Chapter 2

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Nalsyrra crooned an archaic song. The mists parted, revealing a circle of tall, adjoining standing stones. A single archway led inside. 

“The Way of Return,” Nalsyrra announced.

Breskaro nodded and readied the sword Nalsyrra had given him. 

“Defeating the Keeper of Death is said to be nearly impossible,” she told him.

“I’ll find a way.”

“I will see you on the other side then.”

Breskaro walked inside the circle of standing stones. In their midst, a column of black smoke shot up from the ground. The smoke dissipated, revealing the Keeper of Death. He had the leanly-muscled body of a seven-foot man with expansive, multicolored wings and the head of a falcon. He wore only a loincloth and a choker of gold. In one hand he held a book, in the other a curved dagger.

Breskaro’s face was a blank mask. “I am Breskaro Varenni. I would return to the world of the living. Let me pass.”

A hollow, stilted voice responded. “It is not good for the dead to return to life, friend Breskaro Varenni. I urge you to turn back. Embrace Oblivion and pass on from this bleak place.”

“I *must* return.”

“You would be a wraith with no a physical form.”

“A friend has repaired my body through sorcery and can return me to it. I’m not concerned.”

“You died seven years ago, my friend. Much has changed in the world. It is not the place you left behind. You may not like what you find there.”

Breskaro grew irritated. “Let me pass, demon! I go there to save one I love.”

Birdlike, the Keeper cocked his head to the side. His piercing eyes locked onto Breskaro, who met his gaze with a fiery intensity. 

“Returning to life cannot bring you happiness. The part of you that enjoyed the pattering of a spring rain, the scent of rich, fertile earth, or a lover’s kiss is gone. Your humanity has withered. Your virility shall never return. Are you certain you wish to go?”

Breskaro tried to remember breathing, laughter, blue skies, warm sunlight on his skin, his body dripping with sweat after a forced march. But those things were lost to him. 

And they didn’t matter.

“I’m certain.”

“If you perish again in life, your soul will assuredly fall into Torment. There you would long for your years here in the Shadowland. Is this love you profess worth eternal damnation?”

“I don’t care what happens to me. I *must* return for Orisala. She’s all that matters.”

“I think you will find, even if you do succeed here and return, that the price you must pay is higher than you bargained for. What can I say to change your mind, friend Breskaro Varenni?”

“Nothing. If there’s a test, set it and let me prove myself.”

The Keeper expanded his wings and cried out in a loud, inhuman screech. Breskaro covered his ears until the cry stopped. 

“My test is simple. You must face once again the circumstances that led to your death and this time survive.”

“I was overwhelmed by a host of enemies!”

“Did you think it would be easy to return from the dead?”

“What happens if I fail this test?”

“You will be thrown into Torment. It is wrong for the dead to seek to return from life and it defiles the natural order of the universe.”

“If returning is wrong, why does this path back to life exist?”

“Because my people made a mistake, and once the Way of Return was created, it could not be unmade.”

Breskaro hefted the Sword of Shadowed Light. “Perhaps it would be better for me to fight you than to face this test.”

He charged forward and swung the sword. The blade passed through the Keeper of Death as if he were made of nothing more than mist. 

The Keeper began to fade away, as did the Shadowland itself. New forms began to arise around Breskaro.

“The test and myself are one and the same, Breskaro Varenni. The *only* way to defeat me is to defeat the test.”

Breskaro spun around, amazed at the half-formed world around him.

“I have recreated the day of your death. It is an illusion, yes, but the results are real.”

“Has anyone ever succeeded?”

“Two have. They came to regret it, just as you will. Only grief and suffering lie at the end of the Way of Return.”

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