Chapter Four-Two: Memories

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Jace crouched low on the rooftop, the wind clawing at his cloak as he prepared to test the limits of his newly acquired ability. The Shift felt strange, unfamiliar—a gift from Hades forced into him, taking the place of the abilities he’d once mastered. He could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, delicate and volatile, waiting for his command.

He focused, drawing on that strange tether of power. It felt like pulling on threads in a tapestry, each one shifting and rippling through reality. With a sharp inhale, he willed the Shift forward. The world around him blurred, bending at the edges as his form flickered—and suddenly, he was on the opposite rooftop.

His landing wasn’t graceful. His boots skidded against the slanted tiles, arms pinwheeling as he nearly tumbled backward into the void. He steadied himself, chest heaving, heart hammering in his ears. “Okay,” he muttered to himself, brushing frost from his gloves. “That’s a little touchier than I thought.”

He tried again, narrowing his focus. This time, the Shift snapped more quickly, the sensation akin to being plucked by an unseen force and dropped somewhere new. He reappeared on a narrow wall, wobbling as his momentum carried him forward, nearly launching himself into the stone side of a building. His hands shot out to catch himself, the impact jarring but manageable.

“Great,” he said with a wry grin. “Superpowered parkour.”

But as he practiced, the ability began to reveal its intricacies. It wasn’t a brute force skill like the ones he’d used before. It required finesse, timing, and an awareness of the delicate balance between dimensions. The Shift wasn’t just about movement—it was a tool for precision. He experimented, flickering short distances in rapid succession, then stretching the ability for longer leaps. The transitions became smoother, the landings more controlled.

He jumped again, twisting mid-air, and appeared atop a lamppost with a snap of displaced air. The glow of the Etheric cloak cast a faint shadow as he crouched there, his balance steady. “Okay,” he murmured, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “That’s more like it.”

Testing its finer uses, he discovered it wasn’t just about escaping or reaching higher ground. With a small burst of energy, he shifted through a low awning, reappearing just beneath it, standing in the shadows. He grinned. This version wasn’t just faster—it was smarter. The delicate touch allowed him to maneuver through tight spaces or bypass obstacles entirely.

Still, it wasn’t perfect. When he tried to stretch the Shift too far, the threads of energy resisted, snapping him back with enough force to throw him off balance. He landed hard on his side, skidding across the cobblestones, his breath escaping in a sharp hiss. “Damn it,” he groaned, pushing himself up. The ability demanded respect—every flicker of it a dance on the edge of precision and chaos.

Jace stood, brushing himself off. He wasn’t quite smooth yet, but he was getting there. Each mistake taught him something: how to read the flow of energy, how to bend without breaking. As the frozen wind howled around him, he realized this power wasn’t just another tool in his arsenal—it was an evolution, a step closer to the edge of something greater. And Hades hadn’t given it to him out of charity.

After a bit of a bumble and a stumble, he finally settled on the roof near the town gates, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air. Below him, the town bustled faintly, but the sounds were muffled, distant. He pulled the ancient tome from his satchel, its cracked spine creaking softly as he opened it.

The pages smelled of age and secrets, their edges frayed and delicate. By the faint light of the moons, Jace traced the faded script and the detailed sketches that accompanied it. The history of Roandia unfolded slowly, each passage drawing him deeper into its story.

Roandia had been a neutral kingdom, a place where all gods and their followers could coexist without fear of conflict. Its central location made it the heart of Terra Mythica, a sanctuary for those seeking refuge or resolution. The Tower had stood even then, a monolithic structure that pierced the heavens, and the Games had drawn competitors from every corner of the land, uniting the pantheons in shared trials and spectacles.

The kingdom had flourished under Osira’s rule. She had been a queen of unparalleled wisdom and strength, welcoming all peoples—mortals and divine alike. Each culture left its mark, blending into a tapestry of traditions and alliances. Roandia’s markets had been filled with goods from every region, its temples dedicated to all gods, its streets alive with a harmony rarely seen in Terra Mythica.

But the golden age hadn’t lasted. The text grew darker, the words heavier as they chronicled the kingdom’s fall. Tensions between the gods had bled into the mortal realm, and Roandia, despite its neutrality, became a battlefield. The Tower, once a symbol of unity, became a prize for the gods’ champions, its trials twisted by ambition and greed.

The king and queen had fought to protect her people, but the text made clear the odds had been insurmountable. She had died in the final siege, her death marking the kingdom’s collapse. Her people scattered, the Tower abandoned for centuries, and the neutral haven became a memory, whispered among those who still remembered the old ways.

Jace’s breath caught as he turned the page to a sketch. It was a simple charcoal rendering of the queen, but the details were unmistakable. A woman stood tall, her dark hair cascading around her shoulders, her expression serene yet commanding. Her face was regal, sharp, and full of strength. Jace’s breath hitched as recognition clawed at his chest.

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Osira. His mother.

His fingers trembled as he touched the edge of the drawing, as if afraid it might dissolve beneath his touch. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling silently down his cheeks. The weight of her gaze from the sketch pressed into him like a physical thing, the faint hint of a smile on her lips both a comfort and a torment.

The passage beneath the image detailed her rule—a golden age of wisdom and strength. But the golden age had not lasted. Roandia had fallen, and Osira had died defending it. The words were clinical, devoid of emotion, but they struck Jace harder than any blow. He read and reread the lines, trying to force them to mean something different, something less final.

But something didn’t add up. The tome made no mention of her being a Traveler. Yet Jace knew the truth. He had seen it in the fractured memories of Henry—the Dark One. Unless Henry had lied, which was always possible. But if what Jace had seen was true, Osira had been a Traveler, just like him. And when she had died, she must have respawned.

The book confirmed the first part of that story. After her death, Osira had vanished. No one had seen her again. The kingdom had crumbled, its people scattering like leaves in the wind.

Jace stared at the sketch, his tears falling faster now. There was something about her face that tugged at him, deeper than the connection of blood. It was a familiarity beyond the memories of childhood.

And then it struck him.

The memory bloomed sharp and vivid: the dim glow of the tavern in Havenstown, the murmur of conversations weaving through the smoky air, and the haunting melody of the traveling bard. Her voice had carried a sorrow that seemed to touch every shadowed corner of the room, a bittersweet lament that had left a knot in his chest long after the final note faded.

Osira.

Alive. Unaware of who she had been, of what she had lost. The realization hit Jace with the force of a gale, tearing through him and leaving him unmoored. A sob clawed its way from his throat, unbidden and raw. She had been there, so close that he could have reached out and touched her, and yet he hadn’t known. She hadn’t known. She couldn’t have. Her memories would have been wiped clean during the respawn.

The song returned to him in fragments—not its words, but its essence. A melody woven with aching sorrow and fragile hope. It was like trying to hold onto the memory of a dream as it slipped through his fingers, ephemeral and bittersweet. His heart clenched as the truth settled deep within him: that voice, that sorrow, had been his mother’s.

His breath hitched as his legs gave way, sending him to his knees on the rooftop. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if to block out the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. The tears came anyway, warm and unrelenting. He wanted to scream, to curse the gods who had crafted such a cruel twist of fate. Instead, all that emerged was a choked whisper. “She was right there.”

Part of him wanted to act on pure instinct, to leap from the rooftop and open a portal, the magic arcing him back to Havenstown faster than reason could catch up. Maybe she was still there, singing her haunting songs in some quiet corner of the tavern. Maybe if she saw him, if he looked into her eyes, something would stir—some spark of recognition. Some part of her would remember.

But reason clawed its way back, cold and unyielding. She was a traveling bard. She wouldn’t stay in one place for long, moving on to the next town, the next tavern, the next audience to carry her songs away like leaves in the wind. And even if she was still there, what could he possibly say? Hi, Mom. I’m your son, the one you don’t remember, from a life you can’t recall.

The thought twisted like a knife in his chest. His breath shuddered as he scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, wiping away the tears that refused to stop. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the sting. He couldn’t chase ghosts. Not now. Not when there was so much he didn’t understand, so much he hadn’t yet uncovered about this world and the forces that governed it.

But one day… one day, when he had the answers he sought, when he had unraveled the mysteries that bound him to this place, he would find her again. He would help her remember who she was, who they were. And he would look her in the eyes and tell her everything.

Just not today. He felt some warmth in knowing that, though she didn’t know who he was, she was happy. She was singing.

He rose, the weight in his chest settling into something cold and resolute. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and turned away from the skyline. There was no room for what-ifs or might-have-beens. Not yet. For now, he had to move forward.

The sun hovered low, the horizon a burning painting of crimson and amethyst, the last remnants of daylight fading into the yawning void of night. Darkness didn’t just descend—it seeped, deliberate and unyielding, carrying the promise of a ceremony that loomed heavy in the air. Jace closed the tome in his lap with deliberate care, the ancient leather cover creaking in quiet protest. The weight of its secrets pressed against his chest like an iron shackle.

Steeling himself, the crisp bite of evening stinging his skin. Just as he turned, laughter rang out—a sharp, cutting sound that stopped him cold. He strained to hear, the voice that followed familiar and laced with derision.

He sent the book into his inventory.

It wouldn’t be long before he needed to leave for the Welcome Ceremony, but as Jace turned toward the hotel, a commotion caught his attention—laughter, loud and biting, accompanied by a voice he had recently heard for the first time. His gaze followed the sound, sharp and searching.

Amidst the group below, one figure stood out: Caspen.

Jace’s jaw tightened, his breath steadying as he slipped into the shadows. His Etheric cloak shimmered faintly, melding him into the dark like a specter. The rooftop tiles were cold and slick beneath his boots, but he moved with practiced silence, his steps calculated and sure.

From above, he tracked them, his ears straining to catch the fragmented words rising from the street.

“…peasant scum… teaching them manners…” Caspen’s voice carried easily, dripping with cruel amusement. Laughter followed, sharp and mocking, curling like smoke into the frigid night.

Laughter followed, a sound so hollow it made Jace’s stomach knot. His movements were precise, each step silent as he kept to the shadows above, his vantage offering a grim clarity. The others—the jocks from the academy—jeered and exchanged mocking jibes, their camaraderie steeped in malice.

He didn’t know their exact plans, but he didn’t need to. Their laughter, Caspen’s arrogant drawl, the clenched fists of those who followed—all painted a clear enough picture.

Jace’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his dagger as he continued his pursuit. He wouldn’t let them finish whatever they’d started. Not tonight.