Clive had barely closed his eyes when the darkness around him began to shift, melting away like ink in water. For the first time in his life, he was not surrounded by endless blackness. Instead, he found himself standing in a warm, golden glow. Confusion hit him as he looked around. The sensation of sight was foreign and overwhelming. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Before him, the familiar scents of ale and sweat filled the air. As his eyes adjusted to the many colors around him, he looked down, trying to catch his breath. That was when he recognized the wooden floorboards beneath his feet. Keeping his gaze on the floor, he picked up the low hum of voices and the creak of chairs. These were sounds he had grown used to in Old Neil's bar, but now, by seeing, he understood what had made them.
Clive stood in Old Neil's bar, taking in every detail greedily. The rough tables scattered around the room, the smoky haze hanging in the air, and the flickering oil lamps casting dancing shadows on the walls. He noticed the cracks in the walls, the worn edges of the bar counter, and the faces of regulars he had only ever known by scent and sound. How was this possible? Was the world finally compensating for his eyesight?
Then he saw her. She stood near the center of the room. Her dark hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her eyes seemed to pierce right through him. She wore a simple maroon dress, the fabric contrasting with the dim light.
"Clive," she greeted, her voice gentle yet firm, cutting through the noise. It was the same voice he had heard telling the patrons a legend, but now it carried a warmth that soothed the confusion inside him.
He stared at her, confused. "Lady Harlingen?" The words felt strange on his tongue, like a question he had never expected to ask.
She smiled, a smile that reached her eyes. "Yes, it's me. Do I fit the description you had in your mind?" Her expression remained serene.
He shook his head slowly, still grappling with the impossibility of it all. He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if to confirm they were truly his. The rough, bruised skin was familiar, but the sight of it was not.
"What is this?" he whispered.
Lady Harlingen stepped closer, smiling. "A gift before I leave. You've lived in darkness all your life, and I think there are things you need to see."
As she spoke, the room began to change. The walls of the bar faded, and the warmth of the amber glow gave way to a cold, oppressive chill. The comforting familiarity of Old Neil's bar twisted into a landscape of devastation. The sky was crimson, the air reeked of blood, and the land was in utter ruin. Distant wails echoed, and before him sprawled a colossal figure, dwarfing everything around it. The being's skin was dry and cracked, its immense form twisted and broken. The sheer presence of the creature made Clive's knees weak. He took several steps back.
"What… what the hell is that thing?" he stammered. His voice was barely a whisper. Even when he had imagined the abominations outside the city walls, he had never conceived of anything so dreadfully magnificent.
Lady Harlingen stood a few paces away, her gaze never leaving him. Her expression was unreadable, distant, as if weighing something carefully in her mind. Her eyes flickered with something Clive could not describe before her mask of calm returned.
"This, Clive, is what remains of an elder god," she said softly. His confusion deepened. "A being of unimaginable power, reduced to nothing more than a husk."
"This is what remains of the Crimson War, Clive—a war fought among the gods themselves. A war where brother turned against brother, and all were consumed by their ambition and wrath… a war where I lost everything." Clive could feel the hurt in her words.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Let me tell you how it all began. In the beginning, the Creator, the Source, gave rise to the gods, each embodying an essential force of the world, each reflecting an aspect of the Source. Zebha, God of Light and Primordial Flame, illuminated the world, while Revi, God of Night and Mysteries, governed shadows and the unknown. Together with Hentesa, God of Primordial Waters; La'faura, God of Winds and Air; Nesa'i, God of Sorcery and Decay; and Ferho, God of Life and War, they maintained the balance that allowed the world to flourish.
For countless eons, the gods ruled in harmony. Zebha's light nourished the lands while Revi's night brought rest and reflection. Hentesa's waters and La'faura's winds gave life to the earth. Nesa'i's sorcery provided knowledge and power, and Ferho ensured the cycles of life and conflict continued.
But peace was not destined to last. Ambition and desire seeded discord among the gods. Revi grew envious of the Source's love for Zebha, who possessed the Source's most powerful aspect, the 'Whisper of Life.' Though Ferho was the god of life, he could only sculpt creations; only Zebha could give true life. Mortals worshiped the light, seeking comfort and guidance, while the night was feared and shunned.
Revi, seeking to create his own world filled with life, birthed what is known among Pathfinders as the Mirror Realm—a world opposite to ours, where horrors and abominations roam. Revi believed true power lay in the mysteries of the night, in the unseen and unknown, and that the world needed reshaping to honor these truths.
Revi's envy turned to ambition, and he found allies among the other gods. Nesa'i, reveling in decay and the unknown, joined him, seeking to weave greater mysteries into reality. Together, they aimed to overthrow Zebha and shroud the world in eternal night.
But Zebha, along with Ferho and La'faura, opposed them. Ferho understood life required balance. La'faura feared that without light, the world would stagnate.
This conflict sparked the Crimson War—a battle that shook the heavens and the earth. The gods clashed, causing skies to bleed and the earth to quake. Zebha's light clashed with the darkness of Revi and Nesa'i, while Ferho and La'faura fought to maintain balance.
In the final, cataclysmic battle, Zebha and Revi faced each other. Though Zebha was powerful, Revi's mastery of the unknown, aided by Nesa'i, proved formidable. In desperation, Zebha unleashed the Primordial Flame to burn away the darkness and restore balance.
But the power was too great. The flame consumed not only the darkness but also Zebha himself. Revi and Nesa'i seized the moment, casting a veil over the heavens, plunging the world into eternal twilight. The remaining gods were weakened, fragmented. Mortals were left to live in fear, despair, and under the rise of the Fallen—creations of the Mirror Realm.
Later, the Source orchestrated the Smithing, empowering chosen human warriors with godlike strength. From this, seven new deities were born, though only four claimed their thrones. Two thrones remained vacant—the Lightbearer and the Master of the Night. One god had no domain, ruling over nothing. Of the seven, only six were worshiped.
Clive, still struggling to understand, asked, "But… why are you telling me all this? What do you want me to do with this information?"
Harlingen's smile returned. "Revi's creatures grow stronger every day. We live in fortified cities, fearing the day a powerful abomination will destroy our sanctuary. The new gods care nothing for humanity, altering laws and rewriting history. I have been searching for a savior. I am cursed to see but never intervene. I can only tell you this—I want to make you my weapon… against the divine."
Clive sighed heavily, shaking his head. "I am blind, in case you forgot. And I despise this world as well. Why would I want to save it—or anyone else? If I had the strength, I would cleanse it in blood!"
Harlingen's eyes softened. "Because it would protect the memory of your mother, proving to her that you are special, as she always said. You do not have to love the world to save it. Save it to honor her memory. I am not asking you to be a hero, only a protector. You are blind, but you can be so much more—a Pathfinder."
Clive trembled, pointing to himself shakily. "M-me? A Pathfinder? Is that even possible for someone like me?"
Harlingen nodded. "It is. A Pathfinder's power comes from within the soul. Since I have a little time, let us begin the ritual."
Suddenly, the world crumbled around them. Clive found himself tied to a pallet. He recognized the place—it was his shack. The pallet was his bed. Gentle columns of light flickered around him, warm and alive. The scents of herbs and incense filled the air. Above him, intricate patterns were etched on the ceiling, a crimson crystal hanging down. Strange objects were scattered around the room, their purpose unclear.
A soft voice spoke beside him. "Do not be afraid. This is the ritual every seeker undergoes before becoming a Pathfinder—the Soul Pathways Ritual. It is painful, so please keep quiet. We do not want unnecessary visitors."
"Are you still manipulating my dream?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
"Both yes and no. You are in a semi-dream state. Everything you see is real. We are in your shack. Keep quiet; my time is running out." Clive clenched his teeth but obeyed.
Lady Harlingen began to chant. The candlelight flared, and the patterns above pulsed with an otherworldly glow. A sharp pain shot through Clive, forcing him to scream. Dark veins appeared across his body, his eyes turned black, and faint inscriptions formed where his pupils should be. He thrashed violently, but the ropes held. Harlingen's chant continued, her form pulsating with unearthly light. Then she pierced his heart with a dagger.
Confused and in pain, Clive stared at her with hatred as his strength drained away. Harlingen's hands remained on the dagger as she watched him die.
"Now let the path guide you back. Sacred arts—Soul Pathways." A tear rolled down her face. The crystal above Clive glowed brighter, the shack growing colder, but Harlingen remained steadfast, watching him with an expectant gaze.