Bloodscript

Aiden's pen hovered over the parchment-like page of the Bloodscript. Its surface seemed to pulse faintly, waiting, eager. The crimson ink formed on the tip of the pen without any source in sight, as if the book itself was offering its blood for the words.

He hesitated.

The question from the last page burned in his mind: Will you write your own story, or be a pawn in someone else's?

It wasn't a simple decision. This wasn't just a book—it was a power. And with power came consequences. Aiden couldn't shake the memory of the burning city he had seen in the visions, his own reflection surrounded by flames. Was this what the book wanted him to become?

Or was it a warning?

The silence of the room felt oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the flickering lightbulb above him. Finally, with a deep breath, he pressed the pen to the page.

The first name he wrote was one he recognized all too well: Calvin Price.

Aiden's stomach twisted as the letters formed on the page in crimson strokes, glowing briefly before fading into the parchment. Calvin was the loudest voice in the chorus of his misery—a local thug who had taken a particular interest in making Aiden's life hell. Every time Aiden crossed paths with him, it ended with a bruise, a cut, or a broken spirit.

Aiden didn't want revenge. He told himself that.

"Just a test," he whispered, his voice trembling.

He wrote:

Calvin Price will trip on his way out of the convenience store at 9:13 PM tonight, breaking his dominant hand.

The words glowed faintly, then disappeared. Aiden stared at the page, waiting, but nothing happened.

He glanced at the clock. 9:07 PM.

The minutes dragged on like hours. Doubt gnawed at him. What if the book was a cruel joke? What if the visions, the shifting text—what if it was all in his head?

At 9:14 PM, his phone buzzed.

Aiden flinched, nearly knocking over his chair. His heart raced as he reached for the phone. The message was from Danny, the closest thing he had to a friend.

Danny:

You're not gonna believe this. Calvin just busted his hand at the store. Slipped on some spilled soda. Freak accident. Karma's a bitch, huh?

Aiden's hands shook as he read the text. It worked.

It worked.

That night, Aiden didn't sleep. The Bloodscript sat on the table, its cover gleaming faintly in the moonlight. He couldn't stop staring at it, the enormity of its power sinking in.

Calvin wasn't hurt badly, just enough to put him out of commission for a while. But what if he had written something worse? What if he had written something irreversible?

The pen sat beside the book, its tip gleaming with that strange crimson ink. Aiden reached for it, his mind racing with possibilities. For the first time, he felt like he had control over his life—over the world.

But the thought was intoxicating, and he knew it.

The next morning, the consequences of his actions began to unfold.

As Aiden walked to work, a small coffee shop where he manned the counter, whispers followed him. Calvin was the talk of the town. People laughed at his misfortune, mocked his clumsiness. But something about the way they spoke unsettled Aiden.

"He deserved it," someone muttered.

"Couldn't have happened to a nastier guy," said another.

By the time Aiden arrived at work, he felt a creeping unease. It wasn't guilt, exactly. Calvin was a bully, and his injury wasn't life-threatening. But it was the knowledge that Aiden had done it. That he had crossed a line he could never uncross.

The day dragged on. Customers came and went, their faces blurring together. Aiden's mind kept drifting back to the Bloodscript, sitting in his apartment like a coiled serpent.

When his shift finally ended, the streets were dark, lit only by flickering streetlights. The rain had started again, a soft drizzle that chilled him to the bone.

As he rounded the corner to his building, he saw them: Calvin's friends. Three of them, loitering near the entrance, their faces shadowed but unmistakably hostile.

Aiden's stomach sank. He considered turning back, but one of them spotted him.

"Hey, Volke!" the tallest one called. "Got a minute?"

Aiden froze.

"What's the rush?" another sneered, stepping closer. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

They closed in, and Aiden realized too late that they weren't here to talk. Calvin's injury had clearly sparked something—a thirst for retaliation.

The first punch came fast, catching him in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for air.

"Think you're funny, huh?" the tall one snarled. "Think you can just walk around like you own the place?"

Another blow sent Aiden sprawling to the ground, his head ringing. The rain soaked his clothes, mixing with the blood dripping from his lip.

In the chaos, his mind latched onto one thought: The Bloodscript.

The moment he stumbled into his apartment, Aiden slammed the door shut and locked it. Pain shot through his ribs with every breath, but he didn't care. He staggered to the table, his vision swimming, and opened the book.

The pages glowed faintly, as if welcoming him back.

He picked up the pen, his hand trembling. This wasn't a test anymore. This was survival.

He wrote:

Lance, Adam, and Chris will lose their way home tonight. They will find themselves too disoriented to return until morning.

The ink faded, and Aiden collapsed into the chair, his head in his hands. He didn't know if it would work. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing.

But as the rain continued to fall outside, the faint glow of the Bloodscript seemed to mock him, whispering promises of power he couldn't ignore.

And deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.