Asdras stopped fighting the darkness in his mind the moment it swelled into a thick, oppressive shroud. His head felt as though it floated in black ink, blotting out shape and reason alike. He existed halfway between sleeping and waking, arms and legs burdened by a strange heaviness, a chill that seemed to live inside his muscles. If he focused, he could sense the faint throb of a heartbeat — steady, muted, not entirely his own. An unfamiliar weight anchored him.

  He tried to draw a breath, but it came in a ragged start, sending prickles through his throat. The dryness made him want to cough, though his lungs refused. Instead, a half-sigh escaped his lips.

  He swallowed once, testing for pain, only to realize that his eyes were still closed, pressed shut as if sewn into slumber. At first, it seemed easier to drift back under, to let the blackness cradle him, but a mounting urgency tugged at his insides, whispering that something about this receding oblivion was deeply wrong.

  Gradually, Asdras coaxed his eyelids open. Motes of watery light danced in and out of focus. He blinked, noticing how each movement of his lashes grated like sandpaper on battered skin.

  He lay on a makeshift bed, a pallet of cloth so thin it barely separated him from the hardness beneath. His body felt stiff and uncooperative, as though bound with invisible ropes. A creeping sense of disorientation pressed against his thoughts.

  ‘Where am I?’

  The question arrived, blunt as a hammer blow. He tried to shift his arms to lift himself, but his limbs might as well have been pinned down by iron manacles. Each effort to rise made him ache in unfamiliar places — as if these joints, these muscles, weren’t his at all. Bracing a trembling elbow against the rough fabric, he winced.

  He forced a slow, controlled breath, inhaling air that felt hot, arid — like the exhale of a living furnace. This place was neither bitingly cold like the northern academies he dimly recalled, nor did it bear the clammy weight of the winter passages he’d known once upon a time. Instead, the dryness gnawed at his throat. The oppressive warmth scratched at his skin, swirling with the tang of dust and something metallic.

  A sudden jolt of heat clawed its way up his forearm. He gasped, teeth clacking together as agony lanced through his right hand. It felt as though a blacksmith had pressed a branding iron against his flesh. The shock of it wrenched his eyes fully open and he sat straighter, vision spinning.

  “Hmm,” he hissed, the sound scraping from his lips in a coarse whisper. Was that truly his own voice? It reverberated oddly, lacking the timbre he remembered. He coughed. The dryness was almost unbearable.

  He squinted, letting his gaze roam over the space that contained him. A tent, if one could call it that. The walls and ceiling were pieced together from threadbare cloths of mismatched color, stitched in a pattern as disjointed as his own thoughts. The sagging structure suggested a triangular shape, except someone had extended it with extra wedges of fabric, forming a rough Y.

  Dust motes drifted in the narrow beams of pale sunlight that spilled through the seams. The warm dryness seemed alive here, warming the canvas overhead. He caught glimpses of a battered earthen jar, a scrawny broom collapsed against a corner, and two folded coarse blankets near his pallet. They didn’t look any cleaner or sturdier than the cloth on which he lay.

  “This…isn’t the…,” he whispered. It felt like stating the obvious, but hearing the words aloud steadied his pounding heart. He swallowed again, fighting dryness in his throat.

  He angled his gaze at his hands — hands he recognized and yet felt strangely disconnected from. The same slender fingers, the same nails with faint half-moons. But there, etched into the flesh of his right hand, lay the crow mark. For a heartbeat, it looked almost embossed in black, shimmering faintly in the meager light. The crow’s shape had always unsettled him, cursed or otherwise. Now, it radiated a dull, mocking presence, as though it alone remained faithful to his identity while everything else — the shape of his arms, the set of his shoulders — felt disjointed.

  He tried to recall a face, a name, some anchor. Faces were a haze, blurred. Not that he could remember much at all. Fear he expected, but in its place was a hollow quietness — like the world had shunted him into a forgotten corridor.

  Even the tent seemed to breathe, the fabric’s gossamer walls lifting and falling as though possessed by a slow, deliberate gust. But no breeze caressed his skin. There was only stifling heat pressing down. He pushed himself upright — clumsy, mechanical. It was like watching himself from a distance: every movement fractionally off, as though borrowed from an unfamiliar puppet.

  A fetid smell coiled around him, half dust, half iron. Sweat gathered at his temples, but he barely felt it. He balled his hands into fists. The crow mark pulled tight across his knuckles, that black swirl reminding him it was indeed part of him — even if he barely knew what that meant anymore.

  A stray thought skittered across his mind: ‘What if I’m the intruder here? What if the body is real, but I am not?’ He shivered. The breath in his lungs caught as he reached up to feel his own face. It was… sharp, intense, the bones more angular than he recalled. His curly hair felt smoother than memory insisted. He tried to think of a time he’d run his fingers through these curls, but the memory refused to form.

  He pressed fingertips under his cheekbones. The planes of his face felt foreign, an unmapped territory.

  “Is this a dream?” he asked the silence, voice low and hoarse. His chest heaved. Something important tugged at the edge of his awareness, just out of reach. The more he tried to name it, the more it slithered away, leaving an anxious flutter in his chest.

  Blackness swarmed at the edges of his vision. A mild panic flared. He placed both palms over his sternum and pressed, as if that alone would stave off the feeling of drowning in air.

  “What is it? What is it?” He whispered, each syllable a ragged prayer to remain awake, to cling to whichever scraps of clarity he had left. The dryness in the air pressed in, forcing his eyes to water.

  He steadied himself. Faint, disembodied voices seemed to echo beyond the cloth walls, but they drifted away when he tried to interpret them. Then, a sudden rustle outside — a footstep, perhaps. The tent flap tore open. Daylight poured in like a white-hot brand, scalding Asdras’s retinas.

  He reeled back, shielding his face with one hand, letting out a pained grunt.

  “Rise an’ shine, lad!”

  That voice was old yet vibrant, reminiscent of wind whistling through a canyon — thin, taut, but carrying a strange vitality.

  Asdras squinted, blinking as shapes swum in front of him. Slowly, they resolved into the figure of a withered old man standing at the threshold of the tent. His body looked thin as a reed, limbs so spare they nearly vanished in the sun’s glare. Worn, tattered robes hung off him, and the bones of his elbows and shoulders protruded beneath his skin as though they would break free with the smallest nudge. Scars wove across his forearms like the memory of old wars. Yet his face bore a perpetual half-smile, a spark of mirth dancing in his eyes.

  He stood as if the scorching day and the dryness were no bother at all, exuding a vigor at odds with his frail frame.

  Asdras found himself flinching, stumbling a step back in the cramped tent. He clutched at the canvas to steady himself, glaring warily at the stranger.

  The man cocked his head with a grin. “You look sprier than a slug in brine,” he said. “Huh. Or maybe ‘bout as spry as last week’s salted fish.”

  Asdras swallowed. He parted his lips to speak, but his throat was still parched and uncertain. He coughed into his fist, feeling a crack of ache in his chest. “I…I don’t…”

  “Don’t know where you are? Don’t know who you are? Don’t know squat?” The old man’s grin turned wry. His gaze swept over Asdras with undisguised amusement. “You’re giving me quite the performance, boy. You been on some fantastical drunk? That mark on your hand’s not new, so I doubt it’s the brandin’ that’s got you so rattled.”

  Asdras blinked, uncertain if the man was mocking him or truly seeking answers. Everything about the stranger’s presence bristled with an odd energy, as though his words carried static electricity.

  “Who…are you?” Asdras managed at last, though his voice sounded faint, robbed of resonance.

  The old man threw his head back and roared with laughter — though the roar was more like a reedy wheeze. His entire body shook, giving him the appearance of a bundle of dry twigs rattling in the wind. “Who am I? That’s rich. I pegged you for the dramatic type, not the forgetful one.” He planted his knuckles on his hips. “I’m Grandpa First, of course. Or just ‘First’ if you prefer, though I do wear that name for a reason. As for you — well, what nonsense is swimming around that head of yours this morning?”

  “Grandpa? First?” The labels clashed in Asdras’s mind. Grandpa? Family? The words tasted foreign as they collided with an inner blankness.

  He racked his thoughts for the concept of a grandfather — someone who’d guided him, perhaps — but came away empty. A metallic dryness lingered on his tongue, as though he’d been chewing nails.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Asdras’s uncertainty must have shown because the old man’s gaze softened, if only by a fraction. The grin dimmed, replaced by the faintest flicker of concern. But it was fleeting, replaced swiftly by a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Where am I?” Asdras asked, trying to ignore the trembling in his fatigued limbs.

  Grandpa First made a tutting sound. “Must’ve bonked your head on a rock. Maybe it’s that fever that gets hold of folks out here. I told you to watch your nightmares, didn’t I?” He shrugged. “You’re among family, though, if that’s what you’re askin’. This is our place, me an’ the others. You know that well enough.”

  Asdras frowned, confusion piling up. “My kind always get the worst of it,” the old man had mumbled a moment ago. Did that mean him? Did it mean… someone with a cursed mark? Or perhaps he was mixing up references.

  “My…kind?”

  First’s eyebrows twitched. “You folks saddled with a bit of misfortune, that’s how I see it. Always tumblin’ out of bed half-catatonic. Suppose it’s providence or some cosmic joke, lad.” He reached up and tapped the side of his own skull as though explaining the simplest concept. “Ah well, ‘Zero.’ That’s what we call you, ain’t it? You’re young enough — plenty of time to get your head sorted, right? Hardly the first time you woke confused.”

  ‘Zero…?’

  The word settled like a stone flung into a pond, sending ripples of unreality through Asdras’s mind. It echoed again — Zero, Zero — and he couldn’t find any name to rival or replace it. The solidity of the ground beneath him suddenly felt too certain, while he remained intangible, floating. He tried to form the shape of his real name, to remember some identity, but came up blank. The dryness of the air pressed into him deeper, extracting a wave of dizzying heat from behind his eyes.

  The crow mark on his hand darkened in the tent’s half-light, as if mocking his identity crisis. At least that cursed shape endured. He was… someone. Yet the knowledge of that posted no comfort.

  He drew a breath, and for a moment it felt like drowning. No walls closed in on him physically, but the interior of the tent might as well have been a coffin.

  ‘Zero.’

  It rang hollow, a brand that belonged neither to Asdras nor to the memory of any life he recognized. Anxiety roiled in his stomach, but before he could spiral further, the old man’s voice cut through his mental haze.

  “For my sake, lad, are you drifting off again?” Grandpa First snapped his fingers near Asdras’s face, bridging the short distance. “Now, enough of your woolgatherin’. Grab that broom and let’s get to business. That’s your job here, remember?”

  Asdras’s mouth went slack. A moment ago, everything about this place demanded an explanation, and now the man wanted him to sweep floors? He pivoted slightly, gaze snagging on the battered broom leaning in the corner.

  “By—by Saint Rose’s grace,” Asdras whispered, the oath rolling off his tongue unbidden. “I… hope that’s not something I use every day.”

  He coughed once for clarity, then cast a sidelong glance at Grandpa First. “First…um, Grandpa First—why a broom?”

  In answer, the old man approached with a dry shuffle. He placed his palm over Asdras’s hand, paused, lifted it, replaced it again, and repeated three times with comedic seriousness. Then he nodded sagely, as though performing a well-practiced ritual.

  “First, I’m Grandpa First to you. I earned that. Second — don’t call me ‘Second’ at all, that lad’s nowhere near earshot. And third — did you addle your brains on my private brew? A broom’s for sweepin’, boy! Don’t go spoutin’ nonsense about using it for anything else. Unless you’re fancyin’ yourself a sorcerer flittin’ about on the handle? Eh, well, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  Asdras blinked, not sure if the man was serious or merely ridiculing him. But the brief contact of Grandpa First’s hand, though playful, had grounded him more than he expected. At least it was something tangible.

  With a final grin, the old man gestured vaguely beyond the tent flap. “Your noggin’s still rickety as the bread Third baked last week.” He chuckled. “Go on out, see if Sixth needs a hand. We’re short on folks these days, so don’t sit around idle.”

  Then he turned and glided away from the tent door, humming a tune that flickered between haunting and whimsical. His frayed robes danced about his ankles as he departed.

  Once alone, Asdras found himself momentarily frozen. He swallowed, trying in vain to moisten his mouth. “I — Grandpa First,” he whispered. The dryness forced him to cough again. “Zero, they call me?”

  He stared at the broom. Fragments of memory tried to bubble up — an academy corridor, stone walls, the scuff of boots. A conversation with…someone named Brian? He snatched at the name and came away with nothing.

  Shaking his head, he decided that one step forward was all he could manage. If the broom was a lifeline, then so be it. An anchor — any anchor — was better than his own intangible sense of self.

  He grabbed the handle as if it might vanish when touched. The wood felt rough, worn down by countless grips. Near the top were indentations shaped like crooked fingers had clutched it daily. A small shiver traced his spine.

  ‘Am I the one who’s been using this all along?’

  He inhaled carefully, pressing his lips into a thin line. “No use waiting,” he muttered, forcing his stiff legs to carry him out of the tent.

  The daylight slapped him in the face. He raised an arm to shield his eyes, staggering as the brightness overwhelmed the gloom he’d grown used to. Gradually, shapes emerged.

  He found himself standing in what might loosely be called a village. At least, there were tents— nine, he counted — arranged at intervals around a barren clearing. The entire place was enclosed by a rickety fence fashioned from mismatched planks and twisted wires. The fence looked more like a barricade, erected in haste to keep something out — or in.

  Near the perimeter, tall trees loomed, skeletal and decaying. Their bark flaked with a sickly grayish-brown color. Coils of brownish-green vines clung to the trunk and limbs, calcified lumps resembling parasitic growth. High among the twisted branches perched ravens, black silhouettes glaring down with uncanny intelligence. Their beady eyes glinted whenever they turned their heads, as though measuring Asdras from afar.

  He tore his gaze away. Something about those birds unsettled him, as though they read his confusion like an open book. Instead, he let his eyes roam the tents. Each had a unique set of strange markings etched in the dirt around its base — circles, lines, arcs that bent at unnatural angles. Vague shapes reminiscent of crows appeared in many of them, though each was distorted by additional curves and runes.

  From a vantage point near the fence, at the far eastern edge of the settlement, he spotted a small figure sweeping relentlessly. A boy, from the look of his delicate frame, clad in a threadbare robe so dull it blended with the dust at his feet.

  Asdras ventured closer, broom in hand. He tried to take in more details: the boy’s scalp was smooth and unbroken by any hair. His face was equally bare, lacking eyebrows or lashes. But the strangest aspect was his eyes — colorless orbs that gleamed white like polished bone, with no visible iris or pupil. A rope looped around the boy’s head, knotted in such a way that it held his mouth firmly closed.

  The boy registered Asdras’s approach with a slight twist of his head, continuing to sweep carefully around a circular symbol carved in the dirt. The shape was reminiscent of a crow in flight, but abstract lines radiated from it, weaving an intricate maze that was half artistry, half ward.

  Asdras’s mouth felt sand-dry again. “What…is it?” he asked, letting the question float in the air. He motioned at the symbol with his broom.

  The boy paused, turned his pale gaze on Asdras. His hands formed a hesitant response: he lifted one finger, then five more, as if to say “six,” then rattled the broom bristles across the ground.

  Asdras’s thoughts churned. “Six… so you’re Sixth, the one Grandpa First mentioned?”

  A small nod from the boy. Then Sixth pointed overhead at one of the ravens perched in the dead trees, cawing softly. He followed that by mimicking a defensive stance, arms raised as though warding off an invisible threat.

  “You’re saying it’s a protection?” Asdras guessed. “Against… them?” He gestured at the crows.

  Sixth’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a sign of affirmation. He bent down, not quite touching the symbol, then gestured around with a broad sweep — suggesting the rest of the fences and tents. Finally, he pointed toward a modest bonfire near one of the other tents, which sputtered feebly.

  “So it all keeps them at bay. I see.” Asdras offered a slow nod. The sense of dread returned as he realized how central these wards must be to survival here. He glanced at his own broom, connecting the dots. “We need to keep it clear of dust, or it might fail.”

  Sixth’s face quivered with an expression of horror at the mere suggestion that the symbol could be compromised. He looked as if the sky might fall if the lines were allowed to fill with debris. Balancing on spindly legs, he swayed, nearly collapsing at the mental image of the wards failing.

  Asdras might have continued asking him questions, but a hush fell over the clearing. The faint orisons of birds and the rustle of wind died away. Even the light seemed to shift, the sun’s radiance dimming to a strange half-glow. Above, a single crow let out a piercing caw, splitting the stillness. The surrounding trees groaned, their limbs swaying without any visible breeze.

  A clamp of dread seized Asdras’s chest. The air thickened, and a wave of darkness seemed to press against the settlement. He could practically feel every hair on his arms stand up in alarm.

  ‘So this is what hell feels like’, he thought, his mind vaulting back to that primal fear.

  Sixth, for his part, shot a terror-stricken look at Asdras through his colorless eyes, then pressed both palms to the crow symbol on the ground — as though trying to feed it some last measure of power or devotion. The ravens in the trees stirred, wings flapping in agitation. Overhead, the sky seemed to waver.

  A pulsing headache strafed Asdras’s temples. He reached up to press a palm to his brow. The crow mark on his hand prickled. A sense of falling overcame him, though the ground was still underfoot. He had no name for this phenomenon, no reference for the bizarre hush that assaulted his senses.

  Somewhere behind him, from the direction of the largest tent, he heard Grandpa First calling out. The old man’s voice rose in a frantic rasp, commanding attention. Asdras turned, though the act felt as though he were wading through syrup. The dryness in the air thickened, becoming a stifling blanket of heat that forced sweat to bead on his forehead.

  He could see Grandpa First at the threshold of the main canvas structure, arms raised. The old man’s scar-laden forearms gleamed under the half-light, so taut it looked like a single misstep might snap them. He was shouting, but Asdras only caught disjointed syllables, as though hearing them underwater. Another figure darted out from behind the tents — a woman this time, by the shape of her body — but Asdras couldn’t discern her face.

  All around, the crows cawed in unison, a cacophony of shrill, mocking voices. The fence rattled. Those twisted, leafless trees bent precariously over the settlement. A new wave of gloom rolled through, seeping from the ground like ghostly fog.

  A tightness wrapped Asdras’s chest, an instinctual panic. He pressed the broom handle forward for balance, scanning the edges of the clearing. He saw it.