As Baz regained consciousness, he found himself supine on the cave floor, his entire being enshrouded in numbness, as if plunged into a glacial abyss. Gazing upwards, he beheld the rough, jagged contours of a natural ceiling overhead, wrought from the earth's own flesh. The dry, parched air and feeble, continuous draughts, too, had played a part in his wretched state. From his right flank, he discerned the crackling of flames and the comforting warmth they imparted.
"Why did you venture hither?" boomed a voice from the shadows.
"Where am I? And who are you?" countered Baz, the mist elf, with his own query.
"Why did you traverse the mystical portal?" came the voice's rejoinder.
Despite his acute aural acuity, Baz couldn't pinpoint the voice's origin.
"Don't fret. I am but a thought, ensconced within your psyche. If you desire to depart this realm, concentrate and furnish me with an answer," intoned the inscrutable being.
And so Baz focused his thoughts, striving to recollect the cause of his ingress. Bishop had dared the gateway mere moments ago, only to meet a gruesome end. Had Baz been bereft of hope? Why had he tailed them? The answer eluded him still. Had he pursued Allendra? Nay, impossible. While Phandomir had impressed upon him that the girl was sacrosanct, his true aim was to verify Shah Maran's fate - dead or alive.
"I believe I have come to witness the deity of serpents," he declared. "And you, are you the one?"
"Bazil Dha Dhar Quane, do not speak such foolishness," the retort came.
The mist elf was stunned. "How do you know my true name and the family name that I have kept concealed from all until now? And why do I find myself thinking out loud?" Bazil asked, his anger rising.
"Welcome to the Realm of Ideas, Bazil. Here, thoughts cannot hide. Everyone is exposed. Masks serve no purpose. Mirrors reflect all truths," the enigmatic voice elucidated.
"Mirrors?" Bazil interjected.
"I employed a metaphor," the mysterious voice taunted.
"Who are you truly?" Bazil demanded.
"I am the keeper of your looking-glass," the voice replied, chuckling.
"You are akin to my inner world," Bazil replied.
"You are quite the trickster. I admire your subconscious, which opposes the rigors of work ethic. Though you have lived for more than a century, your mind is that of a child," the derisive tone persisted.
"In what way?" Bazil asked, now on edge.
"The shattered sense of belonging has left you adrift, Bazil. Neither a complete mist elf nor a full-fledged Phandomir servant you are," the voice spoke, hauntingly.
"I am nobody's slave," Bazil objected with a sharp tone.
"Why must you resist, child of fire?" the voice asked, and as soon as it spoke the word 'fire', the flames began to rise around Bazil. The mist elf's nerves tensed up, and he tried to move, but the flames drew nearer.
"Why do you bury your emotions deep within yourself, Bazil? Why do you fear to confront your true self? You were born a child of fire, baptized by Pyrnost's lava, yet you deny the Sovereign of Fire himself," the voice persisted.
"I've said it before, I won't submit to anyone," Bazil retorted fiercely.
"You are so intractable, Bazil, you'll shatter your own mirror. I don't know how much longer I can keep it intact," the voice warned.
"I don't grasp your metaphors," Bazil replied, puzzled.
"Sooner or later, you must come face to face with yourself, child of fire, or else you'll be broken beyond repair," the voice urged.
"Curse it all, I don't understand anything. Release me, and I'll start anew. Isn't that what you want?" Bazil pleaded.
"I know you possess the necessary mettle. Remember how you left Ignassius facedown? A time will come when you will also depart from the Phandomir of a thousand faces. It's your nature, Bazil. You feel incomplete, and you're aware of it."
The speaker appeared to be holding Bazil's conscience on trial.
"Did the Fire Knight, Ignassius, send you?" Bazil queried tentatively.
"No, Bazil. If he had, you'd be ablaze right now. By crossing that mystical gateway, you, in a sense, breathed life into me. So now, what am I to do with you?"
"I don't comprehend you," Bazil grumbled.
"You don't even understand yourself. Why did you trail that girl? Your renowned survival instinct would have precluded you from becoming a coward, but you did it regardless. Why?"
"I'm not a coward. I endured solitary survival in the Black Desert and the Barren Lands for decades." Bazil's humiliation had kindled anger within him.
"You're living a life of concealment, Bazil. You've even hidden your face behind a mask. You've buried your soul and self deep down. And you're still piling dirt on top of it."
"Where are you driving at, the mysterious voice in my head?"
"Why did you step into the mystical gateway after the girl? It's that simple."
"I don't know, damn it! Something inside me whispered that she was worth rescuing. Are you satisfied now?" Bazil's emotional turmoil had shattered his nerves.
"Bravo. You finally did it. Was it so difficult to speak the truth, Bazil?" Applause reverberated through the cavern.
"Whose authority shall we defer to? By what standards shall we judge the truth? It's all but relative, for there is no single truth that holds supreme. It's only the principles we abide by, the ones we don't break, that make us strong. And ultimately, what matters is survival, no matter the cost, isn't it?"
The enigmatic voice urged Bazil to seek answers for himself.
"To do that, you must confront your deepest fear, Bazil. Until we meet again, you are free. Today will be forgotten, and much of the past six months will fade from memory. Who knows, perhaps you shall start anew. But, should you be unprepared when next we meet, I assure you these flames shall be real, and you shall burn alive. That will be the price of your transformation."
The voice paused for a moment, then continued with a more hopeful tone, "I have sowed a seed of hope in your mind, or perhaps you've done it yourself, exceeding my expectations. I pray that you can nourish it until then."
"Who are you?" Bazil asked one final time.
"It's the wrong time for that question, but you're in the right place. Look in the mirror and smile."
With those words, Bazil began to stir. He rose to his feet and looked around the vast cavern. A dim fire flickered in the distance, drawing him toward it. But as he gazed into the flames, he saw his own face and body, distorted and twisted like that of a burnt corpse. Fear gripped him, and he stumbled backward, falling into an endless abyss.
As his senses returned to him, Bazil found himself lying on a craggy shore where the bitter breath of the sea whipped at his skin. His skull throbbed relentlessly, the cause of which eluded him.
Approaching him was a man with jet-black hair, clad in opulent attire that bespoke of wealth and power. His hooked nose, razor-sharp chin, bushy beard, and twirled mustache lent an air of shrewdness to his features. "Hail, good fellow. You must be Bazil," he said, extending his hand. "I am Adam The Seer, the newly appointed governor of Corripolice, a name that strikes fear in the hearts of prophets and endears me to pirates."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Bazil, taking the man's hand and rising to his feet.
"Pray tell, where are we?" asked Bazil, inspecting his visage and finding his makeup undisturbed.
"Corripolice, my friend. Though I have no shortage of rivals, I hold the reins of this place," Adam replied, brandishing a scroll sealed with the insignia of the esteemed Phandomir Order. "In fact, I requested their special agent to conclude a task. They sent me a queer message that you would be here at this very hour."
Adam showed the parchment to Bazil, who nodded in response.
"Very well, Prophet Adam. I am at your service. But first, let us break bread and discuss the terms. My stomach clamors for sustenance," said Bazil, his tone courteous yet confident.
The two set off towards the city, leaving behind a blank slate that would serve as the start of a lasting friendship.
* * *