Keith Skyshard blinked. Once. Twice.
He expected pain. The tearing heat of a bullet wound. The cold sting of rain on his skin. Thorne's rifle barrel staring him down. Josh's blood, warm and sticky, soaking into his hands.
But instead…
There was nothing.
No pain. No sound. No sky. No ground. No cold, no heat. Just white.
Endless, suffocating white.
Keith tried to breathe. Air came easily, filling his lungs, but it felt wrong—too clean, too empty. His pulse hammered in his ears, the only reminder that he was still alive.
Was he alive?
He looked around, searching for walls, shapes, anything, but there was nothing. No floor beneath his boots, but he wasn't falling. No horizon in the distance, but he wasn't blind.
It was as if someone had taken the world, erased it, and left him behind to stand on the blank page.
Yet he existed.
Keith flexed his fingers cautiously, half-expecting them to pass through empty air. But they moved as they always had, real and solid. He turned his wrist, seeing pale skin marked with faded scars—a lifetime of missions, knife fights, and broken glass.
Except…
The scar on his left eyebrow, the one he got on his first training op when he was ten, was gone.
He pressed his fingers against the spot, confused. Smooth skin met his touch. No ridge, no ache, nothing.
Frantically, he ran his hands down his arms, across his chest, and to his ribs—searching for the fresh wound, the bullet that should have torn him open.
Nothing.
No pain. No blood. Just smooth skin beneath the fabric of his shirt.
His shirt.
He glanced down, expecting the shredded, blood-soaked tactical gear he had worn in the rain, but instead, he saw clean black fabric, unmarked, fitting perfectly.
Was this heaven?
Hell?
Limbo?
Had Thorne killed him, and this was whatever came after?
Keith's breath caught as his fingers brushed something cold beneath his shirt.
The locket.
It was still there.
He pulled it out, staring at the dull silver that had long lost its shine. The engraved wings on the front were worn down from years of rubbing it between his fingers during missions. It clicked open easily; it had been with him since his birth, before the agency, before everything. Even though Keith did not know its origin, it always felt like a part of his body.
Keith's grip tightened.
If this was death, at least this piece of himself had also followed him here.
A ripple tore across the white.
Like a crack in glass, it split the emptiness, a thin line that widened, shimmering with strange colors Keith couldn't name. It pulsed, expanding and contracting as if breathing.
Then, it widened further.
A speck appeared on the horizon—or what might have been a horizon. It was so distant that Keith almost thought it was a trick of the mind, a desperate hope forming shapes in the void.
But it moved.
It grew larger, footsteps silent in the nothingness, until it resolved into the form of a man.
Keith dropped into a defensive stance, feet braced, body angled. No weapon, but fists clenched and ready. Spy instincts never faded, even here, wherever here was.
The figure stopped a few feet away, and Keith saw him clearly.
Tall, lean, and draped in flowing robes that shimmered like moonlight on rippling water. His hair was long, a pale silver that drifted around him as if underwater, and his eyes—
Keith sucked in a breath.
Eyes like galaxies. Spiraling colors, infinite depths. Calm. Eternal.
"Welcome, Keith Skyshard," the man said, his voice resonating not in the air, but inside Keith's head, as smooth and clear as a calm sea.
Keith narrowed his eyes, fists tightening. "Where the hell am I?"
"This is the Nexus," the man replied. "A place between time and place. Between death… and rebirth."
Keith's jaw tightened. "Am I dead?"
"No," the man said gently, with a faint, knowing smile. "But you were close."
That wasn't comforting.
Keith took a step forward, tension coiling in his shoulders. "What is this? Some agency simulation? Another test? A mind game before the end?"
The man shook his head. "You have been chosen."
Keith scoffed, bitter. "By whom?"
"The Lords of Sky."
The words felt heavy, like they carried the weight of something too vast to fit inside the human mind. Keith's lips parted, but no words came.
"They are beings beyond your understanding," the man continued, folding his hands behind his back. "They watch countless realities—worlds that bloom, burn, and vanish. And now… they have summoned you."
"Why me?" Keith demanded, the bitterness in his voice rising.
"You and ninety-nine others from your planet have been chosen," the man explained calmly. "You are the Children of Sky."
Keith's eyes narrowed. "Chosen for what?"
The man paused, as if weighing the words carefully. "A trial. A proving ground. The Legacy Games."
The words struck like a hammer, vibrating in Keith's bones.
"Explain," he demanded.
The man raised a hand, and the whiteness around them flickered. Images formed, hovering in the air like floating windows:
A vast floating arena surrounded by swirling skies. Towering mountains covered in silver mist. Deep forests pulsing with strange, bioluminescent plants. Endless oceans with creatures that glowed beneath the waves. Humans—young and old, some terrified, others hardened by life—scattered across the landscape, some fighting, some hiding, some standing in the rain as if waiting for something to find them.
Keith's jaw clenched. "A battleground."
"Yes," the man confirmed. "A sacred arena where the chosen are tested. A place where your instincts, courage, and power will be forged. From the hundred who enter… only five will leave."
Keith's fists clenched. "So you just drag a hundred people in, force them to kill each other, and pick the last ones standing?"
"It is not murder," the man said softly, "It is awakening."
Keith's eyebrows pulled together. "Awakening?"
"There is a legacy in your blood," the man continued, stepping closer. "Dormant potential passed down from a forgotten sky, hidden within your soul. The Games are a crucible to awaken it. You will burn… or you will rise."
Keith's heart twisted. Anger, confusion, and a strange flicker of hope warred inside him.
"You expect me to believe that?" he shot back. "You just yank me from my own execution, and now I'm supposed to play in some cosmic death match?"
"You were dying," the man reminded him. "Your choices were stolen from you. Now, you have a new choice."
Keith looked down, the locket cold against his skin. Josh's smile looked back at him.
A life stolen.
A future shattered.
A promise broken.
He closed the locket, holding it to his chest.
"What about the others?" he asked quietly. "The ninety-nine?"
The man's eyes softened. "Each of them has known pain. Loss. Chaos. They are survivors, like you. But only five will ascend."
Keith's throat tightened. "Ascend to what?"
The man smiled, but it wasn't an answer. "To something more."
"More than what?" Keith snapped.
The man stepped back, robes rippling in an unseen breeze. "You will see."
Keith looked around at the whiteness, the images fading, leaving only the void and the Messenger.
A second chance.
Was it real?
Or just another lie?
But beneath the suspicion, there was something else—a spark of something he hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
A chance to fight for something that mattered.
A chance to escape
A chance to stop running.
Keith's eyes met the Messenger's. "When does it start?"
The man's gaze turned distant. "Soon. The Games will begin without warning. The arena awaits. Your sync will grow as you endure."
"Sync?"
"You will understand," the Messenger said. "For now… prepare yourself."
The whiteness began to swirl, colors bleeding in from the edges—blues, golds, violets, like dawn breaking through infinity. The Messenger's form began to fade.
"Wait!" Keith shouted, reaching out. "What about—?"
"Remember this, Keith Skyshard," the Messenger's voice echoed as he dissolved into starlight. "You are not who you were. You are becoming."
The colors swallowed everything.
Light.
Sound.
Thought.
Then—
Wind.
Cold, clean, sharp.
Keith's eyes snapped open.
Above him, the sky was a violet canvas streaked with gold clouds, swirling with constellations he didn't recognize. The air smelled fresh, like rain on stone, mixed with something electric that made his skin tingle.
He was lying on soft sand, cool and wet beneath his palms. When he pushed himself up, he saw a vast landscape stretching around him—endless desert that glowed with soft violet light.
His wound was gone, but his heart still beat, strong and real.
And in that heartbeat, he felt it.
A hum, like a distant drum, resonated within him.
A power waiting to wake.
Keith stood, the locket heavy against his chest, Josh's smile close to his heart.
Somewhere in this vast, impossible arena, ninety-nine others were awakening, too.
All of them were here for the same reason.
All of them were fighting for something.
And only five would leave.
Keith clenched his fists, staring into the horizon as the wind swept through his hair.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's see what you've got."
And in that moment, as the first distant roar echoed through the sky, the Games began for Keith.