Welcome
"Enough," Anna declares, her voice cutting through the expansive silence.
Her footsteps—sharp, staccato rhythms against the marble—carry her towards Elara.
Aether's sudden interjection slices through her contemplation like a blade. "Can I go alone?"
The synchronicity of Anna and Elara's response is visceral—twin gasps, widened eyes, a shared moment of startled disbelief.
Elara's hand rises instinctively, a protective gesture that falls away as quickly as it emerges, surrendering to Aether's determined stride.
He moves with purpose, each step measured and deliberate. When he turns, his smile is a fragile thing—more armor than genuine warmth, a mask carefully constructed to deflect concern.
"Just don't go wandering," he calls back, his figure gradually dissolving into the corridor's mercurial shadows.
Elara shifts, her hip canted in a posture of contemplation. Her fingers trace idle patterns against her arm—a nervous habit betraying her inner turbulence.
"He's different now," she murmurs to Anna, the observation hanging between them like a half-formed question.
"Different," Anna agrees, her response soft and weighted with unspoken complexities. Her arms cross—a defensive posture that speaks volumes about her underlying unease.
The scene dissolves and reforms around Aether, now navigating a landscape of impossible geometry.
Mirrored pillars rise around him, their surfaces rippling with light that seems to have a consciousness of its own.
Whispers—ethereal, persistent—begin to coalesce, a symphony of forgotten memories threading through the space.
"A squidi," he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his fingers brushing a pillar's cool surface. The touch sends ripples cascading through reflected knowledge.
"Yes."
The apparition materializes with jarring suddenness, a being of impossible contradictions.
Luminescent blue, it emanates an energy that feels both ancient and ephemeral.
Its tattered cloak moves with a grace that defies physical laws, each frayed thread a repository of untold stories.
Its eyes—oh, its eyes. They do not merely look; they perceive layers of reality invisible to mundane perception, seeing through time itself with a gaze that feels simultaneously present and impossibly distant.
"Hello," Aether says, his voice a carefully modulated instrument of caution and curiosity.
Around him, other whispers begin to materialize—spectral entities dancing at the edges of perception, previously unnoticed but now impossible to ignore.
"Yes." The whisper's response comes with the same emotional flatness as before.
It continues, its voice carrying the weight of eons, "What would you like to ask? You already know of the non-written rules, phrase it properly." Despite its attempt at neutrality, an undercurrent of boredom seeps through its tone.
Aether pauses, his brow furrowing in concentration as he carefully considers his next words.
His fingers tap against his thigh in a thoughtful rhythm. "Explain- ahem, I mean, list all the grand bibliotheca exchange list, that I can access."
"That will cost you." The whisper's statement hangs in the air like a heavy curtain.
"Yeah..." Aether responds, the light in his eyes dimming noticeably.
He raises a hand to his forehead, striking it lightly as realization dawns. "I forgot something..." His words trail off as he fixes his gaze on the whisper, which has already begun its recitation.
The whisper's voice takes on an artificial quality as it lists the exchange rates, each word precise and measured like a mechanical recording.
The information flows forth in organized tiers, detailing the cost of various types of memories and their corresponding values.
As the whisper completes its robotic recitation, Aether can't help but scoff, his lips quirking into a slight smirk.
"Even text has emotion..." he mutters under his breath, his fingers idly tracing patterns in the air.
"What should I ask?" Aether muses aloud, his question directed more to himself than anyone else.
The text begins to respond but catches itself, the words dissolving into nothing before reforming with new purpose. "Ask about the history of the De Meaux, or the original ancestor of the stem. It would help to know what people are talking about, and the benefits are numerous."
Aether's eyebrows raise slightly as he regards the floating text. "You don't know that, do you..?" His question carries a hint of knowing amusement.
"No," the text responds, its glowing texture becoming more pronounced, pulsing gently in the dim light.
Aether tilts his head back, eyes scanning the vast ceiling above before returning to the matter at hand. His fingers drum against his leg as he formulates his request.
"Uh yeah, give me a detailed analysis of the history of the original ancestor, of the stem." His words come slowly, carefully chosen.
"Whic...h... ste....m?" The whisper's voice fragments, crackling like static in the air.
"Rolhim." Aether states firmly, remembering Anna's warning about their tendency to lead people astray.
The whisper's form seems to stabilize slightly.
"That is a tier two request, and you won't be able to know everything, obviously." Its words carry a warning tone.
"Yup." Aether's response is simple but weighted with understanding. Suddenly, tears begin to form in his eyes, catching him by surprise. "Huh, I forgot how Ronald laughs again," he says with a bitter chuckle, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.
"This way..." The whisper extends its skeletal hand, the bones shimmering with an inner light that makes the sight slightly less macabre.
"Ugh." Aether eyes the offered hand with mild distaste before accepting it. As he begins to float, the whisper's voice takes on an almost awkward attempt at lightness.
"You won't be the actual ancestor, for he never shared anything. You will be the author of this knowledge. Note, it gets... fun in there." The whisper's attempt at humor falls flat, but Aether finds himself chuckling anyway, more at the attempt than the joke itself. The sound echoes through the vast space as they begin their journey into the unknown depths of memory.
"You look tired. Already losing the spark?" The whisper's voice carries a hint of mockery, its ethereal form flickering like a candle in a draft.
"And you look as unhelpful as my left arm," Aether mutters, his hand hovering before the mirror's surface.
When he finally touches it, the sensation is unexpectedly viscous, like honey mixed with tar.
He pulls back, and the mirror seems to resist, pulling at him like quicksand with malicious intent.
'It doesn't actually kill, right?' The thought echoes in his mind as panic begins to set in.
Just as the darkness threatens to overwhelm him, his fingers brush against something solid, and he lunges forward with desperate strength.
The transition is jarring – from crushing pressure to sudden softness.
"Ignot," he whispers, his eyes adjusting to his new surroundings. He finds himself reclined on an ornate chaise lounge, its velvet upholstery worn but still elegant.
The room around him is a testament to medieval grandeur with distinctly personal touches.
Massive oak beams cross the vaulted ceiling, their dark wood polished by centuries of care.
An extremely tattered fireplace dominates one wall, its mantle carved with intricate scenes of phoenix, while iron sconces hold flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the room. One specifically shows a phoenix, with black fire, as it clings to the ground, blood escaping it.
"Air-conditioning...?" he says slowly, watching a wall.
"Come out! Rigor!" The voice from outside pierces through the thick stone walls, the name tasted foreign, like a memory borrowed and believed. Aether – now Rigor – rises from the couch. His new form feels different, powerful.
He's dressed in attire befitting a warrior of this realm: a leather jerkin reinforced with strips of burnished steel, fitted trousers tucked into high boots adorned with silver buckles, and a half-cape of deep blue that catches the light like ravens' feathers.
At his hip, a sword hangs in an elaborately tooled scabbard, its pommel worn smooth from years of use.
As he opens the door, sunlight assaults his eyes with brilliant intensity.
He moves to shield them, only to find his face already protected by a light helm that frames his features while leaving them visible – a style that marks him as both warrior and nobleman in this realm.
"You're awake," Valen says, his smile as imposing as his stature. Rigor could feel a delay in time when Valen speaks—as if the realm adjusts to him.
"You're huge," Rigor observes, his voice carrying a note of wonder. How much space does one soul need?
He's seen countless variations of humanity in the museum's vast collections, but Valen's height – a towering 11'3" – is remarkable even by those standards.
"Hahah, I know that! But you are too!" Valen's laughter booms across the courtyard as he sizes up Rigor's newfound height.
For some reason, Rigor feels smaller inside, surprising Aether; it reinforces the idea that he truly feels what Rigor feels.
"Yeah, I suppose I am," Rigor responds, allowing himself a small smile. 'Nice,' he thinks, savoring this minor victory that somehow feels monumental.
The world around them is a striking blend of medieval majesty and battle-hardened fortification.
The settlement—more a fortress-city than mere town—sprawls out before them, its imposing structures built not just for their towering inhabitants, but for war.
Stone buildings rise like ancient sentinels, their spires piercing the clouds above, each topped with warning beacons that pulse with protective etchings.
Another thing caught Rigor's eyes: carvings on the same walls, demons and humans shaking hands, though hastily scratched out.
The architecture is distinctly medieval but adapted for combat—flying buttresses support soaring walls embedded with blessed iron, while gargoyles serve as more than decoration, their stone mouths modified to house ballistas and their eyes glowing with wards. Barriers shimmer like heat waves between towers, creating a net of protective energy above the city.
"Anyway, let's skip formalities and-" Valen's words are cut short as a powerful gust of wind rocks the courtyard, sending his crimson cape billowing like a war banner. Rigor notices a fresh bloodstain, and a piece of armor that's sewn shut.
"Commander Valen! Demons!" A female voice cuts through the air from above, her figure a blur against the strange sky, but her urgent tone rings clear as a bell.
Valen's entire demeanor transforms in an instant. The casual friendship vanishes, replaced by the bearing of a seasoned commander.
With a movement that belies his massive size, he launches himself skyward, the force of his departure creating a thunderous boom that shakes the very foundations of the buildings around them.
Commander Valen Thorne embodies defiant leadership. His battle-scarred dark armor, emblazoned with Ghent's phoenix insignia, features imposing rune-etched pauldrons.
A tattered crimson cape, darkened like old blood, drapes his shoulders. His helm, partially revealing his face, bears a scorched phoenix-feather crest. Gauntlets engraved with fallen comrades' sigils and sturdy greaves complete his gear.
A weathered pendant hangs from his utilitarian belt, a reminder of those he protects.
"You're late as always," the Woman in the sky calls down, her form still indistinct but her voice carrying a mix of exasperation and familiarity.
"And you're early to ruin the fun," Rigor shoots back, the words flowing naturally from his lips before Aether's consciousness can even process the response. The sensation is strange – like watching someone else speak through your mouth, yet feeling completely natural at the same time.
'Guess we have some things in common,' Aether muses internally, feeling an unexpected kinship with this borrowed identity.
The thought barely has time to form before the sky darkens ominously, promising that their reunion will be cut short by whatever threat approaches.
The air grows heavy with anticipation, and Rigor can feel the weight of the sword at his hip more acutely now. Whatever comes next, he knows that this memory – this moment – will be far more than just a simple observation, he feels it as citizens avert their gaze from Rigor, whispering.
His thoughts didn't feel like his anymore. Was that excitement... or adrenaline inherited from Rigor?
The lines between observer and participant are already beginning to blur, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Aether wonders just how deep this experience will take him.