WHERE DARKNESS DANCES

The Grand Hall of the Sterling Estate shimmered beneath the glow of countless chandeliers, each crystal glinting like a distant star.

Laughter, soft and melodic, mingled with the gentle clinking of silverware and the hush of refined conversation.

It was a night of gilded smiles and whispered secrets, a grand tableau of the realm's most elite families gathered for Baron Sterling's annual autumn banquet.

The air, rich with the scent of exotic flowers and vintage wine, carried beneath its elegance a subtle strain of tension.

Then, the double doors at the far end of the hall creaked open not with the fanfare of an honored guest, but with a hesitant, almost mournful sigh.

Framed by the fading twilight outside stood a figure who seemed to leech the color from the already vivid room.

Dressed not in silk or tailored finery, but in a dark, plain hoodie that seemed to drink in the light, a young man stepped into the sparkling crowd.

His face, half-hidden by the cowl, was cast in shadow, his presence radiating a quiet, disquieting unease.

A ripple of unease passed through the hall as the nobles collectively gasped.

Eyes widened, forks froze mid-air, laughter died in an instant. This wasn't just a fashion misstep, it was a defiant break from their unspoken code.

A young nobleman, Lord Harrington, his jaw working as if he'd tasted something bitter, raised a trembling finger.

"It's… it's Victor! Victor Volkov!"

Though hushed, his voice rang with a strange, morbid fascination. "They say he's mad. That he killed his own mother."

The whispers slithered through the crowd like venomous serpents, every word sharpened with malice.

Emboldened by the attention, Harrington leaned toward his neighbor, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "And the Countess Volkov… poor woman. They say she ended her life, driven to despair by her son's madness. A tragic end to a noble line."

Victor, who had been slowly weaving through the edge of the gathering, his gaze distant as if chasing a forgotten thread, froze.

The cruelty in Harrington's voice, how casually he dissected the ruins of Victor's family for idle gossip, landed like a punch.

It wasn't just the falsehoods. It was the intent, the ugly delight in wounding another for favor and spectacle.

A low growl stirred in Victor's chest. His head snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp, locking onto Harrington.

The air around him crackled with something unseen and electric.

"Seduce a woman by slandering her family?"

When Victor finally spoke, his voice was low and coarse, stripped of its noble cadence.

It was the sound of a cornered predator, a warning wrapped in fury. "You're no better than a desperate hound, sniffing at graves for scraps, begging for attention."

Harrington recoiled, stunned, color draining from his face.

"How dare you?"

Before he could finish, Victor moved. Not with a rush, but with a smooth, animal grace. With a roar, he seized a heavy crystal decanter of red wine from a nearby table. It caught the light, glinting ominously. In one swift, fluid motion, he swung.

BOOM!

The impact was brutal. The decanter exploded against Harrington's forehead, sending wine and glass spraying like shrapnel. He crumpled, dazed and bleeding.

But Victor wasn't done. Years of repressed fury surged free. He descended upon the fallen noble, each kick thunderous, as if shaking the very foundation of the hall.

The polished marble floor cracked under the force of his rage.

Air shrieked as his limbs whipped through space, each blow landing with a sickening thud, echoing like a war drum.

Harrington's moans vanished beneath the roar of Victor's wrath.

Guests screamed and stumbled back, their faces contorted in horror. Guards rushed in, swords drawn but froze, unnerved by the sheer force of Victor's attack.

Just as they prepared to act, a voice that's calm, ethereal, pierced the storm.

"Victor, my boy. Remember your father's words. Discretion."

Victor paused mid-swing. His eyes, moments ago wild with fury, flickered, as if listening to someone only he could hear. "He was too loud, Lucas. He deserved it."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. The nobles whispered, terror creeping in as they watched Victor converse with thin air. Madness. It had claimed him.

They saw his movements gestures, nods as if speaking to someone unseen.

And then, from beside Victor, a figure shimmered into view. Translucent, glowing like moonlight on still water.

Lucas.

A scholar of the unseen. A ghost bound by unfinished business. And now, it seemed, Victor's guide.

His form was faint, his eyes reflecting an ancient sorrow.

"He was disrupting the peace, Lucas," Victor said, still raw with emotion.

Lucas sighed like wind through brittle leaves.

"Your affliction, Victor, is a double-edged sword. You are blessed or cursed with an affinity for the darkness. It feeds on fear, despair, rage. If you let it fester, it will corrupt you. You'll become a warlock of shadow, merciless and twisted."

Victor's chest heaved. The rage ebbed, giving way to something colder. He could feel the darkness within, like a living thing, whispering promises of power and ruin.

"Calm yourself, Victor," Lucas said gently. "Give in, and you'll become a fallen warlock. A slave to the shadows you now command."

Victor's breath steadied. The storm behind his eyes began to clear. But he still felt it, that cold pressure. Not just the nobles' stares, but something deeper.

The resentment of the dead. The echoes of pain and tragedy that haunted the world.

Their curses wrapped around him like chains.

Suddenly, an invisible force slammed into him, staggering him backward.

At the same time, a knight's gauntlet clamped his collar, dragging him harshly. Pain flared, sharp and jarring.

In that moment of chaos, images flashed through his mind.

A street in Insadong. The scent of grilled meat. Warmth. Laughter.

Memories of a past life as Edric Thornwell.

And with it came the truth. Terrifying and undeniable.

This world. This hall. These faces.

All part of a novel he'd once read: The Grasp of Darkness.

He was Victor Volkov, heir to a noble house. But also… a character. A fiction.

A glowing interface flickered into view before him. Ethereal. Otherworldly.

Two options pulsed: "Resist Your Fate" or "Comply."

As Edric, he'd often pitied characters bound by destiny.

But Victor wasn't just a spectator anymore.

With sudden, burning resolve, he focused his will on the screen. "Resist," he thought, the word a thunderclap in his mind.

The hall shattered into a prism of light. Threads, crimson and sapphire, spun into existence, dancing around him.

Lucas's voice echoed, full of awe. "The fate threads… You've chosen your path, Victor. Now, find and sever the red threads. The blue are mere whispers. But the red… the red are destiny's chains."