"The silent voice within one's heart whispers the most profound wisdom."

Nyx Avatar Persona 3.

Stocke was dreaming. There was no possible other explanation.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he said through grit teeth. The old man and the strange two children did not answer. "I'm not dead. Do I look dead to you lot?"

"Your physical body isn't currently with us," the boy called Teo said. "Only what you could call your spirit can enter the Velvet Room."

"So this is a dream, then," Stocke said. He balled his hands into fist and drew a painful breath. Everything hurt so much.

The two children evaded his gaze, but the old man continued to stare. He shook his head, the lower half of his face hidden by his steepled hands.

"Yes and no," said Igor. "This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter. Your spirit still exists—it is why you can be here to speak with us—but your body will soon be gone if you do not act soon."

"What?" Stocke's head was swimming. His legs were shaking, his hands were clammy. "How could this be? Just… what happened?" His stomach twisted when he realized he didn't exactly want to know the answer.

The girl twin—Lippti—sighed. "Please, sit down, Stocke," she said. "This will not be easy. Try to remember. Take all the time you need." Her voice was gentle, as if she was talking to a young child. Stocke felt cold all over.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, no, no…"

Stocke's legs were suddenly unable to support his weight. He fell back into the chair, burying his face into his hands. The sweat pooled under his bangs, and poured into his eyes, making them burn. An invisible hand crushed his torso; he could feel his heart struggling and beating madly against his chest, like an animal trying to escape the grip of a beast of prey. Stocke squeezed his eyes shut and counted from one to ten, as his mother had taught him, way back when, but he could not still his heart, could not force the air into his lungs. He coughed and hacked and choked, opening his eyes only to see the world in front of him blurring into blotches of electric blue and slate grey.

"There… there was a car coming and—" Stocke remembered blood spraying on his face and a glint of silver on a long, pale arm. "It hit us. It… it crushed Uncle right on the spot." Stocke fought to keep the bile from rising to his mouth. Uncle's dead. Overbearing, neurotic Uncle Heinrich, who nevertheless always kept an eye out for his nephew and…

"…and Eruca, she—" A long hiss escaped Stocke's mouth as the images flicked through his mind. Spots of black appeared in his vision. Stocke fumbled to loosen his collar, starving for air. The tips of his fingers were starting to tingle; his heart couldn't pump the blood fast enough.

"Stocke!" he heard the girl's frantic voice. "Look at me, Stocke! Look at me!" Stocke startled out of his daze, only now realizing that the girl was standing in front of him, her face inches away. "Look into my eyes and listen to my voice." Stocke swallowed—the action was painful, torturous even—and nodded. With great effort, he met her gaze. The bright golden shade of her eyes was even more striking from this distance. "Breathe, Stocke. Just breathe."

A memory resurfaced in Stocke's mind. His mother, holding his face with both hands, her green eyes soft and loving. Breathe, sweetie, breathe. Don't think of anything else. Stocke remembered how his child self had brought his covers up to his chin and leaned back into the bed—the big oak bed he had back in Granorg, not the small cramped thing he had now—before closing his eyes. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Stocke had focused all of his attention on her voice and the warmth of her hands. Not long after, he had stopped shaking. See? It's not that hard, isn't it?

It was not so easy this time. With every breath, the terrible weight pressed down a little more on his chest, crushing both heart and lungs. Tears stung his eyes; still, he kept his gaze focused on the girl in front of him. Finally, he managed to gulp down a mouthful of air. His body gave a great shudder as the oxygen flowed through his blood. The invisible hand constricting Stocke's insides slowly loosened its grip, and he sank back into the velvet chair, panting. In a blink, the girl was back at her master's side again.

"So," Stocke said after a moment of silent contemplation, "my sister and uncle are dead. So am I. Where do this leave me? Is this..." He motioned at his bizarre surroundings, "purgatory?"

Igor chuckled. "Of course not. The fact that your spirit is here means that you've yet to begin your journey to the world of the dead."

"What you have now," the boy Teo said, "is a choice. Follow the natural course of the universe and join the souls of your predecessors in the afterlife, or…" The strange boy produced the piece of parchment he'd shown Stocke before. "You sign the contract and the Chronicle takes you back to before the unfortunate event that sent you here."

Stocke glared at the boy. 'Unfortunate event' would not be the terms he would use to describe the accident that had slaughtered half of his family. "How is that possible?" he said. "What's the catch?"

"The White Chronicle has limited power over time," Teo said. "That's all you need to know. And since you had the book in your possession when the accident happened—"

"The book?" Stocke interrupted him. "What book?"

"The book," Teo replied in a deadpan tone. "The White Chronicle. You had it in your bag. You… really had no idea, did you?"

"I…" Stocke racked his brain trying to recall. "Wait… I remember. There was a book. This big, thick book, in my bag, with my things. Where did it come from?" His eyes widened when the answer finally came to him. "Dad. It came from the parcel Dad dumped on us. I remember just throwing it on my desk after I'd opened it. It must have gotten mixed up with all of my school things. I'd forgotten." Groaning, Stocke rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That ass. Just what the hell is he playing at?"

"That, we don't know," Lippti said. "Do you know how your father could have gotten his hands on the Chronicle?"

"No," Stocke spat. "Though I'd love to get my hands on him to get him to talk." He sighed. "I guess for once his meddling helped in a way, since…" Stocke swallowed, his chest clenching painfully again.

"This gives you a chance to escape death," Teo said.

Stocke gave a little shake of his head, so imperceptibly he wasn't sure the old man and the children could have noticed. This wasn't what he had in mind. If I go back, then Eruca and Uncle might—

"So, then," Stocke said, folding his arms, "what are your conditions? What do you want me to do?"

Igor laughed again, while the children exchanged a look.

"We have not said anything about conditions," Lippti said.

"Well, this is a contract," Stocke retorted. "There's always some fine print. You want me to do something for you, and in exchange…" My family gets to live again. The screech of metal twisting and the sound of Eruca's scream tore through his head. The memories were so vivid they almost forced the air out of his lungs again.

"It's good to see that we are on the same page," Teo said. "Yes, indeed, you can assist us." He glanced at his sister from across the desk; she sighed and nodded. "There is another book. The Black Chronicle, it is called. We suspect it's fallen into the wrong hands."

"You want me to find this other book," Stocke said. "And something tells me whoever's got it won't give it up so easily."

"We do not know who it is," Lippti said, "but he or she is operating not far from where you live." Her mouth tightened into a line. "And their attempts to uncover the secrets of the Black Chronicle are endangering the people in your town, although they do not seem to be aware."

"More likely, they simply do not care," Teo said.

"Endangering?" Stocke raised a brow. "How so?"

"It will be easier for you to understand if you see it with your own eyes rather than hear it from our lips," said Lippti. "Please trust our words on this."

Stocke closed his eyes and bit down a snarky retort. Right. It's not like I have much room to argue anyway.

"Alright. Give me that paper." Stocke had barely finished speaking when the parchment floated back to him. A lovely quill materialized in his hand. Stocke gave the two children a last scowl before turning back his attention to the contract. A quick read-over told him neither the twins nor the old man seemed to be lying about what it contained. He reluctantly put quill to paper and signed his name.

"There. It's done." Stocke got out of the chair. "I'll help you. Now, send me back."

"It shall be done," Igor said, his uncanny smile spanning pointy ear to pointy ear. "I wish you luck on your quest."

"You can always come back to us through your dreams, if you need it so," Lippti said. "We will be happy to assist you."

"Keep your eyes and ears open," her brother said. "Strange occurrences lead to rumours and gossip that will surely find their way back to you."

"And listen to the voice of your intuition," Lippti continued. "It will know how to deal with the foes you will face."

"Foes?" Stocke said. "What foes?"

The twins did not answer. Before Stocke's eyes, the Velvet Room twisted into eerie shapes, a white fog appearing at the edges of Stocke's vision.

"Wait!" he called out. "What foes?" The fog filled everything. All Stocke could now hear was Igor's delighted chuckles fading in the distance.

"I have to know! What do you mean by—"

"—foes—ooof!"

Stocke had suddenly reached forward, but rather than the hard slate floor of the Velvet Room, his feet only met with a bundle of something soft. It tangled around his leg, and Stocke tumbled to the ground with a gasp.

"Ow. Dammit." Stocke rubbed his head, wincing. He blinked once, twice, and realized with a start that he knew very well the plush carpet on which he was sprawled. Stocke snapped his gaze upward, towards the source of a loud ringing sound. My alarm clock. Next to a rather familiar bed was a large window; through the curtains, Stocke could spy grey clouds hanging low in the sky. He stumbled to his feet and staggered to his desk, where his found his calendar among the piles of books and other school supplies. He gave a gasp when he read the date. First day of school. Were the twins and the old man and that bizarre place real? Or was it just all an elaborate dream?

"Ernst!" he heard someone call his name. The sounds of footsteps were coming from outside his room. "Ernst, sweetie, what happened? Did you fall out of bed?"

Stocke whirled on his feet. His mother was standing by the doorway, rubbing her eyes.

"You made such a ruckus," she said, yawning. "You woke me up."

Stocke did not answer as he rushed out of the room. He was about to descend the stairs when he heard a familiar voice humming from the kitchen, down below.

"Even if you forget me someday," the girl was singing, "I'll embrace you forever. And even if I want to cry, I'll smile and weave a melody with the wind."

Stocke gripped the railings of the staircase so tightly his knuckles turned white. Before he could gather his thoughts he was racing down the stairs, heart beating madly against his ribcage. He had but one glimpse of a blonde girl clad in blue before his foot caught in the corner of the last step. Stocke saw Eruca turning towards him as he fell...

When he regained consciousness, two pale faces were hovering over him.

"Oh my goodness!" Sophia cried out. She brought Stocke against her chest and squeezed and squeezed. Stocke was too dazzled to attempt to escape her embrace. "Ernst, are you alright? You gave us quite the scare!"

Stocke realized dimly that someone was holding one of his hands. He disentangled himself from his mother's hug to see who it was. His heart skipped a beat when his gaze was met by Eruca's teary blue eyes. It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a stupid nightmare. Yet, it seemed his body thought otherwise.

"You…" Eruca began, "you just fell from the stairs! I was so frightened! I thought you'd hit your head, but…"

Sophia gingerly patted Stocke's brow. "It seems not. Thanks goodness!"

"How long have I been out?" Stocke croaked.

"Just a few seconds, really," Eruca said. "Mom was about to call an ambulance."

"Won't be necessary. I'm fine."

Sophia and Eruca's pursed mouths told him they thought otherwise. The doorbell rang out before they could place a word.

"Oh, that must be—" Sophia said.

Stocke jumped to his feet, nearly falling all over in the process. Ignoring his mother and sister crying out from behind, he wobbled to the door and swung it open.

"Good morning, nephew!"

Stocke stared mutely at the cheerful man standing in the pouring rain. Uncle Heinrich waved at him, grinning that dopey grin of his, the one that had brightened so many of Stocke's childhood days. Stocke's head was swimming again. If it was nothing but a dream, then why am I so affected by it? Heinrich's eyes widened behind his glasses as Stocke fell back against the wall. He buried his face into his hands. A simple nightmare wouldn't screw me up so much…

"Ernst!" Stocke heard his mother and sister shout. Not a second later, they were at his side, supporting him. Heinrich fidgeted on his spot, mouth opening and closing in quick succession.

"What is wrong with you, my boy?" he stuttered. "What happened, Sophie?!"

"There's nothing wrong with me," Stocke said. "I'm fine." To his annoyance, he fumbled over the words. Yeah, sure, that'll convince them…

"Fine? You passed out just moments ago!" Sophia exclaimed. She put a hand to his brow. "And you're all sweaty and warm. I'm sure you have a fever!"

Stocke inhaled sharply through his nose. Dammit. Why did you have to say that in front of—

"What?!" Uncle Heinrich cried out; he seemed on the verge of fainting as well. "How could this be?" Stocke burned with shame as his uncle started to tug on the sleeve of his uniform. "That's it, I'm bringing you to see a doctor."

"No," Stocke said. "Besides, you have work today." There was a twitch in his heart as he remembered the circumstances behind the accident that would—that might—lead to the man's death. "I mean…"

"An eighteen-year-old boy in perfect health usually doesn't have faint without a good reason," Uncle Heinrich said. "You're coming with me and that's that."

"I'll drive him, Harry," Sophia interrupted. "He's my son."

"Sophie, I can—"

"Heinrich." Sophia's mouth was smiling, but her eyes were frosty. "I can take care of my own son. Please go to work."

"But—"

Stocke sighed and raised his hands to put an end to their squabbling. "I'll go with Mom. But you," he jabbed his finger at his uncle, "you stay out of the main road. Don't go your usual route. Take a detour if you need to." Heinrich's mouth dangled open as he stared at Stocke's extended finger. Still, worry gnawed at the back of Stocke's mind. "Dammit," he said after a bit of deliberation, "just take the bus, it'll be safer."

"What? No, that's ludicrous, that would take forever."

Stocke groaned. He had to take out the big guns. "Do it for me. Please?"

Confusion was written all over Heinrich's face, but his eyes grew big and shiny. "O-of course I will, if you insist."

"What about me?"

Stocke's insides twisted at the sound of that voice. He gazed down at his sister, throat constricting. "Eruca, you…" Her mouth was slightly open, her brows were furrowed. Stocke took a painful swallow. "Mom, can she just come with us?"

Sophia and Eruca exchanged a look.

"Well, this is my first day of school, but…" Eruca tugged at her skirt. "But I am worried about you, so…"

Sophie rolled her eyes heavenward. "Of course you can come along. Go get your things, both of you."

"I'll get Ernst's things," Eruca said. "Stay here, you." She pinned Stocke down with her stare, before leaving without another word.

Stocke watched her go with a heavy heart. Dammit. This was all so dumb. And yet, he wished a thousand times this would all turn out to be just a stupid fantasy of his.

There was a way he could make sure, however. "Eruca, wait," he called out. His sister stopped in her tracks and looked at him, puzzled. "There's something on my desk that I'm gonna need. Can you bring it to me?" If it doesn't exist, then I'm just a lunatic freaking out over a dumb nightmare.

If not…

Stocke didn't want to elaborate on that thought.

It was a little after noon when Sophia finally brought Stocke and Eruca to school.

Eruca immediately bolted for the principal's office with a doctor's note detailing why they had both skipped school this morning. Stocke himself ambled around, unwilling to mingle with the thick crowd that had gathered in front of the main gates of St. Noah's High. The other students paid him no mind. A couple of kids were seated together, playing a board game. Stocke glanced at their table, mildly interested. Laughter rung out to his left. Out of the corner of his eyes, Stocke saw a group of girls giggling, cell phones in hands. The sports courts were already full with teenagers playing basketball or soccer. Stocke sighed. There wasn't a familiar face in sight.

Stocke glanced inside his duffel bag. The thick old book stood out against the rest of his school stuff. He'd been both relieved and horrified when Eruca had brought it from his bedroom before they had all left for the hospital. He wasn't going mad, at least. On the other hand, if the book truly existed, then it meant…

Stocke felt his phone buzz from his pocket. He took it out and saw that he had received a message from his best friend Rosch.

where u? where u been? Not a second later, Stocke's phone chimed again.

Where are you? Why aren't you at school? Stocke couldn't help but smile; that was his other best friend, Sonja Silverberg. Another message soon appeared. Rosch's been worried sick! Answer your phone!

I'm at school now, he wrote to Sonja. Where are you?

He had barely sent it when he received the response. Left corner of the courtyard, near the basketball courts. Same spot as usual.

Stocke picked up the pace to go find them. He crossed the busy courtyard, deftly making his way through the crowd, and soon spied the very familiar silhouette of his best friend. Leon Rosch was indeed impossible to miss: he was the tallest student in St. Noah's High by a far margin, towering even above the adult staff. Blond stubble covered a square jaw; if it wasn't for his school uniform, anyone would take him for a teacher.

Rosch was leaning on the trunk of an oak tree which overlooked the picnic table where Sonja was sitting down. She was talking animatedly, but Rosch didn't seem to pay much attention, only nodding once in a while to make it appear that he was following the conversation. His eyebrows shot up when he saw Stocke approaching.

"There you are!" Rosch greeted Stocke with a slap on the back. Stocke noticed his friend wasn't wearing his prosthetic; Stocke was slightly ashamed of the way his eyes were so easily drawn to the sight of Rosch's empty left sleeve flapping in the wind.

"Stocke!" Sonja said, rising from her seat. "Where were you? You're not one to skip school, usually."

The corners of Stocke's mouth curled into a sheepish smile. "I was at the hospital. I'm fine, though."

"Fine?" Sonja's long brown hair whipped back and forth as she shook her head. "Someone who's fine usually don't have to go to the hospital." She put her hands on her hips, her foot tapping against the ground.

"I just fainted," Stocke said. "You don't have to make such a big fuss. They didn't find anything wrong with me."

"Really? Why did you pass out, then?"

Dammit. She's as worse as Mom or Uncle. "Nerves, probably. They figured it must be because of school starting and stuff. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" Sonja cried out. "Stocke, you really are hopeless!"

Rosch gave a little chuckle. Stocke sent him a pointed glare.

"It really isn't," he muttered.

"Haven't you heard?" Sonja's tone had suddenly gone from exasperated to worried. "They say a kid in from our year has been in a coma for two weeks. They didn't find anything wrong with him. One day, he just passed out and didn't wake up."

"So?" Stocke said with a shrug.

"It happened to a friend of Kiel's, too," Rosch added. "You remember him, my cousin?" Stocke nodded, wincing. How could he forget? The kid had taken to follow him like a starstruck puppy every time they met. "Mimel, I think that's her name. It's been two months and she still hasn't woken up."

Stocke folded his arms together. Strange occurrences, that boy had said. Rumours and gossip. Could it be…?

"As I said," Stocke said, injecting a note of finality in his tone, "I'm fine. Just tell me what I missed."

"Well, the principal's speech, for starters," Rosch said. "That wasn't a big loss."

"There are two new teachers," Sonja continued. "Professor Dias for maths—we had a class this morning. And, um, the other guy, I think his name is Selvan? He's teaching social sciences in our year."

"They've replaced the assistant principal, too. The new one seems a bit batty."

Sonja giggled. "Her speech was as long as Principal Hugo's. I thought it would never end."

"At least she didn't go on and on about the depths of depravity and carnal sins and who know what else keeps Principal Hugo up at night."

Sonja rummaged through her bag. "You can copy my notes if you want, Stocke," she said. "We just went over the syllabus, so there's not a lot you missed."

"Thanks."

"It's nothing." Sonja narrowed her eyes. "Just promise me to be careful and take good care of your health, right? Both of you idiots, in fact."

Rosch scratched the back of his head, embarrassed, while Stocke just gave Sonja a slight smile. "Of course we will. Don't worry."

"Right," Sonja said, "with that cleared, maybe I'll be able to focus all my attentions on getting better grades than last year. That was truly atrocious."

Stocke frowned. "Sonja, you know it wasn't your fault. Your brother—"

"It doesn't matter." She shook her head. "I have to get better grades or I'll never be able to get into ASU."

Stocke was about to argue, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. Rosch was looking down at him, silently urging him not to discuss the matter further. Stocke sighed.

"You'll do great," he opted to tell Sonja instead.

"Of course she will," Rosch said. "We'll help, too."

Sonja brought her hands together and smiled. "You boys are adorable! I don't know what I'd do without you two." She embraced both of them; she was so tiny she only came up to their chests. Stocke was amused to see that Rosch had gone redder that his necktie.

Over Sonja's shoulder, next to the fence, a dark shade twisted into being. Stocke startled, stiffening. He blinked, and the thing was gone.

Sonja let go of him. "Something's wrong, Stocke?" she asked.

Stocke gazed down at her, too stunned for words. Instead, he only shook his head. The bell rang out in the distance. Sonja gave Stocke one last skeptical look, and went to gather the things she'd left on the table. Rosch followed after her, leaving Stocke alone to mull over what he'd seen.

He stared at the spot where the thing—it'd looked like someone's shadow, except a shadow was never so dense—had stood only moments prior. One of his hands clutched at his bag.

Maybe I'm really going mad, then.

The rest of the week would have been uneventful, if it wasn't for more of these shadow things materializing on the school ground.

They always lurked at the edges of Stocke's vision, dissipating the moment he turned to lay eyes on them. None of the other students seemed to see them. The shadow things prowled the school hallways; they stood unnoticed in the corners of the classrooms and gathered at the outskirts of the sports courts. Everyday their outlines seemed to get a little sharper, their darkness a little deeper.

Schizophrenic. I'm starting to go schizophrenic, was Stocke's conclusion. The logical step would be to confide in his loved ones and consult a specialist, yet Stocke instead found himself being more tight-lipped than ever. Eruca had easily adapted to her new environment, making some new friends right on her first day, while as always Mom was a bundle of positive energy. Even surly Uncle Heinrich seemed to be happier than usual. Stocke feared nothing more than to burden them with his own troubles.

Follow your intuition, that girl had said. She could have been only a figment of Stocke's imagination, yet her advice was sound. For now, he'd gather as much information as he could. After that… After that, he just hoped he would be strong enough to accept whatever truth he would uncover.

His resolve was tested much sooner than he would have thought.

His part-time job was not far from school, and so Stocke simply walked to the small bookshop where he worked when classes were over, turning back Uncle's offer to drive him there. The roads were unusually empty, especially for a late Friday afternoon. Stocke had not seen any of the strange creatures throughout the day. Still, a sense of doom gripped him, and he looked at every shadowed corner with suspicion, muscles tensed in anticipation. He had the prickling feeling that something would happen soon.

His worst fears were confirmed when he reached an alleyway he often used as a shortcut. The backstreets around these parts were usually filled with kids playing and running about. Yet, Stocke was alone today.

Or he would have been, if it wasn't for the trio of shadowy creatures materializing the moment he'd laid foot in the alleyway.

Stocke cursed as he adjusted his hold on his school bag, ready to swing it like a weapon if needed. These things had never appeared out of the school ground before. Now that they stood only a few meters away, Stocke could finally see what they truly looked like. They were shaped like large lumps, and made of a strange, goopy substance; they left dark, oily trails behind them whenever they moved. When they finally noticed Stocke, they made a sharp turn and stared at him. Their faces—if they had any—were hidden behind blue masks. The number 'I' in ancient Imperial numerals was etched above round holes showing empty, soulless eyes.

With a hiss, the three creatures were upon him.

Stocke managed to hit one squarely in the face with his bag, but the other two easily evaded his clumsy swing. Long, black tendrils resembling hands grabbed his right arm and twisted around his torso. Stocke screamed. A sharp pain burned everywhere the creatures touched him.

They pushed him against the wall, taking the breath out of him. Stocke struggled against their grip, and with tremendous effort he succeeded in pulling the lid off a trashcan. He flung it at the creatures, and the lid collided with their mask with a loud metallic clang. The shadow things stumbled backwards, stunned, and Stocke escaped their grasp, managing to crawl a few meters away before falling to the ground. Stocke grunted as he attempted to get to his feet—to no avail. His limbs shook from the pain and the fear and wouldn't listen to his commands. The creatures swooped towards him, and he braced himself, mouth tightening, arms rising above his face in a futile attempt to ward them off.

I am thou... Thou art I...

Stocke let out a gasp. Where had that voice come from?

From the sea of thy soul, I come...

A warmth was spreading through his chest. The creatures were above him, their shadowy arms extending to claw at him—they blocked the light of the sun, leaving Stocke in near darkness—and yet a simple tranquility was diffusing through his being. I'm not alone, Stocke thought. What could have given birth to such a certitude, Stocke didn't know. Yet, he knew instinctively what to do.

"Come!" he shouted, his arm reaching for the rays of the suns that did manage to filter to him, "Persona!"

There was a sharp sound like a piece of glass cracking, and a light as blinding as a summer sun came down on him. The light sharpened into a humanoid figure; it hovered above Stocke, limbs extended into the shape of a cross.

I am thou... Thou art I... I am the bearer of the white flame, the harbinger of the final twilight. The shadows shall wither and die before my blade!

In its right hand, a long sword blazed into existence. The figure raised it above its head, where it caught the rays of the sun, magnifying their brilliance. With a great cry, Stocke's savior brought the fiery blade down on the three shadow creatures, ripping them apart. They twisted and screeched as flames devoured their bodies. In a matter of seconds they had burned away, not even leaving a scatter of ashes behind.

Stocke panted and loosed his tie as he studied the area where the creatures had scorched to nothingness only moments prior. Above his head, the brilliantly golden figure hovered, silent and magnificent. Its light was so harsh Stocke could barely stand to look at it. Stocke raised his face to meet its eyes—two blue flames blazing like the headlight of a car. His savior was rapidly fading away, making it impossible to make out the rest of his visage. Yet, Stocke knew his name. It was as familiar as the one his parents had given him, eighteen years ago.

"Baldr," he breathed.

The golden figure gave a nod, his fiery eyes gleaming with pride, before dissipating into the sunlit alley.

Author's notes: I'd like to thank all of you for being with me for another chapter. Special thanks go to quicksilver-ink for beta-ing!