Nerith
I pushed open the manhole cover and climbed out. What greeted me was breathtaking—a city sculpted from marble, its architecture a dreamlike fusion of Rome and Venice. Grand columns lined the streets, canals shimmered between buildings, and the air was alive with motion. People bustled past, laughter echoing off stone facades, and the scent of roasted spices and fresh bread drifted from nearby stalls.
I stopped a passerby and asked, "What city is this?"
"Nerith," they replied.
"Nerith?" I echoed.
The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You've never been here?"
I shook my head. "No."
"It's on the coast of Dane County—look!" the stranger said, pointing toward the vast ocean. Galleys with white sails glided into port, their hulls gleaming in the sunlight.
"Wow," I breathed, awestruck. "What sea is that?"
The stranger gave me a sideways glance. "What rock did you crawl out from under? That's the Thessason Sea. Everyone knows that."
"Oh... right. Thanks," I replied, still taking it all in.
I wandered the city for hours, drawn by its impossible beauty. The buildings shimmered with a faint iridescence, as if the marble had absorbed centuries of sunlight. Fountains gurgled in quiet courtyards, and bridges arched gracefully over canals where gondolas drifted like dreams. It felt unreal—too perfect, too clean.
But something gnawed at me. The people were friendly, yes, but their smiles were rehearsed. Their eyes lingered too long. I caught whispers behind me, saw heads turn as I passed. At first I thought I was imagining it. Then I saw the posters.
They were plastered on a wall near a bakery: a sketch of a man with wild hair and a wary expression. My expression. The caption read: Wanted for theft and deception. Approach with caution.
I backed away, heart pounding. A pair of uniformed officers turned the corner, their eyes scanning the crowd. I ducked into an alley, weaving through crates and hanging laundry. My mind raced—who did they think I was? Had someone from Penryn followed me here? Or was Nerith part of the same twisted network?
I kept moving, slipping through side streets and market stalls, trying to stay invisible. But the city was watching. I felt it in the architecture, in the rhythm of the crowd. Nerith was beautiful, yes—but it was also a trap.
I found refuge in a small tavern near the harbor. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a scar across her cheek, didn't ask questions. She served me stew and bread, and let me sit in the corner where the shadows were thick. I listened to the sailors talk—about storms, about ghost ships, about the Isles of the Hollow Wind.
One name kept coming up: The Windless Star. An old galley, rarely seen, said to sail where maps ended. Its crew didn't speak. Its captain had no face. But it was headed west, toward the edge of the known world.
I waited until dusk, then slipped out of the tavern and made my way to the harbor. The marble streets glowed under the lanterns, and the sea whispered against the docks. I kept my hood up, avoiding eye contact. The poster was everywhere now. Someone had spread it fast.
At the far end of the harbor, I saw it: The Windless Star. Its hull was dark, etched with symbols I didn't recognize. The crew moved like shadows, silent and deliberate. No laughter. No light.
I approached the dockmaster, an old man with a crooked back and eyes like wet stone.
"Where's that ship headed?" I asked.
He squinted at me. "West. Isles of the Hollow Wind. Dangerous waters. Few return."
"I'll book passage."
He studied me for a long moment. "You sure? Nerith's safe. You could stay."
"I didn't come here to stay," I said. "I came through a gate. I'm trying to get home."
The dockmaster didn't ask more. He scribbled something on a parchment and handed it to me. "Give this to the quartermaster. They'll take you—if the sea allows."
I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm. "They say the Isles change you. That you forget who you were."
"I've already forgotten," I said, and walked away.
I spent the night in a warehouse near the docks, curled behind crates of dried fish. The city hummed outside, but I didn't sleep. I kept thinking about the poster, about the eyes that followed me, about the gate that had brought me here. Was it random? Or was I chosen?
At dawn, I boarded The Windless Star. The crew didn't speak. They nodded once, then turned away. The deck was slick with salt, and the sails hung like ghosts. As the ship pulled away from Nerith, the city faded into mist. I stood at the stern, watching the marble spires vanish, knowing the real journey was just beginning.
"Wow," Mr. Alden said as he put his teacup down. "That is quite the predicament you got yourself into, Phineas... I mean Fox." He poured himself another cup, steam curling into the quiet room.
"Yeah," Fox said, leaning back in his chair. "I don't know who that wanted person was. All I know is he looked like me, and it was best for me to leave that town."
Mr. Alden studied him for a moment. "You ever think maybe it was you? Not in the way they meant—but in the way this world sees you?"
Fox stared out the window, where the Arwin trees of Pickford swayed gently in the wind. "I think this world wants me to be something I'm not. Or maybe it's showing me what I could become."
"But Mr. Alden, to answer your question—I'm from a world unlike yours. And according to what the Yellow Queen told me, I'm the only person in the multiverse without a counterpart. No other versions, no reflections. There's only one me, and you're looking at him," said Fox.
Mr. Alden leaned back in his chair, the steam from his teacup curling between them like a question. "So you're saying... there's only one of you? No echoes, no alternates?"
Fox nodded. "That's what she said. The multiverse is full of reflections—people who exist in a thousand variations. But not me. I'm singular. I don't repeat."
Mr. Alden tapped the rim of his cup thoughtfully. "That's a heavy truth to carry."
"It is," Fox said. "It means every choice I make is mine alone. No other version of me is out there making better ones. No one else is failing in my place."
"Or succeeding," Alden added quietly.
Fox looked out the window, where the trees of Pickford swayed in the wind. "I used to think I was just unlucky. That I stumbled into something too big for me. But now I wonder if I was meant to walk this path—because no one else could."
Mr. Alden studied him. "And what does that make you, Fox? A mistake? Or a myth?"
Fox didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small object—a coin etched with symbols from Nerith, worn smooth by the sea. "I don't know yet. But I think the answer's out there."
Mr. Alden nodded slowly. "Well, you're here now. And you're still telling the story. That counts for something."
Fox looked down at his hands. "I just hope the next part makes more sense than the last."
I stopped a passerby and asked, "What city is this?"
"Nerith," they replied.
"Nerith?" I echoed.
The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You've never been here?"
I shook my head. "No."
"It's on the coast of Dane County—look!" the stranger said, pointing toward the vast ocean. Galleys with white sails glided into port, their hulls gleaming in the sunlight.
"Wow," I breathed, awestruck. "What sea is that?"
The stranger gave me a sideways glance. "What rock did you crawl out from under? That's the Thessason Sea. Everyone knows that."
"Oh... right. Thanks," I replied, still taking it all in.
I wandered the city for hours, drawn by its impossible beauty. The buildings shimmered with a faint iridescence, as if the marble had absorbed centuries of sunlight. Fountains gurgled in quiet courtyards, and bridges arched gracefully over canals where gondolas drifted like dreams. It felt unreal—too perfect, too clean.
But something gnawed at me. The people were friendly, yes, but their smiles were rehearsed. Their eyes lingered too long. I caught whispers behind me, saw heads turn as I passed. At first I thought I was imagining it. Then I saw the posters.
They were plastered on a wall near a bakery: a sketch of a man with wild hair and a wary expression. My expression. The caption read: Wanted for theft and deception. Approach with caution.
I backed away, heart pounding. A pair of uniformed officers turned the corner, their eyes scanning the crowd. I ducked into an alley, weaving through crates and hanging laundry. My mind raced—who did they think I was? Had someone from Penryn followed me here? Or was Nerith part of the same twisted network?
I kept moving, slipping through side streets and market stalls, trying to stay invisible. But the city was watching. I felt it in the architecture, in the rhythm of the crowd. Nerith was beautiful, yes—but it was also a trap.
I found refuge in a small tavern near the harbor. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a scar across her cheek, didn't ask questions. She served me stew and bread, and let me sit in the corner where the shadows were thick. I listened to the sailors talk—about storms, about ghost ships, about the Isles of the Hollow Wind.
One name kept coming up: The Windless Star. An old galley, rarely seen, said to sail where maps ended. Its crew didn't speak. Its captain had no face. But it was headed west, toward the edge of the known world.
I waited until dusk, then slipped out of the tavern and made my way to the harbor. The marble streets glowed under the lanterns, and the sea whispered against the docks. I kept my hood up, avoiding eye contact. The poster was everywhere now. Someone had spread it fast.
At the far end of the harbor, I saw it: The Windless Star. Its hull was dark, etched with symbols I didn't recognize. The crew moved like shadows, silent and deliberate. No laughter. No light.
I approached the dockmaster, an old man with a crooked back and eyes like wet stone.
"Where's that ship headed?" I asked.
He squinted at me. "West. Isles of the Hollow Wind. Dangerous waters. Few return."
"I'll book passage."
He studied me for a long moment. "You sure? Nerith's safe. You could stay."
"I didn't come here to stay," I said. "I came through a gate. I'm trying to get home."
The dockmaster didn't ask more. He scribbled something on a parchment and handed it to me. "Give this to the quartermaster. They'll take you—if the sea allows."
I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm. "They say the Isles change you. That you forget who you were."
"I've already forgotten," I said, and walked away.
I spent the night in a warehouse near the docks, curled behind crates of dried fish. The city hummed outside, but I didn't sleep. I kept thinking about the poster, about the eyes that followed me, about the gate that had brought me here. Was it random? Or was I chosen?
At dawn, I boarded The Windless Star. The crew didn't speak. They nodded once, then turned away. The deck was slick with salt, and the sails hung like ghosts. As the ship pulled away from Nerith, the city faded into mist. I stood at the stern, watching the marble spires vanish, knowing the real journey was just beginning.
"Wow," Mr. Alden said as he put his teacup down. "That is quite the predicament you got yourself into, Phineas... I mean Fox." He poured himself another cup, steam curling into the quiet room.
"Yeah," Fox said, leaning back in his chair. "I don't know who that wanted person was. All I know is he looked like me, and it was best for me to leave that town."
Mr. Alden studied him for a moment. "You ever think maybe it was you? Not in the way they meant—but in the way this world sees you?"
Fox stared out the window, where the Arwin trees of Pickford swayed gently in the wind. "I think this world wants me to be something I'm not. Or maybe it's showing me what I could become."
"But Mr. Alden, to answer your question—I'm from a world unlike yours. And according to what the Yellow Queen told me, I'm the only person in the multiverse without a counterpart. No other versions, no reflections. There's only one me, and you're looking at him," said Fox.
Mr. Alden leaned back in his chair, the steam from his teacup curling between them like a question. "So you're saying... there's only one of you? No echoes, no alternates?"
Fox nodded. "That's what she said. The multiverse is full of reflections—people who exist in a thousand variations. But not me. I'm singular. I don't repeat."
Mr. Alden tapped the rim of his cup thoughtfully. "That's a heavy truth to carry."
"It is," Fox said. "It means every choice I make is mine alone. No other version of me is out there making better ones. No one else is failing in my place."
"Or succeeding," Alden added quietly.
Fox looked out the window, where the trees of Pickford swayed in the wind. "I used to think I was just unlucky. That I stumbled into something too big for me. But now I wonder if I was meant to walk this path—because no one else could."
Mr. Alden studied him. "And what does that make you, Fox? A mistake? Or a myth?"
Fox didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small object—a coin etched with symbols from Nerith, worn smooth by the sea. "I don't know yet. But I think the answer's out there."
Mr. Alden nodded slowly. "Well, you're here now. And you're still telling the story. That counts for something."
Fox looked down at his hands. "I just hope the next part makes more sense than the last."