The world shattered.
Not with a bang—no, fate wasn't that generous—but with a jagged, gut-punching sensation, as if the universe itself finally cracked because someone somewhere just couldn't help but press the big red button. One moment, Cassian Drake was eyeing the world's ugliest chandelier, plotting to steal a biscuit from a distracted classmate. The next, reality caved in, and the chandelier became a comet heading straight for his skull, all in glorious slow motion.
He barely had time for one perfectly dry, unimpressed thought:
'Great. Killed by a falling chandelier. Real classy.'
Cassian's Backstory—Orphan, Outsider, Connoisseur of Weird
Cassian Drake had always been something of an outlier—just close enough to the edge to be interesting, just far enough to be alone. Orphaned long before he could grow any real memories of parents, he learned early that the universe seldom hands out second chances or second helpings. Cassian became fluent in two things: ducking trouble and making it, as it suited him. Invisible most of the time, unforgettable when he wanted to be.
He'd mastered the unspoken orphanage code. Trust nobody over the age of sixteen. Hoard food. Never draw attention unless you're ready for fallout. Hide your real pain behind a shield of smart jokes and the kind of smirk that got under people's skin. In a world of gray uniforms and cold, echoing hallways, Cassian's blazing green eyes and razor wit set him apart—not always for the best.
School was a tedious blur; the only excitement appeared during field trips, when the staff would lose him "by accident" and he got to explore the world's forgotten corners. The museum trip was one of those rare days that didn't feel like a rerun. Marble statues in strange poses, velvet ropes daring you to cross them, and teachers actually paying less attention than usual. It was a paradise for a kid who thrived on minor chaos.
Cassian floated at the back of the pack, pocketing biscuits and sliding sideways glances at every exhibit. His personal favorites always fell into two categories: "not worth stealing" and "would get me expelled if stolen."
At some point, they herded into the grand hall. Gilded frames, sprawling tapestries, and, at the center, the aforementioned chandelier—a monstrosity in crystal and brass, looking as out of place as a disco ball at a funeral.
Cassian, true to habit, found a nice spot in its shadow, snacking and humming the theme to a show no one else remembered. He tuned out the world—until a metallic groan yanked him from his daydream. He looked up, eyes meeting the sharp, shifting sparkle of a thousand glass fragments just as the chandelier's anchor gave in.
Frozen there, with the whole class off elsewhere, Cassian had just enough time for one final jab at absurdity:
Really? Years of cafeteria food, and a chandelier takes me out? I'd better at least get to haunt the janitor.
Between Life and Whatever Comes Next
But there was no harrowing pain, no heroic cursing, no flashbacks of bygone days. Just a flare of white—then a drop into pure nothing, as if someone had unplugged the universe.
He didn't so much wake up as reassemble, bit by intangible bit, in an endless, swirling mist. Soundless. Weightless. Colorless, save for the dull, pearly sheen that clung to everything.
Cassian squinted. He tried to sit up—felt his body respond, but also not. In this place, the rules of up and down were more like guidelines, really.
It could have been terrifying. Instead, Cassian instinctively defaulted to sarcasm; it was either that or lose his mind.
"Well. Either I'm dead, drugged, or the janitor's idea of an afterlife is even bleaker than I thought."
He rolled to his feet—again, sort of. Here, movement happened because you expected it to. The fog pressed in, thick and alive with a hush that seemed to wait for something.
"Welcome, mortal."
Cassian spun on his heel—if heels even existed here.
A man stood just far enough away to be mysterious yet close enough to feel real. He was tall, lean, and wore the kind of outfit that screamed "comfortably in charge"—plain shirt, dark coat, shoes that left no prints. His face belonged to someone who saw secrets for breakfast, with eyes sharp as splintered glass and a half-smile that belonged in a poker game.
Rob. The name reached him before the man spoke. Cassian didn't know how, but he knew.
"You must be Rob," Cassian croaked, finding his humor right where he left it. "I expected Saint Peter, but you look more like someone who'd help me pick a lock."
Rob's eyes sparkled. "You always wake up this charming, or is it just when you die in style?"
Cassian shrugged. "Death wasn't on my to-do list, but I aim for a good first impression. Where am I, exactly? Purgatory's VIP lounge?"
Rob gestured, arms wide. "Not heaven, not hell. Just... an in-between. A crossroads for stubborn souls and troublemakers with potential."
Troublemaker. Cassian liked the sound of that.
He studied Rob, noting the way the mist seemed to bend around the man, as if he owned the space. "Am I getting a send-off speech or another chance to trip over interior décor?"
Rob laughed, warm and edged. "You always were one for the unexpected. But this isn't about endings. It's about choices."
Cassian's mood sobered, if just a little. He knew better than to trust someone who smiled so easily in a place so bleak. "So, what now? Do I pick a door and hope something friendlier than a chandelier's waiting behind it?"
For a long moment, Rob just smiled—strangely sad, almost proud.
"You, Cassian Drake, have earned a wild card."
Rob reached into his coat and drew forth three spinning wheels—glimmering, ghostly, orbiting his hand like overloaded fidget spinners. Each was carved with runes and shifting images, from castles to blank masks to swirling roadways.
Cassian leaned in, curiosity overpowering caution. "What's this? Cosmic roulette?"
Rob smirked. "You can call it that. One for where you'll land. One for what makes you unique. And one for how you move between worlds." As the wheels shimmered, images flashed: forests, planets, burning swords, veiled faces, rippling roads.
Cassian craned his neck, fighting the urge to touch. "Do I get three wishes too, or is this more of a 'take your lumps and live with it' scenario?"
Rob shrugged. "You always trusted your luck. Why stop now?"
With a theatrical wink, Cassian cracked his knuckles. "Hit it."
Wheel One: Destination Unknown
The first wheel spun with a wild, rainbow blur. Landscapes flickered—distant cities, haunted woodlands, medieval towers, blasted wastelands. Cassian's heart ticked faster; so many possibilities, so many stories he'd only half-admitted to believing in.
The wheel slowed, juddered, and finally stopped on the inked silhouette of a massive castle, its towers piercing clouds.
"Hogwarts?" Cassian muttered, unable to suppress a grin. "Was hoping for a theme park, but this'll do."
Rob nodded approvingly. "A 'Harry Potter' universe, although not necessarily the one you know. Brace yourself—this world bends the familiar."
Cassian rolled his shoulders, less fazed by "magic school" than by the endless, echoing gray. "All right. Bring on the weird robes and talking hats."
Wheel Two: Blank Slate Power
The second wheel spun with a heavy hum, runes flickering through every shape Cassian couldn't name. Wands, swords, torches—symbols all dissolving and returning until the whole thing faded to white, crystallizing for a moment before freezing on a simple outline. Not a wand or flame: a blank space, silent and unexplained.
Rob's tone dropped a shade. "The Essence of Blank. Very rare. It's untamed potential, undefined power. You aren't bound by the rules of conventional magic, but you'll have to make your own path."
Cassian cocked an eyebrow. "Undefined? So... what, I'm starting out as a magical placeholder? Sounds like Hell for the school administration."
A real laugh escaped Rob's lips. "Maybe. It makes you unpredictable. Your power is shaped by intent, need, emotion—sometimes all three at once."
Cassian wasn't intimidated. He'd always worked best with a blank slate—and a little chaos.
Wheel Three: Shared Path System
The third wheel, the smallest and slowest, spun last. Its carvings were roadways, gates, and tangled lines. Cassian watched it, heart pounding as if some deeper part of him understood the gravity.
It clattered softly, slowing, before settling into a mesh of intertwining gates—dozens of exits and entrances.
"The Shared Path System," Rob intoned.
"You can move between worlds. More importantly, you can bring people with you. Open doors for others, if you dare."
Cassian felt the power of it, its cost and its promise. "So I'm a gatekeeper now? Will I get a hat?"
Rob grinned. "You get responsibility. Doors that don't like to stay shut. And a choice—always a choice—to go alone or invite the bold and the foolish to follow."
Cassian stood a little straighter. "As long as none of them are named Chandelier, I think I'll manage."
The wheels flashed—blinding, then gone. The mist swirled tighter, drawn to Cassian like he was a battery in a cosmic storm.
Rob took a step closer, a hand warm and startlingly solid on Cassian's shoulder. "Listen, Cassian. Every power has its price. Every world its rules. Cheat if you must, but remember: your story affects more than just your own fate."
For the briefest moment, Cassian felt the weight of all that could be—a thousand roads branching from this point, each filled with danger, humor, hope, and heartbreak.
He met Rob's eyes and, as ever, let humor break the tension. "If all else fails, at least I can haunt a few more museums. Maybe spice up the next chandelier's life."
Rob laughed and—just like the world before—winked out.
A deep, electric pull yanked Cassian through the mist. Cold, heat, the smell of library dust and adventure danced at the edge of awareness. Every heartbeat thudded with possibility.
Cassian's last thought as the gray dissolved was simple, bold, and unmistakably his:
Let's make some magic.