The fire had burned low by the time we finished eating. The villagers sat quietly, their faces calm in the light, eyes occasionally drifting toward the dark windows as always.
The food tasted bland, almost like a formality — something they endured rather than enjoyed. Hana poked at her plate, her fingers trembling slightly.
"Does anyone else feel like we're not supposed to be here?" she whispered, voice barely audioable.
"No way," Andrew replied, forcing a laugh. "We're guests. They're just... traditional."
But even he didn't sound convinced.
After the last bite, the woman who had led us before stood, her expression calm but heavy. She motioned for silence, and the others followed suit, their murmurs fading into an expectant hush.
"The King awaits your prayers," she said softly.
We didn't speak. Words felt useless here.
One by one, we approached the small altar set near the window — a rough wooden table covered in strange symbols, candles, and bowls of ash.
Each of us whispered something, prayers we barely understood, offerings of our thoughts and fears casted silently into the dark.
We finished our prayers in silence. Without a word, the woman who led us gestured toward the door. We followed her out into the night, the villagers trailing behind.
The path to the Black Lake was barely visible under the faint glow of lanterns swaying in the gentle breeze.
When we reached the water's edge, the lake lay perfectly still, a vast, black mirror swallowing the moonlight. The only sound was the soft rustling of leaves and our own uneven breaths.
Then, from the depths, a slow, deep sound began to rise—breathing. Steady, like something enormous is asleep beneath the surface. It wasn't just audible, though. It was inside us—reaching into our bones, vibrating through our skin.
But the true horror came next.
A wave of thoughts flooded our minds, all at once, as if we were connected to every person, every villager, standing in that circle. Each heartbeat, each breath, each movement—they were ours to feel and hear. A surge of overwhelming emotion, a flood of desires, fears, regrets, and a strange, gnawing hunger.
We heard their thoughts—unfiltered, raw—filling the gaps of silence like a torrent.
"He sees me... feels me."
"Not yet, but soon... soon..."
And then it expanded. The lake became more than just water. The universe itself stretched out before us, vast, infinite—each dimension, each reality, each moment in time laid bare as if we could see the entirty of existence. We knew what was happening on distant parallel realms, on far-off stars, and even in the hearts of those who were yet to be born.
I could feel the universe, complex and infinite, stretching throughout space and time. I knew where every moment would lead, every choice, every turning point—like I was seeing everything all at once.
But it wasn't just the villagers. We were connected to everything. My thoughts collided with theirs, with the very fabric of the universe. I could hear the King in the void, waiting, his presence vast and consuming. His breath was the pulse of the universe itself.
His eyes were everywhere.
The breath slowed, then stopped.
Silence returned — watching us back. The dark water reflected nothing but shadow, yet I could swear something stirred beneath the surface, waiting.
We stood frozen, caught between curiosity and fear — knowing this night was far from over. The King was not merely watching us. He was in us. Everywhere.
And then, the whispers continued, not in our ears but inside our heads, as if the universe itself had a voice.
"Do not stray."