Period of Draconium, 14th Rotation
Outer World Library – Inter-Realm Nexus, Interstice
It hit her all at once.
Reality fractured, folding in on itself like a wet cloth being wrung dry. Her body seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, suspended in a space that was neither fully here nor fully gone. Even with her eyes squeezed shut, impossible colours flashed behind her lids—hues that had no names, no place in any spectrum she had ever known. Stars bled molten trails across her perception, and time splintered, twisting and recoiling like gauze caught in a relentless storm.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped.
Her boots struck solid ground with a sharp, resonant clack.
Vertigo surged through her in rolling waves, each swell threatening to drag her under. She staggered, muscles taut and trembling, but planted her heels firmly, anchoring herself against the chaotic tide that clawed at her balance and scraped across every sense.
She did not dare to look. For a long moment, she stayed frozen, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the fragile sanctuary of darkness behind her lids.
The thought of what might lie beyond that barrier filled her with a tension she could neither name nor shake. She was unprepared—and unwilling—to confront it.
Around her, the air vibrated with a presence that was both alien and strangely familiar, like a face half-remembered in a dream.
The only word that surfaced in her mind that could encompass it seemed to be life. Every inhalation seemed to carry it, dense and pressing, as though the very air insisted on filling her lungs with its weight. It rolled over her in waves, leaving her suspended between extremes: unbearably small and yet impossibly vast, as if she were at once a single drop and an entire ocean.
She drew in a shuddering breath, forcing air into her lungs, then let it out slowly—repeating the process until the vertigo that still gripped her eased and the rhythm of her heart steadied. Then, with deliberate care, she opened her eyes.
Light struck her eyes like a blade—harsh and merciless. It seared across her retinas, wringing moisture that streamed down her cheeks. She raised a hand to shield her gaze, but managed to resist the temptation to retreat back into darkness. Gradually, shapes began to emerge—jagged and indistinct at first, then slowly coalescing into recognisable forms.
All around her, portals fractured the air in cascades of brilliant, almost blinding light. From each rift spilled a new wave of arrivals—bodies staggering, tumbling, some collapsing outright—accompanied by startled shouts, ragged laughter, and muffled curses.
The low, resonant roar of countless converging multitudes pressed in from every direction, a chaotic tide of motion and noise that made her head spin. Her senses struggled to keep up, but she had no choice; she braced herself and tried to make sense of it all.
She had barely begun to orient herself when a portal tore open less than a metre away.
The flare of raw energy hit like a blow to the chest, punching the air from her lungs. For one stunned heartbeat, she forgot how to move, her body caught between paralysis and panic. Then the familiar surge of fight-or-flight flooded through her—skin prickling, senses snapping into painful clarity, muscles strung taut.
A moment later, a figure stumbled through, pitching forward with all the gracelessness of someone on the verge of collapse. Reflex took over before thought could intervene—her hand shot out, catching him just in time.
A sharp grunt tore from her lips as his weight crashed into her lean frame. Her knees threatened to buckle, her muscles straining to compensate, but she held firm. Breath came in jagged gasps, arms burning as she anchored herself and the stranger, refusing to let either of them hit the ground.
He was hunched, swaying, breath rasping in rapid bursts—the tell-tale aftermath of a rough crossing. Inter-dimensional vertigo, the body rebelling against the violent disjunction of portal travel.
She knew the sensation all too well; lingering aftershocks of her own passage still prickled. Yet what she endured was nothing compared to the torment wracking the man before her.
A faint green glow shimmered at her fingertips, seeping into him where her hands made contact. She wove her magic carefully, threading it through his disoriented body like a gentle, warm current, coaxing his nervous system back toward equilibrium. Gradually, his breathing steadied, though the tension lingered, and faint tremors still ran along his limbs.
"Uh…" Her voice rasped as she tried to speak. She hesitated, heat prickling along the back of her neck. "Are you… feeling any better? Can you stand, or do you… need me to keep holding you?" The sound scraped, strained, and ugly. She winced, wishing the words had never left her lips.
If he noticed the wrecked state of her voice, he gave no sign. A low, wordless sound rumbled out of him, somewhere between a grunt and a hum; not quite acknowledgment, not quite dismissal.
Yet he remained hunched against her, his weight still pressed heavily into her side. So she continued.
Magic flowed from her in steady currents, threading deliberately through the rigid knots of his muscles. She coaxed the tension apart, strand by strand, easing tremors and softening the painful stiffness locked beneath his skin. At first, the changes were almost imperceptible, subtle as frost melting beneath morning light. Then, little by little, his body began to loosen beneath her touch.
His shoulders sagged. Fingers that had clenched hard enough to leave crescent marks slowly unfurled. The taut lines drawn along his back softened under the careful guidance of her magic.
When she was certain the worst had passed and that he could keep his balance without her support, she slowly loosened her hold. Stepping back, she left a cautious buffer of space between them.
He swayed once, subtly, as though testing the ground beneath his feet. Her attention never left him. She watched every shift of his posture, every minute adjustment, until at last he straightened fully, standing on his own without wavering.
Only then did she allow herself a measured breath.
Yet the sigh stalled halfway in her throat as her gaze lifted over him, truly taking in his appearance for the first time.
At his full height, he was imposing, well over two metres tall.
Among Origin-Dwellers, such stature was hardly unusual. Augmentations for strength, agility, and endurance were commonplace. Yet whatever made him formidable could not be reduced to engineered biology or sheer scale alone.
His shadow settled over her like a mantle, and though reason insisted she was not small, nearly one hundred and eighty centimetres herself, brushing the upper bounds of the female average, his presence diminished her all the same.
Golden curls spilled to his waist in unruly abundance, gathered back only by a length of twisted wire, as though restraining them had been an afterthought. Several strands had already escaped, tumbling forward to frame his face and soften the austere angles of his features.
Portal-light rippled through the coils of his hair, turning them molten. His skin, warm and honey-burnished beneath the same radiance, seemed almost to carry its own glow, a living warmth against the cold cerulean light bleeding from the surrounding rifts.
Her heart lurched as he inclined his head, his gaze settling on hers with what felt like unnerving accuracy. The veil she wore, crafted to conceal every contour of her face, suddenly felt woefully inadequate. Beneath the weight of his attention, it may as well have been transparent.
His thick dark-blond brows drew together slightly, and beneath them his eyes, amethyst and softly luminous beneath the shifting portal light, studied her from beneath long dark lashes. Steady and arresting, they held her motionless beneath their regard.
Then, as though the moment had never existed at all, the tension vanished.
The crease between his brows eased, and a smile spread across his face, bright and utterly unguarded. Dimples surfaced on his cheeks, softening his features, while the freckles scattered across the contours of his face and the slightly crooked bridge of his nose caught the light like flecks of copper.
He was—
With the rising number of portals opening, the crowd around them had grown without her noticing, swelling in uneasy increments until it pressed in from all sides. Elbows clipped her ribs. Shoulders brushed past with indifferent force, carried on the tide of bodies and urgency. The thin pocket of space she had been standing in collapsed in an instant, swallowed by the press of movement and heat.
She stumbled forward and collided against him.
A shiver raced down her spine, sharp and insistent, and every nerve lit with unease. When she tried to step back, there was nowhere to go. The throng closed ranks, compressing the world until she was pinned against him by the sheer density of bodies and movement.
He reacted at once, turning into the crush. His broad frame angled outward, absorbing the force of the crowd to shield her from the worst of it.
Air slipped between them, cool and sudden, brushing her skin like release after suffocation. Only then did she realize she had been holding her breath.
"Uh—hey." His voice thrummed through the narrow space between them, low enough that it was felt more than heard. She tilted her head, trying to catch a clearer look at him, but the press of bodies and the stark difference in their height made it a difficult task.
He scratched at the back of his neck, the motion awkward, almost boyish. A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. "Thanks for, you know… taking care of me back there. Could've gotten... messy without your help."
His eyes swept the crowd, taking in the jostling bodies and the shifting glow of the portals, then returned to her. The grin wavered. His brows drew together.
"We should probably move. Looks like we're right in the middle of the portal drop zone, my dear Va—" He paused, coughed lightly into his fist. "—my lady."
His mouth tightened, then a tentative smile returned. "If you want, I can get us somewhere less crowded. Unless… uh, crowds are your thing?"
Her reply never quite made it out cleanly.
Her throat seized. Words snagged behind clenched teeth while irritation flared sharp and immediate along her windpipe. She curled her fists tight, nails pressing crescents into her palms, jaw locked against the cough trying to force its way free.
For a moment she simply endured it—shoulders rigid, breath stuttering—until the constriction eased. Then a rough rasp slipped out, scraped raw enough to make her wince even as she spoke.
"Yes. I… would appreciate that."
Even to her own ears, the sound felt frayed at the edges. She only hoped the surrounding din swallowed the worst of it.
He blinked, then let out a short laugh. "Right then. Follow me, my lady. I promise not to get us lost. But…" his gaze flicked over the press of bodies, "…you may want to stay close."
He turned and began to thread through the throng, moving with a practiced awareness—shoulders angled just so, elbows shifting in subtle, measured corrections that parted the press of people without force or friction. Every few paces, he glanced back to ensure she was still with him.
When the crush thickened, he slowed. Without quite touching her, he adjusted his position at her side, lifting an arm just enough to create a corridor in the chaos—an unspoken barrier set between her and the press of bodies.
Protective, but not overbearingly so.
Gradually, the throng thinned. The air opened around them, and the space revealed itself—vast, cavernous, like the interior of an ancient colosseum.
Obsidian marble stretched beneath their feet, polished to a mirror-black sheen that almost swallowed light. Towering columns encircled the arena, each one carved with sigils that pulsed faintly, as though molten light flowed within their grooves. Above, the ceiling dissolved into a diffuse radiance, where drifting motes shimmered like captive stars caught in a slow tide.
Between the pillars stood colossal golden portals—far greater than the erratic rifts that had ferried them here—ringing the arena in a blazing circumference. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, each an aperture to another world, another reality entirely.
Once they were well clear of the drop-zone, he brought them to a stop. He tilted his head back, eyes widening as a low whistle slipped between his teeth.
"See that?" he said, gesturing toward the hall. He pushed a few stray curls from his face, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not bad, is it? I can't say I've ever worked with anything like it before. Hm…"
His gaze shifted to her, lavender eyes alight with curiosity. "So… what do you make of all this, my lady?"
She parted her lips, breath catching on the edge of a reply, when movement overhead seized her attention.
The air above them shimmered, then wavered as though reality had been brushed by an unseen hand. In the space of a heartbeat, a towering holographic projection blossomed into existence, spilling pale light across the hall.
A lilac-haired woman emerged from within the light, looking down at them with golden eyes that burned with a manic brilliance.
The woman's skin gleamed with a lustre that seemed carved from moonlight. A golden bodysuit clung to her athletic frame, every seam precision-tailored to suggest strength held in disciplined restraint.
Her hair rose in jagged lilac spikes, threaded with snapping arcs of lightning that hissed and coiled like restless serpents. They formed a crown both regal and untamed. Her gaze swept the hall, molten gold and predatory, as if measuring every soul it touched. When that gaze passed over Valeryon, it brushed her spine with ice, drawing a sharp, involuntary shiver.
Then the woman waved, as though greeting long-lost friends.
"Welcome, Trainees," she declared, arms spread wide. "To the 200th Round of Inter-Galactic Origin Training!"
The announcement rolled through the cavernous hall, its echo swallowing the restless hum of the assembled crowd. Shoulder to shoulder, Origin-dwellers from all thirteen galaxies pressed together, their anticipation crackling through the air like static before a storm.
"I am Agent Melody Skarsgard." She gave an exaggerated bow. "But you may refer to me as Agent Mel." A deliberate wink followed.
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the crowd, suspended somewhere between amusement and apprehension.
Straightening with a smirk, she continued. "I will be your guide through this programme. Let's keep things simple. There's no need to prolong this unnecessarily."
Agent Mel raised her arm, drawing every gaze toward it.
Embedded seamlessly into the smooth skin of her wrist was a stone, flawless as polished marble. It pulsed with a gentle blue radiance, light rippling outward in rhythmic waves that bathed her hand in an otherworldly glow. When she tapped it with a fingertip, the light flared briefly, casting arcs of brilliance across her golden suit.
"First," she said, "the Celestial Receiver."
Valeryon lowered her gaze to her wrist, where an identical device lay seamlessly embedded beneath the skin. Its surface was smooth and faintly luminous, cool against her touch. When she mirrored Agent Mel's gesture, it responded with a pulse of light. A holographic screen unfurled before her eyes, spilling streams of data in a cascading flood too vast to take in at once.
"This little gem," Agent Mel continued, "is your lifeline. Your sole connection to Mission Central while you are stationed in the Outer Worlds. Communication, however, flows only one way."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the assembly. At first faint, like wind threading through dry leaves, it quickly gathered momentum as unease travelled from cluster to cluster of Trainees. Valeryon felt it resonate through her own body, a tightening band around her chest that constricted each breath. She shifted on her feet, as though movement alone might relieve the pressure.
Before further doubt could take root, Agent Mel's voice cut cleanly through the rising noise, sharp and deliberate. "My dear Trainees, there's nothing for you to worry about. We will provide all necessary updates. All that is expected of you is that you consult your Interface regularly. The current page is set to the Outer Worlds Library—OWL, for short. Within it, you will find every Outer World currently open for entry. Each is catalogued and described for your convenience."
She lifted her chin, her tone carrying the practiced ease of someone who had delivered these instructions many times before. "When you have chosen, proceed to the corresponding portal. Step through when you are ready, and your journey will begin."
Valeryon's eyes flicked to the holographic screen before her. A cascade of worlds shimmered across its surface, each accompanied by a terse description—fragments hinting at vastness beyond comprehension.
She had only ever seen such visions in curated holo-programmes, spectacles designed for passive wonder, never for touch. They had always felt distant, artificial. Yet here they were, catalogued in precise detail, waiting not for her gaze but for her step. The unreachable had been drawn within arm's length.
Agent Mel's playful smirk returned as she snapped her fingers, a spark of electricity leaping between them.
"Ah, yes. One more thing," she said. "As you enter these worlds, you will assume the identities of natives. To prevent unnecessary chaos, a Ban will be placed upon you, preventing any mention of the Origin. Your past, your life here… all of it is off-limits. But don't worry. Once you are fully immersed in your new role, you won't even notice it. It's just a minor inconvenience, really."
The thought of stepping into a world where she could finally live as others did sent a shiver through Valeryon—equal parts exhilaration and dread. She had spent her life observing from a distance, studying interactions through screens, cataloguing emotion like an outsider mapping weather. But she had never been within it. Now she would be required to become it.
Agent Mel straightened, her holographic form shimmering with iridescent light. "Well, that is all from us. Good luck, Trainees. May the Celestials shine upon you."
With a final, theatrical bow, her image dissolved into a cascade of scintillating particles, scattering like starlight before vanishing entirely.
For a heartbeat, the hall hung in suspended silence. Then anticipation and trepidation seeped through the room, settling over those present like a tangible, electric charge.
It did not take long at all for the stillness to be shattered.
The hall erupted into motion and sound—voices spilling into excited chatter and nervous laughter, tangled with the shuffle of feet and the rustle of fabric. Trainees clustered in tight knots, trading theories, weighing choices, speculating on what lay beyond the portals. Their energy ricocheted through the vaulted space, rebounding off polished floors and high stone arches until the air itself seemed to vibrate with it.
Valeryon remained still. Slowly, she exhaled, centring herself, and turned her attention back to the glowing interface suspended before her.
The OWL screen unfurled like an infinite scroll of possibilities. Names of worlds cascaded downward, each marked with symbols: a red teardrop denoted bloodlines—worlds entered by her ancestors; a golden sword indicated combat-driven missions; a golden pentacle represented those with missions steeped in magic; a golden skull warned of death-heavy undertakings; and finally, a sparkling green tick marked those most compatible with her abilities.
She watched the shifting array of titles and symbols, each one a promise, a temptation, a door left half-open. The weight of choice pressed against her thoughts—thrilling, intoxicating, and no less suffocating for it.
Her finger drifted toward the red teardrop. Something in her chest tightened, a sense of inevitability coiling like a thread already woven long before her arrival. She hesitated only a breath before tapping.
The catalogue shrank, filtering away countless entries until only one remained: A Sorcerer's Legacy.
Beside the title hovered its icons: a pentacle, a skull, and a tick.
Her pulse stuttered.
That meant every predecessor who had undertaken the IGOT—the Valeryons, the Florians, and even those beyond the Great Clans—had chosen this same path.
Why?
What force within this world made it so singularly compelling that generation after generation returned to it?
The interface unfurled in response, blossoming into a dense tapestry of text and imagery. Training objectives first: structured goals to be completed within the world, followed by a biography of a native resident.
The first mission: graduate from an academy of sorcery. The second: die of old age. Beyond that, the Narrative, rich with cultural notes and anecdotes, a portrait of a life lived.
Valeryon hesitated.
Not merely at the density of the text, but at everything pressing in around her—the weight of arrival, of expectation, of the path already narrowing beneath her feet. The words refused to settle into meaning, slipping past comprehension no matter how many times she reread them.
"Which world are you considering, my lady?"
Valeryon startled, turning sharply. Her heart gave a hard, involuntary jolt before settling into a wary rhythm. Her shoulders tightened on instinct, a coil drawn taut, then slowly eased as recognition caught up.
The man from earlier.
The amethyst depths of his eyes anchored her attention, pulling her focus so completely that the edges of the room seemed to soften into a gentle, almost imperceptible blur.
With him standing so close and nothing else to distract her, details she had overlooked before became apparent.
Polished black leather overalls clung to his frame, catching the ambient light in muted glints. Fine runes traced the seams, their purpose likely protective in nature.
Beneath them hung a faded pink shirt, loose and worn thin with age. It was threadbare, its fabric marked by soot and scorched edges, pierced in places by small, irregular tears. Each mark recorded a life lived with intent, not always in comfort, nor untouched by hardship, yet marked by unwavering dedication nonetheless.
Valeryon's gaze drifted, settling on the man's forearms where old scars webbed across muscle in deep jagged lines.
In the Origin, where magic and technology had long since fused into seamless systems of near-miraculous restoration, such blemishes were an anachronism. Even the simplest restorative devices were typically enough to erase injuries like these without effort.
What kind of circumstances could leave scars like that? From their appearance, it was almost as though the wounds had been left to heal on their own, untouched by any medical intervention.
"Sorry, was that too forward?" His voice pulled her back from where her thoughts had wandered.
Valeryon's throat tightened. Though they had already exchanged words, conversation still felt like foreign terrain.
"Have you… tried filtering your options?" she asked.
Her voice came out rough, strained. She forced the words into a careful cadence, striving for control, though each syllable still betrayed the damage she worked so hard to conceal. However, even as the effort of speaking pulled at her throat, she surprised herself with how easily the words came. She had not expected conversing to be so… not exactly easy… but well, it was not the impossibly steep hurdle she had made it out to be in her head.
He chuckled, a low, self-deprecating sound. "Unfortunately, I am hopeless with this sort of thing. If it is not too much trouble, would you mind showing me how?"
She nodded and demonstrated how to do so.
His large, scarred hands moved awkwardly over the delicate controls, clumsy as though they had been built for force rather than finesse. His unfamiliarity with such a basic, intuitive interface puzzled her. As far as she knew, even the most remote colonies used some form of standard technology. Perhaps he came from a colony that resisted modern integration, where the old ways still prevailed?
"You have been incredibly helpful. Thank you, my dearest lady," he said, his smile widening, deepening the dimples creasing his cheeks.
Valeryon inclined her head. She was about to return to her own selections when his voice stopped her again.
"What did you filter for?"
"Ancestry."
"Ah. Ancestry…" His smile faded. "I think I would prefer to avoid those worlds."
After becoming accustomed to his smile at its brightest, she found the shift unsettling. After a brief pause, she said quietly, "You may be able to remove them. Double-tap the icon. That should filter them out."
"Really? Let me see…" His grin returned. "It worked! Thank you."
"You are welcome," she murmured.
"There are still so many choices left," he sighed. "Which one are you entering, my dear lady?"
Valeryon hesitated. The endless possibilities loomed before her, daunting in their vastness. Compared to navigating the infinite unknown alone, following in her predecessors' footsteps suddenly seemed far less burdensome.
Resigned to her fate, she answered at last. "A Sorcerer's Legacy."
"A Sorcerer's Legacy? Let me check…" Laurel replied, his fingers fumbling across the interface. As he scrolled through the information, something seemed to catch his attention. He paused, eyes widening briefly before a delighted smile spread across his face. "Well, that's incredibly convenient."
She stiffened when his gaze returned to her.
"Would you like to form a team with me?" he asked.
"Form a team? What do you mean?"
"Check your Interface. It should have notified you as well."
She looked. A new notification had indeed appeared:
[Increased harmonious interaction between Trainees has been noted. Would you like to form a team with Trainee Laurel Vesalius?]
[Accept] — [Reject]
"What does forming a team entail?"
"Beyond the obvious? I'm not sure," he admitted, "But Mission Central would not suggest it without reason, right? It seems worth exploring."
She considered that. Mission Central had never been known to issue idle prompts; each one, however cryptic, tended to unfold into consequence sooner or later. A team might mean advantage: shared risk, mutual coverage, accelerated progression. Safety in numbers, perhaps. Or something more complicated entirely.
Yet uncertainty lingered, a fine static beneath her thoughts. What did partnership mean here, beyond the abstract label? What obligations would it bind them to? And was the advantage worth the risk of aligning herself with someone she scarcely knew?
Her gaze flicked toward him, then away again when she found his expectant eyes already fixed on her. She lifted a hand, hesitating over the two choices for a heartbeat before finally committing to one.
Heat rushed to her face as laughter burst from him, warm and unguarded.
"Excellent. I look forward to working with you, my dearest Lady Valeryon."
He bowed playfully, with a small flourish of his hand and a foot slightly pulled back behind the other, cues that even in their casualness gave away his origin as from the Draconis Galaxy.
She responded to him with an equally formal gesture—she did not bow, but she pressed an open palm to her chest and inclined her head as was traditional in the Orcus Galaxy. "I look forward to working with you as well, Laurel Vesalius."
With the formalities out of the way, they discussed the matter further and ultimately decided to proceed with Sorcerer's Legacy, having confirmed, much to Laurel's satisfaction, that none of his predecessors had ventured into this world.
As they prepared to move once more, Laurel hesitantly extended a hand toward her. "Here, uh… so we don't get separated."
Valeryon pursed her lips, blinking at the large palm offered to her as her heart began hammering once more. The gesture felt strangely intimate, especially from someone she barely knew. Perhaps people of the Draconis Galaxy were simply more casual with one another than those of the Orcus Galaxy.
After a brief hesitation, she placed her gloved hand in his.
As their fingers intertwined, she marvelled at the unexpected coolness radiating from his skin, even through the barrier of her gloves. His grip was firm yet gentle as he guided her forward with surprising ease, sending a strange flutter through her stomach.
"Careful, my dear lady," he murmured, steering her away from a column she had nearly walked into in her distraction.
Heat rushed to her face. She forced her focus back to navigating as they wove through the crowd. Their destination loomed above the thirtieth portal from the left and the eightieth from the right. Glowing script announced its name: A Sorcerer's Legacy.
Laurel exhaled. "Here it is."
"We should… enter."
"Yes, my lady."
Valeryon took a steadying breath and stepped through. She braced herself for the usual disorienting rush of portal travel, but it never came. Instead, a pulse of energy flared at her wrist. She opened her eyes to find herself within what appeared to be the portal tunnel, surrounded by bright, swirling blue light.
She glanced to the side and felt a flicker of relief when she saw Laurel still beside her, looking at her with an expression of uncertainty.
Wanting to use her right hand to access her Celestial Receiver, she suddenly realised she was still holding his hand. A wave of embarrassment washed over her, but she suppressed it and gently withdrew her hand as casually as possible before accessing her Celestial Interface.
The Interface, which had previously displayed the OWL, was now replaced by a screen presenting three choices: Before the Narrative, During the Narrative, and After the Narrative.
Valeryon glanced at Laurel. "It seems we need to decide on a time period to enter."
Laurel frowned. "A time period? How strange. Which one do you think we should go for?"
"Did you read the Narrative?" she asked hopefully.
With everything that had happened, and with how bothersome it had seemed at the time, she had never gone back to read it after her initial failed attempt.
All she knew was that it was a world in which the natives spent a great deal of time studying at a magical academy, embarking on fantastical adventures, making allies, battling enemies, and learning lost forms of ancient magic. She had not even paid enough attention to determine whether the subject of the Narrative was male or female. Had she known this would happen, she probably would have been more diligent.
Laurel shook his head. "No. Did you?"
"No... I thought it would be a waste of time, since we would learn about the world by immersing ourselves in it regardless."
Her response made Laurel burst into laughter, lighting up his features. "You make an excellent point, my lady. It really would not matter in the end. I will be fine with whichever one you choose."
She took a moment to think before making her decision. "Before the Narrative. Even if it does not matter, we would be least affected by our lack of knowledge there."
"Agreed. Shall we then, my dear?"
Valeryon inclined her head.
Together, they selected the first option.
A blinding flash of light enveloped them, followed by a strangely disorienting sensation reminiscent of the sickening lurch of missing a step on a staircase.
Then, everything went dark.