The world exploded back into sharp focus as Ayan's consciousness returned, a desperate gasp escaping his lips, like a drowning man finally reaching the surface. His chest tightened as he inhaled sharply, his throat constricting with the effort.
The darkness was absolute, a suffocating blanket of velvet that stifled his breath and chilled him to the bone.
Lying still on a surface that vibrated beneath his body, he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. His eyes, though unseeing in the black, searched for any sign of familiarity amid the oppressive void.
Fragmented flashes of memory burst forward, each image vivid and brutal. He recalled the sickening snap of his leg; the earth's roar as the tunnel collapsed around him just before the sinuous tendrils of the Maw reached out.
A chilling thought slid into his mind with the icy inevitability of winter.
Am I dead?
The ground beneath him felt unnaturally smooth, almost surreal. Slowly, he extended his hands, pressing his palms against the surface. The cool smoothness reminded him of glass, yet it radiated a subtle warmth that seeped into his fingertips.
With deliberate care, he flexed his hands. His fingers and wrists responded with reassuring twitches.
"Good," he murmured to himself.
He then inched his legs and wiggled his toes. There was no stinging pain or sharp protest from his limbs.
A shudder ran through him as he recalled the searing agony in his fractured legs, a white-hot pain that had once been impossible to ignore.
But now, they moved without resistance and pain.
He sat up, bracing himself for nausea, but instead of queasiness, he found only absolute darkness.
The absence of pain and the empty void around him sutured together into an unsettling realization. Pain was evidence of life, and this painless void suggested something else entirely.
He shivered at the dreadful thought.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice thin with uncertainly. His single word lisped out, distorting in the void and bouncing against unseen walls before dying away into nothingness.
Is this the afterlife?
He could not imagine a single day trapped in this darkness, let alone an eternity. It would drive someone insane. Or maybe that was the point.
A calm voice floated through the dark, almost a promise. "You survived."
Ayan jerked to his feet, adrenaline sparking in his veins as he instinctively recoiled.
The mysterious voice continued evenly, with a hint of bemusement. "Though perhaps 'survived' isn't the right term. Hmm…"
"Who's there? Show yourself!" Ayan demanded, his voice echoing his rising tension.
"My name is Tharvik," a voice replied, its source untraceable, seeming to emanate from every shadow and the silences between them. "And showing myself is… complicated. It's too dark to see, don't you agree?"
Ayan's muscles tensed, coiled and ready for an ambush. The name meant nothing to him, but circumstances demanded caution. Trust was something Ayan had very little faith in right now after Kanshul broke and left him for the Maw.
"What is this place?" he demanded, forcing authority into his voice. "What have you done to me?"
"I've done nothing," Tharvik responded. "This place again… is complicated."
At last, the question that had been haunting his thoughts spilled out: "Am I dead?"
"Fortunately, no. Though whether that's truly something to celebrate or curse is something we—"
Ayan's attention snapped, his senses on high alert as he slowly turned his head, expecting an ambush from the darkness.
"—Can you do it?" Tharvik's question broke into his thoughts.
"What?" Ayan said, confusion mingling with his rising panic.
"Pay attention, Ayan. Our time is limited."
"How do you know my name?" Ayan pressed, his voice thick with disbelief.
"That is a conversation for later," Tharvik replied, disappointment coloring his tone. "For now, listen closely."
Ayan, caught between dread and the need for answers, nodded. "Alright."
"Look to your right, at the edge of your vision. Do you see it?" Tharvik instructed, his voice slicing through the silence.
At first, Ayan saw nothing but the unyielding black. Then, at the soft peripheral margins of his sight, a faint silver light emerged—like a thin, coiled thread shimmering on the edge of his vision. It was so minute that Ayan could only see it because he was looking specifically for it.
He nodded in confirmation.
"Good," Tharvik said, but Ayan did not know how the other person could see him in this void.
"Now, walk towards it."
"Why should I trust you?" Ayan said, even as his body involuntarily leaned toward the light like a plant reaching for the sun.
"Because you have no other choices," Tharvik said. "And because I'm the only chance you have of returning… to her."
Tanvi.
The mere utterance of her name sent a jolt straight through Ayan's chest, as if an electric current had surged down his spine.
How does he know about Tanvi?
With reluctant steps, Ayan moved toward the silver thread of light. The ground beneath him shifted with each footfall, rippling like disturbed ink. It was as if he walked on a delicate membrane rather than solid ground.
"What happened to me?" Ayan said, struggling to maintain his balance.
There was no answer.
The silver thread grew brighter as he approached, casting just enough light to see only a few feet ahead. The illumination revealed nothing but the strange, rippling surface stretching in all directions.
Then, ahead on his path, a figure emerged—its hunched shoulders and deliberate, measured steps mirroring his own movements.
Ayan froze, his heart pounding as he watched.
The silhouette mimicked him exactly: the same tilt of his head, and the same stooped posture.
"What in the gods' name is that?" he shouted.
The duplicate halted mid-stride but didn't turn to face him.
Even from behind, the familiar outline left no doubt; it was as if he were staring at a shadow of himself—down to the worn, ragged edges of his clothing.
Before he could reach out, the doppelgänger resumed walking, and then vanished between one step and the next, like a candle snuffed out by a sudden breeze.
Ayan's heart hammered against his ribs, each beat intensifying the chaos in his mind.
"What's going on?"
"This place doesn't conform to the laws of time," Tharvik suddenly answered, closer now, more intimate. "Sometimes you encounter the echoes of what was... or what might yet be."
Tharvik's voice resumed again after a brief pause. "For instance, look up. What do you see?"
With a mix of trepidation and hope, Ayan lifted his eyes. Expecting to see nothing but an infinite ceiling of darkness, he instead saw a lone moon suspended in the void overhead.
It pulsed with a ghostly silver light, its phases fluctuating erratically—a slow cycle from new to crescent, half, gibbous and full, then reversing unpredictably, as if manipulated by a child's whim.
The mesmerizing sight made his vision swim and his sense of reality blur at the edges. Staggering slightly, he refocused on the silver thread, anchoring himself to its steady glow to avoid losing grip on reality.
"We're almost there," Tharvik's voice encouraged from somewhere ahead.
Gradually, Ayan's steps sank deeper into the ground, the darkness slowly thinning into a murky twilight. The once faint silver thread expanded into a pulsing pathway, each beat in sync with the pounding of his own heart.
And somewhere distant, but growing clearer, he heard another heart's rhythm, beating out of sync with his. The dissonant beat drew him onward, the steady thump-thump pulling him like a tide.
Drawn in, Ayan passed a jagged wall that vibrated with complex yantra patterns—intricate lines and swirling curves twisting into geometric shapes that seemed almost alive.
As he moved closer, a scream tore through the corridor—an echo of his own cry, distorted and drawn out.
None of it made sense.
"What is this place?" his voice reflecting in mounting desperation. "Why am I seeing these visions?"
"A little further… then we can talk," the disembodied voice promised.
With each breath, the air grew thicker and more oppressive; a heaviness pressed in from all sides, making breathing difficult. The pulsing light guided him to a narrow corridor, its cracked walls lined with writhing symbols that glowed and faded like dying stars.
As he stumbled past, he heard it—another scream, eerily familiar yet alien, ricocheting off the walls. It was as if he were hearing a twisted echo of himself, mirroring his own terror in a way that was both intimate and unsettling.
At the center of a dim chamber lit by erratic, flickering glyphs, Ayan found a man, but not quite—a half-formed figure, glowing faintly like an ember struggling to reignite.
Ayan hesitated, his mind grappling to process the surreal sight and the bizarre environment around him.
The pulsing light revealed more of the chamber walls inscribed with oscillating symbols that shifted and writhed, as though animated by an inner life. The floor rippled continuously with each measured pulse.
"Welcome," said Tharvik, his voice now a layered echo, reminiscent of ripples spreading out on a pond's surface. "Now we begin."