Darkness was pure, like closed eyes. No sound, no smell—a perfect sensory vacuum where my pulse became the only source of data. I didn't feel the floor beneath my feet, yet I wasn't falling. Space simply adapted to my presence, pulling the void into the semblance of a closed room.
The walls coalesced from half-tones. Three doors. No handles, only crudely scratched symbols: "I", "II", "III". Stroke by stroke—dry, almost mathematical precision.
My "Function" immediately engaged, scanning the environment. The air was cold and motionless. The scent—the dust of infinite archives and a faint metallic tang on the tongue. That tang appears when you bite your cheek too hard to keep from betraying yourself with an extra breath. There was no light, but I saw everything—my consciousness simply reconstructed the image based on the density of matter.
I circled the room. Three paths.
- Door "I": A sensation of absolute emptiness. As if life had been sucked out of a vessel to the last drop.
- Door "II": Density. A dull resonance of stone and stagnant water.
- Door "III": Thermal anomaly. A thin, living heat radiating from the surface, like parchment upon which a fresh line has just been laid.
Emotions are noise. Unnecessary bits of information slowing down data processing. To remain effective in this space, I forcibly lowered my sensitivity threshold. If this is a construct testing my will, the best way to pass is to remain a cold instrument.
But even the most perfect instrument has a root. A place where it was forged.
I approached the first door. The mark "I" was jagged, as if the scribe's chisel had slipped on the wax. The number had clearly been forced from the other side.
It was logical to start at the beginning. Childhood is the foundation of all subsequent behavioral algorithms. If there is an error in the system, it hides in the very first lines of code.
"Entering," I said aloud. My voice sounded dry and level, meeting no echo. I didn't touch the door with my hands; I simply focused my attention on the structure of the "lock" that didn't exist and applied a vector of will to the fabric of reality. The door smiled with a thin slit and silently slid apart.
The scents burst out as if under pressure: a wet cobblestone yard, the sharp bitterness of hospital ointment, and cold, stale bread. My old name—the one I had carefully buried under layers of new identities—throbbed with a sharp, pulsing pain in the back of my head.
The "Function" issued a critical stress warning. I ignored it.
I was six years old. I sat under a leaky lean-to, clutching an empty bowl like a lifebuoy. Inside the room on a cot lay my mother—white as lime. Her "fever" lived its own life: now flaring crimson on her cheeks, now dying out, leaving only a clammy cold.
Two priests of Ilmater passed by, carefully avoiding puddles and holding up the hems of their grey robes. I looked up at them, holding my breath.
"Not today," one barked, quickening his pace.
"We cannot," the second added. "It is needed further down the street."
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In that moment, small as I was, I understood: the route of sympathy is always shorter than the route of real help. Hunger does not read the statutes of gods. If the heavens are silent, one must look around.
Survival had to be done on the run. Crumbs from the bakery are also bread if you collect enough. Anakis taught me that. She had short horns she always hid under a hood, thin fingers, and a smile that was enough to light up our entire quarter. Orin was there, too—a neighbor kid with freckles.
The three of us decided: there’s a shopkeeper at the pier with a barrel of salted fish, and we had bottomless stomachs.
"Now," Anakis whispered, barely touching my shoulder. "Quick. Soft. Don't breathe."
I slid in first. Darkness, a slippery plank, the railing... and suddenly the world exploded in sharp pain. A heavy hand gripped my ear.
"Ah, little rat!" the shopkeeper dragged me into the lantern light. "The guards are coming now..."
"Don't!" I blurted out. "My mother is sick. Yesterday your scales were off—you were yelling at your assistant yourself. I’ll return everything in gold. When I grow up. Honestly!"
The shopkeeper squinted. In his eyes, the merchant and the man collided.
"Get out of here. And don't let me see your face again..." He released his grip.
That moment was enough. While he fumbled with the bolt, turning away, I gave a grateful nod—and in that light movement, I lifted two coins from his pocket. The door slammed shut, and two heavy fish carcasses slid to my friends like fish into a wave.
I had bought their loyalty for two fish and a share of the risk. We each had a goal. I saved for my mother's medicine. Anakis dreamed of "real study"—to become a master of shadows. And Orin... he followed us for that intoxicating sense of belonging.
The silence in the room shifted—the way the air density changes when someone nearby takes a deep, conscious breath. And then, She manifested. She didn't enter; she simply became visible: first an outline, then the graphics of fabric, and finally, a gaze.
The chair beneath her had no legs, held up solely by her posture. A harlequin suit—black and white diamonds, precise and sharp as a struck signature. A thin mask didn't hide her face but emphasized her lips—a red seal that shouted nothing but finalized everything.
She smelled of cherry pits, wax, and cold iron. The typical attributes of an office and an execution. I noted: minimal movement, calculated pauses. Before me was not an actress, but a living contract.
"Venice," she introduced herself. Her voice fell softly, like a shadow from a palm. "But it is not important who I am. It is important—who you are."
I followed her eyes. There was no pressure, only an offer, clean of clutter. In that moment, the walls of the room seemed to step toward each other. My "Function" immediately recorded an anomaly: of the three doors, only two remained. Door "I," smelling of salted fish and childhood, had vanished, erased by her presence.
On the stone, Roman numerals glowed dimly: "II" and "III".
"Choice does not love long toasts," Venice noted almost tenderly. She rested an elbow on an invisible armrest. She waited.
I felt through my skin how this pause worked against us. This devil was digging through my files. She deleted the first door not because it was passed, but so I would stop looking back at my feelings. She wanted me to choose the "correct" instrument.
"Enough," I said aloud. I stepped toward the frames. The temperature contrast was physical: from Door "II" came the chill of the Academy's crypt; from "III"—the dry heat of fresh orders.
Venice didn't move, but her eyelashes flickered. She was watching the threads of my perception, which she herself was pulling. She knew: Faurgar the Analyst would choose what was logical. She was pushing me toward the memory of my transformation into the "Function" because that was the Faurgar she needed—predictable, effective, and devoid of the baggage of Anakis or Orin.
I raised my hand and reached for the stone.
"Let's see," I exhaled. "And let's choose for ourselves."
I said "ourselves," but a cold suspicion scratched inside: if I were truly choosing for myself, there would still be three doors. But Venice had already opened my "envelope" and knew that this movement of the hand would follow exactly the script she had written for me.
The Deletion of the Self.
Key Takeaways:
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The Trinity of Doors: Door I was Childhood/Emotion. Door II is the Academy/Knowledge (the transition). Door III is the Order/The Future (the final Function).
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Anakis and Orin: We finally see the faces behind Faurgar's memories. These weren't just friends; they were his first "resource management" project. He didn't just play with them; he calculated their survival.
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Venice’s Nature: She isn't a demon or a ghost; she feels like an administrative authority of the universe. Her suit of "black and white diamonds" perfectly reflects the binary nature of Faurgar’s mind.
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The "Ourselves" Slip: Faurgar said "ourselves," implying he still thinks of the squad. But Venice is pushing him to be a singular, perfect instrument.
Questions for the readers:
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Door I: Why do you think Venice erased the memory of his childhood first? Was it a mercy or a tactical strike to make him more "predictable"?
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The Shopkeeper: Even as a child, Faurgar used logic to steal. Does this mean he was always a "Function," or did the world leave him no other choice?
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Venice vs. Mystra: We’ve seen Mystra interact with Flint. How does Venice compare in terms of power and "vibe"?
?? SUPPORT THE JOURNEY & UNLOCK THE DM VAULT
Path of the Analytical Function or the rules for Psychic Choice Encounters, come join us on Patreon!
DM Vault for Chapter 17:
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Subclass Supplement: The School of Rationality. A wizard/tactician subclass focused on "Vector Analysis" and removing emotional debuffs.
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Mechanic: The Vanishing Path. How to run a dungeon where the players' choices literally delete the rooms they didn't pick.
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Lore: The Venice Contract. Who are the "Harlequins of Order" and what is their connection to the Forbidden Lands?
[Link to Patreon — Choose Your Function]