Chapter Text
- This work is part of a three-part magical series.
- It draws inspiration from the world of Harry Potter, though I have put my own spin on it.
- While I have devoted a lot of time to building the world and shaping the story, this draft is still a work in progress and will continue to be revised whenever I find the time.
- English is not my first language.
Warning: Many details may change as the work develops. I cannot promise to keep the tags unchanged, and the story may contain violence, blood, or other sensitive elements. Please take note before diving into this rabbit hole.
01.
Before his eyes, there was only darkness — cruel, suffocating, and absolute.
Deep down, though he saw nothing, a quiet certainty told him he was not blind.
The thought lingered, making him wonder: Why can’t I see anything else but darkness? Why am I here? Why is there no one but me?
And then it came to him: I feel nothing.
He held onto the thought as it stirred something within him. He started searching for any existence besides himself. But with darkness covering everything, he failed to find even just a flicker of light. No softness. Not even a hint of coarseness. He finally concluded that there was nothing he could physically touch.
The air was dead silent. The idea of time seemed to fly away during his struggle in this circumstance. As he began to scrutinize the surroundings again, another realization slowly dawned on him: Who am I?
There must be a reason for him to believe he used to be a physical existence — to touch and to feel things as they are. Along with the question about his identity was the urge to seek an answer to why he ended up like this — in the dark.
“I must have a name,” he thought. Everyone has a name. He convinced himself.
“Why am I like this?”
“How long?”
He didn't know who he was, or a single name to call. He didn't move an inch, as he also felt nothing akin to a movement. Any effort was merely a desperate, useless attempt.
For an existence with no expectation and no goal, standing still wasn’t that boring.
It was when he heard a faint voice echoing from afar that he finally found a purpose: to seek and find that voice.
The voice was low and distant. Searching for it felt like swimming absentmindedly in the ocean while keen on a golden key. But what did the sea feel like? He didn’t remember.
Slowly, but eagerly, he tried to reach the flickering spotlight.
02.
The first thing that struck me was a strong, antiseptic odour as my body sank into something soft and light. More voices collapsed and mixed into one another, causing my eardrums to itch even more than I thought was possible.
Though blurry, my eyes opened to see a face that was so familiar. The woman wore a long, emerald-green cloak that contrasted with her blue eyes, yet looked magnificent with her tinted sunlight hair. Perhaps it was her appearance that drew my attention straight after I regained my eyesight. But the more I tried to remember, as I locked my eyes on her, the more I realised I couldn't.
The woman noticed and approached me gingerly, slowly settling down on the mattress. I felt it slump somewhat, but my gaze couldn't leave her, and my chest began to burn.
But, just like I couldn't name myself, I couldn't name this emotion. I battled the want to hold her hand, wondering if it would bring me back to my senses.
"My dear," she said before I could speak.
I turned my head to the other side, gathered more pressure to my arms as I attempted to raise my hand, only to discover that it was violently shaking. I could not move naturally. The same as the isolated period of darkness. As I felt things — more and more, the feeling of powerlessness hit me to the grave.
"I-I-I… c-ca—," this was the first time I used my voice. It was nearly impossible while my head bore nothing but emptiness. I questioned whether this was the way I was supposed to sound.
"Shhh, my dear, you've just awoke. It will take time to heal your physical system." Then she turned to another woman standing close to her and said, "Tell the Lord that he has awoken."
"Yes, ma'am."
My consciousness did not last long. Only a few seconds after the young woman left as ordered, I heard the woman in the emerald cloak whisper a few words, and then I fell asleep. My awareness slipped into another pitch-black night.
03.
When I woke again, the scene before my eyes had changed.
The once dark room was gone, replaced by a larger, brighter space. The ceiling was painted in blue and white, resembling a sky strewn with clouds. I shifted my fingers slightly and brushed against something soft cradled in my arms. Lowering my gaze from the ceiling, I realized it was a body pillow nearly as large as me. Pure white as snow, as the blanket covering me and the sheet beneath. The soft cushion made my whole body feel weightless, yet a deep stiffness clung to my limbs.
When I tried to stretch my arms, they resisted — as though my flesh and bones had been sculpted from wax. One second. Two. Three… I had no idea how long I’d been straining to pull away from the pillow. Nothing happened. I couldn’t move an inch.
As panic clawed at me, a faint scent of cinnamon slipped into my lungs, steadying my fractured breaths. It was nothing like the sterile, antiseptic odor of the previous room.
Only then did a thought strike me: whoever had placed me here must have cared — at least enough to provide warmth, softness, fragrance, light, and even the painted sky above.
While I struggled to coax life back into my stiffened bones, a sharp creak split the silence. The door had opened.
I turned toward the sound.
“So, just in time,” said the woman in the emerald cloak as she entered. She stepped aside, gesturing for someone… perhaps, a mysterious figure lingering outside — to come in.
I couldn’t scream, couldn’t even give voice to my desperate thoughts. I had only just begun to believe this room belonged to me, and already it was being invaded.
I fought to reclaim control over my body before they could reach me, but the most I managed was a few centimeters of movement.
“W-wait…” My voice was hoarse, as if long unused. Fear lingered beneath the words, but so did a strange, urgent instinct, telling me I had to resist, had to protest.
Damn it. What the hell was happening to me? I wasn’t insane. At least, I didn’t think I was…
While I struggled and floundered in confusion, the figure had already reached my bedside.
A rough, heavy hand seized the blanket and peeled it away, baring me in a crumpled heap. Only a plain white garment clung to my body. It was not quite a nightgown but a one-piece that fell to my calves, the kind of clothing meant for medical examinations.
So I was a patient?
I looked up and met the stern face of the stranger.
“I-I…” My jaw locked; the sound that slipped from my lips was broken, muffled.
“Are you certain he’s perfect?” His eyes lingered on me, though his question was aimed at the woman.
She cast me a brief glance before replying flatly, “There are no signs of abnormal existence.”
The realization sank in: all my effort was wasted. Struggling only made me look like a drowning man thrashing in silence. So I forced myself into stillness, choosing to do nothing.
I was the subject of their scrutiny, yet I lay motionless like a corpse on display.
The only thing left to me was breathing. So I breathed — letting each breath become my defiance.
When the man’s palm pressed against my left chest, I sucked in a sharp breath and held it. His eyes flicked toward me, as though he could feel the strain of my muscles beneath his heat. The place where he touched me burned, searing into my skin like an invisible brand.
At last, I exhaled.
Then, his thick black brows knit together. I didn’t know why, but I guessed he was listening for my heartbeat. Do I not have a heartbeat? If only I could move freely, I would check for myself.
“My lord,” the woman stepped forward. “The fragments…” she began, then faltered into silence.
My eyes flicked between the two of them, desperate to catch another word. But the mention of the fragments simply ended there as abruptly as it began.
Without warning, the man reached out and touched my forehead. His gaze on me was strange, unreadable.
I longed to grasp the meaning of his sudden presence, to study the heat in his touch, to decipher the tenderness hidden in the woman’s eyes, and what I meant to her. Why did unfamiliar faces stir such indescribable emotions within me? The questions echoed, why why why unrelenting. It felt as though some miracle had dragged me here, leaving me empty and helpless.
Yet my body still refused me. My lips remained sealed, my limbs bound in stiffness. Then, without reason, my vision dimmed.
Before I slipped back into darkness, I heard the woman’s voice:
“A telegram from the Queen, signed by Kim Dokja.”
Something white flickered between her fingers, and when the man reached out, it became a thin fold of paper. He slid it into his pocket just a few seconds afterwards.
My eyes strained to follow, clinging to that small movement, but the pale slip disappeared beneath his coat. With it, the rest of the world seemed to draw shut around me, vision narrowing, thought unraveling, until nothing was left but black.