A musty, old scent wafted through the dark corridor of the once proud academy of Oldyork. Broken crystals attached to vines hung from the ceilings, the stone walls were covered with molds, wild branches and decaying leaves, and the floor was slippery with rain as it spilled out from the holes around the whole building. The sound of the droplets hitting the pavement floor was relaxing for one lone figure resting against the cold walls of the academy.

Harsh breaths resonated through the hallway. The shadowed form huddled closer to keep in more heat. “Shh, they’re still out there. They won’t forgive you, they say. Oh stuff it, Vincent. Stop talking to yourself.”

Faded blue eyes darted out suspiciously as the moonlight casted luminance upon the features of his face. Ashes adorned defined cheeks, lips chapped and pursed with a hint of fear as it slightly appeared to be trembling; tousled mess of hair crowned his head and dried mud decorated the red locks.

His eyes fluttered close for a moment as he took a breathless sigh. He calmed himself down as he ran shaky fingers across his face, to his neck, and rubbed along his chest. He whispered softly to himself and visibly shook as he felt a cold breeze passed his body. He stiffened and panic started to creep on him as he resisted the urge to open his eyes.

Warm breath tickled his neck and he froze.

“You didn’t think you’d get away now, did you?” A soft laugh echoed through the hall. “I thought you knew better than running away, Vincent. You’ve always taught me to face my fears.”

All colours were drained from his face as he opened his eyes hastily. Dull brown eyes stared back at him, mirthless and seemed to be void of life. His breaths came out short and jagged. His whole body shuddered in trepidation. A hand encircled his throat and lightly squeezed.

“Not one to talk now, aye…” Pale lips taunted him with a sly smirk. “… Vincy?”

The hand squeezed tightly and he felt the pain of his neck sneak into his senses. However, the fear of this person whom he had taken care of since birth had become his sole focus now. He was too young to die.

A flash of lightning passed through his eyes as the last word he uttered were released from his gasping lips, “Eos.


One Response to “Prologue”

  1. 1 Fleetyork « dreams are sewing machines.

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