This is an optional read. Chapter 1 is the true beginning.
Thane’s hands hovered over the headset like it might bite.
But his fingers weren’t steady like they used to be.
Now they shook.
Not from fear. Not exactly.
From the way his body betrayed him with small tremors that came and went without permission. Like something in him couldn’t hold a steady signal anymore.
He sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the house.
The refrigerator muttered. The heater clicked and then decided not to bother. Somewhere outside, a car passed, tires hissing on wet pavement.
A normal world.
A world that was taking everything from him, piece by piece.
Thane exhaled and lifted the headset.
It shouldn’t have felt heavy. Plastic and glass and padded foam. Just another sleek black box with promises it couldn’t deliver.
The text on his phone had said otherwise:
Arbelon is accepting new players. Limited invites.
He hadn’t clicked it at first. A huge world. Hundreds of hours. The kind of thing you sank into—if you had anything left to sink.
The next morning, his doctor had used that careful tone people used when they were trying not to get too close.
It’s progressing.
And then the doctor had looked down at the chart because it was easier than looking Thane in the eye.
So Thane had clicked the link.
The signup page looked like it was trying not to be found.
No banner ads. No testimonials. No influencer faces screaming joy into the camera.
Just a black screen with a single line of text:
What if your last chance came too soon?
He’d stared at it for a long time, feeling something in his chest that might have been anger, or maybe grief wearing anger’s clothes.
Then he typed his name and settled the headset over his face.
Darkness.
A soft chime. Small. Generic. Like it wanted to be reassuring.
The text floated in the dark. The thin white letters like a polite lie.
WELCOME, PLAYER.
He waited for the usual lag. The queasy half-second where his body and his brain argued about who was in charge.
The tremor flared in the hand holding the headset.
More text slid in.
CONFIRM IDENTITY:
“Thane,” he said, his voice too loud inside the headset.
Then the darkness thinned, and the world resolved in layers.
He raised his hand. It appeared as a faint outline before sharpening into something solid and steady. He flexed his fingers and watched them obey—skin, knuckles, heat in the joints.
Real.
High above, a broken canopy came into focus, late-afternoon light leaking through.
Then trunks and branches.
Then the understory: ferns, wet rot, springy moss.
And he could smell it.
Earth, rain, and wet leaves.
The scent hit him so hard it hurt.
That wasn’t possible.
Thane took a step.
The ground gave under his boot, soft and alive, like it cared. He glanced down—leather, scuffed, mud on the sole.
Real.
A laugh pushed out of him before he could stop it.
“Sure,” he muttered, impressed despite himself. “Why not.”
He started forward down a footpath.
Behind him, a low sound carried through the trunks, too thick to be wind, too close to be far away.
A breathy, wet exhale, right in the dark between trees.
Thane’s throat went dry, but he kept walking because running would make it real.
Leaves crunched behind him, heavy and deliberate. Something with weight had stepped where nothing had been a second ago.
He quickened his pace.
Faster.
A branch snapped.
Something big hit the underbrush and kept coming.
Thane didn’t wait to see it.
He ran, branches slapping his arms, moss-slick ground grabbing at his boots.
Deeper into the trees.
Deeper into Arbelon.
Ready to Enter Arbelon?
Continue Thane's story in No Extra Lives.