Christopher’s consciousness faded, his thoughts eroded by the growing fog that had forced its way inside his mind.
His existence waned as everything he had ever been fled to the depths of his very being. It was a last struggle, a futile attempt to preserve his identity.
Yet, Christopher was not afraid. Instead, he was relieved, for he could finally rest.
Several months had surely passed, even if he couldn’t tell how many. Keeping track of time was challenging when one was trapped inside his own body. There, even a minute seemed like an eternity.
With only the constant beeping of the hospital machines and the bustling activity of the hospital staff to keep him company, his existence had turned into a unique and slow form of torture.
And yet, no torture was comparable to the one he went through each time that memory replayed in his head.
Christopher shivered, afraid that the nightmare would return. At last, he was dying, and his suffering would now be over.
Death was peaceful, and he liked peace. Perhaps he would find his family waiting for him on the other side. Maybe they would forgive him for what he had done and welcome him with open arms.
Christopher would’ve smiled if he had a mouth.
Deep inside, one fragment of his struggling existence called him a coward. And a coward he was. Christopher shoved away the guilt, throwing it into the fog. But he wasn’t fast enough.
The painful memory played on his mind, and he shrank with terror as the mental fog dispersed.
There it was, back to haunt him.
No matter how often he relived that moment, it was just as horrifying as the first time. And he cried with pain and despair as he floated through the void, forced to watch a fate he couldn’t change, as it had already happened.
Finally, the memory concluded, and all there was left was guilt. He was dying, and if hell existed, he would soon call it home.
In truth, even if the accident hadn’t killed him, that memory alone would’ve driven him insane. His hands were too bloody—more than he could ever bear. More than anyone could ever bear.
Anguish and despair threatened to overwhelm him for a moment, but then,
*₲ⱤɆɆ₮ł₦₲₴ ØɄ₮₴łĐɆⱤ*
A profound male voice echoed inside Christopher’s mind, rescuing him from his sorrow. The voice fluctuated, its tone ancient but distorted like a badly tuned radio.
Christopher surveyed his surroundings. His eyes easily pierced through the darkness around him, revealing the inside of a tall, ancient cave.
Its stone walls and floors, remnants of a millennial fight between earth and water, were covered in thousands of unorthodox runes skillfully carved into the stone.
They formed sentences so long that they spanned from the cavern floor to climbing the stone walls and finally to the ceiling. They appeared to have all been sculpted by the same steady hand and exuded an air of ancientness.
The sound of trickling water echoed across the cave. Droplets dripped from the tall stalactites to the floor, creating a matching pair below. Over time, a few had already fused together, displaying beautiful, nature-crafted columns.
Where am I?
Christopher’s eyes darted back and forth but to no avail. Perhaps it had only been his imagination… That cursed memory had driven him insane.
*₳NALYSI₦₲ ₮₳ⱠɆ.*
It spoke once more. However, this time, it was clear and mechanical, no longer as deep as before. Christopher stopped searching the cave once he heard it.
The voice did not come from the outside, he realized. Instead, it was directly spoken inside his mind. And now he was certain that even in death, he had gone mad.
*₱ł₵₭ ₳ ₴Ɏ₦Ø₱₴ł₴.*
The voice went silent, and the next moment, a vast string of white, glowing runes entered Christopher’s vision. A few gazes were all it took to confirm the similarities between the new runes and the ones on the floor. Strangely, he could comprehend the former but not the latter.
[Witness]: Servant of a primordial memory.
[Ariadne’s Chosen]: In the treacherous maze, having a guiding thread can be the difference between life and death.
[Ram]: What is power if not might…
Suddenly, the runes started to reform, accompanied by an eerie announcement.
Preface completed: Lazarus synopsis found.
The runes settled again. This time, only a sentence was given, floating in Christopher’s vision.
[Lazarus]: Torn from death’s embrace, thus condemned to a cursed fate.*
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Christopher read the new sentence with interest. Why had all the previous options been removed and swapped by this one? If you only had one option, there was little to choose from.
Lazarus Synopsis selected.
There was a brief pause before the runes reformed into a cryptic message.
You’ve lost your breath.
Christopher let out a sigh. He really did die, after all. Resigned, he waited for the fog to return and finish erasing his existence, but instead, the runes on his vision reformed once more.
[Race]: Human
[Rank]: Drafted
[Synopsis]: Lazarus
[Stats]:
Breath: 10 Might: 10 Grace: 10 Zeal: 12
Enigma: 11 Tome: 12 Blood: 13 Integrity: 5
Am I in a game? The wild idea slipped into Christopher's mind, but it was justified.
He had never been much of a gamer, but the runes displayed reminded him of some games. Regardless, he couldn’t make sense of any of the stats presented.
[Breathless Curse]: You’ve lost your breath.
[Burdens]: Resilient Soul, Touch of The Breathless.
[Resilient Soul]: A soul wrestled from the path of reincarnation amidst its tempering. It cannot be shattered easily, yet it is only a few steps away from becoming tainted. (-5 Integrity)
[Breathless’ Touch]: As a Breathless, you’ve been cursed with a deathly touch, forever doomed to drain others’ breaths.
Tainted and Cursed, both words sounded ominous. Maybe he did end up in hell, or, instead, this was purely a near-death hallucination.
The deep, radiophonic voice returned, interrupting his line of thought.
*₲Ø Ø₦ ɎØɄⱤ ₩₳Ɏ ₦Ø₩, ĐⱤ₳₣₮ɆĐ. ł ₩łⱠⱠ ₩₳ł₮ ₣ØⱤ ɎØɄ ł₦₴łĐɆ ₮ⱧɆ Ⱡ₳฿ɎⱤł₦₮Ⱨ.*
Christopher’s vision shifted once more. The runes disappeared, and this time, they didn’t return. He was no longer inside the cave but returned to the never-ending dark void.
The mind fog returned, and soon he forgot what had just happened. But now, his existence had already been hidden too deeply, farther away than the fog could ever hope to reach.
─ ᚠᚢᚱᚷᛟᛏᛏᛖᚾ ─
Michael lit a cigarette and watched a livid-faced girl slowly being led inside the tall, armored walls topped with barbed wire. He knew she was still struggling to process the news he had delivered moments before. He couldn’t blame her. She had reacted better than most.
Poor girl.
Being drafted was never easy. Whatever plans she had just went down the drain—just like his own once had.
When the girl disappeared behind the gate, Michael noticed Sarah approaching with wide steps. Unlike him, she wore a formal uniform, except for the pretty yellow scarf tied around her hair.
Sarah liked to wear a yellow piece when they picked up the drafted; she was convinced it made them appear more friendly. Once Sarah noticed the cigarette hanging from his lips, an accusing look appeared in her eyes.
He dismissed her look; she knew picking up the drafted always put him in a bad mood.
At least now they were finished, and he could return to the Labyrinth. He had unfinished business there – All Authors did.
“Really? You said you were leaving those,” Sarah complained, but Michael looked away, ignoring her. She furrowed her brow and tapped the floor nervously with her boot.
“We have another one, Michael.”
Michael exhaled the smoke, an ugly smirk on his face.
“For the same prelude?” he asked. If it were not, he would refuse to pick them up; someone else could grab the drafted later. Let them enjoy a normal life for a few more days.
“Unfortunately. They’ll barely have two months to prepare,” replied Sarah.
Shit!
“Where?” Michael asked, resigned.
“Saint Mary’s Chapel. It's only twenty miles away.” She answered promptly, “The name is Christopher Deveraux, a twenty-six-year-old man.”
Twenty-six… A couple of years older than me when I was drafted. I hope you have enjoyed life, Christopher.
“Let’s go then,” Michael took one last drag from his cigarette and walked to the car. Sarah, however, remained behind with an ugly expression.
C’mon, it's just a cigarette.
“I’ll put it out before we enter the car,” Michael said, but her expression remained unchanged.
“What?” he asked, confused. She wasn’t usually this stubborn.
“It’s in the cemetery, Michael. The man was buried three days ago.” Sarah gave him a second to prepare before stating the obvious. “He is a Lazarus.”
Twenty years and they still throw this kind of shit at me. Michael complained inwardly. Two Lazarus in just twenty years had to be a record. Most Authors had never even seen one before.
Michael felt a headache coming, thinking about how much paperwork he would have to fill.
“It's a good thing we have two shovels, then,” he replied with a fake smile.
Sarah looked up to him, so he had to lead by example. Besides, every time they picked up a drafted, he felt as if they were condemning them to death—it was not every day they had the opportunity to bring one to life—even if it would most likely die moments later.
“What?” Michael asked again, Sarah’s sad eyes still focused on him.
“Maybe we shouldn’t pick him up. I-I don’t think he would’ve wanted to return, his—”
Michael raised his hand, interrupting her.
“Don’t, please. You know very well I don’t like to get involved.”
Sarah nodded and turned around, hiding her face - but Michael caught her tears. For a moment, he couldn’t help but be curious.
She’s overly emotional, as usual. He complained. But he wondered what could have put her in such a state.
However, he had rules for a reason. The less he got involved with a drafted, the easier it would be once they perished inside the Labyrinth.
“Call the local authorities while I drive; I don’t want to be caught digging a grave in the middle of the night.”
Again, he added in his mind.
Michael turned around and started walking to the car, with Sarah following him. When he sat in the driver’s seat, she was already on the phone, trying to reach the local sheriff.