The cold, damp soil clung to Velmorian’s skin like a shroud. His chest tightened; breath came only in shallow bursts. From within the darkness, distant murmurs began to stir—unearthly and discordant.
"He’s awakened..."
"Don’t touch him!"
"Let him be! He must face his fate!"
"Fate? He’s already dead!"
When Velmorian opened his eyes, he saw only rotting wood and wet earth above him. He tried to move, but his arms were numb under an unseen weight. The voices grew louder—clashing, arguing, demanding.
"Send him back!"
"No! He must know the truth!"
Suddenly, the earth trembled. The weight above him collapsed into itself—and then there was no ground, no grave.
He was outside. But not alive. Floating above his own lifeless body.
He dropped to his knees and raised his hands—yet he no longer had hands. Only a faint shimmer of form, a reflection of what once was. And before him stood a figure cloaked in white.
Faceless. Hollow. Silent.
"Those who so easily offer their lives must first be shown what death truly is," the figure spoke.
The voice was neither deep nor high, but echoed from many mouths at once.
Velmorian’s thoughts fractured. “Am I... dead?” he asked, his voice ragged and fragile.
The figure knelt and touched the soil where Velmorian’s grave once was. The earth shifted.
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Rotting hands, shattered bones, ancient stones—all rose like ghosts surfacing from water.
"Death is not merely an end," the figure said. "But you… you do not yet understand what an end truly means."
Then the whispers returned. No longer distant. No longer calm.
They clawed at his mind—hungry, angry, urgent.
"Velmorian… don't go..."
"You belong here."
"The dead... were once like you."
"Don't follow him... what will he show you?"
Velmorian stepped back.
The white-robed figure reached toward him.
And when his hand touched Velmorian’s chest—
Everything went black.
There was no ground beneath him. No sky above.
He was suspended in nothing, unsure if he had a body, yet aware he still felt.
“What... is this?”
His voice disappeared without echo.
A mirror appeared.
Smooth. Cold. It reflected no light—only depthless shadow. He stared into it… but saw no reflection.
Then the voice returned:
"You wished to see beyond death. So look."
The mirror rippled.
A man knelt, blood pouring from his chest. He clutched at the wound, trying in vain to stop the flow. His face—familiar. Velmorian knew him, but not his name. Behind the man, a cloaked figure leaned in and whispered into his ear.
The dying man’s eyes widened—then dimmed forever.
The mirror clouded, then cleared again.
Now a woman held a child's hand, walking through a shadowed corridor. Whispers followed behind them.
The woman turned and looked straight at Velmorian.
He stepped back. But there was no floor to retreat to.
Then the final image came.
Himself.
But not himself.
The white-robed figure appeared behind the mirror. His voice was neither cruel nor kind.
"Those who long most for death are often the ones who’ve never truly lived."
"And you, Velmorian... even in death, found no peace."
The mirror cracked.
Then shattered.
Velmorian opened his eyes again.
He lay trembling on the cold earth of the Forgotten Graves.
The sky above was devoured by shadow. The headstones stood like crooked silhouettes in the mist.
And in front of him… stood his own body, lifeless and still.
He had returned. But not as before.