Lucius sat motionless on the edge of the bed, his heart hammering in his chest like a wild animal trying to break free. The cold stone beneath his bare feet felt real, the flickering candlelight playing over the aged walls was undeniably there. Yet, everything was coated in an eerie film that whispered of unreality. The bed was not his, the room not his own, and the air was thick with the scent of a past he could not claim.
He touched his face tentatively, his skin cold and clammy from the sweat.
„Am I dead? Am I... reborn? Or is this all just a strange dream?" He thought to himself and the silence that followed was absolute, a stark reminder of his loneliness.
He looked down at his hands again, the tremors slowly subsiding as his thoughts grew clearer. The skin was indeed as pale as ivory, unblemished by the flames that had ravaged him in his vision.
"I was in pain," he murmured, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "I know that I felt the pain. I felt myself burning." His mind reeled as he recalled the searing agony, so intense that it seemed to have etched itself into his very soul. Yet, his skin remained untouched by the fire's cruel brush.
A shiver crawled down his spine, the sensation unrelated to the room's chill. He turned his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly, his arms a protective barrier against the unknown. It was a pose reminiscent of a child seeking refuge during a thunderstorm, finding comfort in the illusion of safety amidst the chaos.
"Why am I here?" he murmured again, the question echoing off the walls. His thoughts swirled like leaves in a tornado, a cacophony of confusion and dread. He tried to piece together the events that led him to this place, but his mind was a jumble of images and pain.
The room was silent, apart from the sound of the occasional creaking of the wood and the soft sizzling of the flames. No electricity, no phone, no noises from the city, no clock. Just him and the feeling that the world was holding its breath.
He rose slowly, his legs trembling. The mirror was still there, its surface half obscured by tarnish, trapped in a dark, weathered wooden frame that looked like it had seen centuries. He approached it, his heart racing, and took a deep breath before looking into it again.
The icy gray eyes that stared back at him were the same. "I remember my name... Lucius. I remember the city and the subway. And... the moment I was ready to die."
His gaze fell on the desk in the corner. It was a relic of another age, its edges worn smooth by time and use. The leather cover laid upon it was cracked and faded, yet it held a certain allure.
With a sense of trepidation that seemed almost foreign to him, Lucius approached the desk and reached for the book. It had no title and no symbols.
He opened the leather cover with trembling hands, revealing pages as white and unblemished as freshly fallen snow. He touched the paper, expecting it to be cold, but it was warm under his fingertips.
For a moment, the book remained stubbornly blank, as if it were a silent judge waiting for his confession. Then, by his touch, the first page began to smolder. The smoke curled upwards in delicate tendrils, revealing a line of text burned into the parchment:
"You have fallen. But the fall was not an end, only an echo."
The words sent a shiver down his spine, a strange mix of dread and fascination. He stepped back, the book still in his hand, feeling its pulse resonate through his body like a dark symphony. The pages fluttered on their own accord, as if eager to reveal their secrets to him.
„This can't be real. Maybe I'm in a coma... or maybe this is the moment just before death... but then why does it feel so real?" Lucius' thoughts raced through his head.
He took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes, trying to push aside the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.
"I need to distract myself..." he muttered as he went in search of clothes. In the closet, at the other end of the room, he found a shirt made of coarse linen, dark pants and heavy boots. Everything seemed to be his size. Way too fitted and way too ... prepared.
He stepped out of the room. The corridor was narrow, the stones cold and damp. The flickering light from the torches cast eerie shadows on the walls, dancing with the dust particles that had been stirred by his sudden movement.
On the left, the corridor stretched into darkness, a yawning maw that promised only uncertainty and dread. On the right, a heavy wooden door stood ajar, beckoning him with the barest sliver of light that spilled through the gap. His heart hammered in his chest, his breathing shallow and quick, but he knew he had to go on. He pushed the door open.
The room behind was a library, marked by the passing of time. It was filled with ebony shelves and books that were covered by dust.
In the center of the chamber stood a large, proud globe, bathing in the soft light of the candles. It was a globe of ancient craftsmanship, its surface etched with lines depicting a world. It showed a large continent surrounded by a gigantic ocean. The land masses were unmarked, as if it wanted to keep the secrets hidden from him.
Suddenly a cacophonous whisper sounded in his head, it seemed to resonate into his very being. He stumbled back and dropped the book. It hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the silent library. The whispers became more distinct, each syllable a knife in his head.
"Nivarn,"
"Thalyon,"
"The Duchy of Velmora,"
"The Empire of Tharania,"
"Sylvaris."
The names danced in his mind like shadows on a wall, twisting and morphing into one another. The pain was intense, but it was not the physical torment of his vision, this was a mental assault.
The whispers grew louder, the words clearer, and the images in his head grew more vivid. He saw battles, cities crumbling into dust, and forests burning. A world of fantasy and horror that seemed eerily real.
Then, as abruptly as they had come, the whispers ceased. The silence that followed was deafening, leaving his mind echoing with the phantom words.
"What the hell... were those places of this world?" he whispered into the empty room, his voice sounding brittle and lost.
„I'm going crazy. I'm losing my mind." Lucius' thoughts were a tumultuous storm as he picked up the fallen book. The whispers had left him with more questions than answers, the images in his mind like the shattered remnants of a nightmare that lingered just beyond his grasp. He felt as if he was being drawn into a world that didn't belong to him.