Chapter 1: Whispers in the Dark
1983words
At the beginning of the dream, it was always the same darkness—an absolute, oppressive darkness, as if the entire universe was wrapped in a heavy black shroud. He stood in this void, unable to feel the ground beneath him, unable to see the sky above, unable even to sense the slightest movement of air. The only thing he could be certain of was his own existence and that suffocating sense of loneliness.
Then, the sounds began.
At first, just a faint echo from far away—tick, tock, tick, tock. Like water dripping onto stone, or the swing of some enormous pendulum. The sound reverberated through the boundless darkness, creating a strange resonance, as if the entire void vibrated to its rhythm.
Alex wanted to move, wanted to find the source of the sound, but his legs seemed entangled by something invisible. Not ropes, not chains, but something far more terrifying—fear from deep within his heart. He knew that once he started to move, once he walked toward that sound, something terrible would happen.
But dreams never ask for consent.
As time passed—in dreams, the concept of time becomes blurry and distorted—that ticking sound grew clearer and more rhythmic. Then, the wind began.
At first just a slight breeze, like gentle fingers brushing through his messy black hair. The sensation felt so real he could have sworn he actually felt something. But soon, the wind was no longer gentle. It intensified, changing from a breeze to a strong wind, from a strong wind to a gale, and finally into a hurricane that threatened to tear him apart.
Through the howling wind, he heard the voice.
It wasn't a human voice, at least not entirely. Deep and ancient, it carried an ineffable majesty and sorrow. It wove through the wind, sometimes clear, sometimes faint, like an echo from an immeasurably distant place. Alex couldn't understand what language the voice was speaking, but strangely, he could sense its meaning—it was a summoning, a request, a... longing?
What disturbed him most was that the voice seemed to be calling his name.
"Alex..."
No, that wasn't quite right. Although the voice was indeed calling him, it wasn't using the name "Alex," but rather another name—completely unfamiliar yet somehow known to him. A name he had never heard before, but one that made his heart pound violently when he heard it. A name that made his silver eyes gleam in the darkness.
Each time he was about to clearly hear that name, the dream would abruptly end.
Alex shot up in bed, as if shoved by invisible hands. His thick glasses slid down from the bridge of his nose and fell onto the sweat-soaked pillow. His heart hammered in his chest, like a trapped bird trying to break free. He gasped for air, desperately trying to convince himself that everything had been just a dream.
But that feeling was too real. He could still feel the wild wind against his skin, could still hear echoes of that mysterious voice resonating in his ears. What terrified him most was that his silver eyes were faintly glowing in the dark bedroom, just like in the dream.
"Damn it," he muttered, fumbling to find his glasses and put them back on.
Outside the window, Portland still slumbered in the tranquility of early morning. Through the thin curtains, he could see the silhouette of distant mountains appearing and disappearing in the dawn light. Occasionally, cars passed by on the street, tires hissing against damp asphalt, accompanied by the crisp chirping of birds—all so ordinary, so real, forming a stark contrast to the surreal experience in his dream.
Alex glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table—6:32 AM. He still had an hour before he needed to get up and prepare for school. He tried to lie back down, but as soon as he closed his eyes, that dream resurfaced, and the feeling of being hunted returned.
This had been going on for three consecutive weeks now.
One night three weeks ago, this strange dream had suddenly appeared in his sleep. At first, he thought it was just a nightmare caused by stress—after all, senior year was a pressure cooker of anxiety, from SAT exams to college applications, from parental expectations to cutthroat competition with classmates. But as time went on, the dreams became increasingly vivid, increasingly complex, and increasingly... real.
In the beginning, there was only darkness in the dream. Pure, absolute darkness, and that suffocating sense of loneliness. But every few days, new elements appeared. First came the mysterious ticking sound, then the wind, followed by that ancient and majestic voice. Each dream was more vivid than the last, more frightening, and also more... enticing?
Yes, enticing. Although Alex was reluctant to admit it, that voice held a strange attraction. Whenever he heard it in his dreams, a powerful desire surged from deep within—to follow that voice, to find its source, to answer that calling that seemed specifically meant for him alone.
But reason told him these were all just illusions. He was just an ordinary American high school student, a nerd who was ridiculed at school, a loser who couldn't even handle basic social interactions. How could he possibly be connected to some mysterious voice? How could he possibly be the subject of some ancient calling?
"I'm not the protagonist in some fantasy novel," he muttered to the ceiling.
Alex Connor certainly didn't look like hero material. Eighteen years old, five foot nine, but skinny as a rail, weighing less than 132 pounds. His face had the typical teenage acne—though not severe, it was enough to make him feel insecure when looking in the mirror. What troubled him most was his hair—a mess of black locks that couldn't be tamed with any amount of hair gel, always sticking out in all directions, making him look perpetually disheveled.
The only striking feature was his eyes. Silver-gray pupils that glimmered in the sunlight and grew even brighter when he was excited or angry. This should have been an advantage—after all, many girls would be attracted to such a rare eye color. But in the cruel social battlefield of Lincoln High School, any distinctive characteristic became a target for attack.
"Freak Connor's silver eyeballs are glowing again!" This was one of his classmates' favorite taunts, especially when he was nervous or excited.
Alex looked out the window, trying to shift his attention. Portland's March morning carried the typical moist atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest. Though the rainy season was nearing its end, a damp smell still permeated the air. Mount Hood was faintly visible in the distance, its snow-capped peak gleaming softly in the morning light. The city possessed a unique charm—neither as bustling as Los Angeles nor as fast-paced as New York, but wrapped in an atmosphere of gentle tranquility.
For most people, Portland was a livable place. But for Alex, it felt more like an exquisite prison. His entire world was confined to a few fixed locations: his bedroom at home, the classrooms and library of Lincoln High School, and the occasional bookstore and cinema. He had never truly integrated into the social life of this city, never felt a sense of belonging.
Both his parents were professors at the University of Oregon. His mother, Alison Connor, taught in the English department, specializing in Victorian literature, particularly the works of the Brontë sisters. She was an elegant and meticulous woman who always wore tailored suits, kept her hair immaculately styled, and spoke with a slight East Coast accent. His father, Robert Connor, was a professor in the history department, researching medieval European history, especially the political and religious conflicts during the Crusades. He was a typical scholarly man, always immersed in ancient texts, his study at home piled high with yellowing history books and photocopies of ancient manuscripts.
On the surface, the Connor family was a typical academic household—intellectuals, middle class, respected. In the eyes of friends and neighbors, Alex should have been a fortunate child, with an excellent educational background and abundant learning resources. But reality was far more complex than appearances suggested.
Although both his parents were professors, they rarely discussed topics outside of academics at home. Dinner time was usually silent, with everyone focusing on their own food, occasionally exchanging basic information about work or school. On weekends, his mother would trim roses in the garden, his father would work in the study, and Alex would read books or play games in his own room. They lived under the same roof like three polite roommates, lacking any real emotional connection.
This cold family atmosphere taught Alex to be comfortable with solitude from an early age. He found solace in books, adventure in virtual worlds, and a sense of belonging in his imagination. His room was stacked with fantasy novels—from Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" to George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire," from the Harry Potter series to "Dungeons and Dragons" rulebooks. These books were his true friends, accompanying him through countless lonely nights.
But now, even sleep, his final refuge, had been invaded by that strange dream.
Alex glanced at his alarm clock again—6:45. In fifteen minutes, he would need to get up and prepare for school. He tried to fall back asleep, but as soon as he closed his eyes, that dream returned. Darkness, the sound of wind, and that mysterious calling.
What troubled him most was that he had begun to look forward to the dream's arrival.
Although the dream made him feel fear and unease, it also made him feel... important. In real life, he was just an insignificant high school student, a nerd ignored or mocked by classmates. But in the dream, he seemed to be the target of some important existence, the object sought by some ancient and powerful voice.
This thought made him feel both excited and ashamed. Excited because, maybe, just maybe, he really was special. Ashamed because he knew how childish and unrealistic these thoughts were.
The alarm clock began to ring, interrupting his thoughts. Alex turned it off and slowly crawled out of bed. Another day, the same routine: washing up, getting dressed, going downstairs for breakfast, then heading to school to face another day of loneliness and humiliation.
But as he walked toward the bathroom, he noticed something strange.
His reflection in the mirror looked... different. Not that there were any obvious physical changes, but rather a subtle difference. His eyes seemed brighter, his skin appeared more radiant, and even his messy black hair seemed more vibrant.
Alex rubbed his eyes and looked into the mirror again. The reflection returned to normal—still the same skinny, insecure high school student.
"I must be seeing things," he told himself, but deep down, he knew things weren't that simple.
That dream was changing him, although he didn't yet understand what these changes meant.
Twenty minutes later, Alex walked down the stairs, ready to face the new day. What he didn't know was that this would be the last ordinary morning he would spend in this world. From today onward, his life would undergo a tremendous transformation, and that mysterious dream was merely the prelude to the massive change that was about to come.
In the kitchen, his parents had already begun their morning routine. Mother was preparing coffee, Father was reading yesterday's "The Oregonian." Everything seemed so normal, so peaceful, but beneath this calm surface, the gears of fate had already begun to turn.
Outside the window, a gentle breeze caressed the front yard of the Connor home, stirring the maple leaves by the door. The wind was light, gentle, but if anyone had observed carefully, they would have noticed that this breeze appeared only around the Connor house, while the rest of the street remained completely still.
The change had begun.
