With the Maslow book still in my hand, we turned to head back up the aisle, finding Bairn waiting patiently.

“How did you know we were here?” I asked.

“Door was open,” he answered. “And the few townsfolk who havena left…they dunna come here anymore.”

“Do you know this book?” I asked, flashing the cover toward him.

He looked at it with disinterest.

“Know it, aye,” he said flatly.

“Have you read it?” I continued.

“Nay. ‘Tis the last book folk read before they leave,” he answered. “And I’m staying.”

As we walked back into the street, Bairn said copies had shown up before he was born, but that everyone still called it the “new book.” No one knew exactly where it had come from, but everyone assumed it was Eyverluth, which apparently was the name of the walled city.

This assumption was in part because the capital was, in the eyes of rural villages, where everything new and troublesome originated. It was a place no one had ever been, but everyone always talked about. Even the gossip from passing traders, which had long taken Walden’s Edge off their routes, only offered gossip that had been through more than a few intermediaries.

It was their Oz and their Cyrodiil and their Timbuktu.

But aside from a guessed origin, Bairn had no insights into the book or its subject matter – only that it led to an exodus that had left him and a handful of family members as the last residents of a home he clearly held very dear.

Setting the conversation aside, because it was not on the “to do list” that had been passed down in his family for generations, Bairn began taking us to the sites he had previously mentioned.

Each day was a new location, a new ability, and a new opportunity to prepare for the world beyond the village.

The loom was in an old tailor shop, and there we learned to weave fabric and upgrade garments. Lining for our boots provided +1 Defense and +1 Cold, while an extra layer of fabric on the back of our tunics added +1 Ranged Defense.

At the Tannery, I could finally transform my Hell Panther hide into leather, which I then added to my breeches for +1 Melee Defense.

Eventually, I asked Bairn about the graveyard, unsure what material or ability that could provide. The dwarf only said, “not yet.”

In the meadow, Miguel learned to hunt small game, which provided food and pelts, the latter of which we could now transform into leather and armor upgrades. We also studied flowers and learned their applications, still not able to make potions, but capable of healing small wounds, poisonings, and magical attacks.

Finally, after a week or so, we visited the forge. There, I was able to see the equipment needed for smelting metal and smithing advanced armor and weapons. However, with all the metal ingots gone, the instructions were just theoretical. Fortunately, a few rudimentary tools and weapons had been tossed aside, all made of low-quality iron but still serviceable: a short sword to replace my wooden weapon, a dagger to replace Miguel’s sharpened stone, and even an axe to gather building materials from the copse of trees on the edge of town. Once in the Wilds, we would need fires, tents, crafting tables, and eventually more advanced protection and production structures.

With each visit, and each action, our levels slowly crept up – 11, 12, 13, 14…then 15, the final number glowing brightly enough that we knew it was time to return to the Skeels Bowl. Miguel improved his archery skills, which he immediately put to work hunting, while I still balanced Health with Strength. Bairn had made it clear he would not be joining us on our journey, which meant he could not be our classic dwarvish tank.

That left me to engage in melee combat and absorb punishment while Miguel fought from a distance. Even with a shield I crafted with wood from the copse, along with the sparring I did with Miguel, I felt woefully unprepared for whatever may lie ahead.

The training, crafting, and leveling dominated our days, leaving only the few firelit hours for reading, after which my eyes closed of their own accord, and I slept a deep and dreamless sleep.

Initially, I read the Maslow book, confirming it was the classic Psychology 101 version of the theory, offering no new twists on the subject matter or clarity on how it was supposed to be used by NPCs. Realistically, the Hierarchy of Needs only told us what already existed in human behavior and desires. It wasn’t an instruction manual – just like you can explain to people how their bodies breathe, but you don’t have to teach them to do it.

But that was people. I couldn’t pretend to know how programmed video game characters would respond to the information in those pages. Obviously, it did something, at least according to Bairn. The empty streets we walked each day seemed to confirm it. But I still didn’t know how, and I definitely didn’t know why.

I had also started reading The Three Kingdoms of Eyverluth, but whoever wrote it clearly hated readers. It was dense and meandering and convoluted, in language and content. It was like Shakespeare had eaten pot brownies and written an Ikea manual. So I never got more than a few pages in before falling asleep from exhaustion and boredom.

Eventually, two weeks had passed, with no sign of Nia, and our training seemed to be coming to an end. Bairn spoke less, watched more, and would occasionally disappear for hours – perhaps feeling he had taught us all he could. He was new to this, but he executed his role dutifully.

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Finally, one day he didn’t show up at all, so we set about fixing the alchemist’s bench in the market. Bairn had assured us that even if it did work, he could not teach us to use it. That particular instructor had long left, and with her, some vital elements of survival: potions for Health, Poisoning, Stamina Regeneration, Fortitude, Magicka Resistance, and a host of other abilities we would need in this type of game populated with these types of creatures – with even more unknowns inevitably on the horizon.

We did eventually finish, because we both leveled up to 18 for our crafting efforts, meaning another visit to the Skeel Bowl would be coming soon.

Just as we were putting our tools away, the sun sinking in the now-bronze sky, Bairn arrived. While he never showed an emotion anyone would call “happy,” his face held an added level of seriousness on this particular evening.

“Alright, mates,” he said, holding an ancient two-handed axe in front of him. “Tonight, we visit the graveyard.”

Bairn had never been armed before, and he looked competent but uncomfortable holding the massive weapon. I noticed he had also put on a heavy outer cuirass, made of a mixture of leather and dull iron flecks, contrasting with the bright red wrapping on the weapons haft – the vibrant color perfectly matching his long hair and almost longer beard. He had even wrapped his hands in matching fabric in place of gauntlets, adding at least a little protection. Whatever was on the night’s agenda, he clearly planned to do more than watch.

As the sun fell, I sharpened my sword while Miguel filled his quiver and secured his dagger. We checked and rechecked the bindings on our rudimentary armor, and Bairn pounded on my shield to confirm its strength. However, it was a little concerning that he did this with his fist and not his axe, seemingly knowing it would not withstand a blow from the latter.

Finally, when darkness fell, we began trekking toward the graveyard, weapons sheathed but torches lit. As Bairn offered his limited instructions, the nighttime howls grew louder than before, increasing in volume and threat as we moved steadily away from the security of our camp.

“The resting place of the dead ‘tis not a place we visit often,” he explained. “And never at night. The dark lets them loose, held within the iron gates only by ancient magic and undying fires.”

“Then maybe we should stay out here,” I suggested.

“Twould that I could,” Bairn assured us. “But this is yer final step, after which we’ll part and ye’ll be on yer way, never to return.”

“You’re kicking us out?” I asked, my voice squeaking more than it should.

Bairn stopped to face us.

“Soon ye’ll have the mark, each of ye,” he said with more kindness than usual, “and the beasts will come for ye, destroying all in their way. So aye, ye must go, for all our sakes. But ye’ll leave only after ye pass tonight’s test, assuming ye do, and gain yer final weapon to sustain ye on yer journey.”

This shouldn’t have been a surprise. No one stays at base camp forever in a game, but that’s always out of choice, not exile. Since Miguel and I were only trying to survive long enough to be rescued in the real world, I had planned to stay for as long as possible. Months at least, not weeks.

I intuitively knew we would have to “begin the game,” but only to add to our strength, not to risk our lives. And I had assumed we could always come back here for safety, supplies, or perhaps just familiarity. Even surrounded by a game world more fascinating and stunning than any I had ever encountered, my curiosity was – for the first time ever – heavily outweighed by fear. We had always said we wanted games to be more realistic, but life and death was a step much, much too far.

But as Bairn turned and continued down the darkened path, I knew this issue was not up for debate. Plus, with his “if ye pass” addition regarding the upcoming test, it was clear Miguel and I had more immediate concerns.

Soon, we arrived at imposing iron gates, the metal surrounded by a halo of blue that radiated from within. The same was true for the sturdy fence that surrounded rows of headstones, stretching the length and width of a basketball court, which still seemed large for a village this size.

Bairn carefully placed his torch in a stone pillar near the entrance, and as he did, the flames shifted from yellow to blue, matching the magic barrier emanating from the metal. He then pulled an ancient key from his non-boot-paper boot, slowly sliding it into a lock that seemed rarely used.

The gates creaked open, and the flame from the torch flashed brighter, apparently to hold evil at bay with the entryway exposed. We all quickly stepped inside, Bairn closing the gates behind us. As soon as he had, the headstones all began to glow with a sinister red we had not witnessed in this world before.

“Maybe now is a good time to explain,” Bairn said calmly.

“Maybe twenty minutes ago was a good time to explain!” I yelled. “What the hell are we doing here?”

Miguel didn’t yell with me, but he did unsheathe his bow and fit an arrow into it, watching the headstones warily.

“‘Tis simple,” Bairn said, hiding his own discomfort as best he could. “The dead can only rise at night, and they canna leave this place. But ye need something here, which means we must take it from them.”

“But what are they?” I asked, my voice still urgent and shrill. “Zombies? Ghosts? Demons?”

“Your words are not ones I know,” he responded, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. “What exists here are the darkest parts of what once lived, returned from the Fade where their spirits reside. But they are a fraction of the whole, nothing like the full unearthly creatures that cover the Wilds beyond.”

His assurances did not comfort me.

“Great,” I said. “So we’ll be fighting the darkest parts of all the people you’ve ever buried here.”

Bairn laughed for the first time. Ever.

I didn’t enjoy it.

“We dwarves burn our dead,” he said, still smiling. “So do humans and elves as far as I know, though I’ve not met any aside from ye.”

I looked at the carefully placed headstones, laid out in tidy little rows, many accented with the stubs of once-lit candles and once-vibrant flowers.

“These are our beasts,” he said, as if it should be obvious. “The most loyal hounds, sturdy oxen, and all the other animals that allow us to survive the harshness of this world. Whilst most are slaughtered as life demands, the best of them are buried here – a reminder of how connected we truly are.”

“It’s a pet cemetery,” Miguel clarified.

Bairn spun more quickly than I knew he could and stepped within inches of Miguel, sending him stumbling backward despite his two-foot height advantage.

“They’re no pets, no more than this one is yers,” he said angrily, gesturing toward me.

What did I do?

“Everything around ye dies so that ye may live,” he spat, “so we honor some to acknowledge them all. And if ye leave this place with the creature ye come for, it will mean more to yer survival than any blade, armor, or ally.”

Miguel nodded his understanding and apology, which was enough for the dwarf.

“Ah, you’re outlanders,” Bairn said finally. “Ye canna know what ye canna know. ‘Tis my job to teach ye, not scold ye.”

With that, Bairn stepped toward the gravestones, drew his axe, and started a countdown.

“In one minute, maybe two,” he explained, “what little darkness lives in these majestic beasts will rise to destroy ye. ‘Tis no more their fault than it is the fault of the sun for setting. But the reason dunna matter. Only that they come for yer throats, and ye must strike them down.”

“How?” I asked hastily.

“Battle as ye’ve been taught,” Bairn said simply, walking up the center corridor. “They’ll be caught between flesh and spirit, but they’ll fall to yer weapons as would any beast.”

He hastily pulled strange flowers from his satchel, placing them in a rectangle in front of the largest headstone in the graveyard.

“Only Slánaigidir will not rise,” he explained, placing the final petals. “If we live, she will return from the Fade to join ye.”