And lo, when the breath of man stills and his body returns to dust, the great shepherds of the sky descend upon him. Black-winged and ever-watchful, they come not as scavengers but as guides, for theirs is a duty ordained since the dawn of time.
Crows, the harbingers of passage, see not with mortal eyes but with the sight of the unseen. They know the weight of a soul unmoored and hear the whispers of the departed as they drift between realms. With voices that rasp like dry leaves, they call out to those who linger, urging them forward. For it is not the lot of man to remain where life has left him, nor to wander untethered in the land of the living.
With each feather, a prayer. With each beat of their wings, a journey begun. The faithful do not mourn the presence of the crow but honor it, for in its coming is the promise of deliverance. When the crows gather, so too does Lazarus, the Keeper of Souls, whose embrace awaits all who walk the path beyond the veil.
So take heed and cast not stones at the shepherds of the dead. For when your hour comes and the dusk settles upon your eyes, it is they who shall ferry you home.
Darkness.
Then—
A violent, searing pain tore through his chest. A gasp, but no air. Water surged into his lungs, frigid and suffocating—a cruel mockery of breath. His body convulsed, instinct yanking him from the void. Limbs thrashed against the abyss that held him. His hands found nothing, only the endless weight of water. His ribs burned. His throat clenched. He tried to cough, but there was no air, only more of the deep flooding in.
He couldn't see. He couldn't think. He could only feel. And all he felt was agony.
Fingers scraped against stone—slick, unyielding. Desperate, he clawed at it, muscles sluggish. Where was the surface? Where was the sky? His body screamed for air, but there was none. Only the crushing pressure and the unbearable silence of the deep.
His limbs weakened. His chest heaved in a final, futile effort—then stillness. The senses dulled. The fight faded. And as his mind slipped into quiet, something strange happened.
The dark did not claim him.
It should have. He knew it should have. But instead—
Light. No, not light. Awareness. A sluggish, creeping return to sensation. He was floating. No, sinking. He couldn't tell. But the pain was back, along with the strain in his chest.
Another gasp. Another flood of icy water down his throat. Another wracking convulsion as his body fought against death.
He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.
Fingers found stone again, trembling, nails splitting as he dragged himself forward—or was it upward? He couldn't know. Only that if he stopped, he would fall again, and he wasn't sure if he would rise a second time.
His body was failing. His thoughts frayed. But before oblivion could claim him, his fingertips brushed something new—a gap? An opening?
Then, like a cruel joke, the dark returned.
Dying. Again.
Awakening. Again.
Each time he came to, his heart pounded away in a desperate attempt to supply his body, but it quickly dulled, became irregular and then he was gone again.
How many times? How many times had he surfaced only to be swallowed once more? How many times had he died only to wake in this crushing void?
A curse. A punishment. A nightmare with no end.
Was this the path to Lazarus? Was this his afterlife? No guiding hand, no voices calling him to rest—only suffocation, pain, and the endless return to the dark. Had he been forsaken?
He had believed in the crows, the shepherds of souls. But they did not come. Was this all that awaited him—drowning forever in the abyss, denied even the passage to the Keeper of Souls?
No. Lazarus would not impose such suffering on the undeserving. That was not the way of the Keeper of Souls. He had been taught that the dead found their rest, that judgment was reserved for those who had truly wronged. If this was not punishment, then it was something else.
A trial.
Something to endure, to overcome. And if he was to rise again, if he was to break free from the darkness that held him, he would do so not with despair but with resolve. He had not yet reached the end of his path.
His fingers clenched around the stone. He would not fall again. He would climb. He would escape. And if he was to meet Lazarus, it would be standing, not drowning in the dark.
Some part of him grasped at the stone, at fleeting scraps of life, at the sheer, stubborn will to keep moving, to climb, to escape the grave that would not keep him.
Then—stone. A wall. Solid, immovable, barring his way.
Panic surged. A wild terror clawed at his chest. He beat against the rock, fingers scrabbling for purchase, for something—anything—to break through. But the stone offered no answers. No way forward. No way back. Trapped.
Again, the cycle claimed him.
Again, he awoke to the dark, to the heaviness of his limbs, to the crushing reality of the stone before him. But this time, he did not thrash. He did not waste what little life he had on panic.
He searched.
Every inch. Every crevice. Passing through death and waking anew with the same desperate determination. It was there. It had to be. Some weakness in the stone. Some sliver of escape.
Then—his fingers slipped into a crack. Narrow. Jagged. His only chance.
He forced himself inside.
The rock tore at him, shredding his skin, scraping against his bones. A tomb pressing from all sides, squeezing his ribs, crushing his insides. The pain was blinding, each movement a fresh torment. But stopping meant dying. And dying meant another cycle.
Then—worse. Awakening in the narrow space.
For a single, horrible second, he always forgot. Waking into suffocation, into stone pressing from all sides, into the sheer terror of a cage with no escape. He flailed. He writhed. The craggy walls carved deep into his flesh. But still, he pushed on.
Even as his body screamed, as blood clouded the water, as the stone punished his every movement—he did not stop.
He would not stop.
He was not done.
Time lost meaning. Death became routine. The dark, the burning lungs, the fight against this realm of shadow—he adjusted. The panic dulled. The agony remained, but it no longer consumed him. The fire in his chest had smoldered into embers—a sting that lingered but no longer blinded him. He learned.
The dark was no longer his enemy.
His spira stirred, faint at first, then growing with each cycle. He pushed it outward, reaching, feeling. The world was there, even if he could not see it—the shift of the water, the edges of stone, the subtle currents that whispered paths unseen. The abyss was a labyrinth, but it was not endless. He could navigate it. He would break free.
A light came into view as he squeezed through a narrow passage, a flicker of warmth piercing the murk. It wasn't the oppressive blackness—no, this was something else, something alive. A beacon, shining from above. He couldn't see its source, but he felt it, pulling him, calling him.
For the first time, his body stirred, instinct rising like desperation. The light. Escape. Salvation. He had to get there. He had to—
He tried to move, to swim, to ascend.
Nothing.
Twisting, he pushed upward, reaching for the light that felt so close. But his body was impossibly heavy, a burden that wasn't just exhaustion—it was suffocating. His chest ached, as though something had anchored itself there, pulling him down. His lungs, filled with water, refused to cooperate. He sank with each shallow, strained breath.
His arms faltered, legs kicked, but they couldn't push him forward. The more he struggled, the deeper the void pulled him. The weight in his chest, heavier than stone, drowned all will to fight. The light pulsed above, a promise of escape, yet it seemed to grow more distant with each attempt to rise.
Climbing. He had to climb.
His hands found the stone. Slick, but real. It was something solid, something to hold onto. He gripped it with all the strength he could summon, fingers slipping and scraping, nails tearing against the rough surface.
Every pull, every lunge upward, was a battle against his own body's refusal to survive. His feet found leverage—barely—against the stone. With every inch of progress, he pressed forward, the water in his chest, the pressure in his lungs, and the knowledge that he was drowning again—they could not stop him. Not now. Not while his will remained.
Each time he sank, each time his body succumbed, he awoke with the same instinct: climb. His hands scrabbled at the stone, feet pressed against its surface, fighting against the rising darkness. The abyss could claim him again, but not yet. Not while hope remained.
Slowly, the wall sloped upward, the climb becoming less agonizing as the angle lessened, the incline easing. The light above burned brighter, a beacon that promised salvation. It was close. Too close.
The water lightened with each pull, the load easing, as if the abyss itself was weary of holding him down. His fingers scraped against loose roots and soil, and finally, his feet found solid ground. Trembling, he pulled himself up, fighting the heaviness in his chest.
Air—fresh and painful, too harsh for lungs that had forgotten what it felt like. His chest screamed as it expanded, but there was no room, no space to breathe.
Hands shot out, grabbing at grass and rocks, anything to hold onto. With a cough that was more of a choke, he pulled himself further, dragging his body from the water. His chest burned with every breath, still filled with the remnants of the deep. His lungs fought to expel the water, but there was too much of it. He gasped for air, his vision blurring.
Then, darkness.
His body collapsed, face pressed into the wet dirt. Still. Silent. Lifeless.
Once again—
A shudder deep in his chest. A ragged breath.
Water surged from his throat, splattering out in a violent expulsion. Desperate coughs racked his body, forcing the last of the water from his lungs. His throat burned, raw, but he was alive.
He gasped for air, chest heaving, his hands trembling as they pressed into the ground. Weak. Still shaking. But alive.
His body felt torn apart, as if every nerve had been reawakened with an unforgiving force. Pain surged through him—a brutal reminder that he had almost died. Every muscle screamed as his circulation rushed back to life, blood pounding through limbs that had nearly given up.
His breath came in tortured, ragged gasps, his lungs learning to work again. The air—it was sweet, burning as it filled him, life returning in fierce, overwhelming waves.
A sob tore from his throat, raw and desperate, trembling through his chest. Relief mingled with confusion. Was he truly alive? Had he escaped death, or was this only some fleeting illusion?
Tears welled, not from the discomfort, but rather his body's refusal to accept that the pain had ended. His body shook with the release, with the shock of resurrection. He wasn't sure if it was the distress locked in his bones or the joy of simply being able to feel.
But he was here.
Alive.
Kai.
The day had slipped into evening, and still, Kai remained where he had surfaced. His body, stiff and weak from the trauma of his near-drowning, refused to move. The air around him was cool and fresh, but it did little to ease the burning ache in his chest or the lingering uncertainty in his mind. Every time he filled his lungs it felt like a small victory, but the significance of his escape pressed heavily on him. His thoughts, exhausted and untrusting, refused to reconcile his resurrection with the quiet reality of the evening.
He glanced toward the horizon. The sky was fading from soft orange to dark blue, and the shifting light bathed the landscape in gentle hues, but Kai's thoughts remained clouded—turbulent like the water that had once held him captive. He didn't know how much time had passed. Hours? Days? The moments had blurred together in the stillness of his recovery. He should have been scared—panicked. Instead, there was only… confusion. Was he dreaming? Was this the afterlife? He had never heard of anyone being brought back from death. But then, did that mean it was impossible?
A flicker of doubt gnawed at him. Perhaps it was all a dream? A near-death experience his mind had conjured?
His thoughts turned briefly to Lazarus. The name clung to him like a fading memory, an echo from deep within. Was it possible? Could this—could he—be touched by something divine? A god, perhaps? Why else would he be here, alive?
The notion felt absurd, a delusion. And yet…
A crow had perched on the branch of a nearby tree hours ago, watching him with dark, eyes. Its quiet gaze never wavered, following his every move, as still as the air around them. The bird had not flown away. Even as the evening wore on, its presence seemed almost intentional, as though waiting for him to come to some conclusion. It almost felt like a sign.
Kai shook his head, but the thought refused to leave him.
The God of Life and Death. But why would Lazarus intervene this way? What purpose did his return serve? To what end?
He couldn't make sense of it. Not yet. His body was too tired, too broken. His soul seemed fractured—pieces torn between what had been and what could have been.
And still, the crow watched.
His memories began to return to him—broken, fleeting fragments, not the vivid clarity of a whole mind. Limdal—his home, distant and fading. The caves stretching far beneath the snow. Fergus—his face twisted in pain and fear before vanishing again. And then… the black masks. A woman with violet, wicked eyes. The cold metal of her blade.
His hand instinctively went to his chest, hesitation freezing his fingers before they made contact. He almost expected to feel the blade still lodged in his chest. But as his fingers brushed the shredded fabric of his clothes, he found nothing.
Confusion crawled deeper into his chest, he glanced down at his clothes, inspecting the tatters. The fabric was shredded by rocks and jagged edges, but he couldn't tell which hole was made by the knife. A sense of dread crept under his skin. His heart raced as he gently pressed his fingers against the spot where the steel had pierced him. He could feel smooth, unbroken skin—no hole, no scar, no trace of the wound.
How could he have forgotten that? How could he have forgotten the stabbing, the feeling of his life draining away?
Kai recoiled slightly, a chill of disbelief curling through him. His body was whole. His skin should be ragged after crawling through the watery crevice, yet not a blemish could be seen.
The crow still watched from its perch in the tree, its black eyes gleaming in the dimming light. Was it mocking him, or did it understand something he didn't? His chest tightened with the weight of the question. His mind reeled. What was happening to him?
Kai pushed off the ground, his legs trembling under the strain of holding himself upright. Every muscle felt raw and unused, protesting movement. Yet, with a slow, deliberate breath, he forced himself to stand. His arms shook as they pressed into the soft soil. His body felt overwhelming—still heavy from the ordeal—but his resolve fought against it. He needed to move, to make sense of this.
He took a cautious step forward, then another, each motion feeling like defiance against the very nature of his existence as his vision swooned. Every inch he covered felt like a triumph, but each step also brought the value of something deeper—something about the world did not match what it should have been
He looked around while he walked, absorbing the sights as his eyes had to readjust to the reality before him. Grass swayed beneath his boots. It looked like any normal spring day, but something about it felt off. The lushness, the life—everything around him teemed with vibrance. Flowers, in colors Kai couldn't name, dotted the ground in a riot of hues.
His gaze wandered upward. Once barren, the trees now held thick, rich leaves that seemed to reach for the sky, basking in the warmth of the season. The sky above him was vast, unbroken, with not a cloud in sight.
It should've been familiar. This was how spring was meant to be. But the strangeness gnawed at him.
Snow had blanketed everything the last time Kai had been outside—he remembered it vividly. The brisk bite of the air, the sting of winter on his skin. He had fought through it, moving as best he could, always pushing forward. But now, nothing. Not a hint of frost, not a shard of ice. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of new growth. The world had moved on, while he remained… suspended in time.
Had it really been that long?
He shook his head, a chill crawling up his spine despite the warmth. The seasons had shifted, leaving him behind. But how? How had he failed to notice the passing of time? The thought felt impossible, absurd. His chest tightened as a rush of questions clogged his mind.
Kai swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but the air felt thicker now. He had to focus. He had to push past this, to understand what had happened. What was happening.
With each step, his thoughts unraveled further, yet the world continued on, indifferent to his confusion.
Eventually, he came upon a metal structure. It was foreign, yet something about it felt hauntingly familiar. Odd, twisted shapes jutted from the roof like gnarled hands reaching for the sky. He circled the perimeter, then found a doorway. His fingers traced the edges. With a shudder, he pushed through.
Inside, the room was cloaked in darkness, the air thick with stillness. Tables and chairs littered the space, some overturned, others left in disarray. A fleeting image flashed in his mind—Fergus, standing against the back wall, so real it almost felt tangible. Kai's heart raced, drawn to the memory like a magnet. He moved toward it, desperate to piece together the fragments of a story he could no longer fully grasp.
He found the door his memory had led him to. But when he pulled it open, only pitch darkness greeted him beyond the threshold. The cave system. The memory crashed back, vivid and suffocating. As he stared into the inky blackness, his eyes strained, but no matter how hard he tried, the veil remained impenetrable.
He wanted to move forward. The tunnel stretched ahead, an uncharted path he had to follow. But something held him back. The memory of the submerged caves—the oppressive darkness, the water pulling him down, the panic clawing at his chest with every failed breath—gnawed at his mind. His chest tightened, and the thought of descending back into that void made his legs feel weak.
He hadn't realized it until now, but this was the very tunnel Fergus had guided him through before. The same cave system where he had been trapped.
His hands trembled at his sides. His mind screamed at him to remember, to push forward, but terror clamped down on him, an unyielding weight on his chest.
He had fought so hard to escape the dark, to rise from the depths. The idea of floundering again, lost in that suffocating silence, overwhelmed him. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't. Not again.
With a sigh, he stepped back, his pulse quickening, heart thudding painfully in his chest. He would have to piece together what had happened another way. Turning around, his breath caught in his throat. A crow perched on the edge of a nearby chair, staring at him with its head tilted, as though silently weighing his next move.
"You followed me?" Kai croaked, the words barely recognizable as his own. The sound of his voice startled him, rough and unfamiliar, like a ghost struggling to speak.
He watched the crow closely as he circled around it, heading back toward the outside. He half expected it to speak, as if Lazarus himself might answer through the creature's beak. But the silence that greeted him felt heavy, oppressive. Stepping out of the building, the crow followed.
A sudden thought pierced through his mind. His charm. His heart gave a jolt as his mind flashed to the spikey rocks, the suffocating water, the brutal crawl through the cave. The idea of it tearing free, lost somewhere in the abyss, sent a shiver through him. He almost couldn't bear to check, afraid of what he might find.
But when his hands went to it, the charm was still there, nestled against his chest. He exhaled in relief. He pulled on the string and fished it out from his clothing, his fingers tracing its smooth surface. Violet. The color of death. It glimmered faintly in the light, a soft reminder of what he had endured, and of what still clung to him.
A strangled laugh bubbled from his throat—broken, pathetic, but impossible to stop. It wasn't gone, and neither was he.
As Kai moved through the landscape, familiar yet alien, the burden of his past pressed down on him. His steps were languid, his mind sifting through the fractured memories, trying to piece them together. The crow remained at his side, occasionally flying ahead to perch on something, watching him while he caught up.
The world around him hummed with quiet energy. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the distant murmur of water echoed faintly through the hills. Everything felt out of place and yet oddly familiar, like a dream you couldn't wake from. What had Lazarus in store for him? And why was he still here, still alive, when he should have been dead?
The unease settled in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing discomfort that had nothing to do with hunger or fatigue. It whispered at the back of his mind, urging him forward—into the unknown. Into whatever came next.
He didn't have answers. Not yet. But one thing was certain: his journey was far from over. And somewhere, out there, answers awaited.
With one last look at the crow, Kai took another step. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it—because, for reasons he still didn't understand, he had no choice.