The world fell around him as he spun through an endless void, its crushing force ripping air from his body and suffocating him. He felt his eyes bulge, his stomach swirl, and his head pound as an invisible force pulled him through nothingness.

His thoughts swirled, questions whirling through his brain faster than he could focus on them. He wanted to scream and cry out and beg for it to stop, but his cries followed him into oblivion.

Then, just as it became too much, when he was sure this was his end, and he had no hope of surviving, a deafening rush of air stirred around him, his feet found solid ground, and his lungs took a deep and grateful breath.

He opened his eyes, regretting it immediately as images swirled; he bent over and wrenched, blinking water from his eyes as everything slowed its spiral, eventually returning to the normal static state Syril knew and loved.

As he looked at his new surroundings, confusion and panic howled through him like ice. Rather than the crowded school hallway, Syril found himself in the middle of his bedroom. His opened Worlds history textbook carelessly thrown on his unmade bed, a half-finished bowl of cereal sat by the window, and the laundry he’d been avoiding all week left unfolded on his desk.

The opened curtain by the window displayed the sprawling city skyline; the lights from hundreds of modest homes twinkled against the night sky.

He slapped himself. Had he dreamed it all? He tried to push down the dangerous hope rising within him.

A glance at the pocket watch confirmed the upsetting truth.

Icy misery pierced into him like a needle through the heart; it all had happened; there was no dream or figment of his incredible imagination, everything that had happened this night would forever be burned into his life’s story.

But how, in the name of the gods, had he just appeared in his room? Flashes of the night’s events jumbled his thoughts; nothing made sense; he was just a dumb kid for Vaanier sake.

Twelve hours ago, he was nervously cramming for his history exam; now, he was presumably a fugitive who had miraculously escaped a dozen or so guards, his brother was a murderer, and his uncle…

Syril’s eyes widened in horror. Where was his uncle?

He flung his bedroom door open and sprinted down the darkened hallway towards the study. His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, shaking the paintings and portraits with every bound.

He opened each door he passed; the bathroom was empty, Davion’s bedroom was still as immaculate as the day he left, and his uncle’s bedroom was equally as perfect – yet not a soul lay within it.

He left no stone unturned; even checking the linen closet, the decorative towels still sat neatly on the shelf.

Panic was coursing through him, and he felt a familiar sickly feeling rise in him. 

Rounding the corner of the hallway, he collided with a wall of boxes neatly stacked a few feet from the office’s door, causing both him and the boxes to fall to the floor. Frustration fired through him as mountains of papers, binders and maps crashed and scattered on the floor, tumbling into a disorganised mess.

His uncle had said that his office spring clean would only last a few days – yet here they were, weeks from when he started, and the clutter seemed to have grown. 

Rubbing his now throbbing head, he picked himself up and walked more cautiously, sure to take care not to step onto any important-looking documents or artifacts. There was only one room left to check, the office his uncle so often locked himself within; its door lay shut, but the light from within glowed through its cracks.

Syril had abandoned caution; his commotion in the hallway had thrown any hope of stealth out the window. Taking care to at least not crush any artifacts, Syril walked to the office door and tried to restrain the pleading hope building in his chest.

He carefully opened the door, the light from within momentarily blinding him.

It was a mess; a garbage dump had replaced its average level of organised chaos. Papers had been scattered carelessly across the carpeted floor; draws and closets lay open, and their contents were thrown into a careless pile in the middle of the floor.

The large wooden desk at the far end of the office was now a pile of planks and splinters; the mahogany bookshelf beside a broken window hadn’t fared much better.

Syril took a tentative step into the office; he couldn’t comprehend the chaos around him, more so that it confirmed a truth he’d been dreading; his uncle wasn’t here and likely dead or in custody by now. Cautiously he moved towards the ruined desk; documents and stationery haphazardly discarded around its edges.

A picture frame sitting amongst the rubble caught his attention, its glass was broken, but the picture had survived without a tear.

He picked it up, careful not to damage the photo on the shards of glass still attached to the frame.

He felt the catch in his stomach tighten; smiling up from the picture was a younger Davion, grinning into the camera as he gently held a pudgy blonde-haired baby. His smile was wide and genuine; it was an expression mirrored by the child who appeared to be curiously reaching toward his brother’s face.

Syril opened the broken frame, taking care as he removed the photo. He turned it over, scanning for any inscription or note attached to the photo. In blue cursive, in the very corner was the message,

“Davion meets his brother for the first time.”

Try as he might, Syril couldn’t stifle the tears that welled in his eyes. He remembered better times with his brother – playing soldier together, trying to sneak into their uncle’s study, accidentally setting fire to their bedrooms; moments that seemed inconsequential back then now stood as key flashes in Syril’s life.

But now, he was alone.

He was empty and scared.

He had nothing.