The elevator buzzed as he descended. It reminded him of the fire and what it had sounded like, yet it was nothing like it. The doors opened, followed by a familiar sound. Before him was an intersection that led to three different ways. On the left and on the right, there were two corridors that continued until they hit a wall.
In front of him was a corridor of many doors; all of them had a number, and all of them were closed.
The elevator door closed behind him as he stared at the corridor, at the doors that were supposed to be open; had he not left them open?
Without turning around, he tried pressing the button to open the doors again, but he could not find it, so he turned around, but it was not there; the elevator doors weren't there anymore. It was just a wall now, solid and without a crack in it.
He needed to run; he needed to leave this place. On his right and on his left, the two corridors were now gone as well. Only the corridor with many doors was still there.
Enticing. Asking, wanting him to open them, to enter and see what they had to offer, all the things the doors wanted to show, what they wanted him to see.
But he had to get out of here. It could not be safe here; it would never be.
"Let me out of here!" He yelled out loud, glancing around him, trying to find the Voice, trying to beg for it to let him go. But there was no answer. Only silence was there for him; it was all there ever was for him.
He could not use his magics. He could not open the door to the elevator; he could not leave this level. He should have never come here; he should never have entered the door that was made out of shadows. He should have never entered the ruins; he should have turned around and reported his findings.
He wanted to go, not because he longed for it, but because it would not be safe here. He regretted everything—every decision that had led him here. In this corridor and its many doors.
The fire and flames, the ash of the dead. The whispers calling him to enter. The figure that observed him, the Voice that brought him here, guided him with memories that could be false, and the creature that had held his head tried to crush him, but instead gave him information.
What was real and what was not? Was there anything that was real? Had any of this truly happened? Was this memory true, or was it all false, a creation of the so-called warden of this prison? Or the Angels themselves...
There were just the doors and nothing else.
Kanrel braced himself; he sought within all the courage that he could muster, and he went to the first door. One that he had opened before. And as he opened it, there was no sound. There was just silence, not the sound of all the doors opening at once.
And on the other side, there was a mirror, and in that mirror, there was someone—one of the Sharan—with an exotic face that had scales on it and deep blue eyes that trembled. Their fear could be seen so clearly on the face of this person. This person was him and no one else.
He touched his own face, and the reflection followed the movements he made. The scales on his face were smooth and warm, and they glittered in many colors all at once. Surely they were beautiful, or considered to be so by the Sharans; as a human, he had not been so beautiful. He had never felt beautiful or handsome. He had only ever felt human until he no longer did.
He touched the surface, and as he touched it, he could physically feel what he once felt. All emotion came back to him, all desire, and all happiness that he had ever experienced. Everything at once. A euphoric moment of freedom that was soon crushed by reality—the memories that he carried, the memories of the loved ones that he could now miss, the love that he had for them—pushed him to continue even when he did not want to.
And then the one he had lost. Yirn. The bitter feelings, now more confusing than ever, were mixed together with love and care, with hate and desire, and with anguish and pain.
As if it burned, he pulled his hand away, and a wave of disgust poured in. It lingered again—the power that was within that he could not access in this place, in this memory of a place. The face that he now bared, that he no longer could face; so ugly it had become, disrupted by fragmentation of once-had feelings, distorted into a mask of pain, a face that knew not of love but only of agony.
Slowly, he closed the door, and no sound was created; only silence followed the moment he had shared with a reflection.
He went to the door across and opened it as well. Behind it was first formless darkness, then a light spread, creating an image, and that image moved. In this image, he saw himself as he truly was, a king who sat on a throne of his own desires: women and gold, riches that would otherwise be unimaginable. But here, in this image, he had it all. He slowly smiled and whispered something—words that he could not hear.
The image remained, but there was no more movement. He closed the door; it was something he had never desired to have; it was something that looked wrong, that was wrong; something that would never be, something he would never become. Or so he hoped.
Behind the next door, another vision showed itself: he as someone loving and caring, sharing moments with his friends and family; a house of peace, the very same in which he had lived with his mother. Yviev was there, as were Wen and Uanna, and his mother was there. And so was Yirn.
He closed the door; even if he wished for something like that, it could never be, it never was, and it never will be like that. Yirn is dead, and it was something he had to accept. Yirn was dead, and he was someone he could never forgive.
The next door revealed a wintry landscape—a village where he had spent a few years and where he now lived as an old man. Slowly, it changed, and he could see himself kneeling before an altar, praying to the painting of an angel. In his heart and mind, there was only wonder and despair. The old man that was him kept mumbling, pleading for something he could not make out. Praying for something he could guess: release and salvation.
This was perhaps what he would become. Yet the vision of it felt conflicting; even as a future, it remained unreal and something he would not want to become or be. Why was he here? What were these doors? Were these options the things and people he could become?
Each door he opened offered a different vision and a different image of the man that he could be. A future in which he was in love, a future in which he had children, a future in which he had both, and a future in which he had neither. A future where he was a king, a future where he was a slave, a future that was just dark, thus a future where he was already dead. A future where he was like he had once been, a man able to feel joy and love like any other man. A human, once more.
That was what he wanted the most. He wanted to be a human again. He wanted to feel like a human again. But the moment in which he had that ability and that feeling, he felt so conflicted and uncertain about everything that he felt and what he had done. It was unlikely that he would feel any better in a world as such, but even with that pain, he believed that he could stand it; he needed to stand it. He would survive it so that he could again be human. A man.
He was now at the last door. At the end of the corridor, there was now a door that was not there before. This door had no number, but he opened it either way. Behind the last door was just a room.
And in that room stood a figure. Neither a man nor a creature. They looked away and just stood there; they were imposing; they were magnificent. They were grander than anyone else that he had ever seen. He could not see their face, but he could see their wings. They were scaly and large, covered in gold.
He entered the room and slowly approached the figure that stood in the center of it all. Slowly, he walked in front of them; slowly, he could see their face; it was not the same face of the creature that had called themselves the Sharan of Lies and Truths.
This person had a different face, one that was familiar as well. Even as they stood face-to-face, they looked past him. They did not see Kanrel that was before them; they saw something else, something that was past Kanrel.
So he turned around to see where the winged person was looking. He could see a city below, divided into many pieces and many sectors. Far away were the Tower of Ivory and the richer districts of the city, and just below them was the District of Copper, and on which they stood on top of was a wall.
Kanrel turned back to the winged person, but they just stood there, looking down. Past them, Kanrel could see that they were no longer in a room but on the great wall that surrounded all of N'Sharan, and this wall was the one that was between the ocean and the District of Copper.
The waves hit the thick wall, unable to breach it or go over it. This wall was all that kept the District Below from drowning; it was a magnificent achievement of engineering, architecture, and magic. The whole construction that surrounded the city reeked of this magic.
"Death," the winged person said suddenly, prompting Kanrel to again look at them. They still looked only at the district below and asked, "Is death not the only thing that can bring true peace?" Their voice was deep, and they had such authority in it.
It was a voice Kanrel would follow without a second of hesitation. This voice was that of a general or a king, one that would inspire many in battle, one that would inspire anyone to follow him into death, into the depths of his enemies, even if it could only end up in that death. That death—the only thing that could free the living—could free them all.
That would bring peace.
The winged person lifted their gaze and turned around. "There will be a war, one I have waited for since the building of this city, one that you believed we would never have to fight."
They looked straight at Kanrel; their eyes peered into him; they peered into his soul; and perhaps there they saw something, but they did not look truly at him; they looked at someone else as they said, "My old friends, this war will come, and it will destroy this paradise we have built."
"We are no better than our old enemy, and we should never try to disrupt the cycle of empires."
"Nothing lasts forever." They said with a sad smile that lingered on their tired face, they looked at something, at someone past Kanrel, and Kanrel looked at them.
The waves hit the walls below; it was peaceful at that moment. It was peaceful as the walls began to crumble. As the ocean reclaimed what was meant to be theirs, Kanrel could only look at the Sharan of War and Peace, the creature that stood before him in all of its magnificence. Their wings were gold, and their face was that of the angel that decorated the painting in the temple that he had called home for years now.
He could only look at them as the district beneath was swallowed by the ocean, and in the blink of an eye, it was all gone. The angel, the walls, the city... Next, he laid his eyes on the familiar doors of the elevator. All he now knew was that he was descending.