“Do you think your life is real?”

The voice cut through the quiet like a knife.

I froze, my hand just inches away from the golden thread glowing faintly in the dark forest. I wasn’t supposed to touch it. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.

Slowly, I turned. An old man stood a few steps away, holding a wooden staff. His face was calm, like he asked strange questions all the time.

“What kind of question is that?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“A fair one,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was gentle, but it felt like his presence was pushing down on me. “Do you really make your own choices? Or are you just following a story that someone else wrote?”

“I—” My voice caught in my throat. I didn’t know what to say. Of course my life was real. Wasn’t it?

The thread glowed beneath my fingers. Warm. Alive. It wanted me to come closer.

“Touch it,” the old man said. His eyes were sharp, almost daring me. “If you’re brave enough.”

I touched it.

The world shattered.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the forest. I stood on a cliff, staring down into a rippling void, stars swirling below.

The old man was next to me, calm as ever. “Welcome to the trials of reality. If you survive, you might learn how to bend it.”

I stared at the void, trying to understand what he meant. The trials of reality? Survive? My body felt like it was coming apart.

“What am I supposed to do?” I whispered.

The old man smiled. “Step forward.”

“Into… that?” I pointed at the void. It rippled like melted glass.

“Reality bends for the bold. It breaks the fearful.” He jabbed the staff at my feet. “To shape the world, you must first step into the unknown.”

The cliff crumbled beneath me. I stumbled forward, arms flailing, and then—

I was falling.

The void swallowed me whole. It wasn’t cold or dark. It was alive. A mix of emotions, colors, and feelings rushed through me. Memories that weren’t mine filled my mind: a child laughing, a fire burning, a battle I had never fought.

The old man’s voice echoed through the chaos. “You aren’t just a part of the story. You are the storyteller. Shape it, or it will shape you.”

“How?” I screamed.

“Focus,” he said, his voice suddenly closer, like he was inside my mind.

I reached out, desperate for something solid. A golden thread appeared, thin but strong, and I grabbed it. The chaos slowed, melting into form.

I was standing again, but I wasn’t on the cliff anymore. A huge gate was in front of me, covered in symbols I couldn’t read.

The old man appeared next to me, his staff clicking on the ground as he walked. “Good,” he said, nodding at the thread still in my hand. “You’re starting to see.”

“See what?” I asked.

“That reality is yours to shape. But first, you need to understand it.” The old man pointed with his staff, the tip sparking as it tapped against the symbols on the door. With a groan, the gate swung open, revealing a swirling mist.

“Your trial is inside,” the old man said, his voice calm but commanding. “You’ve touched the thread of reality. Now it’s time to see the threads inside yourself.”

I hesitated at the entrance. “What’s in there?”

“Not what,” he replied, eyes shining. “Who.”

Before I could ask more questions, the golden thread pulled me forward. The mist swallowed me whole.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

The room was massive. Endless. The floor was liquid glass, reflecting the stars above. Everything hummed, almost alive. In the center floated an orb of light, faintly glowing like it was breathing.

The silence pressed down.

A voice, deep and steady, rumbled from nowhere and everywhere. “Step forward.”

My feet moved before I could think. The hum grew louder, vibrating in my chest. I reached out, fingertips brushing the orb.

It exploded.

I was thrown into chaos. Falling. Spinning. Tumbling through light and shadow.

Voices surrounded me, pounding into my head. They were loud and relentless. “You’re not good enough.” “Why did you try?” “Keep going, don’t quit now.” “Failure! Failure! FAILURE!”

I screamed, covering my ears. But it didn’t help. The voices were inside me, echoing louder and louder. My heart raced. I couldn’t breathe.

Then, one voice cut through. “Who is speaking?”

Everything froze. I opened my eyes, gasping. I wasn’t falling anymore. I stood in darkness. In front of me was a glowing figure, holding a small flame.

It tilted its head, watching me.

“What is this?” I asked, waving at the darkness.

The figure didn’t answer. It lifted the flame higher. The light grew, and suddenly, I saw them.

They were versions of me. Hundreds, maybe thousands, all standing in a circle around us. They looked angry, sad, mocking, or encouraging. Some looked just like me. Others were twisted, exaggerated, or strange. And every single one of them was talking.

“That’s... me,” I whispered.

The figure nodded.

I stumbled back, overwhelmed. The voices didn’t stop. They argued, judged, laughed, criticized. They were all talking over each other, each one louder than the last.

The figure stepped closer, holding out the flame. It pointed to one of the voices. A version of me pacing nervously, mumbling to itself.

“That’s the voice of fear,” the figure said. “It wants to protect you but doesn’t know how.”

It pointed to another. A smirking, arrogant version of me leaning against an invisible wall.

“That’s the voice of pride. It’s weak. It shouts to hide how scared it is.”

One by one, it showed me the voices. Doubt. Anger. Hope. Guilt. Joy. Shame. Each a part of me. Each with its own truth.

“Do you see?” the figure asked. “These are not you. They are your voices.”

“But they are me,” I argued, my head spinning. “I think these things.”

The figure shook its head. The flame in its hand glowed brighter.

“Who hears them when they speak?”

I froze. “What?”

The figure stepped closer, shadows flickering across my face. “When fear speaks, who hears it? When pride shouts, who listens? When doubt whispers, who notices?”

I stared, my mind racing. “I do,” I said slowly.

The figure nodded. “Yes. You hear them. You see them. But you are not them.”

The darkness shifted. The voices faded. I was back in the mirrored room. The golden thread floated in front of me. I grabbed it tightly.

The mirror under my feet rippled. My reflection stared back. But it wasn’t me. It moved on its own, its expression twisting between joy and rage, confidence and sadness.

It began to speak, its voice a mix of all the ones I had heard before. “You can’t do this. You’ll fail. No one cares about you. You’re worthless.”

I gritted my teeth. “Shut up!”

The reflection smirked. “Why? You’ve listened to me your whole life.”

Its words hit me like a punch. It was right. I had always listened to the voice in my head, letting it guide my actions, my feelings, my choices.

But now, holding the golden thread, I saw it for what it really was.

“You’re not real,” I said, my voice shaking.

The reflection tilted its head. “I’m you.”

“No,” I said, gripping the thread tighter. “You’re just the voice in my head. And I’m the one who hears you.”

The reflection paused. Cracks spread across its surface. I took a step forward.

“You are not me,” I said firmly. “I am not the voice in my head. I am the one who watches it.”

The reflection shattered.

The room filled with light, the pieces of the mirror dissolving into the air. The voices were gone. For the first time, there was silence. Real silence. It wasn’t empty or lonely. It was peaceful.

The gate shimmered back into view, towering over the calm space around me. The golden thread on my wrist pulsed gently, leading me forward.

I stepped through the gate. Light surrounded me, and then I was back in the dark forest.

The old man stood a few steps away, leaning on his staff. His gaze was calm and piercing. “Well? What did you learn?”

I took a deep breath. “The voices in my head… they’re not me. They never were. I let them control me, but I’m the one who hears them. I’m the one who sees.”

The old man smiled. “Good. The first knot of illusion is untied.”

He tapped the ground with his staff, and a circle of glowing symbols appeared around us. “Step by step. The truth must be simple, or it won’t last.”

With a wave of his hand, the first symbol, a spiraling thread, floated into the air. “The voice in your head is not you. It’s noise. Fear, pride, doubt, hope, shame. Each plays its part, but none are the storyteller.”

The old man waved again, and the second symbol appeared. A glowing eye. “You are the one who hears the voices. You are the observer. This is your power, your center. No matter how loud they scream, they can’t pull you away unless you let them.”

The third symbol emerged. A mirror with a crack down the middle. It floated between us, spinning slowly.

“The voices are illusions. They only control you if you believe them. But when you see them for what they are, they lose their hold on you.”

I nodded, the golden thread glowing warmly against my skin. The forest felt alive, each breath lighter than the last.

The old man turned, his staff clicking as he walked toward a flickering campfire. I followed.

After a few minutes, he spoke again. “Are you ready for the second trial?”

I hesitated. The first trial had been intense. “What is the second trial?”

The old man turned to face me, the firelight flickering across his face. His expression was calm, but there was something deeper in his eyes. “You’ve tasted freedom from the voices. Now you must free yourself from time.”

I stared, my heart pounding. “And if I fail?”

He smiled faintly. “Fail? You already live in chains. Failure is staying there.”

Before I could respond, the golden thread pulled me through the gate again.