I follow the prismatic band across the nothing for as long as I can.

Again, I am on a journey from one strange place to new unknown. This time, however, I feel somewhat listless. Though I remind myself that while I do not have the twisted architecture of the stone city to distract me, I am at the very least not in a senseless lack like before.

In truth, I find myself somewhat tired. I have never been an athletic sort, and after several estimate kilometers I begin to feel the effects. My feet ache and my breathing becomes strained. The invisible path beneath me varies in its texture, further adding to the toll. It is sometimes soft, sometimes hard. Sometimes it shifts like sand or snow, or pulls against me like water without moisture. Sometimes it even acts as a gradient of force more than a solid surface. Suffice to say, it has been quite the strain on my body. I continue to march, though my legs protest.

Eventually, the guiding light dims, then fades entirely. I continue in the direction it was pointed to the best of my approximation, though in the vast desert of light I cannot be certain. Minutes turn to hours, and I begin to fear I have become lost.

There is no sound to my footsteps, despite the surface I feel beneath me. The only sounds are my own ragged breathing and the whisper of my robes.

Without landmarks or horizon to focus on, I am unsure if my trajectory remains the same. I remember stories of explorers in the megaflora regions on Earth subconsciously favoring one foot over the other, accidentally taking wide circular routes when attempting to follow a straight line to a destination. Those poor souls at least had the benefit of landmarks to grow familiar with as they circled. Here I have nothing with which to orient myself should I fall into the same trap.

I briefly consider what might happen should I wander too far from the light's initial direction. Would I fall into a new nothingness like the lack before? Would some grand leviathan surge forth from invisible waters and swallow me whole? Or would I merely vanish from existence, winking out into nothing when crossing some forbidden threshold from which I could never return.

But before I can ruminate further, I at last see something in the distance. It takes me a time to notice it is even there, its pale coloration blending in with the surrounding expanse of white.

This far away I cannot be sure the object is stationary. It seems to be higher than myself, though without any definition it may simply be a structure on the top of some invisible slope. I do not put much faith in the theory, as the terrain thus far has been entirely flat. To be sure I do not lose its position, I quicken pace.

The distance closes and I confirm it is indeed motile, though its movement is slow, and I only notice it moves at all in the moments when stopping to catch my breath. I struggle to understand its shape or size at first, but as I get closer I begin to ascertain its features and realize I have discovered yet another nightmare.

It appears as a large, delicate human face, expression peacefully at rest or lost in thought. Yet beneath its nose, where one would expect to find the curvature leading into lips, its soft features instead sprout into a cluster of oversized fingers, their nails chipped and splintered with wear. The fingers almost seem to emerge from an invisible water line on the creature, with rough tear-stains flowing as dry sediment scars beneath its eyes, bridging the gap between smooth features and wrinkled appendage. The tangled digits grasp lazily at nothing as it glides through the space above on the gossamer threads sprouting from beneath closed eyelids.

The tendrils are graceful and fine, swaying ever-so softly in the nonexistent breeze, and as it floats closer I find that its size is far greater than I had anticipated. Were it on even level with myself, its height and my own would be roughly equal.

However, the almost gentle exterior only maintains on the frontal face of its form. Behind its temples, the cherub's complexion becomes ribbed and scaled. Pale skin falls away into a grand cavity formed by unnatural loops and arches, filled with a beating heart of silver and blue flame that burns silent and still. Licks of the ghostfire crawl up the interiors of its half-skull and through the mouths of the arches as delicate reaching plumes of indigo smoke, twisting for an extended time through the space behind it as it travels.

I find its appearance...graceful. Beautiful almost. Perhaps I am simply becoming jaded to the horrors of this nightmare.

The creature does not seem to be a threat. In truth, it seems to disregard me entirely, floating almost aimlessly, much like myself. I consider ignoring it and simply continuing on my way but realize I have become distracted by its appearance and lost my bearings entirely. With no other direction, I decide to follow in its wake.

I follow the creature across the empty space, fixated upon it. If it does change its direction at all, it is on extremely small degrees, as for the duration of my pursuit it appears to be heading in a straight line. But again, without any sense of surroundings to anchor myself to, I am wholly at the mercy of its travel. For all I know it could be on a random, meandering path. I may very well have retraced my steps several times over without knowing.

I watch the tendrils drifting lazily behind it and am suddenly struck with an odd sense of familiarity. Their milky surface is slick and reflective, and I feel as if I have seen something similar once before. Suddenly it strikes me.

Beneath the waves of old Earth, there were creatures of simple design that trawled the depths and eked out their existence across various niches. I recall one such sub-family of creatures would hunt its prey in a most distasteful manner, by ejecting ropes of sticky flesh from its orifices to latch onto its target. The creatures would then inject their catch with toxins, or coat the victims in digestive fluids before retracting the tangle back into the clutches of its mouth.

I see now that the tendrils are not wings, nor tools for motility of any kind. They are lures. Nets. To entangle prey like some twisted monstrosity from the deep oceans of old.

I stop, suddenly wary of the creature's disarming appearance. But as soon as I cease to move, so too does my host.

With the same ponderous speed as it has always maintained, it rotates to face me and floats closer to my height. Again I am reminded of its imposing size and feel the urge to run. If it is only capable of moving with the speed it has displayed thus far, I could certainly escape it, but I remember the creature of light from the city of stone and the terrifying speed it was able to muster without warning and stay my feet.

I watch as the creature approaches, waiting for its next action.

The slow flames swell from its pale figure, inky smoke forming as thunderheads around its brow. Poison? I bring my arm against my mouth and hold my breath. I tense my legs, preparing to run should the emission spread further.

But then I am struck with the strangest feeling. I see the swirling clouds of fire, the rivers of smoke, the undulating of the creatures appendages, and am overcome with sense unbidden. I feel as if I am being gently pulled in all directions. Not torn apart, but spread across a greater perspective. There is no image formed in the smoke, no sound from the creature's fingered mouth, and yet my mind is immediately overcome with a vision.

I see a gilt-beetle scrambling across a surface of loose, pale stones. The beetle is a flurry of motion, its legs reaching in all directions to escape some unseen threat. Despite its struggle, the beetle does not move, nor does it move its surroundings. The stones tumble away of their own accord, but the beetle remains motionless. I am beset by the crushing weight of confusion.

The vision fades from my mind. I readjust to what senses my body perceives and stare in shock at the creature. It undulates in silence, unmoved from its position, still wreathed in indigo storm. My sense buckles once more.

I see a bolt of silk drawn across a seamster's table. Hands descend upon the surface with needles pinched between their fingertips. They work in a chaotic struggle, lacking any sort of clear coordination, and the silk is pulled together on invisible string to become a folded mass without definition. Suddenly the hands tug at the cloth from all directions, and the silk is pulled taut into an immaculately constructed robe. I feel a sudden surge of pride.

Again the vision fades. I am left reeling from the experiences, but I begin to see purpose. Intent. Another vision.

I am in a dark place, with only a small flame whipping in wild prismatic hues. I pull a paper figure from the folds of my robes, tear the figure in half, and cast the pieces into the fire. The fire surges. I draw forth another of the figures, tear it once again, and feed the fire. I repeat the process. The fire roars. The darkness is not dispelled by the flames, it is consumed. The fire becomes the air, the ground, the sky. I become the fire. I see a spot in the distance, yet cold and dark. I burn towards it.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Sweat runs down my face, still flushed from the sensations imparted without stimulus. I do not understand the imagery in its entirety, but I see the broader concepts. Light, guidance, destination. I see now what is happening.

"You're...Guiding me then?" I ask the creature plainly.

I am on a grand stage before an adoring crowd. They applaud and cheer. I am handed a trophy commemorating my grand achievement. I experience heights of accomplishment that few ever reach.

I sneer at the creature. The condescension is clear, even across this strange medium of communication. At least it has a sense of humor.

I gesture widely at the expanse. "Lead on then!"

The creature rises once more and begins to float away, the storm of light and smoke still billowing, its pale tendrils stirring through the ink.

For a while I follow in silence, but once again I feel that sense of daring. I feel that I have been given an opportunity to glean knowledge from depths yet un-delved. I indulge my scholar's spark, and resolve to speak with my odd traveling companion.

"So...are you merely guide then, or do you serve greater purpose?"

I stand surrounded on all sides by great machinery. Arcs of electricity leap from storm coil and dart across marker spires surrounded by kilometers of whirling pistons. Gears gnash violently, and crimson fluid is pumped through glass tubes that snake across the chaos and down into the dark depths. A grand, devastating pulse thumps in time with the machinery and shakes me to my core. On one metallic facade, a single light flickers on and off in uneven interval.

Again the greater purpose is lost on me, but I feel I understand the general message. A small part of a larger whole. An indicator? Or messenger? I take delight in the attempt at deciphering these puzzles I have been presented.

"I see. Then if that is your place in this, what is mine?" I ask, wondering at how I am regarded here.

A pair of bare, gnarled hands digs through wet earth beneath a field of white lilies. It searches for their roots, and greedily pulls one from the embrace of the ground. The lily withers instantly and the hands cast it away in anger. Worms tumble through the fingers. The pile of discarded lilies grows and flies swarm around it as teeming dark clouds. A pool of fetid nectar forms beneath the mound of rot. The scent of earth and decay becomes cloying. The hands withdraw flower after flower, until at last, one does not wither in their grasp. The hands gently pull clumps of dirt from its delicate roots and grab one small fiber between calloused forefinger and thumb. The fingers tremble as they pull the root to its full length. Another hand emerges, micro engraver in tow. The hand jitters with minute adjustments as it inscribes something on the root, and then gently places the flower back into the earth. Emotions flood over me, and I cannot discern their individualities.

I stagger from the assault. I was not expecting a clear answer but I struggle with layers of the message. I must be the hands I assume, so then the flowers are knowledge? Answers I am searching for? But what does the engraving represent? At the very least I do not seem to be treated as prey. I ponder the meaning for a moment, then shake my head. Answers can be formed later. Now is the time for more questions.

"Alright, forget that then. Something else. Do you know of the stone city? I was there before I came here. What was its purpose?"

A man sits on a worn leather chair in a dimly lit room. The air is cold and damp. Burning neon glows in glass tubes on the wall in the shape of insignia for a smuggler's clade. The man on the chair grins and watches as someone else injects pinpoints of ink into the surface of his flesh. The ink stains in the shape of emblems, images, words, and the meaning is different for each person who views it. The man in the chair swells with joy. The person holding the device expelling ink feels nothing. They are blind.

I am confused by the message. The vision feels...blurry? Or different somehow? Unfocused almost. Vague. Perhaps that was the intent, as the city itself was a myriad of direction after all. But why something so banal to describe it? I suddenly realize that another of the creatures floats silently alongside us. I make another attempt at questioning.

"Where are we walking now?"

A pair of hands are connected by fishing wire threading through their fingers. They struggle and pull away, but the wire is strong. The hands are drawn inwards and the space between the palms grows smaller. The lines pull harder. The hands are clasped. The lines pull harder. Cells interweave and the hands become one. The lines pull harder. The hands pass through each other. The lines pull harder. The hands are pulled apart, and a new space is formed between. The space is deep, and exposed capillaries weep on the raw inverse palms. There is no emotion. The action is as simple and subconscious as breath.

More arcane images, and I fail to understand the meaning. Another pair of creatures has joined our procession, and I feel as if we are nearing some destination. I feel frustration begin to smolder and attempt to change my approach. No more time to waste on pointless lines of inquiry. Broader strokes.

"Forget this particular place, then. Are we in the Void?"

A pitch dark room. I hear breathing nearby, but cannot see the source. Suddenly, a passing light shines from beyond the confines of the room. It filters through cracks in the walls, illuminates something I cannot describe, then it is gone. I am overcome with anger.

I feel as if that was an affirmation, albeit less direct than I would like. There are nearly a dozen of the creatures within close proximity now, all trailing the same darkened clouds. I see faint traces of distinction marking the ground now. I have little time remaining, and know that we are nearing a terminus. Or rather, a terminus is nearing us. Time to be blunt.

"So then, if this is the Void, what IS the Void?"

A door stands before me. I open the door, and behind it is a blank wall. I close the door. I open the door, and behind it, the wall is marked with cracks. I close the door. I open the door, and the wall crumbles, falling away into darkness. I close the door. I open the door, and there is another door. I open the door. I open the door. I open the door. I-

I shake off the vision. I feel like I am being misdirected somehow. As if the truth is being obfuscated from me. Frustration flares into indignation. The air is stirred by the combined movement of the nightmarish flock, and I feel motes of dust brush against my skin. The false wings of the creatures begin to vibrate slightly.

In the near distance, dark slits on the horizon fade into vision. I see narrow halls leading deeper into some inscrutable structure. I must get answers while I still can.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. Please, tell me, what is the Void?"

A blank canvas sits before me. I soak my brush with color and make mark across the pale.The stiff bristles irritate my skin. I split the surface of my palm and soak my brush with color. I make mark across my skin. I paint myself in the color of life. I become the canvas. I swell with joy. I surge with fury.

I grit my teeth in anger. The creature is capable of being direct, yet it refuses to. It is mocking me again. The other creatures number too many to count now, and a strong wind besets me. I feel dust whipping against my face and stinging my eyes. The ground is now a distinct, weathered stone. I stumble and fall, and my hands scrape upon its rough surface. Blood beads on my palms and I wipe them against my robes. The creature's idle fingers churn with more vigor now. I can hear the joints popping as they tense and knead.

"Are you trying to make a fool of me? Tell me plainly, what is the Void?"

I am prisoner in a fortress of metal and stone. There are no locked doors, yet no prisoner has ever found the borders of our confines. We beat our hands against the walls in desperation. We tear our nails against the floor. Screams and cries echo throughout the halls, but they are not ours. We have no eyes with which to weep, no lungs with which to scream.

The vision feels designed to placate me. Simple. A dismissal of my questions. A lie of omission. My frustration reaches boiling point, and my fingers dig into my palms.

I am suddenly reminded of a particularly ornery educator I dealt with in my time as aspirant in the academy. A smug, prideful, bastard of a man. He took joy in torturing his students by refusing to explain core concepts, posing useless rhetoricals, and then mocking us with saccharine assurances that it was alright if we had trouble understanding such advanced concepts and could always take an additional cycle of courses if needed. How I loathed him.

I transferred to a different section after only a few weeks. Why am I remembering him now?

Suddenly, the creatures whirl to face me all at once, the creature I had been trailing directly only a few meters away. Its eyelids lurch open, but no eyes are beneath. Instead, the same tendrils it had been drifting on spill forth from its vacant gaze, fanning outwards and revealing their true reach to be far greater than previously displayed. The creature becomes a dense cluster of alabaster veins. The flock in turn, a network of roots.

I see a bark-skinned fruit split open by invisible force. Small paper figures tumble outwards amidst the meat and fluid. I am overwhelmed by hunger.

Before I can cry out in surprise, the creature rushes towards me.

Its tendrils lash around my arms, slick surface burning my skin as the digestive fluids soak through my robes. I scream, attempting to pull myself away. With far greater ease than I had anticipated, I break free.

I turn and run, heading in the direction of the new surfaces that have come into focus. I hear the skittering of fingernails on stone as the beasts swarm around me on both ground and air. Smoke billows in the tumult of their frenzy, and my head swims as chaotic visions threaten to seize my senses. Their digits catch on my clothing and I cast off my outer robes. I run deeper into the new space I have been led to. Deeper into the narrow, claustrophobic halls.

For a moment, I fear as if I have been driven into a hive or feeding ground for the creatures, hapless as I was to accept their guidance. But as I run, their sounds diminish. I look over my shoulder briefly to see them hovering at the edge of the structure, teeming at the shores of the empty expanse, nets of flesh still whipping in their bulging sockets.

They do not pursue, and I will not take this moment of reprieve for granted. I take the opportunity while it lasts and proceed deeper into the new structure.

Once again I am alone.

I continue to run.

XATA [https://i.imgur.com/dPo4D0h.png]