A Vow of Shattered Memories

My first impression of this place rested on a sudden, profound disorientation. I stood within a room that felt at once intimately familiar and yet, in some fundamental, inexplicable way, utterly alien. Everything around me blurred in a most peculiar way—not as if seen through mist or a dirty pane of glass, but rather through the shimmering veil of heat that dances above a candle’s flame. Yet, without the flame itself or any trace of its warmth. This distortion held all objects, even the most massive, in a state of constant, fluid motion.

A profound stillness permeated the air, the kind of absolute silence that falls only in the dead of night, when the world sleeps and sound itself seems to have abandoned man and beast. Yet, a muted light, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once, illuminated every detail of the scene. Of my arrival, I could recall nothing. My memory resembled a void; a perfect, seamless emptiness preceding the moment I gained awareness in this room. It was not an awakening in any true sense. I had not arrived here; I simply was here.

Wherever here was.

This is a dream. The thought arrived unbidden, yet it sounded unmistakably my own.

This realm truly did resemble a dream, and perhaps it was. That could explain the mental void, the confusion, the utter lack of memory.

I looked down at my body. It alone remained sharp and still—a surprising paradox that rendered the surrounding fluid reality all the more peculiar. I wore a uniform of white: a silk shirt featuring discreet, gold-thread embroidery, fine lamuir trousers and vest, and a pair of soft leather half-boots. The garments felt familiar; a deep instinct affirmed I had worn them long enough to claim them as my own. I carried no weapons. A check of my pockets revealed nothing, nor did a quick survey of the room.

A deeply strange sensation struck me then. It was not a lack of energy that I felt, but a complete absence of the need for it. My body emulated a vessel incapable of fatigue. I instinctively knew that I could walk countless kilometers without the slightest strain. I also suspected I had no pulse, but for the moment, I chose not to check. Some truths are best left untested when reality has already come undone.

I took a few steps and stopped, suddenly dizzy as the world around me began to writhe and swim even faster. It was a visual illusion, I knew, for the ground beneath my feet felt perfectly stable. Still, the sensation struck me as deeply unpleasant, and I sensed I would need time to grow accustomed to it.

A sudden, sharp certainty pierced my confusion: time was a resource I did not possess in abundance. The conviction settled upon me with the weight of an undeniable truth, compelling me to move. Heeding the impulse, I left the room and found myself in a long corridor that twisted like a squeezed serpent. I closed my eyes for a moment, for the constant assault on my senses threatened to unravel the very threads of my reason. With one hand braced against the corridor wall—a wall that felt solid, though my eyes insisted it remained in perpetual motion—I moved with the graceless gait of one stripped of his equilibrium. Still, I pushed onward to the far end, where the stairwell awaited.

The sight of the writhing steps alone made me descend with eyes closed, one hand clamped to the railing. That I reached the bottom floor without breaking my neck constituted a minor miracle, one that sparked a chilling question: could I even be harmed in this place? I refused to test that truth just yet. Instead, my attention turned to the new space I had entered.

It turned out to be the spacious main hall of an inn, furnished with a clear appreciation for craftsmanship. I could see a polished darkwood bar, a dozen sturdy tables, and two booths nestled in the corners, all hinting at a once-prosperous establishment. Here, too, the setting struck a chord of dissonant familiarity, yet that sensation yielded to a transfixing realization. In the back of the hall, beside the entrance, a human figure sat on an uncomfortable-looking chair. A silhouette, rather. From its impressively massive frame, I suspected a man beneath it, but I could not be certain; I could discern neither his features, nor his attire, nor even the color of his hair. He resolved simply into an incorporeal shadow of pale mist and blurred contours.

Could it be that I, too, appeared just as faceless and indistinct?

“Identify yourself!” I said, my voice sharp. Ignoring the gnawing uncertainty, I raised a hand in a broad, deliberate gesture to make my presence known.

The words echoed, strangely muffled and lonely in the oppressive silence. I realized then that the only sounds in this place were the ones I made myself.

I stumbled toward the figure and tried to seize it by the shoulders. My hands passed through it as if through smoke, striking the back of the chair. I took a confused step back and stared at the silhouette. It showed no sign of having felt a thing.

Then, from some deep well of instinct, the knowledge of how to truly touch it surfaced. It came not as a thought, but a memory of motion; an intuitive act known in a life before this one, long since buried. The revelation stilled my frantic thoughts, replacing them with a quiet certainty. I reached out again, this time not with physical force, but with the focused intent I now understood was required.

“Stop!” The female voice shattered the silence, and with it, my concentration.

I stumbled forward, my body crashing into the chair. We collapsed to the floor with a dull thud. I felt no pain, neither from the impact nor its aftermath, which answered at least one of my questions. I scrambled back to my feet, my gaze sweeping the room. To my astonishment, the chair no longer lay on the floor but stood back in its original place. The silhouette upon it sat utterly unperturbed, as if nothing had happened at all.

What, in the Overlords’ sacred names—

“Not like that. It is forbidden,” the voice declared. “Find a Gateway.”

The words came from no specific direction; like the light, they simply emanated from the space itself. The hall held no other presence save for the silent figure and I. Could the voice belong to it despite its masculine appearance?

“Can you hear me?” I directed the question at both the silhouette and the environment itself.

No answer.

“What gateway?” I demanded.

Only silence replied. Each new discovery served only to deepen the enigma of this lifeless world. The impulse to touch the figure resurfaced as a reckless desire to force a reaction; to provoke any kind of change in the static reality around me. Yet I restrained myself. I did not know what power I might anger, and some instinct insisted the apparent emptiness of this place was a carefully constructed illusion.

I surveyed the main hall of the inn again. What kind of gateway was I supposed to be looking for in a place like this? Perhaps the voice had meant a door? There were two doors here, which I instinctively knew led to another room behind the bar and out onto the street. But aside from the pervasive motion typical of all objects here, they looked perfectly normal.

Which one should I try first?

In the end, I decided on the one behind the bar, driven by a deep apprehension of what awaited me outside.

I passed through a spacious kitchen and an adjoining private dining room. They, too, felt maddeningly familiar, but a quick search yielded nothing of consequence. A growing sense of futility compelled me to expand my exploration to the other floors, starting from the very bottom.

The vast subterranean space turned out to be the inn’s storeroom. The high ceiling rested upon three rows of massive stone columns. All around them were positioned barrels of various sizes and towering shelves stocked with preserved food, spices, bottles, and carefully wrapped packages that most likely contained towels, blankets, and bedsheets. No other doors presented themselves down here, and the ceaseless, illusory motion created an oppressive atmosphere that grated on my nerves, compelling me to a swift departure.

I proceeded to the two residential floors, methodically checking all eighteen guest rooms. The only occupants were more incorporeal shadows, some asleep in beds, others frozen mid-gesture. They existed in a state of impossible flux; their forms and poses altered the moment my gaze left them. If I averted my eyes, even for an instant, each figure would be undeniably changed when I looked back. The longer I held a shadow in my sight, the more drastic the rearrangement became when my gaze returned. This unsettling principle applied even to the objects they held or manipulated. The realization was profoundly unnerving. It felt like a violation of the very laws of persistence and reality.

I did not attempt to interact with any of them. In a world where observation itself dictated the form of its inhabitants, any such effort promised to be an exercise in futility.

On each floor I also investigated the shared bathing chambers. The second proved larger and more luxurious, boasting an impressive, frosted-glass window and a spacious, sunken bathtub directly beneath it. For some unfathomable reason, looking at this place triggered a remote, bygone sensation of danger. Besides that, I found nothing of interest there, leaving me with no further avenues for exploration within the inn. The only path forward, however much I dreaded it, led outside.

I returned to the main hall. With some trepidation, I noted that the silhouette of the seated man had vanished; the chair now stood neatly against the wall. I glanced around, but the room remained empty.

After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the outer door and stepped onto the street. I found myself in a small square with a garden at its center, surrounded by commercial and residential buildings. Beyond them stretched the vast expanse of a city, and in the distance, the peak of an immense tower of white and gold pierced the sky. I felt I should know its significance, but once again, my memory offered only a frustrating blank.

Out here, the entire world—ground, buildings, and sky—writhed in the same ceaseless, fluid motion. Unlike the inn, this square teemed with dozens of incorporeal shadows, all frozen mid-gesture. Some sat on garden benches, others gazed into shop windows, while most walked with a vacant purpose I could not fathom. This confirmed my earlier suspicion: they were not static entities at all, but moved only when unobserved. Every time I shifted my gaze, a figure had progressed in its silent, unseen action. One or two even passed right through me. I felt nothing during these brief convergences, yet the sensation of being so insubstantial unnerved me in a profound way.

As I learned to navigate the spectral crowd, another of this place’s oddities struck me. Despite the insane imitation of life teeming all around, not a single sound reached me. My hearing remained intact; the crunch of my own footsteps on the paving stones as I walked along the street rang perfectly clear. But of the thousands of sounds a bustling city square should have produced, only an absolute, crushing silence remained.

“Hey! Can anyone hear me?” I called out.

As before, no answer came. Worse, my words seemed to be swallowed by an unknowable void that lurked beneath this visible reality. A chilling thought began to circle in my mind: what if I proved the shadow in this world, and not the indistinct silhouettes? How had I ended up here? I could not remember. And yet, I stood not alone. The voice from the inn affirmed another presence.

“Find a gateway,” I muttered peevishly. “She could have been more specific.”

Tens of thousands of doors and gates filled this city. How could I find a specific one without knowing its look or feel? It had to be no ordinary door, I knew with certainty, but that still left countless possibilities.

Then, on the opposite corner, a flicker of motion snagged my attention. Not the ceaseless shimmer of this world, but a definite, physical movement.

“Is anyone there?” I called out, starting toward the corner at a brisk pace.

Only silence answered, yet I knew I had seen something.

I broke into a run. After a few steps, I pitched forward, landing face-first on the ground. The impact rippled throughout my being, but no pain or injury followed my mishap. Slightly unsettled, I rose and tried again. On the third attempt, I learned the trick: do not watch the ground.

Feeling utterly foolish, I rounded the corner onto another empty street. Empty, save for the incorporeal shadows. Had I imagined it? No—there it was again. A flash of color disappearing into the entrance of a small house. Definitely not a shadow.

I sprinted, no longer bothering to avoid the silhouettes I passed through in my haste. I had no means to tell if they, like me, felt nothing during these brief encounters; any reaction on their part was impossible to perceive.

Reaching the entrance, I hesitated for a moment, then stepped through the open door. The house greeted me with a spacious room that likely served as both foyer and living area. It was empty, devoid even of shadows. Nevertheless, I conducted a careful inspection of every corner and potential hiding spot. There were few: two large wardrobes, the space behind a tall sofa, the gloomy expanse beneath a massive table. I even swept aside the thick, motionless curtains veiling the closed windows. My search yielded nothing, yet as I scanned the room, a nagging sense of wrongness took root.

I stilled, trying to pinpoint the source of my unease. It lay not in the world’s fluid nature, but constituted something more fundamental. Something I had overlooked since my awakening, precisely because it stemmed from absence, not presence.

That was it. No personal effects marked this entire city of ghosts. No tools, no utensils, no books, no spare clothes—nothing that spoke of an individual life. The only objects remained impersonal, usually associated with general or common use: furniture, decorations, home furnishings. This house stood as a shell, its atmosphere radiating a profound solitude. Nothing in it suggested that people lived or had ever lived here. It wore the emptiness of an abandoned ruin whose very memory had long since died.

Absorbed in these grim thoughts, I almost missed it—a whisper of movement as a small figure attempted to sneak past me toward the open door and the street. I whirled, my hand lashing out, closing on a handful of cloth. The world swam in a nauseating blur before my vision finally focused on the twelve-or-thirteen-year-old boy struggling in my grasp. Small and thin, he wore threadbare but clean clothes. Sheer terror masked his face and his blue eyes were wide with the look of a trapped prey awaiting the butcher.

“Easy, lad,” I said, my tone placating. “I mean you no harm.”

He did not answer, but continued to strain against my grip for a while longer. When his struggles proved futile, he stilled, and his gaze fixed on me with a mixture of immense distrust and raw fear.

“Please,” he trembled, “don’t eat me!”

I masked my utter surprise, forcing a conciliatory smile.

“Eat you? Rest assured, lad, I have no such appetite. I do not prey upon your kind.”

“Then let me go!” he insisted, tugging at his arm.

“Only if you promise not to run.”

After a long, assessing moment, he gave a reluctant nod.

“Very well,” I said, and released my grip.

The boy spun in a flash and bolted for the street. I swore under my breath and lunged after him, catching him just outside the door. I seized him by the collar and lifted him clear off the ground. He immediately began to thrash and kick as if possessed, forcing me to give him a firm shake to still his struggles.

“Calm yourself, little one,” I commanded, my voice now sharp with authority. “I told you I would not harm you.”

“You’re lying!” he spat, his face a mask of defiance, though he ceased his kicking.

“If I intended to lie, I would not have released you in the first place,” I said, setting him back on his feet. “I merely wish to ask you a few questions. See? I am letting you go.”

I relaxed my grip and took a deliberate step back, though every muscle remained coiled, ready for another bolt. He considered it; I saw the frantic calculation in his eyes. His feet, clad in worn boots, shifted on the paving stones, trembling with the impulse to flee. But in the end, the fight went out of him. He must have realized the futility of another escape attempt.

“What is your name, lad?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation toward friendlier ground.

“Tilo,” he answered after a short, nervous silence.

“Very well, Tilo,” I said softly. “Where are your parents?”

He gave me a look of sheer incomprehension.

“What is… parents?” he asked, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

“Your mother and father,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

“Mother… father?” he repeated with even greater confusion, the concepts seemingly alien to him. A fresh wave of distrust clouded his eyes.

I shook my head. What manner of child stood before me? If he feigned ignorance, then he proved a master actor.

“Are you here alone, Tilo?” I tried again.

“No,” he answered reluctantly, his feet shifting.

“Who are you with?”

“Mika… and Kar… and Olto.” His eyes, full of a pleading glimmer, welled with tears. “Please, don’t eat them!”

This child’s mind was a fortress of strange terrors. I knelt to meet his gaze.

“Listen to me, lad. I do not know where you got this absurd idea, but I do not eat people. I am a person, just like you.”

Tilo took a sharp step back, shaking his head with an earnest finality that was impossible to fake.

“No. You’re not.”