WONDERVAULT GAMES

You're an everyday, normal girl—at least that's what you tell yourself while hauling crates for a living. Logistics pays the bills. It's predictable. Anonymous. And it's been that way for a long time now, hopping from job to job, never really settling. Honestly, given the state of the world and how your life's gone so far, you can't complain about the one stable thing you've got. Yeah, you always want more—never satisfied, like everyone else—but if you're being honest, you've raised a family, and that's no small feat.

Your daughter, despite all the fights and the cheek, is the joy of your world. Just another phase, you tell yourself, something you have to get through. You only hope that after today's long haul she'll give you a bit of a break, because Christ, you need it.

Like any other day, you're wrapped in your company's dark hoodie, the logo half-cracked from too many washes. Ragged jeans torn at one knee. Leather boots scuffed from warehouses and loading docks all over the city. Your red hair is tied back badly, curls breaking loose no matter how much you fight them—a quiet rebellion inherited from somewhere between your Spanish mother and your Irish father.

This job, though… this one doesn't sit right.

Josh brought it up one night in the pub. "I know a fella," he'd said. And straight away it smelled off.

"Fuck no, Josh," you'd snapped, keeping your voice low. "I'm not smuggling shite. I can't be getting in trouble and you know it."

But Josh is Josh. Easy money. Customer wants discretion, nothing dodgy. Pays well. Private security everywhere. You split the take with him and the boss, so what's not to like?

The job's inside a billionaire's manor—the kind of place that looks less built and more imposed on the land. Cameras everywhere. Armed security posted with the bored confidence of people who know nothing ever happens here. You and your crew are cleared, scanned, rescanned, and escorted through halls that smell faintly of incense and old stone.

Now you're unloading boxes inside what can only be described as a chapel—or maybe a museum pretending to be one. The ceiling arches far too high, ribs of dark wood and stone curving overhead. Candles line the walls—real ones, not electric—their flames barely pushing back the shadows. The air feels thick, heavy, like it hasn't moved in centuries.

Artifacts from all over the world emerge from the reinforced crates under your hands. Masks. Idols. Scroll cases sealed with symbols you don't recognise. Things that belong behind glass, not laid out on padded tables while people like you slap inventory stickers on them.

And you're not alone.

There are more people here than just your crew—assistants, handlers, staff hovering nearby. Some of them are wearing dark tunics in deep purple shades, heavy fabric draped with deliberate care. Ritualistic, almost. Josh said it was just for ambience. A theme. Tonight's party is meant to be immersive—rich mates, rare artifacts, a bit of historical roleplay to make everyone feel important and mysterious.

That's the briefing, anyway. And you're not here to judge, as long as they keep out of your way.

Still, the way some of them move—quiet, deliberate—sets your teeth on edge. They drift from box to box, always under the watchful eyes of security, always watching you in return, tracking how you handle each piece. Giving you that look you hate. Everything is placed with care, arranged like someone already knows exactly where it belongs.

 

Then you open that box.

It's sealed tighter than the rest, packed with almost obsessive care. Nestled in velvet lies a dagger—ancient, unmistakably ceremonial. The blade is dark, swallowing the candlelight, etched with lines that seem to shift when you try to focus on them. The hilt is heavy, crowned with a gem the size of a large coin. It glows faintly in the low light—not enough to illuminate anything, just enough to make your skin prickle.

You freeze.

A chill runs up your arms, goosebumps rising beneath your hoodie. For a split second—just a second—you could swear something moves inside the gem. Not a reflection. Not a trick of the light. A slow, subtle turn, like an eye adjusting.

Your breath catches before you realise you've been holding it.

"Oi."

Josh bumps your shoulder with his elbow. "Don't be gettin' sentimental over the spooky knife. We're on a clock."

You blink, suddenly aware of how long you've been staring. Heat creeps up your neck.

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, forcing a grin. "Just checking if it bites. HR didn't warn me about cursed shite."

He snorts. "Gotta check the truck. Boss says we're nearly done. This lot won't shift itself."

Right then, one of the costumed weirdos yanks the dagger from your hands. "This is not a toy," he snarls, carrying it off toward a nearby altar like it's holy.

You barely register it. You're used to gobshites. Still, it's the first time one's looked at you like that. Call it career progression.

You chuckle under your breath and turn back to the table, ready to finish the job and forget the whole thing ever happened.

 

Then hell breaks loose.

Someone screams—not a startled yelp, not panic rising, but an ending scream. Raw. Torn apart mid-sound. The air fractures.

Shadows spill out from everywhere at once. Not from corners or doorways—from the space between things. Darker than night. Darker than the absence of light. Shapes that refuse to settle into edges. As they move, reality thins. Peels. Vanishes.

They eat the world.

Walls unravel where they pass, and behind the torn fabric of existence you glimpse the universe itself—endless black scattered with cold stars, like a wound ripped straight into the cosmos. The void trails after them, lightning fast, silent, unstoppable.

A shadow vaults over a security guard. No struggle. No scream. His body is torn apart without effort, pieces falling afterward like discarded rubbish—an arm, a helmet—hitting the floor with dull, meaningless thuds. Another shadow engulfs one of the robed figures. Same result. No resistance. No time.

They don't fight.

They consume.

You don't have words. You barely have thoughts—just noise, motion, terror crashing together until all you manage is a hollow—

What the hell?

You spin, breath ragged, heart pounding. The chapel is gone in pieces now, fragments of floor and wall floating like islands in a starless sea. Candles drift, still burning, flames bending wrong. The manor no longer makes sense.

Then you see him.

One of the costumed figures stands a few steps away, clutching the dagger—the dagger you unpacked. The gem burns brighter now, pulsing like something alive. His eyes are wide, glassy. He's shaking so badly the blade rattles.

A voice comes from the dagger.

Not loud.

Not shouted.

Inside your head. Inside his head.

"Do it. Become the saviour."

The man sobs, words tumbling out in a broken rush. "I can't. I can't. I can't do this. No—why me—not me—not now—no—"

"Do it now—or be banished."

The entities draw closer. There's barely any world left. Just you. Him. Shards of stone drifting in the infinite dark.

Your mind reels. What is going on? What madness is this?

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

Something in his face changes—not relief, not cruelty. Desperation. A decision born of terror.

"I'm sorry!" he screams, lunging forward. "I'm sorry—I just couldn't—please—save us—save—"

Pain explodes in your chest as the dagger plunges into your heart.

"What the—hell!" you gasp as everything goes cold.

The last thing you hear is him screaming sorry again and again as the world collapses inward—

—and then—

Black.

Everything ends.

 

---

 

And begins again.

You open your eyes.

No pain. No burning. No weight in your chest. You gasp anyway, instinct screaming that something should be wrong—but there's nothing. You yank open your hoodie with shaking hands.

No blood.

No wound.

No scar.

Instead, the dagger rests in your grip, perfectly balanced. Like it belongs there. Like it always has.

"What the—"

You push yourself upright and finally look around.

Badlands.

A desert—but nothing like anything you've ever seen. Amaranth-coloured sand stretches in every direction, bruised reds and purples beneath an alien sky. Jagged black rock ranges twist into shapes that hurt your eyes to follow—arches folding back into themselves, spines looping like ribs. Some of the rock moves. Slowly. Subtly. As if the land itself is breathing.

Blue crystalline growths jut from the sand in sharp shards, glowing faintly, humming just below hearing.

Overhead hangs a massive moon, impossibly large, crowned with a thin luminous ring. Stars burn with painful clarity, and on the horizon the arm of a galaxy rises like a ghostly scar, flanked by two small orange suns.

Your breath stutters. The air is cold, heavy, hard to breathe. Your body feels wrong—floaty, like gravity's having a laugh at you.

"What is this madness?" you scream, your voice cracking as it vanishes into the empty expanse.

The dagger answers.

The gem pulses once. Something shifts inside it—slow, coiling, like a larva turning in its cocoon. Then the voice slides into your mind.

Everywhere. Nowhere. Clear as running water. Just as cold.

"There is only madness in the Dreamscape."

You stagger back, clutching your head. "What is this? What are you?"

"You have transcended," the voice replies calmly. "Just like I did, once. Your reality no longer exists, kid. It has been banished by the void."

Your stomach drops. "Those creatures? But—why?"

"There is no reason why. It simply is. It simply happens. When the Dreamwright dreams a new reality, another he created is forgotten. These creatures lurk between the spaces, waiting to fulfil their purpose."

Your thoughts spiral. Dreamwright. Realities. Forgotten.

"No," you choke. "No, I have to go back. My daughter—my family—I have to—"

"They no longer exist," the voice cuts in, sharper now. "You are not paying attention to what I say."

"Is this… am I losing my mind?" you mutter.

You reach instinctively for your back pocket, fingers searching for the familiar rubber case of your phone. You pull it out anyway. No signal. No carrier. Nothing.

Is everyone gone?

Is your daughter gone?

Your knees buckle. The horizon blurs. "I'm gonna puke."

"Do what you must," the voice says, suddenly urgent. "But do it fast."

The gem flares brighter.

"We have company."