Duncan's mother retrieved the digeon from his father's grasp and transitioned into the preparation phase, her movements practiced and efficient as she began cooking the creature. Duncan and his father settled onto the solid ground, the rough surface pressing against them as they positioned themselves comfortably. His father turned toward him, concern evident in his features despite the absence of conventional facial expressions.
"Son, do you feel okay?" his father inquired.
Duncan responded without hesitation. "Of course, I've never felt better."
His father's posture relaxed visibly at this assurance. "Great then. Since your mother's busy cooking, let me fill you in on this world."
Duncan's internal reaction threatened to betray his carefully maintained composure. Euphoria surged through him with such intensity that he nearly leaped from his seated position, joy radiating through every fiber of his being. Yet he suppressed this exuberance, maintaining an exterior of calm interest as he replied, "Please do, father, but make it easy to understand."
His father's tone carried reassurance. "Do not be afraid. I'll keep it short and understandable."
Duncan acknowledged this with barely contained enthusiasm. "Awesome."
His father began methodically. "First of all, you might be wondering what the name of this world is and what we are as beings."
Duncan confirmed. "Yes, that's true."
The explanation unfolded with careful deliberation. "This continent is known as Elyria, and we are the phantom beings species, which is in a bad way hated by the other races despite our friendliness due to our black complexion."
Duncan processed this information, turning the name over in his mind. "Elyria then. And what is wrong with being black?"
His father's response carried the weight of historical burden. "We were affiliated with the Darkness that once consumed half of the Elyria continent, which was cleansed by a hero who eradicated more than half of our population and drove us to this place in the middle of nowhere."
The revelation struck Duncan with uncomfortable familiarity. Genocide dressed in heroic garments—a narrative pattern he recognized from countless historical atrocities. His voice carried skepticism. "A hero, huh? If he killed so many of us, how is he a hero?"
His father's explanation attempted justification. "I know, but we used to be vicious beings in the past, and our forefathers were harsh in nature."
Duncan's sense of justice rebelled against this rationalization. "Still, I find it unjust."
His mother's voice interrupted their discourse, practical and warm. "The cooking is done. It's coming right up."
His father acknowledged her with gratitude. "Thanks, honey. I'm talking with Duncan, so sorry that I can't help out."
She dismissed his concern with easy affection. "No worries, darling! I'm managing just fine."
Duncan seized the opportunity to probe deeper. "So father, are we still evil and despised?"
His father's response carried genuine puzzlement. "No, why would you say that?"
Duncan retreated slightly, recognizing his question's suspicious nature. "No particular reason. It just crossed my mind."
His father regarded him with mild bewilderment. "You're strange, my boy."
Duncan calculated that discretion served him better than continued interrogation and redirected. "So what are the other races?"
His father enumerated readily. "There are humans, elves, dwarves, druids, cat-people, dog-people, lizardmen, and so on."
Duncan's heart accelerated dramatically at this confirmation. Humans existed in Elyria. The knowledge simultaneously comforted and tormented him. His internal monologue questioned: So humans do exist—if so, why wasn't I born as a human?
His father noticed his sudden preoccupation. "What's wrong?"
Duncan snapped back to awareness, smoothing his features. "Nothing."
His mother approached bearing the prepared digeon, her timing impeccable. "Enough chitchat now. Eat, both of you. It turned out quite good in my opinion."
His father responded with the easy praise of long familiarity. "What are you saying? You've cooked it, of course it'll be a blast."
Duncan observed with fascination as his mother's cheek region transformed to a lighter shade, the white flush spreading across the black surface despite the absence of traditional skin. The phenomenon puzzled him—was this their species' equivalent of blushing? The question lingered briefly before hunger asserted dominance over intellectual curiosity.
He attacked the roasted digeon with genuine appetite. The meat's flavor proved remarkably similar to pigeon from his previous existence, though enhanced by an underlying sweetness that elevated the experience beyond mere sustenance. The texture remained tender, the preparation adequate despite their primitive cooking conditions. Each bite satisfied not merely physical hunger but provided tangible connection to this new reality. Food possessed weight here, substance, reality that grounded his otherwise disorienting circumstances.
Duncan concluded his meal with an involuntary belch, the sound escaping before propriety could restrain it. Neither parent remarked upon this lapse, suggesting different social conventions governed phantom being etiquette. He watched as they rose in unison, their movements coordinated through years of partnership, and began addressing the dishes with practiced efficiency. Their collaboration spoke of deep familiarity, each anticipating the other's needs without verbal communication.
Duncan's thoughts drifted toward more pressing concerns. What abilities did he possess? Did phantom beings inherit innate powers, or must such capabilities be developed through training and discipline? His father had mentioned nothing regarding magical systems or supernatural talents, leaving Duncan to wonder whether such gifts existed at all. The uncertainty gnawed at him with particular intensity given his circumstances.
His current form troubled him beyond mere aesthetic displeasure. The absence of conventional features—no nose, no mouth, no recognizable facial structure—represented significant compromise. If he must endure such dramatic physical alterations, surely some compensatory advantage should accompany this sacrifice. Powers, abilities, some inherent superiority to balance the scales against his monstrous appearance seemed only fair.
Yet fairness, he recognized with growing cynicism, rarely governed existence regardless of which world one inhabited. His previous life had taught that lesson repeatedly through disappointments large and small. Why should reincarnation prove any different? Perhaps he'd simply traded one form of ordinary suffering for another, swapping human mediocrity for phantom being persecution.
The philosophical considerations exhausted him emotionally despite his body's physical vigor. His parents completed their domestic duties, his mother humming tunelessly while his father's movements carried the satisfaction of simple tasks completed adequately. Their contentment with such modest circumstances simultaneously inspired and depressed Duncan. Could he cultivate similar acceptance of limited existence, or would his memories of broader possibilities forever poison present satisfaction?
The continent's name rolled through his consciousness repeatedly: Elyria. It possessed a certain melodic quality, suggesting elven etymology perhaps, though such speculation remained purely theoretical without linguistic foundation. The other races his father mentioned painted a picture of typical fantasy diversity—the standard assemblage of species that populated countless stories he'd consumed during his previous existence. Yet knowing such beings existed in actuality rather than imagination carried profound difference. These weren't fictional constructs but genuine entities with whom he might eventually interact.
The humans particularly commanded his attention. Somewhere across Elyria's expanse, people bearing his former species walked and talked and lived their lives. Did they know of phantom beings? Did they participate in the prejudice his father described, or had time softened such animosities? Questions multiplied faster than answers materialized, each spawning dozens more in exponential progression.
Duncan recognized that patience must govern his investigation. Excessive curiosity from an infant would raise uncomfortable questions he lacked capacity to answer satisfactorily. Better to absorb information gradually, piece together understanding through careful observation and occasional strategic inquiry. His father seemed willing enough to educate him, though Duncan sensed boundaries existed around certain subjects. The Darkness particularly warranted cautious approach—his father's reluctance to elaborate suggested either painful memories or dangerous knowledge.
His mother finished her tasks and turned toward them with evident satisfaction. His father stretched, the gesture oddly human despite their species' alien physiology. These small familiarities comforted Duncan, suggesting that despite superficial differences, fundamental aspects of sentient existence transcended specific biological configurations. Love, partnership, domestic cooperation—these constants apparently survived across species boundaries.
Yet darker thoughts intruded upon this warm observation. His father's casual acceptance of historical genocide troubled Duncan profoundly. That a people could internalize such trauma, and accept partial responsibility for their own near-extinction, spoke to psychological damage beyond his capacity to fully comprehend. What must it cost, carrying such collective guilt? How did entire populations metabolize such horror and continue functioning?
These questions possessed no easy answers, if indeed answers existed at all. Duncan recognized his own privilege in approaching such matters as intellectual exercise rather than lived trauma. His parents had endured realities he merely contemplated abstractly. Their survival itself represented triumph against odds he couldn't properly appreciate.
The evening progressed with domestic tranquility that belied the day's revelations. His parents conversed in low tones, their words indistinct but their affection evident. Duncan pretended to sleep while processing everything he'd learned, his mind racing through implications and possibilities. Elyria stretched before him, vast and unknown, filled with races and powers and dangers he'd only begun to comprehend.
Whatever powers he might possess, whatever destiny awaited, he would face it armed with knowledge and determination. His monstrous appearance might inspire revulsion, his species might suffer universal contempt, but Duncan refused to accept limitation without resistance. He would master whatever abilities this form granted, would carve space for himself in this world regardless of prejudice or persecution.
The hero who'd slaughtered his people might be legend now, celebrated and revered, but Duncan would write his own story with whatever tools existence provided. His parents' quiet conversation continued as backdrop to these thoughts, their voices a gentle reminder that even in exile, even bearing the weight of historical tragedy, life persisted with its small moments of warmth and connection.
He wondered what tomorrow would bring, what new revelations awaited, what challenges this form and this world would present. But for now, surrounded by the simple sounds of domestic life, Duncan allowed himself to rest in the knowledge that he had begun to understand this strange new existence. Life in Elyria had revealed some of its secrets, and he would learn the rest in time.