed to shake their very bones.
“Mom! Dad!” he screamed, turning into choking gasps, his voice cracking with panic. His body convulsed violently, the leather straps creaking under the strain. The cultists’ chanting frenzied, their voices almost histerical.
George’s eyes met his son’s. There was terror in his gaze, but also a deep, unfathomable regret.
“I’m sorry,” George said, his voice barely audible above the deafening roar of the rift.
“No!” the leader screamed, clutching the book tighter. “He is not ready! The vessel is incomplete!”
A tendril lashed out, faster than thought, piercing her chest. Her scream turned into a wet gurgle as blood sprayed from her mouth, splattering across the altar and Simon’s ashen face. The leader’s body went limp, collapsing into a heap as the book fell from her grasp. The glow from its pages dimmed, but the vortex continued to grow, unrelenting.
George grabbed his wife’s arm, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Ava, we have to go! It’s over!”
But she shook him off, her gaze fixed on the writhing black tendrils and the vortex’s seething maw. Her lips trembled, her eyes wide with a manic light. “No,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “It’s not done… He’s not here yet. We need more…”
“Ava!” George shouted, his voice cracking. “Look at me! We’ve lost him! We have to—”
A tendril shot out and wrapped around her waist. She gasped, clawing at the slick, pulsating surface as it lifted her off the ground. For a moment, her eyes met George’s, and the fervor drained from her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft and broken. Tears spilled down her cheeks as the tendril yanked her violently upward.
The impact against the altar was sickening, her skull splitting open with a wet crack. Blood sprayed across the stone raining onto Simon, and pooled beneath her lifeless body, mixing with the dark ichor dripping from the tendrils. George staggered back, a scream caught in his throat, his mind unable to process the sight. His gaze fell on his son, still strapped to the altar. Simon’s eyes were wide and unblinking, the light within them fading.
The chanting was drowned out by the unearthly roar, the cultists’ screams and shrieks punctuating the chaos. Some scrambled to escape, while others stood frozen, their minds unable to process the unfolding nightmare.
“Dad…” Simon gasped, his lips coated with blood.
The vortex screamed as it expanded, its edges jagged with chaotic energy. The cultists scrambled in all directions, their robes snagging on jagged rocks and pooling blood. Tendrils lashed out indiscriminately, pulling them into the void. One woman was dragged screaming, her fingers clawing at the stone floor until her nails splintered and peeled away. A man stumbled into a tendril, his chest caving in with a sickening crunch as it coiled around him.
The cavern itself seemed to rebel against the intrusion, the walls groaning as cracks spidered outward. Loose rocks fell from the ceiling, shattering on the stone floor. The torches lining the walls sputtered and died, leaving only the sickly glow of the vortex and the altar’s cursed symbols.
George’s legs moved on instinct, his body screaming for escape even as his mind remained frozen. He turned, the sounds of ripping flesh and breaking bones filling his ears, the acrid stench of blood and burning air choking him.
The vortex grew, its swirling depths consuming the light. From it emerged a monstrous figure, its form shifting and undefined, like liquid given shape. Its surface glistened black and wet, and its eyes burned with a fiery malice.
With a deafening bellow, the creature lashed out, its tendrils flailing wildly. It dragged the screaming cultists into the void, their bodies contorting and twisting before vanishing into nothingness.
George turned and fled, his footsteps echoing through the cavern, his voice hoarse from screaming. The creature followed, its roars shaking the walls.
Simon lay motionless, his eyes open but empty, watching, one by one, the cultists are slaughtered. Tendrils slashed through flesh with brutal efficiency, blood pooling across the cold concrete floor.
At last, there was silence. The vortex collapsed, the void shrinking and retreating. Simon was alone, the altar stained with gore and littered with scraps of flesh.
Above, the storm raged, and the rain continued to pour.
As Simon closed his eyes, a voice seeped into his mind—low, guttural, and dripping with malice.
“Happy birthday, Simon,” it purred, the words reverberating through his thoughts like the toll of a funeral bell, each syllable sinking him deeper into the dark.
The world around him faded, swallowed whole by the black, wet void as he felt his body gently lift.