In a room drowned in darkness—where nothing could be seen save for a frail thread of moonlight slipping shyly through the window, like the last desperate resistance in a war already lost to the shadows—there, in one corner touched by that pale glimmer, sat a boy on a worn wooden chair. Silence cradled him as the moonlight faintly traced the outline of his existence.
He was utterly still, staring into a mirror placed before him. It reflected the figure of a pallid young man—unnaturally pale, thin to the point where it seemed as though life itself had been drained from him drop by drop. His hair was wavy, neither long nor short, jet-black to a degree that suggested it devoured the surrounding light, like a cosmic void from which nothing could escape.
Yet what truly unsettled the image… were his eyes.
Crimson eyes—red in an unnatural way—resembling two dying stars, emitting a faint glow that felt heavy, suffocating.
The boy suddenly snapped out of his trance. Slowly, he raised his left hand and turned it before his eyes, examining it carefully.
His palm was completely bare—no lines, no creases, no markings that distinguished human hands. Smooth. Empty.
Except for one single line.
A strange, solitary line, located about two centimeters beneath the little finger. It ran straight like an arrow's edge, cutting across the palm beneath the index finger, as if deliberately carving through flesh, attempting to curl toward the back of the hand—
—but stopping at the edge, as though some unseen force had prevented it from being completed.
As he sank deeper into contemplation, his hand began to tremble uncontrollably. The boy narrowed his eyes in confusion, trying to understand what was happening.
Then—before he could comprehend it—
The line ignited.
Black fire. No smoke. No familiar flames. As though darkness itself had caught fire.
The boy's eyes widened in terror. He leapt to his feet and screamed wildly:
"Grandfather!… Grandfather!"
He rushed toward the door, but before his hand reached the handle, it turned on its own.
The door began to open with agonizing slowness, releasing a shrill creak that tore through the silence.
"Grandfa—" he said, his voice trembling with fragile hope.
But when the door opened fully…
There was no one there.
Only a deeper darkness—thicker, denser—like a living entity.
His breathing quickened. Before he could process what was happening, a hand extended from the gloom—black as charcoal, with long, razor-sharp nails—holding a black book engulfed in black fire, identical to the one burning in his palm.
"W… what is that?"
He recoiled in horror, stumbled over the bed, and fell onto it, pulling the blanket over himself in a desperate attempt to hide.
Then he heard footsteps.
Heavy footsteps.
Not human.
He curled beneath the covers, trembling, his heart pounding as if it would burst from his chest, screaming:
"Grandfather!… Grandfatherrr!"
Seconds passed—moments that felt eternal.
But there was no sound.
Nothing.
After a moment of hesitation, the boy shakily dared to peek from beneath the blanket.
His terrified gaze swept across the room, inch by inch—
—and then froze on the spot where the moonlight pooled.
From there…
That thing advanced.
A creature the size of a human, draped in a black robe that concealed its entire body from head to toe, save for its hands and feet.
But its feet were not human.
They were hooves.
The boy gasped in terror and squeezed his eyes shut, curling beneath the blanket once more, panting, shaking, crying out in broken despair:
"Grandfather… Grandfather… Grandfather…"
The sound of hooves echoed through the silence—step by step—until they stopped at the edge of the bed.
The creature held the burning black book in its right hand and extended its horrifying left hand toward the blanket.
And when it seized it—
—it began muttering in a twisted, alien language, as though it belonged to no human tongue.
The boy clamped his hands over his ears, heedless of the black fire blazing in his palm, terror reaching its peak.
Suddenly—
A voice thundered inside his head.
A hoarse, grating voice, like glass scraped by a metal comb:
"T… T… Tilas…"
"T… T… Tilas…"
In an instant—the blanket was ripped away.
The boy's eyes flew open in panic as he gasped for air, his forehead drenched in sweat.
In a hoarse voice, he whispered:
"Grandfather?"
Before him stood an old man with white hair and pale skin, his face carved by years of deep wrinkles. He looked at him with unmistakable concern and said:
"Tilas, what's wrong? You were calling for me in your sleep. Was it a nightmare?"
Tilas took a deep breath, then replied in a fearful murmur:
"Yes… it's a nightmare. The same one that always haunts me."
He anxiously raised his left hand and examined his palm.
It wasn't as it had been in the dream.
It was covered with old scars and faded scratches.
Once he confirmed they were real, he exhaled in relief.
His grandfather stared at him, worry etched across his face, then asked:
"Does your hand hurt, Tilas?"
Tilas hesitated for a moment, then answered:
"No… but sometimes I feel as if it's burning."
The old man's heart clenched, and he said sorrowfully:
"I'm sorry, Tilas… It's my fault. If only I hadn't—"
Tilas interrupted him with genuine anger:
"Grandfather! Don't say that. I know you did it for my sake… because you were afraid for me."
A brief silence followed.
Then the old man smiled, his eyes glistening with tears:
"Thank you, Tilas."
Tilas smiled back warmly:
"No… I'm the one who should thank you, Grandfather."
The old man laughed softly and patted his head:
"You scared me with your screaming, you little rascal! Come on—the breakfast is ready."
Tilas grinned happily:
"Okay!"