In an endless void of darkness, he stood, suspended in a space where time felt nonexistent. No ground beneath his feet, no sky above, just an abyss stretching infinitely. There was no sound, no touch, no scent, only a profound stillness that swallowed everything.
Then, faint and chilling, a whisper crept into his ears, curling like smoke around his mind. It wasn’t loud, yet it felt as if the voice came from right behind him, breathing down his neck. The voice dripped with a softness that almost felt feminine, gentle, like a lullaby, yet something about it felt vast and ancient, enough to still the heart with fear.
"The game of life begins once more for you," the voice murmured, haunting and weightless. “Why don’t you pick your hand,”
Before he could turn or even question it, the void erupted into motion. A storm of playing cards swirled into existence, whipping around him in chaotic, mesmerizing patterns. Their backs flashed before his eyes, each card bearing a unique design.
Some were breathtaking, adorned with intricate golden engravings or ethereal scenes of meadows kissed by sunlight. Others were grotesque, edges tattered and aflame, their surfaces marred with blackened scars. A few shimmered with the cold brilliance of colored gemstones, as if they held the stars themselves.
He stared, entranced, as the vortex of cards spun faster, each one a fragment of beauty or despair. Then, as if guided by an unseen force, his hand reached out. It hesitated for a heartbeat, hovering amidst the maelstrom, before plunging into the chaos.
His fingers closed around five cards.
The storm ceased instantly. The void stilled, and he held the cards close, inspecting them. Their backs were as diverse as the ones that had danced before him.
But when he turned them over, his breath caught.
Each card was a joker. Every single one. Their jester faces grinned at him, some with hollow eyes, others with lips that bled into the shadows of their distorted features. Mocking. Waiting.
Before he could process it, the darkness surged like a tidal wave, flooding his vision, drowning every fragment of thought.
And then—nothing.
***
Cragmere Village, Fairburn County, Wynthorpe Kingdom
Kyle Darkstone jolted awake, his breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
Whether it had been a dream or a Vision, he couldn’t tell, he had never experienced a Vision while asleep before.
Whatever it was, it left a cold, unsettling sensation clinging to his mind and body.
He drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.The faint scent of morning dew wafted through the narrow wooden window, mingling with the earthy smell of the hay-stuffed mattress beneath him. He groaned, stretching his limbs before sitting up, his ashen-black hair tousled and wild.
Sliding his feet onto the cool dirt floor, he trudged to the small wooden basin in the corner of the room. He poured water from a clay jug, splashing his face to shake off the remnants of sleep. The cracked bronze mirror above the basin reflected his weary onyx eyes, half-lidded, with a look of disenchantment that seemed far older than his years.
By now, the memory of his dream had slipped away, but whatever it had been, it lingered with a creepy chill.
‘Another day,’ he thought, reaching for the coarse cloth hanging nearby to dry his face. The creepy feeling had faded away by now.
The thirst nagging at his throat grew more persistent, so he wandered into the main room. The rough wooden table in the center was empty, the usual morning spread absent. His mother, who would typically be kneading bread or boiling porridge, was nowhere to be found. The hearth was cold, the embers from last night’s fire long extinguished.
“Mother?” Kyle called out, his voice echoing faintly. No response came.
He glanced around, noticing that even the clay pitcher of water had been emptied. Frowning, he stepped outside, blinking against the blinding morning sun. The village of Cragmere stretched out before him, a cluster of simple cottages with thatched roofs, surrounded by rolling hills and bordered by dense woods. The cobblestone path leading from his home was quiet, save for the occasional clucking of chickens and the distant chatter of villagers beginning their day.
Kyle shaded his eyes, scanning the familiar surroundings. His mother was not in the small herb garden by the side of the house, nor near the well where she sometimes fetched water.
'Maybe she’s at Sebi’s,' he thought, recalling the neighboring family’s tendency to host impromptu gatherings.
He crossed the short distance to the Faelan household, his boots crunching against the cobblestones. The scent of fresh ale reached his nose as he approached. He knocked twice on the wooden door, then pushed it open, the creak of its hinges announcing his arrival.
Inside, the scene was lively. Sebi’s parents were seated around a large oak table, laughing and drinking from wooden tankards. His mother sat with them, her hair loosely tied and a half-full mug of ale in her hand. She turned at the sound of the door, raising a brow when she saw him.
“Look who decided to wake up,” her expression seemed to say without words.
“Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Faelan,” Kyle greeted, nodding to each of them in turn.
“Kyle!” Mrs. Faelan exclaimed with a grin. “Come to join us for breakfast, or should I say, for ale?”
Kyle’s mother smirked but said nothing as Kyle strode forward and, without hesitation, plucked the tankard from her hand. Ignoring her raised brow, he took a long gulp, the bitterness of the ale hitting his throat.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Kyle Darkstone!” his mother exclaimed, half-scolding. “That’s not for you! Drinking first thing in the morning?”
Setting the tankard back on the table, Kyle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking. “I was thirsty,” he said simply. “And you can just heal me if it’s that bad, can’t you?”
Before she could reply, Sebi’s father erupted in laughter, slapping the table with a meaty hand. “Ha! I like it! Mark my words, Illaria, he's going to grow into a fine man someday.”
Kyle’s mother shook her head, exasperation written all over her face, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “You’re incorrigible,” she muttered.
Kyle shrugged, turning to leave. “I’ll refill the water pitcher when I’m back,” he said, his tone nonchalant.
As he stepped back into the bright morning light, the faintest grin lingered on his face. The day had only just begun, but the rhythm of Cragmere was already drawing him in.Without wasting much time, he strode toward Alex’s home. The village of Cragmere hummed with its usual rhythm. Farmers tended to their crops, smiths worked their forges, and children darted between cottages, their laughter echoing through the crisp morning air.
The familiar faces of the villagers greeted Kyle as he passed, some offering a friendly wave, others a quick word of acknowledgment.
“Morning, Kyle!” called out Old Maren, her arms laden with a basket of vegetables.
“Morning!” Kyle replied, nodding as he quickened his pace.
Near the tavern, a group of adventurers lounged by the doorway, their mismatched armor and weathered cloaks a sharp contrast to the simple garb of the villagers. Kyle didn’t recognize them, but their presence wasn’t uncommon. Cragmere, while small, sat along a well-traveled route, drawing wanderers seeking rest or supplies. One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, gave Kyle a brief glance before returning to his drink.
Kyle paid them little mind. He knew nearly everyone else in the village by name.
As he rounded the corner, Alex’s house came into view, a sturdy stone structure with a small yard out front. There, under the shade of an old oak tree, Alex stood, sword in hand. His chestnut-brown hair glistened with sweat as he swung the blade with practiced precision.
Kyle paused, watching for a moment. The sword was nothing grand, just a standard longsword with a slightly chipped edge, but in Alex’s hands, it moved like an extension of his arm. His movements were fluid yet deliberate, each strike hitting an invisible target with intent.
“Still at it, I see,” Kyle called out, walking closer.
Alex turned, lowering his sword. A grin spread across his face, his blue eyes lighting up. “And you’re still dragging yourself out of bed late,” he shot back, resting the sword’s tip against the ground.
Kyle smirked. “Not all of us have aspirations of becoming knights, you know. Some of us enjoy our sleep.”
Alex ignored Kyle with a smirk, the corner of his lips quirking upward as he remained focused on the rhythmic swipes of his sword.
Kyle, unbothered, wandered over to the shade of the old oak and eased himself down, his back against the rough bark. From there, he watched Alex practice, the steady whoosh of the blade slicing through the air blending with the faint rustle of leaves above.
"Is Sebi helping out your brother again?" Kyle asked after a moment, his voice carrying his usual lazy attitude.
“Yes,” Alex replied curtly, his gaze never leaving the invisible target in front of him. His hands gripped the hilt of the sword firmly, his swings calculated, deliberate.
Kyle leaned his head back against the tree trunk, letting his weary eyes drift across the familiar yard. Alex’s parents were merchants, always on the road, their travels often stretching into weeks at a time. It wasn’t uncommon to find the two brothers left to their own devices, Alex’s older sibling taking on the bulk of the responsibility. Sebi often helped out, lending a hand with errands or keeping things in order around the house.
Kyle’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. ‘Must be nice to have someone like Sebi around.’
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of hay and earth, its cool touch a welcome relief under the sun’s growing intensity. The light danced through the branches above, painting patches of gold on the ground. Alex continued his relentless strikes, his brow glistening with sweat from the effort. Each swing seemed to carry an unspoken determination, a drive that Kyle watched with detached curiosity.
Soon Alex snapped, his movements faltering as he spun to face Kyle, sword still in hand. His irritation was palpable, crackling in the air like static. “What is it?” he demanded, his voice sharper than the edge of his blade.
Kyle, unflinching, shrugged casually. “Nothing,” he replied, his tone flat, his eyes half-lidded as always.
Alex’s face twisted. He jammed the sword’s tip into the ground with a thunk. "Nothing? Then stop sitting there like you’re judging me."
Kyle gave him a slow, uninterested blink. “I’m not judging,” he said lazily. “Just wondering why you’re trying to kill an imaginary rabbit.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Alex’s hands clenched. He took a step forward, gesturing wildly. "Why do you always do this? You act like everything’s a joke!"
Kyle said nothing, only lifted an eyebrow in mild curiosity.
Alex's voice rose, strained. "I’ve been telling you since we were kids, open your damn eyes, Kyle! Look at the world for once instead of pretending you don’t care about anything!"
Kyle's smirk faded slightly, but he stayed silent.
"And it’s not just that," Alex barreled on, voice rough. "You’ve got everything! You're tall, you're strong, you’re... you could be something. You could be someone. But instead you just—" He threw his arms wide, nearly dropping the sword. "You sit around like nothing matters!"
Kyle finally shifted, pulling himself upright a little, but he kept his usual lazy posture. “Maybe nothing does,” he said, voice quiet, almost inaudible.
Alex froze, the words hitting harder than he’d expected. His grip on the sword slackened.
There was a long, heavy silence.
"You matter," Alex said finally, voice low. Raw. "You idiot."
Kyle blinked, slow and almost confused, as if he hadn’t expected that.
Alex ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, letting out a breath like he was trying to push all his anger out with it. "You’re my best friend, Kyle. You’re like a brother to me. And it kills me to see you act like... like none of it’s worth giving a damn about."
Kyle looked at him, really looked this time, his half-lidded gaze sharper than usual.For a moment, it seemed like he might say something real.
But instead, he just gave a lazy shrug and said, “You think too much.”
Alex barked out a sharp laugh, half in anger, half in helpless affection."Yeah. Someone has to. You could become someone. But no, you’ve gotta ruin it all with those stupid half-closed eyes of yours.”
And just like that, the same old argument began again.
Kyle finally sat up a bit, though his posture remained relaxed. “What’s wrong with my eyes?” he asked, his voice tinged with mock curiosity.
Alex threw his arms up, his sword swinging dangerously close to the ground. "What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You think you're so damn mysterious, don't you?"
He couldn't stand it, the way Kyle just stood there, silent, as if none of this mattered.
"You’re not," Alex snapped. "You’re just... lazy. Like you don’t give a damn about anything."
Tired of Kyle's foolishness, he raised his sword and leveled it at him. Alex's face was blank with indifference, eyes cold and unfeeling.