I'm Dante. This is our so-called Farewell.
The very word should have felt bittersweet, a gentle tug at the heartstrings after four long years of shared lectures, skipped breakfasts, and crammed‑for exams. For me, it was a hollow syllable floating in the stale auditorium air, as tasteless as the diluted fruit punch the cultural committee insisted on serving every semester. I had spent most of my college life orbiting the periphery of other people's social systems-close enough to feel their gravitational pull, far enough that no one bothered to notice when I drifted away.
'I'm done pretending that I care,' I told myself while adjusting the ceremonial sash across my charcoal blazer. The mirror above the washbasin threw back a stranger with tired umber eyes and a wry line for a mouth. 'One last performance, then I get to walk offstage.'
Outside, the farewell program roared toward its manufactured climax. Banners of crimson and gold hung from the balcony rails; fairy lights winked like dying stars. "Batch of 2025-Soar High!" a vinyl poster declared. I wondered how many of us would even remember those words once the job‑hunt attrition began.
The voice echoed through the speakers: "And now, our final dramatic act for the evening-'Adieu, Alma Mater!'" A predictable skit masquerading as nostalgia. Couples linked arms; friend groups clustered for one last volley of selfies. My phone remained pocketed. What would I capture-my own vacant corner?
When the lights dimmed for the concluding slow song, the dance floor filled almost instantly. Glitter‑dusted gowns swirled against tuxedo blacks, laughter rising in foamy waves that never reached me. I sat at the edge of the stage stairs, chin in palm, counting overhead bulbs. 'Let it end. Please, just end.'
My wish was granted, though not in any humane fashion.
The first flash felt like a faulty spotlight. The second split the roof. A jagged column of white‑blue lightning speared straight through the auditorium ceiling, shattering glass, vaporizing the disco ball in a burst of silver shards. Thunder followed half a breath later, a sound so colossal it seemed to punch the air out of my lungs. Pain, raw and absolute, ripped through every cell. Nerves screamed; muscles seized. For one blind instant I thought the world had folded into a singularity with me at its core.
'So that's it… I'm really dying on graduation night.' Dark comedy, my favorite.
But death did not claim me. When vision returned, fluorescent panels were gone, replaced by an immeasurable canopy of stars. I lay on cool moss, lungs dragging in pine‑laced air. Around me, classmates stirred-dozens of them, faces glowing faintly beneath twin moons I'd never seen before. One hundred students, uprooted from a campus auditorium and transplanted into a primeval forest like mismatched seedlings.
Confusion snowballed into panic. "Where are we?" "Was that a terrorist attack?" "Check for injuries-Sahil's bleeding!" Voices overlapped, fear sharpening every consonant. A girl began to sob; somebody cursed heaven and earth alike.
Then the forest hushed of its own accord, as if a great unseen conductor had lowered the baton. Silver motes drifted into a widening column, coalescing until they birthed a woman-no, something more. She hovered a handspan above the ground, bathed in dawn‑white radiance that cast no shadow. Hair the color of rising sunlight floated about her like a living veil, and her eyes-those eyes held entire galaxies.
"Welcome, heroes," the apparition intoned, her voice both a whisper and a bell toll. "I am Liora, Goddess of Light. I beg forgiveness for summoning you so abruptly."
A collective gasp rose. Someone—the varsity captain, I think-found the courage to shout, "Send us back! We have families!"
Liora inclined her head, sorrow cutting a fine line across her flawless face. "Were it within my power, I would. Alas, this summoning is bound by a covenant older than your stars. Every fifty of your years, champions from distant realms are called to this crucible. This time, fate selected you."
Rage flickered through the crowd. Chairs were overturned branches now; the alumni band's keyboards had become fallen logs. "What gives you the right!" a thin boy yelled, fists trembling.
The goddess's light dimmed a fraction. "Choice was never mine. Yet I shall grant what comfort I can: strength, purpose, and the chance to ascend beyond mortal limits."
"All hundred of us?" That question came from Eric, class valedictorian, always the numbers guy.
The glow around Liora stuttered, like a candle meeting wind. "I… cannot promise that."
Unease rippled outward. "Elaborate," demanded Maya, head of the debate club.
Liora folded her hands upon her breastplate of woven aurora. "To stand among this world's legends, you must first survive the Trial of Verdant Shadows. Only those who prevail will earn the right to walk Zerawell as heroes. I do not know how many hearts will remain beating when the final gate opens."
Pandemonium. Pleas, curses, frantic bargaining. Yet beneath it all throbbed a singular truth: we were prey, suddenly loosed into a realm where rules differed and ignorance killed.
Liora raised her arms, and threads of living light spun from her fingertips, weaving sigils above each student's head. "Unique skills-an echo of your deepest potential. Form alliances, temper your gifts, and heed the moon. Its light never wanes and will guide you from this forest." The constellations overhead shifted as if bowing to her decree. "Monsters lurk within these trees. Plan, train, and triumph. That is the only path."
'So the game begins.' Amid the clamor I tasted something coppery yet exhilarating. Not fear—anticipation. The ennui that had calcified around my bones back home cracked like old plaster, flaking away to reveal an ember I thought long dead.
Liora's projection turned solemn. "Approach one by one. I shall bestow your skill and answer a single question each. Then I depart, and destiny unfurls where it will."
A queue formed-hesitant, broken. Names were called; glyphs burned into skin like gentle frost; whispered exchanges passed between mortal and divine. I watched, counting, analyzing.
'Knowledge is power, and patterns are knowledge. Observe first, act later.'