A curious weight settled upon Silas, dulling his senses. Body adrift, he felt suspended in air. Such was Silas Thorne’s immediate condition.
Describe it how one might; all was vague. He knew consciousness, yet it blurred. Distinctions between lying or standing vanished. Surrounding temperature held no certainty. Were eyes closed, or did they stare into the gloom? What was this? What precisely was he doing?
Only one truth remained.
Uncertain, Silas Thorne found himself profoundly comfortable. He wished this state to persist indefinitely. And then, abruptly.
Silas regained his awareness. Not by volition, mind you. An external factor, something unknown, roused him. That was the sensation.
A faint groan escaped Silas as he slowly, reluctantly, opened his eyes. They had indeed been closed. Several seconds passed. Scarcely coherent, Silas froze.
The reason was simple.
He had no idea where he was. In fact, was this even a *space*? His eyes were open, yet the view was identical to having them shut.
Pitch blackness enveloped everything.
He felt trapped in a windowless chamber, utterly devoid of illumination. The atmosphere alone threatened to induce an acute bout of confinement terror.
This sensation propelled Silas to his feet. “Lyra!” he called out.
No response.
“Excuse me! Is anyone here?”
Again he shouted, yet quiet reigned. Not even an echo returned. What infernal place was this? Boundless blackness, its dimensions immeasurable. It stretched, without end or form.
At this moment, regardless.
“Lyra! What in the Grand Spire is this?”
Immense anxiety, cold and sharp, seized Silas. A flicker of memory returned. The audition room. Lyra, handing him a crumbled, ancient parchment to ‘review’ while they waited. She’d claimed it was a challenge, a lost fragment unearthed from some forgotten corner of the Lyceum’s own repository.
“I definitely touched that strange sigil.”
That square, a swirling vortex of ash-grey and night-black ink, had shimmered, almost pulsed, next to the faded script. His index finger, guided by an archivist’s instinct, had brushed its surface.
“...A spell? Have I been drawn into a scrying pool?!”
Silas clutched his head. Thought halted. This felt too real. No dream could possess such visceral detail. Such bone-deep dread.
What truly was this space? The primary objective, however, was not its nature, but escape.
Silas spun, then abruptly stopped. Amidst the pervasive black, a white square materialized. Perhaps three steps away. Had it been there a moment ago? He couldn’t be sure. But he had to investigate, and quickly.
With swift, uncertain steps, Silas moved toward the white square.
Close up, the white was undeniable. Roughly the size of a standard folio page. It floated at chest level, an ethereal presence. And the most peculiar detail?
White script upon the white surface.
—[Archival Fragment 347.B (Title: The Desperate Run), Classification F (Unstable Record)]
—[*Integrity compromised. This is a damaged fragment. Full recitation impossible. (Approx. 10% vivid recollection possible)]
Silas’s brow furrowed. “What is this? A damaged fragment? Recitation?”
The script felt like gibberish. Yet, the word ‘fragment’ snagged his attention. A memory.
“…Ah, *that* fragment.”
The very piece Lyra had given him. He’d been pulled into this inexplicable place immediately after touching it. So, logically,
“Could it be… this square is that fragment?”
The pieces, disturbingly, aligned. Silas slowly extended a hand, grasping the white square. It would not budge.
Then it happened.
New letters, previously absent, scrolled beneath the white square.
—[Archival Fragment 347.B (Title: The Desperate Run) selected.]
—[Available Personae for Recollection (Experience) listed:]
—[A: The Fleeing Courier, B: The Pursuer’s Shadow]
By now, Silas teetered precariously between meticulous frustration and abject panic. He had to *do* something, anything, with utmost speed.
“Blast it, I don’t know.”
He tapped one of the options at random. ‘A: The Fleeing Courier’. A detached, melodic voice, like cool brass striking crystal, echoed through the entire incomprehensible space.
[“‘A: The Fleeing Courier’ – preparation for recollection in progress….”]
The tone was steady, devoid of inflection. A construct, perhaps. What did it matter? It was the first discernable sound he’d heard beyond his own ragged breathing. Silas, desperate, cried out.
“Who are you? I know someone is here!”
The crystalline voice offered an irrelevant reply.
[“…Preparation complete. This fragment is damaged. Recollection approximately 10%. Commencing now.”]
Immediately, a vast, grey mass descended, swallowing Silas whole.
Cold. A startling chill. Moments before, the temperature had been an ambiguous non-entity. Now, Silas shivered. Was he outside? He lowered his gaze. His archival robes were gone, replaced by coarse, travel-worn leathers, thin against the biting air. A sense of profound incongruity jolted him, and he snapped his head up.
The world had shifted.
Still dark, but faint silhouettes emerged. Trees? A stand of gnarled, ancient oaks. Underfoot, a scatter of dry, brittle leaves. A forest, then. He was in a forest, at night.
He tried to speak, but his voice failed, a strangled croak. His body felt unresponsive. New sensations, alien and overwhelming, battered him. The insistent, irritating wind. The dry rustle of leaves. The mournful creak of branches, like old bones flexing. The oppressive atmosphere alone sent tremors through his frame.
*Run. I must run.* A single, stark thought hammered at him. His eyes, slowly adjusting to the gloom, took in a dizzying array of emotions. Terror, sharp and primal. Move your legs, move!
Keep running, escape.
Silas broke into a frantic sprint. Direction mattered not. Uphill, into the darkness. He ignored the burning in his lungs, the ragged rhythm of his breath. Unseen branches, mere shadows against the deeper black, lashed at his face, leaving stinging trails.
Why? Why this desperate flight? He didn’t know. Yet, he dared not stop. His heart, a frantic drum against his ribs, pounded harder, faster.
Yes. He was being hunted. He was being pursued, now.
Even as his feet thudded over the crackling leaves, Silas glanced back. Behind him, the same unchanging, oppressive forest. No discernible threat. Yet the primal fear remained, an ice-cold hand squeezing his vitals.
Then, a low, male voice, dangerously close to his ear, sliced through the wind’s howl.
“Enough running. It becomes tiresome.”
Before Silas could even process the words, his foot caught, and he tumbled, sprawling flat. Pain. Excruciating, immediate pain. Why did it hurt so much? This was real. The scrape of his cheek against dirt, the sudden warmth of blood—all undeniably, horrifically real.
“Your kind always makes me hungry.”
The man’s voice, from directly behind him as he lay prostrate. This wasn't merely a performance. This *was* it. The only action Silas could muster was a desperate, thrashing struggle. He had no choice. This entire experience defied all precedent.
Who has ever been chased by an unseen, menacing presence, and felt such absolute terror?
*I’m going to die*. The conviction was absolute, unreasoning. Silas struggled with every ounce of his borrowed strength, but it was futile. The pursuing shadow pressed down on his back, a heavy boot on his spine.
Despite the crushing weight, Silas’s struggles did not cease. He twisted, he writhed, he fought. He remained pinned, yet his efforts continued. The rank earth filled his nostrils. Tears, snot, streamed from his eyes and nose, a profuse, visceral outpouring.
*I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I want to live.*
The desperate, unthinking emotions. His hands clawing at fallen leaves and dirt, frantic. The crushing pressure on his back. The wet, hot flow from his face. His breath, raw and torn.
“Hmm. I’ve decided. A meal will suffice.”
The pursuer’s low growl was undeniably real. Silas, still on the ground, was roughly turned over. He found himself staring up at the shadow. Not a face. More accurately, a face was there, but it was a swirling vortex of black, featureless. Yet the silhouette of the man’s body, though indistinct, was starkly apparent.
Something sharp, cold, bit into Silas’s side.
No time for understanding. It was agony. Unimaginable, searing pain. Like every organ within him had been ripped asunder simultaneously. An indescribable torment.
Silas involuntarily convulsed. His legs twitched uncontrollably. His arms, his face, spasmed. What hellish sensation was this? Damn it, the pain! It was a terrifying reality.
*Beg. Yes, beg.* Beg for his life.
Hands clasped, trembling, Silas pleaded. He begged desperately, eyes fixed on the featureless black face. He would do anything. Spare him. Even without an expression, surely this was a living being?
The strange man chuckled.
A deep, guttural sound. Even through the black void of a face, he laughed. Perhaps it was the desperate delusion of hope, but Silas perceived it as a laugh. He forced a twisted, wretched smile in response. Then, something was plunged into his body again.
[“Recollection of ‘A: The Fleeing Courier’ has concluded.”]
The cold, crystalline voice, like a robot, echoed into the sudden void.
How much time had transpired? The dazed Silas faintly heard a voice calling from somewhere beyond.
“…Silas! Are you quite alright?!”
At the sound, Silas, still clutching Lyra’s ancient fragment (now just plain parchment), slowly lifted his head. Three figures sat before him at a long, polished table. A stern-faced man in his mid-thirties, an older man with a neatly trimmed goatee, and a strikingly beautiful woman – Dame Isolde herself, though her expression was one of profound shock. The younger man, he realized, had called his name.
*Ah— This is the Lyceum. I’ve returned.*
Silas slowly lowered the fragment. His expression felt odd, a bit like the lingering haze of too much archive wine. With that disoriented look, Silas glanced at the parchment. It was just a brittle, silent piece of paper.
The younger man, the First Judge, gestured towards him. “Silas? Are you going to perform? We’ve been trying to get your attention.”
Silas, who had been quietly watching them, rose from his chair.
His movements were deliberate, though his mind felt slow. The First Judge seemed slightly taken aback. “Oh? You are? You must be quite dedicated, after… that display.”
Silas walked forward, halting a mere two paces from the judges’ table. Why this precise distance? He felt a peculiar compulsion to present something.
Everything he had just experienced in that unknown place. Everything was still vivid, horrifyingly so. Because he had lived it.
Some ten minutes later.
Silas Thorne lay sprawled on the polished floor of the Grand Lyceum’s audition chamber, hands splayed towards the high vaulted ceiling. He had been begging, truly begging, moments before.
His mind, which had felt adrift in some strange ether, snapped into sharp clarity. He realized his consciousness had been present, if detached. But now, with the performance concluded, his brain spun into frantic, mortified overdrive.
The first, crushing sensation Silas felt as he slowly lowered his still-trembling arms was this:
*Blast and bother. What in the name of the Silent Scribes have I just done?*
A wave of profound, all-encompassing embarrassment.
*What just happened? Have I finally lost my grip on sanity?*
The situation refused to resolve. Something had certainly occurred, yet it also felt as though nothing had. Utter chaos reigned in his thoughts. Whatever it was, Silas had just unleashed it, for all to see.
Whether it was an experience, a recollection, or some arcane possession, it had been undeniably… passionate.
Silas, still on the floor, watched the three judges. Their faces were ashen. Dame Isolde, legendary for her composure, sat rigid, eyes wide. The First Judge swallowed audibly. The older man with the goatee looked as if he might faint. Lyra, standing by the chamber door, wore a look of utter, dumbfounded awe. It was all a complete and utter disaster.
He wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Instead, he simply lay there, staring at the ornate ceiling, utterly aghast at his accidental artifice.