There was no sky.
No ground.
Only white.
A brilliant, endless, echoing white. Not cold, not warm—just... still. Fortis didn't know how long he had been floating, or if he was floating at all. He couldn't feel his body, couldn't hear his heartbeat, and yet… he knew he existed.
He opened his eyes—or maybe he simply became aware—and the whiteness sharpened.
A faint breeze brushed his cheek.
Then, a ripple in the space before him.
Like ink dropped in milk, a shadow swirled into being. Slowly, shape took form—tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in flowing black.
A man.
His long, unkempt black hair drifted around him like smoke, and strapped to his back were not one or two, but dozens of swords—each unique in shape and aura, their hilts jutting from behind him like a fan of iron feathers.
His presence was not overwhelming.
It was ancient.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
Fortis tensed, eyes narrowing. Despite the strange serenity of the place, his instincts flared like torches.
"I am Fortis Lactresia," he said calmly. "May I know where I am? And who you are?"
The man stopped a few paces away.
Then, to Fortis's surprise, he chuckled.
"A mysterious kid," he said, his voice deep but smooth—like river stones scraping against each other. "You find yourself in a space like this, trapped and alone, and instead of panicking… you ask questions. How curious."
Fortis's gaze didn't waver.
"I assessed the situation. There's no pain. No pressure. I'm not bound. That means I'm not dead, or dreaming. But this place… it feels like it shouldn't exist."
"Sharp." The man grinned. "Very sharp. You're not wrong."
He waved a hand, and the whiteness briefly shimmered with a distant hum.
"This," the man said, "is your mindrealm."
"My... mindrealm?"
"Yes. This vast, pure space is the shape of your soul. A realm forged by your mind alone. Few ever awaken to it. Fewer still survive inside it."
Fortis blinked, the weight of the statement landing slowly.
"Then... I'm not dead?"
The man shook his head. "Not yet. You're alive. Barely. Your body was injured, exhausted. It forced you into unconsciousness. Your soul retreated here, to recover."
Fortis looked down. There was no body—he was thought, image, memory.
He lifted his hand. Or willed a hand into form. It followed. Obediently.
"This space," Fortis murmured, "is me?"
The man nodded. "Empty. Vast. Untouched. A pure soul. It's… rare."
Fortis turned to face him again. "Then… why are you in my mindrealm? You're not a part of me. I can feel it."
The man looked away, his grin fading into something… wistful.
"I am someone who was supposed to die," he said softly. "But something… prevented it."
Fortis tilted his head. "Something?"
"I cannot say. There are chains that bind my voice. Laws older than language."
"So… you're not here by choice?"
"No. I was sealed away. And for reasons beyond your understanding, your soul… touched the edge of mine. And now… I'm here."
Fortis frowned. "Then… am I cursed?"
The man laughed again, but with less mirth. "No. Not yet."
Fortis absorbed every word.
The man carried himself like a warrior—but not one who chased glory. One who had buried it. His swords weren't trophies. They were memories.
"Can I leave this place?" Fortis asked quietly.
"You will," the man said. "When your body has rested. When the pain fades. Then this realm will close, and you'll wake."
"You said most people never survive here. Why?"
"Because what you see in your mindrealm," the man said slowly, "is what you truly are. And many cannot handle that truth."
Fortis looked around again.
The whiteness was not comforting. It was… empty.
"Why is mine so blank?"
The man's voice softened. "Because you have not chosen who you want to be yet. You are a boy of books, of peace, of kindness… but you carry weight now. Burden. Resolve. You seek strength, but not power."
Fortis stepped forward. "I… want to protect my kingdom."
"I know."
"Not as a king."
"I know."
"But as a shield."
The man finally turned to face him fully.
"You will suffer," he said. "Protection comes with pain."
Fortis didn't flinch. "That's fine."
There was silence.
Then the man smiled again, this time not mockingly.
"I'll see you again, Fortis Lactresia."
"Wait. You said you were sealed. Are you saying I'll come back here?"
"Not here," he said, turning his back, the clatter of swords ringing faintly. "But our paths are tied now. My fate… is wound around yours."
"Then… can I know your name?"
The man paused.
"…You may call me what they once did."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Veyr of the Black Blades."
The name echoed through the white like a whisper carried on stormwinds.
Then everything flickered.
The light pulsed.
A ringing hum grew louder, louder, until—
---
Fortis opened his eyes.
Slowly.
There was warmth.
Flickering candlelight. The scent of wet cloth and crushed herbs. Voices murmuring far away.
But most clearly—
A hand gripped his tightly.
He turned his head.
There she was.
Queen Charlotte. His mother.
Her face was pale, her eyes swollen from tears.
But when she saw his eyes flutter open, she gasped—and crumbled forward, sobbing silently, pressing her forehead to his chest.
"Fortis… Fortis, thank the stars… You're awake…"
He opened his mouth to speak.
But no words came.
Only warmth. And a thought:
"Veyr of the Black Blades… who are you really?"