"So you see, Remy, the way the mystic works is simple: first you must understand the world—the real world. Right now, you are only seeing half of it… blind to the other half."
Tear stepped toward a small cabinet and retrieved a vial. It was narrow, with four sharp edges, and inside, strands of black and blue twisted and swirled as though alive.
"Come." Tear gestured toward the circle etched on the floor.
Remy hesitated but moved forward, one careful step at a time, until he crossed into the circle.
"Now, Remy," Tear's voice deepened, solemn, "it is time to see whether you are truly fit to glimpse the veil of the world. If it becomes too much… if it threatens to consume you, then speak only these words: I am not fit to walk the veil."
"I am ready!" Remy declared, his eyes fixed on Tear with unshaken resolve.
Tear opened the vial, and at once whispers seeped into the room—low, slithering murmurs that crawled beneath the skin. A thick smoke unfurled, coiling into the air, its tendrils reaching with slow, deliberate hunger toward Remy.
The boy shivered. A vile coldness clung to him, sharp and unclean. It felt as though invisible hands clawed at his flesh, stripping him bare, pulling him into a pit without end. His chest heaved, breath ragged.
"Hhh… hu—huu—hu…" Remy gasped.
"Now, now, boy," Tear's voice thundered through the haze, steady as iron. "This is but the beginning. Do not tell me this is the measure of your resolve."
No… never.
"Sit," Tear commanded, his tone slicing through the storm. "Cross your legs. Listen only to my voice—do not waver."
Remy obeyed, forcing his trembling body into stillness. Tear bent close, his hand steady as he pried open the boy's eyes. Then, with a slow precision, he released two drops from the vial. They fell like black fire into Remy's gaze, searing through his vision, pulling him deeper into the veil.
Everything went dark. For a moment, there was nothing but a void—no sound, no vision, not even a sense of feeling. He simply continued to walk forward, not stopping.
He walked,
and walked,
and walked.
There was no destination, not until he heard a voice.
"Remy, come to Mama, my boy... how I've missed you so."
"Ma... Ma, is that you?" Remy began to run toward the voice, and as he ran, figures made of foggy light sped past him.
"Remy, come closer. That's it. I've been searching for so long." The voice was soft, kind, and warm—the warmth Remy had been longing for.
"I'm coming, Ma," Remy said, increasing his pace, but it felt as though he was running in place. He could hear the voice, but it led him nowhere. No matter how much he ran, he couldn't reach his destination.
He ran,
and ran,
and ran.
Finally, in the distance, he saw it: a dazzling figure clad in white, carrying an umbrella, and beckoning him.
"Come, Remy. Come to Mother."
As Remy approached the figure, he heard another voice.
"Boy, are you sure that's your mother?" This voice—he had heard it before, during his time in the Saint's house.
But this new voice did not deter him. His mind was set on one thing: he was going to his mother.
The more Remy ran, the more his vision cleared. The blurs became more vivid; the silhouettes almost looked human. He was close to his goal. The figure clad in white had placed its umbrella down and reached out both hands, ready to embrace Remy.
"Boy, open your eyes! Stop being naive!" the voice repeated.
But Remy paid it no mind. A few more steps and he would finally reunite with his mother. With only five steps left, the figure was becoming clearer. She wore a gown of heavy brocade, its bodice a stiff cage of stays, cinched tight. The sleeves were puffed and slashed to reveal a flash of chemise beneath. Rich embroidery of gold thread depicted blooming flowers, and a farthingale extended the skirt into a perfect, regal circle. It was a vision of opulence and restraint, and around her, silver and white butterflies flapped their wings.
Step, step, step. Remy was now within reach. Though his vision was still hazy, he felt his mother's outline on the woman.
"Ma... how I missed you," Remy said, embracing the woman.
"How foolish..." The voice echoed. "If you cannot open your eyes, I will open them for you."
Right then, Remy heard the sound of flapping. He looked up and saw it—a single dark feather, slowly descending. It landed on top of him. He felt something within his soul shift; his vision became less blurry and sharper than before. The fog had lifted.
"See the world for what it is," the voice spoke.
Remy turned and looked at his "mother." To his terror, it wasn't her. What stood there was a rotting cadaver. Worms wiggled from its eye sockets. The robe he once thought was grand was nothing more than tattered rags. The butterflies were nothing more than moths.
"Ahhhh!" Remy tried to pull away, but the creature wouldn't let go.
"Mine, mine, mine! You are now my child! We will leave here together forever," she spoke, her voice shrill.
Her skin was gray and patched, parts of her body were missing, and a dark goo dripped from her exposed ribs.
"F***ing hell! Let go of me!" Remy pleaded. As he met her eyes, he saw nothing but endless darkness.
"I did warn you, boy," the voice reiterated.
Remy began flailing, punching, and kicking, but all his attempts were futile. He pulled back his elbow and thrust it with great speed.
Bang!
This time, it connected.
"Hmmm, ahhhh..."
Remy groaned. He was stuck, and his hand was sinking inside the creature. No matter how much he tried, it was pointless. He began turning pale and fell to his knees. His legs buckled, and his arms, once flailing with purpose, now felt like lead weights. He heard the alluring voice once more.
"Rest, it is safe here... your mother will protect you. Rest, my child; you have done enough."
Remy found himself growing hazy and tired, sinking into a forced slumber.