The hidden path

Nathaniel's world was nothing but blackness, thick and suffocating. As he fell through the dark void, he felt as if he were plummeting into something endless, something alive. The air was damp and cold, and the faint echo of whispered voices swirled around him, pulling him deeper into the shadows.

Then, with a sudden jolt, he landed. The impact rattled his bones, sending a sharp pain through his shoulder as he hit the damp earth below. He gasped, struggling to catch his breath, and looked around. The darkness here was different—an oppressive, pulsing kind of dark that seemed to breathe along with him.

He reached out, his hand brushing against something cold and smooth. Stone. His fingers traced its surface, feeling unfamiliar symbols carved deep into the rock. The etchings were rough, ancient, radiating an unsettling energy that seeped into his skin, leaving his fingertips tingling. He pulled his hand back, his pulse quickening.

Where was he? And how deep underground had he fallen?

The whispering voices grew louder, clearer, but this time they were accompanied by something else—a faint glow seeping from the cracks in the stone floor. It was a cold, silvery light, illuminating faint shapes carved into the walls around him. Squinting, Nathaniel leaned closer, his eyes tracing the shapes that seemed to dance across the walls.

They were symbols—more of the strange, runic patterns he'd seen on the altar above, but these were different, more intricate. And among them were images: figures cloaked in shadows, with long, flowing hair, their faces hidden in darkness. Some held their hands aloft, and in their palms were small orbs of light, while others crouched, with sharp, elongated features that made his blood run cold. He could almost feel their eyes watching him, like they were alive within the stone.

And then he saw it—an image of a figure at the center of the wall, standing taller than the rest, draped in a flowing cloak that seemed to billow outward. Its face was obscured, but the eyes were distinct—piercing, gleaming red, like twin embers glowing from within a hollow skull. He shivered, feeling an instinctual fear claw at him as he stared into those eyes.

As he tried to tear his gaze away, he noticed something else—a faint glimmer at the figure's neck. It was subtle, almost invisible in the dim light, but there it was: a small pendant hanging from a thin chain, carved into the shape of a crescent moon. The sight of it stirred something in him, something buried deep in his memory, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

A cold breeze swept through the underground chamber, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and decay. Nathaniel turned, half-expecting to see someone—or something—standing behind him. But there was no one there, only shadows and the echo of his own shallow breathing.

And then, from somewhere in the darkness, a voice spoke.

"You should not have come here."

The words were barely more than a whisper, but they cut through the silence like a knife. Nathaniel spun around, his heart hammering in his chest, searching for the source of the voice. The darkness seemed to shift, and in the faint, silvery glow, he saw a shape emerge from the shadows.

A figure, cloaked and hooded, its face obscured, stood at the edge of the light. It was tall, its frame shrouded in a flowing robe that seemed to merge with the darkness itself. The air grew colder, the temperature dropping so suddenly that Nathaniel could see his breath fogging in front of him.

"Who… who are you?" he stammered, his voice barely steady.

The figure didn't answer. Instead, it lifted a pale hand, slender fingers pointing toward him. Nathaniel's skin prickled as he felt a strange sensation sweep over him, a subtle, magnetic pull drawing him closer. He fought against it, trying to move back, but his feet felt rooted to the spot.

"You don't remember, do you?" the voice continued, low and mocking. "But you will. Soon enough, you'll remember everything."

Nathaniel shook his head, fear and confusion twisting inside him. "What are you talking about? Remember what?"

The figure tilted its head, the shadows shifting to reveal a hint of its face—a pale, gaunt cheekbone, and lips that were curved in a faint, chilling smile. The eyes remained hidden beneath the hood, but he could feel them on him, piercing and unrelenting.

"There are things buried in this forest," the figure said, its voice like silk laced with poison. "Ancient things. Forgotten things. And you, Nathaniel… you are part of it. Bound to it."

The ground trembled beneath his feet, a subtle rumble that seemed to pulse with the words. Nathaniel swallowed hard, his gaze locked on the figure. Bound? To what?

The figure lifted its hand higher, and Nathaniel felt an invisible force pressing against him, tightening around his chest like a vice. He gasped, struggling for breath, but the pressure only grew stronger. His vision blurred, his mind spinning.

"You should not have come back," the figure whispered, its voice fading as the darkness seemed to close in around him. "But you can't run from your past, Nathaniel. It lives within you."

Just as the pressure became unbearable, the figure lowered its hand, releasing him. Nathaniel stumbled backward, collapsing onto the cold, stone floor, gasping for air. His chest ached, his lungs burning, and he struggled to pull himself up, his limbs weak and trembling.

He looked up, but the figure was gone. The chamber was empty once more, the silence pressing down on him. He took a shuddering breath, his mind reeling from the encounter. What had just happened? And who—no, what—was that figure?

His hand drifted to his pocket, where he felt the weight of the stone he'd found aboveground. It was warm, pulsing faintly against his palm, as if in response to the encounter. He pulled it out, staring at it in the faint glow of the underground chamber.

But this time, something was different. The symbols carved into the stone were glowing, a faint red light that pulsed like a heartbeat. And as he held it, a strange feeling washed over him—a sensation he couldn't quite place, something dark and ancient, awakening within him.

In that moment, a memory flickered through his mind, distant and hazy, like a dream just beyond reach. He was a child, standing in the forest, his hand outstretched toward a figure cloaked in shadow. He remembered a cold, metallic taste in his mouth, and the faint, coppery smell of blood. And then, a voice—soft, commanding.

"Drink," it had whispered.

Nathaniel shook his head, the memory vanishing as quickly as it had come. He stared at the stone in his hand, his pulse racing. The glow faded, leaving him alone in the darkness once more.

A distant sound broke the silence—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like footsteps echoing through a narrow tunnel. He turned, his heart pounding, as the sound grew louder, drawing closer. It was coming from somewhere deeper within the underground chamber, from a passageway he hadn't noticed before.

Without thinking, he took a hesitant step forward, his curiosity overpowering his fear. The air grew colder as he moved deeper into the darkness, the shadows thickening around him.

And as he walked, a single thought echoed through his mind, a thought that sent a chill down his spine.

There is magic here. Dark magic. And something older than death itself.