Yig rested his back, sitting in complete serenity. He opened his eyes, realizing he could feel far better than he had a moment ago—able to sense the world anew, like waking from a nap. Yet it didn’t feel like he was truly awake, and there was nothing around him to notice. Everything was black, as if his eyes were still closed. But he could see himself—his hands, his chest. He was there, when nothing else was.

  His head turned as he sensed the warmth of a soul behind him. Over his shoulder, someone sat—masculine in form, but with no distinguishable features. Even his face was a blur, a smudge. Yet Yig recognized him by instinct.

  “Icarus?”

  “It was a good idea from the big fella to make you meditate. Not saying I enjoy it, but your aura’s sure responding well.”

  “The big fella? Oy? How do you know he’s big? You don’t have eyes.”

  “Just by the way the mana flows through and around his body. You’re telling me you can’t do that?”

  “Nope.”

  Icarus huffed. “I suppose having no eyes helps one notice these things better.”

  Yig hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe I should wrap one of Sil’s bandages around my eyes.”

  “I... suppose that would work.”

  Hopping to his feet, Yig began wandering, scanning the darkness that surrounded them. From where he stood, it looked like the space stretched on forever—endless nothingness.

  “This is really boring,” Yig said, his tone flat.

  “Don’t make up your mind too quickly. This is the place your mind goes between calm and agency. This is your subconscious. You could find all sorts of things back here.”

  “Really? Doesn’t look like much.”

  Icarus snickered. “Sounds about right.”

  Yig didn’t get the joke.

  “You’ll never find anything if you’re not looking.”

  Yig shrugged and took a step.

  His foot landed on the cold grass of a summer morning. The space was suddenly filled with bright trees and flowers in an eye-catching palette. Beside him, he could hear the faint ripples of a stream. The water was colorless and clear as light struck its surface, revealing a bed of dirt and stone beneath.

  Feet danced across the grass nearby. Yig looked up to spot who it was, but they were already gone. So he followed the stream, curious to see who else might be there.

  After a few minutes of walking, he came upon a lake—the stream’s end. Its color was a vivid blue, surrounded by slick grey rocks and dominated by the sound of a crashing waterfall. Yig scanned his surroundings, but there was no sign of the person he’d heard. With no clear direction to go, he sat by the water’s edge and dipped his fingers into the lake. It was cold but inviting. He gently flicked the surface, sending ripples through the stillness. The lake felt… familiar.

  He stood, unsure what to do next. Looking around, he felt a strange peace amid the idyllic scenery. And then—an even stranger sensation overtook him. One no waking man should feel.

  One step at a time, touching the surface as if it were solid, Yig walked across the lake. The waterfall parted like the curtain of a tent doorway, leading him to a land far more barren—dry, devoid of moisture.

  Yig stood on a mountain road that overlooked a vast and varied mound. He looked behind him, seeing no sign of where he had come from—only the road trailing downward. He jolted at the sound again: footsteps pattering above. With little else to do, he walked uphill, turning the corner to catch sight of the culprit. But as if swept away like dust in the wind, the next stretch of road held no man or woman. So, he continued walking.

  After what felt like half an hour, Yig reached the mountain’s peak. Nobody was there. It felt like someone should have been.

  He watched the clouds drift beneath him. Above, the sky was a clear, perfect blue. The mountaintop felt flatter than it should have. Yig then remembered—he wasn’t really awake. Or something like that. How was he supposed to remember the exact words his sword had told him? It was a sword. Swords weren’t supposed to talk. Yeah, that sounded like a good enough reason to forget.

  The ground beneath him collapsed inward, cracking and splitting until there was no escape from the long plunge into a bright orange glow below. Flames engulfed him, trapping him in a space just big enough to kick and thrash. The fire burned hotter than anything he’d ever felt, with no way out in sight. Even the sky—his only witness—had abandoned him. The gap he’d fallen through sealed shut, as if it had never been there. Flames licked his face, searing his eyes. The heat clawed at his back, peeling flesh from bone. All he could do was curl into a ball and pray for the pain to stop.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then, it did.

  The fire’s roar vanished. The pain was gone.

  He unfolded himself, crawling out of the shape he'd made with his body—only to find himself in the middle of a bustling, high-class city, like the ones he’d read about in books. Women and men walked by in stunning, colorful clothes, each with the posture of the high-born. They paid him no mind: a young man sitting cross-legged in the middle of the pavement, like someone who’d lost his mind.

  He stood and brushed himself off. He now wore clothes not unlike theirs—a long coat that reached the middle of his calves. It was a light brown, with a texture like leather, fastened at the waist with a darker brown belt. Beneath it, a white shirt and black trousers. That made no sense. Mother never let him wear white shirts, and he wasn’t the rebellious type. Maybe this was some deep desire surfacing for the first time.

  The buildings that lined the street were a neat grey, with roofs that arched upward in sharp, elegant angles. Atop them were contraptions he’d only read about: windmills and weathercocks shaped like exotic birds, all spinning and dancing in the stony breeze that wound through the sky.

  He spotted someone passing by—a blur with no face or figure. Yet he knew it was them, the one with the quick feet he’d been chasing. And he had to know who they were. He had to.

  Now pushing through the crowd, doing his best to catch the one he pursued, Yig realized something unsettling. Everyone in the city looked the same. No faces, no colors in their hair, no logic to their heights. He hadn’t noticed while admiring their clothes, but now that he tried to distinguish them, the truth was inescapable. He wasn’t among people. He was among phantoms—fragments from the back of his mind.

  Dark clouds rolled in overhead, ridden by creatures of shadow. Their blazing, hateful eyes scorched the earth until the buildings collapsed around him. Then, before him, the thick trunk of a colossal tree rose from the ground, knocking him backward as it surged skyward.

  He stumbled, falling not just in place, but through space, as if crossing from one world into another. The wind that had howled past his ears vanished, along with the crowd that had bewildered him. He had returned to the darkness—the endless ground of his consciousness. There was nothing in any direction.

  Except her.

  She stood where he'd seen her before: black hair braided into fine strands.

  Yig stepped forward—and she vanished.

  In her place sat a stone.

  He slung it over his back with a rope. It was heart-shaped—human heart, not valentine—and he fastened it tightly so it wouldn’t slip free.

  Behind where he’d found her, a man with the face of a skull stood watching. His robes flapped in the wind, and he held a rusted sword drawn at his hip.

  Yig’s heart sank. It was a shame he’d just have to carry for now.

  Icarus appeared in his hand, screaming for battle.

  But the swordsman turned away, sheathing his long blade and walking off. His footsteps echoed like wooden taps on porcelain.

  Yig didn’t chase him—much to Icarus’s dismay.

  The time would come when they met again. And when it did, Yig’s will would be iron.

  No fear. No hesitation.

  That was his promise.

  He stepped back, turning to walk through a long stretch of golden wheat, the fields reaching so far they seemed never to end. On a hill a mile away—taller than the low rises Yig now stood on—stood a castle that felt strangely familiar. A golden evening sky loomed overhead, a glowing orb far, far away lighting the world around him with radiant intensity. He took a few more steps, the stems of the wheat brushing his bare arms, tickling his skin.

  Not far ahead stood a woman, her back to him, her features oddly clear despite the distance. She had long blond hair, a similar shade to his own, and wore a simple white dress that fell just past her knees—both her hair and dress swaying in the warm breeze of the hilltops. He knew her. Not how or from where, but he knew her—comfortably, like he knew himself. He reached out his hand.

  The wind picked up, slamming into him and the fields, nearly tearing the crops from the dirt.

  Yig opened his eyes. His senses were instantly overwhelmed by vibrant sounds and mouthwatering smells. He sat cross-legged on the cold grass of the Moonset Hills, Spartan jumping and wriggling against him now that he was awake. The night sky was ablaze with stars. His right arm surged with energy, the markings glowing and tingling down to the bone—almost to the point of pain.

  “Feel any better?” a voice called from the neighboring hill.

  Looking across the grass, Yig spotted Silver and Nil eating together—one clearly calmer than the other.

  “So? How are you feeling?” Silver repeated.

  Yig looked at his hands, then deeper, within himself. He stood and tightened the bandage around his arm, hiding the swelling glow beneath.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  A dark presence pounded against his, reaching up from the streets of Moonset. It was the same threat as before, yet not nearly as powerful as the swordsman’s.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You can feel it,” Nil replied. “What do you think?”

  Yig didn’t answer—not with words. He looked down at the celebration below, the people rejoicing, unaware of the beasts tearing through their homes. He reached out, a healing touch forming at his fingertips.

  “Go then,” Silver said, finishing his meal.

  Spartan still jumped at his leg—a mix of excitement and fear. Yig reached down and petted her fluffy coat, coaxing her gently to step aside. She did, though reluctantly. Icarus rested in the grass atop his red cloak. Yig picked him up and armed himself.

  He crouched, leaning forward as brilliant mana surged into his feet. Then, with a powerful release, he launched forward—soaring down the hill at blistering speed, brushing the grass as he flew toward the base of the ancient staircase.