"What… what is this? Where am I?" Scared and confused, Narvel turned around frantically. Even Voidscale, coiled on his shoulder, seemed to share his alarm, its eyes widening in a silent expression of dread.
Before Narvel and Voidscale stretched an unexpected sight: a pathway paved with ancient bricks that glowed faintly under the filtered light of the sky. These bricks had been weathered by time yet meticulously laid in perfect alignment, forming a clear route through a garden bursting with vibrant life.
The garden was a surreal contrast to the wild and ominous forest he had known until now.
It was filled with flowers of every hue—crimson roses, golden daffodils, deep violet irises, and delicate bluebells—that swayed gently in a soft breeze. Their fragrance mingled with the moist, earthy aroma of the garden, creating a heady perfume that was both inviting and strangely disorienting.
Voidscale could sense an immense danger emanating from the surroundings, more than it had ever perceived since its birth. The pressure of this looming threat was almost palpable, causing tiny cracks to appear along its obsidian scales as its senses became overloaded with the ominous energy of the place.
As Narvel spun around, Voidscale instinctively followed, as though it were charged with the task of guarding his back against the unseen perils that lurked in every shadow.
Narvel's heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the pathway. He wanted to run, yet he had no idea in which direction to go. He was trapped in this bewildering garden, unable to fathom how he had arrived here or where the brick pathway might lead.
The vibrant display of the garden, which should have been a sanctuary only filled Narvel with dread. It was becoming clear to him why the creatures that surrounded the tree earlier had given him such strange, appraising stares.
As Narvel stood frozen in place, a series of whispers began to permeate the air, sending chills cascading down his spine. Unlike the internal whispers he had grown accustomed to hearing in his head, these whispers were external—soft, insistent voices that seemed to brush against his ears with each word.
The sound was almost tangible as if it carried on a gentle, spectral breath. The voices layered over one another in a haunting cadence, echoing through the garden and along the brick pathway.
The language of the whisper was completely different from any Narvel had heard before, yet somehow he still understood its meaning. It urged him to walk down the pathway, insisting that it was his only way out of this eerie place.
One thing Narvel had learned about these whispers was that they could be dangerously misleading. Very rarely, they proved accurate—much like the time the whispers in his head advised him to activate his Mind's Eye back on Earth.
But more often than not, their guidance was a ruse.
Distrusting the disembodied voices, Narvel chose instead to turn around and walk in the opposite direction. He had taken only a few hesitant steps forward when he paused, an instinctive alarm signaling imminent danger. Just as he was about to continue along this counterintuitive route, his instincts raised further alarms in his mind.
The whispers persisted, urging him forward, and at that moment he realized another unsettling truth: Which way was forward and which was backward?
For all he knew, he could be walking exactly the path the whispers desired him to follow. In desperation, Narvel attempted to activate his Mind's Eye, hoping to pierce through the murkiness of deception and reveal the true nature of his surroundings. However, aside from slowing his perception of the world to a crawl, nothing about the landscape changed.
This is not a test of sight, nor is it a test of might. These are the Petals of Wills. The whisper intoned, its voice shifting for the first time into a language that Narvel could understand. After speaking this cryptic message, it reverted to the strange, unfamiliar tongue with which it had begun.
"A test? Who is testing me?" Narvel asked hesitantly, his voice echoing faintly in the surreal silence. He waited, straining his ears to catch any further response, but only silence answered him.
The feeling of imminent danger continued to swell around him. Voidscale began to make anxious noises, its body language urging Narvel to choose a path, yet he was uncertain which route was safe and which might lead him to peril.
After much deliberation, Narvel turned around once more and began walking in the opposite direction. With each measured step he took the oppressive sense of danger gradually subsided until, for a brief moment, it vanished entirely. But just as he thought he had escaped its grasp, a new surge of imminent danger erupted—a sensation even more potent than before.
Forced to come to another stop, Narvel couldn't shake the feeling that he was being toyed with, manipulated by forces beyond his understanding. In a sudden decision, he turned around yet again and resumed his journey down the original pathway. With each step he took along this seemingly predestined route, the oppressive danger receded incrementally.
"What sort of test is this?" He wondered aloud, his voice trembling with a mix of frustration and apprehension. Stopping at a small clearing where the pathway widened, Narvel looked down the path and spat out, "Be damned with your test."
With that declaration, he decisively stepped off the pathway and into the garden that bordered it.
The moment his foot touched the lush, dew-dappled grass of the garden, the whispers abruptly vanished and the persistent wind that had carried them seemed to die down as well. The garden, bathed in soft light and framed by vibrant, meticulously tended flower beds, appeared as an oasis of calm amid the eeriness.
Every detail of the garden was vivid—a mosaic of colors from blossoms that clustered in neat, natural arrangements, and an inviting fragrance that contrasted sharply with the cold whispers of the pathway.
Then, as he took his second step into this serene environment, it was as if the earth itself had contracted beneath him.
In an instant, Narvel felt like he had traversed eons of distance in mere seconds.
By the time his third step landed, the world around him had transformed dramatically, and Narvel found himself standing in a dark room. The pervasive darkness lingered only for a few heartbeats before two points of light emerged in the gloom.
Or rather, two faces came into view. It was difficult for him to discern much detail at that moment. The faces, which appeared to be positioned close to him, were illuminated by a peculiar light emanating from beneath their chins, as though each were holding a small torch just below its jawline.
This subtle illumination cast long wavering shadows over their features, rendering only the outlines and shapes of their faces visible to Narvel.
"They are trying to use the Reapers against us," the face on the right suddenly spoke, its voice shattering the silence and intensifying Narvel's growing terror. The words carried an urgency that made his pulse quicken.
It was not that this face intended to cause alarm; rather, it was a being of higher frequencies—a creature whose existence and communication Narvel could scarcely comprehend. Its tone, though measured, conveyed a deep familiarity with the forces at play.
"Don't fall for their trap," the face on the left replied, its voice calm and resolute. "Just because I took from the Reapers doesn't mean that we will automatically become their targets. Besides, they do not possess the will to choose whom to attack. As long as we abide by the rules of the Crucible, among other things, they will leave us be." The reassurance in its tone was tempered with a hint of admonishment as if it bore the burden of past transgressions.
"But I—"
"Have you forgotten that the Crucible is all about taking?" The face on the left interjected sharply. "Do you truly believe we will be reprimanded? Tell me, what have you done wrong? I am the one striving to forge a weapon from this chaos; you are merely a friend who tagged along." The tone was both scornful and matter-of-fact, cutting through the tension in the dark room.
"Just a friend?" The voice of the face on the right became unmistakably clear in Narvel's ears, its timbre unmistakably feminine. There was a quiet incredulity in her words as she continued, "For over 400 years we have traversed this nightmare together, and yet you reduce my role to that of merely a friend." Her voice resonated with a mix of hurt and frustration, echoing in the silent expanse.
The face on the left, sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, and now unmistakably masculine. "You know what I mean," it murmured, its tone laced with both exasperation and resignation.
"No, I don't," the female voice insisted firmly, her words slicing through the dim atmosphere. "Make it clear for me, here and now, so that I don't continue to misunderstand and waste another 400 years of my life." There was a determined edge in her plea, a demand for clarity amid the swirling mystery of their predicament.
"This is my problem, these are my troubles," the face on the left declared. "I was the one who angered these powerful forces, and I will face them on my own. I will transfer all of my wealth and inheritance to you, including this weapon… you of all people know and understand that I won't give this weapon to anyone who is merely a friend." The statement carried the weight of a vow, an admission of responsibility and sacrifice that hung in the air of the darkened room.
The figure on the right—the owner of the feminine voice—bent her head and looked downward. Though Narvel couldn't see what exactly held her gaze, he could only assume that it was upon the symbols of the man's inheritance. Her eyes, luminous and sorrowful, shimmered with an emotion that transcended words.
"If love is just a word… then why does it hurt so much when you realize that it isn't there?" She whispered, her voice barely audible yet laden with profound melancholy.
For a long moment, silence enveloped the space between them, as if the very air mourned the loss of something intangible. Then, as if stirred by her heartfelt lament, an aura suddenly exploded forth from her.
The darkness fractured around her, and the sky above seemed to fold in upon itself, as though a great calamity were about to descend from realms unseen.
Although the figures of these enigmatic beings were still shrouded in shadow and appeared to have drifted far from Narvel, their voices and the intense vibrations of their presence reached him as clearly as if they stood right beside him. "I don't want your inheritance! I don't want your mixed words, because all I do is ponder on them and form conclusions that never truly satisfy me. I want you to speak plainly—to say the words to me that I need to hear," came the urgent, impassioned reply from the figure on the right.
A pause stretched between them, thickening the atmosphere…
"You know… I…" The man began, but his words were swallowed by the growing tension.
The longer he remained silent, the harsher the winds became outside, as if nature itself was echoing her demand for truth.
Then, with a deafening explosion that shattered the eerie calm, Narvel saw something hurtling towards him. An object—its form only vaguely discernible amid the chaos—rushed past, and in the blink of an eye, a crushing force struck his stomach.
That was the last sensation Narvel felt before everything faded to black. He had passed out.