The world fell around him as he spun through an endless void, its crushing force ripping air from his body and suffocating him. He felt his eyes bulge, his stomach swirl, and his head pound as an invisible force pulled him through nothingness. His thoughts swirled, questions whirling through his brain faster than he could focus on them. He wanted to scream and cry out and beg for it to stop, but his cries followed him into oblivion. Then, just as it became too much, when he was sure this was his end, and he had no hope of surviving, a deafening rush of air whisked around him, his feet found solid ground, and his lungs took a deep and grateful breath.

He opened his eyes, regretting it immediately as images spun around him; he bent over and wrenched, blinking water from his eyes as the world around him slowed its spiral, eventually returning to the normal static state Syril knew and loved. But unfortunately, the warm and uplifting relief at being alive was cut short as he studied his surroundings.

Confusion and panic howled through him like ice; rather than the crowded school hallway, Syril found himself in the middle of his bedroom. His opened Worlds history textbook was carelessly thrown on his unmade bed, a half-finished bowl of cereal sat by the window, and the laundry he’d been avoiding all week left unfolded on his desk. The opened curtain by the window displayed the sprawling city skyline; the lights from hundreds of modest homes twinkled against the night sky.

He slapped himself. Had he dreamed it all? He tried to push down the dangerous hope rising in his gut, but he needn’t try for too long; a glance at his right hand confirmed he still grasped the pocket watch tightly within blood-soaked fingers. Icy misery pierced into him like a needle through the heart; it all had happened; there was no dream or figment of his incredible imagination, everything that had happened this night would forever be burned into his life’s story.

But how, in the name of the gods, had he just appeared in his room? Flashes of the night’s events jumbled his thoughts; nothing made sense; he was just a dumb kid for Vaanier sake. Twelve hours ago, he was nervously cramming for his history exam; now, he was presumably a fugitive who had miraculously escaped a dozen or so guards, his brother was a murderer, and his uncle…

Syril’s eyes widened in horror. Where was his uncle?

He flung his bedroom door open and sprinted down the darkened hallway towards the study. His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, shaking the paintings and portraits with every bound. He opened each door he passed; the bathroom was empty, Davion’s bedroom was still as immaculate as the day he left, and his uncle’s bedroom was equally as perfect – yet not a soul lay within it.

He left no stone unturned; even checking the linen closet, the decorative towels still sat neatly on the shelf. Panic was coursing through him, and he felt a familiar sickly feeling rise in him. 

Rounding the corner of the hallway, he collided with a wall of boxes neatly stacked a few feet from the office’s door, causing both him and the boxes to fall to the floor. Frustration fired through him as mountains of papers, binders and maps crashed and scattered on the floor, tumbling into a disorganised mess. His uncle had said that his office spring clean would only last a few days – yet here they were, weeks from when he started, and the clutter seemed to have grown. 

Rubbing his now throbbing head, he picked himself up and walked more cautiously, sure to take care not to step onto any important-looking documents or artifacts. There was only one room left to check, the office his uncle so often locked himself within; its door lay shut, but the light from within glowed through its cracks. Syril had abandoned caution; his commotion in the hallway had thrown any hope of stealth out the window. Taking care to at least not crush any artifacts, Syril walked to the office door and tried to restrain the pleading hope building in his chest. He carefully opened the door, the light from within momentarily blinding him.

The office was a mess; a garbage dump had replaced its average level of organised chaos. Papers had been scattered carelessly across the carpeted floor; draws and closets lay open, and their contents thrown into a careless pile in the middle of the floor. The large wooden desk at the far end of the office was now a pile of planks and splinters; the mahogany bookshelf beside a broken window hadn’t fared much better.

Syril took a tentative step into the office; he couldn’t comprehend the chaos around him, more so that it confirmed a truth he’d been dreading; his uncle wasn’t here and likely dead or in custody by now. Cautiously he moved towards the ruined desk; documents and stationery haphazardly discarded around its edges. A picture frame sitting amongst the rubble caught his attention, its glass was broken, but the picture had survived without a tear. He picked it up, careful not to damage the photo on the shards of glass still attached to the frame.

He felt the catch in his stomach tighten; smiling up from the picture was a younger Davion, grinning into the camera as he gently held a pudgy blonde-haired baby. Davion’s smile was wide and genuine; it was an expression mirrored by the child who appeared to be curiously reaching toward his brother’s face. Syril opened the broken frame, taking care as he removed the photo. He turned it over and read the inscription on the back,

“Davion meets his brother for the first time.”

Try as he might, Syril couldn’t stifle the tears that welled in his eyes. He remembered better times with his brother – playing soldier together, trying to sneak into their uncle’s study, accidentally setting fire to their bedrooms; moments that seemed inconsequential back then now stood as key flashes in Syril’s life.

But now, he was alone. He was empty and scared; he had nothing.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true; he had this gods-forsaken watch. He wasn’t even sure why he held it so tightly, protected it, or even had it in the first place. He wanted to hate it, to direct his anger and pain at it, but he only felt curiosity and resolve, like it was a puzzle he needed to answer. 

Syril carefully sat down in a clean section amongst the rubble of the room, his knees ached, and exhaustion littered his body. The watch was still in his vice grip; its carved surface left a faint impression on his hand as he finally let it go. 

Despite the large amount of blood that coated his hand, the watch still gleamed a clean, polished gold. He lifted it, turning it in his hand to study the carvings covering its surface; its golden backing was accentuated by a silver band that ran the circumference of the watch, enclosing a carving of runes that Syril did not recognise.

Opening the watch offered no more clarity; its inside was as clean as its exterior, the face was a polished white, and the glass remained stainless. Syril noted the time as eight forty-three, only distantly aware that it had been nearly four hours since Seabright’s death.

He sighed; he’d had a lifetime of heartbreak in only four hours; he had to be cursed.

Syril felt his muscles stiffen; the defeat and exhaustion built through the evening were becoming too much for him to manage. He had no clue where to go, what to do, or who to trust anymore. Frustrated, he went to close the watch; any answers he’d hoped to garnish were non-existent, but an etching on the inside of the casing caught his attention.

“Run”

What did that mean; Syril was sure there had been no engraving when he had looked at it minutes ago, but there it was, clear as day.

And then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared, disappearing in a faint red glow.

Footstep on the hallway’s hardwood floors ripped his attention from the watch. It was loud, and it was heavy, and it was coming this way.

He needed an out, and he needed one now. He scanned the room; the only door out would lead him to whoever was coming his way.

The window.

It was already broken, just begging for him to escape through it.

He hurried towards it, taking care to cause as little noise as possible as he removed his jacket and used it to protect himself from the shards protruding around the window seal.

He felt the glass break under his foot before he heard it.

“He’s in here!” the deep angry voice of a man called from the hallway. Heavy boots and shouting echoed as they sprinted towards the study.

Abandoning all caution, Syril leapt through the window into the darkened alley, losing his footing briefly as he landed on the hardened concrete. Hoping the darkness would conceal his retreating form, he ran towards the street as fast as his legs would take him. He had no clue where to go or what he was running from, but that had never stopped him before. He ran down the alley, the warm glow of the illuminated street ahead of him his only guidance as he avoided piles of trash, discarded bottles, and boxes. In no time, Syril had emerged into the street, the yellow lamps above him dutifully revealing a single blackened van that took perch out the front of his house, its windscreen facing him. He, albeit briefly, hoped that the driver hadn’t seen him, surely the universe owed him this small favour - but the van’s sudden lurch forward quenched any hope of that reality.

He was running before he had time to register the van’s headlights flooding the street or its roaring engine getting progressively louder. He took a left at the end of the road, using his momentum to throw a trash can into the van’s path; it swerved around it with minimal difficulty and continued its annoying habit of getting closer to him. He glanced back; it was so close he could see the bulky silhouettes of the two occupants through the darkened windows; they were intimidatingly large, and he doubted they were chasing him to invite him out to brunch.

Ok, he needed a game plan, and he needed one now. He frantically looked around the empty street; tightly packed and newly constructed houses stood side by side for as far as Syril could see – their fronts all an ugly shade of beige and designed to cover as little space as possible. His heart pounded as his desperate and hopeless situation was bare in front of him.

The van was beside him, its occupants clearly visible as it lurched forward to cut him off.

Syril suddenly changed directions, dashing to the opposite side of the street before the van had an opportunity to react. Syril barely thought his plan through; it was poor, and honestly, it may even be stupid – but it was better than lying dead in the street.

He ran directly towards the nearest house, leaping the fence with a grace that he was too exhausted to be shocked about. He sprinted towards the front door, turning his shoulder so it would take the brunt of the blow. He roared as he collided with the door, the force of it knocking him to the ground, but the door remained closed.

“COME ON!” Syril roared to the sky, picking himself up from the ground, pain erupting through his broken shoulder.

He heard a car reversing in the distance, and white-hot panic ran through him like liquid fire.

The click of a lock stirred his attention, the now severely damaged door swung open, and a frightened-looking older lady in a floral dressing gown stood defiantly in front of Syril. Her hands were gripped so tightly around a metallic pipe that Syril half expected it to shatter.

“Who are you!?” the lady screamed, frightened yet obstinate. She glanced down at the shoulder-shaped hole indented into the door, “MY DOOR!”

Despite the ocean of guilt he felt, Syril had no time to waste standing in this lady’s front garden. He raised his hand and attempted to be as non-threatening as possible, a rather difficult feat considering the magnitude of blood and sweat covering his body. He walked towards her, readying himself to protect his face if she decided to start swinging. To his surprise, she did not attempt to hit him, nor did she try to stop him from entering. Once inside, he closed the door behind him, sure to lock it in the hopes it would buy him a few more seconds. He turned around, and the woman was still brandishing the pipe like a warrior fighting their last battle, her eyes fixed like a predator to prey. 

She stood guard in front of a small wooden staircase; Syril was sure a pipe to the face awaited him if he attempted to reach the second floor. So instead, he briskly walked through the adjoining living room. It was impeccably clean; the couches faced toward an old runic tv paused on a particularly steamy scene from a long-since cancelled soap opera. The walls were papered in a flowery print and lined with pictures of a small girl and the older lady in various poses and adventure; Syrill could only assume the girl was the lady’s granddaughter. He pushed down the guilt that rose in him like bile; there would be time for that when people weren’t trying to kill him.

“I’m really sorry, these men are trying to kill me; I just needed to get off the street,” he said as earnestly as his exhausted lungs could manage.

“So you decided to break my door!?”

“I’ll pay for it” He stepped over a vacuum, the metallic end of which was missing, “I just need some water, and I’ll leave through the back door.”

The lady walked towards him, the pipe now relieved of its duty and resting at her side – she now only looked like she wanted to hurt him a little bit.

“Why should I trust you?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, too tired to argue, “I guess I wouldn’t if I was in your shoes.”

She raised an eyebrow, “so I shouldn’t trust you?”

He shrugged again, nervously looking towards the front door, “I mean, I want you to, but I can’t really force you.”

“you’re a weird boy.”

“After my night, I’m inclined to agree with you, lady.”

“My name is Ova, and if you’re going to break into my house, the least you could do is call me by my name.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Syril”, he peeled his eyes from the front door, “I’ll just have some water, and you’ll never see me again, ok?”

“Except for when you pay for my door, obviously,” 

He smiled and briskly walked into the kitchen, grabbing a glass drying in the sink and pouring himself the first sip of water he had had in too long. Despite the crushing time pressure he was facing, he tried to savour the feel of the water rushing down his throat – the crushing pain in his stomach now downgraded to a manageable ache.

“Who’s trying to kill you?” she asked, studying Syril.

“I don’t know”, he muttered through gulps of water.

Almost on cue, an insistent knock echoed through the house.

Syril looked at Ova; his face pale, and his eyes widened; he had run out of time. Why did he stay for so long? 

She walked towards the door, her eyes never once looking back towards Syril – who stood defeated in the kitchen, head hung low and exhausted. So this was how it ended; even if he ran now, he had lost any head start or hope of outrunning them. He fingered the watch through his trousers - for something his brother had killed for, it really could have given him more help than just telling him to run.

“Give me a minute! I’m just putting on my… um… dressing gown.”

He looked up; she wasn’t at the front door; she was standing over a tiny closet at the base of the stairs, insistently gesturing for him to get inside. 

Syril only stood still for a second before hurrying towards the closet, doing his best to make as little noise as possible. But, before he could sit down, she closed the door and plunged his world into muffled darkness.

He sat as carefully as possible, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing. When did it become so hard to breathe?

He listened as intently as he could. However, focusing was hard because a particularly sharp object was jutting into his butt.

He could hear the muffled sounds of the front door opening.

Gods, whatever was poking him was hurting.

The men were talking.

Seriously what does this lady keep in here?

Someone was walking.

Syril tried to shift quietly. It didn’t move.

Now louder talking.

He tried again; it felt like a knife was stabbing into him.

He heard radio static.

He shifted again; he was sure he had it.

The footsteps were moving away from him now.

He shifted one last time and felt whatever was stabbing him slip out from under him.

Then in what had become the epitome of his luck, or just a cruel and thoughtless joke from an equally awful god, Syril felt his world erupt into an orchestra of broken glass and collapsing furniture.

Crap.

This was it; there was nowhere to go.

He pulled the watch out; despite the darkness, he could sense its shape and form as if he were looking at it through the light of day.

The closet shook as the door rattled on its hinges.

“It’s locked!? I’ll break the door down,” Syril recognised the man’s voice from the house.

He was sure nothing friendly was waiting for him on the other side of the closet.

Syril looked down at the watch, anger intertwining with his panic, “Seabright is dead; for whatever reason, you appeared in my hands. It’s because of YOU that I’m here now; it’s because of YOU I’m about to be killed by some random guy.”

The door rattled. Syril was shocked at the sturdiness of Ova’s doors.

Desperation and frustration overwhelmed him, “you told me to run; you got me out of the school, don’t tell me you did all that just to let me get caught here.”

The guard screamed. Another bang rattled the door.

Syril gripped the watch so tightly it cut into his hand, “I’ll do anything you want.”

For what felt like an eternity, Syril watched the space the writing had once appeared, his last semblance of hope fading as it remained blank.

Another crash, and the door to the closet finally gave way. Syril looked into the eyes of the man so desperate to find him, determined to show him no fear.

“You nearly had us there, kid,” the man grunted as he reached down the grab Syril; he had covered his arm in so many scars and tattoos no flesh was visible, “they asked for you alive, but don’t think I won’t hurt you if you act up.”

Syril felt the watch warm in his hand; he looked down as the writing appeared on the watch.

“Let’s talk.”

 

And then the world went dark. Again, Syril felt weightless as everything fell around him, but this time his lungs held air, his mind remained calm, and his eyes remained open. His scenery was a darkness so pure it was almost spectacular; it felt neither warm nor cold; instead, it felt peaceful. He looked around; the only objects within the vast space were two large orange sun-like orbs that floated in endless darkness.

“Hello?” Syril called into the space, “I think I have an appointment.”

His voice didn’t echo. Instead, it sounded shrill and soft – like he was speaking within a soundproof room. For the longest time, there was no response, the only sound seeming to be Syril’s shallow breathing.

“Hello Syril,” a deep voice called from the darkness, “it’s nice to meet you.”