Chapter 46: A Day No Different Than the Last
The order of events is said to have been laid out like this:
First there was a land.
Then a tree.
And then that tree burned down, not just any tree, but the Tree of Life itself.
Then there was a man, who sacrificed the one thing pure in this newborn world to appease the ashes that fell from the tree. Those ashes granted a gift once taken away, speaking magic back to life.
Then there was a kingdom of giants, laid to ruin.
Then there was a man, infatuated and driven by a sense of purpose to solve the mysteries of the world, to truly know why. A man not content with leaving things as they were.
This man's name was Sylas.
It's said that the first witch was beyond sane, or would it be better to say far from sane? Depends on how you look at it. But she knew the ash was more than just a natural force like air or gravity. You could take her words as the ramblings of a madwoman, or the wisdom of someone who had stepped one layer deeper into reality than the rest of us ever could. She claimed that if you listened hard enough… the ash whispered back.
This ash led Sylas to begin the construction known as Valley Deep.
It was presented as a civil project, a new advancement in housing for the elven people, a paradise better than any hut or shed they could build on the surface.
But it was a cover.
A way to reach a cave deep in the mountain.
The cave in question rested in the heart of the mountain where, from investigation, it was found that ash had seeped through and created a rich magical pocket. Once Sylas reached it, the pocket burst open, revealing a dark hollow. All the magic dissipated.
He thought he had failed.
But in truth, that was where his journey of curiosity began, because the walls seemed to speak to him. Ordered him. No… in his view they guided him down the path of truth. Blind faith in something he did not yet understand.
It was a day no different than the one before.
Sylas stood, observing the wall like he always did. Yet today something was off. Usually the walls were alive, they hummed, they drew, they whispered. Today they were still. All day they had held only one thing painted across them: a blood-red outline of the Gate on the beachside.
No more words were needed. They had already told him what needed to be done. But could he do it?
He stood and wondered what it could mean. Was this a message? A sign telling him where he should go next? Or was it less, was he sniffing out meaning where there was none?
No. He knew exactly what he needed to do.
But for the first time, he was conflicted. The steps were laid out in perfect detail, yet to view a map and to walk its journey are two different battles.
Sylas always talked a big game about purpose and how he knew his. But deep down he shoved uncertainty so far into himself it almost rotted there. He had dedicated his life to finding out what this world had birthed him for. He believed dying without knowing was failure.
And yet now, after all these years, he was an old man, having found nothing.
He was close to his deathbed. Deep down he believed one of these days he would go to sleep and never wake up, and in turn have failed. Death was natural. He accepted it. He had no fear of it.
What he truly feared was dying without knowing.
But now, as if the world had a sick sense of timing, he had to choose. Could he live with knowing what it would take to find truth?
"Father!"
Beru,Sylas' son, walked in, joyful as always. "Father," he said brightly, "would you like to know how we fare? I got good news about the Black Tea."
But Sylas' mind was elsewhere, locked on the wall.
"Since we have the girls doing manual labor in the mines," Beru continued, "we've seen a steady uplift in their strength, far beyond anything we've seen before. Lady Daramu thinks it has something to do with the change in this world, that even now, it's changing us."
Still no answer.
"She says she still needs to make sure," Beru said, "but it's looking promising."
"What do you think you were born for, son?" Sylas finally asked, voice soft. "What do you believe your purpose truly is?"
Beru's smile faltered.
"To make you–"
But Sylas smiled, finally noticing his son for the first time since he'd entered. He patted the boy's head softly before walking out.
Sylas saw a bit of himself in the boy, no, that description lied. He saw all of himself in that boy. A younger him. And for reasons unknown to him, he didn't feel love in that fact. He felt pain. Every time he saw that younger version of himself in the child, a small, deep place in his heart would ache, hot and sharp. He truly wondered why this was, since he knew he loved the boy with all his heart.
Well… almost all his heart.
Because there, in its depths, a tiny corner held a pain he could neither explain nor understand.
On the beachfront, Sylas stood before the great Gate. Its cold aura slithered along the ground like living frost.
He touched it.
Usually this would do nothing, no heat, no cold, nothing at all. It was simply there.
But this time a jolt shot through his body, dropping him to his knees. He screamed in pain.
How cruel. All this time I've come to you for answers and you said nothing. All this time I looked and you stayed silent. What could have possibly changed? Why speak now?
Tears fell from his eyes. He cared not who saw. A man who prided himself on being stoic, who taught his pupils to show no emotion, crumbled under the weight of choice.
Daramu was right, this world was changing faster than Sylas could comprehend. It was like a puzzle he needed to solve, but once he figured out a tiny corner, a whole new bag of pieces dumped onto the table, and his little progress drowned. That's how he had always felt.
Until today.
He touched the gate and, for the briefest slice of a second, a micro, minuscule, dust-speck of a moment, he saw the puzzle in full.
He believed this was what he had wanted his entire life. And now, in that single heartbeat, the full picture stood before him.
His hands buckled. His knees folded. And from his already prostrated position he collapsed entirely, face hitting the cold floor.
The tears that followed were not of joy or comprehension, they were heavy tears of unimaginable pain.
He cried.
Because in a world where knowledge is the greatest power…
and the most expensive object, beyond that of gold…
What man would not cry if the price of that might
Was all he ever loved.
What was the gate showing him this for to mock him or remind him of his failures or to punish him for wanting to know. Was this truly the work of the gate or was it something else? Could the world be so cruel as to show a man all he truly wanted and also why he could never achieve it..
And then the world froze and glitched, tearing the picture into pieces before it spoke not to Sylas but still it spoke.
And for the first time, the gate spoke, a low, angry hum, as he saw it all. Another bag of pieces hit the table, and it whispered only a few words:
Fear the day one.