I opened my eyes to nothing. Nothing but a void so vast it seemed to swallow itself, a black canvas streaked with stars that shivered like tiny promises—or warnings. I was alone—or at least, I thought I was—but a certainty gripped me, subtle and unyielding: Logos was here. Somewhere. Always. My confidence wrapped around me like wax wings, fragile yet defiant, and I pushed upward, straining toward invisible heights.
"Now that you understand the metaphor of the Unborn with the Tarot, let me inform you a little more," Logos chimed, her voice a cascade of crystalline bells that seemed to echo from the edges of my mind itself, patient, yet tired, like the universe itself was weary of my fumbling questions.
"First," I interjected, "how do you know there are… twenty-two? Entities? The Unborn Ones, I mean?"
Silence stretched, thick and palpable, like the pause a blindfolded man tastes before the blade finds him. Then her voice returned, correction sharp as a blade yet calm as a lake.
"They are not beings. And they are not twenty-two beings. They are twenty-two patterns. Patterns pulled from the chaos of possibility."
I felt my mind teeter, spinning against the gravity of her words. "So… the High Priestess is one of these patterns? Knowledge itself, shaped from chaos?"
"Affirmative," she said.
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"Quite a number of things," she replied, her tone unchanging yet unmistakably final. "But the knowledge would be of no importance at this moment."
"Alright," I muttered, "then what can I even do? What can't you?"
"I presented you with the patterns so you could make use of them," she said. "Informing you would defeat the purpose."
I sighed, the void pressing in on me like a living weight. "Okay… fine. But why am I unconscious? Not that I'm complaining—well, I am complaining—but the view… the view is rather… picturesque. Is this… my mind?"
A chorus of high-pitched squeals shattered the void. I clamped my hands over my ears, but it was too late. The void splintered like scattered stained glass, fragments of starlight pricking my vision, turning the infinite into shards of panic and wonder. My stomach twisted, and my breath caught in my throat, as though the air itself had sharpened into needles. The stars danced mockingly above, distant, unreachable, and the space around me felt alive with quiet, watching intent.
---
When I woke again, I was lying on a bed that had no understanding of rolling, tossing, or turning. Its surface was unyielding, alien to comfort. The room was small, pale, and barren, stripped of warmth or character. To my right, a desk and chair waited in stoic silence; to my left, a corner reeked of… mischief, neglect, and something I could not name. The walls were smooth, almost cold to the touch, drained of any color that might soothe the eyes or distract from the oppressive sterility.
And my outfit. Grey. Too tight to be casual, too loose to be freeing, embroidered with F-2.35 across the chest. The tunic's material was alien—neither cotton nor wool nor anything I recognized. Then I felt it: the collar. Snug, precise, a subtle weight around my neck that didn't choke me but pressed insistently into my awareness, amplifying a dread I could not name. I traced the ring with a finger, noting markings that were smooth, almost elegant, but undeniably there, present in a way that left no doubt: it was not ornamental.
The squeals persisted, a high, metallic chorus scraping at my nerves like sandpaper on bare skin. Footsteps approached. My muscles tensed, every fiber screaming in anticipation, adrenaline thrumming through me like liquid fire.
The door opened.
Red eyes, calm and alien, stared back. A woman, her expression unreadable, gaze sharp as a blade. My eyes fell to the needle she held, instinct snapping—reflexive fear, survival, humiliation—and I collapsed, face-first, onto the floor, world spinning, edges of the room cutting into my awareness like cruel geometry.
"She is unconscious. You may proceed," her voice said, smooth, flowing like a lake that never ripples, and still, somehow, I could hear the faint echo of judgment in the cadence.
---
I woke again, this room different: vast, white as silver moonlight, almost antiseptic in its brightness. Light reflected off the walls in a way that hurt my eyes, a sterile glow that seemed alive, breathing. A man stood before me, red eyes unwavering. His tunic was white, unlike mine, immaculate and precise, every fold in place, radiating authority without a word.
He glanced at a colleague. Then the first shock.
Chains biting into my wrists, the gag in my mouth—electricity surged through me, flattening me to the floor. My muscles convulsed, eyes watering, vision flickering, voice muffled, useless, swallowed by the raw, liquid fire that danced beneath my skin. My chest heaved. And then… it stopped. Silence. Sharp, pristine, and unyielding as a knife.
The gag and cuffs were removed.
"F-2.35, come with me," the man said, voice flat, alien, stripped of any warmth, yet I obeyed instinctively. Confusion tangled with anger, a coil tightening in my stomach. Pale, porcelain-like skin, hypnotic red eyes, soft white hair framing a face unyielding in its calm authority. He repeated, "F-2.35, come with me," and I rose, following.
We emerged into a field. Grass and dirt stretched out in muted grey, a landscape drained of color as though the world had forgotten how to bleed. Shadows pooled in hollows, curling like waiting fingers. In the distance, a forest loomed, trees indistinct silhouettes against the sky, jagged and indifferent.
"You have three hours to reach the end," he said.
"Why… am I here?" My words trembled, half fear, half defiance.
Bzzzzz! Electricity surged again, ripping through me, throwing me to the ground. Fire blossomed beneath my skin, pain and panic mingling in a bitter symphony. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to focus despite the taste of copper and fear on my tongue.
"If you have no questions, you may begin," he said, eyes unblinking, red and piercing, and I felt the cold certainty of his words settle in my bones.
I rose, limbs trembling, muscles protesting, and faced the expanse. Grey clouds drifted above, heavy and slow, smeared with streaks of white moonlight that pierced like shards of ice. The night sky above stretched endlessly, indifferent, a canvas for something ancient and watching. The wind whispered across the field, carrying with it the faint metallic echo of those high-pitched squeals, now distant but still clawing at the edges of my consciousness.
Each step I took pressed me deeper into the surreal trial. Stones bit into my soles, dry earth crumbled under my fingers when I brushed against the ground. The forest beckoned, dark and waiting, its shadows twisting into shapes that seemed to breathe, to watch. My thoughts looped back to Logos, to the patterns, to the High Priestess, and to the strange, indifferent logic of the Unborn Ones. Was this punishment? Test? Or… something else entirely, something my mind could not yet grasp?
The sky above darkened further, grey clouds thickening, curling like smoke from an unseen fire. White streaks of light fractured through, illuminating the desolation in stark, surreal contrast. And in that fractured light, I saw hints of possibility: shapes, patterns, movements that made no sense, yet felt like answers just beyond reach.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself. The field stretched infinitely, the forest's edge still distant, and every instinct screamed at me to run, to flee, to resist. But resistance here was… not an option. Not yet. Not when the night sky, grey clouds, and white light above seemed to hum with quiet, cosmic inevitability, as if the universe itself waited for my next step.
And I stepped forward.