The world spun, tilted, and went black.

  Brann landed hard on the steps, breath driven from his lungs, the stone biting into his shoulder. Pain throbbed from both of his arms hunger sang like fire in his veins, and somewhere in the fall he’d struck his head, sharp and sudden against the iron doorframe. The world dimmed and sounds melted into one another. His vision swam.

  All he could manage in this state was to roll onto his back and draw a ragged breath.

  Above him, the door stood open and in its frame stood the tall man was looming.

  The candlelight behind him cast his shape into silhouette a shadow draped in a man’s skin. No detail could be seen, no flesh, no edge, only those eyes, burning like twin coals bright red, empty of anything a man might call life.

  And then, darkness took him.

  He dreamed again.

  He knew it for a dream, but it clung to him like memory. He stood unseen in the chamber below the tower, yet whole now, uninjured, his limbs light, no pain no weight, only the cold presence of the ritual unfolding before him.

  The hooded man was there, no longer bones and robes, but tall, proud, eyes sharp beneath the cowl, a fragment of the past. He was chanting, moving between the chained prisoners, nine of them men, women, hollow-eyed and silent, their wrists bound in rusted shackles. One by one, their life was drawn out by threads of shimmering light pulled from their mouths, their chests and hearts, poured into the floating black stone.

  Brann could not look away. Even now, the man bled power into the stone, a part of his own power as well it seemed, wrapped in purpose.

  Brann listened, catching fragments of the chant, the symbols scrawled in blood, the triangle on the floor. He understood more than he should, pieces came together like a forgotten tongue remembered in dream.

  The stone was meant to be the tower’s heart, its anchor in this world, its key to another perhaps a gateway home.

  But it had failed.

  The prisoners went lifeless one by one, they were gone now, their bodies husks, only the hooded man remained falling to his knees in desperation.

  “Damn it…” he hissed. “I miscalculated, didn’t take everything into account. I thought coming here was the hard part but this place is lifeless. The jungle, he, saps it all.”

  He slammed his fists on the stone floor, a sound hollow and final.

  “I have failed.”

  Then, he stood, rage burning in his eyes.

  “No. Not yet.” A spark remained in his voice. “I will have the last laugh.”

  He turned to the black stone, hands outstretched.

  “I will stay here... a little longer.”

  Brann watched in silence, the weight of revelation settling cold in his chest. So that’s how he did it, he thought, poured part of his soul into the rock, in an act of desperation, not triumph.

  When the last whisper of the ritual faded into silence, the hooded man lowered his hands. The black stone pulsed once, slow and deep, like the echo of a distant heartbeat, then settled into stillness, its surface darker than shadow. He exhaled, slow and ragged, the toll had been taken.

  Then he turned toward the stairs and paused.

  Brann was standing in the doorway, visible now, somehow present.

  The hooded man looked directly at him.

  “You have made it this far, but I fear our time is short, he is also here, so I’ll gift you a crumb of information. If you make it out, and if you're still interested in what transpired here, go east, past Vireth-Tal, beyond the Gray Mountains, to the town of Hollowrest. North of it lies a forest, my forest. If you can find my domain, you may find some answers. I’ll see you there…hopefully."

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  Then he turned, robes whispering, two red eyes had started to appear in the middle of the room.

  Brann stepped back.

  The hooded man moved toward him, than up the stairs, his form faded as he ascended, vanishing into shadow. Brann felt it, the air shifting, thickening, the edges of the dream bending inward like dark cloth drawn tight. The creature was close now, too close, as if the dream had become a doorway he could step through.

  A pulse of dread struck his chest. He bit his lip hard, the sharp taste of blood grounding him for a breath. Then again, firmer this time, more desperate.

  "Wake up..."

  The words repeated in his mind like a prayer, a command, a ward against the creeping dark.

  "Wake up."

  The dream cracked at the edges.

  The red eyes flared.

  And Brann pulled and suddenly felt grass under his hand. He blinked the world was green, alive sunlight filtered through swaying leaves.

  He sat up.

  To his surprise his arms, healed, not fully, but more than they should be. His fingers twitched, aching but whole. The cold from the black stone was still there coursing through his veins somehow. Was this miracle done by his pursuer, the man did say he would give him a chance.

  He turned looking to get his bearings, there, just behind him, stood the ruins of the white tower he was back where he started.

  He stood slowly, warily, the jungle was still as always. He had given up at some point on seeing this place again. Now that he was here he saw no red eyes, no whispers in the dark.

  He was free but how would he get home.

  Then,

  A wind started. Strong and sudden, not natural.

  He turned, heart pounding into his ribs.

  And there, descending from the sky was a massive beast three times the height of a man. Its body glistened with scale and moisture, reptilian and lean, hues shifting with every angle of the sun. Clawed limbs ended in talons like curved swords but its head,

  Its head was avian a long, curled beak, eyes sharp as obsidian blades. And from its back, three tails, long and whip-like, furred like a monkey’s.

  Brann froze every instinct screamed to run. Every breath trembled in his chest but he knew there was nowhere he could go, he was at death’s door, and all he could do was play it out, so he stood his ground.

  The creature spoke. Its voice was solemn, deep as stone breaking water:

  “I am Zarek,” it said. “Remember that name, for it is the last mercy you will be given.”

  Brann swallowed.

  “My master will keep his bargain. You shall return home. But the price for your life will be collected.”

  In the moment he didn’t know what else to say except “I understand...Thank you.”

  The beast lowered one claw, pounding the earth once in acknowledgment. The tremor knocked Brann a step back but he steadied himself.

  “So... what should I do?” Brann asked.

  “Get beneath me and grip one of my legs. You have no magic and the way is perilous. I will shield you as we pass.”

  He stepped forward, heart hammering, and gripped one of the creature’s legs.

  The beast wasted no time, its piercing shriek tearing through the air as it began to glow, a green shimmer dancing across its body. A pulse of energy followed, and the ground rumbled.

  Then...

  Where the tower had stood, a great black gate split the world open. A yawning wound of shadow, swallowing stone, soil, and ruin. The jungle bent toward it, leaves drawn inward.

  They stepped through and the world vanished.

  He awoke some time later beneath the branches of an orchard.

  Sunlight hit his face.

  Wind in his hair.

  There was nothing in sight no gate, no beast only apple trees in rows and a blue sky that stretched wide above. Far off in the distance he saw mountains; His mountains.

  Carved into their side stood a citadel draped in banners with serpents, coiled and rising in the wind. He was finally home.

  He climbed a nearby tree, picked an apple, and dropped to the ground. The juice was sweet and the pulp filled his belly. It was the first real food in what felt like an age. He had made it thru this ordeal, but there were a lot of things to think about.

  The peace did not last long.

  The hard part had just begun.

  He had no memories so he could not tell friend from foe. The very workings of this world, its rules, its power, its dangers, were a blank slate before him. He would have to relearn everything from the ground up, piece by uncertain piece. And there was another weight pressing down on him: the fear that someone might recognize him. Not yet. Not while he was this fragile, this lost. People could see weakness and bend him to their will, steering him down roads he had no desire to walk. For now, he would move like a shadow, unseen, unknown, gathering strength and answers before the world could catch up to him.

  Brann leaned back against the tree, chewing slowly. The crisp flesh of the apple gave little comfort, but it was enough to silence the worst of the gnawing in his belly. He stared up through the branches above, where shafts of sunlight pierced the green canopy like spears of gold. Thought settled on him like mist.

  He needed a plan.

  The world was a tapestry he could no longer read its threads tangled, its colors strange. Without memory, without allies, he could not march into the heart of the realm like a hero in song. That path led only to a blade in the back, or worse, a name remembered by the wrong lips. No, he would start at the edges. A village, perhaps, small and forgotten, nestled against the bones of the kingdom a place where men still chopped wood and watched the sky for rain. There, he could pass unnoticed, earn coin with his hands, and listen. Always listen. The truth had a habit of slipping loose in quiet places and perhaps, in such silence, memory would stir, a thread to follow through the dark.

  He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and let out a slow breath. The journey ahead was long, but it was a beginning, and beginnings, however small, had power.