The darkness made way in what seemed like shrieks of unimaginable fear and discontent for the man who dared take entrance through such means. And each step made this feeling greater; each step brought him further away from the safety of the Atheian lands and pushed him further into what one could only call a nightmare.

  The crystal in his hands pushed its hue against the Veil and its shadowy existence; it was like a trillion ants walking in all directions in a globe around you, or like dark worms that slithered around in a way that one could describe as smoldering. There were these shrieks one couldn’t quite hear, and even in its erratic and illogical movement, the Veil remained almost calm; almost a lake without a ripple, a sea without a storm. But which is worse, a misplaced silence when one knows that there ought to be a chorus born from the tormented and burned souls robbed of life itself, or the said chorus itself? Is it better not to know or to hear such torment, or is it better to let silence seep in and lull oneself into a falsified reality wherein such torment doesn’t exist, even when you know that it does or once did?

  And even when there were no whispers, it still felt like there were. There were no signs, yet there was this feeling filled with strange desires in the form of questions that laid themselves into his head and claimed a moment and a place in his memory… “Why not extinguish the light in your hands? Why not place it on the cave floor? Why not forget that there ever was such a thing as light? Why not accept the nature of this darkness? Why won’t you accept our truth as it is, without guile and such meager protection?”

  All this and much more in merely a few steps, enough to hide away the safety of the lanterns behind. The lake was calm without a ripple to break its even surface; there was no storm, there was only this silence… Yet this lack was naught more than a prelude, the first notes of a grand performance.

  Everything beyond was just a logical continuation of the previous caves, just that this was without most of the alterations that the Atheians had done to everything else they laid their touch upon. But here and there, there still were marks of their existence. There were objects and tools that just lay on the cave floor, untouched for perhaps a thousand years, yet they seemed as if they had been thrown here or placed on the ground not too long ago. Some things are pristine and new, and others are old and worn out from the most active use imaginable. These were still lands that once were inhabited by the Atheians before the Veil arrived…

  Kanrel wondered if he would end up seeing perhaps bones or just a body or two, those that had been claimed by the Veil… Would they remain in the same state as those tools and other objects? Would their bodies be the same as they had been since before the moment the Veil had consumed them? Would he find on their faces the terror, the shock, and the pain of their last moments among the living?

  But there were none. Nothing like that. Only left behind things and some places where the living might have placed their touch long ago. Just in the first, perhaps an hour or so, he walked past what seemed like an Atheian-made excavation, be it for storage or for finding rare minerals. But nothing more. Eerie and empty, simply left behind, as if moments that could never quite come to pass. Would one of those pickaxes have been in the hands of an Atheian moments before death? Should have their bodies laid beside said tools?

  “The enforced crystal lamps seem more effective than at first thought in repelling the thick fog of shadows.” “It is silken, yet it looks heavy… It moves against our light, not afraid of it like the shadows further away from these eastern lands.” “One imagines a world of wonders, but instead, we are given a continuation of the caves that we live in.”

  Something that was written by a member of the first expedition. All so far, all that has accurately described what there is beyond. Even the feelings that Kanrel himself had before he stepped into the Veil, even that had been far too close. Kanrel knew that his friends would have wanted to either step into the shadows with him or try to deny him what he wanted, or wept as he disappeared, never to be seen again. Kanrel, too, didn’t want it to be the last moment they saw him alive or at all.

  He, too, took his first step, knowing all too well that he would not return. He, too, had to pretend that there was such a thing as hope within him to nourish his fragile dream of reaching home.

  And who would really want chaos to ensue and help the darkness around disperse, even that false sense of hope he so foolishly clings to?

  Yet even with these thoughts that now more than ever whispered at the back of his mind, he could only walk forward. At this point, there was no reason to turn around or to even look behind. After all, death awaits either way. Did it matter if he would die here today, tomorrow, or some other day, or if he died forty years from now in the City of Last Light? Were they not the same? In both cases, a dream would uselessly die. In both cases, he would have lived a life of nothing, a life without half of or perhaps most of the sensory illusions for him to almost lovingly hold on to existence and its pleasures. Why live in one illusion of existence when another would give you so much more joy?

  Thus, Kanrel could only walk forth. Now, among the stalagmite forests that he assumed were the same ones that the person who had written to the journal had described. He had to believe that he was going the correct way…

  It was like walking in a dark forest thinly covered with black cloth. As he pushed forth, something new would uncover itself. Another stalagmite, another wall, a rock formation, a discarded tool. But at the same time, the things that were behind him would all be covered again by that black veil. You wouldn’t know what could be ahead, nor could you be certain that that which was now left behind still exists if you turned around and tried to find it. If you can’t see it, does it really exist? With just a notion of its existence, a memory, one couldn’t really say yes or no. There would just be this dullness of uncertainty. You could only return and see it for yourself if it were as it once was. But here, there was no going back. There was never going back. Not in memories nor in this darkness. Yet in a sense, he longed to return. Not to see what there is behind him, but to see what there was above it all. This memory is so faint, and it can be so faulty, so imperfect, this subjective existence of his.

  There were rocks in the way, stalagmites that stood before him, undaunted and unmoving in his presence; they refused to make way for him, even when he only wished to go forward, to not make altercations in his direction, and when he dodged one such thing, another would emerge behind it. More of something uncovered itself in a place where one could never know what could be in just ten or so steps. He wouldn’t be able to tell if he had suddenly turned and begun walking in the wrong direction. How could he? Right now he might as well be walking south instead of east, further down instead of ever going up.

  First, there were few, then many, and then many more stalagmites among which he walked. Possibly hundreds, perhaps more, or just that he had walked around and around in an endless circle, seeing only a few of the same that he had already seen. But he had to believe that he was going the right way.

  Along the way, he placed his hands against one of these black spikes that pushed itself from the ground toward the ceiling, which must have been somewhere above him. He let his gaze follow the spike, but above it, there was only darkness. There was only movement without logic. Ants that aimlessly marched in irregular patterns, not showing him what might exist beyond them. If there was anything at all. If there was anything at all.

  As there were many, soon there were fewer, and in a sudden moment or two, there were none. He had walked into a forest and found his way out of it. The cave continued, but only a small section at a time; he could not see anything at all. This must be the right way.

  He walked forward, hoping that the steps he took would take him where he wanted to go.

  And such a foolish speck of hope it was to hold on to. It was akin to walking in an old forest that spanned hundreds of kilometers and hoping to not get lost in its wilderness. To not get devoured by a hungry beast that might as well wait just around the next grove or valley for his arrival. He ought to feel afraid. It was the most logical thing to feel in this moment and throughout this journey.

  Isn’t this exactly the thing most are afraid of? The unknown and all that it might entail—the possibility of monsters we’ve never seen before, wandering through this endless darkness. One could be lurking, waiting, just around the next corner, within the next stalagmite forest, beyond this first lake that now revealed its rocky shores to him, or the next one.

  A lake. Or perhaps a pond? All that he could see was its rocky shore, a section of its existence.

  A dead lake. Black, murky, unmoving water. A surface without a ripple, a surface without a reflection, yet certainly it was water, or at least liquid.

  Fear.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Again. There was fear. He had seen something similar before. Mu’u Tou’t had shown him this. Or something like this. Yet this wasn’t water in a pool or a well, something placed there with a purpose. This was just something found in nature. A lake, or pond, that had existed here for who knows how long.

  Oblivion. There is nothing once we are gone. Oblivion.

  Kanrel stood there, in a trance; he saw only that darkness that lay itself before him in this form of liquid, in this lifeless form without a sense of existence. Touch it. Who wouldn’t want to touch it? Who wouldn’t want to accept it? Touch it. Let it beckon you further, let it lull you with its embrace, let it withhold all sense of thought within you. Let it claim it all. Fall in.

  Touch it.

  A shriek twisted in his mind; it scratched his ears and pulled apart his eyes; it forced him to wake up. For a moment, it forced him to accept reality. He was on his knees. The blue crystal was placed on the cave floor before him, and his right hand stretched toward the surface of that lake. That mirror without a reflection. It trembled, not the lake but his hand. It trembled, not with fear but with…excitement.

  He quickly pulled his hand back and grabbed the crystal from the floor. He returned to his senses and got back on his feet. He pulled his eyes away from this one form of oblivion and placed it onto another. The Veil flowed around him in erratic movements as silk or as angular shapes formed from rough textures. One step at a time, he began to walk around the lake, choosing to go left because why not? Because where else would he go? And as he trudged along the rocky beach of this lake, he kept his gaze pointed either ahead or at his feet, at the things that uncovered themselves as he made his way toward a direction he had appointed as the east.

  The lake continued as something much larger than he had expected it to be, but again, could he know if he was now walking in circles? Again and again, around the lake, he went… Did he or did he not?

  He came to a sudden halt as something uncovered itself before him. A strange shape, something carved to the ground, as if just moments before. So new it seemed and without a touch of erosion.

  It was Atheian, and it simply read, “Forward,” and nothing else. It could be read as such only when walking at it from Kanrel’s direction, and so its purpose clearly wasn’t to suggest he walk into the lake. It wouldn’t be there to direct him toward his own death, now would it?

  He stood there for a while, then sat down. He would eat and drink something before placing his trust in something that could be there with only one purpose. To trick him. To make him more lost than he already was.

  From his backpack, he pulled out something that wasn’t very pleasant at all. A small dark box that could only be opened with magic, and when opened, it showcased a sight of surely delicious species of troglobite. The only reason he had picked this as the food he brought with him was quite simple: well preserved, it could last for decades. Of course, he wasn’t planning on staying within the Veil for decades, and he sure as hell didn’t bring enough for him to survive for decades, but even then, one ought to come at least somewhat prepared.

  Then he simply conjured some water, a bubble of water, which he then drank from the air before him. He ate the unpleasant experience that entered his mouth and drank it down with more water. He sealed the container with magic and placed it back into his backpack; at the same time, he took out another crystal, which he set alight. He again found his way back on his feet and once more read the carving that lay right there before him. “Forward.”

  Where else could he go? It was the only way that might as well exist. He walked forward for a while, still along the rocky beach of the lake, but soon enough, as he walked as strictly in a line as he could, the lake disappeared into the darkness of the Veil as it took back what Kanrel had claimed with his light for only a moment.

  More of the same revealed itself, but no more lakes for a good while, nor stalagmite forests; instead, a rocky landscape, a simple cave floor with its shapes, and often dull colors. Yet it was better than being so tempted by the lake and its darkness. It was much better than finding yourself on your knees without a sense of it being out of your own will… Yet he knew it was what he had wished in that moment. But such illusions of wants and desires, were they his originally? Were they instead whispers from a choir of faces he had seen a thousand times before? They were all around him. And they stared at him. Their eyes, their gazes observing every action. Judging everything. Calling… Him.

  Such weight. So heavy his feet had become. Disgusting. Such a disgusting existence this was. Such a disgusting world existed around him. Such a disgusting creature he was. Slowly submerged, a dwindling light in a swamp of still water.

  Why not stop for a moment longer? Why accept the loving embrace of a billion lost souls? Why not claim your place among those who understand such torment? Show me the fool who thought that he could kill a god.

  Everything is circular. Everything repeats itself, and it does so without fault. Everything repeats.

  You don’t know what comes next, but you do. You don’t know what was, not now, or what will be. Yet when looked at and carefully observed, it is all the same. Just with different names, different faces, different explanations, and different victims to an illusion of change. All through sensory illusions.

  Sanity. Is it not a thing claimed to be? Am I sane, just because I and others claim that I am?

  Or is it based on the perception of us and them? Have we all gone insane a long time ago? I believe that I have. But when? Where… how?

  A rock. Another step forward. A rock. Another step forward. A large rock. Must go around it. A rock. Must step forward.

  A disgusting feeling laces itself onto him. It drenches him with its existence. Slimy and heavy. A burden that pulls you down and makes each step feel as if taken in a swamp. Slow. He had become so slow. Yet he walked forward. His thoughts are more fragmented by the minute. In circles. He walked perhaps in circles, perhaps not. Perhaps forward, or could it be backward? A rock—a large rock. Forward, around, and forward again. Why fear becoming lost, or pondering about being lost, when it is as clear as day that he indeed was lost? He walked down a valley, or at least a slope downward. But shouldn’t he find his way back up? Shouldn’t he discover, at last, that there was such a thing as a rise after the fall? Can’t one be at least somewhat naive and hold onto such a senseless notion of hope? Why not lie down and forget yourself? Why not replace what you are with what someone else was thousands of years before you? Why not revel in the love they experienced in their life? Why not suffer the torment their last moments on this earth were? Why not embrace lost memory and face the fool who dared to claim that he could kill a god?

  Gray. Dark. Dark and gray. Stone, rock, more stone, and rock. Heavy steps. Slow. Down the valley, up the slope, through the forest, past a lake, and another one. Do not touch it. Even if you so wish to do so. Hours or just moments? Or could it be days? Asleep or awake? In the embrace of light or the shadow? Which is which, and what is what? Where is this, when is this, and how is this?

  They were everywhere… Yet he went forth. Chained eyes on the walls… They look at him. At him, a fool who wanders in a land. He has placed himself here to be judged. To be observed and seen by those eyes. Those chained eyes. A light guides him, and so the eyes stay at bay. Slow. He had become so slow. And for a moment, he closes his eyes; they are so heavy, and when he reopens them, a figure stands before him… An imposing figure. Pale and so… empty. Lifeless. Eyes that seemed to look past him, that saw through him, that saw all that there ever was and will be to him. Their pale skin was without a wrinkle; their presence was immense, even here. Even within the Veil.

  They looked at him, and he looked at them. There was a silence between the two of them. Was this the Receptionist? Why were they here? Were they even here? Was this a dream? An illusion of sorts? A strange rock formation? Yet their lips parted, and words, at last, came out: “Darshi… Some things you can only see with your eyes shut.”

  “And sometimes, you have to be truly lost to find your way…” Even their voice was the same. Hollow and without emotion, it was difficult to find meaning in their words, as all intonation was lacking as they spoke. But their eyes were the worst—gray and so dead. But even then, one couldn’t claim that they weren’t keen. Perhaps even a seemingly lifeless thing could have such profound complexity within its eyes.

  Kanrel didn’t say a word. He just stared ahead. He saw only those gray eyes.

  The Atheian leaned forward so that they could see eye to eye. “Let me close your eyes for you so that you don’t have to make the choice, so that you don’t have to be so afraid.” Their voice remained even. Kanrel swallowed and nodded. The Receptionist extended their hand toward him; their hand was cold against Kanrel’s forehead. The last thing he saw was lingering emotion in that creature’s eyes, something gentle, something almost loving. The cold hand gently swept down his face; he now saw nothing. There was no light, and now that he thought about it… There really wasn’t darkness either. His eyes were just closed, after all. He could feel the cold hand depart from his face, but then he felt multiple powerful hands all around his body. They locked around his hands, his legs, all of his limbs; they locked around his throat, and so he could not breathe; they locked around his ears, and so he could not hear; they locked over his eyes… And so, he could not open his eyes, even when he tried. He could not scream, even if he tried to yell. He could not hear, for there was nothing to hear, nothing at all…

  The strong grips around his body remained so for a while; at first, they were cold, but they became increasingly warmer by the second, and soon they flared and burned. He burned; afire, he was afire. He screamed, but there was no sound. There was just pain. It spread around his body; it consumed everything that he was—his body, his mind, and his soul—all in flames. It lasted for what felt like an eternity; it ran through him over and over again until the grips loosened and fully departed. He could see, he could hear, he could breathe…

  Kanrel gasped for air, and his eyes sprang open. His body felt as if on fire, and he found himself forming a code to produce enough water to fully drench his body. But before he released this code of his, reality finally set in, or at least a sense of it. He wasn’t in a field on a summer evening. He wasn’t in a cave surrounded by the Veil… He was… He sat up and looked around. Buildings around him, all in a very familiar style of architecture. Stone and wood, he looked up and saw the night sky and stars… There were stars. This was home. This was Lo’Gran. Had he reached the world above? Had he finally, after all these years, finally found his way back home? He jumped up but soon realized something was wrong. His body felt strange. The world around him was much larger than it had felt the last time he had walked down these very familiar streets…

  He looked at his hands. His hands. They were so small. He looked at his body. Everything was so small. Had he suddenly grown young? Had he suddenly become a child again? Or had he just awoken from a strange nightmare that had lasted for decades?

  No. None of this was real. None of this was correct. All an illusion. A memory, perhaps…