The other side of Reincarnation

　I told Ignivar first, mostly because he was already standing across from me on the training grounds when I finally worked up the nerve to say it out loud.

”There’s a dimensional seal buried inside my own domain,” I said. ”Older than my own barrier. Something’s contained in it that even Anti-Subconsciousness won’t approach without a warning attached. I’m going to go find out what.”

　Ignivar’s expression didn’t change much, which somehow made the moment feel heavier rather than lighter.

”That’s either very brave or very foolish,” he said. ”Possibly both.”

”Probably both,” I agreed.

”Then you’ll want to be considerably stronger before you attempt it,” he said, already shifting into his usual training stance. ”We’re increasing intensity, starting now.”

Of course we are.

Should’ve expected that.

　I spent the following weeks in something close to constant preparation — training with Ignivar until my whole body ached in ways that had become almost comfortingly familiar, consulting Aeron about anything elven memory might hold on dimensional seals of this specific age.

”Eighty years, if Vance’s estimate holds,” Aeron said, considering the timeline carefully. ”That does narrow things somewhat. Old enough to predate most living memory among shorter-lived races. Young enough that it might still exist somewhere in elven record, if I search properly.”

Eighty years.

Not that long, in the grand scheme of things this world apparently measures time by.

　He spent several days searching whatever records his people had carried with them from their old forest, and came back, eventually, with something that unsettled me more than a total absence of information would have.

”I found one reference,” he said, careful. ”Fragmentary. Something about a battle, roughly that many years back, between a dragon and — the text is damaged here — ’something ancient, from before the current order of things.’ No further detail survived.”

Something ancient.

From before the current order of things.

That’s not remotely comforting.

　Eris found me the night before I finally decided to go, sitting alone at the edge of Horizoncrest, turning the whole situation over one final time.

”You’re nervous,” she said, settling beside me, finding my hand without hesitation.

”Terrified, honestly,” I admitted. ”Whatever’s back there has been sealed for eighty years. That’s not something anyone bothers sealing unless it’s genuinely, seriously dangerous.”

”You don’t have to go alone,” she said.

”I do, actually,” I said, gentle. ”Whatever this is — it’s tied to my domain specifically. Feels like something I need to face myself, first, before I decide whether it’s safe enough to bring anyone else near.”

　She didn’t argue, though I could feel the reluctance in how tightly she held my hand.

”Come back,” she said, simply.

”I intend to,” I said. ”Whatever’s back there, I’ve survived worse. Probably.”

Probably.

Great. Real confident framing, there.

　I lay awake most of that final night, running through every possible scenario my own overactive imagination could produce.

What if it’s some kind of ancient monster? What if it’s actually stronger than Vahlreth and Skorne combined, and I’m about to walk directly into the single worst decision of either of my lives?

What if it’s nothing? What if I build this up into some enormous confrontation and it turns out to be, I don’t know, a particularly aggressive garden gnome?

...That last one felt weirdly plausible for about four seconds before I remembered how seriously Anti-Subconsciousness had actually reacted to it.

Definitely not a garden gnome.

Definitely something worth being appropriately terrified of.

”You should sleep,” Anti-Subconsciousness said, apparently picking up on my spiraling even through whatever passed for its version of patience.

Easy for you to say.

You don’t actually need sleep.

”Accurate. I would still recommend it for you specifically.”

Fine.

Fine, I’ll try.

　I didn’t sleep well. I doubt anyone properly would have, on the eve of finally confronting whatever their own backyard had apparently been hiding for eighty years.

　I set out at dawn, alone except for the voice that had never once actually left me, heading toward a clearing I’d already visited twice and retreated from both times.

Third time’s the charm, I guess.

Or third time’s when I finally find out exactly how much trouble I’m actually in.

Either way.

Let’s get this over with.