Dorian Aldwyne walked home with his coat pulled tight, the drizzle stitching cold lines into his collar. The streetlights flickered behind the mist, painting the world in a soft, uncertain glow. He liked this time of night—quiet, hollow. No eyes. No need to be anyone.

  When he reached his door, he stopped.

  A basket sat there—beautifully arranged, resting at his feet like it had always belonged. He blinked. Hesitated. Maybe a mistake?

  He crouched, checking for a note. There was one, tucked between two sprigs of dried lavender.

  "To energize and rest well, a present from your neighbor <3"

  A heart.

  He let out a quiet laugh, half a scoff. A weird gesture. Kind, maybe? Unsettling? People didn’t usually notice him, let alone offer gifts. He’d heard someone new had moved in. Still... this was unexpected.

  He glanced down the hallway. Empty. Shrugging off the unease, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The apartment greeted him with its usual silence—soft light, the low hum of the heater, the rain threading patterns on the windows. He set the basket down on the sofa. Something about it tugged at him—subtle, but insistent. He should’ve ignored it. He was good at ignoring things. But this time, he didn’t.

  Inside were objects he didn’t recognize: small stones etched with symbols, threads knotted around smooth glass beads, three wax candles, a trio of cracked mirrors… and beneath it all, a folded page. Instructions. A ritual.

  The paper felt oddly rough—dry like bark, yet brittle. The inked symbols looped across the surface in black arcs, bending unnaturally at the edges. They seemed to move if he stared too long.

  The instructions were simple:

  Light the three candles.

  Place the mirrors facing each other.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Pour the dust from the smallest vial into the air between them.

  Speak the verse exactly as written.

  He read it twice. It had the air of a prank—or performance art. Maybe someone thought he’d appreciate the theatrics. But even as he considered tossing it, his hands moved on their own.

  Three candle stubs of dark wax, smelling faintly of burnt honey. Three cracked mirrors, their reflections warped and dull. A tiny vial, sealed with a single black string.

  He lit the candles. The flames flickered—then froze, utterly still. He arranged the mirrors edge to edge on the low table, each facing another. Their broken surfaces stretched into infinity, spiraling inward like fractured tunnels.

  He unsealed the vial. The dust shimmered unnaturally, twisting the candlelight into impossible hues. He tipped it between the mirrors—and it hung there, suspended, drifting like it was waiting.

  The air thickened. Colder. The room receded. The rain grew distant, like it belonged to another life.

  Dorian picked up the page. His fingers trembled. His voice sounded too loud in the silence.

  > I have come as called.

  Let the gate answer.

  Let the veil break.

  Let me pass through.

  As the final line left his mouth, the letters on the page rose—smoke made solid, glowing softly in the still air. And then a second voice joined him. Not an echo. Not his own. It spoke with him, perfectly synchronized—lower, laced with memory and grief. The sound crawled down his spine like a forgotten name.

  He faltered. But the voice didn’t. It finished the ritual. And the world fractured.

  The flames surged upward—reaching, clawing, colors shifting too fast to track. Violet. Black. Gold. And something that had no name. The walls peeled away. A metallic shriek split the air as the mirrors cracked—not shattered, but opened, revealing flickering glimpses of somewhere else: a rain-soaked forest... a sky torn by storm... and at the center, a figure lying still in the mud, face hidden, uniform soaked through.

  The temperature dropped. Blood welled in his ears. The room swam.

  And then the floor vanished.

  He fell—not down, but out. Through darkness. Through memory. Through something vast and waiting.

  And in the silence that followed, the second voice whispered—soft and almost kind:

  "You made it through."

  The next thing he knew, he was lying face-up in a forest. Dark trees loomed above him, their twisted branches clawing at a storm-ridden sky. Rain poured down in cold sheets, soaking through his clothes, stinging his skin. His chest heaved. His body ached, as if he had been dropped from a great height—or pulled through something not meant for human passage.

  What the hell is this? How did I get here?

  Panic surged. Then confusion. Then fear. A cascade of emotion slammed into him all at once.

  He pushed himself up, legs shaking. His hands were pale. Unfamiliar. Even his breath felt strange in his lungs.

  And then, in the distance—light. A pale glow, flickering through the trees.

  He ran. He didn’t think. He ran.

  Branches clawed at his arms. Mud splashed underfoot. The forest blurred around him as he sprinted toward the light, gasping, heart hammering.

  And then he broke through the treeline. The rain still fell. But he barely noticed. Two moons hung above him—one silver, one blue—casting the world in an unearthly glow.

  Ahead stood a massive structure of stone and steel. Sharp angles. Towering spires. An academy. A military installation. Ancient. Imposing. And somehow... familiar.

  A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes. A memory surfaced. Not his. Not completely. A name. A purpose.

  He staggered back, clutching his head.

  Who am I? What is this place?

  Answers stirred just beyond reach, like verses buried in water, too faint to read and too loud to ignore. He blinked against the rain, against the ache in his chest, against the overwhelming sense that something was terribly wrong.

  He hadn’t stumbled into another world. He had been invited.