Violent flames and smoke billowed from the sprawling skyline of Anzora. The roaring inferno consumed all it touched. No one was spared or safe; it was a monster without an understanding of its innate chaos—no way for it to avoid its intended nature. 

Gurgling Screams, horrific and unnatural, pleaded against the once calm and serene skyline; they begged and cried, slobbering and burbling to anyone that would listen. The smell of burning rot and ruin permeated the air, its nauseating aroma penetrating his nose and stinging his eyes. The imploring cries were only met by laughter; it was Cruel and depraved, its host taking evident joy in the suffering of many.

Syril walked towards the fire, the screams, the heat, and the chaos. Every step brought him further into the atmosphere of malice and anarchy – crushing him with despair and ruin. 

Yet he placed one foot in front of the other and watched the now bright orange skyline shake and shimmer against the flames, the screams growing louder and more frantic. 

The air was sticky with heat and fear, his own heart beat frantically against his chest, Syril’s lips dry and throat hoarse. Beneath his bare feet, the city’s lush grassland withered to embers and ash. 

Yet he continued to walk.

A singular body rose from the chaos and destruction; it stood tall amongst the anguish and pain. Its features were unrecognisable against the hellish purgatory that lay before it. 

Syril squinted, the smoke now burning deep into his eyes. Yet he could not recognise this figure, a black object against a burning world. It stood tall and proud on a mound of debris and anarchy – its body righteously erect against the chaos before it. 

More laughter.

He could now see its source; the dark figure cackled, unwavering in its position. It emitted the most heinous and wicked laugh Syril had ever heard.

It turned, looking at him, staring into the pits of his eyes.

Syril watched as its mouth opened, its words unheard against the violent turmoil.

And then it was gone. The figure and its hellish labour ripped away like a rudderless boat on a raging sea. In its stead now a closet, a bed and a mirror, all of which he was relieved to see were not on fire.

His dreams were getting weird.

He rolled over, the bed creaked under him, and the heavy quilt was suffocating. He roughly pulled it off of him, throwing it to the floor. He looked around, his eyes groggy and mouth dry—a glass of water called seductively to him from the bedside table.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes as he inspected the room. It was small, only large enough to fit a bed and the tiny closet that sat crowded at its foot. The mirror mounted to the wall was equally as modest, its pint-sized frame slightly longer than his arm.

He stared, shocked, into the mirror. The reflection staring back at him was a far cry from his previously dishevelled appearance. He was now clean, polished, and very much not covered in blood; his hair was shiny, and, despite the case of bedhead, it was clean.

He wore an oversized white shirt that covered a pair of equally white shorts. His cleaned and ironed school clothes had been neatly folded at the foot of his bed beside a small, folded note.

‘Syril,

Please join us in the reliquary for some lunch

- Miana’

Who the hell was Miana?

What the hell was a reliquary?

Figuring both answers would present themselves with time and sick of worrying about things he couldn’t control, he opened the closet. He was desperate to change into something that wasn’t so…

White.

Syril was disheartened to see the closet empty, loose coat hangers swung on the rack, and the wooden shelves lay bare. Syril sighed as he looked again toward his folded uniform, pushing away the anguish he felt in wearing it again.

He laid his uniform neatly onto the bed, shocked that all traces of blood, sweat and dirt had been wiped away. He pulled his pants on, feeling the watch appear in his pocket as he did so.

When he was ready, he looked into the small mirror, impressed at how easily he tidied up. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to tame the mound of bedhead that afflicted him. Then, satisfied that he no longer looked like a bush in a hurricane, he grabbed his jacket and opened the bedroom door.

The hallway was bathed in bright sunlight from a large window that had replaced the corridor wall; from the lack of stares his presence erected from the lower populous, he assumed it was one-way. 

He figured he was at least five stories high, the shining roofs of shops and houses evident from this height. For a brief moment, he stood amazed. He watched the comings and goings of the various unsuspecting Anzoronians—each seeking a form of knowledge from the extensive and generously plentiful library.

He nervously gripped the watch and continued down the empty corridor. He felt his anxiety rise with each door he passed, unsure where he was going but unable to ask for help. All he could do was walk and pray that it was toward a friendly face.

Syril tried to listen for voices, any sign of life, but each door seemed as empty as the last. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, he was confused, anxious and a little angry. He was promised lunch, yet given no way to navigate this maze.