-To scorn her loving embrace-

[NULL]

THE void to James was the silent exhale of a raging storm; turbulent, murky. It was the taste of shadows on snow; cold. Wintry. It was the gap between consciousness and unconsciousness; a soft touch—the finale after the climax of mortal liveness. In it everything was meaningful and meaningless, through ups and downs; in the hazy fog of awareness—neither strong nor supple. Unified as a single haunt.

The Silence.

The void interested him no more, the once curiously overwhelming stillness now calming. Boring. A dull ringing in his head. An echo. A forgotten ache. It was an everlasting cycle, in which sound had no path, and light, the weight of a star, but seldom espied.

…it hurts.

Through these ponderously hollow days of postmortem nostalgia, under the weight of boundless desolation, James walked. Once upon a time, he would weep in ambivalent longing, a pair of misty, ethereal eyes, emblems of his grief. An aching void in his chest; a barren heart in the evanescent stillness. Then he wept no more. It was pointless. The futility drowned out his hopes, garotting his yearnings with a rather relentless zest.

Why?

Before him was a trail of bone-white cobblestones, forming a floating pathway through the great barren expanse. With each step he took, his bare feet tapped inaudibly on the unstable rocks; the manifestation of his Johnny gown rustling mutedly as it trailed along with his ethereal form. Once upon a time, James would ponder, sometimes serenely, sometimes not, upon the unnerving implications borne as a result of his current existence. He no longer cared though, not even as the remnants of other lost souls lingering in the void caressed him in a rather disturbing manner—the numbing obscurity tainted by their ghastly remains. He could still sense it, the unease that permeated this plane; the resentment and discontent that imbued the very essence of this existence. Even so, he walked his path, in silence.

James knew not how far he had travelled. Or how long; for it could have been a mere moment, stretched beyond belief, or an eternity. It was disconsolate how little the difference mattered here. How insignificant all he once held dear was in the face of a timeless continuance.

He stopped—bobbing almost comically on a single, teetering foothold—to stare curiously at a flaring orb of light suspended in the void to his right: In the near-perpetually barren emptiness, it was a rather rare, if odd, sight indeed. Strange it was, being able to see it without truly seeing; able to feel its consoling warmth, an assuring certainty that it was there, without truly feeling. Familiar in ways James could not recall. Hazy, but familiar.

Beneath this miniature star was another separate… space. A wormhole. One akin to a gate to another state of existence. An emptiness within another, whose very existence defied all conventional logic. And floating within this said void were several phantasmal figures intermittently phasing in and out of perception. They were restrained at the feet by ethereal tethers that extended back beyond the rim of the 'gate'. Though they floated around blindly, they never wandered. Seemingly…

Afraid.

Curious, James lightly hopped forward, leaving the surety of the stone path to stop by the uncertainty that was the rim of the gate. Peering in, he eagerly extended a finger into the void to touch one of the smoky spectres within before, just as quickly, retracting the appendage. With a suppressed wince, his fascinated gaze panned from his slightly faded finger to the stygian beings trapped beneath the orb of light.

"I would be more careful if I were you," a voice drawled, breaking the solemn, seemingly nigh-impregnable silence that surrounded him. "They are called voidlings; intriguing, yes, but given they subsist entirely on transmatter they would be quite lethal to a being such as yourself."

James looked up, stunned. "Who?" he asked.

"The name's Hue Dwyn but you can refer to me as the Ordinator—" A burst of static"—hat's yours, stranger?"

"...James. James Earl."

"Lovely to make your acquaintance Mr Earl," the one referred to as Hue replied. "Though I am aware how sudden my appearance here might seem, so as not to waste both our time—a very precious resource these days—I am here to offer you a contract; one in which a return trip to the physical plane would be arranged for you as well as a physical vessel to house your unbound soul upon arrival. In exchange, you would be consenting to participate in a privately funded experimental program after which, upon completion, your soul would be recovered and stored in stasis for future research."

A beat of silence.

"...What?"

"Is there a problem, Mr Earl?"

James was confused, his gaze flickering about in search of the disembodied voice. "Is this a joke?" he asked, brows furrowed in amusement.

"No, I am very much serious, Mr Earl."

More silence. A burst of static.

"...Are you aware of what you just asked of me?" James asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you expect me to accept this… contract?"

"Indeed, I did," Hue replied, humming sagely. "Though I detect refusal in your tone. That might prove a tad... problematic. Moving this anchor point here cost the Company a lot of resources, and given my calculations already showed that you fulfilled three of the most important criteria—amorality, opportunism and adaptability—I would find it hard to explain to top brass why I failed to recruit you. There's also the moral dilemma of leaving a rare, valuable asset like yourself to waste away and be digested by the void. We can't have that, can we now?"

"I will be… digested?"

"Eventually," Hue replied in a disturbingly dismissive manner. "While your innate resistance and impressive perception of self might offer some protection to your transmatter core from the twilight sea's corrosion, you only have another three dozen lightspans or so before you are fully assimilated and recycled."

Another burst of static.

James fell silent as his inscrutable gaze wandered from the orb to the void behind him; the cold sensation of remnant souls caressing his skin intensifying. There was another pause. A beat of hesitation. Then…

"Fine," James shrugged, letting his crossed arms fall back to his sides. "Whatever. Where do I sign?"

"I approve of that decision, Mr Earl!"

The disembodied soul tsked in response. "I'm sure you do."

"What would I be doing anyway?" He asked, his gaze wandering back towards the wormhole beneath his feet. "Are there any specific instructions I need to follow or―"

"Very well," Hue lilted, interrupting him. "Your Transdimensional ID has been issued, approved and added to the database. Please standby for transfer; temporal link established; transferring … now."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The Ordinator fell silent for a moment before adding. "Lovely working with you, Mr Earl. Safe travels. And good luck; you are going to be needing it where you are going."

"...Huh? Wait, what is that supposed to―"

***

Later.

James sat at Lord Aden's desk, shirtless as he stared out at the moonlit night. The beautiful starry sky was unpolluted by city lights, and his fair skin was adorned with glistening beads of sweat. To his side rested a mirror of copper; with but a glance, he beheld his starlit reflection—a tangled mass of slick obsidian locks, concealed partly by bandages, encircled his fair and smooth countenance. Delicate, rosy lips, more suited to a maid's face, graced his features. And within his gaze, limpid orbs of blue-green of a seemingly timeless hue whispered tales of azure skies, tranquil lakes, and steadfast woods.

It was a captivating sight indeed. The reflection that met his eyes was fair.

Exceedingly so.

James, burdened by a touch of self-awareness, deemed himself somewhat vain, believing his former appearance to be nigh perfect, if not the very closest. Yet now, he harboured doubts. Gone was his endearing mane of light brown, vanished were his bewitching emerald eyes, faded were the charming freckles he cherished dearly... Yet, this transformation was not wholly dire.

Amidst the open fields, the autumn chorus of katydids resounded faintly, whilst eerie shadows danced upon the stone walls, swaying to the silent tune of a flickering flame. The spectral performance persisted even as the not-youth turned his gaze once more to the argent crescent above. Larger it seemed than the moon of his remembrance, ensconced behind a drifting cloud as it graced the heavens. Nostalgia seized the transmigrator's heart, his thoughts distant, his eyes unfocused and his mind adrift as a sense of calm permeated the atmosphere.

With a sigh laden with finality, James brushed his lower lip with tender fingers. "Home..." he murmured to himself, his gaze vacant, seemingly adrift in a world unknown.

"My Lord," came a rap from behind the door, rousing him from his ponderous state

"Enter," James replied without casting a glance backwards. Lancelot stepped into the chamber.

"Young Lord," the viscount began with a tone of concern as he approached, "the maids have informed me of your wakefulness. You ought to be resting."

"Where is Sean?" James asked, dismissing the viscount's concern entirely, "And the men who fought alongside him?"

"Sean..." came a hesitant reply.

"Where is he?"

"...He has deserted. Your brother―"

"He is no kin of mine!" Levi growled, unable to contain the surge of emotion that swelled within him. Lancelot froze at this unexpected outburst, and the air hung heavy with silence.

"...Forgive me," James said with a furrowed brow, gazing down at his palm, "my emotions at the moment appear to be somewhat… beyond me."

Silence.

"...I still ponder why he did what he did," Levi said with a weary sigh as he looked back to the starry sky, confusion etched upon his countenance. "Does he not care for the consequences that await him upon Father's return? There shall be a handsome bounty upon his head when the duke hears of this."

Lancelot tensed briefly, his reaction not going unnoticed by James.

"Is there something amiss, Ser Viscount?" James inquired, turning toward the older man.

Lancelot hesitated, then sighed. "Your father had dispatched missives. They arrived via carrier pigeon two days hence, speaking of the fall of Bycrest and the possible capture of His Majesty, the king. The missive mentions His Grace's intent to escort the Queen and Princess to safety, though their destination remains undisclosed. The details of the situation remain obscure, yet we have received corroborating messages from other sources."

"'Tis impossible," James scoffed dismissively. "It would require years—nay, decades—for any force to lay siege upon Bycrest to completion."

"I dare not jest about such matters, Levi," Lancelot sighed, shaking his head. "According to the missive, misinformation led our second fleet astray, allowing a coalition fleet of Hertalean and Verumitte ships to decimate our first fleet anchored in the Ignis Basin. Ciden Island's fall came swiftly after; treachery within the bastions and mutiny among the defenders hastened its capture. Ser Tone hath surrendered Bastion Mina to Hertalean occupation after imprisoning his sire. Viscount Pedro also turned against the Crown, setting alight the capital's arsenals after setting the northern gates wide open."

"Bycrest has fallen," Lancelot repeated. "I sought to withhold these tidings until the lord's return, but your bro—Apologies—Sean, aided by Barons Blumoon and Ralph, seized upon the despair this news brought to sow discord among our ranks."

James fell silent.

"Is there aught else you have kept from me?" he asked after a tense pause.

"Aye," Lancelot said, "The grain stores were set ablaze during Sean's raid on the treasury; we failed to quench the flames in time. And the Heras... They too have renounced their oaths, having learned of the invasion and Sean's mutiny. Methinks Sean had played a hand in this; their swift betrayal serves to divert our attention from him."

"Hence, the Heras have sent..." Lancelot paused as if the words choked him. "A notice."

"What?" James inquired.

"An eviction notice. We have but five days to vacate the duchy before they resort to force."

"Oh? How civilized," James chuckled softly, his countenance tinged with amusement.

"Lancelot," he called.

"Yes?"

"Leave me."

"Very well," Lancelot replied hesitantly. He turned to depart but paused as James spoke again.

"Lancelot,"

"Yes?"

"...Regardless of what transpires, henceforth, I must be kept informed first. Do you understand?" Levi said, making eye contact. In the viscount's gaze, James perceived traces of hidden concern and self-reproach, and to his relief, an absence of suspicion.

"Thank you, Levi," Lancelot finally said. "If you had not intervened during the mutiny and moved to my aid, I might have—"

"I require a comprehensive report on the Heras within the hour, sparing no detail," James interjected monotonously, feigning disappointment as he ignored the viscount's words. "Their holdings, forces, kin, allies, whereabouts—all of it. Within the hour."

"...Aye. My lord."

"You may leave. We will discuss what to make of the Heras' notice when you return with what I asked for."

James waited till the door shut behind him before turning back to the open window. "Levi," he whispered, the name rolling off his tongue as if tasting it. Despite his weariness, he laughed, a line of tears tracing his cheeks. His eyes slid shut, eyelids shuddering as he let the katydids' song seep deep into his psyche. With another exhale, he leaned into a relaxed recline, mind adrift.

Within moments, he was fast asleep.