'What is this feeling?'
Everything felt both impossibly light and crushingly heavy, as if his body existed in two opposing states at once. It was as though he were floating and simultaneously sinking. For a long, uncertain moment, he could not move, could not even think, only exist, held by the vague feeling of nothingness.
Eventually, a flicker of will returned. Erel struggled to regain his senses, forcing his limbs to respond, then pried his eyes open. The world snapped into focus, albeit slowly. He found himself not in the familiar comfort of his apartment, nor even on a city street, but in an ornate, enclosed space. Velvet curtains draped the high windows, filtering in a subdued glow. He lay sprawled upon a seat that was plush and crimson, its old velvet slightly damp to the touch, the fabric strangely clammy beneath his palm. Above, a chandelier of crystals trembled with the motion of the carriage.
'A carriage?'
His head throbbed mercilessly, a dull ache pulsing behind his temples, as if someone had driven a blade into his skull. He pressed his hand to his brow, willing the pain to subside. The heavy scent of old perfume and leather mingled in the air.
'Wait. I was headed home, wasn't I? Where the hell am I? How did I even get here?'
He tried to piece together the last few moments, but found only fragments, memories slipping through his mental grasp. He remembered the city, the path that he chose to avoid the river through the commercial district, the warning from Lyra, the streetlights shimmering and then nothing. Just an empty, echoing space in his mind, a gap where something important should have been.
'I was walking through a street towards my apartment. What then?'
Outside, the world was eerily still. The carriage swayed gently, wheels crunching over gravel as it rolled on, the sound muffled by the clumpy walls. The air inside pressed against his skin, thick and viscous, carrying a subtle syrupy consistency. Every breath felt weighted.
'The Imaginarium is thick here.'
He recognised the sensation at once, the strange, almost suffocating density that signalled a plane.
His heart pounded.
'Don't tell me… The forecasted plane. But how? How did I manage to walk right into it without realising?'
He forced himself to think, to retrace his last conscious moments. He'd been at the corner of the street, walking briskly, cautious but not afraid. He remembered the streetlights blurring, the air thickening… and then a peculiar blankness, as if that section of his memory had been removed. He reached for it, desperate to recall, but the harder he tried, the further it slipped away, always just out of reach.
A flash of panic. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his head as the throbbing intensified. Curses slipped past his lips, mumbled and half-formed. But panic, he knew, was useless. He had learned that much from Lyra over the years. He forced himself to focus, drawing a slow breath, counting in two-three, out two-three, grounding himself in the present. His pulse slowed, the panic receding, replaced by calmness.
'Panicking won't help me escape. Especially, if I am inside a plane right now.'
It was then that he noticed the object clutched in his hand, a yellowed parchment, rolled and sealed with a blood-red wax stamp. He hadn't realised he was holding anything, but there it was, pressed tightly in his trembling fingers. He stared at it for a moment, dread prickling along his spine.
'No. This can't be happening. Not again. Not a plane. Not again…'
Memories, raw and unhealed, surged up: the day a planar rift had opened beside his childhood home, the day his parents had vanished into that vortex, leaving behind only silence and questions. He remembered his mother's frantic instructions, his father's silhouette swallowed by the swirling plane, the sudden void afterwards. The pain was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
His breathing quickened, chest tightening as panic clawed at his throat. The carriage's ornate walls seemed to close in, velvet and wood warping at the edges of his vision. He pressed his palms to his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to listen for Lyra's voice in his memory, guiding him through the old grounding ritual. In-two-three, out-two-three. Slowly, the suffocating panic receded.
With trembling fingers, Erel broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The paper was thick, almost leather-like, and the ink shimmered faintly. The words were written in a flowing, elegant hand:
Mr. Erel Inarison,
Your presence is requested at Bluebeard Manor for an evening of dining and entertainment. Your fellow guests await. The Master of the House extends his welcome and assures your safety so long as courtesy is maintained.
Cordially,
The House of Bluebeard
He read the invitation twice, his mind instantly parsing the implications.
'Bluebeard. The myth of the nobleman who murdered his wives, the forbidden chamber, and curiosity was punished by death.'
His university studies in Theoretical Planar Studies returned to him in a rush. He had chosen the field almost in defiance of his trauma, or perhaps because of it, a need to understand the forces that had destroyed his life. The Imaginarium, the thin, living margin of existence where imagination and reality interlocked, had first manifested three decades ago. What was once the stuff of stories, gods, monsters, curses, magical mansions, had become a force that could rip holes in the world, creating paradox planes: narrative spaces where stories dictated reality, bending or even rewriting the laws of physics.
Once, humanity thought the Imaginarium's emergence spelled the end. Planes began appearing with increasing frequency, some minor, others catastrophic. Yet from the chaos rose a strange phenomenon: a select few called the Anomalites could wield powers drawn from the Imaginarium itself, shaping the narrative or even fighting back against the horrors it unleashed.
But the Imaginarium was full of contradictions. Why would a force that sought to consume reality empower those who might resist it? Some theorised it was a revenge from the very beings that created us; others, a living entity made human imagination and of stories, feeding on conflict and resolution alike.
The carriage slowed, the wheels crunching to a halt atop a gravel driveway. Erel was jolted from his thoughts. He shifted to peer out the window, brushing aside a velvet curtain. Fog pressed against the glass, peeling back to reveal a structure that could only exist within a plane: Bluebeard Manor.
It loomed against a dark, violet sky, an ancient monstrosity of impossible architecture. Spires jutted from every angle, some bending in ways that defied gravity. Windows crowded together in unnatural patterns, some glowing with a soft light, others dark and hollow. The roof twisted and curved. Surrounding the manor were gardens of eerie beauty, flowers blooming in blood red colours, their petals pulsing faintly with internal light.
The carriage rolled to a stop before a grand staircase. Erel took a deep, steadying breath, fighting the urge to bolt. The Bluebeard myth was a classic, a tale of boundaries crossed and the consequences of forbidden knowledge. What role would he play here? The guest, the observer, the doomed?
The carriage door swung open of its own accord, hinges creaking with a sound like a groan. Beyond, the air was heavy with mist and the distant chirr of night insects. Erel stepped out, his shoes crunching on the gravel, and took in the scene. Columns of fog covered the garden in its embrace.
He glanced to his left and right, noting the presence of eight other carriages arranged in a precise semicircle. Their horses stood motionless, eyes glassy, as if awaiting a cue. A small crowd had gathered at the base of the manor's staircase, which looked like other guests, or so he assumed.
He approached cautiously, cataloguing each figure.
An elderly gentleman stood at the periphery, his posture straight despite the weight of a leather-bound notebook clutched in one hand. He wore a tweed jacket with patches and wire-rimmed spectacles that slipped down his nose at regular intervals. A small, neat nametag read Professor Edmund Thorne. The man's eyes sparkled with curiosity, jotting observations even as he scanned the garden.
Next to him was a man who seemed to radiate discipline, broad-shouldered, with a crisp buttoned coat. His jaw was set, his gaze sweeping over the manor with calculation. His nametag identified him as Captain Reginald Stone.
A young woman in black mourning attire stood slightly apart, clutching a silver locket close to her chest. Her eyes were red and hollow. Miss Eliza Blackwood, her nametag stated. She looked less at the manor and seemed to be more lost in her thoughts.
A woman draped in silks and scarves gestured dramatically as she addressed the air itself, her hands moving in patterns. Her face was painted with elaborate makeup, and an ornate nametag proclaimed her Madame Octavia Ravenwood, Medium.
Another woman who seemed directly opposite was composed, wore practical clothing. Trousers, a crisp white shirt, hair tightly pulled back. She watched everything with a sharp gaze. Her simple metal nametag announced her as Miss Charlotte Grey, Private Investigator.
Nearby, a man in an expensive but hopelessly rumpled suit paced, glancing at the manor and back at a gold pocket watch. His nametag read Lord James Hemsworth. Anxiety radiated from him in visible waves.
A stoic, middle-aged man examined the strange garden flowers. Every movement that he made seemed measured, as if conserving energy for when it would truly be needed. His nametag read Dr. Henry West, Physician.
Finally, Erel's gaze settled on a young man standing a little apart from the others, hands in his pockets, eyes darting with wariness. He looked about Erel's age, but his presence felt… off. The nametag read simply, Adren.
Looking down at his own nametag, which he had no idea how made its way to his chest, read, Erel Myre.
'How do they know our names, even occupations?'
The sudden reality then dawned on Erel.
'A breach with eight entrants, that's practically unheard of.'
'Are they constructs or actual humans?'
That was always the question, the taboo at the heart of a few planes. Never trust anyone inside a plane without proof; too many had died because they mistook a construct for an ally. Constructs existed in some planes to enforce the narrative, to guide or mislead, to ensure the Imaginarium's logic prevailed.
'Planes usually have strict caps on the number of entrants, based on the story's logic. But they love to toy with Anomalites, building constructs that mirror real people, sometimes even versions of yourself.'
As Erel approached, several heads turned. Professor Thorne was the first to step forward, his hand outstretched with eager energy, like that of meeting an old friend.
"Ah! The final guest arrives! Professor Edmund Thorne, at your service. Fascinating situation we find ourselves in, isn't it? Bluebeard Manor, one of the more well-known myths."
'Definitely a construct. No normal person would be that enthusiastic about being trapped in a death myth. Or maybe a crack-head.'
Erel shook the professor's hand, noting the warmth in his grip. "Erel Myre," he replied, keeping his tone neutral.
"Splendid to meet you! Now that we're all present, perhaps our gracious host will finally grace us with his presence. I, for one, am most interested in the wives," Thorne said, eyes gleaming.
Erel suppressed a grimace. If this plane followed the original narrative, the professor's curiosity would likely prove fatal. In the story, Bluebeard's wife's curiosity led her to a room filled with corpses, and nearly cost her life.
Before Erel could respond, the heavy double doors atop the staircase creaked open. Warm, golden light spilt out onto the stairway. A tall figure stepped into the light, impeccably dressed, every movement precise to the point of being mechanical. His face was obscured by the brim of a midnight-blue hat, but as he descended, the sense of something dangerous arose within Erel, making the ouroboros tattoo under his ear heat up subtly.