Chapter 4 – The Council of Memory
The chamber was round—perfectly so. A circle of living wood, branches grown and shaped over centuries into a dome of silken bark and crystalline veins. Light streamed down from the ceiling above in shimmering columns, filtered through thousands of layered leaves. It did not feel like a room so much as a heartbeat suspended in time.
Aurther stepped in hesitantly.
Twelve figures stood around the perimeter, cloaked in robes of varying hues—earth brown, mist silver, moss green, twilight blue. Their faces were partly hidden beneath deep hoods, but all turned toward him with unsettling synchronicity.
None spoke.
The silence pressed like an unseen wind.
Lysaria bowed her head and whispered, "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not lie. Do not touch the floor beyond the ring."
Aurther looked down. He hadn't noticed before, but he stood within a narrow circle of roots that glowed faintly beneath his feet—smooth, spiral-carved, and etched with runes too complex for his eyes to trace.
He swallowed and nodded.
The center-most figure stepped forward. The robes it wore were pale white, stitched with black thread in the form of constellations. Its voice was neither male nor female—soft, yet commanding, like falling snow on stone.
"We feel the aura of one of the Twelve."
Aurther blinked. "T… the Twelve?"
Lysaria also said something about the Twelve. They definitely had something to do with me being here. Okay… just stay calm. Don't give too much away.
Another figure stepped forward from the circle—this one draped in green leaves and gold bark, a wooden circlet around its brow.
"From whence do you come, child?"
He hesitated.
"Earth," he said finally. "A world with no magic. No leylines. No elves. At least, not real ones. I was… taken. Or sent. I don't know how."
"You are not the first," the one in green murmured. "But you are the first to survive the passage unshattered."
"I don't understand," Aurther said. "What does any of this have to do with me?"
The pale one gestured gently.
"Let us see."
Before Aurther could speak, the runes beneath him flared—blinding, white-hot light coursing up his legs, over his chest, into his eyes. He staggered back, but the circle held him firm.
The chamber faded.
And then the visions began.
He stood in a wasteland of black sand beneath a sky torn by crimson lightning. Monoliths floated, shattered and ancient, inscribed with symbols older than sound. Shadows moved across the dunes—not beasts, not men—things with too many eyes and no faces.
In the distance: a tower. Spiral-shaped. Endless.
And standing atop it—himself. Or not himself.
An older version. Eyes hollow. Hair silver. Armored in obsidian and smoke.
At his feet, the world burned.
The voice returned—quiet, shattering:
"When you understand life… and death…"
Then the vision vanished like smoke in the wind.
He was back in the chamber.
On his knees. Gasping.
The robed figures said nothing.
Until one finally stepped forward—a woman this time, tall and regal, her voice like cold metal.
"There is something cursed about you, child. Something we can't yet see."
"But what we can say is that you died."
"W…what?"
"What does t-that mean?"
"Why… why… WHY WAS IT FUCKING ME?!"
Silence again.
Then the pale-robed Elder answered.
"Because your soul was empty enough to hold it."
Aurther froze.
"Empty?"
"You died, Aurther Zen. In your world, you were unmoored from fate. You were no longer tethered to that life. And when the spiral opened, you did not resist."
Lysaria stepped forward now, frowning. "What do you mean 'he died'? He's standing right here."
The Elder turned toward her.
"He is remade. Rewritten in the root of this world. He is no longer what he was. The Void rewrites its vessels."
Aurther's heart pounded. Everything felt distant—his own body like mist.
"So I'm… dead?"
"You were," the Elder said. "Now, you are something else."
Lysaria's hand gripped his arm gently, grounding him. He didn't pull away.
"What happens now?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"Now," said the woman in the metal-colored robes, "we ask questions. And you answer truthfully."
The questioning began.
Where was he born?
What did he remember of Earth?
Who did he see before he transmigrated?
What did the voice say, precisely?
Had he dreamed? Had he killed? Had he changed?
Each question sharper than the last. A blade carving away the falsehoods of his past.
By the end, Aurther felt as if they had peeled him open and looked into the marrow.
Finally, the pale Elder raised a hand.
"Enough."
The lights dimmed.
The roots beneath Aurther's feet retracted.
He was allowed to move.
He stumbled back, and Lysaria caught him.
The Council retreated, like shadows pulled by unseen hands.
Only one remained—a hunched figure in robes of dull gray, leaning on a staff of twisted wood.
It stepped closer and lowered its hood.
An old elf. Male. Wrinkled beyond age, skin like dried bark, eyes milky with time.
"My name is Thaerion," he said. "I am the last living Lorekeeper of Elsera'Veyr. Come, boy. Walk with me."
They left the chamber through a side arch, the light behind them dimming as if the tree itself sighed.
Aurther walked beside Thaerion through quiet garden tunnels that spiraled upward. Small creatures fluttered in the air—motes of living light, or tiny fae beings that whispered as they passed.
"What's happening to me?" Aurther asked finally.
Thaerion didn't answer for a moment.
Then: "The Void does not speak in words. It speaks in silence. In absence. You are being hollowed, child. That is what it means to be reborn—or more so, to be transmigrated."
"But… will I die?"
The old elf looked at him.
"Perhaps. Or you will become something death cannot touch. That is worse, in some ways."
Aurther clenched his fists.
"What if I don't want to be a part of this?"
"Boy… history doesn't ask for permission. It only chooses its instruments."
They walked in silence a while longer.
When they reached a small courtyard, Lysaria waited there—arms crossed, eyes wary.
"What did he say?" she asked.
"A lot… a lot more than I will ever understand. Or—or comprehend."
"Then we don't have much time," she said. "You need to see the Seer of Mossglass."
"The who?"
"She's not part of the Council. She lives beyond the Old Grove, beneath the roots of the Singing Tree. She sees paths others miss. Threads even the Elders are blind to."
Aurther exhaled slowly.
More mysteries.
More names.
That night, he lay in a chamber woven from violet branches and soft, feathered moss. The city outside hummed with quiet life.
He couldn't sleep.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the tower again.
The figure on top.
Older. Crueler.
Himself… if he lost the fight inside.
"When you understand the meaning of life and death…"
The voice returned.
Only this time, it finished the sentence:
"…then you will understand who you truly are."
And then everything turned to silence.
[End of Chapter 4]