Soren Blackwood awakens in Luthathel, a Victorian city trapped in eternal twilight.
The air is thick with rain and the scent of old parchment. The gas lamps flicker as he walks. The streets twist in ways that don’t align with memory.
The city greets him by name.
But he has never been here before.
His mother smiles as she serves breakfast, yet her words feel rehearsed. His younger sister laughs, telling him, "You always act strange after you wake up."
The people are kind. The city is welcoming. Everything is perfectly normal.
Until the whispers begin.
At first, they are soft. A murmur in the dark. A rustling beneath the cobblestones. A voice at the edge of hearing, calling his name.
But then, the streets change when he isn’t looking. People remember things he never did. His own reflection lingers a second too long.
And then, there is the figure in the corner of his room.
Still. Silent. Masked.
Watching.
Waiting.
Luthathel is not just a city. It is a prison, a ritual in progress, a stage for something far greater than himself.
The whispers grow louder. The city shifts around him.
And somewhere in the depths of its streets, something old and forgotten is waiting for him to listen.
Because whether he wants to or not—Soren has a role to play.
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