The Shadow Realm.
Gwayne didn't know how the human kingdoms of today understood it, but in the inherited memories he carried, the ancient scholars of the Gondor Empire had done serious research on the matter. Those stern old men, hunched over endless scrolls and magical instruments, had built theories to explain the true nature of the world—a grand model of layers.
In their classic model, the world was composed of several overlapping planes. The Material Realm sat atop them all: tangible, ordered, home to nearly all living creatures. Beneath it lay the Shadow Realm, a warped reflection of reality, invisible and untouchable to most, but perceptible through magic and the spirit. Deeper still was the Umbral Deep, a realm so chaotic that even magic and thought could not penetrate it. Only the faintest hints of its existence were gleaned from rare, half-sentient shadow creatures, coaxed into reluctant whispers by the boldest scholars.
And the most radical theorists insisted that below even the Umbral Deep lay a final realm: the Primordial Layer, the divine foundation upon which all Creation was built—a place beyond mortal comprehension.
To Gwayne's mind, the structure resembled layers of translucent parchment. The Material Realm was the true image; the Shadow Realm its dim reflection; each deeper layer twisting further into obscurity.
And he and Amber now stood behind the first sheet of parchment—in the Shadow Realm itself.
Even here, the second layer of reality, few humans had ever walked.
Wisely, Gwayne didn't press Amber for answers about how she had dragged them into this place. Judging from her own muttered remarks, this was her first time venturing so deep, and asking questions now would only waste time they didn't have.
There were still many mysteries in this world—things even ten thousand years of floating above the world couldn't reveal.
Surveying the eerie gray world, Gwayne concluded that following Betty's glowing footprints was their only option.
Before setting out, he glanced back at the frozen figures of Hestia, Rebecca, and the others. Their bodies in the real world still fought against the soul-devouring mist, but here in the Shadow Realm, they were trapped like porcelain statues. Wisps of black mist crept into them, gnawing away little by little.
Thankfully, by Gwayne's quick judgment, they still had time.
"Maybe this is what the Wraithmist really looks like," Amber said, glancing back at the scene and shaking her head. "We could sell this discovery to the Arcanists' or the Starwatchers Society for a fortune."
Gwayne shot her a glare. "They'd just drug you senseless, stick a recording crystal on your forehead, and hurl you back into the Shadow Realm as a disposable scout."
Amber looked horrified.
"Come on," Gwayne grunted. "We've got more important things to do."
Even as she hurried after him, Amber grumbled, "But you could be the one to sell the info! You're a founding hero of Andraste! They wouldn't dare drug you, right?"
"You think?" Gwayne snorted. "They're happy to carve my face on statues, print my name in history books, and lay flowers at my tomb for good PR. But if I actually crawl out of the tomb? Half the nobles would be hammering nails into my coffin to put me right back."
Amber blinked in shock. "But... why?!"
Gwayne gave her a deadpan look. "Because they'd lose the national holiday that comes with mourning me."
He marched onward, leaving Amber slack-jawed behind him. It took her a full minute to realize what he meant, and then she cried out, "Wait, that's wrong! Mourning you doesn't come with a holiday! Only the Founding Kings' Day gets three days off! You died too early to get in on that!"
Gwayne almost tripped on a tree stump.
Still, while he had put an end to Amber's wild fantasies of profiting off their discovery, Gwayne's own curiosity about the Shadow Realm only deepened. One day, he swore, he would uncover its secrets.
The trail of tiny footprints didn't extend far.
Maybe the strange laws of this realm distorted distance, but Gwayne and Amber had barely walked a few dozen steps before they came upon a sight both sudden and surreal: A small, crumbling cottage, standing alone in the gray wasteland.
It was ramshackle and weathered, its surrounding fence more gaps than wood. Moss clung to the base of the cottage—bright green, shockingly vivid against the otherwise colorless world. Yet even that color was fading by the second.
Betty's glowing prints led straight to the cottage door.
Amber, fingering her dagger nervously, whispered, "You're going in first, right, oh glorious ancestor? I'll... uh... cover you from behind."
Gwayne briefly considered chucking her through the door like a thrown javelin, but he restrained himself. Keeping one hand ready on his sword, he pushed the door open cautiously.
Nothing attacked.
The inside was as shabby and gray as the outside, looking less like a home and more like a faded photograph.
But someone was inside.
A man, thin and ragged, sat hunched behind a battered wooden table. His robes were torn, his beard unkempt, and his face so worn that Gwayne couldn't even guess his age. Behind him, rickety shelves groaned under the weight of countless bottles and vials, and a decaying alchemy bench leaned precariously against one wall.
Any proper mage would have burst into tears at the pitiful state of this "laboratory."
The man raised his head slowly, a stiff, unnatural smile tugging at his lips.
"Ah, visitors," he rasped. "It's been... so very long since anyone came to my laboratory. Two guests, even."
Amber poked her head out from behind Gwayne, eyes narrowed warily. "You... you're not gonna attack us, are you?"
Gwayne didn't draw his sword—but his hand never left the hilt. He advanced cautiously. "We're just passing through. We're looking for someone—a girl, about fifteen or sixteen years old, carrying a frying pan."
The man at the table showed no sign of hearing him. His smile simply widened, wooden and wrong.
"Please," he said. "Find yourselves a seat. Annie is preparing lunch. It's hard to find hospitality this deep in the woods. You're welcome to stay."
"Annie?" Gwayne repeated carefully.
"My daughter," said the man, still smiling. "Such a sweet girl."
Just then, a young voice cried from another room, "Father?"
Gwayne turned—and saw Betty standing in the doorway of a tiny adjoining room, her face wide-eyed with surprise.
"Betty?!" Gwayne's heart leapt. "Thank the stars—you're alright."
But Betty just shook her head gently.
The man at the table turned his gaze to her, still smiling.
"Annie," he said warmly. "Is lunch ready?"
Betty nodded obediently. "Almost, Father."
Without hesitation, she turned and vanished back into the kitchen.
Gwayne and Amber exchanged a tense look, then hurried after her.
They found Betty bustling around an ancient hearth, frying sausages in her beloved iron skillet. Pale flames flickered beneath the pan, filling the air with the smell of sizzling meat.
Amber muttered, "You can cook in the Shadow Realm? Seriously?"
Gwayne knelt beside Betty, speaking in a low voice. "Betty, what's going on?"
From her calm demeanor, he could tell she wasn't under any spell or mental compulsion. She was here of her own free will—and she had called that bizarre man "Father."
Betty gave a slightly confused smile. "I'm not sure. That man... he mistook me for his daughter. He seemed so sad... I thought I'd cook him a meal before leaving."
Gwayne and Amber stared at her.
Then Betty fished around in the pockets of her maid's dress and pulled out a battered notebook.
"Here, Master," she said, offering it with both hands. "He gave this to me. I couldn't read much of it, but maybe you can."
Gwayne took the notebook, frowning, and flipped through the last few pages.
Amber, curiosity getting the better of her, peered over his shoulder. "What is it? Spells? Runes?"
Her face twisted in confusion at the dense, arcane symbols.
"So... that old guy's a mage?" she asked blankly.
"Strictly speaking, he's a Hedge-Wizard," Gwayne replied, rolling up the notebook and giving her a light thwap on the head. "And didn't you notice all the magical apparatus lying around when we walked in?"