Legacy of Death

Arthur's sleep was restless, haunted by images that dissolved the moment he tried to grasp them. There was fire, shadow, a voice calling his name in a way that made his bones ache. He saw flashes of something ancient—something buried deep beneath his memories.

Then, a whisper.

Low. Almost tender.

"Wake up, Arthur."

His eyes snapped open.

The room was dark, save for the faint silver glow of the moon leaking through the curtains. His breaths came heavy, his body slick with sweat.

Then he saw it.

The mirror.

The fog was gone, but the name remained, written in faint, almost clawed letters:

Azrael.

Arthur's pulse pounded in his ears. The name stirred something in him, something cold and unshakable, like a long-forgotten truth clawing its way back to the surface.

He forced himself out of bed, legs unsteady as he walked toward the mirror. The air around it was frigid, unnatural. His reflection stared back, but he didn't trust it. Not anymore.

Slowly, he reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the glass, pain exploded in his skull.

He stumbled back with a strangled gasp, clutching his head as a flood of memories—not his own—slammed into him.

A battlefield drenched in blood. Screams echoing in the distance. A blade, black as the void, piercing a being wreathed in ethereal light.

He saw eyes. Golden, burning with sorrow. A voice, deep and resonant, whispering something he couldn't yet understand.

Then—darkness.

Arthur collapsed to his knees, panting. His head throbbed, the remnants of the vision lingering like a phantom touch. He swallowed hard, his fingers digging into the wooden floor.

This wasn't normal.

None of this was normal.

First, the whispers. Now, visions of a past that didn't belong to him.

His gaze flickered back to the mirror. The name had vanished, as if it had never been there.

Arthur let out a shaky breath. "What the hell is happening to me?"

He forced himself to stand, his body trembling with exhaustion. His hands gripped the edges of the desk beneath the mirror, knuckles white.

Then, a noise.

Not from the mirror. From outside.

A soft tap-tap-tap against his window.

Arthur stiffened.

Slowly, he turned.

The curtains swayed slightly as if something had brushed against them. The window was closed, yet the tapping came again, deliberate, rhythmic.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped closer, pulling the curtain back in one swift motion.

Nothing.

Just the empty backyard, bathed in moonlight. The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves.

Arthur exhaled, pressing his fingers against his temples. His paranoia was getting out of control. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was exhaustion.

But as he turned away from the window, he failed to notice it.

The faint imprint of a handprint, lingering on the glass.