"There is no single truth, only forty-four shards of the same broken mirror."
When consciousness returned to Ashen, he felt neither pain, nor chains, nor flesh. Only a pale light bathing an immense, circular, perfect room.
Before him stretched a large round table, made of a material he did not know. It seemed to be a mixture of obsidian, bone, and memories. Around this table stood 44 chairs, all occupied. He was seated in chair number 44. The last one. The only one looking dilapidated. Painted in chipped red, it creaked with every movement.
The other seats were all different — some massive and ornate, others bare stone, or made of glass, shadow, flames, chains, dead flowers, or black ink.
The 43 people around him... were himself.
Or rather, reflections of another Ashen. Alternative versions. Doubles from parallel worlds, all bearing different faces but the same soul.
One had burning eyes and cracked armor. Another wore the robe of an archmage. A third wore an iron mask, a fourth laughed endlessly while scratching his skin.
The one in chair number 1 spoke. His voice was calm, deep, worn by time.
— You are finally here. The last to awaken. The forty-fourth.
— The Fool, murmured another. The one who laughed until death.
Ashen said nothing. He watched them, fascinated and afraid.
— You are... me?
— No. We are what you could be. What you already are, in other threads of fate. You will recognize us all, sooner or later.
One by one, each stood to introduce themselves, their voices blending with the ethereal strangeness of the room.
The Judge – Incarnation of pure, cold, inflexible justice. Ashen became a magistrate in an empire of absolute laws.
The Martyr – Tortured for his beliefs, he saved a rebellion at the cost of his flesh.
The Traitor – The one who betrayed everyone he loved to survive.
The Hero – Savior of a kingdom, adored but empty inside.
The Tyrant – Having become king by blood, he reigns in fear and silence.
The Pilgrim – Eternal traveler, seeking endless redemption.
The Butcher – Drowned in the blood of his enemies, he forgot why he killed.
The Sage – Eternal old man, guardian of lost knowledge.
The Dead – Ashen who committed suicide as a child, still haunting the void's corridors.
The Poet – Cursed to speak only in verse, driving listeners mad.
The Child – The one who never grew, frozen in fear of his earliest years.
The Mask – Constantly changing personality, never truly himself.
The Forgotten – Ashen who lost his name, his past, his identity.
The Knight – Faithful to oaths he no longer understands.
The Scribe – Writes the history of others, but never his own.
The Apostle – Devotee of a god who may not exist.
The Monster – Man-beast fusion, rejected by all, including himself.
The Vagabond – Without ties, without purpose. A free and empty specter.
The Laughing Fool – The one who laughs at everything, including his own agony.
The Witness – Eternal spectator of others' dramas, powerless.
The Architect – Creator of worlds, but incapable of building his own.
The Hunter – Obsessive, chasing a truth he does not want to hear.
The Twin – Ashen who stole his brother's life in another world.
The Shard – Fragment of a broken soul, wandering from mind to mind.
The Mute – One who can no longer speak, having been silenced.
The Rebel – The one who destroyed everything to no longer feel dominated.
The Warlord – Former soldier, become an instrument of carnage.
The Alchemist – Seeker of truth, driven mad by realizing it does not exist.
The Coward – The one who flees everything, even his own thoughts.
The Dreamer – Lost in an inner world so rich he forgot reality.
The Puppeteer – Manipulates others to forget he is controlled.
The Screaming Mute – Who only speaks through the cries of his wounds.
The Mirror – Always reflects others, but never truly exists.
The Flayed – The one stripped of everything, even identity.
The Hanged – Suspended between life and death, unable to choose.
The Crumpled – A wrinkled soul, used and discarded.
The Sleeper – The one who has slept for a thousand years to no longer suffer.
The Drowned – Overwhelmed by memories of a sea he never saw.
The Empty Laughter – The one who laughs without reason, because he forgot everything.
The Broken – The one who did not resist, but kept living.
The Infinite – The one who lives every life, again and again, without end.
The Hourglass – Who sees time pass, unable to stop it.
The Judged – The one who must answer to his own reflections.
The Fool – You. The one who has endured everything, lost everything... but laughed despite it all.
Ashen remained silent.
— You are me... and I am you...
A murmur ran through the room.
— Yes. But you have only been a fragment. Now, you can choose.
— Choose what?
— To reincarnate. To begin again. But differently. You have lived through hell. Now, one of us can lend you his path.
— And if I refuse?
— Then you will remain here, eternally, watching who you could have been.
Ashen placed his hands on the table. He looked at them, one by one.
His gaze returned to seat number 1. Then to 43, the Judged. Finally to his own seat, number 44. The Fool.
— Can I... keep my madness? he asked, his eyes shining.
The Mask replied:
— You can tame it. Or transform it. Every life is a page. Every chair, a pen.
A solemn silence.
Then a white light burst from the center of the table. And the Voice spoke, like thunder in the hearts of souls:
"Ashen, broken, twisted, sacrificed... Choose your mask. And begin again."
— Validated choice. Time transfer activated. Fragmentation of the present. Compression of the past. Transmutation of the soul...
Ashen clenched her teeth.
— Wait, he whispered. Just a second...
But it was too late.
The others were reaching out to him. They were smiling. Some were crying. Others were laughing.
A crash. A red light, then white, then black.
His body was dismembered by the vacuum.
His soul?
Dissolved, then resealed.
Recast. Spit out. Redefined.
He felt his own name be torn in him. He screamed. He was no longer Ashen. He was no longer anything. He was nothing more than raw will.
Then... he opened his eyes.
The cold was biting his fingers.
The ground was hard. The air wet.
Footsteps. Wheels. The cries of merchants.
He recognized the sounds even before seeing the walls. He knew that smell of coal and burnt bread. This hubbub of a city never asleep.
Ashen slowly straightened up, his limbs stiff.
Around him, Edelstadt.
The capital. His city. The one where he had grown up, lived... and been broken.
But it wasn't the same time. He felt it. The cobblestones were clearer, the signs different, and the walls... younger. Less eaten.
They sent me to the past.
He got up, staggering. No one paid attention to him. He was just another beggar in the alley.
He clenched his fists.
So... everything starts again.