A LABYRINTH.
He was always called that.
But what did they know?
"Mizmaze . . ."
Pitch-darkness pressed in from every side.
"Mizmaze . . ."
His eyes darted through the void, but the source of the voice remained hidden.
"Look behind."
He turned toward the empty dark.
"Mizmaze."
The blackness shattered. He stood on a small plain where knee-high grass lashed against his shins. A warm breeze swept over him, catching his short treacle-black hair. Ahead, a lone tree grew from the soil, its branches heavy with hanging dice. The land was tiny — a mere two hundred meters of earth surrounded by an endless expanse of black water.
Someone leaned against the tree.
The figure was a silhouette of pure black, yet a blood-red aura bled from its edges. It wore a white tunic inside a draped cloak, a girdle, and black sandals, mirroring his own reflection. Even the short, wavy hair was a perfect match.
"You finally came to your senses." The voice matched his own, carrying his exact cadence. The figure crossed its arms. "Welcome back, Mizmaze."
"What do you want this time?" Maze asked, his brows creasing into a hard knot.
"Hmm, should you not be asking yourself that, little labyrinth?" The air shifted as if the faceless shadow were grinning. "For seven years, we have not met. Without you, this dream was lonely."
Maze fell silent.
"I have become wary that you have avoided this so that this dream would not surface anymore."
He could not answer that.
"That you do not want anything related to this place anymore."
He would not answer that.
"That you want this hidden for the rest of your life and to live a simple reality."
He must not answer that.
"I see." The dark figure nodded. "You may have believed you could escape the way you want it to be, but you may have mistaken fate for something so small."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Mizmaze." It straightened and stepped away from the tree. "I am utterly disappointed."
Maze retreated, his heels digging into the soil as he stepped back several times.
"You are still obsessed with living a simple life — but stop the act, could you not?"
It appeared that the disappointment lingered, even in the air.
"You poor old soul."
The wind surged, nearly tearing the grass from the earth.
"This dream will always be a part of you."
⠀
MAZE'S EYES snapped open. His chest heaved in quick, shallow pulls while sweat slicked his forehead and gathered in the hollow of his collarbone. He stared at the ceiling, tracing the uneven edges of the cobblestones lit by a dim lantern. The mattress beneath him was thick and soft, as there was a warmth that made his body comfortable. He had collapsed in front of that lady, and now he was tucked away inside the tower.
"You finally woke up."
To his side, a tall man moved by a wooden table, who carried such a silken yet emotionless voice when he spoke earlier. He was busy sliding flower stems into a vase. These were strange, large blooms with petals the color of a deep, bruised crimson. The centers of the flowers were dark and swollen, almost like a bulbous eye, and a tiny bit of milky sap wept from where the man had trimmed the green stalks.
"The lady whom you met earlier. Well, she said she did not introduce herself, but she will do so formally later, and I respect her for that."
He tucked a heavy, red petal into place, and Maze caught the glint of a silver ring on the fourth finger of his hand that was broad and lean, with prominent corded muscles beneath the skin.
"She also said these flowers will help you rest for a while. Perhaps, to replenish your strength. By looking at you, your face is appearing frail and pale."
The man, whom Maze assumed to be married, glanced over, and he noticed those ocean blue eyes.
"You can call me Sir Azaniel."
Sir Azaniel walked toward the door this time, his boots thudding against the cobblestone floor.
"You are at the infirmary, so it is best you rest for a while."
A thick, earthy scent drifted from the table, smelling of crushed stems and something bitter. Maze felt his lids grow thick, dragging down over his pupils as if a hand were pressing them shut. The deep red of the unknown petals was the last thing he saw before the room began to blur into a haze of gold and shadow.
"I believe you have experienced your Phantasm already."
The man stopped right in front of the door, his hand resting on the latch.
"I know things are quite haywire, but that dream is necessary as a Child, and you cannot avoid it for long."
He pulled the door open, his shoulders rising with an anxious sigh.
"After all, you need to confront it."
Must he?
But then, he slept.
⠀
HE WAS THERE yet again.
Under the tree-bearing dice fruit.
When he looked up, several meteors streaked across the sky, leaving long tails of light behind them. However, this time, the shadow man who wore his face was nowhere to be found.
Was it ever safe that he was not around? Probably not. Probably, he was just stressing it out.
Maze embraced his own knees, pulling them tight to his chest as he tried to savor the silence. He recalled what Sir Azaniel had stated. This dream, whatever this was, was a part of him he might need to confront.
What was it called again? He tried to recall. When he finally did, he mouthed, "Phantasm."
Was there any special matter he must note in this place? It was so lonely to return here. For seven years, this had never appeared, not even once. While he was shepherding, he had almost forgotten he could be conscious within a dream.
He thought it was weird, but now that Sir Azaniel and the rest of the Children shared the same situation, he felt a bit better. But what exactly was better at this point? It could be a better worse, or even a better good.
"I can only breathe here and . . . " He closed his eyes, his heart filling with sorrow. "Do I really have to stay at this place?"
Each second he spent here, he felt vulnerable. There was nothing to do in this void. Nothing special about being trapped on a small island surrounded by black waters. Come to think of it, when he was transported to the Towers Below, he had almost drowned in black water as well. Was there a reason the dark depths were significant to a Child?
Questions piled upon questions in his mind. But what surfaced to keep him at bay was the thought of his master.
"Master, I can only hope that you are doing well. That you are also thinking whether I am fulfilling the life you want for me."
He was always this sentimental.
It was a part of him that revealed itself whenever he got carried away.
The letter . . . the chest . . . If only those things — He must forget about them. This predicament that he was currently stuck with had befallen. Why must he bother?
Maze imagined the pasture, the sheep-cote, and the herd of sheep. He wished he could keep shepherding, hoping all of this was just an illusion. Yet, what could he do? He was hurt and bruised and wounded. Those marks were enough to indicate that his life was having a drastic change.
There was no way out for him, was there?
If he were to be honest about it, it was unfair for him. He never desired anything far-off like this. He did not want to be a fake blind man, nor did he want to be a Child with special abilities. An awakened person. But these people promised that they would explain this new life he was about to tread once he replenished his strength.
Sadly, Maze was . . . unprepared.
How could he be, when he came unprepared in the first place?
Waking up from this dream once more . . . it meant facing the truth he would be living from now on.
The truth that might set him free.
Or the truth that might be the cause of his damned future.