Chronikles of the Keepers. Voice of the primordial darkness

© Vaha Guseyhanov, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0070-5591-8

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1. The Nightmare

The boy ran, choking on the icy air that cut his throat and filled his lungs, as if the city itself was trying to suffocate him. The stone pavement beneath his feet was slick with moisture, and between the stones, dirty water collected, reflecting the dim light of sparse street lamps. Every step threatened to be his last. Night in Arkhanum was never truly silent — it just whispered: the creak of old signs, distant barking, the rustle of rats in the alleyways.

Behind him, never losing a step, a figure glided.

Huge. Wrong. As if torn from someone else’s nightmare. A grinning skull with an elongated, fox-like muzzle — twisted and alien, as though the form had once been correct but had been distorted. Around it swirled a black aura, not mere darkness, but something alive, viscous, breathing. In place of a body — a long, writhing smoky tail, skimming above the pavement without touching it. And only the eyes — two burning coals, unblinking, undying, fixed on his back.

He stumbled.

His fingers slipped on wet stone, his legs gave way, and he crashed onto the cobblestones, scraping his skin on the sharp edges of the slabs. Pain came, but it drowned instantly in fear. He squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second and spun around.

The figure was already there.

Too close.

It loomed over him, blocking the streetlamp’s light, and silently clicked its bony jaws. Beneath them, thick black ooze slowly dripped, falling onto the stones and vanishing into them, as if the city had long grown accustomed to such things. The darkness around it tightened, coiled like a beast about to pounce.

It was ready.

The boy jerked sharply and sat up in bed, gasping for air. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat, and a dull ringing filled his ears, as though he was still falling onto the stones.

The room returned reluctantly. Darkened walls, a narrow window with grimy glass through which pale morning light filtered, an old wardrobe with a crooked door. Arkhanum was waking, but it did so the same way it fell asleep — without much enthusiasm.

That nightmare again.

— Loyd! Breakfast is ready! — came his sister’s voice from downstairs.

A living voice. Warm. Alien to everything that had just been.

Loyd ran a hand over his face, wiping away sticky sweat, and sat still for a few seconds, trying to separate dream from reality. It wasn’t working. He remembered those eyes too clearly.

He swung his legs heavily off the bed. The floorboards creaked softly, reminding him the house was old. As he washed, the ice-cold water burned his skin and brought him back to himself. His breathing steadied, but his thoughts had already drifted back — to where they returned every time.

Eight years ago.

He was ten when it all began.

The attic of their old house had seemed like a world of its own — dusty, stuffy, steeped in the scent of old wood, fabric, and things that had lain unused too long. Light filtered through a narrow window, breaking against the dust in the air, and everything around looked as though it existed slightly apart from reality.

Curiosity had led him there.

As always.

First just to look, then to open, then to touch what shouldn’t be touched.

The chest stood against the far wall — heavy, with darkened metal fittings, the kind you don’t throw away not because you need it, but because something you don’t speak of is tied to it. Loyd stared at it for a long time before lifting the lid.

The creak cut through the silence.

Inside lay a book.

Leather-bound, almost black, cracked with age. On its cover were embossed patterns that formed neither letters nor familiar symbols, yet they seemed… meaningful. Too meaningful.

He took it in his hands.

The book was heavier than it should have been.

As if there was more inside than just pages.

Loyd opened it.

And the air in the attic changed.

From between the pages, a clot of darkness burst forth. Not smoke, not a shadow — something dense, alive, hissing. It rose into the air, writhing as if searching for a shape, and gradually began to coalesce into outlines.

A skull. A fox-like muzzle. Empty eye sockets.

And light.

Violet.

Calm.

The entity drew a deep breath, as if tasting air for the first time in years, then slowly turned its head toward the boy.

— Greetings, master, — a voice sounded directly in his mind. Velvet. Quiet. With a faint hiss that sent a chill down his spine.

Loyd didn’t scream.

Didn’t run.

He just stood there, staring at it, as if fear hadn’t yet caught up with what was happening.

— I am Sumrak, keeper of the Namekon of Primordial Darkness, — the voice continued. — I served your ancestor. He was wise and managed to touch only a fraction of my power… but he did not uncover everything.

The figure tilted its head slightly.

— And he was not meant to.

The silence grew thicker.

— You are still too young to understand even the beginning of this path, — Sumrak said. — But you will grow.

The violet light in his eyes softened.

— And then you will try.

He drew nearer, not touching, but becoming tangibly closer.

— Until then… I will protect you.

The words came calmly. No threat. No grandiosity.

Like a promise you couldn’t refuse.

From that day on, the Namekon became part of his life. The book with the emblem of a metal fox face was always close. Loyd carried it in a leather case on his belt, hidden under a loose shirt — the way you carry things no one is supposed to know about.

The house remained the same. The streets — the same. The people — the same.

But the world was already different.

And sometimes, in the quietest moments, when the city paused between noise and silence, Loyd caught himself wanting to snap back at the voice in his head.

Chapter 2. An Unexpected Encounter

Returning to the present, Loyd dressed quickly and went downstairs. The house was already submerged in the grey half-light of morning, where the warm glow of the lamp seemed almost alien — too bright, too deliberate. The air smelled of dough and butter, and for a moment it created the illusion of an ordinary life — the kind that no longer existed in Arkhanum in any pure form. Julia set a plate of steaming pancakes in front of him without asking unnecessary questions, as if she already knew he wouldn’t stay.

“Coffee… I need coffee… It’s so invigorating in the morning…” Sumrak drawled in his head, stretching the words with lazy pleasure, as if testing his patience.

Loyd didn’t answer. He ate quickly, almost mechanically, not tasting the food — just registering that his body was getting something. Time pressed harder than hunger.

— I have to go, — he said, pushing the plate away.

Julia turned, frowning, and put her hands on her hips.

— You barely ate. You need energy.

— I need to check all the job listings today. Have to get there before everyone else, — Loyd said shortly, already pulling on his jacket.

“But coffee… just a sip…” Sumrak persisted.

Loyd walked out, slamming the door behind him, cutting off both the conversation and the voice.

The street didn’t greet him with freshness — only weight. The air in the industrial quarter was thick, as if you could drink it instead of water — only the taste was coal, metal, and steam. Clouds of hot vapour rose from the grates in the pavement, mixing with the morning fog, and the city seemed like something alive, heavy, and tired of itself. Somewhere machinery hummed, somewhere metal rang — a background that never fully disappeared.

Loyd fastened his jacket and moved forward. The clatter of hooves and an angry driver’s shout — “Watch where you’re going!” — caught him off guard but didn’t distract him from his purpose. He kept scanning for notices with his eyes. Sheets of paper pasted to walls, fences, and lampposts fluttered in the wind, layering over each other like strangers’ attempts to survive. He read them on the move, barely pausing, until his gaze caught a torn scrap of newspaper.

NEWSPAPER HEADLINES:

“Secrets of the Night City: Who Is Hunting the Residents?”

Recently, cases of bodies found without internal organs have increased in the city. Police are at a dead end, citizens are in a panic.

ANNOUNCEMENT:

“Freight Delivery. Paying 10,000 pounds. Address: Engineers’ District, old Transport Company building.”

He stopped.

The sum was wrong. Too large to be honest. Too simple to be safe. And precisely for that reason — real.

Loyd tore off the notice, not giving himself time to second-guess, and nearly ran toward the address.

The Engineers’ District met him with silence. Not the calm silence of morning, but a viscous, watchful one — as if even sound didn’t want to linger here longer than necessary. The old transport company building stood slightly apart, separated from the rest like something forgotten.

The door was slightly ajar.

Loyd stopped at the entrance. A chill ran down his spine — faint, but unpleasant.

“Loyd… it smells like death here. Bad smell,” Sumrak said quietly.

Loyd gripped the paper in his hand. Opportunity. Money. A chance.

He knocked.

Silence.

— I’m here about the ad! — he called out, pushing the door open.

It gave way easily. Too easily.

Inside was dark. And the air… different.

Heavy. Warm. Sickly-sweet with rot — the kind that made you want to look away, even though the smell had nothing to do with your eyes.

Somewhere flies buzzed.

Loyd took a step. Then another. Brown, sticky trails stretched across the floor toward the far corner, as if someone had tried to leave and couldn’t.

He took a few more steps.

And froze.

A body lay in a pool of dried blood. The chest cavity had been opened. Ribs stuck out like a broken grille, and the entrails were scattered around — as if someone hadn’t just killed, but disassembled a person.

Loyd vomited immediately.

He staggered back, gasping, leaning his hand against the wall, trying to hold himself up while his stomach tried to empty itself of everything inside.

“Well… not for the faint-hearted,” Sumrak remarked. “But more importantly… where’s the one who did this?”

Loyd straightened sharply. A chill ran down his spine.

He didn’t want to turn around. But he did.

In the far corner, from behind a pile of crates, two yellow eyes stared at him.

Unblinking. Motionless. Just… waiting.

Loyd bolted for the exit.

The creature lunged after him.

Fast. Too fast for something that was supposed to follow the laws he was used to.

“Dodge!” Sumrak snapped sharply.

But his body didn’t obey.

Fear was faster.

Loyd froze.

“DODGE!” Sumrak shouted.

But Loyd was paralysed with fear. At that moment, from the shadow on his chest, black, smoky tendrils with sharp claws at their ends burst out, deflecting the clawed paws of the attacking creature.

“Loyd!” — Sumrak’s mental strike lashed through his consciousness.

He flinched. Came to. And ran.

“Right!”

He veered left.

“Loyd, I’ve never been more needed than now! This is no time to ignore me!”

He didn’t answer. Just ran. Until he crashed into a dead end of rusted containers. Loyd spun around sharply.

The creature was already coming toward him. Slowly. Confidently. As if it knew he had nowhere else to run.

“It’s a ghoul,” Sumrak said, no longer joking. “A human infected by a vampire. They feed on flesh. And to it, you’re food.”

The ghoul accelerated.

“Now! Dodge right!”

Loyd jerked aside. A clawed paw whistled past his temple.

“Now side-step, around it, and sweep!”

He did it almost blindly. His leg swept in an arc, the ghoul lost its balance, and crashed through the wall of an empty crate with a roar.

“Now RUN!”

This time, Loyd didn’t argue. He ran without looking, just to escape this nightmare.

And ran straight into someone.

A tall stranger in a long coat didn’t even flinch.

— Target 0120, “ghoul,” in range. Commencing elimination, — he said in a flat, emotionless voice.

“We’re in trouble,” Sumrak whispered.

The stranger moved forward, but it was over faster than Loyd could blink.

The man simply raised his hand — a strange, cold light flickered in his palm — and the ghoul evaporated, leaving only the smell of ozone and decay in the air.

Returning to Loyd, the man gestured firmly, leading him out of the building into the dimly lit street. Now, up close, Loyd could see him better: tall, lean, about twenty-eight, with long black hair carelessly swept back from his forehead. His style belonged to the end of the previous century — a dark three-piece suit, an impeccable white shirt, a neck scarf. A long coat with a high collar and a massive revolver on his belt completed the image.

The man extended a business card with an elegant motion — thick, slightly rough cardstock.

— I’m Isaac, — he said, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with faint amusement. — From the “Twilight Wardens” agency.

He paused, letting Loyd read the silver-embossed name.

— We deal with, shall we say, protecting the city from paranormal filth. Like that one, — he nodded toward the empty warehouse. His gaze became intent, appraising.

— Interesting, — Isaac looked Loyd over from head to toe. — Usually, ghoul victims don’t stand a chance. And if they do, they lose a limb… or a couple of internal organs.

Those words brought the gruesome image back to Loyd’s mind: the open chest, the scattered entrails. He vomited again. He turned away, leaning against the wall, and swallowed the rising lump. Isaac let out a restrained, nearly soundless chuckle.

— But you, I see, are still in one piece. I take it you’re an esper? — he asked.

— No, — Loyd replied hoarsely, wiping his mouth. — I’m an ordinary person. No abilities. But I saw what you did… you vaporised that ghoul. Are you an esper?

Isaac tilted his head slightly.

— Interested in espers? — he deflected. — Well, I have a few questions for you too. If you want answers — come to the agency. We’ll talk there.

Without waiting for objections, he turned and dissolved into the twilight alley, his coat billowing behind him like a dark banner.

Loyd headed home. Walking along the main street, lost in thought, he suddenly stumbled upon law enforcers chatting at a post.

Officer 1: Heard about the latest murders? The fifth case this month!

Officer 2: Yeah, gruesome stuff. All bodies found without organs, but with surgical traces.

Officer 1: And the strangest part — no traces at all! No prints, no evidence. Like ghosts did the job.

Officer 2: (whispering) They say a new gang has appeared in the city. They sell organs on the black market.

Officer 1: Come on, that’s impossible!

Officer 2: Then what’s happening? All victims are homeless or lonely people. Like someone’s choosing them deliberately.

The officers’ words only added weight to the heavy burden on Loyd’s soul. He quickened his pace, feeling the city’s shadows closing in around him.

Loyd reached home. His sister wasn’t there — she was supposed to be at the institute. An unusual silence hung in the hallway, broken only by the ticking of an old grandfather clock. Climbing to his room, he collapsed onto the bed.

Again and again, fragments of the nightmare flashed before his eyes: clawed paws, dodging shadows, a flash of light, and the ghoul’s disappearance.

He got up, took the Namekon from its hidden pocket. The cool metal of the fox-faced emblem rested reassuringly in his palm. He stared at the mysterious script, trying to force meaning from it through sheer will.

“That’s impossible,” Sumrak’s voice came into his head. “Sitting and staring at the pages won’t let you read them.”

— I know, — Loyd muttered. — I’m thinking.

“Look at that — we’re having a normal conversation now?” There was a faint, barely perceptible smirk in the entity’s voice. “I’m glad you’ve finally accepted that the voice in your head isn’t a figment of your imagination.”

— I knew that before, — Loyd replied.

“Of course. You just ignored it.”

Loyd smiled faintly.

— It’s just that if I start talking to you out loud, people will think I’m crazy. Since I’m the only one who can hear you.

“Fair enough. So what do we do?”

— Can you help?

A pause.

“I’d love to… but there’s a catch. I can’t read.”

Loyd stared at the book.

— Are you serious?

But he didn’t get to finish.

A strange sound caught his attention — muffled, rapid breathing coming from outside his door.

— Julia? — he called, looking up from the book.

In response — only a sharp rustle and the sound of hurried footsteps down the stairs. Loyd frowned and stepped into the hallway. Downstairs, the front door slammed. Loyd’s heart skipped — an instinct honed by recent days. He crept silently to the window overlooking the yard and lifted the edge of the curtain.

Below, in the deep shadows between their house and the fence, a figure moved. A silhouette — short, feminine, in simple dark clothing. Someone was creeping along, pressed against the wall. For a second, the moon emerged from behind the clouds, and Loyd saw a glint on the stranger’s fingers — brief but distinct, like polished metal… or sharp claws. And her eyes — for a moment they flared with wild, animal fear before she, noticing movement at the window, jerked back and vanished into the night with unnatural, almost soundless speed.

Loyd froze, pressed against the wall. It wasn’t a ghoul or a vampire — they wouldn’t have been scared off so easily. It was something else. Someone who was afraid of being seen. Someone who had been lurking right at his doorstep.

He slowly sank onto the bed, gripping the Namekon so tightly that the patterns on the metal bit into his palm. The city wasn’t just teeming with monsters. It was teeming with secrets. And one of them was now lurking in the darkness outside his own home, with eyes full of the same fear he felt.

Loyd rose decisively from the bed, clutching Isaac’s card in his hand.

He looked at it once more.

And without hesitation, he said:

— I’m going to that agency.

Chapter 3. The Agency

Loyd arrived at the address on the card closer to midday. The agency building turned out to be nothing like he had imagined on the way. No ominous signs, no wrought-iron gates, no crests or strange symbols on the facade. Before him stood an ordinary brick house, darkened by soot — one of many in the district, restrained, tired, and outwardly unremarkable. Only a small bronze plaque by the entrance, dull and almost blending into the brick wall, gave away its purpose. It read: “Twilight Wardens.”

Loyd hesitated at the door for a moment, not entirely sure why. Perhaps because up until that point, everything could still have been a coincidence — a strange encounter in an alley, another of the city’s oddities. But the moment he pushed the door open and stepped inside, that feeling vanished. Everything here was too gathered, too quiet, too deliberate to be accidental.

The vestibule smelled of wax, paper, old wood, and something Loyd didn’t immediately recognize but later understood: gun oil. Behind a massive reception desk sat a pretty young woman with her hair pulled back in a strict bun. Her white shirt, tie, and pencil skirt looked so impeccable that even the folds in the fabric seemed to obey the agency’s internal rules. There was something about her that immediately made you straighten up and speak more clearly than usual.

— Hello, I’m Loyd. Isaac asked me to come by… — he began, feeling somewhat out of place.

The girl gave him a quick, appraising look. Not rude, not distrustful, but too attentive to be comfortable. After a short pause, she nodded.

— Yes, Isaac mentioned you. Go up to the second floor. First door on the right.

Loyd thanked her and headed for the stairs. The steps were wooden, smooth from age and frequent use, but not a single one creaked under his feet. Even that struck him as odd. In a house full of people, everything moved almost silently, as if everyone here had long grown accustomed to leaving no unnecessary traces.

On the second floor, he hadn’t even taken a few steps down the corridor when a girl burst around the corner at full speed and crashed into him. They both lost their balance and tumbled to the floor, scattering books and papers everywhere.

— Oh! Sorry! — she cried out, immediately scrambling to gather the scattered sheets.

Loyd also dropped to his knees, collecting papers before they could scatter further. Among the books, folders, and loose pages lay the Namekon, which had slipped out from under his shirt at the worst possible moment. The girl picked it up before he could react.

— What an interesting cover… — she said with genuine curiosity, examining the metal fox emblem.

Loyd felt his insides tighten instantly. He nearly snatched the book from her hands.

— Th-that’s… my journal, — he lied quickly, tucking the Namekon into the hidden pocket on his belt.

Only then did he allow himself a proper look at her. Long wheat-colored hair was tied in a loose ponytail, with thin strands escaping. Her fair skin was dotted with freckles, and behind her thin-rimmed glasses gleamed two different eyes: one bright, emerald green; the other cold, sapphire blue. And when she smiled awkwardly, dimples appeared on her cheeks, making her face both open and lively.

— I’m Loyd, — he said, offering her the stack of books he’d gathered.

— I’m Riya, — she replied, shaking his hand firmly. — You’re the newbie Isaac mentioned, right?

— Newbie? — Loyd and Sumrak asked simultaneously, one aloud, the other mentally.

A familiar voice sounded from behind him.

— Yes, he is, — said Isaac, placing a hand on Loyd’s shoulder. — Come into my office. We need to talk.

He led him into a spacious office lined with shelves of files, maps, and various instruments whose purpose Loyd couldn’t have guessed in three tries. The room smelled of old paper, leather, tobacco, and gun oil — and that scent somehow felt more honest than any polite smile.

— Newbie? — Loyd repeated as soon as the door closed behind them. — What do you mean, “newbie”?

Isaac lounged in his chair with the air of a man who had long felt at home in any room he entered.

— You did well at the warehouse, — he replied calmly. — Sure, your movements were clumsy, at times downright wild, but you survived and even managed to take down a ghoul. For someone with no training, that’s more than luck. You also saw the dark side of the city and didn’t pass out for good. That’s also a quality, believe me.