After we stepped through the portal, the world changed. An obsidian bridge stretched ahead—beautiful, black, and glimmering—until it began to crack beneath our feet. Another portal stood at its far end. We stumbled toward it, and each step began to break away behind us.
We leapt through—only to fall into a place stripped of life. An endless wasteland. Pale horizon. No sun. No moon. Only the wind, screaming.
The red sand shifted beneath our boots, sliding like it had a mind of its own.
Far in the distance, a thin pole jutted up from the earth. Too far. Too still.
We walked toward it. As it drew closer, its shape sharpened—it wasn't a pole at all, but a column of bricks stacked skyward.
"Maybe Cris made it for us," we told ourselves.
But when we reached it, our hope faltered. It was a dock marker. Beside it, an advanced boat floated on black water, which spreads as far as the eye goes. We collapsed as soon as we reached it, the last of our strength gone.
Through dimming vision, we saw a man rushing toward us, tilting a bottle to our lips. The water was cold.
Then, nothing.
My eyes fluttered open. I lifted my head slowly and found myself in what looked like a pilot's cabin—only larger, unnervingly bright, and spotless, as if freshly built. My friends were there. So was an old man in a white coat, smiling too broadly, standing beside the pilot's chair. The place felt wrong—too quiet.
"Welcome to the Artheming," the old man said, his voice warm yet hollow.
"The city of peace and dreams. The city of love and compassion."
"Good thing I found you in time!" The old man shook hands with Liam, "Brian! You can call me Brian!" He smiled.
Shawn glanced through the window. Below lay a small, radiant city floating on a perfect, mirror-like sea.
White-tiled streets glistened in the sun, ringed by a pristine fence that kept its white-clad residents from the water's edge. It should have been beautiful, yet something in its perfection made our chest tighten.
The cabin gave a faint shudder, groaned like a beast.
"What happened? Did the plane stop?" Shawn asked.
The old man's smile widened. "It isn't a plane. It's an elevator," he chuckled, his laugh echoing too long in the sterile air. "But it still needs a pilot."
Shawn's gaze fell on a man slouched in the pilot's chair—stubble, glasses, headphones—motionless but very much awake. The old man noticed his stare.
"He stays with me. We bring visitors… and we send them back. All day."
He gestured to a narrow doorway. Shawn followed, stepping into a cramped passageway where pale walls closed in tight. A few steps led downward, the air growing stiller with each one. Only two could walk side by side at once here. Somehow, that felt intentional.
With Robin and Shawn leading, we stepped out. Beyond another door was a narrow walkway, just wide enough for one person. Glass walls framed both sides.
Outside, figures moved—men and women. The men were unremarkable, but the women… beautiful wasn't enough. Long black hair, skin from pale to warm brown, eyes—green, impossibly vivid. Their gaze was magnetic, dangerous. But what disturbed us was how none of them blinked. They smiled, but their smiles never reached their eyes, and their movements were too smooth, like marionettes on invisible strings.
Shawn shook his head and focused ahead. We stepped through another door into a cabin much like the last, and soon we were in the air again.
That's when Shawn noticed a coat hanger on the wall. Dangling from it was a golden chain with a small locket. Drawn to it, unknowingly, he took it in his hand. It was a tiny golden compass—so small it was barely visible from a distance.
He slipped it around his neck.
Instantly, his head throbbed. A sharp whistle filled his ears. His eyes shut as if forced closed—and behind them, a vision began to take shape.
A vision struck him—a lone rider in blackened armor, a pike gripped tight in his hand, his horse trampling through scorched earth. Around him lay corpses, twisted and still, the air thick with the scent of charred camps, and the vision disappeared as it came.
I was looking at the scene bled into a jagged cliffside, a river winding far below. I tore my eyes from it only to notice Shawn, fingers pressing hard into the bridge of his nose, eyes distant.
I stepped closer. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah… I'm fine." His voice was quick, almost too quick. He shook his head, the movement sharp, and then I noticed something—something that looked like a locket beneath his shirt. I didn't give it much attention; instead, I turned toward the window. He joined me, leaning in to peer outside.
"It's beautiful here," I murmured, staring at a lone mountain beyond the Atheming city.
"Yes… beautiful." But his voice lacked warmth, lost in some inner fog.
"What happened back there? How did we get here? Don't you think it's strange? Do you remember anything?" His words tumbled out, laced with unease. "All I recall is waking up here… I'm sorry, but something about this feels wrong."
"You're just overthinking," I said, though the same suspicion curled cold in my chest.
"Then tell me—how did we come here?"
"Mr. Brian brought us when we were lost at sea," I replied, stepping away.
It was the story we'd been told. But neither of us remembered. And beneath that gap in memory, something else stirred—a heavy, suffocating wrongness.
"Do you see it?" the old man's voice broke through. "That is where your friends are having a feast."
We followed his gaze to a towering mountain, its peak swallowed in the clouds. Above it, a white light churned in the sky, swirling endlessly.
"Look closer, Mr. Turner," the old man said, tightening his grip on Shawn's arm.
It was pulling us closer. Before Shawn could take another step, the door creaked open—a servant entered, balancing a tray of food.
"How many times have I told you not to disturb us when we're with travelers?" the old man snapped, fury in his voice.
But the servant's gaze slid past him, locking on the mountain outside. His expression hollowed, he dropped the tray as though something had reached inside and taken hold. Without a sound, he lunged toward the window, smashing through the glass and vanishing into the night.
We all startled, staggered back.
The pilot's hands trembled on the controls, but the old man seized him by the collar. "Keep driving!"
Shawn's wide eyes found mine. I was too stunned to speak. "Did he just—?"
"Yes," the old man cut in, voice sharp. "He jumped. A madman. Probably injured, but not dead. We're surrounded by water, Ms. Paragon. Don't you think we've grown used to it by now?" His gaze pinned me, cold and unreadable.
I edged closer to Shawn, whispering, "What the hell just happened?"
"I'm telling you, Zee… something's wrong," he breathed.
His eyes darted toward the pilot. "How did he even get here? We came alone. He wasn't with us."
"What are you saying, Mr. Turner?" The old man's brow glistened with sweat.
"I never told you my surname," Shawn said slowly—then faltered. "My surname…" His voice wavered. "I… I don't even remember if that's mine."
A shrill, piercing hum cut the air. Shawn staggered, clutching his head.
"What's happening to him?!" Liam shouted, rushing forward.
Shawn raised his eyes, and they were different. Sand poured out of his eyes, glowing, dried, and he just glanced at Mr. Brian.
"This is a lie, they are trapping us," Shawn hissed through clenched teeth—then the cabin jolted, ending Shawn's episode, smashing against something solid. The whole structure swung violently, threatening to tear free.
We scrambled to our feet. The pilot and the old man had vanished. The door gaped open—wider than before, as though something had pried it apart.
Peering through the window, we saw the floating city still beneath us. Dark clouds were swallowing the sky, and the wind had turned cold and sharp.
Then came the sounds. A wave of them. Not just a screech—but too many screeches in a chorus that scraped against the bones. Beneath it, low grunts, like a thousand beasts growling from the shadows. And then… the whispers. Inhuman, hurried, chattering, a sound of the engine stopping echoed, and the cabin got swallowed by darkness; only occasional lightning made everything visible.
"Get something—anything you can use," Liam barked, drawing his gun, his eyes fixated on the doorway where we sensed a presence.
Shawn yanked a pistol from a compartment under the pilot's desk. Robin's hands curled into fists. I prepared my power, drawing water from the sea.
We turned toward the door, getting closer to one another, the lightning struck, and we saw they stood there—an army at the door.
Thousands of them. Armored shapes without faces, only yawning darkness within their helms. They hissed and muttered in that same jagged whisper. Rust clung to their plates.
Liam fired first. Shawn joined in. Each shot burst a creature into nothing but fading air—yet for every one that vanished, more appeared.
When they reached me, I shot icicles toward them, the cold exploding armor into ashes. Shawn's gun clicked empty. The whispers grew louder.
And they did not stop.
Shawn noticed something as he threw his gun away: a figure in the center of the horde. This one stood apart—its helm marked with a single crimson feather. "Take him down! He's the leader," he barked, pointing. "The one with the feather."
Robin raised her hand; when it fell back to her side, a wide-bladed dagger gleamed in her grip. Without hesitation, she hurled it, plunging into the leader's forehead—an instant later, his body burst in a blinding flash. We shielded our eyes, and when the light faded, the room was empty. No bodies, no monsters—just us, swaying in the wrecking cabin.
"I think we're still in the air—we have to get out!" I shouted, stepping toward the door. But the cabin jolted, sliding violently until it struck something with a shudder that sent us all stumbling out of the cabin.
In the distance, a scar of scraped earth traced a path from higher ground to where we now rested. The outside had changed—eerily so, no more white city.
It seemed like the elevator was crashing away. Silence pressed in, broken only by a cold wind. Wisps of smoke curled from scattered patches, and where there had been buildings, dark grass now crawled over the earth. The city beyond loomed larger, darker.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered, gripping Liam's arm.
"Breathing," he murmured. He turned—and saw them. Small, no more than three feet tall, clustered behind the low hills. Their shapes were swallowed in blackness, but their teeth caught the dim light, bared and waiting.
"There are too many!" His gaze snapped to a nearby building—a faded board marked with a medical symbol. "Hospital," he muttered, then shouted, "Move! Now!"
The structure loomed with four ghostly white floors. Its windows glimmered faintly, the light inside stuttering in uneven pulses. We didn't hesitate. We ran for the door, the flicker swallowing us whole.