The voice came first as a whisper on the stale air, then as a gentle pull, like a tide tugging at their souls.
Come, children. You are safe here. You are home.
Macy stiffened. Keith's hand went to the hilt of a weapon that was no longer there. Dove just looked around, nervous. "Do you guys hear that? It sounds... nice."
Silas's jaw tightened. "Ignore it," he said, his voice low. "It's a trap. They just want to talk us into staying forever."
Why linger in the cold grey? the voices cooed, sweet as poisoned honey. We have warmth. We have answers.
"Silas," Macy began, but he shook his head, turning his back on the pull.
Then, the Shadow's voice, a dry rustle in his mind, offered different advice. Go.
Silas froze. What? You said they were liars.
Exactly, the Shadow replied, a hint of dark amusement in its tone. One must walk into the lion's den to learn its layout. See the web to understand the spider. Go. But remember my words: this is a realm of lies, dwelled in by liars. Their smiles are weapons. Their welcome, a cage.
Reluctantly, Silas turned back. "Fine," he muttered to the others. "But don't believe a word they say."
They followed the psychic pull through the formless grey until the mist parted, revealing a stunning vista. It was a sun-drenched meadow that had never known night, filled with the scent of blooming flowers. A group of figures awaited them, their forms shimmering with benevolent light. They looked kind, their faces open and welcoming.
"Silas Livian," said the central figure, an ancestor with a grandfatherly smile. "We have waited so long to properly welcome you. All of you. The trauma you suffered is over. This is a place of peace."
The offer was palpable, a blanket of comfort after their ordeal. Dove took a half-step forward, looking hopeful.
But Silas saw it. The perfection was too sharp, the light too constant. He remembered the Shadow's warning. He saw the way the grandfatherly ancestor's eyes didn't quite crinkle at the corners, how the smile was a statue's smile—beautiful, but unmoving.
He stood firm, his own chaotic power a cold, silent knot in his chest amidst their false warmth.
"Peace is a lie when it's built on a prison," Silas said, his voice cutting through the meadow's serene silence. "What do you really want?"
Of course. Here is the short, intriguing scene.
The grandfatherly ancestor placed a soothing, ethereal hand on Silas's arm. "There is no need for such hostility, son. The war is over here."
Silas jerked his arm away, his expression one of pure disgust. "Don't touch me."
Seeing his resistance, two grandmotherly figures gently shepherded Dove, Macy, and Keith away, their voices like soft chimes. "Come, dears, let him be. We'll show you."
Dove, ever curious, asked, "So, what's it like here? Really?"
"Oh, it's just like being alive!" one grandmother crooned. "You'll feel tired, hungry… all the little sensations. It's being dead, but without the inconvenience."
Keith's eyes lit up with a soldier's practicality. "You get hungry? So you need food? Could you… starve here?"
The ancestors' smiles tightened. "Such grim questions! Later, you may explore our library. All answers are there."
Macy, cutting through the pleasantries, asked the real question. "Can you go back? To being properly alive?"
A sudden, cold silence fell. The ancestral figures exchanged a flicker of pure fear before fixing their attention squarely on Silas, who was now listening intently.
"A… a return is… not possible " the grandfather stammered. "your own passage here was an accident. A ritual gone haywire. A tragedy."
In Silas's mind, the Shadow scoffed. 'A ritual gone haywire.'
The phrase "ritual gone haywire" sparked something in Silas.It sounded too much like his own power. His curiosity overcame his disdain. He took a step forward.
"A haywire ritual? What kind of—" he started, but his thoughts were on the Shadow.but then he shouted aloud, "What do you know about it?"
The ancestors flinched,telling him that once the sacrificial candle they used was put out they had no chance of a return they were simply dead.
" A better one: where is this library? Never mind. A pointless question for ghosts." he said unintentionally, his eyes burning with a new, dangerous purpose.
The ancestors, unnerved,staring at the empty air around him. Silas caught himself instantly. He waved a dismissive hand, covering his slip with a sneer
The days blurred into a strange, structured routine within the sun-drenched illusion of the Ancestry. The ancestors, posing as benevolent guides, had them practice from dawn until dusk.
The four of them stood in the false meadow. The grandfatherly ancestor demonstrated a simple spell, weaving light into a complex, shimmering shield.
"Focus your intent," he instructed. "The ritual that brought you here was designed for this very purpose. To bring chosen ones to a place of peace, to learn, to grow stronger, and to return to Aetheria as paragons."
Keith, a quick study, grunted as a flickering shield of raw energy formed around his forearm. Dove, with a knack for precision, managed a delicate, humming ward. Macy's shield was unorthodox but effective, flaring with unexpected colors.
Silas stood apart, his brow furrowed. He mimicked the gestures, but nothing happened. Or worse, something wrong happened. Instead of a shield, the air around him would grow cold and still, or a nearby flower would momentarily turn to dust before reforming.
"Patience, my boy," the grandmother soothed, but her eyes were wary.
In his mind, the Shadow chuckled. "Why are you trying to build a sandcastle when you control the ocean? This parlor trick is beneath you."
Days passed. The others improved. Silas only grew more frustrated. During a lesson on elemental conjuration, Dove produced a dancing flame, Macy a globe of water. Silas's hand sparked with a black energy that crackled and vanished.
"See?" the Shadow purred. "Your soul rejects this mediocrity. It wants to unmake, not to create. Why do you fight it? Are you frightened of what you are?"
Silas clenched his fists, ignoring it.But the breaking point was yet to come.
It was during a lesson on healing magic. The task was to mend a cracked stone. The others focused, their hands glowing with gentle light as the fissures slowly sealed.
Silas placed his hands on the stone. He concentrated, pouring all his will into the simple act of repair. Instead, the stone didn't just crack; it silently dissolved into a fine, grey powder.
The ancestors stared in horror.
"Marvelous," the Shadow snickered. "You can't even pretend to be a sheep, can you? The wolf inside you is hungry."
That was the final straw. The days of pressure, of failure, of the Shadow's incessant, knowing voice in his head exploded.
"WOULD YOU JUST SHUT UP?" Silas roared, not to the ancestors, but to the empty air beside him. "You're always criticizing, always pushing! Well, you think you're fucking special,you're not even the first voice in my head, and you're not perfect either!"
The meadow fell utterly silent. The healing spells of the others sputtered and died. Dove, Macy, and Keith stared at him. The ancestors' kindly masks finally slipped completely, revealing cold, furious faces. The comment about "the first voice" had struck a chord of deep, personal truth they couldn't ignore.
The grandfather stepped forward, his illusory warmth gone. "Your… influence… disrupts the harmony of this place, Silas. Your arrogance blinds you to the gift we offer."
He gestured to a patch of thorny, black weeds that had suddenly appeared at the edge of the meadow, a blatant flaw in their perfect world. "Perhaps manual labor will humble your spirit. You will clear these weeds. Alone. Until every root is gone."
Silas was seething, but he was also isolated. He glared at the ancestors, then at his friends, and finally stomped over to the weeds, the Shadow's laughter echoing only in his mind. The punishment was a deliberate attempt to break his connection to the others and, they hoped, to the mysterious voice that guided him.
The garden was a punishment, but the mindless, brutal work of tearing the thorny weeds from the false earth was almost a relief. It was simple. It required no magic, no thought, just rage. Silas ripped at the vines, his hands bleeding, his thoughts a silent, furious scream at the ancestors, at the Shadow, at his brother, at the entire damned universe.
Psst.
A whisper, faint as a cobweb, brushed against his mind. Silas didn't even pause his work.
"Oh, very funny," he muttered aloud, yanking a stubborn root from the ground. "New voice? Really? Trying the 'mysterious feminine' angle now, Shadow? A little cliché, even for you."
He expected a snarky retort. None came. He kept pulling weeds.
Listen to me.
The voice came again, clearer this time. It was unmistakably feminine, and held an ancient, weary quality the Shadow's playful malice lacked.
Silas scoffed, wiping sweat from his brow with a dirty forearm. "Seriously, give it a rest. I'm not in the mood for your games today. Go bother someone who's actually buying this paradise nonsense."
He reached for another weed, but his hand froze in mid-air as the voice spoke again, not louder, but with a weight that crushed his mockery into dust.
Son of night and darkness. I know your secret.
The world tilted. A jolt, like lightning made of ice, shot down his spine. It wasn't just the words. It was the feeling they carried. A wave of dizzying déjà vu washed over him, so powerful it was a physical blow.
For a fraction of a second, the perfect, sunny meadow vanished. He was somewhere else, somewhere real. He was small, looking up at a vast, starry night sky, so black and deep it felt like falling. A different woman's voice, young and warm and fiercely protective, spoke not in his head, but in his memory, a ghost from a life erased:
"Do not fear the dark, my little star. For you are a son of the night and darkness, and it will always bbe there for you."
The memory was a flashbulb—blinding, instant, and gone—leaving only the afterimage seared onto his soul. The sunny meadow snapped back into focus, but it was spinning. The strength fled his legs.
"Whoa! Silas!"
Keith, who had been keeping a wary eye on him from a distance, was there in an instant, catching him before he could crumple to the ground. He held Silas upright, his grip firm.
"Hey! What's wrong? What happened?" Keith asked, his voice rough with concern.
Silas blinked, his vision swimming. The ancient woman's voice was gone, but the echo of the memory remained, a gaping hole in his mind that had just been briefly, terrifyingly illuminated. He looked at Keith, his face pale, his eyes wide with a confusion deeper than any amnesia.
He took a shaky breath, and the only explanation that made any sense in his shattered world was the one person who had already torn so much from him. A bitter, broken laugh escaped his lips.
"Probably," Silas gasped, leaning heavily on Keith, "my brother fucking up more of our memories."