“It would be more cost-efficient for the spirits if I subsumed all of you into my alchemic body,” the Alchemist said, staring down at their group.

“It would be more cost-efficient for our sanity if we didn’t,” Argrave rebuked, looking up at the Alchemist.

The Alchemist shook his head as he watched Argrave. “You had my word no harm would come to you and yours, yet you waste precious resources because of distrust. No matter…”

Argrave gestured for everyone to come, and they hesitantly put their hand on the black robe of the Alchemist. His robe of his own hair felt like silk, but somehow that didn’t make things better. The Alchemist held his hand up, casting a spell that Anneliese used frequently: [Worldstrider]. A familiar yet unfamiliar feeling passed over them all, and then they were gone from their roots.

When Argrave next had sight, he gazed up at a solid sheet of white. He stepped back, craning his neck, to make out a gigantic white door. After a moment he spotted vines and excessive jungle growth consuming these white ruins. Argrave’s brain, rotted by Heroes of Berendar, placed where they were immediately—the jungle, west of the wetlands and the Order of the Gray Owl territory. This was where the map of Heroes of Berendar ended.

“You use this door to the White Planes? I’m pretty sure there’s another that was closer,” Argrave questioned.

The Alchemist shot Argrave a harsh glare that was frightful enough to stir Argrave’s Brumesingers. They alighted from the pockets of his duster and looked up upon the white gateway. It was a slender and tall archway with two pure white doors. They weren’t stone—they looked like milky glass, almost, or white obsidian. This was one of many entrances to the White Planes. Of all of them, only this one had the good fortune to be on the surface.

As everyone comported themselves surprisingly calmly, Melanie walked up to Argrave. “Mind explaining to me what these White Planes actually are? I know you coached us on what to do, but…”

No answers came to Argrave. It wasn’t something fully explained in the game, and even the gods couldn’t fully explain it. “Won’t take long,” Argrave answered, shaking his head. “You’ll see for yourself.”

The Alchemist reached into his body and pulled free a spherical item. After scrutinizing, Argrave judged it was an enchanted ring that created an actively maintained ward. Within this ward was a strange confluence of green energy.

“Yeah, well, knowing and seeing are a little different,” Melanie whispered insistently as the Alchemist stepped up to the doorway.

The Alchemist dispelled the ring’s ward, and the green light threatened to dance away before the man seized it in his hand. With a push, he thrust this ethereal power against the milky white glass door. It spread out along the surface of it, forming into incomprehensible runes that he couldn’t read—strange, given that Argrave had been able to speak and read everything written here.

“We discussed the plan. What more do you need to know?” Argrave asked Melanie rhetorically. “Honestly, I can’t explain it. You’ll need to experience it.”

The gargantuan white doors slowly split open, but what was beyond was not at all like what one saw looking around the sides of the frame. Argrave walked away from a frustratedly confused Melanie, then grabbed Anneliese’s hand as she stepped forward in curiosity. She seemed brought out of a stupor, but then joined along with Argrave. Her Starsparrow flew off her shoulder, joining the Brumesingers.

Argrave looked back. “Just remember what we talked about… and all of you will do fine. All of you are calm, composed, and damn well valuable… but the White Planes can’t be explained. You’ll be safe, so… be bold, gods be damned. Get the first bit done, then we’ll wring the gods dry.”

Elenore was the first to come beside Argrave and Anneliese. Galamon followed, then Durran, and then Melanie. Only Orion, their druidic bonds, and the Alchemist would remain outside, all of whom stood by the slender door on either side. As a show of confidence in their plan, Argrave stepped forward, intending to be the first to enter. Anneliese clenched his hand tighter in trepidation, but followed him with no complaint.

The entire world vanished before Argrave, replaced by bright white. He smelled white, tasted white, heard white, thought white… it was all white. And when next he saw something else beside, he saw a smug young man sitting behind a mahogany desk, his shabby tennis shoes propped up atop the top as he leaned back.

The face was all too familiar, because it was his. Not Argrave—Vincenzo Giordano. It seemed that Argrave’s old form was the whiteness within himself.

“Fitting,” Argrave remarked, walking deeper in.

#####

When Elenore touched the presence within the slender door, all became white. She saw a long and familiar dining table that she remembered all too well. It was here she’d met the man she eloped with. It was here they’d shared many meals together. And like it was natural, sitting at the end of the table, there he was. She mildly resented that this man was the so-called ‘whiteness within herself.’

Argrave had coached her this might happen, so instead of reeling she took the time to steadily scrutinize the man she’d once loved: Lazare. He was fairly tall. He had blonde hair near light enough to be white. He wasn’t especially well-built, which made her pause—did he really look like this? He must’ve. He had sharp yellow eyes, and a lazy smile.

“Why can’t a door just be a door?” Elenore asked. “Why does there have to be some test?”

“Bad day?” Lazare questioned.

“Yes. Terrible,” Elenore answered, sighing.

#####

When the all-consuming whiteness faded away from Anneliese, she felt something hit her shin. She stepped backward in surprise, then looked down. She saw a small white-haired girl wearing shabby clothes collapsed on her rear. The child looked up, amber eyes widening.

“My fish…” the little Anneliese whispered, then looked at the big Anneliese’s feet, where a fish that she’d been carrying had fallen. The little girl seemed terrified at the prospect of retrieving it.

Anneliese knelt, picking up the fish. She used water magic to clean it off, and then handed it to the small elven girl. Though fascinated by the display of magic, the girl—Anneliese as a child—was like a stray cat afraid to accept food.

“The way Argrave explained it, I thought I might see my mother, or perhaps my grandmother. I had a plan about how to proceed. But then… if you are my whiteness, then perhaps it is only fitting I did not expect it.”

“Mother? My mother needs that,” little Anneliese said, swallowing tears bravely.

#####

“What? You?!”

Durran stared at an all-too-familiar figure. He wore luxurious red robes. The sleeves had a strange pattern sewn on them—they looked like a rose’s thorns, and his shoulder pads were a rose’s petals. The man’s hair was brown, slightly wavy. He had a casual and cynical air to him, with bright blue eyes that made a handsome face sharper. His name was Garm.

“I can’t believe this. All the horse shit I’ve been through, and I see you,” Durran gestured at him.

“What are you rambling about during our fight?” Garm tilted his head. “Are you giving up?”

“I already won. So, what, this stupid door’s asking me to lose this time?” Durran sighed, scratching his head. “If not, I’m at a damn loss.”

#####

Melanie crouched down beside a small, dead-eyed child. Green eyes, red hair… she had scars matching Melanie’s, even at this young age. Behind, there were uncomfortable moans, putting it mildly. Considering it was a brothel in Relize, that was the sound one most often heard. They were all too familiar.

“Place still reeks of sweat disguised by cheap perfume.” Melanie huffed as she sat, her plate armor clanging. “He wasn’t kidding. Is this really the price of admission? Some psychological puzzle?”

As she set her zweihander down on the floor, little Melanie’s eyes wandered to the steel.

Melanie ran her hand through her hair. “I don’t wanna go through this…” she sighed deeply.

#####

Orion looked at the Alchemist. “What are they being subjected to, truly?”

The Alchemist looked over slowly. “They are being changed.”

“How?” Orion stepped closer.

“Objectively speaking, mortal bodies are ill-suited to handling the presence of the divine. That is being remedied.” The Alchemist looked into the whiteness.

Orion thought back, recalling when he’d been near the breach to Kirel Qircassia’s realm. There are been an immutable, indomitable presence that had weighed him down, worn at his very soul, despite the fact Orion was blessed by Vasquer’s false pantheon. Argrave reported feeling the same thing when near Erlebnis, too.

“Then… they’ll withstand the pressure powerful divinity exerts?” Orion asked. “This is good. But what is this process?”

“The whiteness within is drawn out and exposed. Then, it must be tamed. It must shield the participant rather than hurt them.”

“The whiteness,” Orion repeated. “What is that?’

“Have your king explain better,” the Alchemist shook his head. “Despicable.”

“He is not here. And you are only waiting,” Orion pointed out.

The Alchemist glanced at Orion sideways, almost as though he was uncomfortable that fact was pointed out. “White is… blankness. A memory. A time. A person. An event. An item. Whatever it is, it exists within the person, but it has been whited out. That is a hole which the powerful divine exploit unwittingly. To enter the White Planes, and to negotiate with gods… they must shield themselves in their whiteness.”

“Hmm.” Orion seemed to go away inside himself, searching through memories. “But His Majesty is the most steadfast person in the entire universe. It should not take long.”

“Even ferrets could succeed in conquering their whiteness. And all that entered are… adequate. It is a ritual triviality,” the Alchemist dismissed.

“You speak with experience, it would seem. You have been through this, then. What was your whiteness?”

The Alchemist again looked displeased with Orion’s simple and direct reasoning. After a long period of silence, Orion thought he would get no answer. And then, the giant Alchemist said simply, “Slavery.”

Orion looked over. “As the participant, or the perpetrator?”

And this time, the Alchemist truly was silent.