Chapter 1

  A Prodigal, a Shopkeeper and a Deity

  Sometimes, it just doesn’t work out.

  Careers. Relationships. Hobbies. You try something long enough and eventually the message gets through. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it’s a brick to the face. But when it clicks, it’s unmistakable.

  Hey. This isn’t for you. Try something else.

  That’s just life, right? You throw yourself at things. You get knocked on your ass. You stand back up and pretend you learned something useful from it. The real problem comes after.

  After the dust settles and all the failure stops echoing.

  The ‘what now?’ moment.

  That question sits heavy. It doesn’t shout. It just waits. And the longer you avoid it, the worse it gets. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself.

  Like, am I meant to pull some grand truth out of this? Discover my calling? Bounce back with renewed motivation after yet another spectacular fuck-up?

  Yeah, right.

  That’s all self-made, inspirational poster bullshit. We’re not machines! At least—I’m not.

  Right now, sitting in my guidance counselor’s office, being told I’m getting kicked out of college.

  Christ.

  Maybe I felt stuck. Maybe I just hated all the classes. I just couldn’t bring myself to care about any of it anymore.

  All the papers, quizzes, projects... All of it blurred together into this endless and dull obligation cycle I find myself resenting instead of appreciating.

  Either way, I stopped doing the work. Stopped caring.

  And lo’ and behold—the consequences of my actions now show up for their pound of flesh.

  Academic expulsion.

  Sometimes, it just doesn’t work out.

  “Jesse? Are you listening?”

  My name is Jesse Parks. I’m twenty-one years old.

  “Sorry—yeah. What’s up?”

  “I asked if you’re planning on appealing your academic expulsion or not.”

  Anne Davies sits across from me, hands folded tight on her desk. She smells faintly of cigarettes and perfume.

  “Uh,” A sound slips out, “Maybe. Probably not.”

  The clock on her desk ticks loudly into the silence.

  She stares at me. I stare back.

  I’m pretty good at this part, awkward silences.

  “Two years of college is a lot to throw away, Jesse,” she says carefully. “ and you don’t sound very certain about that decision.”

  She’s not wrong.

  “That’s one way to put it,” I say. “I’m just not sure, honestly. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  If it weren’t for Anne, I would’ve dropped out after my first exam week last year. She convinced me to give it another shot. I did. And aside from the parties—which were fun—it was mind-numbingly boring.

  The work was boring. The structure was boring. The future it promised looked… empty.

  I don’t like college.

  So why did I stay?

  Easy. Because there isn’t anything else waiting for me. And here I at least have my own room.

  “Okay,” she says.

  Then sighs, thin lips pressed together, eyes flicking back to her computer screen before she starts picking at a fingernail. She’s frustrated.

  “Indecision is common for young adults,” she says. “Especially for your generation, I get it, trust me I do.”

  She looks back at me now.

  “But at some point, it stops being uncertainty and starts being a crutch. Dropping out without a plan doesn’t look like freedom to employers—it looks like commitment issues. Especially with a transcript like this.”

  She nods slightly to her screen. I can only imagine what sort of grades are on there right now. Well, actually, I don’t need to imagine. They are very bad I am sure.

  I don’t flinch though.

  Work barely even registers in my head. If I need money, I’ll get money; I always do. That’s never been the hard part. Getting a lot of money? Well...

  “If you actually believe that sitting still and not committing to anything is an answer,” she continues, “it isn’t. You’re actively closing doors by not taking this seriously.”

  I chuckle before I can stop myself.

  “Okay, well I guess I just—”

  “No,” she cuts in. “No. We’re not guessing anymore. We are well beyond guessing now, Jesse.”

  That’s new.

  She’s never interrupted me before.

  “I want you to give a damn,” she says, voice sharper now. “You’re not stupid. When you apply yourself, you succeed. You’ve proven that. But this—skipping assignments, not showing up, missing your finals entirely… Are you kidding me?! This is you just choosing to fail at this point.”

  That one lands.

  My stomach tightens. I feel a flicker of guilt surfacing. My childhood flashes through my head—the foster homes, half-packed bags, three different high schools, never staying anywhere long enough to care or settle down.

  Maybe that taught me something or maybe it just made me apathetic.

  “Alright.” I say quietly. “Then maybe the simplest option is to withdraw. If I leave now, does that override the grades?”

  “No,” she says immediately. “They’re already on your record.”

  …Oh.

  “Gotcha… gotcha,” I mutter. “So… what can I do?”

  “You can appeal,” she says. “Like I told you earlier. You appeal to the board. You promise to do better. Should they accept, then you get one more chance.”

  She removes her glasses and looks at me directly. It’s harder to meet her eyes all the sudden.

  “I have another appointment soon,” she says. “It’s time to decide.”

  The room feels very small all of a sudden.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Yeah. Good question.

  ~~~~

  Maybe it’s not a good thing that I have an easy answer.

  “Yo—another beer.”

  'Fuck all of it.'

  I plan on getting really drunk. One last act of commitment, or in this case, non-commitment. If I’m going to fail I might as well do it enthusiastically.

  I’m not a student anymore. I’m something worse—someone with debt, no credentials, and no forward momentum.

  Zero prospects and zero plans.

  Honestly?

  The average college graduate and I probably are not all that different. I’m just cutting out the middleman.

  Home isn’t an option. Mostly because I don’t have one. My foster parents and I stopped talking the moment I left for school.

  It wasn't really a falling out. I guess it just happened… quietly. Unlike most things in my life.

  I’ve got a few dollars sitting in a savings account that mostly exists to collect maintenance fees. Maybe I could rub a few pennies together to hop over to a shelter or something. Denver has options.

  But forget all that. Tonight, I plan on getting very drunk.

  I drink until the bartender stops making eye contact.

  I drink until time turns fuzzy around the edges.

  I drink until it’s somewhere between late and too late.

  “Hey, man, you gotta bounce. Can I call you a cab?”

  “Nah~” I reply, “I’mma- I’mma walk this off.”

  The clocks won’t stay still when I look at them. Spinning and blurring like they’re mocking me.

  My phone is gone—lost, stolen, sacrificed, who fucking knows.

  Directions stop making sense when every street looks like the same abstract painting. The bright streetlights illuminate me like a specimen in a lab. I feel a raindrop on my face, then another and another. I chuckle at the sensation on my skin.

  I stagger down the sidewalk, eating shit more than once as gravity and I renegotiate our suddenly strained relationship.

  “Ah. Hell.”

  I brace myself against a concrete wall, palm slick against it. The rain’s picked up now—soft at first, but now insistent. I squint up again at the sky and see two moons now wobbling, splitting and rejoining like they can’t decide which one’s real. Or is that just me?

  Bad move.

  The world tilts hard, and the next thing I know, I’m on the ground with the wind knocked clean out of me.

  “God. Damn it.”

  “Excuse me, sir—are you Jesse Parks?”

  A voice cuts through the haze like it doesn’t belong there.

  I blink up and see a man standing over me. Dark suit. Briefcase. Umbrella held just right to keep the rain off him, not me. I can make him out oddly well despite being upside down.

  He looks like a penguin.

  “Yeah?” I manage, dragging myself upright. My hands scrape against the pavement as I claw my way into a sitting position. Up close, he’s… small. Really small. And old looking.

  “Who—who are you?”

  “My name is Alaric,” he says, voice lilting in a way I can’t quite place. “I’ve been searching for you all evening. I had hoped to find you at your residence, but alas—you were absent.”

  “Okay,” I mumble. “Are you from the school? You guys doing house calls now or something?”

  He smiles thinly.

  “Oh no. I’m not here on any school’s behalf.” He adjusts his umbrella slightly, moving closer. “I represent someone interested in employing you for a special project.”

  That’s when it hits me.

  I squint at him. Hard.

  “Man, you—oh shit,” I snort. “You look like the Boss Baby.”

  The words spill out before I can stop them. I rub my eyes and laugh—too loud, too long. Alcohol does that. Or maybe it’s panic. Either way, I can’t help it.

  “That’s—wow. That’s such a weird thought. I’m sorry.”

  I keep laughing. I have to laugh. If I stop, I might start crying, and I don’t have the energy for that right now.

  When I finally catch my breath, I notice his expression has soured. Just slightly. A look from beneath his bowler hat that suggests I’ve tested his patience. I’ve always had a knack for that too, I suppose.

  “You appear to be in quite the state,” he says. “Allow me to expedite matters.”

  He opens his briefcase and produces a large manila envelope.

  “Tonight, I am simply here to deliver correspondence,” he continues, pressing it into my hands. “What you do with it afterward is of little concern to me. That said—if you wish to maintain having a roof over your head following your recent expulsion, I would advise acting sooner rather than later.”

  My stomach drops.

  “Wait—what? Hold on. How do you know—”

  “Good evening, Mr. Parks.”

  He doesn’t wait for a response.

  He turns and walks away, shoes striking the pavement with crisp, deliberate clicks that sound far too loud in the rain. I sit there, blinking after him, envelope clenched in my hands.

  I barely make out the lettering through the blur and the rain spots splashing.

  But I don’t need to.

  I’ve seen those two words before drunk many times.

  It’s my name.

  ~~~~

  It was half past three in the morning.

  The old shopkeeper turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him with a practiced ease. Rain hammered the street outside now, thunder rolling low and distant reverberating off those distant mountains and bouncing back into the sprawling cityscape.

  He shuffled across the threshold, scraping the dampness from his shoes against the worn welcome mat before it could stain the floor.

  “Blasted weather,” he muttered.

  He shook out his umbrella, tapped it gently against the mat, and wrapped the strap tight around the handle. The motion was habitual—ritual, even. He hung it on his wrist as he flipped the lock into place.

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  At a glance, the shop was nothing remarkable.

  An old bookstore. Narrow and rustic in a way that suggested it held more neglect than charm between its walls. The paint was scuffed and peeling, the shelves warped slightly from age, dipping into a fine bow under the weight of books. There was a smell to the place—old paper, dust, something faintly sweet and decaying. Not entirely unpleasant. Just… tired.

  Row after row of shelves stretched into the dim store, volumes stacked and piled wherever space allowed. Books spilled onto the floor, into corners, beneath tables. Fairytales pressed against encyclopedias. Scriptures leaned against epics and tomes. Biographies wedged between grimoires. It was more akin to an accumulated hoard rather than curated selection for sale. It felt as if a book had existed, then it likely would have passed through these very shelves at some point in its life.

  The shopkeeper removed his bowler hat and cleared his throat.

  “Well?” he said quietly. “Are you present?”

  The shelves creaked.

  The sound rippled through the store like a slow exhale, wood groaning under invisible strain. Pages rustled. Somewhere near the counter, a shadow stretched and recoiled, flickering like a reflection without a source.

  “The boy accepted,” the shopkeeper said. “Though I’d wager his inebriation deserves most of the credit.”

  The shadow slid across the counter, pooling unnaturally along its edge. Then the voices came.

  Indeed, not just one but many. A hushed chorus rising from every corner of this place all at once. Overlapping, as their hushed whispering crackled through the air. Almost intelligible, if one strained hard enough.

  The shopkeeper just clicked his tongue.

  “Are you truly surprised?” he asked, moving deeper into the store. “The child lacks discipline, direction, and prospects. You offered him the grapevine. Any starving, dying man would reach for it.”

  The shadow followed, gliding between shelves as he walked, stretching impossibly thin and then collapsing back into itself. The whispers surged again, threaded with something like eagerness.

  He stopped near the back of the shop.

  Beside him stood a small door—only a few inches taller than he was—set into the wall at the far corner. His private quarters. His refuge.

  He turned, peering into the adjacent bookshelf where the shadow had stilled. The darkness there felt deep. Bottomless. Like staring into a void that stared back.

  “Frankly, I have never been one to question your decisions,” he said evenly. “But I feel compelled to do so now.”

  The whispers faded.

  “You claim we are in need of one who can prove to be this elusive, proverbial, 'key',” he continued with a thick drawl. “Yet you send me to a deviant, drunk, prodigal youth from the streets. Do you not see how many failures surround us already?” He motions to the shelves, the floor, to the ceilings. Books upon books upon books.

  Silence filled the store.

  Not the comfortable kind.

  The shadow thinned, unraveling until it simply… wasn’t there anymore.

  No answer. Or perhaps that was the answer. Silence.

  The shopkeeper sighed.

  “To think,” he murmured through gritted teeth, “even the great You could be rendered speechless. Time truly does change us all.”

  Rarely did his master behave this way. So hesitant and withdrawn; almost… childlike. Though it was not this shopkeeper’s place to challenge such things. Even when doubts crept in.

  He would obey. There were no alternatives.

  He turned back toward the aisles, expression hardening. He clapped his hands—once, twice.

  The store responded.

  The air shifted. Lights tore loose from the rafters and shattered soundlessly against the floor. Shelves groaned and slid, rearranging themselves with impossible grace. Books tore free from their resting places, spinning and spiraling through the air in a silent, violent storm.

  Then—stillness.

  The bookstore was gone.

  In its place stood a bar. Warm lights. Low laughter. Glasses clinking. A neon sign buzzed faintly above the door, inviting and alive. Patrons filled the space, unaware of what had been overwritten to accommodate them.

  The shopkeeper nodded once, satisfied.

  He stepped through the small door at the back. Nobody saw him. Or perhaps they did, but do not remember what they saw.

  As the door closed, latch resting in place, it warped and shifted. Flattening into canvas and frame. The image resolved into a painting—a house perched atop a lonely hill, surrounded by deep green fields beneath an open sky.

  The painting settled onto an empty stretch of wall, between two soft lights.

  Etched into the frame were four simple words:

  The Abode of Alaric.

  ~~~~

  I fumble with the key longer than I should. Thank god I didn’t lose it.

  My hands don’t quite cooperate, metal scraping against metal until the lock finally gives and I stumble into the dorm room. A bright orange notice is already taped to the inside of the door.

  Notice to Vacate.

  Of course there is.

  I shut the door and lock it, leaning my forehead against the wood for a second longer than necessary. The soggy and wet walk back sobered me up just enough to register the damage. No phone, credit card hopefully still at the bar. I’ll get it tomorrow. Though, I pat my pockets anyway, maybe reality will change its mind.

  It doesn’t.

  Today was a lot. Tomorrow will probably be worse.

  Except it’s already tomorrow. The digital clock on my desk blinks 4:53 AM.

  I drop the envelope onto the desk beside old sketch pads and a small, accusing stack of unpaid bills. It lands heavier than it should.

  “Fucking weirdo,” I mutter.

  I fish a cigarette from my pocket. Last one. I crack the window open and let the rain in. The sound of it hitting the sill is steady, calming. It smells clean. Honest.

  I light up and inhale, letting the bitterness settle in my lungs.

  I listen to the rain, the hum of the building, my own breathing and I do nothing.

  For a while, that’s enough.

  “Damn it,” I sigh. “Okay.”

  Curiosity kills cats. Not people.

  I dangle the cigarette on my lips as I reach for the envelope and tear it open. Inside is a book—thicker than I expected—bound together tight with a silver clasp. The cover is plain. No flourish or decoration.

  Just a simple title page.

  Through Destiny’s Gate

  by Alaric

  “Huh,” I murmur.

  I flip it open.

  Blank.

  Page after page—empty. Hundreds of them. Clean, untouched paper whispering beneath my fingers. I flip faster, then slower. Nothing.

  I scoff.

  “Figures.”

  Then my finger catches.

  “Ah—shit.”

  A sharp sting. I pull my hand back, a bead of blood welling at the tip of my finger. It drops onto the page, dark and wet.

  And then it’s gone.

  Not smeared. Not soaked in.

  Gone—pulled into the paper like it never existed. I flip to the next page, nothing. Like the drop never landed.

  “What the hell…?”

  The page ripples.

  Letters bleed through the surface, forming slowly, uncertainly. Words appear and vanish, overlapping like reflections in warped glass. They’re there and not there at the same time.

  I flip back to the beginning.

  There were more words, so many words. Stranger now. Less patient.

  And somehow—I understand them.

  Not because they’re clear, but because something in my head clicks into place. Like a fogged mirror wiped clean all at once. I don’t read the story.

  I’m seeing it, experiencing it.

  The room falls away.

  Color crashes into me. Sound. Motion. Faces flicker past—boys and girls, men and women I’ve never met but know instantly. Their names sit on the tip of my tongue. Their fears feel familiar.

  Armies march.

  Steel screams.

  Blood slicks stone and mud.

  Cities burn while their streets flood red. Blood-soaked creatures claw their way out of nightmare and rot. The earth splits open. The sky screams in dead tongues, raining fire and ruin down on everything below.

  It is the end.

  Just endless, suffocating loss.

  I feel it all. Every death, cry, hopeless thought. My heart feels like it’s being crushed in a vice, each page tightening the grip.

  My skin crawls.

  I should stop.

  I don’t.

  I keep turning pages, hands shaking, breath hitching. Tears blur my vision but I don’t wipe them away. I need to know. I need to understand what this is showing me. What it wants.

  Then I notice the red.

  Blood splattered across the page.

  Not fresh ink. Not imagery.

  Mine.

  I drop the book and touch my face. My nose is bleeding—badly. It streaks my lips, soaks into my shirt. I didn’t even feel it start. The cigarette falls from my mouth.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  I reach for a tissue.

  The room lurches.

  The floor rushes up to meet me, and everything goes black.

  ~~~~

  I think I’m still dreaming when I wake up.

  The ceiling is wrong. Too clean. Too close. I sit up slowly, heart thudding, and take inventory the way you do after a bad night.

  Wrong bed.

  Wrong shoes by the door.

  Wrong clothes on my body.

  I glance down.

  …Is that blood on my shirt?

  “Okay,” I mutter. “Okay, cool.”

  This is definitely the wrong fucking apartment.

  I shuffle to the window and peer outside. Downtown, maybe? Bunch of tall buildings, but none of it looks overly familiar. The streets look a little different… Unfamiliar in a way that makes my skin itch.

  I’m certain—absolutely certain—that I went to sleep in my dorm last night.

  Right?

  That certainty wobbles the longer I think about it. There are holes in my memory big enough to fall through and my head is pounding.

  The apartment itself is small. Studio-sized. One bedroom, half kitchen, bathroom, barely any living space. Everything looks new. Intentionally placed.

  First order of business was my phone, but I couldn't find that. Then I looked for my wallet and keys... both of which were nowhere to be found.

  Fantastic.

  I look around the place. Taking in the small space. No pictures, no decorations, nothing that really tells me about who lives here. And where were they? Did they leave for work and just let the strange drunk man sleep it off in their only bed?

  I then spot the fridge in the kitchen and walk over. Whoever's place this was, maybe I could learn something. You can tell a lot about a person by the contents of it after all, or maybe I am just coping.

  No, actually, I'm just hungry.

  I open it and stare.

  Every brand inside is foreign. Familiar shapes, unfamiliar names. Drinks I’ve never seen before. Food labeled in English that somehow still feels like it’s lying to me.

  “What is that?”

  I grab a can—some kind of IPA, judging by the aggressive skeleton design and very evident 10% printed right on the label. I suddenly felt thirsty. A little hair of the dog seems medically advisable at this point.

  But I don’t get the chance.

  A knock at the door.

  I freeze, can halfway lifted.

  Another knock. Firmer this time.

  “Mr. Parks,” a muffled voice calls through the door. “Are you present?”

  I stare at the wood.

  Mr. Parks?

  The guy who lives here has my last name? No. That’s too convenient. Too stupid.

  I open the door.

  The first thing I see is a bowler hat.

  Then I look down.

  Short. Old. Wrinkled. Dapper suit like he stepped out of the wrong decade.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Greetings!” he says brightly. “I trust you had a fine night’s rest, Mr. Parks. May I come in?”

  Something clicks in my brain.

  Hard.

  “You—” I squint. “You were the guy last night. On the street.”

  He nods. “Indeed. And you were the drunkard I was tasked with locating. It appears you accepted the proposal.”

  The sarcasm is subtle. Professional.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Alaric. I manage a bookstore.” He glances past me into the apartment. “Now, with the pleasantries concluded, may I come in? We are operating on a rather tight schedule.”

  He checks his watch.

  “In just under three hours, you will be walking across a stage to graduate as a cadet of Red Rocks Military Academy.”

  My brain stalls.

  “…What?”

  “Ah,” he says pleasantly. “You don’t remember.”

  “Graduation? Military academy? Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  He just stares for a moment and then snorts. “Indeed."

  He continues, "Well, to your credit, you did attempt to at least read the contents I delivered to you last evening.”

  His face holds a knowing look.

  I don’t answer.

  Because suddenly... I remember... as soon as he finished speaking it was coming back.

  Oh, I remember.

  “Yeah,” I say, exhaling a breath. “I did.”

  I put the can down on the counter and turn. Walking back into the bedroom without another word. The door is irrelevant now. I look around, and then rip the blankets off the bed.

  The envelope drops to the floor.

  Sealed.

  My name printed neatly on the front.

  I pick it up, heart pounding.

  I whisper. “I… definitely opened this.”

  “Yes,” Alaric says behind me. “And then you nearly died.”

  I turn slowly.

  “What?”

  “You attempted to absorb too many narrative outcomes at once. I am assuming you started reading it and then kept reading it. Like a fox chasing a rabbit through a thorny thicket. But that was a mistake on your part.”

  “That- that doesn’t explain anything!”

  “It explains enough.”

  He gently takes the envelope from my hands, opens it, and removes the contents—pages bound tight with a silver clasp.

  The book.

  “You are now the editor for my employer,” he says calmly. “Someone of… considerable importance. As of today, you and I currently exist within these pages.”

  He fans the papers slightly, then closes them.

  “A world born from a story. Stabilized by your blood. The narrative now exists. It is reality.”

  I just stare.

  “You enjoy stories, yes?” he continues. “Hero’s journeys. Great evils. Noble sacrifices.”

  He hands me the book.

  Through Destiny’s Gate

  by Alaric

  “Okay,” I say hoarsely. “Even if that’s true—what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? How does anyone edit this? There ain't nothing here!”

  I flip open the pages and it's all voodoo style with words and sentences warping everywhere. I look away before I get caught up in it again.

  “Oh, heavens no,” he laughs. More mocking than anything I bet, “You won’t be writing anything.”

  “Then what?”

  “We are simply ensuring it finishes as it should.”

  “As- As it should?!” I snap. “What does that even mean?!”

  “It means,” he says, opening the closet in the corner of the room, “that from now on, you and I will be working together. Now get dressed.”

  He hands me a red jacket. Then khakis.

  “No jeans,” he adds. “This is a formal occasion.”

  “Hold on! When did I agree to any of this?” I demand.

  He pauses, then looks at me blankly.

  “When you opened the envelope and nearly killed yourself reading the draft. How you even knew to activate it is beyond me. However, once done, consent was given."

  He continued, "I am guessing our employer had to erase most of those memories you are missing, likely so you wouldn’t expire. It's quite dangerous, looking into futures the way you did.”

  There’s no way.

  “There’s just—there’s no way,” I mutter.

  “Listen. You are here,” he says simply. “This place, this little apartment, it is yours. All expenses covered. Which, given the notice on your dorm room door, is rather convenient. All you must do is listen to me and do as I say, and you will be fine.”

  My head spins.

  “But—”

  He raises his hand.

  “Answer this: Do you really have an alternative worth pursuing?” He asks gently. A moment passes I just stare at the jacket and pants in my hands.

  “I figured as much. Now get dressed. I am not a tardy person and that now extends to you.”

  I stare at the clothes in my hands. None of this makes sense.

  But… damn it.

  I don’t have a home, never mind a plan. And somehow, this lunatic is the only one offering me a future. If I really get to keep a roof over my head…

  Fuck it. I'll at least give it a shot.