Essence. It has been called by many different names, and described in multiple ways: primordial energy, the fabric of the cosmos, magic. Essence is all these things and more.

Some worlds, like our own Losjofilde, are rich in essence, and sorcerers and wizards abound. But the cosmos is vast and varied, and there are worlds aplenty not so blessed.

Some misfortunate realms are barren and bereft of all essence. In these unlucky worlds, magic and all its wonders have been forgotten by the world’s multitudes. —The Nature of Essence, by an unknown Losjofildian scholar.

Consciousness returned with Kyran surrounded by a void of black nothingness. His thoughts were sluggish and his memories fragmented.

Where am I?

Images flashed through his mind—of falling, a bridge, and a woman—but they made little sense to him in his confused state. His last clear memory was of leaving Terry’s house. He had to be asleep at home, he decided.

Yet the images nagged at him. There was something important about them, he felt. Go back to sleep, urged a voice. This will all be forgotten in the morning. But he couldn’t. How had he gotten home?

He focused his rambling thoughts and strained to clear the fog from his mind. The disjointed images snapped into place and, with sudden and sickening dread, memory of events on the bridge returned.

He had fallen over.

A cold shiver rolled over him. No, that can’t be right. He refuted the possibility.

It was a dream. Just a dream. Had to be. A weird one, too. The memories were too spectacular to be anything otherwise. Raised voices interrupted his thoughts. He stilled. This part of town was always quiet. Where were the voices coming from?

Kyran opened his eyes and…squeezed them shut again.

Taking a calming breath, he reopened them. What he saw remained unchanged. He was not sleeping as he expected but standing, with head bowed, and looking down at himself.

At his very translucent self.

The voices were forgotten as his attention was riveted by the sight of his own body. Or lack thereof. He glared at his wraithlike hands, a single thought looping through his mind, over and over: I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.

It was the only explanation that made sense. No matter how he tried to fit facts differently, he kept coming back to the inescapable truth. I’m dead.

Kyran closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of his disembodied self any longer. Despair overwhelmed him. Why had this happened to him? he wondered. And why now? Just when his life was on the cusp of something better. His life had been hard but with occasional joys too. He had so many plans for the future.

All gone now.

Memories engulfed him. Of Terry, his truest friend. Of Jonas, a more generous soul than Kyran could have ever hoped to meet. The old man had plucked him from the streets and shown him a better life. Of Simon, Megan, little Timothy, and the other orphans he had run with, protecting one another from the always-present danger of the streets. Never would he see any of them again.

All because of his own ineptness. If only he had approached the encounter on the bridge differently. Why had he been so foolish? He should have foreseen the danger, realised the risk, and calculated the odds better.

Guilt gnawed at him, for not being able to save Sara, and perhaps even contributing to her demise. If he had ignored her screams, or if he had not startled her attackers, or if he had somehow anchored himself, they both might still be alive. Looking back, he saw a hundred things he should have done differently. A hundred ways he could have saved them both. If only.

He stopped himself. No, that way lies madness, he admonished himself. He reined back his spiralling thoughts, and blew out the bitterness blackening them. Such regrets were futile, he knew. Time marched ever onwards. There were no do-overs. He would have to shoulder his remorse as best he could and move on.

But what was there to move onto? How can I even be? What is this strange half-state I am in? His curiosity stirred. He shook off his dark musings and opened his eyes again.

He was not under the bridge.

He was in a chamber constructed from a cool-white stone, marble by all appearance. What is this place? he wondered perplexed. And how had he gotten here?

He recalled being pulled elsewhere. Upwards and…away from Earth. At some point, he had blacked out. He could be anywhere right now, he thought uneasily. Was this the afterlife?

But the mystery of his journey to this place was only one more strangeness. One more question for which he had no answer. He set aside the mystery, and studied his surroundings anew.

The room was bare and, remarkably, had no entrances of any sort. No doors or windows. If this was a reality he understood, he would have said the chamber was a prison. Why else would a room not have doors and windows? But he was most emphatically not in a reality he understood. What then to make of the room?

He shook his head at his pointless speculation. His inner monologue, he knew, was just a screen. A distraction to keep at bay the panic that even now threatened to overwhelm him. Pondering unanswerable questions was preferable. He went back to studying the room.

There was no light source, yet he could see well enough. Another mystery. He looked to his left, and saw with a start, that Sara was also here. How had he missed seeing her earlier? Like him, she was also disembodied.

His momentary relief at seeing her was quelled when he noticed her terrified expression. Facing the opposite direction from Kyran, Sara stared with wide eyes and trembling chin at something outside of his sight.

Kyran swung around and followed her gaze. At the end of the chamber, on a raised dais stood two…entities. He did not know how else to describe them. While both were humanoid, there was something not quite right about them. It was their size, he realised.

Both figures were over six metres tall, more than three times Kyran’s own height. One of the figures was female and strikingly beautiful, but in an otherworldly fashion. Her eyes, while wide and round, slanted distinctly upwards. Her ears were long, narrowed to a point and peeked out from beneath long, snow-white hair. Her body was lithe, willowy, and concealed by flowing white robes. She looks almost elven, Kyran thought in stunned disbelief.

The other figure was no less disturbing. He could have passed for a human male and had all the typical features you would expect from one, except for his skin, which had a bronze sheen to it. On closer inspection, Kyran noticed that his skin, smooth and polished, was strangely devoid of texture. A metal-man? The figure was dressed in dark, nondescript clothes and had a heavy black cloak draped around his shoulders.

“I repeat, Overseer, this is simply not possible!” thundered the woman. Kyran’s mind reverberated with her words, his very being shaking from her ire. Her voice, he realised, had emanated from within himself—telepathically projected into his mind.

His carefully controlled equilibrium wavered, stung anew by this oddity. What is going on here? Who are these beings?

Perhaps he really was in purgatory. This couldn’t be heaven or hell, could it? Neither being looks like a demon or angel. Or for that matter, like any other supernatural being he had ever heard off. Perhaps all the world’s religions had gotten it wrong and this is what the afterlife truly looked like. Or maybe…

His thoughts rambled on into rampant—and pointless—speculation. Kyran struggled to rein in his rabid thoughts, only succeeding when the urgent need to follow the conversation pierced his roiling panic.

“And yet, Divine Iyra, it is self-evidently so,” said the man—Overseer he had been called—in a toneless, mechanical voice, seemingly unperturbed by the woman’s anger.

Divine? That was a strange form of address. What could it mean?

Iyra stared at Kyran and Sara, and said in a tone tinged with exasperation, “Of course! There are two spirits here, but why did I not sense him before?” She fell silent, and her face grew thoughtful as she contemplated this.

In control of himself once more, and sensing an opportunity to rectify his ignorance, Kyran spoke into the pause.

Or tried to.

His mouth worked soundlessly. Words refused to come out. He tried again, attempting, by force of will alone, to push his questions out, but they remained unvoiced. Frustrated but undeterred he lifted his arms to attract the entities’ attention, only to find he could no longer move. He strained against whatever bound him—to no effect. He was helpless.

Noticing his struggles, the Overseer glanced his way but said nothing. I have been silenced, fumed Kyran.

Iyra ignored the byplay and continued her musings. She appeared in no rush. The Overseer, unblinking and motionless, waited patiently upon her. Kyran, trussed up by invisible bonds, was forced to do likewise. I am a prisoner, he thought.

Finally, Iyra spoke. “There is only one possible explanation, but the probability is so infinitesimally small as to be non-existent.” She paused. “Yet, it must be considered.”

With an unhappy sigh, Iyra closed her eyes, and remained still and unmoving for a few seconds, before opening them again. She frowned down at Kyran. “It appears I was correct,” she murmured. Turning to the Overseer, she asked, “Tell me, Overseer, does he possess the divine spark?”

The Overseer turned ponderously towards Kyran and stared into his eyes. Kyran tried to pull away, doing his best not to cooperate with these beings who held him captive. But he was powerless to resist whatever force the Overseer used. A tingling swept through him, that while not unpleasant, seemed entirely invasive.

Kyran felt as if the threads of his self were pulled apart, and each one, individually and thoroughly inspected. He shuddered, and if he could, he would have collapsed in relief, when the Overseer’s probing finally ended.

“You are aware, Divine Iyra, that the Rules forbid me from revealing the inner nature of a being to others,” said the Overseer. He paused and seemed to weigh his next words carefully. “But seeing as how you have already guessed this aspect of the spirit’s nature, I have been permitted to confirm your guess. You are correct. The spirit has no divine spark.”

Despite his resentment at his treatment, Kyran listened closely to their words. Divine spark? What does that mean? He was at loss to explain what was going on. The conversation of the two beings made little sense to him.

Iyra nodded. “That explains it then.” She studied Kyran thoughtfully. “He was likely in physical contact with the candidate when the summoning began.” Her gaze jumped between him and Sara. “Their spirits are still connected. That is how he safely navigated the portal.” She shook her head ruefully, and addressing Kyran for the first time, said, “Even I, little human, can barely fathom the chain of events that brought you here. What should I make of you, I wonder?”

She stared expectedly at Kyran, who returned her gaze with a furious glare of his own. In that instance, even if he was given voice to speak, he would have remained silent.

Unperturbed by his animosity, Iyra turned back to the Overseer. “So, Overseer, what now? This is unprecedented. What do the Rules dictate?” she asked, somewhat bitterly.

Kyran’s ears perked up at her tone. What ‘Rules’ did Iyra refer to? And why did she sound displeased with them?

The Overseer replied slowly, “You are correct, Divine Iyra, this is a unique occurrence within the history of the Game. The God Council must be convened and the aberrant spirit presented.”

Iyra’s mouth twisted sourly, disliking the Overseer’s decision but accepting it nonetheless. “So be it.” Glancing at Sara, she said, “The candidate shall remain here.” Turning to Kyran, she added, “Good luck, human. I fear you shall need it.”