A hush falls over the Eternal Campground. I sit near the dim glow of the fire, turning the new class name—Knight-To-Be—over and over in my mind. I should feel proud, but I only feel unsettled. It's as if I've forced a door open and stepped into a half-lit corridor. I sense many locked rooms inside me, each holding fragments of who I once was. I can't yet open them, but I know they're there.
Lynn stands across the flames, her gaze distant. She moves like someone who understands this place more than she can explain. I sense her struggling with something, her lips parted as if she wants to tell me… but when she speaks, the mist thickens at the edges of the camp and the soft sound of a thousand distant whispers drowns out her voice. Her mouth forms words, but I catch nothing. It's as though the mist itself censors her, leaving me with only questions.
I do not press her. Perhaps the silence is a kindness, or perhaps it's a wall neither of us can climb yet. Instead, I lift the leather box from the stump and open it again. The cards inside shift subtly, as if alive. The deck feels heavier now that I've chosen my class, as if my path narrows with each decision. I let my hand drift over the cards until I feel a subtle warmth, a sign that these three are the next combination.
One by one, I draw them and hold them to the firelight:
Location: Condemned Elementary School.
Its image shows a ruined building draped in peeling murals. Tiny desks overturned, hallways of flaking paint, broken chalkboards. An uneasy tightness forms in my chest. The place looks eerily familiar, as if I've walked those halls long ago.
Event: Echoes of Former Lives.
A strange choice. The card depicts faint silhouettes caught mid-stride, as if they are ghosts replaying old routines. No threat, it seems, but also no comfort. They do not acknowledge the living. Instead, they move through old patterns, haunting the air.
Enemy: Spore-Infested Hound.
A drawing of a dog-shaped creature whose eyes glow a sickly green. Fungus clings to its flesh. Once loyal companions, now turned savage. The note at the card's bottom whispers of keen hearing and frenzied hunger. I shudder.
I look up at Lynn. She watches, her eyes half-lidded. She nods once, then tries to speak. "This place… you…" Her words fade into a quiet hiss. The mist thickens, and all I hear is the faint crackle of the campfire. I see frustration knit her brow. She knows something about what I'm about to face, but the mist binds her tongue.
I say nothing. I hold the cards tight and walk to the edge of the campground. Just as before, I focus on the chosen combination. The mist churns, resisting at first, then parts. Light bends strangely, and the sound of distant dripping water meets my ears. When I step through, I feel the Campground behind me, unchanging, but now joined to something new.
A ruined street leads up to tall iron gates, their paint chipped, an old sign reading "Public School No. 314." Beyond, the building looms: walls cracked, windows boarded or shattered. Overgrown bushes block half the walkway. The stench of mildew and old paper washes over me.
As I approach the entrance, I glimpse flickering shapes inside. Through a broken window, I see them: transparent figures moving quietly through the halls—adults in tattered clothes that once might have been teachers' attire, children dragging phantom backpacks, all silent. Echoes of Former Lives. They step around obstacles that are no longer there, ignoring the broken desks and fallen beams. One figure sets a ghostly piece of chalk to a non-existent board, writing letters that fade before my eyes. Another drifts by without turning her head, her eyes fixed on something I cannot see.
I swallow. My heart twists. This place tugs at buried memories. I do not know if I learned my letters in a place like this once, if I ever scraped my knee in a playground or carried a lunch box with childish pride. The sense of half-remembered warmth and distant laughter unsettles me more than I care to admit.
Lynn steps through the mist behind me, her feet silent on the cracked pavement. She places a hand lightly on my arm—just enough to say, "I am here," without words. The silence between us feels heavier now, but comforting in its own way. She cannot tell me what she knows. The mist forbids it. Perhaps in time I'll understand why.
I push open the school's front doors. They creak loudly, the sound echoing down hollow corridors. The air is stale. Fragments of old posters flap on peeling walls. I see a half-collapsed corridor to the left. To the right, a room full of overturned chairs. A green exit sign, rusted and chipped, points down a hall that ends in a pile of debris.
We move slowly, careful not to kick broken glass or snap old wooden beams. I hear scraping near what might have once been a library. I remember the Enemy card: Spore-Infested Hound. It must be lurking somewhere. My pulse quickens. The echoes drifting through the hall pay us no mind. One passes right through me, leaving a chill in my bones and a strange whisper in my mind—like a forgotten lullaby.
From ahead comes a low, guttural growl. Lynn and I press ourselves against a half-broken set of lockers. I peer around the corner and see it: a hound-like creature standing over a heap of old backpacks and textbooks strewn about. Its fur, once golden perhaps, is matted with fungal growths. Pale filaments spread over its shoulders and muzzle. Its eyes shine with hungry intelligence.
I tighten my grip on my makeshift weapon. The broom handle from before is hardly ideal. I need something sturdier. I scan the hall and spot a piece of rebar protruding from a cracked pillar. With careful steps, I approach and tug it free. It's heavy, but better than wood. Lynn remains behind me, her presence steady.
The hound sniffs the air. It growls, then advances slowly into a nearby classroom, its head low. If it's hunting, it might be searching for us. The corridor's silence is absolute, broken only by distant dripping water and the soft shuffling of echoes.
I consider my options: can I distract it again with noise? This creature might not fear sound the way the scavenger prowler did. The fungal growths suggest it hunts by scent. I need to strike first, or find something that can lure it away. My eyes fall on a moldy sack of who-knows-what by the door.
I pick up a small chunk of plaster and toss it into the room opposite the hound's hiding spot. It smacks against a dented metal trash can, ringing hollowly. The hound barks, a choked, wet sound, and lunges out. For a moment, it's confused, snapping at shadows. I seize the moment, rush forward, and swing the rebar with all my might.
I hit its flank. The creature yelps and whirls, snapping at the metal. Its breath reeks of decay and spores. My eyes water. I swing again, this time aiming for its head. It dodges, fast despite its corruption. Lynn appears at my side. She can't say the words I crave—no advice, no encouragement—only that gentle glow in her eyes that says she believes in me.
The hound lunges, teeth scraping metal. I stagger back, feel a splinter of broken tile under my foot. I keep balance and jab forward, catching the beast on its shoulder. It howls, and I see a spurt of fungal matter burst from the wound. It snaps again, but I'm quicker this time. I bring the rebar down hard on its skull. Once, twice. It goes limp, collapsing in a heap of stinking fur.
Breathing heavily, I nudge it with my foot. Dead. I turn to Lynn. She meets my eyes but says nothing. I know she cannot. Not yet. Instead, she places a gentle hand over mine, as if to say, "You did well." Then the echoes drift closer, moving through the hallway behind her. The silent figures of a teacher and a line of children pass by, oblivious. Their presence strains my heart. I feel like I'm trespassing in a memory not entirely my own.
We search the rooms carefully. Behind a splintered desk, I find sealed packets of dried fruit—miraculously preserved. A locked cabinet yields a small hand axe, its blade rusted but still sturdy enough. Better than my rebar. I test its weight. This feels right in my hand. The Knight-To-Be with a humble axe. I can work with that.
Lynn picks up an old first-aid box, shakes it quietly, and nods. More supplies. It's small progress, but in this world, every scrap counts.
As we head back, I pause at the end of the hall. One echo remains, separate from the others: a figure sitting at a tiny desk, head bowed. It's a child, perhaps, wearing a backpack with a faded emblem. I see them lift their head and seem to stare at me, though I know they cannot. The ghostly teacher moves past them, flickering in and out of view. Something about this image sets my heart racing. I don't recall my past clearly, but for a breath of time, I sense a life before this nightmare—a place where children laughed, where lessons were learned. I wonder if I ever sat at a desk like that, dreaming of what I'd be when I grew up.
The child-echo dissolves. The corridor empties. Lynn and I return to the threshold where the Eternal Campground meets this ruin. I close my eyes and imagine the safe glow of the campfire. Step by step, the school fades, the mist closes behind us, and we step back into the clearing. The deck of cards lies waiting on the stump, unchanged, as though no time has passed. Yet I feel different. The memory of that child haunts me—a longing, a sadness I cannot name.
Lynn tries to speak. She forms a word—my name, perhaps? The mist swallows it. I wait, hoping something breaks the silence. But it doesn't. She looks away, as if ashamed or frustrated.
I do not push her. We are travelers in a world that denies us truth. For now, I must be content with what I can grasp: supplies, a better weapon, a new story etched into my mind. The mist protects its secrets. I will learn them in time, or not at all.
We settle near the fire, weary from our venture. I run my thumb along the axe's blade, determined to shape my fate as a Knight-To-Be in this broken world, even if I must do it in silence and uncertainty.