The Forgotten Hierophant

The rain had been falling since noon, a quiet, ceaseless drizzle that blurred the edges of the gas-lit streets and painted the city in shades of gray. Backlund was always damp, but tonight, the rain seemed different—heavier, almost sentient.

Asher pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked down the cobbled road. He had left work late again, the oil lamps in his small office barely enough to keep away the shadows pooling at the edges of his vision.

Something was wrong.

At first, it was nothing but a feeling, a faint pressure at the back of his skull, as if someone were watching him from just beyond the limits of his sight. The streets seemed too empty for this time of night. The gas lamps flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced and curled in ways they shouldn't.

Asher exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air. He wasn't the paranoid type, but tonight, the city felt... off.

That was when he saw it.

A letter, wedged into the gap of a rusted iron gate.

At first, he thought it was an old piece of trash, but then he noticed his name written in black ink across the envelope—Asher Vance.

His fingers hesitated before reaching out.

The paper was damp but intact, the wax seal unbroken. It was an old-fashioned seal, the kind noble families used in past centuries, yet there was no sigil. Only a blank, circular imprint.

Asher glanced around. No one.

With a deep breath, he cracked open the seal and unfolded the letter. The ink was smudged, as if someone had written it in a hurry.

"There are things in this city that should not be remembered.

You are standing on the edge of something that does not wish to be found.

If you wish to remain as you are, burn this letter. If you wish to see, follow the path below."

— A Friend

A low rumble of thunder echoed across the rooftops.

Asher frowned. His first instinct was to discard it. This was obviously a hoax—some kind of prank or misdirected message. But the ink... it felt fresh.

And more than that...

Something about it called to him.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the alley, flipping the letter over in his hands. On the back, there was a map. A crude drawing of Backlund's East Borough—with a single red mark over an abandoned chapel.

Asher's pulse quickened.

He had seen this place before.

Not in real life.

In his dreams.

By the time Asher reached the outskirts of East Borough, the rain had worsened, turning the roads into a slick, muddy mess. He moved quickly, avoiding the few night patrols that still wandered these streets.

The chapel stood alone, surrounded by collapsed buildings and overgrown weeds. It had once been a grand structure, but now it was a ruin, its spires broken, its entrance half-buried in rubble.

A wave of nausea hit Asher the moment he stepped onto the grounds.

The air here was wrong.

Too quiet. Too still.

The rain seemed to bend around the structure, as if unwilling to touch it. Even the shadows pooled unnaturally, stretching toward him like reaching fingers.

Taking a deep breath, Asher stepped forward.

The door was barely standing, its wooden frame rotted and damp. He pushed it open, and the hinges groaned, the sound echoing into the vast emptiness beyond.

Inside, the chapel was a husk of its former self. The stained glass windows were shattered, their jagged edges catching the dim moonlight. The pews were overturned, covered in dust and moss. The altar at the front was cracked, its stone surface marred by deep, unnatural grooves.

And there—at the center of the altar—

A book.

Old, bound in black leather, its pages yellowed with age.

Asher felt his breath hitch.

There was no dust on it. No sign of decay. It looked as if someone had placed it there recently.

He stepped forward, his fingers trembling as he reached for it.

The moment his hand brushed against the cover, the whispers began.

At first, it was just a murmur.

A distant, incomprehensible hum, like a hundred voices speaking at once, just beyond the veil of reality. The air grew heavy, pressing down on his shoulders, and the temperature dropped.

Then, suddenly—

The voices screamed.

"DO NOT REMEMBER!

DO NOT SPEAK OUR NAMES!

DO NOT—"

Pain exploded in Asher's skull. He staggered, clutching his head as images flashed through his mind—ruined temples, torn pages, figures cloaked in shadow and fire.

A name.

A name that had been erased from history.

And yet, it was now his.

Asher Vance, Sequence 9: Whisperer.

The pain vanished as abruptly as it had come. Asher gasped, his knees buckling as he leaned against the altar.

The whispers had stopped.

But the knowledge had not.

Asher could feel it—something was different. The air around him seemed sharper, clearer. The shadows… they moved when he wasn't looking.

No, not moved.

They spoke.

A faint echo of voices, lost memories whispering to him from the corners of the chapel.

His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked down at his hands—no visible change, yet he could feel the power coursing through him.

A single phrase etched itself into his mind.

"Those who listen shall remember. Those who remember shall not be forgotten."

Then—

A sudden snap of sound, like something breaking through glass.

Asher's head shot up.

There—at the far end of the chapel—

A figure stood in the doorway.

Draped in a long, tattered coat, his face obscured by shadows. But Asher could see his eyes.

Cold. Knowing. Watching.

And then—

A single word, spoken in a voice like rustling pages.

"Found you."