The silence in Vraelm was so deep it pressed against Ares's skin like weight.He stood before the conduit Rodan had left him — a twisting complex of channels with multiple entry parts at different junctions. It pulsed faintly, alive in a way that made him uneasy. He stared at the monumental task in front of him. This place felt like a dream, fuzzy at the edges, like the creator for this realm had planned it out but forgot to furnish it.
Even his thoughts seemed to echo here, slow and heavy.
He tried to remember the pattern Rodan had shown him, the way soul could twist and fold into shape. It looked simple when Rodan did it — just a motion, a rhythm — but when Ares tried, it eluded him no matter how hard he tried. The will he pulled together was unwieldy, too loose, too wild. He tried again. And again. Each attempt left him weaker. He could feel himself drifting — no heartbeat, no breath, only the conduit of black string and the faint hum of the dark world around him.
He looked back. The doorway shimmered far behind him, a faint promise of escape. He could leave if he wanted. But something deep inside whispered, don't.It wasn't a command. It was his own voice — quiet, muffled, fleeting.
He sank to the ground, eyes fixed on the conduit. Its shape was simple but endless, like looking into a mirror that reflected mirrors. He felt a wave of frustration rise. Maybe this was a waste of time. Maybe Rodan had sent him here to fail.
If you leave now, the voice said again, you'll never come back. You'll forget why you even tried.
Ares shut his eyes. He knew that tone — it was the same one that had pushed him forward before, when everything else had told him to stop.He forced himself up and tried again.
The pattern started to form, faintly glowing in the air. For a brief moment, it held — a delicate curve of light — before his focus splintered apart. The conduit collapsed back to its natural, white blob. He cursed under his breath but found, strangely, that he was smiling. He had made progress.
Time blurred after that.Hours, days — maybe years — folded into one another. The air shimmered, and he saw scenes flickering through the dark: the small house where he grew up, the sound of laughter, the smell of bread. He almost walked toward them. Almost stepped towards the hypnotic corridors of the curtains. But then he heard the whisper again — don't go.
He turned back and tried once more.Fifteen percent, then nothing.The glow faded.
He didn't notice when the old man appeared beside him. Arwen — tall, cold, silent. His eyes were sharp as ever, full of judgment. Ares's anger burst out. "You think I can't do it?" He threw a handful of black sand, but it passed through like smoke. The image didn't flinch — it only stared. Then it vanished, leaving the same hollow pressure behind. The silence afterward felt louder than before.
Ares screamed at the emptiness until his throat burned. Still nothing answered.
A century of failure and loneliness came hand in hand. His rationality frayed at the edges. Then came Rodan.
The old man appeared suddenly, eyes burning violet. Strings of purple light snapped through the air like whips. Ares raised his half-formed conduit, trying to block them. It shattered instantly. The strings sliced through the air around him, tearing not his body but his thoughts — unraveling focus, scattering fragments of memory. He stumbled, tried to fight, tried to grab Rodan, but the figure vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
When he looked up, the conduit was gone. No — not gone, but distant. A faint shimmer far across the dark plain.
Panic struck hard. "Never wander too far from the exit. Or you will be lost forever," a warning surfaced in his mind.
He ran. Or something that felt like running. The air resisted every step, thick as water.By the time he reached the floating conduit, he fell to his knees, shaking.For a while, he didn't move at all.
Then, through the stillness, a voice rose — calm, familiar, rough-edged.His father's voice. "Feel like giving up?"
Ares looked up at his father and found the usual hard face and eyes that burned with passion. He held his handy wrench in his left hand, his clothes dirty with motor oil, dirt and an honest day's work.
"You think fixing cars is easy? Start with what you know. Forget the rest."
Ares blinked. He could almost smell the oil, hear the click of old metal. His hands moved on their own. The air thickened, shimmered — and there it was: a wrench, simple and solid, just like the one his father had used.
It felt real. Heavy. Honest.That small act of creation steadied him.
He turned back to the conduit, the pattern clear in his mind now.He worked slower this time, steady and practical.Half the conduit took shape before it cracked apart again — but that was more than ever before. For the first time in forever, progress felt possible.
The silence settled again, softer now.Then, from the dark, came a faint warmth — light blooming like morning.He saw her. His mother, standing in a sunlit kitchen, her eyes bright and gentle. She said nothing, just smiled.He smiled back, and she laughed, swinging a frying pan in mock warning, just as she used to when he and his sister fought.
The memory stayed with him long after she faded.He worked again, the glow of the conduit brightening — seventy percent this time.Hope, fragile but real, flickered through him.
Time became meaningless again — only motion, only will.
Then, one day — or one century — he felt a hand on his shoulder.He turned and saw his sister, her clothes torn, her eyes red. Without thinking, he reached out and repaired the cloth — thin strands of soul weaving themselves through the tears. The motion came naturally. It was soft, precise, alive.
He looked down at his hands and finally understood.He didn't need to mold the conduit — he needed to weave it.Not through force, but through harmony.
He began again, each thread looping into another. The structure grew faster now, stronger, more delicate. The act felt effortless.Years shrank into days.Days into minutes.Until at last — a single breath was enough.
The conduit floated before him, perfect and complete.Every strand glowed with faint white light, its reflection rippling across the black sand.
Ares stared at it, trembling. Every piece of it was him — every memory, every mistake, every bit of love and loss woven together.
He didn't know how much time had passed. But he had finally done it. It took him about a year to complete the conduit, slowly weaving it step by step.
"It is too slow," Ares remembered the speed of how quickly Rodan had made the conduit.
A few centuries passed until Ares was able to weave the conduit in under thirty seconds
Somewhere beyond the dark, something shifted — a presence watching from the distance.But Ares didn't see it.
He only saw the conduit — and the faint shimmer of light it cast over the endless dark.
He hadn't meant to spend a thousand years here.