They left the Archives under cover of darkness, the Keeper's reluctant blessing accompanied by provisions and a warning: "The Crimson Hand has eyes everywhere. Trust no one who bears their mark—a red spiral on the left palm."
Arin shouldered the pack containing their meager supplies, mind still reeling from the day's revelations. Memories that weren't—shouldn't be—accessible continued to surface at random intervals, like bubbles in a boiling pot. One moment, Arin was firmly present in this reality; the next, lost in visions of star-spanning civilizations and cosmic wars fought across the boundaries of existence itself.
"You're quiet," Sera observed as they picked their way through a forest that seemed to actively avoid illumination, its canopy blocking even the light of Elysion's twin moons.
"Just trying to keep my brain from leaking out my ears," Arin replied, ducking under a branch that appeared to reach down deliberately. "Do you have any idea what it's like to suddenly remember being present at the creation of a universe? Because let me tell you, it's not great for maintaining a healthy sense of perspective on everyday problems."
Voss, leading their small party with unerring confidence despite the near-total darkness, glanced back. His silver patterns provided the only reliable illumination, casting eerie shadows that danced among the trees.
"The memories will integrate more smoothly once we reach the Academy," he assured. "There are techniques—mental disciplines—that can help compartmentalize cosmic awareness."
"Fantastic," Arin muttered. "Looking forward to Cosmic Awareness Management 101. Do I get college credit for that?"
Sera's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Your humor masks genuine distress. This is understandable, but not productive. Focus on the immediate task—reaching the river crossing by dawn."
"Right. One existential crisis at a time." Arin adjusted the pack, wincing as newly formed blisters made themselves known. "Speaking of immediate tasks, who exactly is this 'Crimson Hand' we're supposed to be avoiding? Another cheerful addition to my growing list of 'Things That Want to Kill the Interdimensional Anomaly'?"
Voss and Sera exchanged one of their meaningful glances—a habit Arin was really starting to resent.
"The Crimson Hand is an organization that predates even my long memory," Sera finally explained, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "They seek power in its purest forms—knowledge, energy, artifacts of the Old Ones. They believe that by accumulating such power, they can ascend beyond the limitations of physical existence."
"And I'm guessing a human with the memories of ancient cosmic guardians would be quite the prize for their collection," Arin concluded grimly.
"More than you know," Voss confirmed. "The knowledge awakening within you—the techniques you displayed in the Archives—these are the very secrets the Hand has sought for millennia."
"Great. No pressure or anything." Arin sighed, then froze as a twig snapped somewhere in the darkness to their left. "Please tell me that was just a friendly woodland creature with poor timing."
Voss's silver patterns dimmed instantly, plunging them into near-total darkness. His voice, when it came, was barely a breath. "Do not move. Do not speak."
For several agonizing minutes, they stood motionless among the trees. Arin's heart hammered so loudly it seemed impossible that anyone within a mile radius couldn't hear it. Finally, Voss's patterns brightened slightly.
"A scouting drone," he murmured. "Mechanical, not magical. It has passed."
"Mechanical?" Arin whispered back, surprised. "I thought this was a world of magic and mysticism, not robots and surveillance tech."
"Elysion contains multitudes," Sera replied cryptically. "Not all who dwell here embrace the old ways. The Hand, especially, favors tools that cannot be detected by traditional magical means."
They resumed their journey, now moving with even greater caution. Voss led them on a winding path that seemed designed to confuse rather than make progress, doubling back and crossing their own trail multiple times.
As they walked, Arin tried to focus on the physical world—the feel of the forest floor beneath tired feet, the cool night air against skin, the weight of the pack—anything to anchor the mind firmly in the present. But the memories continued to surface, unbidden and disorienting.
A vast chamber of living crystal, where beings of pure thought debated the ethics of creating new universes.
A battle against entities of anti-life that sought to unravel the very fabric of existence.
The feeling of moving between realities as easily as stepping through a doorway.
"Stop," Voss commanded suddenly, his arm outstretched to halt their progress.
Arin blinked, forcing the cosmic visions away. "What is it?"
"We're being followed," he replied, his silver patterns flowing in agitated patterns. "Not drones this time. Living hunters."
Sera's ancient face hardened into a mask of determination. "How many?"
"At least five. Possibly more." Voss's eyes narrowed as he scanned the darkness. "They're using damping fields—I can barely sense their energy signatures."
"The Hand?" Arin asked, already knowing the answer.
Sera nodded grimly. "They move quickly. Word of your awakening has spread faster than we anticipated."
"How? We just left the Archives a few hours ago!"
"The Hand has spies everywhere," Voss explained, his voice tight with tension. "Even the Keeper's sanctum is not immune to their infiltration."
A cold weight settled in Arin's stomach. "So what do we do?"
Sera reached into her robes, withdrawing a small crystal that pulsed with gentle blue light. "We separate. The Hand will focus their pursuit on you, Arin. Voss and I will create a diversion, drawing them away long enough for you to reach the river crossing."
"Wait, what?" Arin protested. "You want me to go alone through a forest full of cosmic assassins? With only the vaguest idea of where I'm going?"
"You won't be alone," Sera assured, pressing the crystal into Arin's palm. "This is a Wayfinder Stone. It will guide you to the crossing."
"And what about you two? I can't just leave you to face these hunters by yourselves!"
Voss's silver patterns flared with what might have been pride. "Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary. We are not defenseless, young Catalyst."
As if to emphasize his point, he made a subtle gesture with one hand. The air around them rippled, and suddenly Voss was holding what appeared to be a staff made of solidified moonlight. Sera, not to be outdone, drew a small vial from her robes. When she uncorked it, mist the color of midnight spilled out, coalescing around her fingers into claws of pure shadow.
"Oh," Arin said weakly. "Right. Ancient powerful beings. I forgot for a second there."
"The Academy is what matters now," Sera stated firmly. "You must reach it. The knowledge it contains—the training it can provide—these are essential if you are to fulfill your purpose."
"And if I don't want this purpose?" Arin asked, the question that had been burning since the revelations in the Archives finally finding voice. "What if I just want to go home?"
Sera's ancient eyes softened slightly. "Home is a concept more complex than you yet understand, young one. But know this—the path before you leads not just to your destiny, but to answers about who and what you truly are."
Before Arin could respond, Voss stiffened. "They're closing in. We must move now."
With swift efficiency, he traced a complex pattern in the air. Golden light followed his fingertips, forming a symbol that burned briefly before fading into invisibility.
"A masking ward," he explained. "It will hide your energy signature for a time. Follow the Wayfinder Stone. Do not deviate from the path it shows you, no matter what you see or hear."
"And trust no one," Sera added, her shadow claws flexing in anticipation. "Not until you reach the Gatekeeper at the river crossing. She will know you by the medallion you carry."
"The medallion?" Arin's hand went to the pendant that had hung around their neck since arriving in Elysion. "What does it have to do with anything?"
"It is more than a simple artifact," Sera explained hurriedly. "It is a key—one of seven that together unlock the Academy's sealed gates."
"Of course it is," Arin sighed. "Because nothing in this place can just be a pretty necklace, can it?"
A distant sound—something between a howl and a mechanical whine—cut through the night air. Voss's expression grew urgent.
"Go," he commanded. "Now. We will find you when we can."
Arin hesitated, torn between fear and loyalty to these strange beings who had become unlikely allies. "Be careful."
Sera's weathered face cracked into a rare smile. "We have survived far worse than the Hand's hunters, young one. Now run."
With a final nod, Arin turned and plunged deeper into the forest, following the pulsing blue light of the Wayfinder Stone. Behind, the sounds of pursuit grew louder—crashing undergrowth, those eerie howls, and now voices calling to each other in a language that hurt the ears to hear.
The forest seemed to close in, branches reaching like grasping hands, roots rising to trip unwary feet. Whether this was natural or some defense mechanism triggered by the hunters' presence, Arin couldn't tell. The Wayfinder Stone pulsed more rapidly as Arin ran, its light creating a narrow path through the darkness.
Memories continued to surface—fragments of knowledge about navigation between hostile environments, techniques for masking one's presence from pursuers, even combat maneuvers that the human body shouldn't have been capable of executing. Arin drew on these instinctively, feet finding purchase on treacherous ground, body twisting to avoid low-hanging branches that would have clotheslined a less aware runner.
For a brief, exhilarating moment, it seemed escape might be possible. The sounds of pursuit faded slightly, the Wayfinder Stone's pulses grew more encouraging, and ahead, the forest began to thin.
Then everything went wrong at once.
The Wayfinder Stone suddenly flared with blinding intensity, its blue light turning blood-red. At the same moment, a figure stepped out from behind a massive tree directly in Arin's path—humanoid but wrong somehow, its proportions slightly off, its movements too fluid to be natural.
"Catalyst," it said, its voice a disturbing blend of organic and mechanical. "The Hand extends its welcome."
Arin skidded to a halt, heart pounding. The figure's left palm glowed in the darkness, revealing the spiral mark the Keeper had warned about.
"Sorry," Arin managed, backing away slowly. "Not interested in joining any cults today. Try again never."
The figure's head tilted at an impossible angle. "Your cooperation is preferred but not required. The knowledge you carry will serve the Hand regardless of your personal inclinations."
"Yeah, that's not creepy at all." Arin glanced around frantically, looking for an escape route. The Wayfinder Stone continued to pulse red in warning, but offered no guidance.
The figure took a step forward, its form seeming to glitch and distort like a bad video feed. "The transition will be painless if you do not resist."
"Transition?" Arin echoed, a cold dread settling in the pit of the stomach. "That sounds ominously permanent."
"Your physical form is merely a vessel," the figure explained with clinical detachment. "The Hand requires only the contents. The shell is... disposable."
"Right. Hard pass on the whole 'disposable shell' thing." Arin took another step back, only to freeze at the sound of movement from behind. More figures emerged from the darkness, forming a loose circle. Each bore the same spiral mark, glowing like a brand on their left palms.
Trapped.
The first figure extended its hand. "Come willingly, and your consciousness will be preserved. Resist, and we harvest only the memories, discarding the rest."
Panic threatened to overwhelm rational thought. The hunters closed in, their movements synchronized with unnatural precision. The Wayfinder Stone pulsed frantically in Arin's grip, its light now strobing between red and blue.
And then, from somewhere deep within, a memory surfaced—not a vision of cosmic events this time, but knowledge. Practical, immediate, lifesaving knowledge.
Without conscious thought, Arin's free hand rose, fingers tracing a complex pattern in the air. Unlike Voss's elegant gestures, this was sharp, decisive, almost violent in its execution. The very air seemed to tear along the lines Arin's fingers drew, creating a rift that glowed with the same light as the Wayfinder Stone.
The hunters hesitated, their synchronized movements faltering for the first time.
"Impossible," the lead figure stated, its voice losing some of its mechanical flatness. "The Rift Technique was lost with the fall of the Celestial Wayfarers."
"Guess I found it," Arin replied, a strange confidence flowing through veins that now thrummed with power. With a final, twisting gesture, Arin completed the pattern.
The rift expanded suddenly, engulfing Arin in blue-white light. For a heartbeat, there was the sensation of being everywhere and nowhere at once—similar to the initial journey to Elysion, but controlled this time, directed.
Then reality reasserted itself, and Arin stumbled onto soft grass beside a gently flowing river. The rift snapped closed behind, cutting off the hunters' shouts of frustration and alarm.
"That," Arin gasped, collapsing to hands and knees, "was either the coolest thing I've ever done or a complete fluke that I'll never be able to replicate."
The Wayfinder Stone, still clutched in one trembling hand, had returned to its gentle blue pulse. Arin looked around, trying to get bearings. The river stretched in both directions, its waters gleaming silver in the moonlight. The forest loomed dark and forbidding on the bank just crossed, but ahead, the land opened into rolling meadows dotted with what looked like glowing flowers.
"Okay," Arin muttered, standing on shaky legs. "Find the Gatekeeper. Cross the river. Get to the Academy. Simple."
A rustling from the forest edge sent Arin spinning around, newly awakened instincts flaring to life. The Wayfinder Stone pulsed a warning, but before Arin could react, a familiar figure emerged from the trees.
"Sera?" Arin called cautiously, remembering her warning to trust no one.
The old woman limped forward, her robes torn and stained with something dark that Arin hoped wasn't blood. "Quickly," she gasped. "They're right behind me. We must cross now!"
Arin hesitated, studying her carefully. She looked like Sera—the same ancient face, the same piercing eyes. But something felt... off.
"Show me your hands," Arin demanded, the Wayfinder Stone clutched tightly.
Sera's expression flickered with what might have been annoyance before smoothing into concern. "We don't have time for this, child. The hunters—"
"Your hands," Arin repeated firmly. "Show me."
With obvious reluctance, Sera extended both hands, palms up. They were empty, unmarked.
Arin relaxed slightly, then tensed again as another memory surfaced—a technique for seeing through illusions, for perceiving energy signatures beneath physical appearances.
Acting on instinct, Arin's eyes narrowed in concentration. The world seemed to shift, colors bleeding away until only patterns of energy remained. And there, beneath the perfect illusion of Sera's appearance, glowed a form of entirely different proportions—and on its left palm, a spiral of crimson energy.
"Nice try," Arin said, backing toward the river. "But you're not Sera."
The false Sera's face contorted with rage, the illusion slipping to reveal something decidedly inhuman beneath. "Clever little vessel," it hissed, its voice no longer a perfect mimicry. "But not clever enough."
It lunged forward with impossible speed, fingers elongating into talons that gleamed in the moonlight. Arin reacted on pure instinct, the Wayfinder Stone flaring to life in response to the surge of panic and determination.
Blue light erupted from the stone, forming a barrier that the creature slammed into with enough force to send it sprawling backward. It recovered quickly, circling warily as more shapes emerged from the forest edge.
"You cannot escape the Hand," it snarled. "We have tracked the Celestial Wayfarers across realities for millennia. One half-awakened vessel is nothing."
"Maybe," Arin agreed, continuing to back toward the river. "But I'm a pretty stubborn half-awakened vessel."
The creature's mouth split into a grin that contained far too many teeth. "Stubbornness will not save you when—"
Its words cut off abruptly as an arrow suddenly protruded from its throat. It made a wet, gurgling sound, hands clawing at the shaft as it collapsed to its knees.
More arrows followed in rapid succession, each finding a target among the shapes at the forest edge. Precision shots that spoke of centuries of practice and inhuman accuracy.
The arrow whistled past Arin's ear, embedding itself in the ancient oak with a dull thud. "Run!" Sera commanded, her frail appearance melting away as she drew twin blades from beneath her robes. "Follow the North Star to the river crossing. I'll find you when it's safe." Before Arin could protest, she launched herself toward their pursuers, her movements a blur of deadly precision as the first attacker fell. The medallion burned against Arin's chest, urging escape even as guilt demanded staying to help.
For a heartbeat, Arin stood frozen, watching as the ancient Aetherii moved with a speed and grace that belied her apparent age. Her twin blades—which Arin now saw were made of some crystalline material that hummed with power—carved through the hunters with terrifying efficiency.
But more were emerging from the forest, their forms distorting reality around them as they moved. Even Sera, for all her skill and power, couldn't hold them off indefinitely.
The medallion pulsed again, more insistently this time, its warmth bordering on painful. The message was clear: Run. Now.
With a final glance at Sera—who had just impaled two hunters simultaneously with a move that defied both physics and anatomy—Arin turned and sprinted along the riverbank, following the Wayfinder Stone's guidance toward whatever fate awaited at the crossing.
Behind, the sounds of battle faded into the night, replaced by the gentle murmur of flowing water and the distant call of creatures Arin couldn't begin to identify. Ahead, the North Star burned with unusual brightness, a beacon in Elysion's alien sky.
And somewhere beyond perception, in a chamber where fate itself took physical form, the Oracle of Fate watched as the marked thread continued its journey through the great tapestry—a journey that would either strengthen the very fabric of reality or unravel it completely.
The die was cast. The path was chosen.
The Catalyst ran toward destiny, one uncertain step at a time.