It doesn’t make sense.

  Nothing he’s seen or witnessed in the last few days does, but this least of all.

  At the bottom of the cliff there's ghosts in glittering ceremonial armor — black, red, gold — all caught in an endless battle. They clash like silent titans, tinged in a white, ethereal light that lags behind them like some reluctant shadow. There’s thousands of them.

  The clearing itself is enormous and completely filled in with half-life. Several soldiers overwhelm a monumental iron gate that glitches in and out of existence — for seconds at a time it appears tall and impenetrable only to flash a sudden vision of the truth beneath; the gate is collapsed now, sunken into sand and crumpled beneath rock.

  Rivin can’t remember how to breathe. It can’t be real, yet his steel eyes track the formations. He can’t help it — every clean stroke, every broken path, he logs away like a lesson. It appears that gold is defending against black and red, led by a sheer commander wielding an enormous hammer. He strikes a blow that sends two phantoms lurching into dust — the ground kicks up but the grains are white and flash with static, leaving the true soil beneath undisturbed. The commander then swings upwards and the force is powerful enough to eject his enemies head from its shoulders; the blood that spurts from the nub is perfectly silver but not of this realm either.

  He watches the body fall, not unlike the Knight in the tunnels. The head rolls across the sand, kicked up by rushing feet and when it finally comes to rest something remarkable happens, it disappears. Everything does.

  Rivin’s eyes track the empty canyon but there’s nothing but ruin now. Skeletons mostly buried beneath dunes, caved-in buildings bulging beneath boulders and old debris.

  Next, complete darkness.

  He bites back a gasp as the sun is snuffed out. The world seemed to become still—not quiet but still, as though time itself had forgotten to tick forward. His stomach drops with it.

  “What’s happening?” His voice sounds strangely level but his heart is hammering.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Roach’s fingers brush the tips of his own, curling until she holds him gently. Rivin grips her right back. It steadies him. Reminds him that he hasn’t suddenly died and slunk into the abyss.

  “Maybe it woke up.”

  He squeezes her hand a little tighter. “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t worry. It never stays gone long.”

  Like a switch — light returns. This time it blinds him and Rivin has to shield his eyes from the sting.

  When he can finally bare it again, he peaks out over the cliff once more and finds that the illusion has returned; except this time it is only the golden army men and hundreds of glowing civilians trailing the landscape. Rivin spies the shape of skirts and trousers, even children skipping and bustling between stalls and fountains but he can make out no faces. No eyes or lips. It might be the distance.

  There’s also horses. Real horses — shimmering and vaguely transparent, pawing at tufts of grass that don’t exist anymore. Rivin crouches down. “This is different.”

  “The beginning.”

  “Of what?”

  Roach is staring at the ceiling now, playing with the bone in her hair. The sun laps at her face like she’s glowing too. “Of the dream.”

  The dark-haired teen swallows thickly, rising to his feet again. His head hurts but he can’t look away from the bustling city beneath them. There’s several shop-fronts and houses, and on either side of the canyon are towering marble spires grafted into stone – watchtowers in the glow, dappled on either side of the huge gate like it may have once been a boarder wall and not a canyon.

  “Is it a dream?” He wonders. His bones seem to be humming, vibrating with the low drone of energy. The sun feels pleasant again. Warm. Like home did before he’d left it. Before it was short a snorting laugh and quick shadow. Before it was broken. “Or is it a memory?”

  “Whose?” Her lips are curling, interest piqued by the hypothetical.

  “You tell me. Don’t you know everything?”

  Roach’s amber eyes flit away. “Touché. Both.”

  He’s not sure if she’s making it up or if she actually knows. “Why were they fighting?”

  “Not finished yet.” Matter-of-factly and crossing her arms with a nod for emphasis.

  Rivin catches the distant whiff of smoke churning up the air, wonders how long it will be before things change, before the death begins. He spies the commander again, leading a group of men into a wall that glitches in and out of reality to reveal a doorway. There’s a looming sense of urgency building simply in the movements of them all. Ants sensing the boot.

  “Don’t worry, we’re taking the scenic route,” Roach snickers.

  “What's the other route?”

  “Also not-finished yet.”

  Rivin’s not sure if he’s gladder for it. He’d be a liar to deny that he’s curious. That he’d like nothing more than to explore, but he’s reminded all the same of his mission by the burning in his torso and the weakness in his legs.

  Finally, the youth looks away and up a winding path that narrowly straddles the cliff-face. It’s missing various sections and sunken in several spots, Rivin can even see old handles and cutouts gouged or bolted into the rock, newer than the ancient city and strategically placed over crumbling path.

  “Finished gawkin?” Roach asks, chest puffed out and bursting with pride like she’d made it all herself. He’s not sure if she’s taking credit for the magic or the pathway.

  “You find this place?”

  Roach hesitates.

  Rivin narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie.”

  “He shouldn’t get all the credit…” the girl mutters beneath her breath. “Fine. An ol’ friend of mine called dibs but all that matters is that it’s mine now.”

  “Yours?”

  “By inheritance.”

  “Inheritance?”

  “Conquership!”

  Rivin pauses. Tilts his head. “You.. stole this place?”

  “Not stole. Inherited.”

  “From who?”

  “Unmentionable. Like I said, all that matters is that it’s mine now.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Rivin clenches his jaw and furrows his brows but doesn’t press, instead nodding his head towards the slim and terrible walkway. “That where we’re headed then?”

  “Those eyes again,” she muses, “yeah, let’s go!”

  She darts off ahead to lead him along the crumbling path, high above a city still alive with echoes. Beneath them the rest of the world fills in by shifting into narrower streets of cluttered but beautiful brick homes swarming with quaint citizens, many are draped in finery and decadence but once the illusion glitches Rivin can see the reality underneath.

  Devastation.

  Glimpses of bone crushed beneath rubble and frame. In a blink it is revealed only to be the scorched ruins of an ancient graveyard.

  “We’ll miss the gates, but you’ll catch the final act,” the girl informs him, jumping over a break in the path.

  Rivin doesn’t understand her. Doesn’t understand anything right now. It feels as though they've entered another world entirely. They don't belong. Yet as Rivin watches Roach twirl too close to the edge, braid whipping out over the drop— he thinks that perhaps it’s only him that doesn't belong.

  As they continue further up the path, Rivin notices that the air has begun to change. He feels the ground shake, tremoring from the vicious blow of something mighty. The scent of smoke grows stronger but the world remains quiet as the people below begin to scramble.

  It’s over an hour of back-breaking climbing and leaping before Rivin sees a black cloak again, followed quickly by red. Two soldiers dart through the streets, dodging civilians trapped in their path. They appear to be headed towards the same place and Rivin realizes where exactly that is not a moment too late.

  Once again, breath is a thing he’s forgotten how to do on his own.

  There's a vast opening in the architecture that hugs cracked mosaic floors, a marble temple in disrepair, fused into a cliff face and webbed with ornate decals that glint like molten gold. Beams shaped in a familiar ritualistic stance — a woman hoisting a bowl to a sky. Finally and at the very center, a figure engulfed in pure white light stands with hardened fists and a bowed head.

  Rivin would recognize that visor anywhere.

  “It’s him.” His realization is the breath he needs.

  The Pale Knight. Only, not exactly.

  He’s clad in finer armour threaded with streaks of pulsing violet, gauntlets rigged with glowing amber orbs split into fractals and cupping the pommel of a massive slate blade. The visor is sharper and hides the face beneath completely, slanted open only to reveal two searing opalescent eyes. They’re not even looking at him but Rivin can feel them.

  The Knight also dons a cape the colour of ichor, deep red and ridged with fine white thread, it catches the breeze to plume like wings when the doors to the temple burst open.

  The heat of the sun is growing unbearable quickly but he can’t help but stop to watch.

  “Your friend!”

  “Not my friend,” he hisses.

  Roach is splayed upon a jutting out rock now, draped over the height with her hands cupping her eyes. “It’s getting good now. Watch, watch!”

  Rivin moves closer to her side, squints and shields his vision as the battle commences.

  From the temple, out steps light entirely absent of form — it is not human. Merely a halo of energy. A pulse of something zapping out the doorway as chaotic as lightening. The Knight launches forward, flashing across the tile to clash with the flare, the lights converging as the world falls away.

  The collision is cataclysmic and while Rivin cannot see them fight, the temple begins to collapse in around them. The path itself shakes and the wind picks up like it’s just been spat from hurt lungs. From the beam, a single voice screeches through reality.

  Blood. Blood. The blood is thick —

  “WE. WILL. NOT. FORGET.”

  Rivin’s heart twitches tight in his chest.

  There's context here that outlives everything. History that settles too heavy on his bones. It's chaos. A world living when it shouldn't be.

  I remember that smell— We remember..

  The Knight is very suddenly vaulted across the clearing, shattering a nearby spire. From the rubble, it rises again, pluming with what could only be described as steam or cloud remembered wrong.

  On the opposite side the bolt of energy has materialized into something almost man-like; it hovers a few feet above the ground, cupped by smoke and rising fire before it sends a mighty kick into one of the feminine effigies — the torso breaks off completely and the golden idol hurtles towards the soldier. It doesn’t duck out of the way, merely charges right back and the figure explodes into crushed marble.

  Before the dust have even cleared, the two beings are locked into vicious battle once more.

  “This is my favourite part,” Roach mutters.

  Another burst of cracking lightening before the Pale Knight ascends, launching into the air with one hand outstretched— It’s missing the other one.

  There’s no one else present. Citizens. Red. Black. Gold. It’s all gone again. Nothing but the two wrapped in battle. The terrible beacon of tragedy replaying.

  “WE WILL NOT FORGIVE!”

  The world fell once more into darkness — no, not fell. Light was stolen. Wrenched away. All to collect at the center of the Knight’s palm. It pulsed there like a heartbeat.

  We have done this all before.

  Everything is still again. Time has stopped. Nothing but the throb of the sun in the palm of a hand. And then it burst. Devoured.

  I remember.

  Blinded, Rivin strains even through the sting to see — to understand.

  My arms, his arms, still feel the ache —

  He might spy the beginning of a deep fissure brewing in the ground but then the world is enveloped and he has to pinch his eyes closed before they scorch. Tears gather at the corners, spilling quickly down his cheeks and when he can see again the temple stands once more unburdened.

  Peace had returned. The dream has reset.

  I can still feel it.

  “What was that?” Rivin sounds like he’s just broken water.

  Roach doesn’t answer right away. She's standing again, hands on her hips, grinning so wide her dimples look like pits. Her gazes flicks between Rivin and the temple. He waits. She rocks on the heels of her feet, throws a thumbs up.

  “It’s was for sure pretty cool.” She spins around and starts scampering up the cliff again.

  Rivin rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “It was pretty cool.”

  “Right? The light? All like boom! And what about that other guy? Fshaar— crack!” She smacks her hands together for emphasis.

  Rivin might smile. “You sound like you’ve seen it a thousand times before.”

  “At least fifty,” she flashes all the fingers on one hand. “It’s mostly the same as I remember.”

  “Mostly?”

  Roach shrugs but there’s a furrow in her brow Rivin might not have noticed days ago. “Don’t trust anything.” Her voice is almost sullen. “Not even the memories.” He wonders if she’s speaking for someone else again or if the words are her own. Rivin flexes his hands, watches her eyes flit away just before the performance resumes. “There—”

  He interrupts, “what’s changed?”

  She keeps moving higher, “bits and pieces get left behind sometimes. Not everything comes back when the sun does. There’s a few regulars missing.” Roach skirts a slim platform and then darts over a three-foot gap in the lane. “Notice how you could see the rubble where all the houses were? Used to be you couldn’t see through.”

  “It’s all ruin, right? None of it’s real?”

  “What’s your definition of real?”

  Rivin thinks, leaps after her, lands surprisingly well. “Can you touch them?”

  “These are actually very difficult questions.”

  “Can you feel them?”

  “Remember when I told you that I was more of a show-kinda person?”

  Rivin frowns. “You’re usually so wordy. You’re not going to show me anyway.”

  She sends a sly smirk over one shoulder. “Disappointed?”

  Should he lie? “A little.”

  They walk for hours — two and half to be blinking red and exact — straddling that terrible cliff. Often time batthings flush from cracks in the walls looking more alike to rats with wings, webbing and tail alike streaked with fine silver.

  From this height, he can see the gate again — watches as the ghost of it is caved in by something massive from the other side. Red and black swarm like roaches upon the city streets. Roach skips on ahead, doesn’t look until it’s time to prepare for darkness once more. She finds his hand each time the world goes black.

  Sometimes, they scale rickety bridges, newer than the civilization roaming and ruinous below, sheets or tin or wooden slats or both, and eventually the world begins to narrow again, sucking in like a last breath. The path streaks into cliff face, splashed by more shadow than light.

  It’s not long before the tunnel forks into two sections, sandstone and gravel warping into a path that leads further down. The other is wider and gaping outward, walls warbled with tight ripples. Roach doesn’t pause — appears to make a distinct effort to avoid even looking at the path leading deeper. Her nose is tipped right.

  “The other route, I take it?”

  “Mhm,” she quickly follows her line of site, doesn’t bother with providing context.

  Her voice echoes in his head. Not ready yet.

  Rivin glances back once more before he follows quickly after her. There’s a quiet longing stirring beneath the wounds on his belly. He grits his teeth. Wills himself — once more — to think of home and all that lie waiting.

  Roach’s fingers skim the wall, feet kicking up a rhythm when she begins to whistle. The further they go in, the louder the song echoes back. It wraps around him as gently as the warmth he’s left behind.

  By the time exhaustion begins to pale him and Rivin clutches his side, he notices something else: the air is growing damp again and the wind is starting to sing the same tune she’s been whistling. Like it remembers her too.

  Something in his ribs keeps thrumming. He’s not used to following. Not used to feeling so small. Rivin thought he’d hate it but she skips through the shadow like someone who’s seen gods erupt and he can’t look away.

  He finds that while he misses the magic, the shine and the glow— that somehow it’s the girl rather than the Knight who steals the sun from the sky.

  Only she keeps it in her teeth, in a smirk thrown over one shoulder.

  I know how this ends. Not again. Not again.