Consciousness and the subconscious are almost the same, two realms shaped by thoughts and memories. The only difference is that the subconscious is a graveyard—a burial ground for hopes and dreams, laid to rest beneath the weight of life’s disappointments. It is here that the most haunting truths reside, unguarded and raw.

  And it was here, in this dark and unyielding void, that I found myself.

  His name was Nell.

  Just Nell. A typical boy born in an unremarkable village, nestled in the shadow of mountains too small to be named. He grew up on tales of heroes—warriors who wielded gleaming swords and mages who bent the elements to their will. Heroes who stood tall against darkness, slaying evil and bringing light to the world.

  Nell wanted to be one of them, too.

  As a child, he would run through the fields, a stick in hand, imagining himself a knight. He dreamed of standing on a battlefield, the wind carrying his name to the heavens as he struck down a fearsome villain. In his dreams, he was fearless, unyielding, righteous.

  But the coldness of reality was a cruel teacher.

  The heroes he admired weren’t real. The world didn’t care for righteous hearts or valiant souls. There were no grand battles or evil villains. There was only hunger, toil, and an endless cycle of survival.

  Nell’s stick became a pitchfork, and his dreams turned into ashes, scattered by the harsh winds of life.

  I walked through the echoes of his memories, each one a window into his soul. They were fragmented and incomplete, like shards of glass scattered across a dark room. I saw the boy who believed in heroes, the young man who realized they didn’t exist, and the broken man who became what he once wished to destroy.

  Nell was older now. His hands, once small and soft, were calloused and stained with dirt. He stood in the village square, his eyes hollow as he stared at a traveling knight who had stopped for rest. The knight’s armor was polished, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. The villagers whispered in awe; their admiration palpable.

  But not Nell.

  He saw the stains of blood that wouldn’t wash away, the exhaustion hidden beneath the knight’s stoic mask. He saw not a hero but a man, burdened by the weight of a world that demanded sacrifices without end.

  And in that moment, something in Nell broke.

  The dream he had clung to as a child—the dream of becoming a hero—shattered. The pieces sank into the depths of his subconscious, joining the countless others buried there.

  I pulled away from the memory, my chest heavy with the weight of his despair. This was the reason I loathed mind diving.

  His path had diverged after that day, leading him down a road filled with shadows. Nell had wanted to slay evil, but he became the very thing he despised.

  Was it desperation? Survival? Or had he simply lost faith in anything better?

  The next memory yanked me in before I could dwell on it further. The edges of the scene swirled like a mist, solidifying into something tangible yet surreal.

  I was panting, each breath like knives stabbing into my chest. Pain lanced through my body, sharp and unrelenting, and my left arm hung limp, blood dripping in a steady rhythm onto the cracked, parched ground. The scent of iron was thick in the air, mingling with the rusted tang of the blade clutched in my trembling right hand.

  Before I could fully process where I was, a voice slashed through the haze like a blade.

  "Blasted thief! I knew you were a backstabbing prick the moment I saw you!"

  I turned toward the sound, heart hammering.

  It was him—the wandering knight from the previous memory. But the man before me now was a shadow of the imposing figure I remembered. His once-pristine armor was gone, replaced by a rough tunic smeared with grime and sweat. A crude bandage snaked around his midsection, crimson seeping through the fabric in a slow, damning bloom. He was injured—badly—but his bloodshot eyes burned with unyielding rage.

  “I’ll gut you, bastard!” he bellowed, his voice raw, almost feral. In his hand, he brandished a dagger far finer than the one I held. The blade glinted menacingly in the moonlight, its edge sharp enough to split air. “I’ll wear your hide for the world to see!”

  He lunged, and that was when I understood.

  I wasn’t watching. I was inside.

  This wasn’t Nell’s memory anymore—it was mine to live.

  Fear seized me, icy and primal. My hands trembled; feet rooted to the ground as if the earth itself sought to claim me. The emotions weren’t mine—it was Nell’s—and his instincts screamed for retreat, his fear threatening to drown me in its suffocating tide.

  But fear had no place in my mind.

  I bit down on my tongue, the sharp tang of blood snapping me back to myself. The jolt was enough to break Nell’s hold, his memories tugging at the edges of my mind, demanding I replicate his actions, his choices. The urge was insidious, a siren song pulling me toward assimilation.

  But I wasn’t Nell, and I refused to be consumed.

  At the last possible second, I forced Nell’s legs to move. The motion was clumsy, but it saved me. The knight’s blade whistled past, close enough for the wind to kiss my cheek. His momentum carried him forward, his shoulder slamming into me like a battering ram.

  I hit the ground hard, the breath driven from my lungs. Nell’s body screamed in protest, his limbs weak, his muscles untrained.

  The knight was on me in an instant, his blade raised high. I rolled to the side, narrowly escaping a strike that would’ve split my skull. The ground tore at me, dirt and grass clinging to sweat-slicked skin as I scrambled to my feet.

  The knight lunged again, his blade flashing in a deadly arc. I ducked, a fraction too slow, and the blade grazed my shoulder. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, as blood began to seep into the coarse fabric of my tunic.

  I retaliated with a wild slash of my own, aiming for his arm. The blade bit shallowly into flesh, enough to draw blood but not enough to deter him.

  He snarled, his fist swinging toward my face. I barely dodged, stumbling out of his range.

  The fight dragged on, each clash of blades sapping more of Nell’s already-depleted strength. My breathing grew ragged, my vision swimming with the telltale haze of blood loss. The knight, too, was slowing, his movements heavy and deliberate, but he still had the advantage.

  “Wretched bastard!” he spat, his voice slurred and thick with rage. “You poisoned my water!”

  His steps faltered, his legs trembling beneath him, each movement growing more labored.

  The accusation jolted something loose in my mind—a fragment of memory not my own. I saw Nell, his hands shaking as he poured a viscous liquid into the knight’s water skin, his face a mixture of fear and determination.

  The poison was taking hold now, its effects evident in the knight’s sluggish movements, the sweat pouring down his face. But it wasn’t enough—not yet.

  He still had the strength to kill me.

  Desperation clawed at me. The body wasn’t mine, but it had become my cage. Every motion, every breath, was a battle against the frailty of Nell’s form.

  I had no choice.

  Pushing against the memory’s grip, I seized full control of Nell’s body. The sensation was jarring, like donning a suit that didn’t quite fit. But it gave me the edge I needed.

  As I adjusted, a distant rumble echoed—a sound like rolling thunder.

  The memory was fracturing.

  The knight charged again, his blade arcing wide. With full control, I moved smoothly, ducking under his swing and driving my fist into his bandaged wound. The knight crumpled forward with a guttural cry, clutching his side. His dagger slipped from his grasp, landing with a dull thud.

  I wasted no time. Snatching up his blade, I turned it on him. He had fallen to his knees, his body trembling, his breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

  I hesitated. For a brief moment, his broken form reminded me of something—someone—else.

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  Then the rumble came again, louder, closer. The edges of the world began to darken, the cracks in the memory spreading like a spider’s web.

  There was no time for doubt.

  I drove the blade into his throat.

  The knight’s body jerked once, then went still.

  I slumped to the ground, my chest heaving, the dagger slipping from my bloodied fingers. The ache in Nell’s body was all-consuming, a dull roar that drowned out everything else.

  But it wasn’t over.

  A faint pull tugged at my chest—an instinct, an urge buried deep in Nell’s fragmented memories.

  Search him.

  The cracks widened, darkness flooding the periphery of the scene. The void loomed closer, devouring the edges of the world. I forced myself to my feet, fighting against the heaviness in my limbs, and began searching the knight’s body with trembling hands.

  Time was running out.

  My fingers brushed against something—parchment. I yanked it free, unfolding the crumpled letter. The seal was broken, the ink smeared, but the words were legible. I scanned them hurriedly, my eyes burning the message into memory.

  The thunder roared, deafening, a final crescendo to the chaos. The void surged forward, devouring everything in its relentless path, leaving no trace of the memory behind.

  And then, nothing.

  I staggered back into the mindscape, my footing unsteady, as the surreal expanse of Nell’s memories came back into focus. Around me, they stretched infinitely—fragments of a life both ordinary and extraordinary, a labyrinth of fleeting moments suspended in time. The letter remained seared into my thoughts; the ink still fresh in my mind.

  But the Nell’s memory of battle with the knight was gone, reduced to a faint echo that dissipated into the nothingness of forgotten time. Yet within that fading fragment, I had seen it clearly.

  The truth.

  Nell hadn’t fought back. Not really. His desperate attempts to survive were clumsy and half-hearted. His body moved, but his spirit was already crushed. He’d managed to disarm the knight, but there was no follow-through, no killer instinct. He had hesitated, and that hesitation had cost him everything. The knight, already dying from the poison, had unleashed his fury, pummeling Nell into submission. His survival had been less an act of will and more an accident of circumstance—a cruel twist of fate that left him alive to bear the weight of his choices.

  A miracle, perhaps, but a hollow one.

  I exhaled, steadying myself, forcing the revelation to settle into the recesses of my mind.

  But in the end, it didn’t matter.

  I had what I needed. The memory may have crumbled, its edges fraying into the void, but its purpose was served.

  I turned my attention back to the memories around me, their shimmering edges flickering like dying embers. Somewhere within this vast expanse lay the answers I sought. The truth of Nell’s choices. The purpose behind his ambitions. And the thread that connected him to the black knights.

  The next memory unfolded like a story already nearing its end, the air thick with a sense of finality. I wasn’t in Nell this time but hovering close, an unseen observer, as his world unraveled.

  The room was dimly lit by a single lantern resting on a scarred wooden table. Its flickering light painted long, shifting shadows across the modest home—a place built on hard work and quiet endurance. This was no barren shack like the one Nell had grown up in. It was warm, alive with the subtle marks of a family’s touch.

  Nell sat at the table, his fingers tracing the edge of a dagger. The blade was too fine, too lethal, to belong to a farmer. Its polished steel gleamed in the soft light, and its presence felt almost alien amidst the humble surroundings. Beside it lay a small leather pouch, its seams worn but sturdy, heavy with coin that jingled faintly when Nell moved it.

  From the adjoining room, soft footsteps broke the silence. A woman appeared, drying her hands on a faded cloth. She was older than Nell, her face lined with the quiet determination of someone who had weathered more storms than she could count.

  “You’re still awake,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity and something heavier—concern, perhaps.

  “Yeah,” Nell replied, not looking up at first. Then, as if summoning courage, he glanced at her and offered a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Figured I’d see you before I head out.”

  Her steps faltered, and her eyes moved to the dagger and the pouch. “You’re leaving?”

  Nell nodded, his hand tightening ever so slightly around the hilt of the blade. “Before dawn.”

  She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, her movements deliberate, measured. “Does Eric know?”

  “No,” Nell said simply, shaking his head. “Didn’t see the point.”

  Her expression darkened. “Didn’t see the point in telling your brother-in-law that you’re running off again? That you’re leaving us behind?”

  “It’s not like that,” Nell said, his voice low but firm. “This is different.”

  Her laugh was bitter, cutting through the quiet. “Different? It’s always different with you, isn’t it? Every time you run off chasing some dream, it’s always supposed to be the thing that changes everything. And every time, you come back broken and worse off than before.”

  Nell flinched but didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up the pouch and slid it across the table toward her. “Take this.”

  She eyed it suspiciously but didn’t touch it. “What’s in there?”

  “All I’ve saved,” he said simply, his voice betraying a hint of weariness.

  Her brow furrowed. “Why are you giving me this?”

  “Because I won’t need it where I’m going,” Nell replied, his words weighted with a finality that made her blood run cold.

  She stared at him, searching his face for answers he wasn’t giving. “Nell… what are you doing?”

  He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked down at the dagger, his thumb brushing against its hilt. “I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago.”

  Her breath hitched, tears glistening in her eyes. “You’re always chasing something. Always running toward something you can’t even name. And every time you leave, you break what’s left of us a little more.”

  “This isn’t just a dream, Rhea,” Nell said, his voice rising slightly, a crack forming in his composure. He gestured around the room, his movements sharp, almost desperate. “Look at this place. Look at what I’ve become. Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life tilling dirt and barely scraping by? I need to be more than this. I can’t live like this anymore.”

  Her voice softened, though her words cut deeper. “And what about us? What about your family?”

  “You don’t need me anymore,” Nell said, standing abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You’ve got Eric. You’ve got the kids. You’ve got a life. I need this, Rhea. For once in my damn life, I need to do something for myself.”

  Rhea rose too, tears spilling over now. “You’re my brother, Nell. That doesn’t change just because I have a family. You matter to me. To us. Can’t you see that?”

  For a moment, something flickered in Nell’s eyes—doubt, regret, maybe even guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the hardened resolve of a man too far gone to turn back.

  “I’ll write when I can,” he said, his voice hollow.

  Rhea shook her head, her shoulders sagging under the weight of his words. “Then go. But don’t come back here expecting us to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart again.”

  Nell faltered, her words hitting harder than any blow. But he didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up the dagger, tucked the pouch into his belt, and turned toward the door.

  The next morning, before the sun even peeked over the mountains, the village was still and quiet. The cold air clung to the earth like a shroud, the sky a muted canvas of gray and blue.

  Nell was gone.

  No farewell. No backward glance. Only the faint imprint of his boots in the dirt, fading with the morning dew.

  And for Rhea, the silence he left behind was deafening.

  ***

  The next memory unfolded like a tapestry woven with unease, each thread drenched in tension.

  Deadman’s Swamp stretched out before me, its skeletal trees clawing at a perpetually gray sky. The air was heavy with decay, the fetid mist clinging to the ground like a living thing. This no-man’s-land, straddling the border of Aeloria and the Republic of Draela, was a haven for the wicked and the desperate—a fitting backdrop for the horrors it concealed.

  Nell trudged through the mire, his every step sinking into the mud with a wet, sucking sound. The journey had left him hollowed out, his body lean from near-starvation, his mind sharp with paranoia. He clutched the knight’s dagger tightly, its once-polished blade dulled by exposure and use. Each night he would sharpen it obsessively, as if the ritual alone kept him alive.

  Two months of this. Two months of avoiding border patrols, outpacing unseen predators, and surviving on whatever scraps the desolation could offer. Yet, despite it all, Nell moved forward with the unyielding determination of a man chasing salvation—or damnation.

  By the time he reached his destination, a clearing deep within the swamp, he was more shadow than man, his ambitions etched into the hollows of his face.

  ***

  Next memory came to life with startling clarity.

  It was night, though the misty swamp’s gloom made it impossible to discern the time. Flickers of lantern light bobbed through the haze as shadowy figures converged in a clearing surrounded by twisted trees and stagnant pools of water.

  Nell had finally arrived at the place mentioned in the letter. The knight, who had crossed paths with Nell’s village only to die from poison, had also been traveling here. That single event, seemingly chance, had drawn Nell into something far larger than himself.

  Some were already gathered in the misty clearing, their faces a mix of apprehension, greed, and barely veiled malice. Thieves, cutthroats, deserters—each wore desperation like a second skin. The heavy air reeked of sweat, damp leather, and the faint stench of decay wafting from the surrounding swamp.

  Some boasted loudly, their voices rough and dripping with bravado.

  “Wraiths pay good coin,” rasped a grizzled man, his voice roughened by years of cheap liquor and poorer choices. He spat into the mud, baring a grin of jagged teeth. “Blood-soaked hands are worth their weight in gold to them, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Bah!” A stout dwarf snorted; his tone as sharp as the axe he was polishing with a scrap of oiled cloth. The weapon’s edge glinted dangerously in the lantern light. “Don’t feed us your dung, lad. They don’t even hire proper sellswords. Why would they take in a spineless bastard like you?”

  The grizzled man’s grin twisted into a snarl. He slammed a boot into the mud, stepping closer to the dwarf. “Spineless, eh? You’ve got a death wish, stump?” He crouched low, his hands flexing into fists that seemed to pulse with a faint, fiery glow. “Let me show you what the Flaming Fist can do!”

  Some schemed, undeterred by the rising tension, their whispers winding through the misty air like serpents in the heart of these dead waters.

  “Gentlemen,” a silken voice cut through the growing chaos. An elf stepped from the shadows with a grace that seemed utterly incongruous with the swamp’s muck. His emerald eyes gleamed with a faint amusement, his expression betraying a subtle disdain for the scene before him. “Why waste your energy posturing when neither of you will live long enough to see who’s right?”

  The dwarf and the Flaming Fist both turned toward him, their expressions a mix of irritation and suspicion.

  “What do you mean, elf?” the grizzled man growled, his fists still crackling faintly.

  The elf smirked, leaning casually against a crooked tree. “Just that you may want to save your energy,” the elf said, his tone light but laced with an edge. “In my travels, I’ve heard so many rumors, I don’t even know who’s right or who’s wrong. For all I care, this could be a trap to catch and kill us, or something.”

  Elsewhere, murmurs spread like ripples in the water, the crowd buzzing with rumors and fears.

  “Whole village wiped clean,” muttered a wiry man, his voice low and shaky. “Not just the people—livestock, too. Ash and blood. That’s all they left.”

  “Is that true?” another man hissed, his eyes darting nervously to the misty abyss beyond the clearing. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  In another circle, a gaunt woman with beady eyes leaned in, her voice dripping with malice. “It’s the kids they want,” the woman murmured, leaning in like she carried a forbidden secret. “Heard they twist ’em into... things. And the men? Ain’t men no more when they’re done. Just... husks. Killers.”

  “I heard they sacrifice virgins,” another voice added, this one hoarse and whispering, as if uttering the words too loudly might summon the devils themselves. “Blood pacts with demons. That’s how they keep their power.”

  “Devils, gods, or whatever—they can have their fun,” a towering woman rumbled, flexing her fingers. “So long as they pay up.”

  The voices overlapped, a discordant chorus of bravado, fear, and macabre speculation. Their words painted a picture of the Wraiths as something far more sinister than just a criminal organization.

  I watched and listened, piecing together fragments from the chaos. They spoke in exaggerations and wild speculation, but every rumor carried a shard of truth buried beneath the bluster.

  My focus sharpened as I spotted someone who didn’t belong here.

  Through the swirling mist and shifting bodies, a figure stood apart, his posture calm and deliberate.

  Gavin. The Crown Prince’s right hand.

  His presence wasn’t merely stupefying—it was enlightening. Either Gavin had turned traitor, or the Royal Inquisition was leagues ahead of us, their agents embedded within the Wraiths’ ranks.

  Before I could probe further, the swamp itself seemed to react.

  A ripple of mana swept through the clearing, silencing the crowd as though the swamp had grown tired of their chatter. The mist thickened, pressing in from all sides like a living thing.

  From the darkness, a figure emerged. Cloaked in black, a staff in hand, they moved with deliberate menace. The air around them shimmered and bent, reality twisting as if recoiling from their presence.

  “Those who have ever ended the life of a breathing man,” the figure intoned, their voice smooth yet brimming with menace, “step forward.”

  The air grew heavier with every word, pressing down on the gathering like an unseen weight.

  Nell’s body stiffened, his hand gripping the knight’s dagger until his knuckles turned white. Slowly, he stepped forward. So did nine others, the crowd shrinking into a sparse line of those who had blood on their hands.

  “What’s this about?” one man stammered, his bravado crumbling into panic. “We were promised—”

  The figure raised their staff, and the air seemed to thicken, a suffocating weight pressing down on the clearing. The man’s words died in his throat, swallowed by the oppressive silence.

  The ground beneath the remaining crowd darkened, the swamp’s stagnant waters shifting unnaturally. Tendrils of blackened liquid slithered upward, coiling around legs like living serpents. They tightened, pulling and dragging, eliciting screams that pierced the mist. The noise was raw, desperate—a final, futile attempt to escape the inevitable.

  But it was already too late.

  The darkness crawled over their bodies, seeping into their skin like ink soaking into parchment. One by one, they convulsed, their features contorting in agony. The tendrils writhed and twisted, consuming them entirely, until their forms were reduced to motionless black husks.

  Then, with a sound that was neither an explosion nor a collapse but something in between, their bodies burst. Blood and viscera painted the clearing, a macabre rain that pooled and coalesced in the air above the survivors.

  The crimson orb hung there, pulsating like a grotesque heart, its surface rippling as if alive.

  I remained unmoved, my gaze fixed. This wasn’t my body, nor were these my emotions. The nausea, the wide-eyed terror—I knew they belonged to Nell, a phantom of his fractured mind. For me, this was something else entirely.

  Information.

  The screams faded into echoes, but my focus had sharpened. I studied the mage’s movements, every subtle flick of their staff, every arcane word murmured under their breath. The blood ritual itself fascinated me—the mechanics of it, the precision with which it unfolded. This wasn’t chaos. It was orchestrated, deliberate, and brutal.

  The surviving few stood paralyzed, their faces pale, spattered with the remains of the unworthy. Their fear was palpable, thick enough to choke on, but they didn’t dare speak.

  For me, there was no fear. Only clarity.

  This wasn’t just a demonstration. It was a statement. A grotesque spectacle meant to weed out the unworthy, to instill a fear so deep it would root itself into the marrow of their bones. A warning. And yet, for all its horror, it was undeniably effective.

  The mage lowered their staff, their voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.

  “You have been chosen for the cause,” they said, their tone devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undeniable authority. “The rest were unworthy. Consider yourselves fortunate.”

  Fortunate.

  The word rang hollow, its irony as sharp as the tension that lingered in the air.

  “From this moment forward,” the mage continued, “you belong to us. Your lives, your blades, your blood—they are all ours. Fail, and you will beg for a death as merciful as theirs.”

  The memory wavered, its edges blurring as the thunder of the void approached once more.

  And then it shattered, leaving me alone in the mindscape.