Aeris' Past, Part I

The chalk feels cold and rough between my fingers. It leaves pale dust on my skin. The classroom smells faintly of dust and ink, the kind of dryness that settles into old paper and wood. A thin ray of sunlight slices through the half-drawn blinds, painting a pale stripe across the polished desks. My students are gone, at least, they should be. I’m alone here now. Yet the faint sound of laughter still lingers, echoing in the corners like a memory I can’t quite catch, a ghost clinging to the air.

I set the chalk down carefully and glance toward the window. The street outside should be familiar. I should recognize the crooked lamppost, the narrow brick alley, the faded shop signs. But it isn’t. The world just beyond the glass seems... wrong. Like a painting smeared at the edges.

The light bends.

It twists and shudders, folding in on itself like a dying star collapsing. The sunlight is swallowed whole, leaving the room darker than before. The air ripples like water disturbed by a stone. My desk begins to dissolve, melting into shadows that crawl up my arms and across the floor. The world tilts beneath my feet.

And then, pure darkness.

Not the soft, comforting kind you find behind closed eyelids. This is heavy and absolute, pressing on my chest from all sides. I can’t move. I can’t even hear my own breathing. The only sound that pierces the void is the slow, deliberate sound of something immense moving far above.

I lift my gaze, or at least I think that's what I did.

Statues. Three colossal figures carved from black stone, so vast their heads vanish into the darkness above. Their forms are roughly humanoid but stripped of warmth or mercy, angular, forbidding, as if carved by a god who despises all flesh. They watch silently, timeless, eternal.

Then their eyes open.

One by one, burning light spills from their sockets, casting cold, cruel illumination that cuts deeper than any blade. It feels like they strip me bare, of skin, of bone, of all pretense, until only my raw, fragile truth remains.

Then a voice speaks.

Not from the statues, not from any place I can see or touch. It simply is, a presence too vast to be confined, too terrible to be ignored.

“Aeris Faelan.”

My name hangs in the air like a crystal bell, sharp and undeniable. The statues’ eyes pulse once, sending a wave of cold through me. In that flicker, memories rise. Shadows of my past flickering like broken glass. 

“You stand accused. In this moment, the shadows of your past rise, faces of those you once taught laughing in bright sunlight, the hands you folded in silence when action was needed, the moments you told yourself you were helping while weaving lies even to your own heart. This guilt is yours, irrevocable and eternal.”

The word liar falls with the weight of an executioner’s blade. It is not shouted. It is pronounced with measured finality, a tolling bell in a silent cathedral. My knees tremble and the ground feels thin beneath me. The word is not just an accusation, it is a sentence. One that is branded into the core of my being, destined to follow me beyond this place and beyond time itself.

Then the voice delivers the verdict, deep and resonant, like thunder rolling through a valley.

“Your judgment is now hereby rendered. For the crime of deceit, woven into the fabric of your fate and sealed by the blood of the forgotten, you are hereby condemned to the Eternal Halls of the Damned. There, beyond the reach of all time and mercy, you shall rot.”

The light swells, an all-consuming tide that devours the darkness, blinding me.

And I begin to fall.

When I open my eyes, I’m lying on cold stone.

The chill bites through the thin fabric of my sleeves, seeping into my skin like a silent accusation. The air hangs heavy, smelling faintly metallic, like rain striking old iron, sharp and cold. It curls in my nostrils, unfamiliar yet oddly grounding. Slowly, the darkness around me yields to dim shapes, and I realize I’m no longer anywhere I know.

The corridors stretch on endlessly, lined with polished basalt walls that gleam faintly, as if kissed by some unseen, spectral light. The surfaces reflect fragmented shadows, my own shadow slipping like a ghost across the floor. The faint hum resonates through the stone, low and steady, as if the prison itself breathes around me, alive or pretending to be. A heartbeat pulsating beneath the walls.

I have arrived.

The Eternal Halls.

A shudder rolls through me, part dread, part awe. Here, time folds strange, and mercy is a story told to children.

I push myself upright, muscles stiff and protesting, the stone cold beneath my palms. My fingers tremble, not from weakness, but from the weight of what is to come. The silence is broken by a voice, sharp and clipped, carrying down the hall like a blade slicing through still air.

“New one?” He says staring at my wrist. I think nothing of it.

I turn toward the sound. A reptile like guard stands silhouetted at the corridor’s end, armored in dark silver that absorbs light rather than reflects it. His visor glints with a tiny reflection of me, trapped like an insect in glass. His posture is rigid, commanding.

“Move. Your lunch is in the dining hall, this way.”

Lunch.

The word feels almost obscene here, detached from the gravity of this place. Yet it’s a tether to some semblance of normalcy, so I follow.

We wind through narrow passageways, the shadows twisting and folding around us like living things. The stone walls close in and then open wide, and suddenly I stand before a cavernous dining hall. The ceiling arches high overhead, lost in darkness, while faint light spills down from unseen sources like pale rain.

And yet, despite the hall’s deliberate design, some corners seem to resist it. Off to one side, beneath the round tables, faint patterns of pool tiles shimmer underfoot, their cool surface betraying a casual luxury out of place here. At the far end, the space opens into something that feels like an ancient Greek amphitheater tangled with the worn familiarity of a middle school cafeteria, rows of stone benches rising in tiers, inviting voices to rise and fall within the cold embrace of these walls.

Strangely, nothing felt out of place. It all blended together like stitched memories. Beautifully and seamlessly transitioning from one style to the next.

In front of me, long stone tables stretch endlessly, their surfaces polished to such a mirror sheen they almost seem liquid. The quiet hum of muted voices drifts through the air, low and cautious. Conversations fold into whispers, weaving between groups like secrets too fragile to shout. It’s not silence, but a quiet weighted with respect, or perhaps fear, of the ancient walls that seem to listen.

Heads bow close in hushed exchanges, hands curl and unfold gently, spoons clink softly against bowls in a rhythm that feels more ritual than routine.

Suddenly, the table before me ignites softly from below with a golden glow, not of heat, but a warmth remembered, as if the light itself recalls what comfort feels like. The glow swells and condenses with fluid grace, pulling shapes from the air. Plates, cups, and food bloom as if summoned by a thought, as though reality hesitated, then reluctantly agreed.

Ancient magic.

I’d read about it, spoken of it in theories half-forgotten in my lessons. But to witness it here, so casual, so effortless, this was a power that brushed aside mortal bounds, eternal and unyielding.

My eyes fix on the bread first, a small, dense loaf with a smooth crust, faintly earthy, as though baked in soil rather than fire. Next, the soup steams gently, its broth shimmering with an otherworldly sheen. Within it float tiny fragments, gleaming scales that catch the light with every gentle stir, flickering like underwater jewels.

The drink shifts colors, at first deep crimson, then amber, then a pale blue, each hue settling before melting away like a secret it can’t quite settle on. The liquid dances with uncertainty, as if uncertain of its own truth.

The soup tastes richer than I expected, layers of flavor rolling across my tongue like waves. The scales are soft, their texture delicate as if slow-simmered for ages. The bread resists at first, firm and stubborn, but tears apart with ease, releasing the faint scent of citrus, warm and grounding. The drink confounds me, one sip sweet, then something indescribable, elusive, like tasting a memory.

The quiet suits me, each muted sound a balm to my raw nerves. It gives space for thought to rise, to circle, to claw at the edges of my mind.

Liar.

The word thrums beneath my skin, an echo no meal can soothe, a sentence heavier than stone.

Then, a sudden prickling at the base of my skull, like a whisper from nowhere, or maybe somewhere I can’t see. A faint pulse, steady and insistent. My fingers brush the wrist where my watch used to rest and now an ornate bracelet finds it home, but the sensation remains. Time.

Five minutes.

The thought crashes through the haze like a bell I’ve never heard but somehow remember.

I startle, as if woken from a dream I didn’t know I was trapped in. Swallowing the rising panic, I push back my chair and stand. The corridor waits, silent and patient, beckoning me forward.

I have no idea what comes next. But it’s time.