The sun hung low, casting amber streaks across the vast Caspian estate. A mild breeze stirred the golden grass, and the forest that flanked the estate loomed like an ancient sentinel. Trees stood in quiet formation, their twisted limbs tangled in secrets older than the name Caspian itself. Shadows danced between their trunks, whispering stories to any who dared step close enough to listen.
The Caspian woods were not forbidden, but they were not encouraged either. Locals muttered of old spirits that lingered, of beasts that roamed even in daylight. Most stayed away. Most — but not Lysander Caspian.
At five years old, the second son of Baron Alex Caspian was anything but ordinary. He was a child born with sharp eyes that lingered too long on people's faces, ears that heard more than he let on, and a tongue that already knew sarcasm far too well. The estate staff whispered that he was peculiar. His tutors insisted he was gifted. His mother merely said he was "quietly dangerous."
And now, the peculiar child wandered past the garden wall and into the woods where even birds held their breath.
---
I stepped between two thickets, thorns tugging at my sleeves. My boots were already dusted with brown soil, but I didn't care. For days, I'd been nursing a restless itch I couldn't explain — like the air around me was humming with secrets, and I needed to find where it was loudest.
The forest was dense but not suffocating. Shafts of sunlight broke through the canopy like golden lances, illuminating patches of moss and stone. Every step I took felt like walking into a world that hadn't been touched in centuries.
"Don't stray too far, Lysander," I mimicked with a snort, recalling my caretaker's voice. "The wolves will eat you."
Dramatic. There were no wolves this close to the estate. But fear was often the first line of defense for adults too lazy to offer explanations. I wasn't afraid. I was curious. And I was… drawn.
About thirty minutes into my trek, I found it.
A tree, thick and ancient, its roots sprawling out like veins in the earth. At its base, obscured by a layer of moss and fallen leaves, was something… unnatural. A faint line etched into the earth. I crouched, brushing away the debris. The texture beneath was cold and smooth. Metal.
A hatch.
My heart thumped once. Hard.
The kind of hard that tells you what you've just found isn't normal.
I hesitated only for a moment before gripping the iron ring embedded in the panel and pulling. It groaned like something waking from a hundred-year slumber, and the scent of old earth and stale air wafted up from the dark. I peered into the void.
A stone staircase descended into pitch black.
This… this is probably how horror movies start.
And yet, I descended.
Each step echoed in the narrow shaft. My breathing was steady, but my palms were slick with sweat. There were no torches, no glowing stones — just the cold. Deeper and deeper until the hatch above was only a memory.
Eventually, the stairway opened into a large chamber.
It was massive. Carved from obsidian stone, lit faintly by veins of glowing crimson that pulsed gently along the walls like a heartbeat. Strange symbols were etched into every surface — fluid, angular runes that almost seemed to shimmer as I looked at them.
I walked forward, and the chamber shifted.
Not literally — more like the air changed. Denser. Heavier. As if I'd stepped into something's presence.
A deep breath rattled through the chamber.
Not mine.
I froze.
Another breath. This one louder. Wet. Guttural. Alive.
Then... eyes.
Twin orbs of gold flickered to life from the shadows on the far side of the room. The crimson light intensified as something stirred — something massive. Scales scraped against stone. Claws flexed. And a voice, ancient and sharp, slithered into my mind.
"It has been centuries… since I last tasted air."
I stepped back, only slightly, though my instincts screamed at me to run.
"A child… with blood that sings. Curious."
I swallowed hard, summoning every ounce of calm I didn't have.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.
There was a low chuckle — the sound of bones grinding together.
The creature moved into the light. Its form was feline, but impossibly large — like a panther carved from shadow and bone, with horns twisting from its skull and a mane that shimmered like smoke. Its eyes burned with memory, and its breath stank of old power.
"Names are chains, little bloodling." The voice was both inside my head and all around me. "But you… you may call me what the ancient tribes once did."
The beast's eyes narrowed, and I felt it — a weight pressing against my chest, as though the air was now lava.
"They called me… Vorath."
The name pulsed in my skull like a drumbeat.
I didn't know what I had just found.
But I knew one thing.
I wasn't alone in this world anymore.
And then, the stone behind me groaned shut.
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[To be continued...]