'Cold.'
He felt cold.
The thought drifted through the mind of a young man—no older than nineteen—lying flat on a stone floor that refused to offer warmth or comfort. Wisps of feelings and half-formed memories washed over him like ocean tides, only to vanish before he could hold onto them.
His blank expression said it all.
'I shouldn't be here,' he thought, his body stiff as he slowly pushed himself upright. His messy black hair flopped into his face as he opened his eyes—green, sharp, and unsettled. Eyes that looked like they belonged to someone much older. Someone who had seen things they couldn't explain.
But he remembered nothing.
Not where he was.
Not how he got here.
Not even... who he was.
"Who... am I?"
The question felt too big for his mouth. Too hollow in his chest. He tried to chase the answer, grasping at thoughts that scattered like ashes in the wind. Nothing stuck. No name. No family. Not a single face in the storm of his mind.
His fingers dug into the stone floor. Cold, solid, real. At least this he could feel.
Was that all he had now? A floor beneath him and a name he didn't even know?
He looked down at his hands—calloused, scratched, the nails chipped and stained with dust. These hands had worked. Fought, maybe. But even they offered no clue.
The only thing he did know—if it could even be called that—was the instinct curling in his gut:
He wasn't supposed to be here.
'I have to leave.'
His voice didn't make a sound, but the thought echoed loud in his mind. Pressing one hand to the cold stone wall, the young man slowly got to his feet. Every muscle in his body felt stiff—like he hadn't moved in days, maybe longer.
The air was thin. Still. The only sound was his breath, shallow and uncertain.
He took a step forward. Then another.
The room was circular, maybe twelve feet across. Smooth, seamless walls. No markings. No windows. Just the same dull, bluish light humming faintly from somewhere unseen. Ahead of him—barely visible in the gloom—stood what he thought was a door. A section of the wall shaped just differently enough to suggest a way out.
Stepping up to the door, he reached out and touched its frame—wooden and rough, like it had been worn down by time and countless hands before his. The texture felt oddly familiar, though he couldn't say why.
His fingers searched along the edge until they found a handle—old iron, rusted and cold.
He hesitated for just a second. Then pushed.
The door creaked open with a groan that echoed far too loudly for a place so still. The sound made his skin crawl.
Beyond the threshold, a narrow staircase curved downward into darkness. But unlike the chamber he'd just left, this stairwell wasn't dark.
Blueish lanterns—small, dim, and cold—lined the walls at regular intervals, glowing with a pulse like distant starlight. They didn't flicker, didn't crackle. Just hummed quietly, the same tone he'd felt vibrating through the stone when he first awoke.
He took the first step.
Then another.
The farther he descended, the more the light grew in volume. The pitch-black void he'd felt upon waking was now gone, replaced by that steady, blue glow that hummed like it was alive. The sound of his own footsteps echoed in his ears—soft, hollow, rhythmic.
Like the low melody of a harp.
'Harp?'
His brow furrowed.
'Why would I think of a harp? Wait... what is a harp?'
The question hung in his mind—then, just for a moment, something broke through.
A fleeting image.
A woman, seated in a sunlit room. Fingers dancing across the strings of a golden harp, each note rising like morning mist. Her hair was long, coppery, braided down one side. She was smiling—not at him, but for him, like this music was meant only for his ears.
The light in the room was soft. Gentle. Safe.
And then—
Gone.
The stairwell returned, silent and cold. Blue light. Stone walls. Echoing steps.
Standing frozen the young man lost his breath for a second. His chest ached—not from pain, but from the sharp, sudden loss of something he didn't even know he had.
'Who was she?'
Whoever she was, he knew—knew—she meant something to him. The thought of her left a warmth lingering in his chest, fragile and bittersweet.
But the more he reached for the feeling, the more it withered—until, without realizing it, he forgot it entirely.
'What was I thinking? Ah doesn't matter I just need to figure out what's going on.' Pushing onward he continues down the stair well.
Until he reaches the final stair which gave way to open ground where he found it.
Another door.
Wooden. Rough. Familiar.
Almost identical to the one he'd opened above. Its frame was old, warped just slightly, with an iron handle nestled into the grain like it had always been there.
Expect for one detail.
He heard voices.
People.
Murmuring. Pacing. Panicking.
Scattered across the chamber were nearly two dozen others, each looking as lost and hollow as he felt. Some huddled against the walls. Others stood alone, arms folded, faces tight with confusion. Two were arguing softly. Another sat on the floor, rocking back and forth.
"…So you can't remember either?" a rough male voice said.
"Nothing. Not even my own name," a woman replied, sounding like she was trying not to cry. "It's all just… gone."
Their clothes were strange. Diverse. Torn, mismatched, but familiar in that not quite right way. One man wore a soot-stained uniform that might've belonged to a soldier or a miner. A woman had grease on her sleeves and the kind of leather apron a smith might wear. One figure, hunched in the corner, was barefoot in a dancer's garb, like she'd been pulled mid-performance into this world.
He looked down at himself.
Faded dark-gray clothes, layered and slim. A hooded jacket with utility straps. Boots made for uneven terrain. Practical, quiet. Like he was used to walking unseen. A scout, he thought instinctively. The kind of person who never walks down the middle of the road.
He didn't remember it.
But it felt like his.
And then—he saw her.
Standing across the room. Strong posture, arms crossed. Hair drawn into a short, precise braid. She wore a long coat—deep blue with silver trim, dusted with dirt but still dignified. Military, maybe. Or just someone used to giving orders.
His heart stuttered.
She turned toward him—and their eyes locked.
Something passed between them.
A thread.
A ripple.
A pull—not of attraction, but of recognition.
The kind that ran deeper than words.
Like family.
They stepped toward each other in sync, drawn by something deeper than memory. Something buried in instinct, in heart, in soul.
They stopped a few feet apart. Silence stretched around them.
Then, together, they spoke—barely a whisper.
"…Lira?"
"…Lucas?"
The names fell from their mouths like old truths finally remembered.
She blinked. Her eyes shimmered for just a second.
His chest tightened—he didn't know why, only that it mattered.
"Are you… my sister?" he asked, the words hesitant, puzzled. He looked at her—at Lira—like the name had unlocked something, but not enough.
Lira's brow furrowed. She stared back at him, her lips parting slightly, fingers twitching at her side like she was trying to hold onto a thought slipping through her grasp.
"I think?" she said slowly. "I'm not sure… I just—"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I just felt that your name is Lucas. And that I've known you."
She was scratching at something deep—something just out of reach.
Lira opened her mouth as if to say something—
Only to be cut off by a sudden hum that pulsed through the air like a distant strike of lightning.
Then, without warning, a silhouette appeared in the center of the room.
Not a person.
Not exactly.
It was a projection. A shimmering image, slightly translucent, standing atop a circular rune that hadn't been there a moment ago. The figure was shaped like a man, featureless, and dressed in flowing robes made of pure light. Its body pulsed with a faint golden glow, and when it spoke, its voice echoed across the stone walls as if it had been waiting centuries to be heard.
"Welcome to the Tower of Arrival," it said, its voice flat but unmistakably clear.