Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – The Last Delivery (Part 1)

Rain sliced through the night like a blade, drumming against Arvid’s helmet with sharp, metallic staccato. His legs burned with exhaustion, pushing the pedals of a worn bicycle through empty streets slick with water and neon reflections. The city was dead, silent except for the occasional hum of a flickering sign or a car drowning itself in the distance.

The square bag strapped to his back smelled faintly of reheated noodles and cheap meat, a stench that had become the perfume of his life. The delivery app on his cracked phone flashed one last order for the night. He whispered to himself like a mantra: just one more.

One more drop-off, then the futon that passed for a bed, then the endless glow of a laptop screen, then sleep. Not rest—sleep. Not peace—sleep. His life had folded into a cycle so mundane that vanishing from it altogether seemed almost… enticing.

At twenty-four, he was already hollowed by disappointment. University had spat him out, unceremoniously, after two years of collapsing grades and fading ambition. Friends had evaporated, parents barely remembered his name. Now, every night, he pedaled through the city’s veins delivering what others had no patience to appreciate. He had become a ghost in wet jeans, a phantom trailing takeout containers.

He noticed the streetlamp flicker at the end of the block, casting a weak halo over a puddle-strewn shortcut. Without thinking, he veered toward it, craving the few extra minutes it would shave off his route.

The light died.

Darkness swallowed him like a mouth. He froze, heart stuttering. A warning whispered somewhere in his mind to turn back—but he ignored it. He was too tired to care. The bike wheels splashed, the asphalt hissed, and then his front tire caught a jagged crack.

“Sh—!”

The world tipped. His body pitched forward. The cold kiss of pavement should have come, but it didn’t.

Instead, a searing white light exploded above him, stretching across the sky like an incision made by gods. It roared in silence, a presence that ripped through his chest and stripped away all comprehension. The air was torn from his lungs. Weight vanished.

Then—nothing.

When sensation returned, it was alien. Warmth pressed against his drenched clothes, and grass, thick and real, pressed into his palms. The air was sharp, fragrant, alive. Sunlight burned against him, bright and impossible.

He rolled to his side, staring. The valley before him was a living painting: emerald meadows sprinkled with unknown flowers, rivers like silver snakes winding into mountains that gleamed under untouched snow. The sky was a perfect, brutal blue.

“This… this can’t be—”

A snort, a thud. Hooves.

Arvid whipped around. A wooden wagon, pulled by two gleaming horses, rolled along a dirt path he hadn’t noticed. Atop the bench, a man armored in chainmail, sword at his side, fixed him with eyes that pierced like cold steel.

“You there!” The man’s voice echoed unnaturally, cutting the surreal silence. “How did you cross without the gate?”

Arvid’s mouth worked, producing nothing. Words were trapped, inadequate. “I… I was riding. In the city… then… light… now here.”

The soldier’s brow drew together. He produced a glowing crystal from his belt, levitating it toward Arvid. Threads of light wrapped around him, tight and intrusive, probing. Arvid shivered.

“No ties to this realm,” the man said. “Another world’s breath clings to you.”

“Wait. Another world? Demon-born? Oracle?!” Arvid’s thoughts collided in panic. He tried to make sense, but the grass, the horses, the impossibility of the sky all screamed that this was real.

The man descended from the wagon, boots crunching against the path. Authority radiated from him like heat.

“The law is clear,” he said. “Strangers who cross the veil must be judged. If you are demon-born, you will be cast back. If blessed… the Oracle decides your place.”

“Oracle… blessed… What the hell?” Arvid whispered, voice ragged. It didn’t matter—his body knew the truth he refused to accept: he was no longer in the city. No longer in any reality he recognized.

The soldier gestured sharply. “On your feet. The city lies a day’s ride from here. You will answer before the Oracle.”

Arvid froze. Running was useless; he didn’t know where he could go. Yet fear and instinct clawed at him. He rose, shaking, feeling the alien grass cut into his palms.

“Fine,” he said. “Take me to your Oracle.”

The man’s eyes flickered with something—pity, amusement, anticipation. “So be it.”

Even as he climbed onto the wagon behind the soldier, Arvid felt a thrill twist cold in his chest. Every instinct screamed danger, but his mind, frayed and hungry, felt a dark fascination. He was at the beginning of something irreversible, and perhaps he welcomed it.

He didn’t know yet that this was only the first delivery of a lifetime.

Chapter 1 – The Last Delivery (Part 2)

The wagon creaked and groaned beneath Arvid’s weight as it rolled over uneven dirt paths. The horses’ hooves clattered in rhythm, the sound almost hypnotic. He hugged his knees, staring at the foreign landscape, trying to force his mind to accept it. But acceptance was impossible. The valley, the mountains, the impossibly clean air—it all belonged to a dream that refused to end.

The soldier drove in silence, eyes scanning the horizon, hands tight on the reins. Occasionally, he muttered under his breath in a guttural language that rolled off his tongue like stone grinding against stone. Arvid didn’t recognize a word, but the tone was sharp, calculating—like a predator planning its hunt.

“What… what is this place?” Arvid finally asked, his voice low, uncertain.

The soldier glanced at him, eyes like flint. “This is Eryndor. And you, stranger, are trespassing on forces older than your world.”

Arvid swallowed. The word forces felt heavy, alive, as though the air itself had teeth. “Eryndor…? Older than my world? What… what do you mean?”

“You were not meant to arrive,” the soldier said. “Yet here you are. You carry the scent of another reality—one the Oracle will judge.” He fell silent again, and the wagon lurched over a hidden root, pitching Arvid forward.

Instinctively, he caught himself on the wooden side of the wagon. A thrill ran through him—a mix of fear, excitement, and something darker he didn’t want to name. In that moment, Arvid realized something terrible: he didn’t just survive the city’s grind—he thrived in it. Every burnout, every sleepless night, every small humiliation had trained him for this chaos. Maybe, just maybe, he could endure what came next.

The path wound through a thick forest, where the sunlight barely pierced the canopy. Shadows pooled like liquid, moving with a subtle consciousness. Arvid noticed it only after a long moment—the shadows shifted in ways the light could not explain. Small figures, hunched and silent, seemed to follow them at the edge of perception.

“Those are the Hollowers,” the soldier muttered when he caught Arvid staring. “Do not acknowledge them. Do not invite them. They feed on curiosity.”

Arvid’s stomach clenched. He wanted to ask questions, to probe, to understand—because the very thought of these Hollowers, creeping unseen, was a dark lure. But the soldier’s tone left no room for argument. Curiosity, he realized, could be fatal here.

Hours passed. The wagon rumbled through villages where eyes watched from shuttered windows. Children stared with too-wide grins, adults whispered behind scarves and hands. Arvid felt like a specimen on display, and the attention set his nerves alight, sharp and biting. He understood something fundamental in that moment: he had power here, even if he didn’t know how yet. Power drawn not from strength, but from difference.

The first hint of hunger gnawed at him, not for food, but for experience. Memories from the city flickered through his mind—the deliveries, the loneliness, the minor cruelties he had endured nightly. He tasted them like bitter spice on his tongue, realized with a shock that his body remembered them more vividly than his mind did. A shiver ran down his spine.

The soldier finally spoke again. “The Oracle awaits at Lysandra City. By the time we arrive, you will be… ready, or you will be broken.”

Arvid’s pulse quickened. “Ready? For what?”

“To be judged. To be made.” The soldier’s voice was low, almost cruel in its certainty. “Every stranger carries a burden. Some survive. Some fall. Some… leave a mark that lasts beyond memory.”

Arvid’s thoughts twisted. The city, the Oracle, the Hollowers, the soldier’s cryptic words—all collided in his mind. He wanted to scream, to run, to vomit from the sheer impossibility of it. But somewhere, dark and insistent, a thrill coiled around him. He wanted to see what would happen.

The wagon broke into a clearing, and for the first time, Arvid saw the city. Lysandra was massive—walls of pale stone stretching higher than any skyscraper he had ever known. Spires jutted upward, adorned with glimmering runes that pulsed faintly with an inner light. Between the walls, the city sprawled like a living thing, streets winding impossibly, markets already bustling despite the hour.

“This is where your fate begins,” the soldier said. “The Oracle will see what the world hides in you.”

Arvid felt the weight of those words settle over him like a blade pressed to the back of his neck. He wanted to protest, to claim he was just a delivery rider. But deep down, he knew: in this world, there was no “just.” Every choice, every movement, every breath would carry consequence.

As they passed through the city gates, the people’s gaze burned into him. He felt their fear, their curiosity, their whispered judgment. A thrill danced along his spine—the kind that comes from standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into darkness. A part of him, the part that had survived the endless grind of the city, wanted to leap.

And maybe, just maybe, he would.

The soldier brought the wagon to a halt in the city square. Statues of ancient heroes and monsters stared down at him, their eyes gleaming with magic Arvid couldn’t yet understand. The square was alive with movement—merchants selling enchanted trinkets, guards patrolling in gleaming armor, and crowds whispering rumors of strangers and miracles.

“You will enter the Oracle’s chamber alone,” the soldier said, stepping back. “Do not falter. Do not deceive. The Oracle sees what your mind hides.”

Alone now, Arvid’s heartbeat thundered. The gates loomed ahead, carved from stone that shimmered faintly with magic. He swallowed, tasting his own fear. A dark, twisted thought slithered through him: Maybe this is better than the city. Maybe I was meant for something… more. Something dangerous.

He stepped forward.

The air shimmered. The Oracle awaited. And Arvid, for the first time in his twenty-four years, felt the intoxicating pull of power, the thrill of danger, and the delicious edge of a life completely unhinged.

Chapter 1 – The Last Delivery (Part 3)

The doors of the Oracle’s chamber were massive, carved from dark stone veined with gold, and inscribed with runes that shimmered faintly as Arvid approached. They seemed to breathe, the magic embedded in them pulsing in slow, deliberate rhythms. A low hum filled the air, vibrating in his chest like the echo of a distant heartbeat.

Arvid’s palms were slick with sweat, his clothes still damp from the rain and the ride. He tried to steady his breathing, but each step toward the doors felt like moving through water. Something deep in him whispered: This isn’t just a test. This is a predator sizing you up.

The soldier stepped aside, giving him a final, hard look. “Do not falter. The Oracle will see all.”

And with that, Arvid pushed the doors open.

The chamber inside was vast, circular, and bathed in golden light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. A figure sat at the center, tall and ethereal, draped in flowing robes that shimmered between colors, never staying still. The Oracle’s face was hidden beneath a hood, but the air around them carried the weight of absolute authority—and something else. A hunger. A quiet, patient hunger that made Arvid’s skin prickle.

“You have arrived,” the voice said. It was neither male nor female, soft yet commanding, echoing in Arvid’s mind as if the words were being whispered inside his skull. “You, who come from a world that is not your own. You carry the essence of another reality.”

Arvid swallowed hard. “I… I don’t understand. Why me?” His voice trembled. The room seemed alive, watching, measuring.

“Why?” The Oracle’s tone twisted like smoke. “Because the world requires it. Because you will remember what others cannot. You will taste the memories of the past, the echoes of what has been—and what must not be forgotten.”

A cold shiver ran down Arvid’s spine. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words froze. He felt an almost physical pull, a tug in his chest that drew him forward. It was not threatening—at least, not yet—but insistent.

“Step closer,” the Oracle said. The golden light swirled around them, forming patterns that made Arvid dizzy. He obeyed, though a part of him wanted to run.

The Oracle lifted a hand. From the palm emerged a small crystal vial filled with a swirling silver liquid. “Drink. Only then will you understand.”

Arvid hesitated. A voice in his head screamed: This is insane. You don’t even know what this does. Yet another voice, darker, whispered: Yes, but what if it gives you the edge you need? What if it makes you… more?

The thrill of the unknown, of danger and power mingled, overwhelmed his caution. With trembling fingers, he took the vial and drank.

The liquid was cool, sharp, tasting of iron, smoke, and something faintly sweet—like memory itself crystallized in flavor. His vision blurred, colors melting into shapes that were both familiar and alien. He fell to his knees, gasping.

Memories assaulted him. Not his own, not yet, but other lives, snippets of thought, emotion, pain, joy, and fear that did not belong to him. A child laughing in a sunlit field. A soldier screaming on a battlefield. A woman crying in a candlelit room. They burned across his mind like lightning.

He staggered, clutching his head. “I… I can see… I can feel them…”

“Yes,” the Oracle said softly. “You are the Memory Bearer. The first of your kind in a generation. You taste what others hide, what history buries. With this power, you can shape worlds—or destroy them.”

Arvid’s pulse raced. The thrill—the dangerous, intoxicating thrill—coursed through his veins. “Destroy… them?”

“The power does not distinguish between creation and destruction,” the Oracle replied. “It is your choice, as it has always been. But beware. Every memory you taste feeds you, yes, but also devours pieces of yourself. A body and mind unprepared will crack. And you… are unprepared.”

Arvid felt a dark excitement coil around him. He had survived the city. He had endured exhaustion, indifference, and loneliness. Now, this—the impossible, the terrifying—was within reach. A part of him wanted to recoil, to run, to hide in the mundane. But the other part—the part that had waited for life to give him something real—wanted to step into the fire and see what he could become.

“I… I’ll do it,” he said, voice low but firm. “I’ll survive. I’ll… learn.”

“Good,” the Oracle said. “But remember—survival is only the beginning. Memory is a weapon, a poison, and a truth. You will need allies, or it will consume you. You will need cunning, or it will betray you. And you will need courage, or… nothing will remain.”

The light shifted, and Arvid saw them clearly for the first time. The Oracle’s eyes were like mirrors, reflecting his own face… and not his own. He glimpsed fragments of another Arvid—older, darker, fearless. A version of himself that could wield the power without hesitation, without conscience, without mercy.

A thrill ran through him, sharp and addictive. For the first time in years, he felt alive. And a dangerous, beautiful thought whispered in the back of his mind: Maybe I was made for this. Maybe this world is mine to devour.

The Oracle rose, the robes flowing like liquid night. “Your trial begins at dawn. Learn quickly, Memory Bearer. Taste the world. Remember its secrets. And remember… some memories are not yours to keep.”

Alone in the chamber, Arvid sank to the floor, breathing heavily. The vial’s liquid still burned down his throat, igniting a fire in his chest. The memories continued to swirl, ghostly whispers brushing against his consciousness.

He closed his eyes and smiled faintly, a dark, hungry smile. This was no longer the city. No longer the grind. No longer the life of lukewarm takeout and empty apartments. This world—this dangerous, intoxicating, unforgiving world—was his first taste of something real.

And Arvid, for the first time in his life, felt the delicious pull of power, the addictive thrill of fear, and the intoxicating lure of being more than ordinary.

He would survive. He would learn. And he would remember.

Even if it meant losing himself in the process.

Chapter 1 – The Last Delivery (Part 4)

Dawn seeped through the chamber’s high windows, golden and relentless. Arvid’s body ached from the night, but the ache was distant, insignificant compared to the fire coiling in his chest. The Oracle’s words echoed in his mind, and the fragments of other lives continued to whisper, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

He rose to his feet, limbs stiff, and stepped toward the chamber’s exit. The city beyond the doors stretched endlessly, a tangle of stone, cobbled streets, and arcane light. Markets bloomed with color, spires glimmered faintly with runes, and people moved as if each footfall were a beat in some grand, unknowable rhythm.

Arvid felt the first tendrils of hunger pull at him—not for food, but for experience, for sensation. The memories of Lysandra swirled around him: snippets of merchants shouting, thieves running with purses, children laughing, lovers arguing in narrow alleys. Each one called to him, faint and irresistible, offering knowledge and power in exchange for his attention.

A hand touched his shoulder. Startled, he turned. Kael—the armored soldier who had brought him here—stood silently, expression unreadable.

“The city is alive,” Kael said, voice low. “And it watches you. Remember what the Oracle told you: not all memories are yours to take.”

Arvid smirked faintly. “And some are,” he whispered, almost to himself. He felt it in his veins, that dark thrill. A fragment of someone else’s fear, a shard of hunger—it called to him like a whisper of the void.

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “Do not let it consume you. The Hollowers—”

“—I know,” Arvid interrupted, voice sharper than he intended. He felt the pull of the shadows at the edges of his vision, and instead of fear, a curious excitement bloomed. “I’ll see them. I’ll see everything. And I’ll survive.”

Kael said nothing, simply gestured toward the streets. Arvid stepped forward, his boots clattering against cobblestone. The city embraced him, strange and alive, every sound and scent a map of memory he could taste, fragment by fragment.

A scream rang out in the distance. Without thinking, Arvid’s head turned. A woman stumbled from an alley, clutching her arm. Around her, shadows seemed to writhe unnaturally, twisting and wriggling like living smoke. The Hollowers.

Instinct urged flight. But Arvid didn’t move. Instead, he felt a dark excitement surge—a predator’s curiosity. He stepped closer, and the whispers of memory brushed his mind: a pain, a fear, a pulse of life—then another, and another.

The shadows recoiled at his presence, almost recognizing the power that stirred within him. He grinned faintly, a thrill slicing through him sharper than any blade.

This world, these people, the city—they were his first delivery. And he intended to consume it fully.