The darkness had no weight, no texture, no sound. It was not the absence of light so much as the absence of anything that could define light at all. There was no up or down, no horizon, no reference point—only Trin, suspended in an endless, formless void.
He did not breathe here. He did not feel the ache in his limbs, the charred sting of wounds, or the weight of leather and ash. He simply drifted, like a thought left unfinished in the mind of a dead universe.
Time—if it existed—passed without measure.
At first, Trin tried to move. He reached out with hands that felt both present and ghostlike, searching for a boundary that was not there. His will stretched outward, probing for threads of creation, the familiar hum of substance waiting to be shaped.
There was nothing.
He tried again, and again, until the effort itself felt hollow. No drain, no pushback, no resistance. Just emptiness.
Eventually, he stopped trying. He folded his arms loosely, letting himself drift in a curl of silence. Perhaps this was fitting. A creator, removed from creation. A god, left only with the shape of his own regret.
He closed his eyes—not that it made any difference—and waited for the void to swallow the last of his thoughts.
"Still prone to dramatics, I see."
The voice slid into the emptiness like a familiar melody, soft and amused. It did not echo; sound had nowhere to go. Yet it surrounded him all the same.
Trin's eyes opened.
She stood—or something like it—a short distance away, as if there were ground beneath her feet and not infinite nothing. Light traced her outline first, then filled her in: white wings, now whole and immaculate, stretching into the darkness with quiet dignity; a gentle face framed by hair that shimmered like moonlit metal; eyes that had always carried quiet certainty.
"Althera," Trin said. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
She smiled, the same calm, small smile he had seen a thousand times through ages and wars. "You look surprised."
"I watched you die," he answered. "More than once, in a sense."
"Death and departure are not always the same thing," she said. "You know that better than any of us."
He looked at her more closely. There was something…different about her now. No wounds, no fatigue, no dust upon her. But there was also a faint transparency at the edges of her form, as though she were made of memory and light, not flesh.
"This isn't the field," he said quietly. "And this isn't the world I left."
"No," she agreed. She glanced around at the endless darkness. "This is in-between. A resting place carved out of nothing; a half-formed corridor between here and there. Think of it as a waiting room for impossible conversations."
His gaze sharpened. "Did you make this?"
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "I learned from the best. Eventually."
He floated a little closer, though distance felt relative here. "You interfered with the portal," he said. "Back there. With Lucifer."
"Interfered? Such an ungrateful word," she teased, then grew gentle. "I…guided it. That last tearing of reality? It wasn't just instinct and desperation. I set some of it in motion long ago."
"Explain," he said.
Althera folded her arms loosely, considering how to begin. "You remember when I first asked you what lay outside your reach?" she said. "What would happen if something tried to exist beyond the scope of your rules?"
"You were always curious," Trin replied. "More than was safe."
"Yes, well," she sighed with a ghost of humor, "you did create me that way. I spent ages moving through paths you approved of—worlds you seeded, realms you shaped. But there was always a question burning at the back of my mind: what if there was a place you did not fully own? A creation whose origin you did not oversee?"
He frowned. "Such a thing would be unstable. Dangerous. Unanchored."
"And yet," she continued softly, "you never tried. You were always…mercifully careful. Always responsible."
She met his gaze steadily. "I was not."
Trin's expression shifted—concern, disapproval, and something like reluctant pride intertwining. "What did you do, Althera?"
"I took a shot at creation," she said simply. "Outside of your scope. A tiny place, at first. A pocket of reality grown from my will, my path-weaving, my understanding of the rules you laid out. I didn't overwrite your laws, but I…bent them. Stretched them. Made a world that was mine, not yours."
The idea sat heavy in the void.
He studied her in silence, eyes shadowed. "You created a world without me."
"Yes," she said. "But not against you."
He looked away into the undifferentiated darkness. "You know what that means. What it risks."
"It means I learned that I can't be you," she replied. "There are holes. Imperfections. Flaws. But it also means there is something…new. Not fully bound to your tragedy with Lucifer. Not fully caught in his shadow."
Trin turned back to her. "Where is it?"
"Far," Althera said. "Far from the battlefield, far from his direct influence. But distance is…relative, when it comes to paths."
He remembered the void on the plain, the sudden collapse of his strength as Lucifer pressed him, the way his power had begun to drain not just from exhaustion but as if being siphoned.
"You stole my power," he said quietly.
She winced. "Siphoned. Borrowed. It's semantics at that scale."
"Althera."
Her expression sobered. "I set a failsafe inside myself," she said. "Long ago. A seed. If I died by his hand, if the Choir fell and your attention was too embroiled in trying to fix the unfixable…then the tether between us would twist. Your power would begin draining, not into the void, but toward me. Toward what I made."
His eyes narrowed. "You chose to weaken me further. To leave me nearly empty in front of Lucifer."
"Yes," she said. "So that you could be pulled somewhere he could not reach so easily. So that what remains of your power could be…re-rooted."
He studied her, hurt and understanding both warring in his gaze. "You decided this without telling me."
"I didn't want you to stop me," Althera answered. "You would have. You'd have called it too great a risk. Too cruel a burden. You would have carried it instead and broken in a way we couldn't repair."
She stepped closer. The fact that there was no ground did not stop her from standing as though there were.
"You are not just the creator of your own works anymore, Trin," she said. "My world—my attempt—is now bound to you. The drain you felt? It brought you and my creation closer, aligning them, pulling your thread into its tapestry. You will be responsible for it now. For its people. For its growth. For its survival."
His voice was low. "You made me their god without their consent."
"I made you their caretaker," she corrected. "And not an omnipotent one this time. You are diminished, pulled down closer to their scale. You can't simply fix everything with a gesture. You will have to…live among them. Learn them. Craft alongside them instead of over them."
He said nothing for a long moment.
"And if I fail them too?" he asked at last.
Her smile turned tender. "Then at least you failed trying something new, instead of dying in the ashes of the old. But I don't think you will."
"You are very certain for someone who's already died once," he said dryly.
"Twice, depending on how you count," she said. "Makes one bold."
The darkness around them pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Althera's edges grew lighter, the transparency deepening, as though she were being pulled away by a current he could not feel.
"It won't be easy," she went on. "They won't know what you are. You can't tell them everything. Not yet. But you can build. You can craft. And from that work, maybe something better than what we guarded will grow."
Trin watched her fading form, a quiet ache in his chest. "Why tell me this at all?" he asked. "You could have simply sent me there and left me to stumble in ignorance."
"Because I know you," she said. "You blame yourself for everything. You would have seen your weakness as failure, your survival as accident, your new limits as punishment."
She reached out, fingers hovering in the air. He reached back, meeting her halfway. Their hands found each other, solid against the unreal dark.
"This isn't punishment, Trin," she said. "It's a handing off. A next step. You gave us a universe. Let me give you…a smaller place to start again."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Althera—"
"You are not done," she said firmly. "Do not lose hope. Not for them. Not for yourself."
He pulled her suddenly into an embrace, the gesture both awkward and desperately genuine. She felt real in his arms—warm, light, familiar. For a moment, it was as if the Choir had not fallen, as if the battlefield had been a terrible dream.
"Thank you," he murmured into her hair.
She hugged him back, then gently pulled away. Her edges were fraying now, light flickering.
"You'll wake soon," she said. "Try not to terrify the first people you meet."
"That may depend on them," he replied.
She laughed softly. "You'll do fine. You always did better when you listened."
The void around them began to thin, the darkness unraveling into distant hints of color—greens, browns, muted golds.
"Goodbye, Trin," Althera said.
"Goodbye," he answered. "Rest, if you can."
She shook her head, smiling. "No rest for paths. Only new directions."
Her form dissolved into motes of silver light, then into nothing at all. The darkness collapsed inward, and Trin felt himself falling—not down, but toward something.
The formless void shattered into the scent of canvas and smoke.
***
He woke to the sound of fabric rustling and the soft crackle of a nearby fire.
The ceiling above him was rough-woven—stained, patched canvas stretched over simple wooden supports. Light filtered through faint gaps, carrying the smell of burning wood and damp earth. His body lay on something uneven yet softer than bare ground: a bedroll, perhaps, or layered blankets over planks.
When he tried to move, his muscles complained, a dull ache radiating through his limbs. Compared to the void, compared to the battlefield, the pain felt almost…comforting. Proof that there was still a body to hurt.
He shifted, turning his head. The tent's interior was modest but organized: a low table with a few clay cups and a metal kettle, a crate holding folded cloth, a lantern hanging from the central pole. No symbols of worship. No marks of celestial war. Just simple gear that spoke of travel and survival.
The tent flap stirred, and someone stepped inside.
It was the robed figure from the forest—the one whose staff had shimmered faintly when they examined him. The hood was down this time, revealing a woman with copper-brown skin and tightly curled black hair cropped close to her head. Her eyes were a deep, steady amber, framed by faint inked markings that traced from her temples down along her jaw in delicate lines.
She paused as she saw him awake, then let out a small breath of relief. "Good. I was starting to wonder if you were going to sleep through an entire season."
Trin pushed himself up slowly, leaning on an elbow. "How long?" he asked.
"A day and a night," she replied, moving closer. "Nearly two, if you count the times you half-woke just to frown and pass out again."
She set her staff besides the tent pole and lowered herself to sit on a nearby crate, studying him with clinical curiosity. "Can you sit on your own?"
He tried. It took effort, but he managed to ease himself up into a seated position, legs heavy beneath the blanket that had been draped over him. His armor had been loosened but not removed; someone had cleaned the worst of the soot and dried blood.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"Good. I'm Naera," she said, placing a hand lightly over her chest. "Naera of Eastridge, apprentice magus of the Arcanum of Loren. For now, at least. Titles are flexible things these days."
"Naera," he repeated, the name unfamiliar yet easy on his tongue.
"You're in the border camp of the Freewardens of Arlindale," she continued. "We're a small scouting and escort company, currently stationed near the eastern woodline. The kingdom you've stumbled into is Vaelion. Or Vaelion stumbled into you—it's hard to tell, given how we found you."
She watched his expression, gauging his reaction. He kept it carefully neutral.
"I assume those names mean nothing to you," she added.
"You assume correctly," Trin said. "Vaelion. Arlindale. Loren." He tasted each word, mapping it to nothing. "A new map, then."
Naera tilted her head slightly. "You sound…strangely calm for someone who just woke up in a strange land with no idea where he is."
"I've woken in stranger places," he said.
Her brows rose. "I'd like to hear those stories one day."
He offered a faint, noncommittal smile.
Naera tapped her fingers lightly against her knee. "In any case, you're safe here—for now. This is a temporary camp, but we're well-guarded and out of easy reach of bandits or beasts. You share the camp with myself and the two others who found you: Garran and Lysa."
"Garran," Trin said. "The armored one."
"That would be him," she confirmed. "Human. Former soldier of Vaelion's eastern legions. Now the closest thing this corner of the world has to a professional shield."
"And Lysa is the one with the bow," he added.
Naera nodded. "Lysa Windfern. Sylvan elf. Scout, tracker, and the resident expert on walking into danger with a smile."
Trin's gaze dropped briefly to his hands. They looked ordinary, save for faint, nearly invisible lines of light under the skin that only he could feel. He flexed them slowly.
Naera followed the movement, then cleared her throat. "You gave us quite a bit of trouble, you know. The magic around you was…odd. Faint, but deep. Like a well with a sealed lid."
"Apologies," he said.
She huffed a quiet laugh. "You don't have to apologize for existing. Yet."
She stood and gestured toward the tent opening. "If you feel steady enough, I can show you around. It might help to see where you've landed before we decide what to do with you."
He considered for a moment, then nodded. "I can walk."
"Slowly," she suggested.
She offered an arm, and after a brief hesitation, he accepted the support, pushing himself to his feet. The ground felt solid beneath him, the faint give of packed earth anchored by wooden planks in places. His body protested, but it held.
They stepped out into the daylight.
The camp was small but busy. Several tents similar to his stood arranged in a loose circle around a central fire pit, where a pot hung over low flames. A handful of figures moved about: a man in leather greaves tending to horses at a crude corral, a woman sharpening blades on a stone, Lysa perched on a fallen log fletching arrows, Garran in conversation with another armored fighter near the perimeter.
Beyond the camp, the forest stretched in all directions—roots, ferns, and towering trees whose branches braided together overhead. Above the canopy, glimpses of sky showed pale blue streaked with drifting clouds.
"This is the eastern fringe of Vaelion," Naera said as they walked slowly. "To the west lie the heartlands and the capital, Lorenfell. To the east…" She gestured toward the deeper forest. "Unclaimed wilds, old ruins, border threats, and whatever else the bards haven't made up a song for yet."
"Vaelion," Trin repeated, gaze sweeping the line where trees hid the horizon. "What kind of kingdom is it?"
Naera considered. "Old," she said. "Not as old as the oldest empires, if the scholars are to be believed, but old enough to have forgotten the names of half its founders. Ruled by King Aldren IV at the moment, though his council and the Arcanum do most of the actual thinking."
"Peaceful?" he asked.
She gave a small, humorless smile. "Not as peaceful as the king would like people to believe, but not as doomed as the prophets say either. We have border tensions, creeping monsters in the north, strange storms to the south, and whispers of…otherworldly disturbances." Her eyes flicked briefly to him. "You might fit neatly into the category of 'otherworldly disturbance,' by the way."
"I'll endeavor not to cause storms," he said.
"That would be appreciated," Naera replied. "Here, this is the supply corner."
She led him past crates stacked neatly beneath an oiled tarp, barrels of water, and a makeshift rack where herbs hung drying in bundles. The smells of smoke, leather, and greenery mingled in the air.
"And over there," she continued, pointing toward a pair of tents with sturdier frames, "is where Garran drills anyone foolish enough to sign on with us. We take escort contracts, scouting missions, occasionally monster-clearing tasks if the pay is good and the odds aren't suicidal."
Trin watched a young recruit practicing forms with a wooden spear, Garran correcting their stance with a barked word and a nudge of the foot. There was something quietly comforting about the ordinary rhythm of it.
Naera studied him from the corner of her eye. "You still haven't told us your name," she said.
He paused, then inclined his head slightly. "Trin."
"Just Trin?" she asked.
"For now," he replied.
She smirked faintly. "Mysterious. Garran will assume you're a fugitive noble, and Lysa will assume you're secretly a dragon. I'll let them argue about it."
They walked toward the central fire. A couple of camp members glanced their way, curiosity flickering across their faces before they returned to their tasks.
Naera stopped near the flames, turning to face him. "And what are you, Trin?" she asked, not unkindly. "In your own words. Not your secrets—just your…profession, I suppose."
He looked at his hands again, remembering stars bowing to his gesture, worlds spinning into form, souls woven from light and breath. Remembering ash and broken wings.
"I'm…a crafter of sorts," he said at last.
Naera arched a brow. "That's vague enough to be suspicious."
"Vagueness is sometimes safer," he said.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "All right, 'crafter of sorts.' You don't have to tell me what happened before we found you. Not yet. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know."
"That is…wise," Trin said.
"But," she went on, "if you want to stay, the Freewardens don't carry dead weight. You'll need to pull your share. If you can repair gear, mend structures, shape useful things…you'll earn your place."
A faint spark—tiny and fragile—stirred inside him at the word *shape*. "I can…make things," he said.
"Good," Naera replied. "We're short on good hands."
She gestured back toward his tent. "For now, rest. Eat. Try to let your body remember it's alive. We'll talk more when you've had time to breathe."
He nodded.
As she turned to leave, she hesitated. "One more thing," she said over her shoulder. "If Vaelion is not your home, and you don't know where you are…what do you plan to do, Trin?"
He looked past her, to the tree line, to the faint wind stirring the leaves of a world that had never heard his name.
"Start again," he said quietly. "More carefully, this time."
Naera studied him for a heartbeat, then gave a small, thoughtful nod. "That's as good a plan as any," she said. "Welcome to Vaelion, then. Let's see what you make of it."