Beside the campfire, Asvelas embarked on the narrative, his eldritch elven cadence enveloping their senses. As his words wove their intricate tapestry, both Caleb and Ismeth embarked on a journey of recollection. It resembled the delicate act of reassembling a shattered vase. Most fragments appeared discordant in isolation, yet as they merged, the prospect of forming a mosaic emerged.

With each uttered sentence, Caleb strained his intellect, and a throbbing sensation gripped his skull, as though a scream might unleash something profound from within.

Meanwhile, Priest Centavius cascaded the untouched contents of his flask onto the campfire, eliciting a spectacular surge of flames. The surging heat and the enveloping, acrid aroma seemed to facilitate the recollection process, as if...

"Come on, Caleb, you must recall. You've embarked on astral voyages countless times. How could this be any different...

What's the distinction? It persisted for an entire three months, for heaven's sake, and I can't recollect a single moment from that span. What sustenance passed my lips? What liquid quenched my thirst?

Observe my feet; they're now rugged and calloused. My hands quiver, my joints are numbed, and my once dainty fingers have twisted into unfamiliar contortions...

My intellect is drained as though I've etched countless spells into my memory, casting them repeatedly...

Verbalizations surface, words I don't recognize, in a language foreign to my cognition. My tongue contorts in manners hitherto unimagined. From my throat emanate guttural sounds, hitherto uncharted, and my inner vitality has been utterly sapped...

It's as if I've been drained of vitality. My entire font of existence has been recklessly exhausted, my essence spent wantonly.

The mirror, a dreaded adversary, I avoid, fearing the tally of wrinkles etched upon my visage and the argent strands that grace my hair. I resemble a wilting flower, its once-vibrant petals drained of hue. Though I struggle to express it, this tattered fatigue, this pilfered portion of my existence scattered heedlessly across the vast sea of time, has left me feeling aged, ever nearer to death's impending embrace...

Fear is my uninvited companion. Despite my efforts to veil it, it clings to me...

Oh, this sensation... The unmistakable impression that a part of me has been wrested away...

As though I've been a pawn... As though I've been stolen...”

"My recollections of that day are rather hazy too. You see, the influence of that peculiar mushroom was remarkably draining. However, through contemplation and sheer focus, I was able to retrieve my memories. Or, to put it more accurately, I succeeded in assembling those fragmented memories," Asvelas commenced.

"After your departure, I found myself with some leisure time," the elf appended with a sardonic grin.

"We, elves, refer to it as the Mirror World. The Realm of Reflections. The most delicate, the faintest line bridging the realms of life and death," he elaborated.

Caleb nodded; that moment was etched in his memory.

"The table we occupied lay directly before us. Yet, an ethereal barrier blocked our path. We could not advance in that direction. And the world unfurling behind us was oppressively dark. In the most elementary terms, we were filled with dread," Asvelas paused, his voice quivering. Recollecting that moment alone sent shivers down his spine.

"The dimension of the mirror teeters on the brink of oblivion," added Priest Centavius.

"I believe we were hearing the echoes of our own fears. "I, I was enslaved again," Asvelas said, studying Caleb and Ismeth's countenances to discern if they recollected that moment.

Caleb responded, his voice quivering, "I felt profoundly impotent without my magic. Reduced to a mere halfling."

Ismeth merely nodded. He was present at that moment, but his thoughts remained entangled, struggling to piece together the fragments. Asvelas didn't press him. When he locked eyes with the Priest, encouraged by Centavius' supportive nod, the half-elf continued his narrative.

"But Knight Silverhilt, he was fearless. Or perhaps, he simply didn't care. He unsheathed his dagger and began striking the mirror. As he struck it, the dimension we were in trembled. It was as though reality itself recoiled from his blows."

"Then Ismeth told his to halt," Caleb remembered.

Asvelas concurred with a nod. "Knight Silverhilt was vehemently exclaiming, 'The contemptible elf lurks there, plotting harm to the others,' as he relentlessly struck the mirror. Gradually, the fissures began to appear, and that's when my fear truly spiraled into unmanageable depths."

"I distinctly recall clasping my ears in a futile attempt to shield them from those piercing, eerie laughter," Caleb recounted.

Unfazed by Caleb's recollection, Asvelas pressed on. "The rift expanded, revealing a passage. First, it was Knight Silverhilt who ventured through, closely followed by Knight Crimsongale. Naturally, we followed suit."

Caleb reminisced, "We found ourselves beyond the confines of the ship."

"We were suspended in midair," Ismeth chimed in, his laughter signaling his first active participation in the conversation.

Asvelas affirmed, "That's when the Astra-Arghans launched their assault. Their numbers were staggering, forming a colossal swarm that nearly blotted out the sky."

"I have some fragmented memories of that tumultuous moment. I confidently weaved an illusion spell, and Brad harnessed the radiance of his dagger," Caleb asserted.

"No, that's not how it unfolded," Asvelas countered.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Caleb was taken aback. His recollection diverged significantly. "Then, I implore you to recount the precise sequence of events."

Asvelas drew a deep breath. "A formidable tempest materialized. It metamorphosed into a veritable tornado. We endeavored to cling to the vessel's railings, but our strength proved inadequate. We were whisked into the vortex, and the Astra-Arghans were similarly swept away. However, in that chaos, I beheld an anomalous sight."

"What did your eyes behold?" Caleb inquired.

Asvelas hesitated before responding, "I beheld a winged elf."

"An Averian?" Caleb asked, with an amused chuckle.

Blushing, Asvelas nodded.

"Don't jest," replied Caleb. "Averians are mythical creatures, the stuff of legends. They haven't been seen in over a thousand years. I know a very learned man who's well-versed in such matters. I'm certain Master David knows everything about them. They're merely myths, at least for this world."

"We were in an interdimensional space, Wizard Caleb. Why shouldn't they exist there?" objected Asvelas.

Caleb extended a somewhat contrite gesture with his arms, realizing his jest might have been misconstrued as disrespect. His half-elf companion bore a notably solemn demeanor, and he was determined not to give offense. Given the recent tumultuous events, maintaining an open-minded perspective seemed the wiser course. "Very well, Asvelas. Please, continue with your recollections."

"With his enchantments, the Averian redirected the tornado towards the northwest. I suspect he summoned the tempest to provide us with a protective veil. We soared in harmony with its might, tracing the entire expanse of the sea. Personally, I was utterly captivated by his actions... It was as though my mental faculties remained sharp solely through his mentorship. It was as if he beckoned me to follow in his wake."

"I've come across accounts describing Averians' inherent prowess in manipulating atmospheric phenomena," Caleb reflected. "However, I can't honestly recall this particular aspect. And you, Ismeth?" he inquired, turning towards the confused knight.

Ismeth vigorously shook his head in dissent. His mind lay fractured into a myriad of shards, elusive memories slipping through his grasp. The sheer unknowingness of where to begin the search gnawed at him, stoking an unrelenting fury that he struggled to veil beneath a veneer of composure.

For the dark-skinned knight, it was a mood unbeknownst to him, a sensation akin to a volcano poised on the brink of eruption. His character typically exuded composure and stoicism, but presently, an overpowering urge coursed through him, compelling him to unleash his pent-up energy with vehement blows and fierce kicks upon the hapless wooden objects strewn about him. He longed for an avenue to dissipate the welling, boundless force contained within him.

Ismeth's hands clenched with a potency that could rival the mightiest of gauntlets. His gaze shifted to Caleb, and he recognized that a single strike from him would be the young wizard's demise. He held unwavering certainty in this knowledge. Just one punch, honed as sharply as the keenest blade...

"What's consuming my thoughts? And this sudden surge of fury within me, what is it? No, these clenched fists, this is not my nature. My hands have never seized like this. My muscles don't typically tense so profoundly. I'm a man of slouch and nonchalance. My posture has never mattered to me. I've never harbored inner restraint. But now, if I were to inhale deeply just once or twice, it's as if I could draw the very breath of a colossal dragon into my lungs in the span of a mere heartbeat. I feel like I could scale the summit of this tree in the blink of an eye...

What's going on inside my head?

This isn't who I am. I don't ride these wild waves of emotion... My mind used to resemble a placid sea, free of tumultuous waves. Now, titanic waves crash relentlessly upon my being. I long to conquer these surges, to ascend higher and kiss the clouds like a untamed eagle... And there lies my quarry... Caleb, you're no different from a defenseless hare... Just one strike is all it would take... A single punch, and your ribcage would shatter, your heart fall silent... And that euphoria... That euphoria... It's something altogether distinct...

Power... The pursuit of power..."

Ismeth was suddenly seized by tremors. Foam spewed from his mouth, and the whites of his eyes became visible. He involuntarily leaned towards Caleb, who was at his side. It was Priest Centavius who first discerned his distress. The sagacious man exchanged a knowing look with Shaeala, the monk woman. She moved soundlessly behind Ismeth and commenced kneading the knight's shoulders.

But this wasn't just any massage. Let's call it an ancient relaxation technique. A monk could utilize her inner energy to apply precise pressure to specific nerve points within the other person's body. It's challenging to elucidate. There's a time and place for everything.

Gradually, the tremors abated.

"That was not me," Ismeth muttered. "I never yearned for such power. Perhaps Brad coveted it, or perhaps he already possessed it, but I've always found solace in the simplicity of my existence. No, I have never been a devotee of power or its allure. This feels like a torment inflicted upon my very soul. I do not wish to be this way. I never even desired to venture here. A humble garrison duty in Barnachia was all I desired. I never aspired to fame, glory, or titles. A modest and straightforward life was my ambition. Why has this befallen me?"

Ismeth had finally regained his composure. With a nod from the priest, Shaeala ceased her massage and took her place.

Meanwhile, Asvelas and Caleb engaged in a discussion about the gender of the winged elf. Ultimately, Asvelas deduced that the Averian had long, whitish-yellow hair and was indeed male. He also solemnly swore that there were ethereal blue sparks radiating around their savior's body.

"At long last, the morning light stirred me from slumber. Some might attribute it to destiny or mere chance, but we found ourselves nestled in the very bay where the vessel had arrived to reclaim me from the clutches of servitude. These lands were etched in my memory, known as well as the intricate lines on my own hand. And there, all of you lay in deep unconsciousness," the half-elf's narrative flowed.

"So, we had returned to the realm of reality?" Caleb inquired, seeking affirmation.

"Flesh and bone," Asvelas confirmed. "All appeared as ordinary as the world we know. Your breaths came with steady rhythm, yet the realm of wakefulness eluded you. Confronted with this predicament, I embarked on a quest for aid, for the burden of all three of you was more than I could bear alone. I had no alternative."

Caleb nodded. "And then?"

"As I returned, you had vanished," Asvelas recounted. "I resorted to my most honed skill: tracking. Yet, you exceeded my expectations in swiftness. Your trail vanished as though you had taken to the skies. Ten days hence, a whisper reached me, suggesting your presence in the city of Lathvaryl."

"At this juncture," intervened Priest Centavius, "the narrative takes a most intriguing twist. But we shall delve into that matter in due time. For now, endeavor to find solace. Partake in tea or wine. Relish the fruits and preserved meats bestowed by the elves. Reacquaint yourselves with the bounties of this world. Listen to the symphony of the forest. Attempt to unwind, my youthful companions. The night unfurls long before us."

Though Caleb harbored an urge to probe the priest's disconcerting words, his cravings for sustenance and quenching prevailed. Much like Ismeth, he fixed his gaze upon the banquet set before them. He savored a handful of dried plums and took a profound draught from an exquisite elven vintage.

"Do you truly possess no memories?" inquired Dylan, his query innocent.

In response, Ismeth and Caleb both shook their heads in negation. For them, it was more than a mere lapse in memory. Fatigue, enervation, and vulnerability bore heavily upon their frames. Upon their initial awakening, these sensations eluded precise comprehension. Perhaps Brad's resolve had shielded them from such comprehension. Their attention had been ensnared by the goal of ascending the peak to reach the Black Keep and confront the elven mage.

At that moment, it had appeared akin to any other day of adventure.

It was only when someone remarked upon their three-month absence that reality struck like a stinging blow. Yet the blow, on its own, proved insufficient to unveil the complete truth. Both sought answers. What had transpired during those elapsed months? Why remained their recollections shrouded in obscurity? What precipitated this pervasive sense of detachment and estrangement? And the burgeoning tempest of anger within...