"—And that's how General Tollhdem won the War of Generations," the guide announced, gesturing toward a life-sized statue. "An unwinnable war, won. A future, written."
The guide was tall, middle-aged, quite handsome, and robed like a scholar. He led a group of silent visitors through the grand hall, his presence more conductor than curator—guiding the dead through memory.
They were all dead, though not all knew it yet. Some still clung to the illusion of breath, of pulse, of skin.
One tourist stared at his flickering, translucent hands, as if trying to hold smoke. "I can't even remember my name," he rasped. "Only how I died."
"Reality meets imagination here," the guide continued. "And in this place, they become indistinguishable. Think you're dead? You are. Every exhibit dances between life and Narrative, a testament to the power of story."
The Museum of Narratives stood like a bridge to the Realms' eras, its towering structure stretching into conceptual infinity. A circular threshold surrounded and protected the inner Realms from collapse, serving as both shield and border.
As the group passed Tollhdem's exhibit, the crystalline floor shimmered beneath their feet—morphing into swirling colors and shifting shapes, each transformation a glimpse into a story's soul.
A blond tourist, young and wide-eyed, raised a bloodied fist, still echoing the battle he'd just witnessed.
"Tollhdem was incredible!" he said, breathless. "Are there other stories like his?"
His eyes glimmered with something darker—recognition, perhaps. Hunger.
The guide paused, thoughtful. A question mark appeared above his head, shifting into a lightbulb as he spoke.
"A tale born on Earth, long after Tollhdem. Set in the ruins of a forgotten enemy's land—one whose name even its ghosts have forgotten."
Another tourist raised a hand. "Isn't that from the human space conquest era?"
Milah's voice came softly. "No… it wouldn't suit the current mood."
The guide cleared his throat. "And I must remind you—today is your final day here."
He stepped toward a podium, ran a gloved hand across its surface, and paused.
Something shifted.
"Well then. It's decided. Leonardo it is."
"Why Leonardo?" someone asked, their voice tight with old fury—not aimed at the guide, but at memory itself.
"Because like Leonardo," the guide said grimly, "you all feel caged. You crave freedom... but cannot take it."
"Tour Guide Milah," a new voice interrupted.
All turned. This tourist's arm was gone—severed at the shoulder.
"Why is this our last day?"
"Because endings are beginnings. You'll dig until your hands bleed, breathe poison, and call it freedom. That's how stories live."
His glove brushed the wall—his fingers, for a moment, as translucent as theirs.
"You mean… we'll forget this place?" a woman asked, her voice trembling.
"Forget?" Milah smiled gently. "Yes. But you'll become. Stories are seeds of souls here. They bloom. Not out there."
"Oh… thank you. I didn't realize."
She bowed, apologetic.
"It's alright," Milah replied. "You're not the first to ask. And never the last."
Then, with a sweeping hand, he gestured toward the corridor ahead.
"Come. I've saved the most depressing for last."
The floor rippled beneath them—reflecting not their faces, but strangers': gaunt figures in helmets, pickaxes glinting.
"Seeds need dirt to grow," Milah's voice echoed, distant and warped, as the crystalline floor dissolved beneath Leonardo's feet.
Not just vanished—ripped. The stories, the exhibits, the very concept of memory—it all tore like rotten cloth.
A suffocating stench of damp stone, ozone, and something rotting flooded his nostrils, scouring away the Museum's scent of dust and old paper.
The air turned thick, gritty, scraping his throat. His form, smoke and memory moments before, condensed—a brutal, crushing weight settling into bone and muscle.
A deafening clang reverberated through his bones as something heavy and cold—a helmet?—clamped onto his skull, sealing him in stale, metallic-tasting air.
The impact jarred him into this new, solid agony.
Light vanished, replaced by the erratic, pulsing glow of blue veins in dark rock.
His hands, still trembling with the phantom feeling of dissipating, now throbbed with the solid, grimy weight of a pickaxe handle. It was already there. Like it had always been.
---
**Chapter 1b - Volnia**
A raw cough tore from his lungs. _Where…? Who…?_ The name "Leonardo" felt like ill-fitting skin. Panic flared, cold and sharp. Then, a familiar voice, strained: "Leonardo! Move your feet!"
"Why me?" he muttered, sighing as he opened his eyes. His miner's helmet flashed, blinding him before he could see clearly.
"Why can't I just find one..." he whispered, "one reason."
"That's two! Three more to go, Leonardo! 'Nard?" Ronald called, his voice muffled by his dust mask.
"Wait… deep breaths. I haven't even found one yet," Leonardo replied, wiping sweat from his brow. His deep brown hair clung to his forehead.
"You found two in less than a day. Isn't agnite supposed to be rare?"
"Don't tell me that—scream at the mines," Ronald replied with a crooked grin.
"I just can't seem to—"
His pickaxe struck something unnervingly solid—not rock. He crouched, brushing away clumps of cold, wet dirt. A faint, wrong blue light pulsed beneath.
He pried it loose—a stone, but cold as grave dirt, its light casting sickly shadows on his calloused palm.
Leonardo stared. The unnatural blue pulsed against his skin, a rhythm that felt less like light and more like a slow, subterranean heartbeat.
It hummed in his teeth, in the marrow of his bones—a wrongness deeper than the mine's darkness.
Ronald was beside him instantly, his eyes reflecting the eerie light, wide with disbelief.
"Is that...?" He reached out, then snatched his hand back as if burned.
"It looks... wrong." Leonardo turned the stone.
A vein of pure, blinding blue light suddenly flared within its depths, searing his vision. He almost dropped it.
"Rald has to take it," Ronald breathed, desperation edging his voice.
"He... he owes us. From before Mom..."
"He'll kill us if we mention Mom," Leonardo sighed.
"He'll feel guilty not to."
Leonardo stared at the stone. Its glow lit his face.
Cold. Like her hands when I closed her eyes.
Ronald's counting profits. But all I see is blue—the same shade as her sheets, her cough, the cracks in our floorboards.
This isn't luck. It's a receipt. Blood, radiation, another year scraped off me.
But Ronald's smiling, so I swallow the bile. Let him dream. Someone has to.
"Oi, boys, move out the way," a gruff voice barked.
Leonardo stumbled. The agnite rolled away, light screeching through his vision.
"You okay?" Ronald called, grabbing the stone.
A burly miner passed, lugging a heavy metal rod. Another followed, supporting it.
"You alright, kid?"
"Yes, yes," Leonardo muttered, brushing himself off.
"What's that for, Cedric?" Ronald asked, eyeing the rod.
Firestones overhead flared to life. Groans followed as miners shielded their eyes.
"Not the firestones again," one muttered. "We need better lighting in here."
The cave lit up. Leonardo's tunic, earthy brown, blended with the stone. Leather patches reinforced the elbows and shoulders. His fingerless gloves were padded for precision.
Ronald wore a similar outfit, his carryall strapped tight.
The bell clanged—a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut. Every miner froze mid-swing.
Tools clattered to the stone floor in near unison. Heads snapped towards the tunnel entrance, eyes wide, postures rigid.
Leonardo saw old Man Harker flinch violently, his hand instinctively going to the thick, scarred ridges visible through the tears on the back of his tunic.
A choked silence fell, broken only by the frantic skittering of rock-rats fleeing deeper into the dark.
Cedric's jaw tightened, his knuckles red where he gripped his pickaxe shaft.
He gave Leonardo a single, loaded glance: Don't move. Don't breathe. The shuffling, wheezing approach began.
The Overseer lumbered into the firestone light, his bulk casting a monstrous, shifting shadow.
A Mokri, fur like oil-slicked tar, padded beside him, its breath a visible cloud of decay. "Greet the Overseer!" it rasped, saliva dripping onto the stone with a faint hiss.
"Hail the Overseer!" The chant was ragged, ripped from forty throats, thick with fear and loathing. Tools lay discarded.
The Overseer's small, piggy eyes scanned the lines. They landed on Leonardo, still half-crouched, pickaxe not fully dropped. "You." The word was a gravelly accusation. "Why standing?"
Leonardo's blood turned to ice. He forced his fingers open. The pickaxe clanged loudly in the silence.
"Move. Or twenty lashes, pig." The Overseer didn't wait, already turning away dismissively.
"Dig. The Duke's agnite won't mine itself." He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and spat a gob of black phlegm near Leonardo's boot. "Mokri. Guide."
Leonardo kept his head down, but his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek. His grip on the pickaxe handle turned his knuckles bone-white. A hot wave of pure revulsion washed over him, souring his mouth.
Rotting carcass, he thought, focusing on the black spittle gleaming near his boot.
You choke on our dust while we choke on yours. Donrolf lasted six months. I'll see you buried first. He forced himself to take a slow, silent breath through his nose, the stench of the Mokri thick in the air.
"Guide me unto the task," he muttered to the Mokri, his tone like a relic—cold and dead.
"Yes, master," the Mokri said, leading him deeper.
"Why do they all act like gods?" Leonardo asked.
All overseers are royalty. Doesn't change the fact they deserve death, Ronald muttered quietly.
As they departed, the firestones dimmed. Shadows returned. Work resumed. The rumbling grew louder.
Then, a low murmur of curses rippled through them.
A man near Leonardo kicked a loose rock violently against the wall. "Stupid kid! Coulda got us all flayed!" he snarled, rounding on Leonardo.
Cedric stepped between them, his bulk imposing. "Ease off, Jax. He froze. Happens." But Cedric's own eyes, when they flicked to Leonardo, held a hard warning.
Leonardo just stared at his pickaxe, the rough grain of the wood biting into his palm.
Why me? The unspoken question hung heavy in the dusty air. Jax spat on the ground near Leonardo's feet before turning away.
Leonardo turned to Ronald, a question on his lips. He stopped. Ronald wasn't looking at him. His brother's face was a blank mask, eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the dark beyond the tunnel wall.
Thud. Adjusted. Swung. Thud. No wasted motion, no flicker of expression. It was like watching a clockwork figure wound too tight. The easy camaraderie from finding the agnite was gone, replaced by a chilling, silent efficiency.
Leonardo's own fear curdled into something colder. "Ronald?" he ventured. Ronald didn't flinch, didn't pause. Thud.
The cave rumbled. The first time today.
Three rumbles meant collapse. The old Overseer had warned them.
"Let's go, Ronald," Leonardo urged.
"Wait—we could find one more…" Ronald said, desperation sharp in his voice.
Back in his quarters, the Overseer unlocked a heavy case, revealing the coiled lash.
He pulled out a small, cracked portrait from his coat—a girl, hollow-eyed. "Work them to the bone, Lira," he whispered, thumb tracing her cheek.
"To death. Whatever it takes..." A cold draft swirled. "You promise me, father?" A skeletal grip landed on his shoulder.
He winced. "I promise." The Mokri's shadow swallowed the wall. "The dead fester, Master. They do not forgive."
The cave path twisted with false ends. Lanterns lit the way.
"If we'd waited, we could've found more," Ronald muttered.
"We need to get out. It's not safe," Leonardo snapped.
The cave shook again. Rocks fell.
"Watch out!" Leonardo shouted, yanking Ronald to safety.
"Yeah… thanks," Ronald murmured, fear setting in.
For a long moment, Leonardo just breathed. The air, cold and damp and tasting faintly of metal and distant decay, was the sweetest thing he'd ever known.
He let the rough stone wall hold his weight, feeling the tremors in his legs slowly subside.
"Maybe we should leave. I just wanted to be free, but now..." Ronald trailed off.
"Unrealistic," Leonardo said.
"Maybe we should leave," Ronald whispered, his voice barely audible over the dripping water.
He wasn't looking at Leonardo, but at the jagged tunnel mouth leading deeper. "I just wanted..." He trailed off, his hand unconsciously rubbing his chest. He took a shuddering breath.
"Out there... Volnia... the moons... something... anything." He finally turned, his eyes holding a wild, almost feverish glint that made Leonardo recoil slightly.
"Just... explore. Before..." He gestured vaguely at the oppressive rock around them, at his own chest, and the unspoken before it's too late hung in the air. Then, the ghost of his old grin flickered, desperate and fragile. "Yeah?"
"We need to get out. Now," Leonardo snapped, grabbing Ronald's trembling arm. Ronald flinched, his eyes wide and unfocused.
Mom's boys. Killing ourselves. For what? The thought was a cold knife in Leonardo's gut.
They reached a resting pit, one of many in the cave's depths. A pause.
Ronald nudged him. "Hey. Your neck..." Leonardo raised a grimy hand, touching the skin below his ear.
A faint, eerie green luminescence stained his fingertips where he wiped sweat.
She coughed blue dust onto her sheets. Same blue as that damned stone.
Now Ronald... and this poison light on me. He pulled his collar higher. "Dust," he lied, the word tasting like ash.
Leonardo's mother had coughed blood for weeks. The blue glow haunted him still.
At last, they reached the cave entrance.
Leonardo stumbled out of the mine mouth, Ronald leaning heavily on his shoulder.
The sudden rush of cold, damp air hit them like a physical blow, scouring the thick dust from their lungs, making them both cough violently.
Leonardo gasped, dragging in deep breaths that tasted faintly metallic but blessedly free of rock dust. He sagged against the rough laterite wall, its chill seeping through his tunic.
Above, the twin moons, Kael and Soril, cast their silvery, decaying light over Volnia. It caught the crumbling watchtowers, glinted off distant, tarnished bronze spires—ancient sentinels forgotten by time. Ronald slid down the wall beside him, head tilted back, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
The faint, unnatural green glow was visible again on Leonardo's neck in the moonlight.
He looked at Ronald's exhausted face, then down at his own hands—raw, bleeding in places, permanently stained with grime and the faintest blue residue.
He remembered an ethereal light, the feeling of being smoke. _Seeds need dirt._ The memory felt like a dream, or a dying man's hallucination.
He lifted his gaze back to the vast, decaying vista, the moons painting everything in shades of bone and sorrow.
A wave of crushing fatigue mixed with a strange, hollow ache washed over him.
"To see that..." he murmured, his voice raw. "Maybe... maybe it was worth it?" Ronald didn't answer. He was already asleep, his breath shallow and quick.