The Gateway
The days had slipped, ushering in the inevitable—a time when light waned, and darkness took its hold. Ever watchful, the Evil One’s gaze never faltered. He stalked his prey with silent precision.
In the city of Burg, war once raged. When the final battle was fought and the dust settled, time itself fractured—split by the power of the Ancient Gateway. Some survivors managed to cross to the other side, unknowingly sealing their fate. There would be no easy return.
On this side of the Gateway, time marched forward, reshaping the world, erasing the echoes of the past. But within the Old World, time stood frozen. It did not yield, did not progress—only death by war or the blade could sever its grip.
With the passing of the last king, the Old World crumbled into disorder. No heir had been found. Its people were lost, leaderless. And the Evil One knew. He watched. He waited—for the moment when he could seize what was left, and claim a kingdom that no longer knew how to resist.The greatest weapon of an enemy is often his own obscurity—the power to let his adversaries believe he is nothing more than a myth. And so, he wielded that illusion masterfully. From the far West, he summoned creatures unknown to the East, beings so foreign that their existence was dismissed as mere legend. But the East was where the throne lay, where rulers had sat for generations, blind to the storm brewing beyond their borders.
Unlike lesser men who let greed consume them, this enemy was patient. He did not seize the throne at first opportunity. He did not move recklessly, grasping at power with desperate hands. No—he understood that true dominion came not through conquest, but through fear. He would make them respect him, not with words, but with the weight of their own terror.
When the darkness of his alliance reached the Old World, suffering followed in its wake. Towns were left smoldering, their ruins whispering of what once had been. Villages like Oakens Tree, once a beacon of peace, were reduced to little more than ashes. And from these shattered remnants, he gathered his army.
He took their sons, stole them away under the guise of salvation, only to strip them of everything they had once been. Their names, their past, their very identities—erased. What remained was Aleejon, a brotherhood bound to his will, their loyalty absolute. At its helm stood the one they called The Head One. Eleven warriors followed him, faceless beneath their long, crimson cloaks.
They did not question. They did not hesitate. Their allegiance was unbreakable. And in the silence of his conquest, the Evil One watched his kingdom take shape, a throne forged not from lineage, but from the fear that now ruled the hearts of men.
Night had settled over Hollow, casting the small town into quiet slumber. But in the upper window of a modest home, a wise old man stood motionless, gazing into the darkness beyond his green valley. The low hills rested in the distance, their silhouettes barely visible under the pale glow of the moon. Sleep evaded him, chased away by an unease he could not name. Something felt… wrong.
Then, footsteps.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Duffin. This was unusual. The Mail dwarf never worked past sundown—yet here he stood, clutching a letter in his small, weathered hands.
Ifor stiffened. He had feared this moment.
“Ifor! A note for you!” Duffin called, his voice breaking the stillness.
Ifor turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “Duffin! What in the world are you doing out this late?! You know these parts aren’t safe for dwarves at this hour. They’re hardly safe for me!”
The old man reached for the letter, his fingers curling around it with reluctant familiarity. He had expected it—perhaps even dreaded it. Rumors had told him it would come. He had simply hoped they were wrong.
“I couldn’t help it, sir!” Duffin replied, his tone urgent. “It was too important! It’s from—”
“I know who it’s from.” Ifor cut him off, already breaking the seal.
Duffin frowned, watching as the old man unfolded the letter, his expression hardening as the weight of its contents began to settle.
“You do?” Duffin asked, his voice tinged with surprise.
Ifor did not answer. His sharp eyes moved over the letter, scanning its contents in silence. Whatever it contained, he did not share. When he finished, he set it down—slowly, deliberately—onto the round table beside him.
“Oh no, Duffin,” he murmured. His voice was tight, as if bracing for what came next. “It’s just as I feared.”
Duffin stepped forward, his small hands gripping the edge of the table. “What is?” he pressed.
But Ifor didn’t respond.
In an instant, the old man sprang into action, gathering everything he could fit into a single bag—food, water, a change of clothes. The practiced urgency of his movements told Duffin all he needed to know: this was no ordinary departure. Ifor threw the bag over his shoulder, seized his tall wooden staff—the one he never carried unless danger was near—and reached for a red, tightly rolled blanket. The weight of it suggested something hidden within, something important.
Duffin watched, bewildered, as the old man prepared to leave without explanation, moving with a swiftness that defied his years.
“But—what’s happening?” the dwarf demanded.
Ifor turned to him, his expression unreadable, his hands steady. “I can’t explain. Not yet,” he said. “Look after my home in my absence.”
And just like that, he was gone.
“And that, dear boy, is why you’ve found me here—in your closet.”
The old man spoke as if this were the most natural thing in the world. I stared at him, disbelief etched into every corner of my expression. His long, olive-green coat hung loosely around him, littered with spots and speckled with tiny rips—evidence of travel, perhaps even struggle. That much of his story I could believe. The rest? A mystery.
My name is Ethan. Ethan Damian Lee. And this is the story of how an unlikely stranger changed my life forever.
Change—I hate it. Why can’t things ever stay the same? It’s a thought that has plagued me for as long as I can remember, an unanswered question lingering in the back of my mind. You know the old saying, be careful what you wish for? Well, I have my own version: be careful what you wonder—even if it’s only to yourself—because you might just find out.
I live in Burg, on the other side of this so-called Gateway, in the modern day. Despite what this lunatic rambles about—the New World and all its supposed mysteries—things never really change for me. My life is routine, predictable: sleep, classes, lunch, dinner, sleep again. A steady, unbroken cycle.
Simple, right?
I thought so.
But fate had other plans.
Trouble truly began on one peculiar night, when murmurs rippled through the streets of Burg—rumors of a manhunt, unlike any we’d ever known. A dwarf from the Nirumbee clan, exiled from some distant land called Nirum, had committed a crime against Aleejon. Now, four of their enforcers were said to be escorting him through our city on their way to Black Hill—to his execution.
But the problem was, we didn’t have dwarves here. Not any kind like what the old man described. Even if we had, Black Hill wasn’t a place anyone in Burg had ever heard of. It wasn’t near us. It wasn’t mapped. So why would a condemned man from a foreign world be paraded through our streets? It sounded like nonsense, the sort of tale spun by madmen and dreamers. And I had no patience for either.
Just earlier that day, I hadn’t even known the name Aleejon, much less anything about the story I was now retelling. Everything I just shared was fed to me by the old man crouched in my closet—and despite his insistence, I was still waiting for a real explanation as to why he was here at all.
This whole spectacle seemed less like a warning and more like a stall, a hesitation masking something larger. Why wouldn’t he just come out and say it?
“And that’s only the half of it!” he pressed, his voice thick with urgency. “I’m searching for someone, you see. And I didn’t realize—” his eyes flickered, wary “—that while I searched for them… someone else would be searching for me.”
“You see, it went like this.” Ifor shifted uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Upon reaching your school grounds, I spotted a woman standing nearby. Not knowing where I was going, I figured I’d ask her for directions. Seemed harmless enough. She welcomed me into the neighborhood and all—that part was fine.
But then—” he exhaled sharply, “she mistook me for someone else. Said I was terribly late for my first day on the job.”
I blinked. “What job?”
“The very question I asked! I tried to tell her she was making a mistake, but she wouldn’t hear it. Oh no—she was persistent. Insisted I belonged there, and naturally, I did the only sensible thing.” He gestured dramatically toward the closet.
“You hid?”
“I adapted,” he corrected. “Four times she’s sought me. Three times she’s found me. Let’s hope she doesn’t get lucky a fourth.”
Right then, the door swung open.
“There you are!”
I watched as Ifor closed his eyes, sighing heavily, as though all his worst fears had just materialized. I didn’t need him to say it. This was the woman.
Mrs. Ramirez, my history teacher, stood at the threshold, arms crossed, frustration etched into every syllable. “Come along,” she ordered. “You’ve been missing for twenty minutes now, and our meeting in the lounge has already begun.”
Ifor sighed again, louder this time, dragging his staff behind him as though already conceding defeat.
“Tell me,” Ifor said, folding his arms. “Why is it that every time you can’t find me, you say I’ve gone missing?”
Mrs. Ramirez frowned, uncertain where this was headed.
“I wasn’t missing,” he continued. “I knew exactly where I was. It’s called hiding. And I’ll keep doing it as long as this nonsense persists.”
“Well,” came a firm voice from the doorway, “it won’t persist any further, that much I can promise you.”
Mr. Hedan, the vice principal, stepped into the room, positioning himself beside Mrs. Ramirez, his expression a mix of exasperation and authority.
For context—I live at this school. It’s a boarding school for high school students. I don’t have any roommates. Well, I didn’t, anyway… until this happened.
“I’m glad I found you,” Hedan said, addressing Ramirez. “I’ve been looking for you. There’s been a mistake in our system. Turns out—we aren’t hiring any new staff members.”
The old man sagged with visible relief.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Ifor cried, throwing his hands up. “I knew I wasn’t hiding in vain!”
Mrs. Ramirez looked positively scandalized, placing a hand over her chest. “What?! That’s what I was told!”
“That’s what we were all told,” Hedan admitted, rubbing his temple. “Apparently, it wasn’t true. My apologies.” He nodded toward Ifor.
“Well, that’s… alright, I suppose,” Ifor muttered, not sounding entirely convinced.
“But,” Hedan continued, “it wasn’t entirely untrue. We were expecting someone.”
Ramirez frowned. “Who, then?”
“Maybe a student.” The voice came from behind them.
Ramirez and Hedan turned as two young boys stepped into view. I had never seen them before, but they bore unmistakable similarities—shoulder-length black hair, deep brown eyes, light brown skin. Nearly identical in height, except one stood just slightly taller, which I supposed made him the oldest.
Without hesitation, the taller one strode into my room, swung his backpack off his shoulder, and tossed it onto my bed.
I stared at the bag, then at him.
“…What are you doing?” I asked, making no effort to hide my displeasure.
