"—And that's how General Tollhdem won the War of Generations," the guide announced, gesturing toward a life-sized statue. "An unwinnable war, won. A future, written."
The guide was tall, middle-aged, quite handsome looking, and robed like a scholar. He led a group of silent visitors through the grand hall, his presence more conductor than curator—guiding the dead through memory.
They were all dead, though not all knew it yet. Some still clung to the illusion of breath, of pulse, of skin.
One tourist stared at his flickering, translucent hands, as if trying to hold smoke. "I can't even remember my name," he rasped. "Only how I died."
"Reality meets imagination here," the guide continued. "And in this place, they become indistinguishable. Think you're dead? You are. Every exhibit dances between life and Narrative, a testament to the power of story."
The Museum of Narratives stood like a bridge to the Realms' eras, its towering structure stretching into conceptual infinity. A circular threshold surrounding and protecting the inner Realms from collapse serving as both shield and border.
As the group passed Tollhdem's exhibit, the crystalline floor shimmered beneath their feet—morphing into swirling colors and shifting shapes, each transformation a glimpse into a story's soul.
A blond tourist, young and wide-eyed, raised a bloodied fist, still echoing the battle he'd just witnessed.
"Tollhdem was incredible!" he said, breathless. "Are there other stories like his?"
His eyes glimmered with something darker—recognition, perhaps. Hunger.
The guide paused, thoughtful. A question mark appeared above his head, shifting into a lightbulb as he spoke.
"A tale born on Earth, long after Tollhdem. Set in the ruins of a forgotten enemy's land—one whose name even its ghosts have forgotten."
Another tourist raised a hand. "Isn't that from the human space conquest era?"
Milah's voice came softly. "No… it wouldn't suit the current mood."
The guide cleared his throat. "And I must remind you—today is your final day here."
He stepped toward a podium, ran a gloved hand across its surface, and paused.
Something shifted.
"Well then. It's decided. Leonardo it is."
"Why Leonardo?" someone asked, their voice tight with old fury—not aimed at the guide, but at memory itself.
"Because like Leonardo," the guide said grimly, "you all feel caged. You crave freedom... but cannot take it."
"Tour Guide Milah," a new voice interrupted.
All turned. This tourist's arm was gone—severed at the shoulder.
"Why is this our last day?"
"Because endings are beginnings. You'll dig until your hands bleed, breathe poison, and call it freedom. That's how stories live."
His glove brushed the wall—his fingers, for a moment, as translucent as theirs.
"You mean… we'll forget this place?" a woman asked, her voice trembling.
"Forget?" Milah smiled gently. "Yes. But you'll become. Stories are seeds of souls here. They bloom. Not out there."
"Oh… thank you. I didn't realize."
She bowed, apologetic.
"It's alright," Milah replied. "You're not the first to ask. And never the last."
Then, with a sweeping hand, he gestured toward the corridor ahead.
"Come. I've saved the most depressing for last."
The floor rippled beneath them—reflecting not their faces, but strangers': gaunt figures in helmets, pickaxes glinting.
"Stories are seeds," Milah said, his voice echoing like distant metal. "But seeds need dirt to grow."
The air hummed, vibrating their bones.
A tourist screamed as her flickering hands solidified—calloused, grime-caked. The museum cracked open, exposing tunnels veined with glowing blue agnite.
Tourists, no longer.
Miners.
Helmets snapped into place. Pickaxes grew heavy in their hands. Around them, the museum vanished—replaced by soot-choked caverns.
Firestones pulsed dimly. Coughs echoed through the dark, drowned by the harsh clank-clank of metal on stone.
And then—his voice:
Leonardo.
Bitter. Frayed. Broken.
"Why me?" he muttered, opening his eyes. His miner's helmet flashed, blinding him before he could see clearly.
"Why can't I just find one..." he whispered, "One reason."
"That's two! Three more to go, Leonardo! 'Nard?" Ronald called, his voice muffled by his dust mask.
"Wait… deep breaths. I haven't even found one yet," Leonardo replied, wiping sweat from his brow. His deep brown hair clung to his forehead.
"You found two in less than a day. Isn't agnite supposed to be rare?"
"Don't tell me that—scream at the mines," Ronald replied with a crooked grin.
Leonardo shook his head and kept digging.
"I just can't seem to—" Clank. "Wait... what's that?"
His pickaxe struck something solid. He crouched, brushed away dirt, and revealed a glowing blue stone.
"No way! You found an agnite? Now we can finally buy that weapon we talked about!" Ronald shouted.
Leonardo turned the stone over in his hands. It pulsed with an eerie white glow.
"You really think Rald will take this? It looks weird."
"Trust me, he will," Ronald replied. "I've got info on him." He chuckled darkly.
"What info?" Leonardo asked.
"Something about Mom. Before she died." Ronald glanced around. Other miners drew closer.
"He'll kill us if we mention Mom," Leonardo sighed.
"He'll feel guilty not to."
Leonardo stared at the stone. Its glow lit his face.
Cold. Like her hands when I closed her eyes.
Ronald's counting profits. But all I see is blue—the same shade as her sheets, her cough, the cracks in our floorboards.
This isn't luck. It's a receipt. Blood, radiation, another year scraped off me.
But Ronald's smiling, so I swallow the bile. Let him dream. Someone has to.
"Oi, boys, move out the way," a gruff voice barked.
Leonardo stumbled. The agnite rolled away, light screeching through his vision.
"You okay?" Ronald called, grabbing the stone.
A burly miner passed, lugging a heavy metal rod. Another followed, supporting it.
"You alright, kid?"
"Yes, yes," Leonardo muttered, brushing himself off.
"What's that for, Cedric?" Ronald asked, eyeing the rod.
Firestones overhead flared to life. Groans followed as miners shielded their eyes.
"Not the firestones again," one muttered. "We need better lighting in here."
The cave lit up. Leonardo's tunic, earthy brown, blended with the stone. Leather patches reinforced the elbows and shoulders. His fingerless gloves were padded for precision.
Ronald wore a similar outfit, his carryall strapped tight.
A bell rang.
"Oh no," Cedric sighed.
"The Overseer is here!" someone cried, and miners scrambled into formation.
Ronald gave Leonardo a worried glance.
Leonardo stood still, pickaxe clenched tight. His eyes, behind the visor, burned with fear and hatred.
The Overseer approached—a bloated figure with a sneer. He held a cracked portrait, his thumb obscuring the face. A Mokri followed, its black fur glinting.
"Greet the Overseer!" the Mokri demanded, its breath fogging the air with rot.
"Hail the Overseer!" the miners chanted, voices rigid with disgust. They dropped their tools.
Leonardo's face twitched behind his mask.
He hated them. Overseers. Demons of rot.
"You. Why are you standing?" the Overseer growled.
"What's it to you?" Leonardo snapped.
"Move. Or that's twenty lashes you pig," the Overseer barked, not hearing.
Inbred cow, Leonardo thought.
"Just mine, Leonardo," Ronald whispered, afraid.
Leonardo moved.
"Good. Work till your death," the Overseer laughed. "I'm in charge now. Your last overseer died as did the Donrolf as you all heard."
His laugh crumbled into a rattling cough. He spat black phlegm into a twin-mooned handkerchief.
"Yes, sir!" the miners chorused.
"Great. I'm practically your new god."
Silence.
You rot above ground. We rot below. Men like you die first. Donrolf showed proof. My turn'll come. But till then, let the agnite burn me alive—so you choke on our dust.
"Am I not?" the Overseer asked, his shadow massive. "Without discipline, the mines collapse. You'll thank me when you're not buried alive."
"Call it my first day. You'll hate me. Good. Hate keeps you sharp. Love gets you killed."
His eyes flicked briefly to Ronald—too fast to notice.
"Now dig. The Duke wants his agnite. I want my daughter back."
"Guide me unto the task," he muttered to the Mokri, his tone like a relic—cold and dead.
"Yes, master," the Mokri said, leading him deeper.
"Why do they all act like gods?" Leonardo asked.
All overseers are royalty, doesn't change the fact they deserve death. Ronald mutters quietly.
As they departed, the firestones dimmed. Shadows returned. Work resumed. The rumbling grew louder.
"What was that for?! We could've died!" a man yelled.
"Stop. He's just a kid," Cedric said.
"Then let him take my lashes at assessment," the man spat.
"Why blame him?" Cedric growled, glancing at Leonardo. After a beat, he added, "But you know the rules."
"I don't know myself," Leonardo whispered, staring at his trembling hands.
Ronald had shut down. Emotionless, working.
The cave rumbled. The first time today.
Three rumbles meant collapse. The old Overseer had warned them.
"Let's go, Ronald," Leonardo urged.
"Wait—we could find one more…" Ronald said, desperation sharp in his voice.
Back in his quarters, the Overseer trembled, locking the lash away.
The portrait lay visible now: a girl with sunken eyes beside a bottle of sedatives.
Forgive me, Lira, he whispered.
"I'll work them to the bone, to death even, if it lets me see your face again."
A cold wind circled him.
"You promise me, father?" a voice asked.
A grip clamped his shoulder. He winced.
"I promise."
The Mokri's shadow loomed behind.
"The dead do not forgive, Master. They fester."
The cave path twisted with false ends. Lanterns lit the way.
"If we'd waited, we could've found more," Ronald muttered.
"We need to get out. It's not safe," Leonardo snapped.
The cave shook again. Rocks fell.
"Watch out!" Leonardo shouted, yanking Ronald to safety.
"Yeah… thanks," Ronald murmured, fear setting in.
"Maybe we should leave. I just wanted to be free, but now..." Ronald trailed off.
"Unrealistic," Leonardo said.
No.. not unrealistic, it is very much possible, what I'm trying to say is I'm dying mining, my body is melting and I feel it, yet even through all this I want to explore with you, Ronald speaks his tone dull until the ending where he smiles.
Leonardo stared. Fear hollowed his chest.
I'm killing him. Mom wouldn't want this. Her sons killing themselves for freedom.
They reached a resting pit, one of many in the cave's depths. A pause.
"How much radiation are you carrying?" Ronald asked, noticing the faint green glow on Leonardo's neck.
"Enough to die," Leonardo said, laughing.
Ronald said nothing, just stared.
Agnite wasn't just power. It was poison.
Leonardo's mother had coughed blood for weeks. The blue glow haunted him still.
At last, they reached the cave entrance.
Talk about a busy day, Leonardo muttered, stepping out.
The twin moons draped Volnia in silvery decay. Their light kissed the crumbling laterite walls and bronze-crowned spires—old sentinels hunched in the dark.
"To see this sight… maybe it was worth it," he said.