What was 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, suspended in a strange limbo between waking and dreaming. For a long, uncertain moment, he could not move, could not even think—only exist, held captive by the bizarre sensation of being unmoored.
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 sickeningly askew. 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 wan, uncertain glow. He lay sprawled upon a seat that was plush and crimson, its old velvet slightly damp to the touch, the fabric both opulent and strangely clammy beneath his palm. Above, a chandelier of crystal droplets 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 wedge of ice directly into his skull. He pressed his hand to his brow, willing the pain to subside. The heavy scent of old perfume and leather mingled with the faint metallic tang of something less pleasant—blood, perhaps, or something older.
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 like water. He remembered the city, the detour through the commercial district, the warning from Lyra, the streetlights shimmering and bending unnaturally… and then nothing. Just an empty, echoing space in his mind, a gap where something important should have been.
Outside, the world was eerily still. The carriage swayed gently, wheels crunching over gravel as it rolled on, the sound muffled by thick mist. The air inside pressed against his skin, thick and viscous, carrying a subtle electrical charge that made his ears pop intermittently. Every breath felt weighted, as if the atmosphere itself resisted his presence.
The Imaginarium is thick here.
He recognized the sensation at once—the strange, almost suffocating density that signaled a breach between realities. His heart pounded.
Don't tell me… The forecasted plane. But how? How did I manage to walk right into it without realizing?
He forced himself to think, to reconstruct his last conscious moments. He'd been at the corner of Maple and Fifth, 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 surgically 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 cold, analytical resolve.
Panicking won't help me escape. Analyze. Think. Survive.
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 realized 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 a vortex of impossible colors and sounds, leaving behind only silence and questions. He remembered his mother's frantic instructions, his father's silhouette swallowed by the swirling breach, the sudden void afterward. 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 ebbed, replaced by a cold, clinical clarity.
With trembling fingers, Erel broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The paper was thick, almost vellum-like, and the ink shimmered faintly as if dusted with powdered silver. 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 personal 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, curiosity punished by death. If this plane manifests a narrative based on Bluebeard, then survival will hinge on understanding the story's logic—and avoiding the fate of the curious.
His university studies in Theoretical Planar Studies returned to him in a rush. He had chosen the field almost in defiance of his own trauma, or perhaps because of it—a need to understand the forces that had upended his life. The Imaginarium, the thin, living margin of existence where imagination and reality interlocked, had first manifested five 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 equilibrium: a select few—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 overwrite reality empower those who might resist it? Some theorized it was a cosmic testing ground; others, a living database 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 bruised, violet sky, a gothic monstrosity of impossible architecture. Spires jutted from every angle, some bending in ways that defied geometry. Windows crowded together in unnatural patterns, some glowing with a soft golden light, others dark and hollow. The roof twisted and curved as if caught in perpetual motion. Surrounding the manor were gardens of eerie beauty—flowers blooming in colors that did not exist in nature, 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 curled around the garden statuary—stone figures of angels and beasts frozen in postures of agony or ecstasy.
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—other guests, or so he assumed.
He approached cautiously, cataloging each figure with methodical precision.
An elderly gentleman stood at the periphery, his posture ramrod straight despite the weight of a leather-bound notebook clutched in one hand. He wore a tweed jacket with elbow 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 academic fascination, jotting observations even as he scanned the shifting shadows of the garden.
Next to him was a man who practically radiated military discipline—broad-shouldered, uniform immaculate, medals gleaming even in the gloom. His jaw was set, his gaze sweeping over the manor with tactical 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-rimmed and hollow, haunted by a grief that seemed to seep from her pores. Miss Eliza Blackwood, her nametag stated. She looked less at the manor and more at some distant point in memory.
A flamboyant woman draped in silks and scarves gestured dramatically as she addressed the air itself, her hands moving in swirling patterns. Her face was painted with elaborate makeup, and an ornate nametag proclaimed her Madame Octavia Ravenwood, Medium.
Another woman, severe and composed, wore practical clothing—trousers, a crisp white shirt, hair tightly pulled back. She watched everything with the sharp, appraising gaze of a detective. 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, etched with elaborate filigree, read Lord James Hemsworth, Aristocrat. Anxiety radiated from him in visible waves.
A stoic, middle-aged man with a physician's bag examined the strange garden flowers with clinical detachment. Every movement was measured, as if conserving energy for when it would truly be needed. 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 sharp intelligence and wariness. He looked about Erel's age, but his presence felt… off, as if he were a piece from another puzzle. The nametag read simply, Adren.
Are they constructs or actual humans?
That was always the question—the taboo at the heart of every plane. Never trust anyone inside a plane without proof; too many had died because they mistook a construct for an ally. Constructs existed to enforce the narrative, to guide or mislead, to ensure the Imaginarium's logic prevailed.
I didn't see anyone enter the plane with me. No one before, no one after. 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 the eager energy of someone meeting a fellow scholar at a conference.
"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 most notorious narrative spaces. I've always wanted to study its reality-defying architecture firsthand!"
Definitely a construct. No normal person would be that enthusiastic about being trapped in a death-myth.
Erel shook the professor's hand, noting the manufactured warmth in his grip. "Erel Inarison," he replied, keeping his tone neutral. He volunteered nothing more.
"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 forbidden chamber—purely for academic purposes, of course," 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 her life.
Before Erel could respond, the heavy double doors atop the staircase creaked open. Warm, golden light spilled out onto the landing, casting the assembled guests in long, shifting shadows. A tall figure stepped into the light—gaunt, 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 ancient and implacable pressed against Erel's mind.