“Tell me about your system,” Cyrus said.

  Alor arched an eyebrow at the request, then chuckled.

  “Ah, but where to begin? The System, it is everything! It is the sky, the earth, the coin in your pocket—if you have any, which I suspect you do not. It tells us who we are, what we can do, even how much we are worth.”

  Alor gestured at the air, the cavern, the sky above the crater.

  “Classes, levels, attributes—these are not things we choose. The System assigns them. It judges, rewards, and punishes. It is… how do you say? The law beneath the law.” Alor’s expression turned quizzical, though the sharp look of guile never left his eyes. “For us dwarves, at least, it has been but a single generation since the System first came to Yaerellis. Soon, our integration ends, and we will be proper Galactic Citizens! Imagine it! A few hundred years! Now it controls everything.”

  “Everything?” Cyrus asked with a frown.

  “Everything. To be without a System is to be nothing. And yet—” Alor clicked his tongue, and shook his head, “you stand here, whole, breathing, speaking. You are not nothing. But the System does not know what you are. And that, my friend, is a problem. The System knows everything, but you, you elude it. That is… very interesting.”

  Alor leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, tell me, Cyrus—how does it feel to be impossible?”

  Cyrus weighed his response. He settled on the truth, simply because the moment Alor asked him anything else, pretense at knowledge would rapidly be revealed.

  “I’d feel better if I knew anything about who I was, why I’m here, how I got here, or much of anything. I didn’t even know my name until you called me Cyrus.”

  Alor stiffened as if he’d been struck. The dwarf’s thoughts derailed so violently that Cyrus nearly winced from the sheer force of them flooding into his mind.

  He does not know his own name?! Impossible. Impossible! The System, it tracks all things, it marks all beings. He must have been born somewhere, recorded, placed—! Unless… no, no, too ridiculous, but still…

  Cyrus grimaced and took a deep breath. He needed to hold it together. The rush of excitement, disbelief, and wild theorizing that assaulted him at once came from Alor’s mind, which spun too fast and seemed to be speeding up.

  What if? A time traveler? A misplaced soul! A creature of the Old World, one before the System! Nonsense, all of it, but—!

  Alor suddenly clutched his head as if he could force his thoughts to order themselves into a nice stack. If there was any bright side, Cyrus presumed that Alor didn’t realize Cyrus could read his mind, which seemed like a trump card to keep up his sleeve.

  “You are—!” Alor stopped himself, then exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No, no, it is too soon to say, but this, this is absurd! You realize that, right?”

  Alor’s hands moved wildly as he paced, gesturing at the crater and the scavengers bodies in frantic half-circles.

  “You do not remember your name, your name! Only because I spoke it do you know your own name? What kind of nonsense is this? No records, no traces? I am a Pathfinder! Pathfinder’s Insight tells me only Cyrus and garbled static!”

  Alor spun back to face Cyrus, his eyes opening wider.

  “You, my friend, are either the greatest mystery of our time, or the worst headache I have ever had.” Alor clapped his hands together. “No, I take it back. You are both.”

  Alor threw his head back and laughed—not with mockery, but sheer delight at the puzzle before him.

  “And me? Ah, I am but a simple dwarf caught in the middle of it all. My favorite childhood story started this way. The Lost King and the Silver Thread.” Alor babbled.

  “That supposed to mean something to me?” Cyrus asked doubtfully.

  “Pff. Of course not. But listen, it is a great tale. A king—a great one, legendary!—wakes in a foreign land, with no memory of who he is. No name, no past, no kingdom. Only a single silver thread, so fine and delicate that no one else can see it, leads him forward.”

  Alor leaned back and crossed his arms. His voice slipped into a storyteller’s cadence, excited to tell his favorite story.

  “Along the way, he meets a rogue, a warrior, and a scholar—each holds a piece of his past, though they do not know it. He pieces himself together, bit by bit, chasing this thread across the world.”

  Alor tapped his temple, eyes alight with amusement. “And in the end? Ah! He stands before an ancient door, behind which lies his true identity. All he has to do is open it.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Cyrus sighed. “And?”

  Alor shrugged theatrically.

  “That is the question, no? The story never says if he opens it. Some say he steps forward, reclaiming who he was. Others? They say that he cuts the thread and walks away, choosing to be something new. Tell me, my friend—if you found such a door, would you open it? Or would you walk away?”

  Alor watched Cyrus carefully, but the dwarf’s mind ran ahead, sprinting in circles of possibility.

  He hesitates. Interesting. Most men, they say yes. They say of course! Of course, I would open the door. Of course, I would want to know. But not him. He thinks. He weighs it.

  Perhaps he already knows that sometimes, the truth is worse than not knowing at all.

  Alor’s fingers drummed absently against his belt. A motion that the dwarf made frequently, judging by the fraying leather of the pouch.

  He is like the Lost King, no? Woken in a strange place, no past, no name, only a mystery to follow. Except—

  Alor’s eyes flicked towards the crater behind Cyrus, then to the remains of the scavengers Cyrus crushed without lifting a hand.

  Except he does not just follow the thread. He warps it. The system does not know him, the world does not know him, and even his own past does not know him. So tell me, Lost King—when you find your door, will you open it? Or will you tear it off its hinges?

  Cyrus’s lips quirked into a grin.

  “If a mountain can’t stop me, what good will a door do?” Cyrus asked.

  Alor blinked, his face going white for a brief moment. Then a sharp bark of laughter filled the air, full of surprise and approval.

  “Hah! Bold answer, my friend. No hesitation, no fear. I like this.” Alor gestured wildly, at the mithril seams, at the dead scavengers, at the world around them. “A mountain, a door—bah, all the same to you, yes? What is an obstacle but something waiting to be knocked over?”

  Beneath the good natured laughter, Alor’s mind whirled.

  Bold. Too bold for someone who claims to remember nothing. That was not the answer of a lost man. That was the answer of a man who has broken doors before. A man who has torn down mountains.

  “Then I suppose if we ever find this door of yours, I should stand well back, yes? I would hate to be caught in the landslide.”

  A piece of electronics on Alor’s chest beeped. Then, it beeped again.

  “I must take this,” Alor said and tapped a button on his belt.

  A floating picture of a disembodied head filled the air before Alor. A human woman with sharp features appeared. The projection quality seemed rather high to Cyrus, although there was some static in the projection. Which, really, made the barely restrained fury in her ice blue eyes all the more unmistakable.

  Shit. She is always like this. Sharp as a dagger, and twice as deadly when annoyed. Alor’s thoughts flowed freely.

  “Ah, Maija, Maija,” Alor said. He smoothly flashed a disarming grin at the projected head, despite the blood still on his gear and face. “We have company. I will explain when I return.”

  The projections eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Then return. Now!” Maia commanded. Her voice was cold steel, wrapped in a sheath of horribly abrasive sandpaper.

  Alor’s smile didn’t falter in the face of her anger, but his fingers twitched at his belt, habitually adjusting a strap that didn’t need adjusting. Oh. This isn't good. I’ve seen her angry before, but this is worse.

  “What the hell happened, Alor?” Maija snapped. “Your vitals dropped, the power went out, and only now does the emergency link return online? Explain yourself, you good-for-nothing, short, pink-haired rapscallion!”

  Alor spread his hands in a feeble protestation of innocence.

  “Ah, Maija, Maija.” Alor threw his hands in a broad, sweeping gesture that highlighted the vast devastation of the mithril seam, as if he were showing off a grand estate rather than the aftermath of a catastrophe. “You worry too much.”

  Unfortunately, his gesture also highlighted the vast bloodstains on the cavern floor—some from the scavengers, some from him. It also did nothing to hide the dried blood matted around his ears and below his eyes.

  His smile stayed fixed in place through it all, though.

  “You are lucky Matti isn’t here to see you bleeding all over yourself again. He worries.”

  Not. Good. The dwarf’s previous mile-a-minute thoughts turned slow and dour.

  The scowl on Maija’s face deepened. Her eyes flickered over the mess, Alor, and the anomaly standing beside him, and her nostrils flared.

  “An anomaly?” Confusion crept into Maija’s voice. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to focus on whatever was next to Alor that the System-based technology couldn’t identify. “An anomaly?” Maija repeated in an icy tone when Alor didn’t answer.

  Alor tilted his head towards Cyrus. The dwarf’s grin became something almost manic. Alor’s thoughts were so rushed that Cyrus didn’t even try to decipher them, but the dwarf’s anxiety was hard to ignore.

  Cyrus stared flatly at the dwarf and mouthed ‘What are you dragging me into?’.

  Maija inhaled sharply. Once, twice, then a third time. She seemed to be physically restraining herself from reaching through the emergency link to strangle Alor.

  Before she could speak again, Alor interjected.

  “Ah, this is Cyrus,” Alor said. He desperately attempted to force cheerfulness into his tone. “He is—how do you say? Something of a curiosity. Yes, a mystery. But a friendly mystery, who feeds potions to dying dwarves. A helpful anomaly, you might say.”

  Alor’s weak laughter at his joke wilted under Maija’s razor-sharp glare.

  “You see, Maija, he stands here, whole, breathing, speaking. Without records, without identification. A true impossibility!” Alor spread his hands dramatically, as if unveiling a priceless artifact as he gestured at Cyrus. “But not to worry, there is no need to panic! This one will certainly not explode.”

  The woman’s nostrils flared. Cyrus wondered if she would strangle the dwarf if he were within her grasp. The dwarf seemed to have a gift at bringing out barely restrained fury in the woman.

  “Not even a little,” Alor assured her. His voice brightened hastily in an attempt to defuse the tension. “Absolutely no explosions at all. You have my word as your most trusted partner.”

  Alor turned his head slightly to Cyrus, and whispered, barely audible. “Probably.”

  Maija let out a strangled, quiet scream. Her eyes widened with momentary madness as she stared daggers at the dwarf. “We will discuss this,” she hissed, forcing what little composure she could manage through gritted teeth. “Soon. In person.”

  The emergency link snapped shut abruptly. Both men let out a thankful sigh, glad for the welcome silence.

  Alor rubbed at his head, then winked at Cyrus.

  “Well, that could have gone better, yes?” Alor asked. Cyrus hoped it was a rhetorical question.