Eldren lay on his back in the mud, paralyzed with fear. Had the gray cloaks of the Iron Square hunted them down already? That seemed improbable; their party had not so much as seen another soul while traveling into and out of Valenka’s Reach. Surely if a brigade of gray cloak soldiers had been hot on their heels, Ink would have noticed the warning signs. Eldren had seen enough to know that Ink’s tracking proficiency and knack for observing the unobservable were uncanny.

What, then, was attacking his friends above him? Cam would have succumbed to the fear— the same helplessness he had felt when his parents had died. But Eldren willed his body up and out of the mud.

“Ink! Baltran! What’s going on up there?” he shouted up the tunnel. No responses came but he could hear the echoed din of a fight cascading down the stone walls. They would never hear him up above, especially amid a battle.

Eldren turned and looked around the bottom of the well, eyes searching for a rope or ladder; he wanted anything he could use to try and climb back up to help the others.

Why are you trying to help? The thought crossed his mind and a pang of guilt struck his stomach. Shouldn’t you just be trying to get home? After all, at least you’re safe down here. This time, Eldren’s self-centered mindset crept too far and Cam beat it back.

They’ve helped me. Even if Ardos had tried to possess him and was not always forthcoming, the turtle had organized Ink to spring him from the dungeons and she had agreed. He had to help them if he could.

The area around him was empty. A small opening to a cramped and narrow hallway was cut into the stone at the bottom. His only choice was to proceed further into the shrine and face whatever challenge was ahead. As he cautiously approached the corridor, the thought crossed his mind that maybe he had been too brazen— perhaps the shrine challenge was the battle occurring above. Without him.

Too late now, he thought. The only real way he might get back to the group was to proceed down the hall. Maybe it led to a staircase or a secret exit.

The hallway, however, was quite short. At the end, an ornate marble door was set into the stone. A small flame flickered, dimly casting a light over the area around the door, which Eldren could now see was inscribed with a phrase:

Blood runs thicker than water which makes it harder to wash away.

He noticed a small shelf near the door, recessed into the stone wall. A tiny, flat dagger with a bronze handle and no cross-guard, about the size of a letter opener, sat on the shelf.

What does it mean, ‘thicker than water but harder to wash away’? He wished the light was a tad better. He approached the door and began to search with his fingertips for any hidden edges or handles. Nothing. The entire doorway was entirely smooth as if it were one continuous slab of marble.

As Eldren more closely inspected the door, however, he did notice that an area near the middle seemed a bit darker than the rest. As the flame danced in its sconce on the wall, he tried to discern if there was any discoloration. He thought there was, but it was tough to be certain.

Blood is hard to wash away. He glanced at the knife in the alcove. It was worth a try. He grabbed the knife and gently and carefully sliced the tip of his ring finger of his left hand. The blade was razor sharp and met no resistance as a small trickle of blood welled up and out of the wound. He replaced the dagger on the shelf and pressed the bleeding finger against the marble door in the spot he thought seemed discolored.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the grating sound of heavy stone scraping against stone. But as the marble doors swung inward, Eldren was not prepared for what he saw. He thought he had braced himself for anything—monsters, mazes, or more hallways. He had even briefly considered that it could all be a trap and the door would open into a room of gray cloaks, waiting to escort him back to High Imperator Uther.

He had not expected his father’s study.

The marble doors stood seemingly in the same place that the actual door to his father’s study had, back when he was a child. Other than the doors, the room was a perfect replica.

Maybe it’s real?

It couldn’t be. The house had been sold as part of the estate after his parent’s death over fifteen years ago. The money had paid for Eldren to go to college and pursue his ambition to try and work for the space agency. It was unlikely the new owners had left his father’s study undisturbed.

The level of detail was striking. His father’s tweed jacket hung from the tall stand in the corner. The large, dark wood desk was richly polished with a glass cover under which his father tucked various notes and reminders. The bookshelves were, as always, freshly dusted and the volumes arranged neatly in alphabetical order. The leather chase lounge chair where his patients reclined was arranged by the window. On the other side of the room, two low-backed maroon armchairs faced each other in front of a roaring fireplace with the ivory chess set, as always, set for a game on the small glass table between them.

I’m imagining this, he thought. Eldren’s bravado all but vanished as memories flooded back to Cam. He thought of all the times he had been summoned here with his sister to explain some transgression to their father. The hours they had spent listening at the crack in the door while he spoke on mysterious phone calls and saw clients who were always so peculiar— although Cam had once been harshly admonished by his mother at the dinner table for calling referring to psychiatric patients as such.

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Cam absently stepped into the room and remembered his father, with his thick tortoise patterned horn-rimmed glasses and quietly judgmental demeanor, teaching him to play chess in those armchairs. His father had always shaken his head slightly in disappointment when Cam made an errant move. Cam remembered one particular stretch of games where he had tried the Spanish Opening several games in a row. His father had scolded him for being too predictable. The man had taken no glee in winning game after game against his son and, in fact, always seemed a bit more disappointed that Cam could not manage to win despite being all of ten. It was as if he hoped for Cam to show some promise as a savant and was always reminded that he was not after each of their games.

“Care for a game? Come and sit.”

Cam spun back around toward the marble door and his heart sprang into his throat, at a loss for words. His father stood in the doorway back to the well tunnel, dressed exactly as Cam remembered. It was as if the man had walked out of his memories and into the room.

Cam didn’t respond.

“Come on,” his father said, smiling. “It’ll be fun. I bet you’ll get me, this time.” He walked over to the maroon armchairs and sat, gesturing to the chess board and the chair across from him.

Cam froze.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“What?” His father looked confused. “What do you mean ‘where are you’? Are you feeling alright, Cameron?”

He was not feeling alright at all.

He’s not your father, Cam thought. Your father isn’t alive and this room doesn’t exist.

He turned to leave back out in the tunnel. He had to help his friends. Friends? Were they his friends?

The marble door was gone. The wooden door to the study stood firmly closed where the opening back to the tunnel had been. Cam grabbed the doorknob and found that it was locked.

“Come sit, Cameron. We can talk about whatever is bothering you,” his father said. “Playing a game like chess and thinking hard always seems to help me take my mind off my worries.” His voice was soft and gentle but somehow that made it more firm and dominant. Cam actually couldn’t ever remember his father raising his voice.

“You’re not real,” Cam whispered. “You died.” He stayed standing by the door.

“I died?” his father asked. A look of confusion and concern washed over his face. “I feel quite alive.”

“Then you’re here too, with Great Uncle Ardos? In this—place. Bakavia?”

“Bakavia?” his father asked, confused. “My Uncle Ardos? The car wash owner?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Cam said. His voice was quivering and getting louder despite his effort to remain calm.

“Cameron, don’t you get upset again,” his father scolded. “Getting worked up is a waste of time and energy that could be better applied to things like your studies or practicing your cello. Or exercise. We’ve talked about this. You must channel your frustration better.”

“You died. We sold this house. This room doesn’t exist. I’m imagining this.”

“We’re in it, aren’t we?”

Cam stopped and looked around.

“Grab a book and see. You know that you can’t dream or imagine exact recreations of things you’ve never seen. Our subconscious creates facsimiles for dreams— enough to convince ourselves that what we are doing is real enough. Read one of the books. You’ll find it very complete and very real,” his father said.

Cam walked over to the shelf and slid a book from its place. He opened it and saw a chapter about the navel history of the Second World War, complete with diagrams of battle formations. He flipped through to the end.

“See?” his father said. “You never read any of these. This is quite real. Now come and play a game, and let’s talk about your job.”

Cam closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. Not a detail seemed out of place. Maybe he had died in the game store and this whole place was just a twisted purgatory. Or maybe he had died long ago and somehow had imagined the last seventeen years of his life. His mind raced.

“Cameron,” his father said.

Cam slowly shuffled toward the maroon chair. The hair on his neck was standing on end. He sat down and sank into the cushion.

“Now,” his father said, content to move on with their conversation. “I have to say, I am disappointed.”

What’s new? Cam thought.

“Why, dad?” he said.

“Well, all that money and time studying astrophysics. The summer abroad in Mitaka at the National Astronomical Observatory of Japan?”

Cam suppressed a sigh. Of course, his father was disappointed he hadn’t ended up working for NASA as a literal rocket scientist.

“And now you spend your time teaching introductory physics at North Central?” His father sighed and held out two closed fists in front of him toward Cam. Cam tapped his father’s left hand, which opened and revealed a white pawn. His father spun the board around so that the white pieces were arranged in front of Cam.

“I wanted to be close to Gran,” Cam said. He made his first move, pushing the pawn in front of his king forward.

“How much could you possibly make teaching physics? Do your students even care?” His father moved a pawn up into position to take Cam’s.

“It’s not about the money or prestige, dad.”

“No, it’s about wasting talent,” his father said sadly. “So much talent. But then, you haven’t ever focused your energies well.”

Cam moved his knight into position to attack his father’s pawn.

“I had just hoped for better,” his father said, moving his bishop in response.

Cam paused, looking at the board intently.

“Why am I here?”

“Cameron, I thought we had settled this nonsense. You aren’t in some dream world you’re imagining. I’m beginning to think you are seriously unwell.”

“It would be settled, but you’re not my father,” Cam said quietly.

“This is madness, Cameron.” The man claiming to be his father was uncharacteristically flustered, his face flushed.

He looked at the board again to be sure. Eldren welled up inside of Cam.

“I used to sneak in and read your books,” he whispered. “You said our imaginations can’t create details that we don’t know in real life. I’ve read that book, though.” He watched a frown form on the man’s lips across from him. “You played right into the Spanish opening,” he said quietly, nodding to the chessboard. “My father would never have done that. But I never learned how to play around it. My mind couldn’t create the correct countermove—because this isn’t real. It’s all my imagination. Some kind of mental projection of my weaknesses.”

He locked eyes with the man across from him, who he now knew was a figment of his darkest dreams— a self-created ghost from his past. Across the table, the calm and thoughtful face of his father twisted suddenly into a wicked grin. This, it seemed, was part of the challenge of the spell shrine.