The dull, ashen landscape was locked in an everlasting twilight.

How long had he been running? Without the passage of the sun, he could not be sure.

He thought he had lost the creature in the forest, if the dry spindly husks that poked out of the grey ground could even be called such. He had led the horror there, hoping the increasingly dense ‘trees’ would impede its massive form. It was there that the thing had dropped its mask.

Its form had morphed into a mass of limbs and mouths, each seemingly taken from a different creature. It had torn into the obstacles, unwilling to let its prey escape. Yet for all its rending, ripping and snapping, it fell behind. He had been the first to emerge from the thicket.

It had been a close thing; he was sure of it. A few moments later, and he would have been out of sight, forcing the monster to search for easier prey. At least, that had been the hope. A hope that had been dashed as the thing appeared before he could reach cover.

Gase scanned the area, looking for something that might be of use. After the forest, the ground had started to flatten out. The trees had become sparser, replaced with rocks until those too faded. He had no cover or obstructions he could leverage now.

He looked ahead, towards the strange ruins in the distance. The destination he was aiming for. A foolish thought, he knew. The creature was much closer to him than he was to the ruins. He might as well have been trying to turn back time, but the mere thought of what he had seen in that eyeless gaze kept his legs moving.

Legs that would have collapsed long ago, if he still had a physical body. The white matter that made up his form seemed to have different rules.

It was one of the first things he learned in this place; exertion would cause numbness to spread throughout him, which would accumulate until he rested. It was why he had been able to keep going for so long, but he could tell he wouldn’t last much longer. Already he had pushed himself further than he had before. He couldn’t even feel the ground under his feet anymore. He instinctively knew that he should stop and rest, but he could not.

Against his better judgement, he risked a glance back and saw his pursuer. It was far too close for comfort.

50 strides? 60?

It was back into its old form, that of a monstrous three-headed hound. A grisly mask, he now knew. Its massive paws pushed off the ground with an ease that belied the size of the misshapen thing. The black matter of its form rippled with oversized muscles, or whatever the equivalent in this place would be. Its heads swayed through the air as it casually trotted after him. The only thing more horrifying that that mask was what it hid beneath.

The creature had won, and it knew it. Now it was basking in the victory, no doubt savouring the meal to come.

For a moment, time seemed to slow down as his gaze reached that of the monster. Where its eyes should have been was a mass of darkness so deep that it seemed to tug at him, trying to pull him in. Then the moment passed, and Gase saw the corners of the left head’s maw pull up in a horrible mockery of a grin.

An instinctual fear bored its way into his mind, reminding him of why he ran and causing a shudder to run through him.

A mistake.

He felt his foot strike some protrusion in the ground, his gaze breaking away from the beast as he tripped. Years of training kicked in as he tucked his shoulder in and rolled with the fall bring him back to his feet.

Cursing himself, his head snapped back to the beast only to find the space empty.

Where is-

A loud crash beside him sent a shock through the ground. He jumped to the side but was too slow to avoid its jaws. They snapped shut into the side of his chest. The head yanked him up into the air and shook. His vision blurred as his head snapped from side to side.

Then suddenly, he was weightless. Flying through the air before plummeting down. He struck the ground hard enough to bounce off before falling into a heap as a sensation he had thought lost made itself known.

Pain.

A mind splitting agony more profound than any he had ever felt in his life permeated through his side. It tore a ragged scream from his throat. He looked down. A layer of the white matter had been stripped from his chest. Around the wound, a black substance spread. He could feel it. It worked its way deeper into him, squirming and writhing as it corrupted the white matter of his form.

The pain flared only to be overpowered by despair. A sense of loss that stemmed from deep within. He could feel himself slipping away. He screamed. His arms flailed as he tried to fight what was happening through sheer will.

He scratched grooves into the ground and felt his hand close onto something. He squeezed as hard as he could and grit his teeth. With a strangled cry, he rose to his feet. In his hand, he held a bone. Why there were bones in this place that didn’t welcome flesh or blood, he couldn’t even begin to contemplate.

With tears in his eyes, Gase turned towards the monster that was stalking towards him.

“Come on then!” He shouted. He raised the snapped bone as the losing war raged within him. If he was going to meet his end here, he would do so on his feet.

The creature paused for a moment. One of its heads tilted as it considered its prey. Then another snorted. Its muscles of black matter tensed as it prepared to lunge.

Gase’s hands were clenched against the mounting anguish when he felt something new. Through all of the pain, a strange sensation ran through him. It felt as if something was reaching out. It pulled gently at the barren landscape. He might have missed it were it not for the sharp contrast it had to the pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a ripple in the air, moving over him. Gase felt it brush against his mind. It was starting to pass him when the agony of the corruption spreading through him flared. His resolve cracked against the torment and a desperate hope that sparked in his mind.

Frantically, he reached towards the retreating force. It turned and latched onto him. A white glow surrounded him and quickly grew in strength. Symbols, pulsing with light, flashed across his sight. Through them, he vaguely saw that the creature had backed up a step and cautiously observed the phenomenon.

He clung onto the light as it started to pull him away from his doom. Agony surged through him as he felt the corruption digging deeper into his being, unwilling to let the prey escape.

The creature, having finally made up its mind, lunged at him with a snarl.

The last thing he saw was the oversized jaws approaching him before he the white light intensified, ripping him out of the bleak reality.

He awoke with a start to a blinding light. He bolted upright and slammed his head hard against something, eliciting a yelp of pain from a voice.

“Night's whore!” The voice cursed, coming from his side.

Confusion clouded his mind as he blinked repeatedly and tried to shelter his eyes from the light hovering before him. His sight slowly returned, and he found himself looking at the back of his hand. The hand was thin, the light behind it causing the edges to glow red. He looked on as he slowly moved his fingers, feeling the muscles contracting and expanding as he did so.

For some reason, the sensation felt nostalgic, as if it were an old friend, returned after a long absence.

He frowned, but before he could ponder the feeling further, something else drew his attention. He could hear the sounds of someone or something shuffling in the background. He dropped the hand and sat perplexed at the sight of a sphere of white light, hovering in front of him. The light illuminated the bronze table he was sitting on. He looked down at himself to see a stained shirt. It was coarse and uncomfortable with holes in the roughly weaved fibres. His pants were made of leather and patched so many times with various pieces that it was an amalgamation of faded brown.

He squinted at the sight of something other than listless tones of grey he expected. His frown deepened as his confusion grew.

Grey? Why would…

He tried to focus on the thought only to have it slip through his fingers like a fading dream.

Where am I?

“Next time I’ll make sure add restraints,” A voice grumbled to his side. It was the same voice from earlier.

He turned and saw the face of a middle-aged man with wild brown hair. The man had a hand pressed against his nose, a thin line of blood running down it. A white glow emanated from the man's hand for a moment. Removing his hand, the man wiped the blood off of his face before turning back to him.

Green eyes as sharp as knives seemed to cut through his flesh to peer at his soul. The displeasure in the man’s face drained away along with all other emotion, save for a faint hint of glee in those green eyes.

“Hmm,” the man mumbled, inspecting him. “seems to have worked.”

Worked? What worked?

“How do you feel?”

A question. And it was directed at him. How did he feel?

“Nausea? Pain? Any discomfort?” The man continued.

“Headache,” his voice cracked as he spoke, his throat dry. He hadn’t even noticed it before the man asked. Now that he had, his head seemed to throb with every word. “What happened?”

An image flashed through his mind, one of endless fields of grey. It faded as quickly as it had come.

No, that’s not right. He tried to remember how he got here. The headache spiked as a sudden influx of memories caused him to winch. The flood grew until he felt like he was drowning in the deluge of experiences. And then, it was over.

He was Y’rid, he remembered now. He had agreed to participate in an experiment of the mage. Yes. One involving resurrection magic. He was going to die and then be brought back. Why would he… gold. Yes. Six pieces. Enough to do something with his life.

He shut his eyes. No. That’s not right.

“Confusion. To be expected, really. Not every day a person gets pulled back from death’s grasp.”

The words barely registered. He remembered living on the streets in Riversedge. He was a beggar, a thief, an alley rat. He was whatever would fill his belly that day. Had been like that since his father died to the last horde. He heard about the mage offering a reward for volunteers for an experiment he was conducting. He remembered hearing rumours that the previous volunteers had died. But he few options left.

Didn’t he?

He was too old. Getting caught stealing a loaf of bread when he was younger earned him a few slaps from the guards. He remembered getting caught three days ago and being beaten half to death, tossed out of the city in his own blood. That was the last time he ate.

More of his memories played out in front of him. He could remember the desperation he had felt. He could remember as it had faded to resignation.

But it felt wrong. It didn’t fit. None of it did. Like it didn’t belong to him, as if he was watching his life happen from the outside.

Y’rid.

Even his name felt strange even though he had heard it his entire life. Familiar, yet not.

A loud sound forced his eyes open. He saw two fingers snapping nearly in his face, trying to get his attention.

“Focus,” the wild-haired man said, looking at Y’rid expectedly as he leaned over him.

“Hm?”

The man frowned. “I asked whether you remember anything after dying.”

Dying?

The question was asked as though it was only natural. Resurrection. The mage had gone over it briefly with him when he agreed to be his test subject.

Y’rid stared up at the man, incredulity rising at his own acceptance of such a thing.

Impossible.

Except, why would it be? Resurrection magic was known to exist, even if it was rare and reserved for those far above his station. He knew this. Everyone did.

So why did it seem so ludicrous? His concern grew larger as he struggled with the dissonance in his thoughts.

“Damage to the mind? Perhaps a problem with recovering the spirit?” The mage mumbled as he straightened and walked to the side of the room. Y’rid’s eyes once more found the sphere of light as it floated in the air, following the man, seemingly free from attachments. With some effort, he pulled his gaze away from it and turned his eyes to follow the mage as he walked over to a nearby desk stacked with open books and scrolls. The mage reached out and picked up a small leather-covered book and a quill with which he started scribbling in the book.

Taking the opportunity, Y’rid quickly scanned his surroundings, hoping to find some clues to help make sense of the mess inside his mind. The bronze table he was sitting on stood in the centre of a large room with unadorned walls of stone. There was little else in the place other than the desk and the table beneath him, giving it an empty feeling. The table, he now realised, was covered in strange symbols. Symbols that looked utterly alien yet oddly familiar at the same time.

He had seen such symbols before, nearly every day, in fact. On the city gates, in the temple, on the gear and trinkets of hunters. It was only to be expected to find them here, in the tower of a mage. They were runes, a form of magic used by the favoured and the blessed. He knew this, had learned this.

Hadn't he?

The mage turned back to him. “Any nausea, dizziness?”

“No,” Y’rid said, focusing on the man. “Just a headache.”

The mage nodded and scribbled down something in the book. “Any obvious gaps in your memory? Things that happened in the past?”

“…There might be,” Y’rid said as he struggled to find the right words. “It feels like something is… off."

The mage pursed his lips. He then began scribbling in his book again while mumbling to himself. “Tension of the spirit? Might be some strain from reconnecting the two.”

He pulled open a drawer and took out a silver amulet. As he held it in his hand, runes began to light upon its surface. A groan escaped the mage, the symbols flickering before winking out. The man reached over to steady himself on the desk. Y’rid saw the orb of light above him flicker for a moment as well before it stabilised.

“Too much,” The mage muttered with closed his eyes. He straightened and massaged his temple with one hand, peering down at the amulet clutched in the other. He pulled out a chair from the desk before slumping into it with a sigh.

“So?” The mage asked, exhaustion leaking into his voice. “What do you remember of what happened?”

Y’rid sifted through his memories, trying to recall what had happened before he woke up. The scenes played out in his mind. He could remember reaching the mage's tower, he could remember talking to the man assistant. Yet, again, all of it felt off somehow. The actions he had taken, the way he had spoken.

He pushed his concern to the side for a moment. “I remember coming here. You told me to lie down on the table.” – He paused with a frown – “It seemed so cold in the room... I felt so tired.”

“Nevermind that, what happened after? Do you remember anything from the Beyond?”

Y’rid gaze was unfocused as he looked at the man, trying to remember. It seemed as though there was something at the edge of his thoughts, just barely out of reach.

Grey and lifeless.

Feeling his headache returning, he shook his head. He doubted the mage was looking for a colour. “No, nothing. Is that bad?”

“No,” the man said with a sigh. “It is expected if anything. Though I had hoped the adjustments might reveal something. Perhaps if I…”

The man trailed off, though Y’rid knew the mage was talking more to himself than to him.

“So it is normal then, to not remember things?" Y’rid asked both concerned at the thought and relieved that he might have found the origin of this strangeness. If it was expected then surely it could be fixed.

The mage still massaged his temple while he waved his other hand through the air as if tho brush away Y’rid’s concern. “Not remembering what happened after you die isn’t something strange. Nobody remembers that. Alenin’s theory is that your soul gets pulled to the void when you die. A place devoid of anything, hence the name. With nothing in it, no new memories can be formed, for there is nothing to form them.”

The tone the mage’s voice took when he spoke of the theory suggested to Y’rid that he didn’t think very highly of it.

“And for memories to feel as if they don’t fit? Is that normal too?”

“…No, it is not. Probably just some leftover discord between your spirit and body. It should go away soon, as they realign.” – The mage started tapping on the desk as he stared out in front of him. – “Shouldn’t have taken so long though. A side-effect of the altered array? Maybe a problem with one of the lines?”

The mage turned back to Y’rid. He had an eagerness in his expression that shone through his apparent exhaustion. “'Ill-fitting' memories is a small price to pay for not dying. Though I’m going to have to do a couple of tests to find the reason for this.”

“You shouldn’t look so concerned,” the mage continued. As he spoke, the eagerness in his eyes grew to an almost fanaticism. “You are the first person to be brought back from the dead without a human sacrifice. Do you have any idea what this means?"

The man stood up, only to sway for a moment. He groaned and slowly sank back down into the chair as the orb of light flickered once more.

“Never enough. Going to have to wait until tomorrow,” The mage muttered. He reached out and picked up a pouch from the desk, overturning it to spill out its small horde of gold. He picked up three of the coins and stuffed them back into the bag before tossing it at Y’rid. “Be here tomorrow at sunrise for the other half. We will continue then. Take note of anything that seems out of the ordinary. Any impaired reactions, tiredness, anything, clear?”

Y'rid looked down at the pouch he caught and nodded.

"Good," The mage said. "Find my assistant, she'll show you out."

Y’rid looked back at the mage, but the man seemed to have already dismissed his presence from his mind. His focus was solely on the book and the notes he was making.

For a moment he considered asking the man for more information but decided against it. The mage had said this sense of wrongness should go away as his body spirit realigned. Whatever that meant. But more than that, he wanted some time to sort out all his thoughts.

Y’rid swung his legs over the edge of the table but stopped as he stared at the ground. The table was built into what looked like a large bronze disk. In fact, he couldn’t see any joinings, suggesting it was all one piece. The circle was covered in the strange runes, many more than was on the table itself. They surrounded it in several intersecting lines and circles, almost blending into one another.

With a shake of his head, he pushed himself off the table and onto the floor, stumbling forward a bit. He frowned as he looked down at his body. The hard shirt, woven from plant stems, he know remembered, was more rag than shirt. It barely covered his torso, and its many holes revealed a thin, almost emaciated, chest. His arms were long and wiry, whatever fat they had once held had been consumed by his body long ago. Once again he was struck by a sense of wrongness.

For a moment, he saw himself looking down at thick, calloused hands that gripped onto a sword. The image faded as quickly as it had come, slipping away from him as he tried to grasp it.

He shook his head and started walking to the door. He needed to get out of here. He needed to find someplace where he could think.

Ivy’s expression was set in a frown. With a huff, she brought down the pestle onto the mageroot lying in the mortar with perhaps a bit too much force as a few drops of the sap, worth its weight in gold, flew past the rim to hit the table.

She stopped and placed her hands on the table with a sigh as she closed her eyes, trying to calm down. She couldn’t afford to waste any of the valuable ingredient, not when there was barely enough left to make a few vials of the inscribing medium.

She felt a flash of frustration at the thought and took another deep breath. Sooner or later, they were going to run out. Sooner, if her master had any say in the matter. He seemed fully intent on wasting all of the supplies on his fanciful idea of rewriting the pinnacle of all healing spells. Worse still, he outright refused to perform or even teach her the original.

She dragged a hand through her hair as she thought about him all but shoving the lord Ayten’s retainer out of the door two weeks ago. The man had arrived out of breath and requested of her master to resurrect the lord Ayten’s second son. Apparently, his mount had thrown him, and he had broken his neck at the fall.

The payment offered would have been able to supply all the experiments her master wanted for a few terms, not to mention that being owed a favour from one of the most influential noble families in the city would have been worth nearly as much as well.

‘Pay attention and learn as all you can,’ her father had said when she left nearly eight terms ago. ‘Mage Lerann studied under Alenin himself. This is a change of a lifetime. Most would kill to be in your shoes.’

And here she was, after eight terms of study, mixing inscription solution and thinning it as much as she could to stretch the meagre supplies. She already knew enough to inscribe a few decent rune arrays and even become a competent healer. She could return to her home city and make a small fortune using only that. Her family would undoubtedly be overjoyed to have her back as their status would soar. With her moderate talent, she could slowly strengthen her spirit and trade with other mages for knowledge. She had learned a few tricks in her time here, after all.

In short, she could be mediocre. She wanted more. Even if mediocre for a mage meant an extraordinary life by anyone else's standards.

She sighed. Even if her master's actions sometimes drove her up the wall, Lerann’s ability with healing magic was beyond question. She still couldn’t even begin to approach his level of knowledge and expertise, and learning a spell like resurrection from elsewhere would be nearly impossible. Mages tended to guard their such spells closer than a merchant guards his coin.

This was the best place for her to be. She knew that, but how long could she hold out against this ridiculous fantasy? Perhaps she could convince him to abandon this pursuit. She snorted at the thought. The sun would rise in the Night before that happened.

She thought back to the young man, a few terms younger than herself, who had arrived this morning. Another one lured to an early death by a few coins. What a waste. Both of his life and the materials used for the ‘experiment’.

“Am I interrupting?”

She gave a start, her head snapping up to stare at the person she was just thinking about.

“The mage said you could show me out?” He asked.

She quickly composed herself while mentally cursing for getting too lost in her thoughts to hear his approach. Mage’s aren’t supposed to scare that easily.

“Sure, follow me,” She said as she turned and walked to the stairs leading to the first floor.

“Was the spellwork postponed?” She asked, taking care not to let her own feelings on the subject leak into her voice. It wouldn’t do to drive away her master’s test subjects. Perhaps after enough failures, even he would see reason?

“No,” The man answered. “Though the Mage said I should come back tomorrow for more followup tests.”

Her footsteps slowed before coming to a halt as her. She turned to look at him with a frown. “The spell was performed?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him a moment longer trying to figure out where the miscommunication was before realising there was none. “It… worked?”

“Yes?” He said with some hesitation, making the word sound more like a question.

She barely registered his reaction. The word echoed around in her head, sending her thoughts into disarray.

It worked? It actually worked?

“Are you alright?” The man asked, sounding worried.

“…yes,” She muttered in a daze and turned back to walking towards the stairs.

If what he said was true, then her master had just succeeded in improving spell from the Golden Age, something that was unheard of. The Golden Age was the pinnacle of magic. Spells created then were perfect. You don’t just improve one.

She glanced back at the man as he followed her. He walked with a frown as if contemplating some difficult task, but he was here. Alive and well.

Her master had actually managed to bring someone back from the dead without sacrificing another. Slowly the implications of that statement set in and she unconsciously increased her pace, hurrying to show him out.

This changes… everything.

Her mind was still processing the new information as they reached the door to the tower. It was a massive thing of bronze, with a circular array of runes inscribed into it. Running on habit, her hand reached out, and she forced her will into the runes, causing them to pulse with light as the door unlocked and opened.

The man said something that didn't quite register other than the fact that he had spoken to her. She gave him a smile and a nod, assuming he was thanking her and practically closed the door in his face.

She removed her hand from the door. For a moment, she stared at the door as the light of the runes disappeared. Then she turned, practically running up the stairs to where her master was no doubt documenting what had happened.