CHAPTER ONE

Bedside Manner

Next to Eden was a JRPG released back in the year 2006. It had been made by a relatively unknown studio with a middling budget and had opted to rely on isometric 16-bit visuals to avoid breaking the bank. The retro styling, coupled with a sword and sorcery fantasy setting, would reel in customers who felt left behind in the new era of shooters and action RPGs – these had been the developer's hopes, at least.

In practice it was a case of bad timing and worse marketing. The game had been released on a system at the tail end of its development cycle, right as the third generation of consoles with sparkling new graphical capabilities were being released. The vivid colour palettes the sprite artists used caused the game to appear too cartoony and childish for a consumer base excited for gritty realism, while the script and quest system were too dense for children to easily grasp. And, as the third and final nail in the coffin, the publisher had rushed the game through quality testing in order to release it before the next generation of consoles hit the market, resulting in a significant amount of bugs remaining unpatched when the game shipped.

Still, it wasn't without merit – the world was rich and detailed, the characters charming, the quests elaborate, and the gameplay mechanics iterated upon the genre's established norms with some clever twists. It had been a financial failure, never to receive a sequel as the development team shifted to making mobile apps after a buyout, but it retained a small community of dedicated fans that still persisted over a decade after its release.

Drifting from game forums to social media, that community held out with a deep love for a game the rest of the world had never bothered to glance at. Since it had never received a follow-up, the game's contents had been dissected over and over in posts, challenge runs and essays, until every aspect of its expansive world – from items, enemies and mechanics to lore, characters and subquests – were burned into the memories of its diehard fans.

So, when this particular 21st century man woke atop luxurious brocade sheets to a servant's relieved cry of 'Lord Calvide!', his first thought wasn't about where he was, how he'd got there, or why his mind felt like it was overflowing with fog. His first thought was instead quite simple.

Calvide, how funny. That was the name of the boss at the end of the second act. He'd thought it was just a made up surname, not something a real person would be called.

It wasn’t until he felt the squeeze of thin but surprisingly strong fingers around his bicep that his awareness of his surroundings sharpened. A pair of sparkling, worried blue eyes bored into him from above, set in a sweet round face and framed by chestnut curls. It was completely and utterly unfamiliar.

"Lord Calvide! Oh, thank the graces, don't move; I'll fetch a healer right now!" the girl exclaimed, lurching from his bedside and dashing for the door, hoisting up the sides of her long black skirts as she ran.

He blinked rapidly from his place on the bed as the room swam around him in a baroque blur – so much glossy dark wood and richly embroidered fabric that the furnishings would probably mix together even if he wasn't nursing the worst headache known to man. A healer? He needed a doctor, not a healer; if someone arrived at his bedside with armfuls of essential oils he was liable to throw up in their lap.

Squeezing his eyes shut to block out his mysteriously luxurious surroundings didn't help much, but a scrap of relief was better than none and freed up a bit more room for him to think. Unfortunately for him no answers seemed to shake loose from his intensive self-interrogation. His pounding, fog-addled mind was no more helpful than a magic 8-ball.

Where was he? Reply hazy, try again. How did he get here? Better not tell you now. Could he at least get a memory of what he was last doing? Don't count on it.

By the time two sets of bustling footsteps alerted him to company he had nothing but a few scant theories to work with, and none of them boded well.

Theory one. Taking into account that girl's antiquated outfit, he, at some point, had obtained an interest in historical cosplay. He'd gone to a meet-up of similarly dedicated individuals, only to obtain a head injury so severe he's lost all the memories leading up to it. Possible, but unlikely.

Theory two. He was experiencing a particularly vivid dream while laying comatose in a hospital bed. This was incrementally more plausible than theory one, considering his usual health and the decadence of his current surroundings, but it was predicated on lifelike comatose dreams being a real phenomenon and not something cooked up by pop culture. Not something he was willing to bet on.

Theory three. He'd been kidnapped in order to act out that one ban-dodger's crazy fantasy of "gathering the reincarnations of N2E characters in a commune to return to their home dimension," a proposal Planewalker_777 seemed to think was normal and feasible instead of the obvious beginnings of a cult. The only reason this theory was able to top the list was because the guy had been running his mouth about the idea for years, regardless of how many times his obsessive harassment got his IP banned – and coupled with the earlier cry of 'Lord Calvide,' the coat of arms on the wall across from him was worryingly familiar.

"... I don't know when it happened though, I haven't seen him since last night- I, I only came to wake him just now, I had to shake him so much before he opened his eyes..."

"Thank you, Lacey. Kindly close the door behind you, if you don't mind."

"Y-yes! Of course."

The girl had already returned with the "healer," it seemed. The quiet click of a turning lock reached his ears. He peered over in a squint – the newcomer was a figure draped in white robes, their face indistinct, and they appeared to be holding a boxy, old-timey doctor's bag of all things.

He couldn't help the sigh that punched out of him, although it sounded more like a pained hiss as it escaped through clenched teeth. At the foot of his bed, the healer paused, setting the medical bag down on the mattress and moving to draw the heavy curtains closed. In the absence of sunlight the stabbing pain behind his eyelids lessened immediately; at least the quack was good for something.

"My Lord Calvide," the figure greeted cautiously. Their voice was low and quiet, impossible to place as either male or female as it emerged slightly distorted from behind their mask. The mask itself was some kind of unpainted porcelain, features blandly pretty like those of a doll. "How are you feeling?"

Pursing his lips, his narrowed gaze darted over the figure top to bottom. Their body language was polite and neutral, remaining at the foot of the bed and not approaching any further, one hand resting lightly on the bag placed by his feet on the bed. There was very little for him to read, save for their deferential manner of address. The girl meanwhile was fidgeting by the door, her fingers twisting nervously in her white apron as she gnawed on her lip; he had no way of knowing what frightened her, whether it was himself, the "healer", or the situation in general.

Best to play it safe, he thought. If he was fortunate enough the quack would at least have painkillers in their bag.

"My head hurts," he answered simply, the words emerging more waspish than he had intended.

"I see." The healer's hand fluttered slightly over their medical bag. "Can you tell me what happened to bring you to this state?"

Whatever "state" he was in must have looked terrible, if the wince from the girl by the door was anything to go by. His suspicions were confirmed when he brought a hand up to his face to check, and – ugh, something crusted and faintly sticky flaked off beneath his fingers, its colour dark and indistinguishable in the low lamplight. A nosebleed? With the headache, that meant a head injury, surely; did they kidnap him and simply dump him on a bed with no treatment? Was this "healer" in on it?

"I don't remember." Speaking candidly, his tone was slurred and strained and at least a little irritated, but whether the healer took it as sincere confusion or a deliberately worded lie, he didn’t know.

"One moment, please," the healer murmured, reaching a hand out towards him with their palm outstretched like some kind of faith-healer con artist.

A faint buzzing sensation washed over him from the crown of his head to his toes, as though someone had lightly plucked his nerve endings like a harpstring. He clenched a fist in the bedsheets and prayed it wasn’t a symptom of nerve damage.

"No external injuries," they declared, which was a bold proclamation from someone who had so far stood in place and done nothing. He clenched his teeth shut to keep from snapping at them; his patience for this charade is waning rapidly, but with his condition he couldn’t risk not cooperating.

"You don't recall being injured, but can you tell me what you last remember doing?"

"I—" his tongue stilled before he could let loose an automatic lie, lips remaining parted around the sound as his mind raced.

He'd been kidnapped, dressed up and sent a LARPer in place of a doctor for what he was increasingly sure was a tremendous concussion (probably related to the aforementioned kidnapping). And if this wasn't a medical treatment, then what was it; an interrogation? A test? In that case, was there a right answer – or more importantly, considering the extent of his injury, a wrong one? Did they want him to perform in character? From the second he woke up, it had been 'Lord Calvide' this and 'Lord Calvide' that, they hadn't once called him by his real name.

His... his real name, his name, which was... it was...

"Gah—!" A harsh, throbbing pain lanced through his skull so sharply it had him doubling over, hands clutching desperately at his temples. God, it was like – like something was trying to push his eyeballs out from the inside; his mouth hung open as he panted with the effort of keeping his nausea in check. Too vulnerable, he needed to sit up, he needed to—

"Bear with me," said the healer, and suddenly the earlier tingling sensation was back.

It was stronger this time, though; it suffused his body in what felt like a hum, or the rush of a babbling brook, or the bubbles in a freshly popped bottle of sparkling wine. It was like a pristine glass of cool water sliding down a parched throat.

Blinking his eyes open, he took several long, laboured breaths until his lungs stopped shaking. Motes of golden light floated outwards from him like dandelion seeds, slowly flickering out.

The pain was gone.

Barely able to keep the disbelief from his face, he raised his head to see the outstretched hand of the healer, the same twinkling lights fading from the tips of their fingers. They pulled back their hand and adjusted their porcelain mask, sighing quietly.

"My apologies, Lord Calvide. I did not intend to exacerbate your condition. If attempting to remember things brings you pain, please do not push through it."

The healer glanced at the girl by the door, or at least he assumed so as they turned their head in her direction. The girl’s hands were covering her mouth, eyes anxious and wet with unshed tears and the apron of her maid's dress wrinkled from being clutched at in distress.

"Lacey," the healer's voice was gentle but firm as they called out to her. "Has there been any evidence of an intrusion into the estate?"

She shook her head immediately, curls bouncing against her forehead. "N-no, that's not possible... Lord Calvide's wing is almost as secure as the Count's."

"I see. How was the Lord's behaviour when you saw him yesterday; were there any abnormalities?"

"I..." the girl trailed off, her eyes darting nervously between the healer and himself. She bit at her lower lip as her breath hitched with a quiet, anxious noise – and prostrated herself in a bow so deep it almost sent her bonnet flying.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I should have warned him not to do it, I- I should have told the Count about it, if... if I had just spoken up..." Her voice broke mid-sentence and she scrubbed a hand roughly across her teary cheeks. "Please forgive me, your Lordship!"

"What happened, child?" For the first time since their arrival, the healer's voice took on a hint of alarm.

"My Lord said... he said he would be fine, he should have been fine! His talent is unmatched, s-so! So when I found the tomes, he said not to worry..!" Lacey's tears were flowing freely now as she babbled with halting words. "My Lord always succeeds in his endeavours, senere, we all listen to his every request... Even though I knew illusory magic was dangerous, I didn't say anything, and now..!"

"It's not your fault, child." The healer sounded infinitely weary, but he tried to take heart from the steadiness of their voice. "Do you know where the tomes are now?"

Sniffling, Lacey pointed at an ebony desk against the far wall and the healer turned to follow her finger. The desk in question was piled with oddments of paper and parchment scrolls, each intricately illustrated with sigils written neatly in ink upon them, most of them incomprehensible. The papers were weighted down by stacks of books, their cloth and leather bindings worn and burnished. One tome looked especially old; half its pages were yellowed with age, and the healer ran their fingers over the cover in silence.

The healer's shoulders sagged in resignation, only the slightest movement to convey their unhappiness. Their head fell forward, chin meeting their chest.

"If His Lordship was set on this, there was nothing you could have done to prevent it," they sighed, one hand coming up to rub at their forehead – a movement they quickly recognised as pointless when their fingers met smooth porcelain.

Leaving the tome on the desk, they instead lifted up the desk chair and brought it to the side of the bed with businesslike movements.

"Well then, my Lord Calvide," they began, seating themselves unceremoniously in the chair and folding their hands together on their lap, "if you are up to answering some questions, would you mind providing me with your full name?"