The Chronicles of Onyx: Book 2

Prologue

Death. It is the moment when our journey in life concludes, leaving us to grapple with the inevitable fear of this inescapable end. It stands as a companion, accompanying us from our first breath to our last. To many, death is the ultimate unknown, a realm where the threads of existence are severed, plunging us into the abyss of uncertainty. So I ask you, is death simply an ending or does it mark the beginning of a journey into realms beyond our mortal comprehension?

Black eyes opened hesitantly, a weary, painful expression shining thought the obsidian depths in his gaze. His eyes fell upon his new surroundings, yet, all he could make out was total and complete darkness. A never end stretch of black that clouded his vision.

As his senses gradually returned, he lifted his right arm, to which was when a burning, severe pain ran through him. Reminding him that he was alive, to say the least. As Sith moved move his hand to his chest, his fingers gingerly probing the source of the searing pain. The touch sent a surge of agony through him, cousing him to crying instinctively in pain. The area around his heart felt tender and swollen, and he could feel the stickiness of drying blood clinging to his fingertips. The darkness shrouded the extent of the injury, but the throbbing ache spoke of a deep wound.

The air around him felt heavy, with a lingering, faint scent of damp earth filling his nostrils. Sith attempted to shift his weight, only to discover a cold, hard surface beneath him. His fingertips grazed the unfamiliar texture, tracing the contours of what seemed like rough stone.

"Hey!" he screamed into the darkness, his spit frying out of his mouth and collected upon his golden tusk. Yet no reply answered back, there was only the sound of his own raspy voice to accompany him.

As he tried to piece together his memories, flashes of a confrontation with Demeter surfaced in his mind. Leading to him awaiting his appending doom, when shattered fragments of a looming figure filled his memory. Thought all he could make out was raven back hair and–eyes. Dead eyes.

With cautious movements, Sith pushed himself into a sitting position. The darkness enveloping him was impenetrable, denying him any visual cues. He strained his ears, hoping for the faintest echo or sound that might offer him any sign that he was not alone.

"I see you're awake" a voice like velvet, penetrated the dark.