A crisp white gleam greets my eyes as I take a breath of surprisingly not rotten air, "I don't have health insurance, so I hope this isn't a hospital" I grunt as I sit up, my baggy black attire swapped for tan coloured pants and baggy white shirt.
Definitely not hospital clothes.
I feel like I should have ash in my mouth, or my lungs, or something.
I had passed out in ashes, so realistically there would be remnants, right?
Yet...there's no grit between my teeth, no burn in my lungs. Just the sensation being there would suffice. Like a heavy phantom, like my body remembers something my mind has already let go of.
Falling into ashes after laying waste to those...monsters.
That's all I have.
Nothing on who I was. Just the sensation of dropping, heaviness for a breathless moment, and then darkness rushing up to meet me. Ash swallowing everything.
I close my eyes, certain I was just going crazy, I take another breath and open them again.
Still just the vast whiteness.
It was not bright enough to hurt yet not dull enough to fade into nothing. A clean, endless white that stretches above me, around me, beneath me. It doesn't glow. It simply exists, steady and unchallenged.
I sit still, unsure if I should move, questioning if it was safe to breathe in again, given this didn't look like anywhere I belonged. Breathing the air might just make me loopier.
I do it anyway.
The air is cool and carries a faint scent I can't name. Not sterile. Not floral. Something old and calm, like stones warmed by the sun, or a river rock.
My body feels…okay, all things considered.
No pain. No stiffness. No injuries announcing themselves the moment I become aware. That alone sets off a quiet alarm somewhere deep inside me. People don't wake up like this after a battle.
I lift my hands.
They move smoothly, easily, fingers flexing without resistance. I stare at them, searching for something wrong. Scars. Calluses. Anything that might explain themselves, I should definitely have some signs of being a hunter.
But there's nothing.
My hands are clean. Unusually so.
I push myself to stand, finding that the surface beneath me is stone, pale and polished, cool to the touch but not cold. I'm standing on a raised circular platform, no more than a handspan high, like a ceremonial stage or a feature piece.
I take a step off the platform.
A subtle warmth spreads upward, as if the floor has been heated but only recently.
I stretch and fully take in my clothes, the tan pants, loose and light, kept up with a simple brown belt. A white top draped over my shoulders, open at the neck, a long loosely tied brown cord keeping the top closed to some degree, the fabric soft against my skin. No seams I can see. No tags. No fastenings.
Not what I would personally wear, so someone else dressed me.
That should terrify me.
It doesn't.
I was half-expecting dizziness to come over me after I had stretched, but it never comes. My balance is perfect. My body feels light, unburdened, like something heavy has been removed without leaving a scar.
I look around.
The room is circular, vast, its walls curving smoothly upward into a domed ceiling that disappears into white haze, a gold pattern weaving into the haze. There are no corners. No windows. No doors that I could see.
It's a single, uninterrupted space.
Then my eyes land on something, a slightly greyer slate sticking out from the wall with candles on it.
A shrine.
The thought forms without effort, then settles comfortably in my mind as if it's always been there. This place isn't a room meant for living. It's meant for arrival. Like a lobby.
Carvings line the walls.
At first, they're almost invisible, etched so shallowly that they only reveal themselves when the light strikes them just right. I step closer, drawn by curiosity.
Figures built from the same stone that made up the walls.
Tall, robed shapes arranged in repeating patterns, their faces smooth and featureless. Their hands are raised, palms open, all turned toward the ceiling, toward something unseen. Distinct carvings in the robes being the only differences.
Between them are symbols.
Not too dissimilar to the plaques you'd see at a museum, describing works of art, or introducing sculptures, if I could read it, I was certain that's what they'd be.
A faint unease crawls up my spine.
I felt watched.
Not by eyes. These things didn't have eyes.
The room itself seems aware of me, not hostile, but not really welcoming. Almost like it was judging me, observing my every move and breath.
"Hello?" I say into the vastness.
My voice sounds strange in my ears. Almost…unfamiliar. The sound echoes softly, returning thinner, altered, like the shrine has filtered it before giving it back.
Aside from that, I receive no answer.
I swallow and take a slow step towards the grey slate.
I try to remember my name.
There's nothing.
No sound. No letters. Just an empty space where it should be.
Like my name had been forgotten to time, just the remnants of a past being that I didn't recognise.
I frown, pressing my fingers briefly to my temple as if that might coerce something to slip loose. It doesn't. My mind slides away from the effort, uninterested in the pursuit of a word that now seemed foreign.
That worried me more than panic would.
Each step sends a faint ripple of light across the floor, subtle glowing rings spreading outward before fading into the stone. I stop abruptly.
The light stops too.
I take another step.
Another ripple bounces forth.
The shrine responds to me.
Beckoning me to come closer.
The realisation settles heavily in my chest. This place is definitely observing me.
I circle the room slowly, counting steps out of a habit I don't remember having. Thirty-seven steps complete the circumference. No hidden doors reveal themselves. No seams break the perfection of the walls.
I am alone.
At least, I think I am.
At the centre of the room, where the platform once was, now stands something I hadn't noticed before.
That in itself sends a chill through me.
A pedestal rises from the floor, no taller than my waist, carved from the same grey stone as the shrine on the wall. Resting atop it is a shallow bowl.
Inside the bowl is liquid light.
Not glowing.
Not reflecting the light above, but its own source of light.
It doesn't move, doesn't slosh or ripple, its surface smooth as glass. Slowly the light seems to fade, and it reflects something new. It reflects not the room, but a sky I don't recognise. Colours bleed into one another, unfamiliar and vast.
With every step towards the bowl, a gentle pressure builds in my chest, not painful, just insistent, like my body is bracing for something my mind hasn't caught up to yet.
When I reach the pedestal, the liquid stirs.
Ripples spread across its surface, and images bloom into view.
A field of tall grass bending beneath a violent wind. Trees buckling under the pressure.
A city carved into a mountainside, its towers looking grown rather than built.
Creatures standing upright, not human, their eyes too bright, an almost ethereal look to them.
My heart is pounding now, loud in my ears.
"This isn't real," I mutter, though the words feel flimsy the moment they leave my mouth.
The only thing that feels real is the memory of me falling.
The ash.
The darkness.
The impact that never came.
I look down at my hands again, half-expecting them to reveal something monstrous or mechanical beneath the skin.
They don't.
They're just hands.
A soft sound breaks the silence.
Fabric shifting.
I spin, muscles tensing, body dropping instinctively into a defensive posture from my muscle memory. My hands curl as if expecting to be holding a weapon that isn't there.
The air behind me moves slowly.
Light folds inward, gathering, shaping itself.
The statues stepping out of the wall like it was nothing.
Three of them standing there now with looks of expectation.
One, a woman, she stood tall, her skin pale but warm, alive in a way the stone is not. Silver hair cascades down her back, bound loosely at the neck. Her eyes are a soft gold, luminous without shining, obscured by an owl shaped mask. She wears flowing cream robes that ripple despite the still air.
The next, a man, built like a Greek god, scarred bare chest adorned in wisps of dark hair, a colour that matched the waist length locks that cascade down his back like a dark river. Eyes the colour of blood that glow behind the smooth featureless mask that he wore. A large sword on the belt that was keeping his slate coloured baggy pants up.
The last, another woman, shorter than the other two but visibly taller than me. What skin was visible was almost as grey as stone but visibly flesh not slate. Silver eyes glinting behind a smooth fox mask. Her hair tied in two fox like ears, a lavender colour. Her red and white kimono sticking out, everything about her was sticking out, and not just in colour scheme. She tilts her head and removes her mask. Her features soft.
She smiles. It was careful. Practiced to appear as reassuring.
"Welcome," she says, her voice doesn't echo like mine had before.
"Where am I?" I ask.
She tilts her head down a bit more to meet my eyes, "You are within the Temple of the Gods"
I grit my teeth, "Who are you? what are you?"
"A guide," she says gently.
That doesn't help.
I glance back at the pedestal, at the bowl of light. "Why am I here?"
Her gaze follows mine.
"Because you are."
A flash of irritation cuts through the strange calm pressing in around me. "I didn't choose this."
"No," she agrees. "You didn't."
That earns her my full attention.
I step back, putting distance between us without fully turning away. "What happened to me?"
She studies me for a long moment, her expression thoughtful.
"You let go," she says at last.
The words send a shiver through me.
"I don't remember doing that."
"You wouldn't," she replies.
I swallow. "Am I dead?" the question slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes soften. "Not exactly"
"Then what am I?"
She hesitates. Just for a heartbeat.
"Someone new."
The answer lands heavier than it should.
I look down at myself again. The simple clothes. The unmarked skin. The absence of anything that ties me to the life I had before.
Like a hard reset.
"Why can't I remember?" I ask quietly.
The male steps closer, stopping just short of touching me. "Because memory is weight. And you arrived carrying too much."
I don't know why it matters to me to remember.
But it does.
The shrine hums softly, the carvings along the walls glowing faintly, as if responding to the conversation.
I suddenly feel very small.
"Am I alone here?" I ask.
"For now."
The phrase curls around viciously in my chest.
The owl masked woman removes her mask and kneels, becoming my height as she smiles, almost gleeful, bordering on sadistic, "you will not be here for long."
I don't know if that's a promise or a threat.
She gestures gently toward the pedestal, "when you are ready, you will drink this"
I stare at the bowl.
"What happens if I do?"
Her gaze meets mine again, steady and unflinching. The look of someone who knows more than they were letting on.
"I don't remember who I was, it isn't too much to ask what will come next" my voice flat, tired.
"Who do you want to be?"