Chapter Text
The day his father warned him that he should never underestimate a mage, he had to admit he hadn't paid much attention. After all, witchcraft was the polar opposite of science and progress, and it had been extinct for so long that, by this point, it was little more than a myth.
So when a clumsy, nervous young woman who was very clearly interested in him showed up at the winter solstice ball and declared her intentions to marry him, it didn't take him half a second to raise his pinky to his ear, massage the outer edge of it, and turn on his heel in rejection.
The young woman repeated her proposal, this time with considerably more determination.
The musicians gradually stopped playing the waltz, and the guests began to quiet their murmurs, curious about the scene unfolding before them. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his personal guards cautiously approaching his position, prepared to intervene if necessary. Much farther away, he caught sight of his parents' worried frowns.
But this winter solstice marked his coming of age, and if he couldn't handle a situation like this, then he had even less business proving himself capable of ruling a kingdom.
So he turned on his heels and faced the young woman before him, putting on as much elegance as he could muster.
The young woman had unusually colored hair, almost the exact same shade of pink as his mother's dress, and that should have been his first warning about what was about to happen. But, as he would later come to regret, he merely raised an eyebrow at her appearance and regarded her with little more than curiosity about the strange color of her hair. She returned his gaze with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, mistakenly interpreting his attention as consideration of her proposal.
“I’m not interested in the slightest.”
He had once read that the best way to handle conflict was to make your position clear without leaving room for the other person to twist your words. The clearer, the better.
The young woman frowned angrily, her earlier nervousness disappearing in real time before his eyes. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off before she could say another word.
“Forget it. It’s not happening in ten billion years.”
And now, in hindsight, perhaps it would have been wise to receive at least some training in the ancient art of tact. Unfortunately, his decision to make everything concerning diplomacy a secondary task delegated to the people he trusted had come back to bite him in the ass.
“Then I guess I’ll have to come back in ten billion years and see how things are going, Your Majesty, won’t I?” she asked mockingly.
The crown prince raised an eyebrow, but that was all he managed to do before everything went to hell.
Sparks, flashes, and tremors raced through the entire ballroom. Screams, hurried footsteps, chaos everywhere. He also caught sight of his guards attempting to reach him.
But none of them got very far.
“Enough!” he demanded, but it did nothing.
“And you dare order a mage around on top of that?” she asked indignantly. “Fine. I think I have just the punishment for someone like you.”
A flash of light engulfed the prince and his subjects.
“Your fate, and the fate of everyone within this palace, shall be as cold and hard as stone unless you learn to feel love for someone other than yourself. Someone who, moreover, must sincerely return your feelings in equal measure... even despite everything.”
The mage continued her monologue, but almost no one had the strength to pay attention beyond the changes happening to their bodies. Limbs withering, senses disappearing, light blinding them.
The prince, as expected, got the worst of it.
A sharp burning sensation spread across his entire body, mostly through his head, until he could no longer tell where it began or ended. It was so intense that, for a moment, he thought he might actually be burning alive. He couldn't breathe or open his eyes; all he could do was desperately hope it would stop.
And after what felt like years, though it had probably only been a few moments, it did.
His body collapsed onto the floor, his forehead resting against the cold marble of the ballroom, almost completely drained of strength. His vision was blurred, and his ears felt clogged with an unbearable ringing that only seemed to prolong his suffering.
He tried to gather what little strength he had left to lift his head and take in the scene, but all he managed to see were a pair of hands he didn't recognize as his own.
“And do you know what the best part of this curse is?” the mage continued, standing directly in front of him. “Only someone like me can undo it.”
The prince still couldn't understand what was happening. All he knew was that his entire body hurt and the ballroom was spinning around him.
His vision began to narrow into a tunnel before fading completely to black.
“...Well, as long as you don't petrify anyone first, of course.”
The mage slowly looked around the ballroom, taking in the destruction caused by her curse with something resembling pity. Then she turned her gaze back to the prince lying unconscious at her feet.
“I suppose there won't be many people out there willing to fall in love with someone like you. After all, who could possibly love a beast, right?”
When she'd imagined having the prince at her feet a few moments ago, she hadn't meant quite this literally.
But oh well.
Fortunately, she was a very cool, confident mage, perfectly capable of handling rejection in the fairest way possible.
Gen has dreams.
Terribly vivid dreams.
Sometimes he dreams of the war, of running without rest, of hunger, sadness, blood. Sometimes he dreams of words, of the texture of paper, of the smell of ink. Sometimes, he dreams of life itself.
Lately, though, he has been lost.
He walks endlessly through what feels like an eternity, following an unfamiliar path. The ground is damp beneath his feet, and every step sinks a little deeper into the mud, but somehow he can't bring himself to care. His bare feet tread over roots, rotting leaves, and rainwater turned to stagnant pools. Trees rise all around him, crooked and bare, their branches stretching out like fingers trying to touch him, but never quite managing to.
Gen keeps walking without knowing where he is going.
The only thing he knows is that there is something ahead. He never manages to see it, and perhaps today will be no different, but he can feel it in his chilled bones.
Something is waiting for him.
The dark sky above him begins to lighten, signaling the start of a new day. The path, on the other hand, grows darker in contrast, announcing his departure.
He knows he'll have to turn back.
Whatever he is looking for is terribly close, almost within reach, so he makes one last attempt. He stretches forward, trying to grasp it, but the ground beneath the mud gives way, throwing him off balance and sending him falling onto his back.
Instead of landing on cold, wet ground, he lands on his bed.
Again.
Gen runs a hand over his face, frustrated and exhausted. The room, like the rest of the house, is silent. There is no trace of mud anywhere, but a thin vine insists on creeping a little farther up the wall behind his bed every night.
He didn't make it this time either.
Whatever was waiting for him at the end of the path was always just out of reach, and for some reason, that is what bothers him the most.
He remains there for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling. The feeling of the dream is still clinging to his body. It isn't exactly fear, but something more complicated; an uneasiness crawling up his spine that disappears too quickly to give a name.
He has been having dreams like these for months. They are not always the same, but they all share one thing: the ending. Usually, he returns to the forest, but he has also been to lakes, mountains, and, once, a dungeon.
He never reaches the end.
Anyway, there are more important things to worry about.
He lets out one last tired sigh and sits up, tearing his eyes away from the wooden ceiling to finally begin his day.
As expected, the house is still silent. Xeno, his father, had traveled to the capital the previous week and still hadn't given any indication that he was coming back.
As long as Gen can remember, Xeno has been moving from village to village with him, never staying anywhere long enough to become suspicious, never staying long enough for anyone to remember them afterward. They are constantly fleeing the laws imposed against sorcerers by the feudal lord of these lands and waiting for Stanley, his other father, to return. Stanley left for the war to fight for the King when Gen was still too young to remember him, and he has yet to come home.
Since then, his father has traveled to the capital once a month looking for news, refusing to believe that Stanley is dead. Normally, the trip takes a few days if they are staying somewhere far from the capital, which is not the case right now.
That is precisely why the situation worries him so much: his father has never taken this long to return.
His worst fears include, but are certainly not limited to, the possibility that Xeno has been arrested for sorcery—which is unlikely, considering that he isn't a sorcerer—or for fraternizing with one—which is considerably more likely given that he is the father of one. Either way, ever since Xeno's absence became abnormal, Gen hasn't been able to go to bed without imagining his father waiting for the pyre somewhere far away.
Gen pulls the collar of his coat—the only one he owns—higher when he steps outside for the first time that day. His breath rises like fog, obscuring the distant rooftops and giving the village a gloomy atmosphere worthy of a witch hunt.
Whoever designed this village certainly knew what they were doing.
Ten out of ten for eccentricity.
The villagers are only just beginning to wake, resisting the urge to leave their beds—which are sometimes the only shelter they can afford—and go out to live through another miserable day, while the merchants are barely setting up their ramshackle tables for the morning market.
He lowers his head as he crosses the central square, unwilling to draw anyone's attention. His father has drilled these survival tactics into his mind every day of his nineteen years, so by now he performs them as naturally and automatically as breathing.
In a village this small, being different could quickly become a problem, and he already has enough of those for the moment.
The most urgent one?
Making sure his father hasn't been arrested for having a supposedly sorcerous son.
And if he has, making sure no one can prove it.
The pyre is the fate of anyone found guilty of sorcery, whether for practicing it or concealing it. The irony is that sorcery is, at best, little more than a myth—whether because of the witch hunts or some other external factor.
Gen obviously doesn't count.
But the truth is, he has never met another sorcerer in his entire life, so he can't even be certain that he really is one. Yes, he has experienced impossible things with no explanation, but perhaps they are the result of a curse or something similar, not sorcery. Certainly not his sorcery.
In any case, the farther away from the public eye he can stay, the better.
For as long as he has been aware of himself, his father has been the center of his universe. Xeno has always made sure to keep him safe, dye the white strands of his hair with a liquid of his own creation, and bet on their survival by moving from village to village, even at the cost of his own health.
That is why not having him by his side feels so strange, almost unnatural, as though someone had ripped one of his limbs clean off.
It doesn't feel right.
He crosses the stretches of road where everyone can see him and slips into the church, the least suspicious place for a sorcerer to be.
The building stands as imposing as a village chapel can be—far shorter than the grand cathedrals in the capital, yet somehow mentally towering above all of them. Its stone facade, carefully maintained to keep away moss and rot, welcomes both him and his sins.
He doesn't stop long enough to say good morning. The moment he crosses the threshold into the room designated for mass, he turns right, descends as quickly as he can without looking suspicious, and finds himself face-to-face with what he assumes was once a dungeon, now renovated to house the unfortunate scholar assigned to this miserable town.
The scholar is currently balancing on the two back legs of a chair that has seen better days and looks dangerously close to breaking and sending him headfirst into the wall behind him. Its stained-glass windows, already blackened by dust and damp, depict the ancient monarchs, who stare down at the embarrassing spectacle with dead eyes.
Apparently, God's blessing is particularly strong upon this scholar, because that never happens.
His legs rest on the wooden desk—not a table, because scholars are better than that—and an open book lies across his head, hiding his face.
“You're early,” he says without moving an inch. The book on his face, a Danish Bible, slips slightly downward, though that may just be Gen's imagination.
For a scholar's workplace, the dungeon is remarkably devoid of books. Almost bare, one might say. The chest to the left contains the books awaiting burning, while a small cabinet no more than a meter tall, with only three shelves, holds all the books approved by the Church for safekeeping.
Unfortunately, Gen has already read every single one.
“I didn't sleep well,” he says flatly. He's not in the mood today.
The scholar, who presumably enjoys suffering from chronic neck pain, finally straightens and sits like a normal person.
Nanami Sai looks back at him with the expression of a man who has already acquired every scrap of knowledge society can offer and is still as bored as an oyster. His eyes, black as night, carry an ancient quality, as though they had been open long before any of this existed.
His personality, on the other hand, leaves much to be desired.
Perhaps it is because he was rejected by his own household, his own blood choosing to forget and erase him rather than associate themselves with him, but there is something unrestrained inside his mind that doesn't quite agree with conventional rules and certainly isn't limited by obedience.
The fact that he spends most of his time pretending otherwise is another matter.
Gen and his father have crossed paths with him a handful of times over the years as they traveled from city to city—sometimes as an altar boy, sometimes as a teacher, sometimes as a vagabond. Every time, he is something different, so it is always a pleasant surprise to run into him and recognize him.
This time, somehow, he managed to pass himself off as a scholar under the watchful eyes of God and the clergy because, in his own words, he was tired of having nothing new to read.
Xeno and Gen have never questioned him or tried to figure out what he's up to or why he's running just like they are. In return, Sai has never tried to pry into their business either. It is a symbiotic relationship built on cooperation and heretical secrecy in the name of survival.
The only things they know about Sai are assumptions. Xeno, who had some connection to the Nanami family once upon a time, had already heard about an expelled member, so the idea that Sai really is a Nanami isn't that far-fetched.
Sai straightens his back to his full height like a lazy cat, closes the book with one hand, and drops it onto a pile of discarded papers.
“Again?”
Gen grimaces as he casually wanders through the space where terrified sinners are supposed to kneel, irritated by the question but relaxing for the first time since he opened his eyes that morning.
“It's not that bad.”
“The faint suggestions about the true form of cherubim in this Bible”—Sai picks up the book and shakes it as though it weren't an ancient, half-disintegrated volume—“aren't that bad. Yours, on the other hand…”
Gen snorts, stopping in front of the stained-glass window depicting the King who took his father to war all those years ago and for whom the entire village still waits. He then looks toward Sai with a sour expression.
“I'd rather not talk about this so early in the morning.”
“The forest?” Sai's smile widens as quickly as his eyebrows rise. “The lake?”
“And we're talking about this…”
A migraine threatens to ruin his morning even more than it already has, but at this point he can only summarize the story as quickly as possible and get to the important part of why he is standing in the house of a God who wants him dead.
“The forest,” he admits tiredly.
The dreams have followed him ever since he set foot in this forgotten village, refusing to let him go. In a moment of stupidity, tired of being unable to sleep properly at night, he decided that Sai—the fake scholar that he is—might know something about them.
Mistake.
Now the man is completely invested in the slow and almost painfully limited development of Gen's dreams.
“So, the forest,” Sai says, returning to rocking back and forth in his chair, which stubbornly refuses to surrender to the stupidity of a seventy-kilogram man.
“It's almost always the forest.” Gen drags over a stool meant for defendants and sits down as though he isn't one himself. “I don't know why you're surprised.”
The only advantage, he supposes, is that Sai's collection of books—limited though it may be—is quite good. Especially the forbidden section, generously offered from one heretic to another under the warning of a one-way ticket to Hell if they are ever discovered.
Obviously, Gen isn't stupid enough to get caught red-handed, so the arrangement works.
“There was more water this time,” he says, because now that he's started telling the story, there is no point in stopping. “And the trees were closer to touching me. The rest was the usual—leaves, rot, mud.”
“I assume you didn't get anywhere.”
It is as much a statement as infinity itself; delivered with absolute certainty, yet somehow still open to a period.
Gen rolls his eyes, considering the matter settled.
“You know why I'm here.”
His father has always emphasized the importance of table manners and proper behavior at social gatherings, as though Gen might someday have occasion to use them. Chief among those rules was never resting his elbows on the table.
But his father has been missing for days, so Gen hunches over the desk, planting both elbows firmly against it.
Perhaps his father will materialize out of thin air just to scold him.
Obviously, that doesn't happen, and Sai's smile loses two-thirds of its intensity and cheerfulness, knowing perfectly well why Gen came.
“Nothing so far.” Sai pulls a bundle of letters tied together from inside a drawer.
One of the advantages of having Sai appointed by the Church as the intermediary between the sender and recipient of all correspondence in the village simply because he is a scholar—the only requirement for the job being that he knows how to read—is that he intercepts and safeguards all communications concerning them.
A real public service, in Gen's opinion.
“They came yesterday,” Sai says, undoing the knot holding the letters together. “I took the liberty of reading them already, and there's nothing.” He drops two weeks' worth of correspondence onto the desk in front of Gen. “You can look through them if you want.”
An entire fortnight's worth of correspondence amounts to fewer than ten letters. Seven or eight, perhaps, but not much more.
Gen opens them and reads through them in silence, looking for any detail Sai might have missed—the handwriting, a seal, a damn paragraph—but there is nothing.
Whatever happened to his father, apparently it isn't something that allows him to write a letter to his only son.
Well.
Now his morning is completely ruined.
He hands the letters back to Sai, who tosses them into the drawer without ceremony, then gets up to return to the dark little hole he calls home.
“If you hear anything…”
Sai stops him before he can finish, sparing him the words.
“You'll be the first to know.”
Gen smooths out invisible wrinkles on his clothes and nods toward his only ally in illegality before leaving the old dungeons. He has barely set one foot on the first step when Sai's voice stops him, echoing through the ancient stone walls.
“Try…”
He clears his throat, as though he has forgotten what comes next or doesn't quite know how to say it, which is strange for him and all his various versions.
“Try not to come here too often.”
Gen turns, looking at him in confusion. Sai knows nothing about his relationship with sorcery; as far as he is concerned, they are simply a father and son running from the law over some minor offense that could get them killed, but never sorcery.
Certainly never sorcery.
Before Gen can ask why, Sai is already settled exactly as Gen found him: balanced on the back legs of his chair, feet on the desk, another open book covering his face and apparently preparing him for his next fatal neck injury.
Outside the church, the sun is high enough that no one can ignore their morning obligations.
Not even him.
He heads to the market with just enough coins for a few eggs, some flour, and two potatoes. He doesn't exchange more than three words with anyone or make eye contact, but he stays alert to whatever rumors happen to be circulating among the villagers today.
Today, like every other day for the past few weeks, there is nothing new.
He wants to go home.
He wants his father to come home.
He wants to have something he can call home.
He makes sure the tiny wooden heels of his shoes don't make noise against the filthy cobblestone streets as he discreetly quickens his pace, leaving the public eye behind and entering his house like a perfectly ordinary citizen whose soul is being dragged straight to Hell.
Once inside, he lets out a slow breath. Briefly, he wonders if he's the only person in the village who has developed the habit of holding his breath outside.
Perhaps he is.
He'll never know.
He bought enough food for two days—one if his father had returned—so he doesn't have to worry about going back to the market until the day after tomorrow, unless his father finally comes home.
He eats in silence, which is unusual for him. Outside, the sounds of hostile provincial life rise between the worn and filthy rooftops, kept barely at bay by the cracked windows of the dining room.
If his father doesn't return within a week, he'll have to decide what to do. He can't stay in the same place for too long, but he doesn't want to abandon his father either. He briefly considers asking Sai to pass him off as another scholar, but that would be like putting a noose around both their necks, and he already owes Sai far too much to repay him that way.
Sorcerer or not, he still has principles.
The meal—a simple vegetable soup with pieces of dough and a boiled egg—grows cold in front of him, practically inviting him to leave it there and let it rot like everything else lately.
He decides to save it for later.
The boiler, which apparently has never worked, remains eternally cold in the corner. Not even his father—who has a knack for modifying and repairing all sorts of junk—has managed to do anything about it. Ever since, the house has suffered from the strange phenomenon of being colder inside than outside, thanks to its frankly terrible insulation.
Gen still hasn't taken off his coat, though the truth is that he rarely does. He blows warm air over his numb fingers and rubs them together, warming them for a moment.
Still, it is enough to make him feel them long enough to search through the things his father left behind once more, looking for some clue as to where he might be.
As usual, there is nothing.
His father's current room, along with the infinite dust that seems to follow them from house to house, is exactly as it always is. The worn leather suitcase remains at the foot of the bed, packed and ready in case they ever have to flee in the middle of the night, which means his father really did intend to come back.
His journal is missing, which is obvious considering he always carries it with him, but Gen had still hoped to have it available. The only thing he finds among the old goat-wool clothes is a small portrait of Xeno standing beside the man Gen assumes is his other father.
They both look incredibly young, almost Gen's age.
Xeno, in the painting, looks at the portraitist with an expression of peace that is incredibly rare for him. Stanley, standing beside him, remains frozen in eternal scrutiny, wearing the cold gaze of a man who has stained his hands with blood and returned to tell the story.
Gen has to admit that, as a child, he was somewhat afraid of him. Afraid that Stanley would find his father and come back for them. The look in the portrait never gave him anything resembling peace, and Gen is convinced it never will.
With time, however, he learned to get over it and wait for him with something closer to morbid curiosity than fear.
And to think his greatest fear should have been that neither of them would ever come back.
He puts everything back as he found it, frustrated and having already spent half the afternoon searching through every single item without success. He closes the door to his father's lonely room behind him and heads toward his own, hoping he might finally manage to sleep during the afternoon after being unable to do so at night.
Unfortunately, that doesn't happen either.
The stiff, cold sheets that smell faintly of age open themselves to him, and Gen leaves his exhausted bones at the mercy of whatever sleep has in store. He rests his head against the thin pillow, stares at the ceiling for a moment, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, he is no longer in his bed.
His feet are buried ankle-deep in mud, but he is no longer in the forest. He stands in the middle of a park as vast as the grounds of a palace, surrounded by statues of all kinds, frozen in strange positions.
He walks between them, still slogging through the mud, searching for some kind of path, but there doesn't seem to be one. There is only the imposing silhouette of a fortress in the distance.
Other than that, there is nothing.
With steady steps, he heads toward the gray stone building on the horizon, determined to finish the dream as quickly as possible. Surprisingly, every step he takes seems to carry him miles closer. Before he knows it, he is standing in the entrance hall.
He doesn't complain. Dreams have their own rules, and he has grown accustomed to ignoring them.
As a lucid dreamer, he lacks the ability to alter his dreams to any significant degree. He can only choose his path to a greater or lesser extent depending on how long he wants the dream to last, which is an incredible nuisance. In the end, he always has to do whatever his dream wants him to do.
What's the point of being a lucid dreamer if all he can do is remember?
He takes the stone stairs two at a time, heading toward the first floor. His vision begins to narrow, signaling that he is nearing the end. The scenery behind him blurs as he moves forward, but he doesn't pay attention to it.
He doesn't expect to make it to the end, but this is the first time he's climbed these dreamlike stairs, and he'd at least like to see where they lead.
His already-tired feet keep sinking into mud, even though the ground beneath him appears to be polished stone.
The staircase becomes a torchlit corridor. The corridor becomes a smaller, narrower staircase, and that becomes another corridor, like a sequence of images with one overlapping the next.
His steps slow against his will, forcing him to continue forward automatically toward a wooden door at the end of the passage.
That must be the end, he thinks.
His feet stop on the threshold, just in time for him to regain control of himself. He imagines the dream will end once he crosses through, so he takes a deep breath and enters.
To his surprise, the dream doesn't end there.
His father is inside the room.
Xeno is talking to someone Gen can't see because of the tunnel vision characteristic of the end of his dreams. He looks healthy, well, with an expression of deep concentration.
For a moment, Gen feels his soul return to his body.
Then his father, as though he has sensed Gen's presence, turns around in alarm and looks directly into his eyes.
The dream ends abruptly, pulling Gen backward against his will. The corridor and stairs dissolve into the statue-filled park, which then becomes a thick, swampy forest—one he has visited countless times before.
The dream hurls him back toward consciousness at a frantic speed, sending him through the forest faster and faster, in and out of swampy pools, across familiar paths, until he reaches his current destination like a bolt of lightning, finds his sleeping body, and slips back inside it.
Gen jolts upright in bed.
His heart is pounding violently, and he can't seem to get enough air into his lungs. His mind races, replaying the dream from beginning to end.
He saw his father. He's certain of it.
And the dream showed him the way to find him.
He knows how to get there.
His ability to remember his dreams, something he always considered useless, has finally shed a little light at the end of the tunnel.
His hands tremble with relief, and his eyes begin to sting with tears because his father is alive.
Somewhere.
Outside, the sunset paints the gray skies red.
There is mud on his feet.
And on his sheets.
Gen waits until the village has gone to sleep before leaving his current home.
He locks the door behind him, making sure to secure it properly so no one can get inside and steal the few belongings he's leaving behind. He has no choice but to travel light.
If the path is really the one he thinks it is, he'll have no choice but to wade through mud up to his knees and keep going.
Fortunately, he's used to it by now.
He plans to use his savings to rent a horse in the next village—and thus avoid questions about why he's traveling at an ungodly hour—so he still has a fairly long stretch to cover on foot.
He estimates the journey will take two days at most, so he packs accordingly, taking nothing more than a canvas bag strapped across his back and a hood pulled over his head.
He slips out of the village like a shadow, careful to avoid the night watchman, and hurries onward for nearly an hour before finally forcing himself to relax, reasonably certain that no one is following him.
Obviously, the law isn't his only problem—although it is certainly the biggest one.
There are still things like highwaymen and wild animals, either of which could derail his mission in less than a blink, so even though he's more relaxed than he was an hour ago, he keeps his pace brisk and purposeful, determined to reach the nearest settlement before the first rays of dawn.
Three hours later, the first signs of civilization in miles begin to appear.
The rooftops, just as battered as those in the village he's left behind, greet him while it's still dark. The village is perhaps half the size of the previous one, but it still has a minimally respectable population.
Enough to find a horse without too many questions.
Travelers aren't unusual around here. His father and he made sure of that.
Because of this, it isn't difficult for him to find an inn that's still open—apparently the only one at this hour.
He imagines business must be booming thanks to the lack of competition and makes a mental note to remember the idea for when he needs a business venture of his own.
The horse ends up costing considerably more than expected, which offends him on a deeply personal level, but he hands over the necessary money to a very satisfied innkeeper anyway.
He chooses his horse—a young brown mare—and leaves without looking back, the first rays of sunlight already nipping at his heels.
He doesn't stop to eat anywhere along the way.
Certainly not once the sun begins a new day.
He's just left the last village before the forest, which means he needs to be considerably more careful now that there isn't even a road to follow.
Only his instincts as a dreamer.
The first line of trees begins to appear along the horizon half a day later.
By then, he is undeniably exhausted.
He hasn't slept, he hasn't eaten, and he's barely stopped at all, trying to save as much time as possible.
That decision has begun collecting its payment.
With interest.
He promises himself he'll rest as soon as he comes across a clearing somewhere in the forest.
He never says if he finds one.
There's no point in demoralizing himself now.
White lies, especially the ones you tell yourself, are the best fuel.
His plan, however, comes to a screeching halt the moment his mare—whom he has affectionately named Ophelia—plants all four hooves firmly at the edge of the forest and refuses to move another inch.
The night swallows them more and more with every passing second, but Ophelia doesn't move a single hair in the direction of those ominous trees.
Gen sighs.
Apparently, he's going to have to leave her behind unless he wants to get kicked as payment for his efforts.
Well.
It was nice while it lasted.
He takes his bag off the mare's back and loosens the reins, letting her go free to return to her original owner.
Ophelia, wasting no time, bolts away as though the devil himself were chasing her, disappearing into the darkness within seconds.
Gen watches her go for a moment, mildly offended at being abandoned to his fate, before turning toward the forest.
Then he steps between the twisted branches of the ancient trees.
According to the maps and books he's had the opportunity to read throughout his life, this forest marks the boundary between what was, not too long ago, the northern and southern halves of what had once been a single kingdom.
Now they're two diametrically opposed nations.
He's not entirely sure which side decided to declare independence first, some twenty years ago, but he knows that was what started the war in the first place.
The war Stanley was eventually called to fight in.
The war that forced him to leave his husband and newborn son behind.
Supposedly, both sides are still fighting an endless war, but nobody talks about it anymore.
The only thing anyone knows for certain is that the King is still at the front, regularly requesting more bodies for his troops.
And once someone is called to the front, they never come back.
Whether the war is being won or lost, it's possible neither side will ever recover from it.
In theory, if Gen keeps crossing the forest, he'll eventually reach the battlefield or cross the border.
Nothing like what he saw in his dream.
Still, he decides to continue.
Whatever the case may be, he'd rather confirm it with his own eyes.
Whether Xeno is there or not.
He follows the swampy path in complete darkness.
The mud reaches his calves, chilling his legs at an alarming speed. It's much easier to walk through it in his dreams.
Of course it is.
Dreams have the courtesy of ignoring several fundamental laws of physics.
Reality, unfortunately, does not.
Still, he doesn't give up.
He's walked these paths hundreds of times in his dreams, unknowingly preparing himself for this exact moment, so he knows he can do it.
And because of that, he also knows Xeno is somewhere ahead.
Fortunately, unlike a dream, this time he can't wake up before reaching the end.
It will be today or never.
That doesn't make the journey any easier.
Another hour passes.
Three more times, he slips in the mud.
Eventually, he decides to sit down and rest for a moment.
He hasn't slept since yesterday afternoon, and his body has been protesting at full volume for hours.
He hasn't eaten anything.
He hasn't rested.
And he hasn't stopped moving since he set out to find his father.
At this point, he feels closer to fainting than anything else.
For a moment, he considers using his ability.
Tempting.
Very tempting.
Also incredibly dangerous.
He has no idea where he'll end up at the end of this journey, but wherever it is, they're probably already preparing the pyre that will eventually have his name on it if anyone sees him using magic.
He's not entirely sure what happens when he closes his eyes, but whatever it is, his father has strictly forbidden him from sleeping in public places or anywhere he can be seen.
From his perspective, it all comes down to one thing:
Close your eyes and try to dream about something.
It doesn't always work.
Obviously.
The few times he's tried dreaming about Stanley, he's seen absolutely nothing.
And when he tried to find Xeno, it took a worrying number of attempts before he finally managed to reach him.
A small voice in the back of his head insists that it's impossible for anyone to be out here.
Especially at this hour.
Which means nobody would see him if he closed his eyes for a moment.
Just one second.
A sharp pain explodes between his eyes, the result of refusing to give in to exhaustion.
He alternates between biting the inside of his cheek and his tongue, doing whatever he can to keep himself awake a little longer.
Eventually, he gets back on his feet.
He picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, determined to cross the last stretch that same night.
No more weakness.
The forest, apparently offended by his refusal to rest, responds by swallowing the path even deeper into the mud.
Now it reaches almost to his knees.
The trees cluster closer and closer together, stretching their branches like fingers trying to grab him.
Though perhaps that's only his imagination.
The sounds of nature that have accompanied him until now gradually fall silent.
Gen clenches his teeth.
He is determined to keep moving despite the pain behind his eyes from keeping them open for so long.
He can't feel his hands or feet anymore.
The cold has numbed them completely.
The low temperatures have also begun affecting his breathing, each breath becoming more difficult than the last.
At times, he thinks he can hear his father's voice.
Telling him to rest.
Telling him to turn back.
Gen ignores it.
He keeps walking.
One step.
Then another.
He has only one objective ahead of him.
At some point, nature takes pity on him.
The night is forced to surrender its hold over the world, and the sky begins to brighten.
By the time Gen finally steps out of the swampy undergrowth, the first rays of sunlight are only just beginning to paint the world in a new day.
Gen stands there for a moment, exhausted, covered in mud from the knees down and barely able to keep his eyes open.
Then he looks ahead.
In the distance, illuminated by the pale morning light, stands a castle.
By the time he finishes crossing the field of statues, the sun is already approaching its highest point in the sky. The mud on his hood—courtesy of the several times he's fallen directly onto his ass—sticks uncomfortably to his skin, but at this point, he can't bring himself to care. He knows he must look like an absolute disaster and that these are hardly the appropriate clothes to show up anywhere in, much less a palace. None of that matters anymore. He's here for one reason only: to get his father back. Everything else is secondary.
He approaches the entrance expecting to be intercepted by guards or something of the sort, but the only thing that greets him is the howl of the wind. There isn't a soul in sight—he prefers to think the statues don't count—and there are no signs of life anywhere.
For a castle, he has to admit, the place is remarkably neglected. Without anyone to keep it under control, vegetation has grown unchecked throughout the grounds, while roots have trapped, cracked, and broken through the cobblestones, tiles, and blocks of stone that have clearly seen better days. He doesn't know whether his father came to this place willingly, but there's no denying that it would make an excellent hiding place.
Just in case, he waits a few minutes at the entrance, suddenly worried that he might be about to break into private property. It would be incredibly stupid to get arrested now that he's this close, so he waits until he feels sufficiently idiotic not to care about being arrested for trespassing.
He still has some manners, though.
He knocks on the enormous wooden door twice and waits before announcing himself.
Nothing.
Having exhausted all reasonable avenues of warning, Gen finally pushes the door open and steps inside.
Living with magic, for better or worse, has accustomed him to experiencing strange things on a regular basis, most of them related to his dreams. Therefore, when the door gives way and the interior of the castle comes into view, he isn't particularly surprised to discover that it looks exactly like it did in his vision.
The entrance hall seems frozen in time. Midday sunlight filters through the tall windows, illuminating countless motes of dust floating through the air, while vines and weeds have made their way inside as well, crawling up the walls and ruining what Gen imagines must once have been a very tastefully decorated room. The grand staircase rises directly in front of him, providing access to the rest of the fortress, while corridors on either side lead toward unexplored wings of the castle.
It's in one of those corridors that he thinks he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.
Gen goes on alert immediately. He approaches the first sign of life he's seen in hours with careful, silent steps and presses himself against the wall, forced to hide in a blind spot because he has absolutely nothing that could serve as a weapon. He holds his breath and waits.
And waits.
Nothing happens.
Not a single sound reaches him; no breathing, no rustle of clothing, nothing. Slowly, Gen steps out of his hiding place, takes one final breath, and jumps into the corridor, attempting what he assumes is a better surprise attack than nothing.
To his disappointment—and considerable fright—he runs directly into another statue.
The statue is at least half a head taller than him and appears to depict a young man, no older than thirty. An egotistical smile adorns his immortal face, contrasting with the arm held against his neck by a piece of cloth, apparently injured. Gen raises his eyebrows, both intrigued and disturbed by whatever vision the artist must have had when sculpting such a thing.
That one, and all the others.
Something about the statues isn't right. His instincts haven't stopped warning him that something is wrong ever since he set foot there, and he knows it has something to do with all the stone figures scattered throughout the castle. He just isn't sure what.
He leaves the figure exactly where he found it, takes a couple of slow steps backward, and turns around with a shiver racing up his spine.
He could swear the damn thing was following him with its eyes.
Gen quickens his pace, trying to maintain his composure while repeatedly reminding himself that these are only statues: inanimate objects created from dead elements of nature and therefore incapable of following him with their eyes, much less moving. It's the sort of scientific explanation his father would give him, completely convinced of this irrefutable fact, and therefore it must be true.
Still, something inside him isn't entirely convinced.
He heads toward the great central staircase just as he did in his dream not long ago. He's repeated that route in his mind so many times that, by now, he could probably walk it blindfolded. He repeats the path to himself like a tongue twister so he won't forget or skip a step: up here, turn there, up again, continue here.
There are more statues in the corridors, but these seem to have been sculpted to represent everyday activities—talking, walking, cleaning—so, thankfully, none of them are looking directly at him like the one he encountered on the ground floor. He raises his eyebrows at a particularly strange scene: a young woman covering a little girl's mouth with one hand, apparently her daughter, while the child remains frozen in the middle of an attempt to run away. Both stand in the middle of that godforsaken corridor, frozen in time for all eternity in an unsettling scene.
Gen looks at them for one second too long before walking past them considerably faster.
He finds the next staircase, much narrower and steeper than the previous one, leading toward what he assumes is a tower. In his dream, his father had been at the end of the corridor beyond this staircase, so he presses himself against the moss-covered stone wall, lowers his head, and begins climbing in complete darkness.
Whoever designed this damn staircase needs to find a new profession. The steps are uneven in both height and depth, forcing him to nearly fall flat on his face several times, and as a bare minimum, they could have put a damn window somewhere along the way so he wouldn't have to guess where the hell he was putting his feet. He mutters insults beneath his breath as he finishes the remaining steps much more slowly than he'd like.
The corridor is exactly as he remembers it from his dream.
He's so close to reaching the end this time, with nothing left to stop him, that he doesn't even bother looking around before running toward the door at the end of the corridor. He reaches it, grabs the handle, and pushes it open, expecting to find his father on the other side.
Xeno, sitting in one corner of the room, looks up at him with enormous eyes, surprised that his own son has managed to make it all the way there just for him.
Gen feels his soul return to his bones.
His dream had already told him he'd find him there, but nothing had guaranteed that it would actually happen. Dreams were strange things. They could distort, omit, or outright lie, and there had been no reason to believe this one would be any different.
He runs across the room and drops to his knees in front of his father, wrapping both arms around his shoulders and finally feeling as though all the hours he's gone without sleep have been rewarded. He knows he's covered in mud and that his father will probably have several things to say about it, but he doesn't care. After so many days, they're finally together again.
Gen closes his eyes and takes a moment to memorize the familiar smell of leather, the shoulders already slightly stooped with age, the faint curve of his father's spine. In his mind, he's a child again, receiving his father after his first absence, finally getting to hold him and know that he's home.
The cold hands gripping his shoulders pull him away with considerably less tenderness than expected, which is hardly unusual for Xeno. But when Gen opens his eyes, his father isn't looking at him.
Xeno is staring at someone—or something—behind him, his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows drawn together.
Gen feels every internal alarm he's been silencing since the moment he began this journey explode inside his head. The hair on his arms rises painfully, and his shoulders straighten as much as possible in an instinctive attempt to create some kind of shield around himself.
For the first time in hours, a sound cuts through the silence of the castle like a knife.
A hiss.
Xeno still doesn't look at him, keeping his eyes fixed on whatever is standing in the doorway almost without blinking. Gen takes a moment to look at his father, just in case this is the last time he'll get to, and then turns around on his knees to face whatever fate has been waiting for him at the end of this path.
Dozens of tiny eyes stare back at him in place of the main ones, which are hidden beneath a worn strip of cloth tied around the stranger's head. Its owner slides into the room using a long serpentine tail instead of legs. Half human and half beast, its upper body resembles that of a man, with patches of scales scattered across his skin, while his lower half belongs to an enormous serpent. Dozens of smaller snakes writhe in place of hair, all of them staring directly at Gen.
Yes, the abandoned castle—with the small matter of the countless statues scattered throughout it—could have been a pretty good hiding place.
Unfortunately, the medusa standing in front of them had apparently thought the exact same thing.