Frozen in place, they found themselves stalled, unable to advance their hypothesis. They could neither make head nor tail of the situation. Days melded indistinguishably into one another, each swallowed by the inky shadows that stretched ever longer as time passed.

They sat, their minds not empty but overwhelmed by a flood of thoughts. Each breath they took echoed in the void, amplifying the gnawing uncertainty that clung to them. With every inhale and exhale, the space around them seemed to fracture, threatening to collapse and erase any memory of their doubts. Yet, as time passed, the serpentine cracks in the space around them extended too slowly, almost negligibly, as if reluctant to reach a point where they would reset everything they knew.

Marcellus and Ayden were spared the oblivion that consumed the others, but the weight of their knowledge was a heavy burden to bear.

"Do we really have to go to the first circle?" Marcellus, no longer suffering from amnesia, asked for the hundredth time, feeling an inexplicable urge, even though he knew it might be misguided.

Ayden responded with uncertainty, "Yes... no, I'm not sure. It seems like the correct course of action, but there's no telling how much longer. The flow of time itself is convoluted."

Ayden also shared an observation, partly to inform Marcellus and partly to confirm her own sanity. Ever since they began pondering their situation, they had confined themselves indoors, a small window their only link to daylight. She noticed the two suns rising and setting in rapid succession; night would fall and day would break, yet for them, only a few seconds seemed to pass.

Occasionally, they paced about, their restlessness fueling their deep contemplation. The more they dwelled on their situation, the more fear and desperation crept in. These intense emotions stirred awake more memories; and with each memory they recalled, their terror and desperation only intensified. It was a cycle of torment, unending and relentless.

Marcellus would steal glances at Ayden, recognizing after several emotional cycles what Ayden had realized long ago: they were essentially torturing themselves with their memories. But why wouldn't he want to remember the sweet nectar of his life—a loving and supportive mother, an unreciprocated crush on the popular girl, the smell of blood, the torture that was his life? He needed to know, even if it killed him. Yet, as a man of the sword with some level of discipline, he considered ways to extricate himself from mental exhaustion. His eyes lingered on the cryptic symbols scratched into a weathered notebook. Perhaps distracting himself with knowledge about what they had found in this realm could help alleviate his stress. Alas, among the things he remembered, he realized he truly did not know the language of this dream-like realm. He shook his head, the gesture tinged with despair.

Finally, his voice crackled with unease, "Strange things we're caught in, in this twisted land."

Ayden nodded, understanding the weight of their shared burden. "I fear we are already dead, I remember my old life, fragments," Ayden whispered, her smile tinged with bitterness, like a wilted flower clinging to a memory of bloom.

"A limp, they called me," she muttered, her eyes clouded with a storm of emotions. "Highborn, they called me, yet the ground itself seemed to reject my steps." The dissonance between her past and present hung heavy in the air. "Dodder they would whisper, a constant companion, a title draped upon me like a gilded shroud—noble... highborn. What a cruel joke!" The words tasted foreign on Ayden's tongue, echoes from a life as distant as the stars.

Marcellus did not interrupt her or attempt to offer comforting words; he simply lacked the emotional range to respond without coming across as patronizing. As close friends, he and Ayden understood that sometimes, silence was more supportive than the wrong words.

Marcellus's eyes blazed with a long-dormant fire as he contemplated inwardly. Memories stirred within him, carrying both joy and sorrow. He thought of The Priestess, her beauty like sunlight on water, her voice a whispered song as she trained him with the blade. She was his first teacher, and then... he had run away, a shadow fleeing the sun.

The panic of training had become too overwhelming. But in the emptiness that followed, he waited. There was no pursuit, no echo of her anger. Why did she let him go? What did she know? What had he left behind? His thoughts quivered with pain, a tremor of hurt resonating through the silence.

She never came. Why? he wondered silently, grappling with the unresolved questions that haunted him.

The question echoed in the cavernous space, a hollow drumbeat against the silence.

Fourteen, he'd been, a foolish boy blinded by adolescent adoration. His love for her blonde hair was as unwavering now as it had been then, feeling like a festering wound, raw and open to the air.

What had possessed him to run? What darkness had whispered in his ear, driving him away from the only light he'd ever known?

The thought trailed off, a question hanging in the air. Ayden, sensing Marcelus's turmoil, offered a reassuring grin.

Ayden said, "Well, unlike you, I don't long to survive. But if we do end up Surviving, promise to find me, okay? Remember my proposition? I might be of help to you, I am a noble after all"

Ayden's lightheartedness did its job. Marcellus laughed. "deal"

Burdens they hadn't realized they carried began to shed, peeling away like withered leaves. Secrets were whispered, regrets confessed, and fears cast into the wind like unwanted baggage. Ayden revealed her noble status; Marcellus his gnawing self-doubt and fear of failure. Each syllable unravelled a thread, untangled a knot, leaving them lighter and closer to the core of their true selves.

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As their conversation climaxed, their bright eyes lit up the room, momentarily pushing aside their worries. The storm of their emotions subsided, leaving a breathless calm.

Unknowingly, Ayden and Marcellus had found a way to circumvent some restrictions of the dream realm. For instance, they couldn't directly question whether this was a dream or reality. Yet, as they had done unconsciously over the years, they inadvertently broke this rule again by discussing their true identities, persisting in their breach because they were initially unaware of its existence.

The conversation began as it had countless times before, for what felt like the thousandth time. Ayden, gazing intently at Marcellus, started with a probing question, "Marcellus, have you ever questioned the nature of our actuality here? The fabric of this world seems... malleable, almost like a..."

A chill crept into the air, sending a shiver down Marcellus's spine.

Interrupting, Marcellus narrowed his eyes in contemplation, puzzled by Ayden's sudden philosophical turn. "What do you mean? Are you suggesting this isn't real? I've actually... killed people who died."

Ayden paused, choosing her words with deliberate care. "Not exactly. It's just that, sometimes, things around us may not be as they appear. My senses and perceptions could be deceiving me."

Marcellus felt another shiver as he absorbed Ayden's words, a sense of familiarity creeping into his thoughts as if he had entertained this exact notion before. "So, you're saying we could be in some kind of illusion, or a fabricated...?"

Ayden nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Think about it, Marcellus. The surreal events, the seemingly impossible feats we've accomplished, the strange nature of the citadel. Doesn't it all feel a bit... unreal? Like fragments of a fantasy pieced together?"

Marcellus's mind raced as he tried to digest the notion that their reality might be a carefully constructed illusion, unsettling him deeply. However, almost as quickly as the conversation began, it usually faded into a fleeting memory, seemingly erased from their conscious thoughts as if it had never happened. For years, since they awoke, it had been a torturous loop of recollection—repeating the same conversation about the nature of their reality here, only to forget it shortly afterwards.

This time, however, the conversation did not fade away. The profound nature of their exchange lingered in their minds, refusing to be erased. The conversations that usually acted like detonations—each discussion causing the ground beneath their feet to tremble and walls of perception to crack, revealing glimpses of unsettling darkness—this time left permanent marks. The cracks did not seal shut as before, plunging them into a terrifying, empty darkness that did not recede. Fear tightened its grip as the room seemed to shake. Marcellus's heart raced in the engulfing darkness, panic flaring as he could not feel his form, his uncertainty's icy grip still clinging to him like a shroud.

Then, amidst the oppressive darkness, a voice cracked through like lightning in a storm-black sky, signalling that this time, something was fundamentally different.

"Congratulations are indeed due!" The voice was deep, ethereal—the same that had ushered him into this strange reality—Lancel!

"You've done well. Your defiance against the current has been quite fascinating. Alas, it's regrettable that your awakening will mark your end."

Marcellus reeled from the revelation, his suspicions about their doomed fate in this realm now confirmed.

"This place, this realm—it's a tapestry woven from our subconscious minds, a dream," Lancel explained, admitting he had performed a ritual that birthed this surreal landscape shaped by their collective consciousness and imagination.

He unveiled a startling truth: "From the moment you awoke on the first day, everything you encountered was a projection of your deepest yearnings and fears." This suggested a chilling possibility—if they harboured a subconscious resignation to death, their experiences would mirror such bleak acceptance...

Confused, Marcellus pondered the intricacy of their predicament. It wasn't just about succumbing to death; their subconscious was crafting scenarios steering them toward their fatal end. His own experiences in this 'dream' exemplified this. Pervaded by pessimism, his mind attracted misfortune. While others received beneficial weapons, Marcellus was burdened with a cursed blade and consistently chose unsatisfying fare.

Intriguingly, under Ayden's influence, Marcellus’s outlook had begun to shift subtly yet significantly, proving pivotal for his survival in this realm.

"Yet, every journey must have an end, and sadly, yours begins with your deaths," Lancel explained. "As I previously stated, your deaths are imminent once this ritual concludes, and you return to reality."

He differentiated between truth and fiction. The existence of the Harmonious Nexus Path, a knightly breathing technique, was real, yet in reality, it would not bestow the exaggerated strength of tenfold an ordinary human.

"If you steered clear of the first circle, celebrate your achievement—you've attained enlightenment, known as pulse condensation, and mastered the sword," Lancel announced, hinting at a divine intervention whose specifics he left unexplained.

"The exact reason for your impending deaths remains unknown to me. Just hope it's something physical, because if it's not, survival is unlikely."

This implied a stark reality: every individual was on the brink of death. If the cause of their mortal peril could be countered with physical might, they were fortunate, having trained for years. However, if it involved means such as drowning, they would most certainly drown.

Marcellus's consciousness began to waver, like a candle flickering in a windstorm enveloped in darkness. The last vestiges of Lancel's foreboding words echoed in his mind, mingling with a growing sense of unease.

"Wake up, dreamers, wake up and smell the ashes!"

Abruptly, the world changed—a disorienting sensation gripped him, his thoughts a swirling vortex of confusion and fear. The darkness became tangible, a heavy cloak suffocating and dense.

Marcellus tried to call out, to cling to the fading threads of awareness, but his voice was lost. Then, without warning, his consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers. The darkness consumed him wholly, pulling him into an abyss of nothingness.

All that remained was the engulfing silence of unconsciousness. Time seemed to stand still, an undefined interval passing in this state of void. Then, as suddenly as his descent into darkness, Marcellus's senses jolted back to life, more precisely to reality.

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***

In the hull of a ship, Lancel, with brown hair and a face adorned by a thick, full beard that cascaded down his chin, exuded a rugged aura. He possessed a burly build, with a heavy chest, and he caressed an eye-shaped artifact that appeared to hold the stars within its depths.

Muttering to himself, he recited names as he caressed the artefact, "Leon, Elena, Marcellus, Ayden, Tellervo, Millicent, and Günther." An intriguing smirk was unfolding.

Behind him, a soft Voice spoke, "Captain, your galley of lies is swamped by the relentless waves of truth."

Hearing the voice, Lancel let out a rich chuckle. "You think so? I'd bet my gold on Ayden. Even if everyone else falls, she'll surely survive. She is an Aspirant, after all!"