Chapter 13 – Speaking With the Unknown (1)

After the Fall of the Old World, along with the irrevocable distortion of reality, the very structure of the planet underwent a deep and irreversible twist — mountains rose where once there were seas, continents stretched, and the sky took on hues never before seen.

Flora and fauna, exposed to the unknown forces that followed the Fall, suffered drastic mutations. Trees that breathe like lungs, vines that move in search of warmth, sentient forests that react to human presence.
Animals extinct for millennia returned in grotesque forms, and new predators — born of a corrupted ecosystem — emerged with abilities that defy reason. Even vegetation can kill — some species emit toxins that affect memory or induce visions, confusing travelers and soldiers alike.

Humanity, already weakened by its arrogance, was dragged time and again to the brink of extinction. The great empires crumbled, their technologies became useless relics, and the cities — swallowed by mutant vegetation or consumed by unpredictable chasms — turned into tombs of human pride. Over 90% of the land was under the control of forces humanity had no way to defeat.

But after centuries of bloody struggle, countless sacrifices, and painful adaptation, the survivors managed, little by little, to reclaim fragments of the planet. Through strength, cunning, and pacts — not all of them human — enclaves of civilization rose amid the chaos.

Among the still-habitable territories, three major nations stood out as bastions of humanity:

At the center, the High Convention of Ylliria, cradle of arcane knowledge and diplomacy. The nation most bound by law. Built atop the ruins of an ancient metropolis, Ylliria became a beacon of reason in the madness of the new world. Its libraries house grimoires, fragments of lost science, and treaties with entities beyond reality. Governed by a court of Judges, the Convention sustains itself through wisdom and balance — though its internal intrigues are as lethal as any mutant beast.

To the north, the Federation of Ishtar, a militarized and disciplined powerhouse, guardian of continental routes and of the walls encircling the known world. Born from the ashes of warring city-states, Ishtar prioritizes order, survival, and strength. Its armies — mechanized, heavily armed, and relentless — patrol vast contaminated zones, keeping at bay horrors that lurk beyond the Rusted Mountains. Its military scientists were the first to merge Old World technology with arcane elements.

To the south, the Principality of Belgrad, land of ancestral honor, unbreakable traditions, and ancient pacts. In Belgrad, a word still carries more weight than gold, and codes of conduct are passed down like relics through families. Many who live beyond its walls call Belgrad "the last sacred soil," where the land still obeys the seasons and rivers still sing forgotten names. Its knights and orators are respected — and feared — for their faith in the power of oath and soul.

Despite the dominance of these three great pillars, the world is not unified. Other nations and independent organizations flourish — or survive — in the shadows and margins of the mutated continent.

Together, these nations, beneath the wings of the three major forces, upheld humanity's precarious balance, protecting the last bastions of the human race from the horrors now lurking in the shadows of the new world.

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At the heart of Ylliria, in its capital Iliad — surrounded by other gleaming, enchanted glass towers — stood a high-level medical facility, discreet among suspended gardens and magical barriers, set apart from the crowds' bustle, as if guarding something sacred or far too dangerous to be exposed.

There, within a translucent containment chamber, encased in cables, monitors, and arcanotechnical inscriptions pulsing in blue and amber, lay a young man.

His body, motionless, floated in gentle suspension, as if asleep between the world and the void. His pale skin betrayed months — perhaps years — of unconsciousness. His hair, once dark as night, had faded into silver strands, as if time had touched them ahead of schedule. And even with his eyes closed, there was a slight tremor, a subtle movement beneath the lids — as if he were dreaming… or resisting.

Dreams the waking world would never dare to comprehend.

Beside the capsule, a middle-aged doctor, thin and hunched, observed the unstable readings on the arcane display. His eyes, sunken from fatigue, couldn't hide the accumulated frustration. He crossed his arms, muttering through gritted teeth with a weary sigh:

"That bastard really is stubborn…"

"Stubborn?" responded another, younger voice, holding a glowing tablet that displayed a detailed rendering of the boy's body. "Just because he arrived here in critical condition. His chest looked like it had been pierced by spears. Broken bones, compromised organs... and his heart wasn't even beating."

He said it with a mix of clinical fascination and thinly veiled discomfort.

"That, and now look at him," commented a third, seated in a swivel chair in the corner of the room, legs crossed, spinning an arcane pen between his fingers. "Two years later, good as new. If not for the records, I'd say the kid just overslept."

The eldest of the three, the first one, shot a sideways glance.

"And yet no one has a damn clue how he got here."

"All we know is… he fell. Literally," added the man in the chair. "From the sky, straight onto the helipad. The containment field almost failed. One millisecond later and he'd have been puree on the east wing stairs."

"Lucky he's got one hell of a sponsor," murmured the one with the tablet, eyes still fixed on the graph. "The cost of this single bed could fund an entire wing for ten years. Rare potions, catalysts, daily interventions, stabilization artifacts... All paid. Not a single delay."

"Had to be a VIP," said the elder. "Someone big. Really big. But no one knows their name. Or their face. Or where they're from."

"It's more than that," countered the one in the chair, now leaning forward and pointing at the capsule with something like reverence. "He stabilized within the first year. Full cellular regeneration, intact synapses, and — above all — a constant Vis flow… Anyone else would've woken up. But this one… nothing. It's like he's refusing to come back."

"And we've tried everything," said the tablet holder, shaking his head. "Specialists with Codices in healing, illusions, you name it. Arcane rituals. Potions, artifacts — and still, not a twitch."

The oldest stepped closer to the glass of the capsule. He observed that pale, almost ethereal body for long seconds. The silver strands floated in the suspension fluid, drifting as if they moved of their own accord. Breathing was light — barely perceptible, but undeniably present.

Too alive to be dead.
Too dead to be alive.

"He's in a full vegetative state," he murmured, more to himself than to the others. "And yet... his brain never stopped. Not for a second."

Silence fell over the room. Even here — surrounded by renowned specialists, machines, enchantments, and high-level healing protocols — the boy was an enigma. A statistical anomaly.

'Just why doesn't he wake up?' The doctor with the tablet frowned. The data was always shifting, but something caught his eye — a fixed detail. In the top corner of the screen, the name remained unchanged:

Ezra Ashenguard
The patient with no history… no past.
The boy who should have received one of the Seals of the First Law.

"Hm?" The older doctor — the one who preferred his chair over the frenzy of instruments — furrowed his brow. His eyes left the monitor and turned back to the capsule.

Something shimmered.

He leaned in, his face close to the reinforced glass. There, on the left side of the patient's head... a dark object.

Small. Thin. Obsidian-toned, polished like night-glass. Discreetly fitted into the earlobe.

"That... has that always been there?"

✦ ✦ ✦

"Ezra…"

A distant voice, like an echo carried by the wind of a forgotten desert.

"Ezra…"

Closer now. More insistent. Anxious. Almost pleading, as if begging for his attention.

"Ezra…"

A hot, damp whisper at the edge of his ear, too real to ignore.

"EZRA!"

The scream tore through the darkness like a sharp blade slicing silk. And then — his eyes opened.

A sigh slipped from his lips — heavy, resigned.
"Again…"

Ezra slowly raised his hands before his face. They trembled, not from fear, but because they were made of smoke. Each finger was a thought dissipating, an idea about to vanish.

"Aren't you tired of this?" he muttered, staring into the void surrounding him.

The emptiness was total — a non-place where time did not move and space held no weight. A world built from memory and ruin.

"How long do you intend to keep me from eternal rest?" Ezra's voice dripped bitterness, almost mocking.
"Or is that what you want? To keep me here... adrift... until I forget who I was?"

No reply came.

"Not that it would change anything. I've always been a nobody from the start."

But only the sound of his own silence answered him, and that was more suffocating than any scream.

He took a step — and the ground formed beneath his feet like solidified mist. Another step — and a figure appeared in the distance, indistinct, like someone carved from flickering light.

Ezra narrowed his eyes. "This illusion again…"

His dreams always followed the same cycle: First the darkness, then the voices, and at last — her.
The Presence.

It was made of mist, without fixed shape — sometimes humanoid, sometimes formless, at times animalistic, and sometimes monstrous.

He clenched his fists, feeling the smoke that made up his hands twist like restless vapor.

"What do you want from me?"