Tales of the Wheeler Family

by the Mandalorian terminator

Happily married Mike and El Wheeler are invited to attend a school reunion back in Hawkins with the rest of the Party. While in Hawkins they each must confront their past as they seek to unravel a web of plots and plans - some old, some new - that seek to destroy not just Hawkins but the world itself. Set in 2005

24. Chapter 24: Waygates and Whispers I

Chapter 24: Waygates and Whispers I

Hello everyone! Thank you for continuing with me as you read another chapter of Tales of the Wheeler Family. I'm thrilled to have you along for this journey.

This chapter is heavily inspired by Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time novels, particularly the mysterious and treacherous Ways. The eerie atmosphere of the Ways will be blended into the world of the Upside Down from Stranger Things.

This chapter will focus solely on Mike Wheeler and his uncle, Danny, who is a pivotal part of the story.

I revisited the entire Wheel of Time series to prepare for this chapter. Immersing myself in Jordan's detailed world inspired me to bring depth to the Waygates in our story. Although it made the writing process longer than expected, the chapter is filled with intricate details and intense moments.

A warning: this chapter contains blood and graphic descriptions towards the middle half. Skip if too disturbing to read

I hope you find "Waygates and Whispers" as captivating and thrilling as I did while writing it. Your feedback and support mean the world to me, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this chapter. Enjoy the chapter!

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The air inside Hawkins Lab was cold and stagnant, carrying the musty scent of abandonment and decay. The soft hum of their breaths broke the oppressive silence only and the faint creaking of the old building settling around them. Shadows danced eerily along the walls, cast by the narrow beam of Mike's flashlight, which cut through the darkness with a steady, unwavering focus.

Danny guided Mike through the dark and run-down corridors of the lab with a confident and purposeful stride, with the steady grace of a man accustomed to navigating danger.

With walls adorned with cracked tiles and peeling paint, the hallway extended before them, resembling the gullet of a colossal beast. The ceiling was a patchwork of broken fluorescent lights, some hanging precariously by their wires, others flickering weakly, struggling against the encroaching darkness. The floor was littered with debris—discarded papers, shattered glass, and twisted metal—that crunched under their feet with each step.

"Keep close, Michael," Danny spoke with a barely audible yet authoritative tone, moving gracefully and silently with every deliberate step. Mike nodded, though his uncle couldn't see him in the dark. He tightened his grip on the flashlight and quickened his pace to match Danny's.

Each step brought them closer to their destination—the main control centre the heart of the lab where they hoped to find answers.

The condition of the hallway to the control centre was worse than that of the facility. Dark stains streaked the walls, and debris littered the floor. The faint hum of machinery grew louder as they approached, a reminder that despite its disrepair, the lab still harboured some lingering semblance of life.

They finally reached a large, reinforced door marked "Main Control Centre." Once pristine and white, the door was covered in rust and grime. Danny touched the door, feeling the cold metal beneath his fingers. He glanced at Mike, a silent question in his eyes. Mike nodded, bracing himself for whatever lay beyond.

With a grunt of effort, Danny pushed the door open. It creaked loudly, the sound echoing down the empty halls. Past the threshold, a room once bustling now laid dormant, a graveyard of abandoned equipment and broken dreams.

The control centre was a cavernous room filled with rows of consoles, monitors, and control panels. Some equipment was dark, but a few screens flickered with intermittent static, casting an eerie glow. The air was thick with the scent of decay and something unworldly.

The room's most striking feature was the large glass observation window dominating the far wall. Danny and Mike could see a sight that made their blood run cold through the grimy, cracked pane. Twisting, unearthly vines, glowing with a sickly, luminescent hue, coiled and writhed in the chamber below. The tendrils coiled and uncoiled, creeping along surfaces as if searching for something, their movement slow and deliberate, like the probing fingers of some unseen entity.

The chamber floor was a tangled mess of these vines, creating an organic carpet that rustled softly with their ceaseless motion. They clung to the walls, wrapping around pipes and machinery, their luminescent glow casting strange patterns on the once sterile surfaces.

Small white pollen-like particles floated in the air like tiny, spectral fireflies. They shimmered in the dim light, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that felt almost palpable. The particles drifted lazily, seemingly suspended in time, adding to the surreal, dreamlike quality of the scene. The light from the flickering monitors played off the particles, causing them to glint and sparkle, a stark contrast to the dark, oppressive environment.

A flight of stairs led from the observation room down to where the vines were. The stairs were steep and narrow, their metal surfaces slick with condensation and the faint, oily residue left by the vines. Mike and Danny stood at the top of the stairs, their eyes wide as they took in the scene below. The air was thick with the scent of decay and a faint, metallic tang that set their teeth on edge.

Mike and Danny carefully and deliberately made their way down to the lower platform. The closer they got to the chamber below, the more the air seemed to press in, thick with an oppressive, unnatural energy.

The vines that carpeted the floor were even more bizarre and disturbing up close. They crept along the walls and floor, intertwining and coiling like serpents. The air was filled with the same floating particles, now even more concentrated, their shimmering presence almost hypnotic.

Mike felt a chill run down his spine as he gazed at the scene now in front of him. It was as if they were peering into another world, one that was slowly encroaching upon their own. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a scarf, quickly wrapping it around his mouth and nose to filter the air. He handed a second scarf to his uncle, who did the same without a word.

Every step they took was measured and careful as they ventured through the chamber. The sinewy tendrils seemed to respond to their presence, hesitantly unfurling as they moved forward, then coiling back together like a conscious, animated barrier, cutting off any route for them to turn back.

The vines were unsettlingly cold and clammy to the touch, their surfaces smooth yet disturbingly organic, exuding a faint, sickly phosphorescence.

Ahead of them, dominating the far end of the chamber, was a sight that made Mike's breath catch in his throat—a gaping wound in the fabric of reality itself. This was the portal to the Upside Down. The edges of the portal were ragged and raw as if reality had been violently torn asunder, revealing the darkness that lay beyond.

A dense network of vines surrounded the portal, their tendrils thicker and more twisted as if they drew sustenance from the breach itself. The dark energy that emanated from the portal caused the vines to glow more intensely, their luminescence pulsing in time with the slow, rhythmic throbbing that filled the air. The portal seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting like a living entity, its surface a swirling vortex of darkness and faint, ghostly lights.

Mike felt a chill run down his spine as he gazed at the portal. The air around it was colder, the chill biting and unnatural. The sense of wrongness was palpable, a heavy, oppressive presence that weighed on his chest and made breathing hard.

"Uncle Danny," Mike called out, his voice tight with urgency and fear. "Stay back! It's dangerous!"

Danny paused, turning to look at his nephew. His eyes were sharp, filled with a mixture of curiosity and determination. He seemed unfazed by the ominous scene before him, his gaze fixed on the crack with a kind of grim resolve.

"This is what I've been looking for," Danny said, his voice steady and calm. He took a step closer to the crack, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

Mike's heart hammered in his chest as he grabbed Danny's arm, his grip tight with urgency. "You can't go near that thing! That's no ordinary portal - it's a portal to the Upside Down!" His eyes were wide with a mix of fear and desperation. "You have no idea what you're up against!"

Danny's gaze narrowed, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he regarded his nephew. "I know exactly what it is. And I know what I'm doing." With a resolute step forward, he shrugged off Mike's hand, his attention drawn to the pulsing, luminescent vines before them.

Approaching the twisted, alien tendrils with a mixture of caution and awe, Danny reached out to gently brush his fingertips against their cool, slick surface. The vines recoiled slightly at his touch as if sensing his presence.

As they stood before the pulsating portal, Danny turned to Mike, his expression serious and contemplative. The sickly green light from the vines cast eerie shadows on his face, giving him an almost ethereal appearance.

"Michael," Danny began, his voice steady and deliberate, "what you call the Upside Down is but one of many alternate worlds that exist throughout the multiverse. It's a concept that's difficult to grasp, but you must understand it."

Mike's brow furrowed in confusion. "The multiverse? You mean there are other worlds like the Upside Down?"

Danny nodded, his eyes reflecting the faint luminescence of the vines. "Yes, the multiverse is a vast, intricate web of realities, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence. These worlds, or dimensions, are connected in ways we can barely comprehend. The Upside Down is one such dimension—a shadow, a dark reflection of our world, but it is far from unique."

He gestured towards the pulsating portal, its dark tendrils writhing and undulating as if in response to his words. "Picture the Multiverse like a collection of paper maps. Each map represents a different universe. Each map can be folded into a unique shape, like how each universe defines its physics through intersecting planes, all interwoven with each other. However, there are certain restrictions on how you can fold each map. No matter how insignificant or catastrophic the difference between each universe is, they must all exist within a variation of the basic fundamentals of reality."

Mike listened intently, his mind struggling to wrap around the enormity of the concept. "But why is the Upside Down connected to our world?"

Danny's gaze shifted to the dark portal, his expression of profound contemplation. "There are places where the barriers between these worlds grow thin, where the fabric of reality itself starts to fray."

He paused, the deep hum of the portal filling the silence. "This, Mike, is one of those places. We call them thinners. They're spots where the barriers between worlds are weaker, where it's easier for something from one world to slip into another. These thinners can be naturally occurring, or they can be the result of meddling with forces we don't fully understand—like what they did here at Hawkins Lab."

Mike felt a chill run down his spine. "But why do these thinners appear? Are the barriers you mentioned getting weaker?"

Danny's brow furrowed as he continued, "It's a complex interplay of factors, nephew. There's the gradual breakdown of natural processes, the interference of formidable supernatural entities, and the overconfidence of humans attempting to harness powers they cannot comprehend."

He paced back and forth, gesturing emphatically. "Each time humans try to manipulate these unstable forces, it erodes the protective barriers even further, making the foundations of reality more vulnerable. Once a breach forms, it becomes a focal point for further destabilization - a festering wound that gradually expands and intensifies."

Danny paused, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the shimmering portal before them. "Thinners are scattered all around the world, not just within the United States. From Derry, Maine to Jerusalem's Lot, from Sidewinder, Colorado to Desperation, Nevada and Sunnydale, California- the thinners permeate around our world." (1) (2)

He continued, "And if you travel halfway around the world to the seaside community of Port Niranda in Victoria, Australia, you'll find that the very ground itself is riddled with cracks leading to the Underworld." (3)

Danny's intense stare seemed trance-like as he ignored the floating particles and drifting vines surrounding the portal. "Even in distant New Zealand, in the city of Wellington, there are areas where the boundary between our world and the supernatural is thin. The police there have their hands full dealing with the strange interdimensional occurrences that seep through into the city." (4)

Mike gazed at Danny, his face pale and drawn in the eerie green glow of the portal. "What does that have to do with this portal to the Upside Down?" he asked.

Danny slowly turned around to face him, his expression solemn and unreadable as he met his nephew's gaze. "I don't want to enter the Upside Down," he said, his voice steady but filled with a deep intensity. "It's the space in between the different universes that I'm interested in."

Mike's eyes widened, and he took a step back. His mind raced to comprehend what his uncle was saying. "The space in between? What do you mean?"

Danny's eyes locked onto Mike's with an intense gaze, as if trying to bore into his soul. "Different universes call it by different names, but to me, it's called The Ways. They're a series of pathways that wind through the spaces between realities – almost like an intricate network of cosmic highways connecting the infinite worlds of the multiverse."

"Now, there is one particular world that is much less technologically advanced than ours. Imagine living in a time more like the Middle Ages, with castles, swords, and no cars or electricity. People get around on horses, and their daily lives are more focused on things like farming and blacksmithing."

Mike leaned in, intrigued. "So, they don't have any of the technology we do?"

"That's correct," Danny nodded. "They lack computers, phones, and modern medicine. Instead, they rely on primitive tools and methods. However, they compensate for this with something else—magic.

"During a time known as the Age of Legends, there existed a group of powerful individuals called the Aes Sedai. They could channel the One Power, which is the source of magic in this world. The Aes Sedai accomplished incredible feats, and one of their most notable achievements was the creation of The Ways."

Mike was struck with awe and trepidation, his eyes widening as he tried to grasp the enormity of what he had just discovered.

"Within The Ways, the boundaries between worlds blur and fade," Danny intoned, his voice taking on a haunting, reverential tone. "Reality itself bends to the whims of the Aes Sedai who once commanded its pathways. Dangers lurk in every shadow, for the Pattern grows thin in these spaces between, and the forces that govern our universe hold little sway."

Mike swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Danny's gaze was unwavering, his eyes smouldering with an intensity that spoke of profound wisdom and harrowing experience.

"To tread upon The Ways is to court oblivion itself," he said, his voice lowering to a hushed whisper. "But for those strong enough to withstand the trials that lie ahead, the rewards are greater than you can imagine."

Danny raised his hand, his fingers splayed open towards the dark, writhing tear in reality. He began to chant in a language that seemed to echo with ancient power, the words resonating in the charged air of the chamber.

"Viae Aperio, Luminis Veritas, Ostende nobis Iter." (5)

The words seemed to hang in the air, shimmering with a faint golden light. The vines reacted immediately, their tendrils twitching and retracting slightly as if repelled by the incantation. The pulsating green glow of the portal intensified, the shadows cast by the vines dancing more frenetically.

"Viae Aperio, Luminis Veritas, Ostende nobis Iter."

The incantation grew louder, more insistent, as Danny poured his will into the spell. The air around the portal began to shimmer and warp, the dark energy within the tear pushing back against the light. The hum of the portal grew to a crescendo, vibrating through the chamber like the tolling of some great, otherworldly bell.

"Viae Aperio, Luminis Veritas, Ostende nobis Iter."

With a final, forceful command, Danny thrust his hand forward, the golden light of the magic blazing brightly. The portal resisted momentarily, the darkness within roiling and churning as if fighting against the light. Then, with a sound like the tearing of fabric, the portal began to change.

The sickly green glow faded, replaced by a brilliant, pure light. The twisted, shadowy tendrils were pushed back, revealing a doorway of shimmering energy. The crack in the glass smoothed and healed, the jagged edges dissolving into nothingness. Before their eyes, the portal transformed into a Waygate—a mystical passage that shimmered with a silvery luminescence, its surface rippling like water under moonlight.

The oppressive atmosphere was lifted, replaced by calm and clarity. Now infused with a soft, golden glow, the floating particles drifted gently through the air, no longer menacing but serene.

Mike stared in awe at the transformed portal, his breath catching in his throat. "Is that...?"

"Yes," Danny said, his voice filled with a quiet triumph. "This is the Waygate, a path through the multiverse. It will take us where we need to go. But a warning—enter a Waygate, walk for a day, and you may depart from another Waygate one hundred miles from where you started. Or five hundred. Time and distance are strange in The Ways."

The look on Danny's face turned serious as he met Mike's gaze. "It will be quite... dangerous, nephew," Danny said, his voice lowering to a grave whisper. "Within The Ways, there is... well, there are things that could harm us. I would understand if you decided not to venture inside with me."

Mike's eyes widened with a mix of fear and determination. "What kind of things, Uncle Danny?"

Danny took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "There are creatures in The Ways, called Machin Shin—the Black Wind. It's a malevolent force that feeds on fear and despair. If it catches you, nephew, it can do more than simply consume your flesh and bone," he said, his words sending a chill down Mike's spine. "It can latch onto your very soul, devouring your hopes, your dreams, your very essence – until naught but a hollow husk remains."

A heavy silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the eerie hum of the Waygate. Mike felt a cold sweat bead on his brow as he grappled with the gravity of his uncle's warnings.

"And the Black Wind is but one of the countless perils that lurk within The Ways," Danny continued, his tone laced with a grim resignation. "There are forces at work far beyond our meagre understanding, ancient and inscrutable, that would see us undone for daring to tread upon their domain."

He placed a weathered hand on Mike's shoulder, his grip firm yet oddly comforting.

"So, I ask you again, nephew – will you join me on this journey?"

Mike looked down, processing the gravity of the situation. After a moment, he looked up, his eyes filled with determination. "I understand, Uncle Danny. I'm scared, but I want to help. I'll go with you."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Danny's mouth. "You're braver than you know, Michael. It's natural to be scared. Fear is what keeps us sharp, what keeps us alive. Just don't let it control you."

Mike nodded, his face resolute. "I won't. I'll stay focused, and I'll stay by your side."

Danny squeezed Mike's shoulder reassuringly. "Good. We'll need to rely on each other in there," he said.

Mike took a deep breath, preparing himself for what lay ahead. "Got it. Good thing you had us bring torches and supplies. Anything else?"

Danny hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, one more thing. We need to stay mentally strong. The Black Wind, Machin Shin, preys on fear and doubt. We have to keep our minds focused and our spirits high. If you feel it coming, don't listen to its whispers. Just keep moving forward."

Mike swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his uncle's words. "I understand, Uncle Danny. I'll be ready."

Danny gave a final nod, his expression a mix of pride and concern. "Alright, nephew. Once we enter The Ways, there's no turning back."

Hesitantly, Mike poked his flashlight at the Waygate. The flashlight sank into its reflection, and the two merged until both were gone. He kept walking step by step and then realised he had entered the gate. His mouth fell open as something icy slid along his skin as if he were passing through a wall of cold water. Time stretched out, and the cold enveloped him one hair at a time, shivering over his clothes thread by thread.

Abruptly the chill burst like a bubble, and he paused to catch his breath. He was inside the Ways. All around him was a blackness that seemed to stretch on forever.

Danny stepped through the gate, his flashlight barely cutting through the oppressive darkness.

They walked side by side, their flashlights casting small, trembling beams in the endless dark. Every step echoed, creating a cacophony of overlapping whispers that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up.

The edges of their flashlights caught a tall slab of stone, standing on end, that appeared out of the dark before them, the broad white line stopping at its base. Sinuous curves of metal inlaid the wide surface, graceful lines that vaguely reminded Mike of vines and leaves. Discoloured pocks marked stone and metal alike.

"The Guiding," Danny explained as he glanced at the cursive metal inlays. "It's Ancient Ogier writing, from the people who first traversed through Waygates. I've been taught to understand some of it, but these are so ancient that they're harder to grasp their meaning."

Unable to discern the words, Danny pointed his flashlight for better visibility and immediately noticed the light illuminating something else.

Other stone structures, such as stonewalled bridges disappearing into the darkness, and gently sloping ramps without any railings, were now visible thanks to the illumination. Between the bridges and the ramps ran a chest-high balustrade, as if to prevent falling. The balustrade was made of plain white stone, with simple curves and rounds fitted together in complex patterns. Something about all of it seemed almost familiar to Mike, but he knew it had to be his imagination reaching for anything familiar in a strange place.

At the base of a bridge, Danny paused to read the single line etched on the narrow stone column. Nodding, he approached the bridge. "This is the first bridge of our journey," he said over his shoulder.

Mike gazed at the bridge, wondering what held it up. The entire structure was pockmarked with shallow holes, some tiny like pinpricks, and others larger and rough-edged, resembling craters. It seemed as if there had been a rain of acid or the stone was rotting. Even the guard well showed cracks and holes, and in some places, it was completely gone for as much as a span. For all he knew, the bridge could be solid stone all the way to the centre of the earth, but what he saw made him hope it would stand long enough for them to reach the other end. Wherever that might be.

The pair reached the end of the bridge without issue and found themselves in a place that looked no different from where they started. Illuminated only by their flashlight, they could only see what its beam touched. It seemed like a large space, resembling a flat-topped hill, with bridges and ramps leading out in all directions. Danny referred to it as an island. They found another script covered in moss. Mike placed it in the middle of the island, unsure if he was correct. Danny read it, then led them up another ramp, curving up and up.

After an endless climb, constantly curving, the ramp led onto another island identical to the one where it had started. Mike attempted to visualize the curve of the ramp but eventually gave up. This island can't be directly on top of the other one, he thought. It can't be.

As Danny gazed at yet another tablet inscribed with intricate Ogier writing, he led his nephew onto a different bridge, guided by a signpost column. In the enveloping darkness, the bridges all started to look the same to Mike, who had lost track of their direction. Each bridge seemed indistinguishable from the others, varying only in the presence of breaks in the guard walls. The only way to tell the islands apart was by examining the extent of the damage to the Guidings. Time seemed to slip away, and Mike found himself unsure of how many bridges they had crossed or how many ramps they had travelled.

Mike started to feel hungry, so Danny calmly mentioned that it was midday and began to eat from his rucksack. "Time is too valuable in the Ways to waste," he said. "We will walk and eat at the same time. We will stop and rest when it is time to sleep."

Mike's appetite dwindled at the thought of sleeping in the Ways. It was always night there, but not the kind of night for sleeping. He followed his uncle's lead and began eating as he walked. Mike even began to think the Ways were not so bad, not nearly as bad as Danny made out. Nothing changed. Nothing happened. The Ways were almost boring.

As they continued, Mike broke the silence. "Uncle Danny, what do these tablets say, anyway?"

Danny paused, glancing at the latest inscription. "Mostly directions and warnings, sometimes old Ogier sayings or records of who built what. They're like signposts and history books rolled into one."

Mike nodded, pretending to understand more than he did.

They walked on, the oppressive silence only broken by the occasional rustle of their rucksacks. The unease grew, gnawing at Mike despite his uncle's calm demeanour.

Suddenly, they heard a distant noise—a low, rumbling growl. Mike froze. "Did you hear that?"

Danny stopped, listening intently. "Yes. Stay quiet and follow me."

They moved cautiously, every sound amplified in the stillness. The growl grew louder and closer. Mike's heart pounded in his chest as they crept along the edge of the path.

"Uncle Danny, what is it?" Mike whispered, fear creeping into his voice.

"I don't know," Danny replied, his eyes scanning the darkness. "But whatever it is, we need to avoid it."

They continued the growl now a constant backdrop to their hurried footsteps. The path seemed to stretch endlessly before them, and Mike felt a growing sense of desperation.

Just as they rounded a bend, the growling stopped. They paused, holding their breath, listening.

"It's gone," Mike said, relief washing over him.

"Maybe," Danny said cautiously. "But we can't let our guard down. Keep moving."

As they pressed on, Mike couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The further they went, the more the shadows seemed to shift and twist unnaturally, taking on sinister shapes that flickered at the edges of his vision. He'd glance over his shoulder, hoping to catch whatever lurked behind them, but each time he saw nothing—just the same suffocating darkness.

Mike's heart raced faster, and his grip tightened on the knife in his hand. He couldn't tell if the sensation of being watched was a trick of his mind or if something was lurking in the dark, waiting to pounce. The shadows felt alive, shifting and crawling closer with every step they took, as if the forest itself was breathing, watching, waiting.

A low rustling sound echoed from the trees to their left, causing both of them to freeze. Mike held his breath, his heart hammering in his chest as his eyes frantically searched the blackness for any sign of what might be out there. The darkness seemed to press in tighter, like the walls of a cage closing around them.

"Keep moving," Danny muttered, his voice tense but controlled. "Don't give it the satisfaction of knowing you're scared."

But Mike was scared. The feeling of being hunted had latched onto him, and no matter how hard he tried to shake it, the sensation only grew stronger.

"Uncle Danny," Mike said quietly, "how much farther?"

"Not much," Danny replied, though Mike could hear the doubt in his voice. "We'll find a place to rest soon."

They trudged on, fatigue beginning to weigh on them. The endless monotony of the Ways was taking its toll, and Mike struggled to keep his eyes open.

Finally, they reached a small island with a ruined structure—a former resting place for travellers. Danny inspected it, then nodded. "We'll rest here for a while. But stay close, and don't wander off."

Mike sank to the ground, exhaustion overtaking him. Despite the eerie surroundings, sleep claimed him quickly. As he drifted off, he heard Danny's final warning: "Remember, the Ways are never as empty as they seem."

Mike awoke to the sound of Danny's voice, gentle but insistent. "Michael, it's time to get up. We need to keep moving."

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Mike sat up and rubbed his face. The perpetual darkness of the Ways made it impossible to gauge how long they had rested, but he felt slightly more refreshed. "Alright, I'm up," he mumbled, getting to his feet.

Danny handed him a small piece of bread and some dried fruit. "Eat quickly. We need to cover more ground today."

They ate in silence, the quietness of the Ways pressing down on them. When they finished, Danny shouldered his rucksack and checked his flashlight. "Stay close," he said, leading the way back onto the path.

As they walked, the oppressive darkness and the monotony of the bridges began to weigh on Mike again. The thought of endless wandering gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on Danny's steady presence ahead of him.

"Uncle Danny, how do you know which way to go?" Mike asked, trying to keep his mind occupied.

"The Guidings help," Danny replied, gesturing to the occasional tablet. "But I've also travelled these paths before. I know some of the landmarks."

Mike looked around at the indistinguishable darkness. "Landmarks? Everything looks the same to me."

Danny smiled faintly. "That's the trick. Once you learn to notice the little differences, it becomes easier. Look at the way the guard walls are broken or the wear on the path. Each island has its own character."

Mike tried to see what Danny was talking about, but it all blurred together in the gloom. "I'll take your word for it," he said, feeling disheartened.

They walked on, crossing bridges and climbing ramps that seemed to lead nowhere. The silence was broken only by their footsteps and the occasional murmur from Danny as he read another tablet. Mike felt time slipping away, hours blending into one another with no markers to distinguish them.

Eventually, they reached another island, larger than the previous ones. It was marked by a tall, crumbling column in the centre, an ancient Guiding that had seen better days.

"This is a good place to rest for a moment," Danny said, setting his rucksack down. "We'll check the Guiding and then decide our next move."

Mike nodded, grateful for the brief respite. He sat down, stretching his legs and looking around. The island was eerily quiet, the darkness impenetrable beyond their small circle of light.

Danny approached the column, examining the inscriptions. "This one's badly damaged," he said, running his fingers over the worn symbols. "But it looks like we're on the right track. Another few hours should bring us closer to our destination."

Mike sighed, the prospect of more walking weighing on him. "Do you ever get used to it?" he asked.

"To what?" Danny replied, glancing back.

"The darkness. The endless walking."

Danny smiled. "You do, in a way. But it always feels strange. The key is to keep your goal in mind—"

He abruptly stopped as his flashlight landed on the Guiding. Deeply chiselled lines near the top of the slab created sharp and angular patterns in the stone. Suddenly, Danny's alertness was no longer concealed. He stood upright, but Mike had the sudden impression that his uncle could sense everything around him, including Mike's breathing.

"What is it? Who did this?" Mike asked.

Danny faced his nephew calmly. "Trollocs."

"What the hell is a Trolloc?" Mike asked his voice a mix of fear and curiosity.

Danny took a deep breath, scanning the darkness as if expecting more to appear. "Trollocs are a breed of Shadowspawn. They're twisted creatures, part human, part animal—fused by dark magic. They're strong, brutal, and utterly relentless. And where there's one, there are usually more."

Mike's eyes widened. "And you're sure they've been here?"

"They are," Danny said, his voice grim. "These carvings are fresh. They were here recently."

A chill ran down Mike's spine as he glanced at the ominous patterns. "What do we do now?"

"We stay alert and keep moving," Danny said firmly. "The sooner we reach our destination, the better. But we need to be more cautious from here on out."

Mike nodded, gripping his flashlight tighter. They resumed their journey, but the atmosphere had changed. The darkness seemed thicker, the silence more oppressive. Every sound made Mike jump, his imagination running wild with images of monstrous creatures lurking just out of sight.

"Uncle Danny," he whispered after a while, "how do you fight a Trolloc?"

Danny's eyes flicked towards him. "With everything you've got. They're strong and vicious, but they're not invincible. Stay calm, aim for their weak spots, and don't let fear paralyse you."

Mike swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn't have to put that advice to the test. They moved forward, the path seeming to stretch endlessly before them.

"Mike, stay close," Danny said, his voice a low murmur. "The next island is just ahead. We need to get there quickly and quietly."

They quickened their pace, the Guiding's carvings a grim reminder of the dangers that lay in the Ways. As they crossed the bridge to the next island, Mike felt a growing sense of dread. The darkness seemed to pulse with unseen threats, and he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of movement.

Suddenly, a low, guttural growl echoed through the void. Mike froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

Danny nodded, his face tense. "Yes. We need to move, now."

They broke into a run, the growl growing louder behind them. Mike's heart pounded as he struggled to keep up with Danny, his flashlight beam bouncing wildly. The bridge seemed to stretch on forever, the island ahead a distant hope.

Just as they reached the other side, a massive shadow loomed behind them. Mike glanced back and saw the hulking figure of a Trolloc, its eyes glowing with malevolent intent.

The creature was a grotesque blend of human and animal, standing nearly ten feet tall with muscular arms and legs covered in coarse, matted fur. Its head was a terrifying fusion of a wolf and a boar, with sharp tusks protruding from its maw. Ragged clothing hung from its frame, and it clutched a crude, jagged weapon in one hand. The stench of decay and blood clung to it, filling the air with an almost palpable sense of dread.

"Uncle Danny!" Mike shouted, panic surging through him.

"Keep running!" Danny yelled, drawing his guns. "I'll hold it off. Get to the island and find cover!"

Mike hesitated, fear rooting him to the spot. "But—"

"Go, Michael!" Danny's voice was sharp and commanding. "Now!"

Mike turned and sprinted towards the island, his legs burning with effort. He could hear the heavy, pounding footsteps of the Trolloc behind him, each thud sending tremors through the stone bridge. The darkness seemed to close in around him, but he focused on the distant outline of the island, desperate to reach safety.

He reached the island and dove behind a large stone pillar, panting heavily. He peered out, his heart sinking as he saw Danny facing off against the Trolloc. The creature snarled, its glowing eyes fixated on Danny as it advanced.

"Come on, Uncle Danny," Mike whispered, his hands trembling. "You can do this."

Danny stood his ground, his guns trained on the Trolloc. He fired a series of shots, each one hitting the creature's thick hide but barely slowing it down. The Trolloc roared in anger, charging at Danny with terrifying speed.

Danny dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the Trolloc's weapon. He fired again, aiming for its head. One shot grazed its cheek, another hit its shoulder, but the Trolloc kept coming, relentless.

Mike's mind raced. He couldn't just sit there and watch. He had to do something. He grabbed a loose stone from the ground and hurled it at the Trolloc. The stone struck the creature's head, momentarily distracting it.

"Uncle, now!" Mike shouted.

Seizing the opportunity, Danny fired a shot directly into the Trolloc's eye. The creature let out a final, ear-piercing roar before collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud.

Breathing hard, Danny turned to Mike, a mixture of relief and pride on his face. "Good thinking, nephew. That distraction saved us."

Mike emerged from his hiding place, his legs shaky. "I didn't know what else to do," he admitted.

"You did great," Danny said, clapping him on the shoulder. He glanced down and inspected the dead Trolloc at his feet. His brow furrowed as he noticed something odd about the creature's appearance. The Trolloc's flesh was pallid and decayed, a sickly grey hue that wasn't merely from the fatal wounds inflicted by their fight. The stench of rot was overpowering, far stronger than it should have been.

"Wait a minute," Danny muttered, kneeling beside the Trolloc. He examined the creature's wounds more closely, noting the strange, unnatural way its muscles twitched even in death. "This isn't right."

Mike edged closer, his curiosity piqued despite his revulsion. "What do you mean?"

Danny pointed to the Trolloc's eyes, which were now dull and lifeless but still emitted a faint, eerie glow. "This Trolloc... it's already dead. Look at the decay. It's been reanimated, controlled by some other force."

Mike's stomach churned. "A zombie? But how is that possible?"

"Dark magic," Danny replied grimly. "Someone or something is using these creatures as puppets. This is much worse than I thought."

A chill ran down Mike's spine as he took a step back from the corpse. "So there could be more of these things, all controlled by whoever is behind this?"

Danny nodded, his face set in a grim expression. "Yes, and that means we need to be even more careful. This isn't just about avoiding Trollocs anymore. We're dealing with something far more dangerous."

As they continued their journey with a newfound sense of urgency, they felt the weight of the new threat on their minds. The darkness of the Ways felt even more oppressive, with each shadow potentially concealing a reanimated Trolloc or something even worse. The stone pathways were slick with moisture, the air thick with the scent of decay and a cold, unyielding dread.

Crossing another bridge, the eerie silence was shattered by a distant, guttural moan. The sound echoed ominously through the stone corridors, sending chills down Mike's spine. He exchanged a worried glance with Danny, who tightened his grip on his guns, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

As they cautiously advanced, the pair found themselves suddenly encircled by a horde of reanimated Trollocs. Dozens of the grotesque creatures emerged from the darkness, their eyes gleaming with a malevolent glint that sent shivers down their spines. The Trollocs formed a tight ring around the group, their muscular, decaying bodies effectively blocking the way forward and eliminating any means of escape.

One of the Trollocs, larger and more menacing than the rest, stepped forward, its eyes fixed on Danny and Mike. To their horror, it began to speak. Its voice was a chilling chorus of many, echoing through the silence of the Ways. "You will come with us," the voices intoned in unison. "The Three-Eyed Raven has been waiting for you."

Danny and Mike exchanged a tense glance. The situation was dire, and they knew they were outnumbered and outmatched. Danny's mind raced, trying to devise a plan, but the sheer number of Trollocs made it clear that fighting their way out was not an option.

"Looks like we don't have a choice," Danny whispered to Mike, his voice strained but steady. "Just stay close to me."

Mike nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. The Trollocs closed in, their eyes never leaving the two intruders. The stench of decay and the oppressive weight of their presence made it hard to breathe. Danny and Mike allowed themselves to be herded forward with no other option, the circle of Trollocs tightening around them like a noose.

The Trollocs wasted no time in grabbing their flashlights and snatching both of their rucksacks swiftly and forcefully.

The path they were led down grew narrower and more treacherous. The ancient stones beneath their feet were slick with a strange, luminescent moss illuminating the surroundings. Shadows danced menacingly on the walls, the light distorting them into grotesque shapes that seemed to reach out with clawed hands. The oppressive darkness pulsed with unseen threats, each step taking them deeper into a nightmare from which there seemed to be no escape.

The guttural growls and whispers of the Trollocs echoed around them, creating a disorienting cacophony that made it hard to think. Mike's mind raced with fear and uncertainty, but he kept his eyes on Danny, drawing strength from his uncle's calm resolve. Danny moved with purpose, his gaze unwavering, though Mike could see the tension in his eyes.

They continued, the path eventually widening into a vast forest. At the centre of the forest stood a massive hill, atop which loomed a large tree. The hill was sizable, but the tree seemed to dwarf it, almost engulfing it with its sheer size. The tree boasted a thousand branches and a million red leaves that rustled in the winds, yet the mighty white tree remained steadfast and unmoving.

As they approached, the tree loomed larger and larger, making it painful for Mike to look up and stare at it. To add to the experience, he had the unsettling feeling that they were being watched, although all he saw were black shapes flitting among the branches of smaller trees. They turned out to be ravens. Mike looked at the forest and licked his lips, wishing he were anywhere but there, even though he didn't have a specific place in mind.

The lead Trolloc instructed them, "This way," and began guiding the group up the hill and along the roots of the tree, which loomed over them like battlements. Mike briefly thought they were heading towards a large face carved on the trunk, perhaps to enter through its mouth. However, the Trolloc effortlessly led them through the tangled and twisting vines, and they soon came upon a simple door nestled in the hill among the roots. The Trolloc easily opened it and pushed the captives through into a tunnel beyond the door.

The tunnel was made of earth and smelled of damp soil and bark. The only light came from strange mushrooms that glowed faintly. The light was so pale and weak that it gave everything a dream-like quality as if one had just woken up with blurry eyes from sleep.

"Are we in danger?" Mike whispered.

"I don't think so. But we are being watched. Not by good things," Danny replied. "It's almost like a bear that sleeps but may wake up at any moment."

As they ventured further into the tunnels, their eyes strained against the suffocating darkness, hoping to catch a glimmer of something, anything other than the endless labyrinth of roots and dirt that seemed to stretch on forever.

The tunnel finally opened up into a cavernous chamber of dirt and roots, nearly two stories tall. The floor was covered in wet silt, rotting vegetation, and clusters of those eerie mushrooms. Walking through the muck would have been a chore, but walking was the last thing on Mike's mind as he stared at the chamber's central focus.

A curtain of twisted, gnarled white roots framed the far wall of the chamber, and tangled up in the ancient wood was a man who looked nearly as old as the tree itself. His hair, pale white and impossibly long, cascaded down to the wet dirt, where it had become entangled in the floor much like the roots themselves. He wore black robes that barely clung to his gaunt, skeletal frame. Through the threadbare fabric, Mike could see the man's translucent skin, revealing every vein, bone, and muscle like a corpse flayed bare. The roots had grown through his body, bursting from his legs before returning to the soil, anchoring him to the tree.

Only two spots of colour stood out on his ghastly form. One was his remaining eye, a blood-red orb like a ruby dropped in milk, while the other socket lay empty and dark. The second was a crimson mark on his neck and cheek, staining his pale flesh and spreading out like a grasping hand...

Or a raven with wings in flight.

"That's... that's not possible," whispered Danny.

"Possible?" the old man rasped, his voice dry and cracked like ancient firewood. Danny hadn't even considered the figure before him might not be alive; he had just sensed the lingering life within, despite the man's appearance as a long-forgotten corpse. "After all you have witnessed, Danny Torrance, you still do not believe?"

"Who are you?" Mike asked, his voice trembling.

"It depends on the life," the old man replied. "I have lived many. Here, I am called the Three-Eyed Raven. At other times, the Crow. Once... once I was known as Brynden."

Brynden. The name sent a chill down Danny's spine. There was only one man in history to bear the name Brynden and the red mark upon his face: Lord Brynden Rivers. (6)

Bloodraven.

At once, his mind flashed to his A History of Magic lessons at Ilvermorny, and he idly wondered if his teacher would have been proud to know Danny had paid attention. Brynden Rivers had been born one of the Great Bastards of Aegon the Unworthy. Unlike the others, he had refused to side with the Blackfyres or accept their new family name, choosing instead to wear the bastard name with pride, fully embracing his identity. And why shouldn't he? Brynden had proven himself a cunning warrior and a masterful spymaster, playing pivotal roles in preserving the Targaryen dynasty. His sharp mind and fierce loyalty had earned him the position of Hand of the King for his trueborn family.

Even when his own family had demanded he be sent to the Night's Watch, he had gone with humility, or so history claimed and had risen to the rank of Lord Commander. His tenure at the Wall had been marked by his relentless vigilance and strategic brilliance until, mysteriously, he had vanished, leaving behind only whispers and legends. The pages of history recorded his deeds but were silent about his ultimate fate, shrouding his end in a veil of mystery that now seemed to be lifting before Danny's very eyes.

The popular riddle, once just a curious snippet of lore from his History of Magic lessons, now seemed to have a deeper, more sinister meaning. How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?

"A thousand eyes, and one," Bloodraven answered him, the voices of all the Trollocs merging into a chilling chorus. Their words echoed through the chamber, each guttural voice reverberating off the ancient stone walls, amplifying the final word: "One."

Undeterred by this unsettling display, Danny resolutely approached Bloodraven's tree, halting a meter away from the spectral figure entangled in the gnarled roots. He gazed curiously at Bloodraven's appearance, noting the translucent, veined skin, the long, ghostly white hair, and the tattered black robes barely clinging to his skeletal frame.

"How long have you been here?" Danny asked.

Bloodraven's lone eye fixed on Danny. "Centuries," he replied.

"How have you survived?"

Bloodraven's expression remained inscrutable, his eye never leaving Danny's. "I am sustained by the power of the roots and the ancient magic of the tree," he intoned, his voice resonating with an otherworldly echo. "These forces bind me, nourishing my existence and granting me visions of all that was, all that is, and all that is yet to be."

As he spoke, Bloodraven attempted to smile, but it was a ghastly, rictus thing that seemed to tear at his fragile skin rather than stretch it.

Danny took a step closer, his curiosity mingling with a growing sense of respect for the man before him. "Why are you here? What purpose do you serve?"

Bloodraven's voice grew stronger, more resonant as if drawing power from the very question. "I, much like another presence here, am a silent observer to many histories unfolding. I witness the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of heroes, and the ebb and flow of magic itself. I see the paths that lead to glory and those that lead to ruin. And through it all, I remain here, bound to the roots of this ancient tree."

"And what of the Trollocs?" Danny asked, his voice steady but probing. "It must've taken considerable magic to bring them back from the dead."

Bloodraven's lips curled into an arrogant smile. "I wield immense power in this realm, Daniel Torrance," he boasted. "Through this power, I command the dark magic needed to reanimate such creatures. And it is because of this power," he added, his eye suddenly focusing entirely on Danny's face, "that I know exactly why you've come here."

Danny held Bloodraven's baleful gaze, his expression an inscrutable mask betraying neither fear nor awe in the face of Bloodraven's unnatural presence. Only the slightest tightening around his eyes hinted at the simmering maelstrom lurking beneath that stoic façade.

Mike, however, couldn't help but shiver with fear as he witnessed the tension unfolding before him.

"You're not the one I seek," Danny replied, his words clipped, as he turned away from Bloodraven's anchored form, leaving no room for negotiation. "I have come for another."

"Why listen to the prattling prophecies of the Other when perhaps I can help instead?" the old man suggested, his voice rasping with an unsettling depth that seemed to echo through the chamber.

Bloodraven's lone eye shimmered with a sinister intelligence as he continued, "I know of the confrontation you and Randall Flagg are locked in. The Enmity of Ages between the Gunslinger and the Man in Black."

Danny stopped walking, turned his head to look back at Bloodraven, and narrowed his eyes at the mention of Flagg, his muscles tensing involuntarily. The mere name conjured a whirlwind of memories—battles fought, lives lost, and the ever-present shadow of Flagg's malevolent influence. "And what can you offer that the prophecies and visions of the Other cannot?" he asked.

Bloodraven's expression remained inscrutable, but there was a flicker of something like amusement in his crimson eye. "I can show you how your conflict will end," he declared, his voice rising in a resonant tone. The Trollocs, as if commanded by an unseen force, echoed his words with a thunderous, unified chant that reverberated through the chamber.

As Danny took a step back, his eyes wide with defiance, the chamber floor suddenly erupted. Ancient tree roots, gnarled and twisted, shot up from the earth with an almost sentient force, their rough bark glistening in the dim light. The roots coiled around Danny with a vice-like grip, their sinewy tendrils constricting his movements and forcing the breath from his lungs. The scent of damp earth and decay filled his nostrils, overwhelming his senses as the roots lifted him off the ground, carrying him towards Bloodraven's form.

Bloodraven's laughter reverberated through the chamber, taunting Danny's every effort. The old man's left hand, skeletal and strong, gripped the base of Danny's skull, forcing his head back. The roots tightened their hold, and Danny's hat tumbled to the floor, lost amidst the writhing mass of wood and soil.

"Let me show you," Bloodraven whispered, his voice a haunting melody that sliced through the chaos. He raised one of his long, bone-white fingers, the tip glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

As the finger made contact with his forehead, a wave of icy numbness spread through Danny's body. His vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening as if a great shadow was descending upon him. The cold seeped into his very bones, freezing his thoughts and paralysing his will. The chamber around him faded, the mocking laughter and the writhing roots dissolving into an inky void.

---

The first thing that caught Danny's eyes was the dark, harsh inferno engulfing him. The flames roared with a malevolent ferocity, their tongues licking at the charred remains of the once-majestic surroundings. Thick, acrid smoke coiled through the air, casting a suffocating pall over the landscape and reducing the midday sun to a dim, blood-red orb.

As Danny's vision adjusted to the searing heat and the oppressive gloom, he began to recognise the outline of Andor, or rather, what remained of it. The proud city, once a beacon of civilization and grandeur, had been transformed into a smouldering wasteland. The towering spires and ornate facades of the palace, symbols of Andor's glory, were now twisted and blackened, resembling grotesque skeletal fingers clawing at the sky.

The palace stood at the centre of the devastation, a testament to the sheer power of whatever force had unleashed this cataclysm. The walls, once adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant tapestries, were now cracked and scorched, the artistry lost to the ravages of flame and fury. It was as if the very heart of the city had been simultaneously seared and blasted, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, lifeless shell.

The ground beneath Danny's feet was littered with debris—splintered beams, shattered statues, and the fragmented remnants of a bygone era. Each step he took stirred up clouds of ash that danced in the heat haze, shimmering like ghostly apparitions of the past. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood and the faint, metallic tang of blood, mingling into a nauseating miasma that threatened to overwhelm him.

Through the billowing smoke, Danny could make out the remnants of what had once been the grand courtyards and bustling marketplaces of Andor. The vibrant colours and lively sounds that had once filled these spaces were now replaced by a monochrome silence, punctuated only by the crackling of flames and the occasional distant collapse of a weakened structure. The skeletal remains of trees, stripped of their leaves and bark, stood as silent witnesses to the destruction, their branches reaching out like bony arms in a desperate plea for salvation.

As Danny moved deeper into the heart of the ruins, he came upon a sight that made his heart clench with sorrow. The great fountain, once a symbol of life and prosperity, now lay in ruins. Its marble basin was cracked and dry, the intricate statues that had once adorned it now reduced to rubble. The water that had once flowed so freely, reflecting the beauty of the palace and the sky above, was now nothing more than a stagnant pool, choked with ash and debris.

And worst was yet to come, as Danny's gaze fell upon the floors leading into the throne room. The once pristine marble was now marred by streaks of reddish-black stains, glistening ominously in the flickering light of the inferno. It took him several heart-wrenching moments to recognise the source of the stains, a sickening lurch twisting his stomach as the realization hit him—they were blood. The life force of countless individuals had been spilled here, their final moments forever imprinted on the cold, unfeeling stone.

The throne room itself, a place that had once been the heart of Andor's grandeur and authority, was now a charred and desolate wasteland. The grand entrance, which had once welcomed dignitaries and citizens alike, now led into a vast expanse of ruin. The floor was covered in drifts of ash, the remnants of tapestries, furniture, and memories reduced to a fine, grey powder that swirled with every step Danny took. The walls, once adorned with intricate carvings and symbols of power, were now blackened and cracked, their beauty obliterated by the intense heat that had swept through the room.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and the metallic tang of molten metal. Globs of it dotted the room, having dripped from the once grand chandeliers and ornate decorations that had melted under the fierce heat. The metal had cooled into misshapen pools and grotesque stalactites, adding to the surreal and nightmarish quality of the scene.

And then there were the bodies. Strewn across the throne room like discarded dolls, the corpses lay in various states of disfigurement, their final moments frozen in grotesque postures of pain and desperation. The charred remains of guards, servants, and nobles alike told a story of a violent and merciless end. Some bodies were reduced to little more than skeletons, their flesh and sinew consumed by the ravenous flames. Others were partially intact, their faces contorted in expressions of horror and agony.

Danny's eyes were irresistibly drawn to the bodies that lay closest to the throne, a heart-wrenching tableau of death and devastation. He approached with hesitant steps, each footfall echoing in the hollow, burnt-out shell of what was once a grand throne room. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and charred flesh, mingling with the coppery scent of spilled blood. The flickering, angry flames cast grotesque shadows on the walls, their light dancing over the lifeless forms that filled the room.

There, near the once-majestic throne, lay his family, their bodies strewn across the scorched marble floor. His heart ached as he recognized the familiar faces now marred by death. Rand lay crumpled with his arms still raised in a futile attempt to shield those he loved. Min, her delicate features now set in a grim mask, lay beside him, her eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep, contrasting starkly with the violence of her end.

Elayne and Aviendha were close by, their bodies intertwined as if they had sought solace in each other during their final moments. The regal beauty of Elayne, even in death, was a haunting reminder of what had been lost. Aviendha's fierce countenance now stilled forever, bore the marks of a warrior's last stand. Their children were scattered around them.

As Danny drew nearer, his gaze fell upon more familiar faces, each one a dagger to his heart. The lifeless forms of Nancy, Mike, Holly, Eleven, Jonathan, and Karen lay motionless on the steps leading to the throne.

Danny's vision blurred with tears as he stood amidst the wreckage, the enormity of his loss threatening to crush him. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

The silence of the room was deafening, broken only by the distant crackle of flames and the faint, ghostly whispers of the past. Danny sank to his knees, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch the cold, lifeless hands of his loved ones.

And set above them all, on a scoured, stony dais, was the throne of Andor. Though melted and scarred by the relentless inferno, it remained unmistakably intact. The once-ornate back of the throne, formerly adorned with intricate carvings and precious gems, now stood as a jagged silhouette against the dim, flickering light, casting long, sinister shadows across the chamber.

Seated upon this throne was a figure who exuded an aura of malevolent triumph. His coat, the red of dried blood, clung to his frame with an unsettling, almost visceral quality, as if the very fabric had absorbed the essence of the lives it had claimed. His trousers, as black as the void of space, seemed to swallow the light, creating an aura of impenetrable darkness around him.

The figure's face was a grotesque mask of mockery, a cruel smile grotesquely plastered across his features. His eyes, cold and devoid of humanity, gleamed with a sadistic pleasure that sent chills down Danny's spine. The smile stretched unnaturally wide as if it had been carved into his face by the hand of some deranged artist, giving him an eerie, almost puppet-like appearance.

As Danny's gaze moved upward from the lifeless bodies of his loved ones to the figure on the throne, he was overcome with dread and revulsion as he recognized the figure's identity. His chest tightened, and his pulse quickened.

It was Randall Flagg.

---

"Uncle! Can you hear me?" Mike yelled up at Danny's limp body, suspended in mid-air by the gnarled, twisting roots of the ancient tree.

"What did you do to him?" Mike screamed, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and helplessness. His eyes were wide with panic, darting between Danny's unmoving body and Bloodraven's inscrutable face. The ancient figure seemed almost to revel in the chaos he had wrought, a faint smile playing at the corners of his thin lips.

Bloodraven's voice, when he finally spoke, was a chilling whisper that cut through the thick silence. "I am showing him how it ends," he said, each word dripping with an eerie calm.

Mike's heart pounded in his chest, his fists clenched at his sides. "Let him go!" he demanded.

Roots snaked and coiled their way up from the dark, rich soil, ensnaring Mike with relentless determination. They wound around his legs first, tightening with the cold, unyielding grip of iron bands, their rough bark scraping against his skin.

The roots coiled upwards, encircling his torso and arms, their grip squeezing the breath from his lungs. The sensation was a suffocating pressure as if the very essence of the earth sought to claim him.

Mike's struggles only seemed to incite the roots further, their grip tightening with each desperate movement. His arms were pinned to his sides, the tendrils wrapping around him like a living shroud, restricting any hope of escape. He could feel the roots' cold, relentless grip around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping for breath.

The roots continued their inexorable ascent, wrapping around Mike's neck and squeezing with a vice-like grip. His vision began to blur, dark spots dancing before his eyes as he struggled to draw breath.

Just as the darkness threatened to claim him entirely, the roots paused, their grip loosening ever so slightly. Mike could feel the cold, clammy tendrils retreating from his neck, their pressure easing just enough to allow him to draw a ragged breath. He gasped for air, his lungs burning with the effort, his vision slowly clearing.

Mike's gaze was drawn once again to Bloodraven, who leaned in towards him with an unsettling intensity. The ruby-red eye of the ancient figure bore into Mike with a terrifying focus, as if searching for something deep within his soul. "You have a touch of destiny, Michael Wheeler," Bloodraven whispered, his voice a chilling murmur that sent shivers down Mike's spine.

"I see the spark within you. What are you? What will you become?" His eye narrowed, a frown of disbelief creasing his gaunt features as if he could scarcely believe what he saw.

Once again, Bloodraven lifted his bone-white finger. As the ethereal digit touched his forehead, an icy numbness surged through Mike's body. His vision began to blur, the edges of the world darkening as if a great shadow was descending upon him. The chill penetrated his very bones, freezing his thoughts and paralysing his will.

Mike felt himself sinking into the abyss, the world around him reduced to a swirling mass of darkness and cold. His limbs grew heavy, his mind numb, as the void enveloped him entirely. It was as if time had ceased to exist, the crushing weight of the chamber replaced by an infinite, empty expanse.

---

"Well. I'm not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn't this."

Mike's remarks echoed down the smooth, spherical chamber. The walls glittered with countless shards of silvery mirrors, each piece reflecting and refracting light in a dazzling, almost hypnotic display.

At first glance, it seemed as though Mike was suspended in thin air, floating weightlessly within the radiant sphere. The illusion was so convincing that he momentarily felt a rush of vertigo as if he might fall into the infinite, twinkling void. The chamber was bathed in a soft, ethereal glow, the light bouncing off the mirrored surfaces to create a kaleidoscope of shimmering patterns that danced across his vision.

Mike slowly turned on the spot, taking in the surreal surroundings. It felt like he was standing inside a giant disco ball. The air in the chamber was cool and crisp, carrying a faint scent of ozone, as if charged with electricity. Every sound he made, from the soft scuff of his shoes against the smooth floor to his breathing, was amplified and echoed back to him in a gentle, harmonious chorus.

"What the hell is this supposed to — ack!"

The room began to spin, reflections merging into a seamless silver mirror that enveloped Mike. An instant later, the mirror imploded, swallowing him into a liquid silver pool that flattened into a giant mirror suspended in darkness. Mike found himself trapped within its glossy surface, his reflection staring back from an endless void.

Before he could react, the mirror began to fracture, and Mike felt as though he was shattering with it. Each crack sent a jolt of pain through him, an excruciating sensation that seemed to tear at the fabric of his being.

Despite the agony, a small part of Mike's mind clung to resolve. He fought the sensation of being torn apart, focusing on the fragments that remained whole. With immense effort, he tried to pull the pieces back together, reclaiming his sense of self from the swirling maelstrom.

The mirror's shattering reached a crescendo, a cacophony of breaking glass and tearing flesh echoing through the void. Just when it seemed he would be obliterated, the fractures began to slow, the shards quivering in a delicate balance between destruction and reconstruction.

Drawing on every ounce of strength, Mike pushed against the fractures, willing the mirror to mend itself and him along with it. The shards trembled, their jagged edges slowly knitting back together, the chaotic maze of cracks smoothing back into the coherent disco-like room it was before.

As the last of the fractures healed, Mike dropped to his knees, catching his breath and reorienting himself.

"You'll be all right," a familiar voice said. "It takes us that way at first, every time."

Mike's head snapped up, his expression one of wary disbelief, and his hands instinctively moved into defensive positions. The speaker was tall, and as far as could be discerned through the simple dark grey robes, leanly built. He held a plain staff of ivory-pale wood in his right hand, its surface smooth and unadorned. He had dark hair that fell to his shoulders in loose, unkempt waves, eyes full of hard-earned wisdom and a sense of wry amusement. There was a quiet strength in his posture, a confident ease that belied the simplicity of his attire. In other words, Mike realised with a jolt, he was looking at himself.

Another person would have freaked out, lashed out, or even run. Mike, though, cocked his head, folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

"Well now," he said as he looked at himself. "This is different."

"We tend to say something like that every time, too," his counterpart observed. Upon closer inspection, Mike realized this man was significantly older—by at least a decade and a half, if not more.

"So this has happened before," Mike said, frowning, a frown that deepened as his gaze swept his surroundings—a cavernous space, bathed in a soft, otherworldly glow, with walls that seemed to shift and shimmer like liquid glass. "Or... is it always happening now?"

The older Mike raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "You're familiar with temporal mechanics, then?"

"Thanks to a little reading of science fiction books and a lot of X-Men and Fantastic Four comics, yeah," Mike replied, still scrutinizing the surreal landscape while keeping a cautious eye on his counterpart. The floor beneath them seemed to ripple like the surface of a calm lake disturbed by a gentle breeze. "And you're not my future self, are you?"

His counterpart rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Without a deep memory scan, I can't say for sure, but I think that the point of divergence between the two of us has already passed." At Mike's puzzled expression, he added, "I am, from your point of view, an alternate version of you. If I may use the metaphor of a road, the path that you would have to take to become me branched off some time ago. Our paths run in parallel."

"But you're older than me," Mike pointed out.

"Yes," his counterpart agreed and smiled a faint, sad, wistful smile. "Good god, just look at you," he said softly. "You're so young. It must be all so new to you... you've got so much to come."

Mike's eyes narrowed and he studied his counterpart closely. "You're not just a decade or two older than me, are you?" he asked after several long moments. "It's more than that. You seem... more mature."

"I am... well. Let's just say that I look good for my age, if I do say so myself," his other self said, smiling wryly. "As you might have guessed, while I am from a parallel timeline, it is running ahead of yours."

"Dustin and Will would love this," Mike muttered, more to himself than his counterpart.

"Yes," he noted, his smile saddening a little. "I think they would have."

"Okay, so, what do I call you?" Mike inquired, exhaling deeply. "Mike 2? No, that's crap. How about 'Other Mike'?"

The older Mike chuckled softly. "I have had many names, as you will in your turn," he revealed. "For the time being, however, you can call me Henry."

Mike's eyes narrowed. "Henry. As in Henry Creel? Vecna?" he asked.

"As in opposition to everything Creel stood and stands for," Henry said calmly. "As in redeeming a perfectly reasonable name from the taint of a true monster."

Mike frowned, but nodded, grudgingly conceding the point.

"To provide some brief context and save other questions, I come from a timeline where I was raised by my uncle, Danny," Henry explained. "He discovered my magical abilities and, under his tutelage, I ultimately became a wizard."

"Raised by Uncle Danny? Why?" Mike asked, confusion flickering across his face. "What happened to my parents?"

Henry's expression grew sombre, his eyes taking on a distant, sorrowful look. "Because they died," he said softly.

---

Randall Flagg's eyes glittered in the inferno as he looked down upon Danny from the Andor Throne. "Surprised to see me, old friend?" he taunted, his voice laced with mockery.

Danny's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white with the force of his rage. "Flagg," he spat, the name tasting like bile on his tongue. "What have you done?"

Flagg's laugh echoed through the desolate chamber, devoid of warmth or joy, filled only with the satisfaction of causing suffering. "What I always do, Gunslinger," he replied, his voice dripping with malevolent glee. "I bring chaos and ruin. And now, it's your turn to witness the fruits of my labour."

"Look around you," Flagg gestured broadly to the devastation around the throne room, his tone almost conversational. "This is the outcome of our little dance: everyone dies in the end, leaving just us. And deep down, you know it. You know it can only end like this."

"Shut up," was all Danny could muster, the words a strangled hiss forced through gritted teeth as he fought to keep his composure. But the phrase emerged as little more than a stern whisper, its feeble utterance a far cry from the stern rebuke he had intended.

Flagg seemed to sense this momentary lapse and threw back his head, laughing maniacally. The sound shattered Danny's stoic façade. With a roar, he lunged forward, grabbing Flagg violently and slamming him onto the throne. Despite the force of the attack, Flagg's laughter only grew louder, echoing like shattering glass grinding underfoot.

"You have nothing... nothing to threaten me with," Flagg sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "You and I are destined to do this forever."

A blinding fury ignited within Danny, and with a primal roar, he hurled Flagg down the steps of the throne. The dark sorcerer tumbled, his laughter echoing through the chamber like a twisted symphony. Danny was on him in an instant, his fists hammering down with relentless force. Each blow landed with a sickening thud, blood splattering with every strike.

But Flagg only laughed harder, his maniacal cackles mixing with the sound of Danny's fists meeting flesh. Blood poured from Flagg's broken nose, smeared across his beaten face, but his eyes gleamed with a sinister delight as if he revelled in the violence.

"Stop laughing!" Danny screamed, his voice cracking with desperation as his fists collided with Flagg's skull. The blows came harder, faster, his knuckles slick with blood—both his and Flagg's—yet the laughter persisted, growing more deranged with each impact.

Danny's arms ached, his strength waning, but still, he kept punching, each blow a desperate attempt to silence that maddening laughter. But Flagg's grin only widened, his eyes alight with a twisted joy.

Flagg's face was now barely recognizable, reduced to a swollen, misshapen mass of flesh and bone. Blood streamed from a shattered nose, mingling with the thick rivulets that poured from split lips and broken teeth. His left eye was swollen shut, the skin around it an ugly shade of purple and black, while the right eye, though bloodshot and rimmed with dark bruises, still shone with that unnerving, twisted delight.

The skin across his cheeks was torn and raw, flayed open by the force of Danny's fists, exposing the ragged edges of muscle and bone beneath. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle, clearly fractured, and with each mocking grin, the movement of the broken bone sent fresh spurts of blood dripping down his chin.

Danny's strength was nearly gone, his body trembling from the strain of the relentless assault. His vision blurred, not just from exhaustion but from the hot, stinging tears of frustration that welled up in his eyes.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he fought to keep going, to keep hitting, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. His arms felt like lead, every movement slow and painful, yet he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. Not while that laughter persisted, not while Flagg continued to revel in the destruction he had wrought.

"You're nothing!" Danny shouted, his voice cracking as he slammed another punch into Flagg's face, feeling his knuckles split open from the force. "You're nothing but a monster!"

Flagg's head jerked back from the blow, blood spraying from his mouth. But instead of pain, his twisted grin only grew wider—warped and taunting. He spat a thick glob of blood onto the floor, the dark crimson pooling at Danny's feet, before locking eyes with him, that same wicked gleam dancing in his gaze.

"And yet," Flagg rasped through broken teeth, his voice thick with blood but still laced with contempt, "you still can't kill me. Can you, Gunslinger?"

Danny's heart pounded in his chest, a wild, frantic beat that matched the chaos in his mind. His vision swam with tears, his breath hitching as the truth of Flagg's words sank in. No matter how hard he fought, no matter how much damage he inflicted, Flagg remained undeterred, unbroken.

A cold, bitter realization gripped Danny's heart, squeezing the last vestiges of his hope. Flagg wasn't just enduring the pain—he was enjoying it, thriving on it. The more Danny fought, the more powerful Flagg seemed to become, his laughter rising in pitch, echoing in the hollow chamber like the tolling of a death knell.

"Even after I slaughtered your family and burned your precious adopted kingdom to ashes, you still won't kill me," Flagg sneered, his voice dripping with venomous delight. "Admit it, Gunslinger—you've had this exact nightmare, haven't you? The fear, the helplessness, the horrifying possibility that one day I'd arrive in the Kingdom of Andor and snuff out everything you love, leaving you powerless to stop it."

Flagg's eyes gleamed with malevolent triumph as he continued, his tone taunting, each word designed to twist the knife deeper into Danny's heart. "I bet you've woken up in a cold sweat more than once, haunted by the image of me standing over their lifeless bodies, the smell of burning flesh in the air, knowing that you were too late. Knowing that no matter how hard you tried, this moment was inevitable."

A surge of raw, unbridled fury suddenly overtook Danny as he grabbed Flagg by the throat, lifting him off the ground. His fingers tightened like a vice around Flagg's neck, knuckles turning white as he hoisted the dark sorcerer into the air. Flagg's feet dangled helplessly, his broken body trembling as Danny's grip threatened to crush the life out of him.

"I'll break you in two," Danny growled, his voice a low, firm snarl that dripped with pure, venomous anger.

But Flagg, even as his windpipe constricted and his breath came in ragged gasps, managed to let out a final defiant giggle as blood bubbled at the corners of his lips.

"Oh, Gunslinger," Flagg rasped, his voice strained but laced with contemptuous amusement, "if you had the guts for that kind of fun, you would have done it years ago."

The words were like a slap to the face, and Danny's grip tightened further, his teeth grinding together as he fought the urge to snap Flagg's neck right then and there. The sheer audacity of Flagg's taunt sent a fresh wave of fury coursing through him, his muscles tensing with the desire to end this once and for all. But even as he held Flagg's life in his hands, Danny hesitated, the weight of his restraint heavy on his soul.

Flagg's smile only widened, his bruised and bloodied face twisted into a grotesque parody of joy. "What's stopping you, Danny?" he hissed, his words a poisonous whisper. "You've always held back. You've always been too weak to finish the job. Admit it—you can't do it. You won't do it."

Danny's eyes blazed with hatred, but in that moment, he knew Flagg was right. His hand trembled, torn between the impulse to kill and the gnawing doubt that had always held him back. He could feel Flagg's pulse under his fingers, the rapid beat of a heart that seemed to mock him with every thud.

"Go on, Gunslinger," Flagg taunted, his voice a dark, seductive hiss. "Prove me wrong."

---

Mike's throat tightened as he watched the emotions flicker across Henry's face—grief, love, and a profound sense of loss. The air around them seemed to thicken, the weight of the moment pressing down on Mike like a heavy, invisible shroud.

"How... how did they die?" Mike asked, his voice barely a whisper as if he feared the answer would shatter the fragile quiet between them.

"In my timeline," Henry began, his voice low and tinged with a melancholy that seemed to seep into the air around them, "when Vecna opened the three gates to the Upside Down in 1986." He paused, the words heavy on his tongue as he continued, "Karen, Ted, and Holly were among the resulting casualties. In the end, we defeated Vecna, I assume, in much the same way you defeated your version."

"I'm so sorry," Mike whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. He wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but the magnitude of Henry's loss was something words couldn't mend.

Henry gave a small, bittersweet smile, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Thank you," he replied. He raised his staff and slowly swept it in front of him as if painting on an invisible canvas. As the staff moved, the silver sphere of cracked mirrors began to glow, golden energy seeping through every fracture.

"Hmm," he muttered.

"Hmm? What is it?" Mike asked, his brow furrowing.

"I can't say for certain," Henry replied. "It seems this is… your party."

"My party?" Mike echoed, puzzled.

"The boundaries of your reality are unusually thin," Henry explained. "While I was meditating, I sensed a connection from your timeline to others. But there's something amiss—an anomaly in your future. A temporal disturbance. Unfortunately, I can't quite pinpoint the specifics."

Mike let out a dry laugh. "Just what I needed—another mystery to solve."

Henry chuckled softly. "Yes, if memory serves, your life is rather full at the moment," he said with a knowing smile. "Even accounting for the differences between our worlds."

"Full?" Mike repeated with a snort. "That's one way to put it." He glanced around. "So, what you're saying is that the walls of reality—my reality—are thin, cracked and something's going to go seriously wrong with time at some point in my future, which is affecting my present. Great. Just great. So, how do I get out of here?"

Henry raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with playful curiosity. "In such a hurry to leave? Do you not enjoy my company? I must admit, I'm surprised you'd want to rush off so quickly."

Mike met his gaze, his expression softening slightly. "It's not that," he said, his voice firm. "My uncle needs me. I can't afford to waste time."

"Be that as it may, you are forgetting what this offers you: knowledge."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "What kind of knowledge?" he asked.

"Work it out," Henry said calmly. "I did, in my time, and I'm not going to spoon-feed you. As we both know better than most, you have a perfectly serviceable brain when you use it. Indeed, without being too egotistical, I would say you have the potential to be quite brilliant."

"Well as long as you aren't being too egotistical," Mike muttered, frowning up at the dome of fractured images. It took him a few moments. Then, his jaw dropped.

"And the penny drops," Henry said.

"Is... that..."

"Is a glimpse of the multiverse," Henry said, nodding. "Normally it would take decades of study to reach this stage of your development — without a guide, anyway."

"It took you that long?" Mike guessed, taking renewed note of Henry's staff and aura of vast, disciplined power, putting it together with the allusions his counterpart had made about his age and his clear knowledge. The man himself grinned.

"Of course not," he said. "I'm a version of you, after all: I cheated."

Mike couldn't stop a grin of his own as he looked back up at the mirrors. "So, each of these images," he said. "They're showing other universes?"

"Other possibilities," Henry corrected, nodding slowly. "Roads not taken. Or at least... roads not yet taken."

Mike shot him a very sharp look and received a mild one in return. "All the things that I see, they could still happen?"

"Some," Henry said. "While the divergence points for some have already passed."

"Then why can I see them?"

"This is the multiverse. Merely to view it, your mind has by definition passed outside conventional time and space," Henry pointed out.

"Fair point," Mike said, frowning.

"Furthermore, time is not strictly linear, even within your own reality," Henry continued. "Expand the view to the multiverse as a whole, and the sheer infinite majesty of creation... frankly, you should count yourself lucky that you're seeing anything relevant."

And indeed, Mike had to admit, he was.

Mike's gaze was drawn to a towering figure standing atop a colossal skyscraper in the nearest fragment. The city below was a sprawling labyrinth of glass and steel, illuminated by the neon glow of countless signs and screens. The sky above was a roiling mass of storm clouds, dark and brooding, alive with the crackle of electricity. Lightning bolts arced across the heavens as if drawn to the figure that silently commanded the chaos. This version of Mike was cloaked in a long, sleek trench coat, its dark fabric billowing in the fierce winds. The high collar partially obscured his face, but his eyes shone with an eerie blue light, like twin beacons of raw energy. His hand was raised, fingers splayed as if grasping the very air, and from his fingertips crackled tendrils of electricity that matched the storm above. The city seemed to bow to his will, the weather itself a tool in his hands, obedient to his every whim.

A few shards away, another version of Mike emerged, this one in a starkly different world. The landscape was a desolate wasteland, a place where life had been drained away, leaving only the barest remnants of what once was. The sky was a dull, sickly orange, casting an oppressive glow over the cracked and barren ground. This Mike was older, his face etched with lines of experience and hardship. His hair was streaked with grey, and his eyes—hard, unyielding—were those of a man who had seen too much. He wore a heavy cloak, the fabric thick with dust and dirt, and slung across his back was a massive hammer, its surface intricately carved with runes and symbols of power. He stood at the head of a small group of survivors, their eyes filled with the same hardened resolve that shone in his own. This was a world on the brink of extinction, a place where hope was a rare and precious commodity, and this version of Mike was their leader, the one they looked to for strength in the face of oblivion.

Further along the dome, another shard presented a scene that was almost the polar opposite. Here, Mike was younger, perhaps still in his late teens, and the world around him was one of light and beauty. He stood in a gleaming hall of crystal and silver, the walls soaring high above him, bathed in a soft, radiant glow. The architecture was otherworldly, a blend of futuristic design and ethereal grace, with arches and spires that seemed to defy gravity. This Mike was dressed in a uniform of silver and white, the fabric sleek and form-fitting, reminiscent of a knight from some far-off, advanced civilization. In his hand, he held a sword that shimmered with radiant energy, its blade humming with a soft, musical tone.

Shadowy, indistinct figures closed in, their forms flickering and twisting as if made from the very fabric of darkness itself. They were barely human, their bodies elongated and distorted, with limbs that stretched unnaturally as they slithered forward. Their faces were indistinct, mere smudges of blackness where eyes and mouths should have been, and their movements were a constant, unsettling shift between solid and ethereal.

This version of Mike's movements was precise, almost poetic, each step and strike flowing seamlessly into the next. Mike spun on his heel, the blade of his sword slicing through the air with deadly elegance. The energy of the sword left trails of light in its wake, cutting through the shadowy figures with ease. Each time the blade connected, the figures dissolved into wisps of black smoke, their forms unravelling as if they had never truly existed.

In the next fragment, a version of Mike sat alone in a dimly lit room, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and incense. The walls were lined with shelves, each one overflowing with books and scrolls, their spines cracked and worn from centuries of use. This Mike was hunched over a large, ancient tome, his fingers tracing the faded symbols on the pages as he read aloud in a low, resonant voice. His eyes glowed with an unsettling red light, the power within him barely contained as he spoke words that seemed to warp the very air around him.

The next was rather puzzling at first glance—it was him, a version of him, a few years older than he was now, taking a hot shower. Mike was about to break off and ask what possible relevance this could have when the door of the shower opened and the showering Mike was suddenly not alone.

Instead of yelping indignantly at the sudden cold draft, frantically covering himself up after being disturbed in the shower, or being engaged in a sudden fight for his life as an assassin attempted to murder him while he was naked and theoretically defenceless, the version of Mike turned and smiled, brushing wet hair out of his eyes. Mike followed his counterpart's gaze, and let out a strangled squeak. Because the person who was joining his counterpart in the shower was a) naked, b) apparently expected, and most importantly of all, c) Eleven.

After a stunned moment, Mike whipped his head around and his gaze away, covering his eyes, his face bright red, his expression one of total mortification. After a few minutes, he dared to dart a glance up at Henry, whose eyes sparkling with amusement, looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Mike opened his mouth to explain or ask a question, before closing it again and shaking his head sharply. Instead, his cheeks still burning, and trousers still uncomfortably tight, he tried to put the image out of his mind by looking at the next fragment.

To his relief, it was decidedly grimmer, but a great deal less embarrassing: a burning forest, in places scoured to the bedrock, surrounded by the blazing blue-white flames of an uncontrollable, unnatural inferno.

In the centre of this hellish landscape was a clearing, a small oasis of relatively open space amidst the devastation. Here, under the oppressive, smoke-filled sky, two figures clashed with a ferocity that matched the raging inferno around them. One of the combatants was another version of Mike, barely older than he was now, though his appearance had been hardened by whatever trials he had faced in this world.

This Mike was dressed in battle-worn armour, the metal plates scorched and battered, evidence of countless battles fought and survived. The armour clung to him like a second skin, its design functional and rugged, with no room for ornamentation.

In his hands, this Mike wielded a sword, the blade long and wickedly sharp, forged from a dark metal that seemed to absorb the light of the flames rather than reflect it.

Opposing him was a shadowy figure, taller and more imposing, shrouded in a cloak that seemed to billow and writhe like the flames around them. The figure's face was obscured, hidden beneath a dark hood, but the aura of menace that radiated from them was undeniable. In one hand, they held a staff, the top of which was crowned with a glowing crystal that pulsed with malevolent energy, casting a sickly green light that clashed with the blue-white flames.

Every swing of Mike's sword was met with a counterstrike from the staff, the impact sending shockwaves through the air that stirred the flames into a frenzy. The energy from the crystal lashed out like a whip, seeking to entangle and ensnare, but Mike moved with a speed and agility that allowed him to evade the deadly strikes.

Others were less action-packed and certainly less grim.

The next one that caught Mike's eyes seemed to be a vision of Henry's world: a version of himself—again, more or less the same as he was now—floating in a lotus position, limned in gentle golden light, meditating under the supervision of a version of Danny. Surprisingly, alongside him was Max, also meditating, but limned in crimson light instead.

"Is that—" He began.

"My world," Henry confirmed.

"And yet there, you look my age," Mike pointed out. "Despite being at least a decade older than me."

"This isn't a view of my relative present," Henry said calmly. "Remember the point about being outside time and space."

"Ah."

"Though in the interest of full disclosure, I was meditating just like that," Henry added with a slight smile. "To give you some context, it's currently the year 2030 where I come from. The first major divergence in my timeline was when my parents died in 1986. But the real game-changer happened in 1994—the moment we made First Contact, thanks to the discovery of the Stargate." (7)

Mike's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait... First Contact? You mean with aliens?"

Henry raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by Mike's reaction. "You're that shocked?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "I suppose I shouldn't be, but it's just that... well, in my world, First Contact has been common knowledge for decades now. I take it that hasn't happened yet in your timeline?"

Mike shook his head, still trying to process what he was hearing. "No, not even close. We haven't met any aliens—at least that I know of. The idea of First Contact happening in 1994 is... mind-blowing."

Henry nodded thoughtfully as he considered Mike's perspective. "Interesting. It sounds like First Contact in your world must still be in the distant future. Or perhaps it's destined to happen under very different circumstances." (8)

He leaned back slightly as if settling into a story he'd told many times before. "In my world, it all began with the discovery of the Stargate. It was unearthed in Egypt, hidden beneath the sands for thousands of years. At first, we didn't fully understand what we had found. But when a group of scientists finally cracked the code and activated it, we realised it was a gateway—a portal to other planets, scattered across the galaxy."

Mike listened, captivated, as Henry continued. "That's when everything changed. We made contact with other civilisations, some friendly, others... not so much. My world has faced multiple invasions from various alien species as a direct result of our interplanetary travels."

Mike nodded slowly, trying to absorb everything Henry had told him. Then, a thought struck him, and he raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Wait a minute—why is Max meditating with you and Uncle Danny?"

Henry smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. "In my reality, Max comes from a magical lineage, just like I assume she does in yours," he explained. "My uncle recognised her potential and offered to teach her how to harness her abilities."

Mike stared at Henry, his mind reeling from this new revelation. He could hardly believe what he was hearing—Max, the same Max he knew so well, had a magical lineage and was being trained by a version of Uncle Danny? The idea was almost too much to process.

Noticing the shocked expression on Mike's face, Henry winced slightly, realizing he had let something slip. "Ah, whoops... spoilers," he said with an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to drop that on you so abruptly. I can see how that might be a bit of a surprise."

Mike looked suspicious. "There's more to this, isn't there?" he said.

"In my experience, that is true of everything," Henry said.

Mike glared at him. "That is incredibly vague, deeply unhelpful and just a little bit annoying."

"I know. I'm rather proud."

Mike glared at him for a few moments, then rolled his eyes. "Well, I assume that you're not together, or something weird like that," he said. "If you were, you wouldn't have any real reason not to tell me."

Henry inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Which also leads me to think that there is something more, something you're not saying, something that you know for absolute certain applies to my world as well," Mike continued.

"Well," Henry said, with a faint smile. "You do have the capacity to be just a little bit brilliant."

"I'm not sure whether that's meant as a compliment or a boast."

"Both, actually. It's a skill that comes with age. And with quite literally talking to myself."

"Right," Mike said. "Are you going to... no, wait, you aren't, because you aren't going to spoon-feed me."

"Well, I was, but if you'd prefer me not to, then that's fine with me."

"Wait, what? You were going to tell me?"

The smile turned into a smirk. "Not a chance."

Mike glowered at his older counterpart. "You bring a whole new meaning to the concept of self-hatred," he grumbled.

"I'm sure," Henry said, still smirking. "In any case, you'll find out soon enough."

The next two images were perplexing but appeared less dubious. One depicted a younger version of Mike, possibly a couple of years junior to his present age, showcasing some unexpected variances. He seemed slightly slimmer, perhaps a tad shorter, with a haircut that was cropped shorter. He was dressed in a simple grey t-shirt, the fabric faded and slightly stretched. His jeans were similarly worn, with frayed edges and patches of dirt clinging to the fabric. His posture was slightly hunched, but his eyes were keen and attentive, absorbing every nuance with a watchful intensity.

Furthermore, he exuded an aura of... weariness. No, that wasn't quite right, Mike pondered. It was more a sense of toughness as if marked by the weight of life experiences.

"This version of us has walked a very different path," Henry remarked quietly. "Easier in some ways, and harder in others. He's had to grow up fast, probably sooner than he should have. There's a kind of resilience there, a toughness that only comes from surviving things that could have broken him."

"What... what exactly did he go through?" Mike asked after a long moment.

Henry didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gestured towards the fragment, his expression unreadable. "Take a closer look."

Mike turned his attention back to the scene unfolding in the fragment. He watched as his alternate self stood amid a sunlit clearing. There was a brief flicker of something—was it hope?—as Eleven, her face lit up with joy, ran towards him. The alternate Mike's face softened into a radiant, all-encompassing smile as he opened his arms to embrace her.

As the two embraced, something caught Mike's eye—a small tattoo on the alternate Mike's arm, partially obscured by his shirt sleeve. It was simple yet striking, the letters "M11" inked into his skin in a bold, unadorned script.

Mike's heart skipped a beat as the realisation hit him. His mouth went dry, and he swallowed hard before managing to speak. "Is that... is that what I think it is?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, a knot forming in his throat.

Henry's gaze softened, and he nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "In this reality, you're known as subject M11. You were taken from your mother, Karen, and subjected to experiments by your father, Ted Wheeler, and Dr. Brenner." (9)

Mike felt the air leave his lungs as if he'd been punched in the gut. His father? Ted Wheeler? The man who barely raised his voice, who was always so passive, had done something so horrifying in another reality?

Mike's face drained of colour, and he stumbled back a step, his eyes wide with disbelief. "My dad?" he whispered, the words catching in his throat. "He... he did this? But my dad would never... I mean, he's not that kind of person. How could he—how could I—"

Henry stepped closer, his voice gentle yet firm. "I know it's hard to understand, Mike. The man you know in your world isn't capable of such things. But in that reality, circumstances shaped him into someone very different."

Mike's eyes locked onto the fragment before him, captivated by the image of the alternate Eleven embracing his alternate self. There was something profoundly tender about the way she wrapped her arms around him, her face buried in his shoulder, her expression radiating a warmth and peace.

After a long, reflective silence, Mike finally found his voice. "In that world," he asked quietly, his eyes still fixed on the image, "what happened to El?"

"Jane," Henry corrected gently. "In this reality, she's known as Jane Ives. She lives with her parents, Terry and Andrew, and her sister Kali."

Mike's eyes widened in surprise. "Her family... from this world," he echoed, struggling to wrap his mind around it.

Henry nodded. "Yes. This version of Jane never endured the pain and trauma that your Eleven did. She wasn't taken from her family. Instead, she grew up in a loving home, surrounded by people who cared for her. She lives a rather ordinary... even happy life."

Mike's heart ached as he stared at the image of Jane and his alternate self. "The life she never got to live here," he whispered, more to himself than to Henry. The words felt heavy, filled with the sorrow of knowing what had been stolen from Eleven in his world.

Henry gave a slight shrug, his expression thoughtful. "In a way, yes. But that all changes when her best friend, Will Byers, goes missing, and a strange boy appears in the woods. Sound familiar?"

Mike nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving the image. "Yeah," he replied, his voice barely audible. The scene before him felt like a bittersweet echo of what could have been—a life where Eleven, or Jane, had the chance to grow up in safety and love. "That's how I first met El—Jane, I mean—in my world. We were out in the woods, searching for Will, with Dustin and Lucas. It was raining… That moment has always stayed with me."

The memory flooded back to him vividly: the cold, wet rain pouring down as they stumbled upon her in the woods, alone and scared. Even then, there was something about her that captivated him from the very beginning.

Henry nodded in understanding, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "It was the same for me in mine. Eleven is so much more than just her abilities. She's pretty, intelligent, brave, and fiercely determined. In my experience, those traits draw us to her, no matter the reality. They're what make various versions of us fall in love with her, again and again."

A warm smile spread across Mike's face as he considered Henry's words. The idea that across the multiverse, no matter the circumstances, different versions of himself and Eleven were destined to find each other and fall in love was comforting, almost magical.

The thought filled him with a deep sense of warmth. "I guess some things are meant to be," Mike said softly. But as he continued to stare at the image of his alternate self and Jane, the warmth in his expression faded, replaced by a subtle hardening of his gaze. The reality of what this other Mike had endured—how their lives had been so cruelly reversed—gnawed at him. "But still… I can't believe their lives ended up like this, completely swapped."

Henry reflected, "It's fascinating how the multiverse is filled with so many unexpected ironies."

The next fragment Mike focused on was far from comforting. In this version, the Mike he saw was visibly older, his features hard and unforgiving. Dressed entirely in black, his appearance seemed cold and severe, as though he had been carved from ice. His face had a sharp, almost gaunt appearance, with a bitterness that made his skin look paler and his expression stuck in a perpetual scowl. Mike found every aspect of him to be detached and cruel, but it was his eyes, cold and devoid of warmth, that disturbed him the most. They swept across his environment—a luxuriously decorated mansion prepared for what appeared to be an elaborate party. Elaborately dressed guests moved about elegantly, oblivious to the lurking dark presence.

Mike observed his older self confidently making his way through the crowd, capturing attention with his posture and demeanour.

After a few moments, a woman sauntered up toward him. She wore a sleek black dress that clung to her figure, exposing bits of pale skin as she approached the older Mike. At first, Mike couldn't pinpoint who she was - there was something strangely familiar about her, but he couldn't associate it with anyone he knew.

With her face partially hidden in shadow, she moved with calculated grace, reminiscent of a panther hunting its prey.

But then, she turned her head, revealing her face fully, and Mike's stomach dropped. His breath caught in his throat as recognition hit him like a blow to the chest. It was Eleven—an older, colder version of her, but unmistakably her. The sight of her drained the warmth from Mike's body. She had an eerie, deathly pale appearance as if her skin had been drained of all colour. Her once expressive eyes, filled with warmth, power, and emotion, were now cold, darkened by the same bitterness that clung to the older version of himself. Her mouth was slightly parted, and from the corners of her lips, thick, dark blood slowly dripped, trickling down her chin.

Slowly, almost tenderly, she lifted one pale hand and placed it on the front of his suit, her fingers curling against the black fabric. The contrast of her icy skin against the dark material sent a shiver down Mike's spine as he watched, frozen with disbelief.

The older version of himself did not recoil. Instead, he leaned into her touch, his expression still eerily calm. His eyes—empty, emotionless—never wavered from hers. The blood smeared between them as they kissed, the dark crimson streaking across their mouths, but they didn't react to it, as though the taste of it was as familiar as air.

In stunned silence, Mike observed a flicker in the kiss, an unnaturally peculiar movement he couldn't ignore. His heart raced as he witnessed their mouths—both his future self and Eleven—altering in a way that was not supposed to happen. With horror, he watched as something sharp gleamed between their lips.

Fangs.

"Vampires," Henry said quietly, his tone grim and matter-of-fact. Mike tore his eyes away from the horrifying scene and turned to Henry, his face pale and his breath shallow. Henry met his gaze, his expression dark. "In this universe, you and Eleven… well, you've become something far more than human. Or maybe less, depending on how you look at it."

Mike's voice wavered as he struggled to speak, his throat dry. "Vampires? We're vampires?"

Henry nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the scene in the fragment. "Yes. In this world, you and Eleven were turned long ago. You're powerful, almost immortal, but you've lost everything that made you… you. What you see before you are hollow versions of yourselves—eternally tied to each other, driven by hunger, and consumed by the darkness you've embraced."

Mike's gaze flicked back to the fragment, his heart pounding as he watched his older self and Eleven pull apart from the blood-streaked kiss. The fangs receded, but the coldness in their eyes remained. They stood there, side by side, gazing at the world around them with a distant, predatory detachment. The way they moved, the way they held themselves—it was all so wrong, so inhuman.

"But we're still… together?" he asked, the words catching in his throat. It was hard to reconcile the cold, distant versions of themselves with the bond he and Eleven shared in his world.

Henry gave a small nod. "In a sense, yes. In that world, the two of you are powerful because of your connection. Together, you dominate, control, and feed off the living. It's not love, Mike. It's… symbiosis, a survival—"

A sudden crack of thunder interrupted him, the sound so sharp and startling that it made Mike flinch. The temperature around them plummeted, an unnatural cold settling over the space like a heavy blanket. He could feel it biting into his skin, chilling him to the bone. The fragment before them shifted violently, the image of his older self and Eleven flickering like a TV losing its signal, fading in and out with static.

Mike's heart raced as he took a frantic step back, his eyes darting around, trying to make sense of what was happening. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tinged with panic. The unsettling cold, the violent shifting of the vision—it was all too much, too sudden.

Henry's face tightened with concern, his usually calm demeanour wavering as he glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the fractured multiverse around them. "Our connection is weakening," Henry explained, his voice urgent but controlled. "The bond that allows you to see these fragments is starting to break. We don't have much time."

Mike's pulse quickened, the weight of Henry's words sinking in. "What does that mean? Are we getting stuck in here?" His voice trembled as the once-solid reality around them flickered, the air thick with unease.

Henry shook his head quickly, but his expression remained serious. "No, we won't be trapped. But if the connection breaks before we're done, you'll lose access to everything you've seen—and the chance to understand what's coming."

Mike's heart pounded as the fragments continued to warp and shimmer. "So what do we do?" he asked, his voice rising in fear.

"We have to move quickly," Henry said, his voice now edged with urgency. "There's more you need to see."

---

Flagg's grin widened as he sensed the internal battle raging within Danny. His eyes, bloodshot and filled with malevolent glee, bore into Danny's soul. "You know you want to," Flagg purred, his words a venomous caress. "But you can't, can you? Because once you cross that line, there's no coming back. You'll be just like me. And that terrifies you, doesn't it?"

The words struck deep, forcing Danny to confront a truth he had long feared. He wasn't just fighting Flagg; he was fighting the darkness within himself, the part of him that wanted to give in, to let the rage consume him.

For a moment, Danny's vision blurred with tears of frustration and anger, his grip faltering just enough for Flagg to choke out a laugh—weak, but triumphant. The sound sent a shiver down Danny's spine, his fury momentarily replaced by a profound disgust at himself.

With a swift and forceful motion, Danny hurled Flagg to the floor.

"Why don't you fight back?" Danny growled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. He loomed over Flagg, fists clenched, his chest heaving as he struggled to comprehend the maddening calmness in the sorcerer's demeanour. "Why don't you fight?"

Flagg lifted his head weakly, his limbs splayed out awkwardly. "Because, Gunslinger," he wheezed, each word dripping with venomous satisfaction, "I've already won. There's nothing left for me to fight for."

The words struck Danny like a physical blow, igniting a fresh wave of fury. Flagg's admission—his complete lack of fear, his total certainty in his victory—sent Danny over the edge. With a roar, Danny drew back his fist, muscles coiling with brutal intent, and then he drove it forward with all the force he could muster, aiming directly at Flagg's jaw.

Flagg's head snapped back violently, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze. Then, with horrifying clarity, the remnants of Flagg's jaw separated from the rest of his skull. The punch had shattered what little was left of his lower mouth, the bones breaking apart with a sickening crunch as they splintered under the force.

Flagg's lower jaw hung loosely, barely attached by tendons and strips of torn flesh. Blood gushed from the wound in a torrential flow, mixing with the fragments of bone and teeth that had been shattered by the blow. The once-arrogant smirk was now a grotesque parody of itself, as Flagg's mouth was reduced to a mangled, gaping maw. His tongue, now dislodged from its place, flopped uselessly, suspended in the crimson pool that filled his throat.

Flagg's eyes widened in shock and pain, but even now, they gleamed with sick, masochistic pleasure, as if relishing the violence inflicted upon him. He gurgled, a grotesque sound that was more a wheeze than a scream, blood bubbling up from his ruined mouth and dribbling down his chin in thick, sticky rivulets.

Danny's chest heaved as he stared down at the twisted, bloody mess that was once Flagg's face. The remnants of his fury still roared in his veins, refusing to let him walk away, demanding he finish what he had started. His eyes, dark with a vengeance that refused to be quenched, fell upon the jagged piece of bone that had once been part of Flagg's jaw, now lying amidst the carnage.

Without a second thought, driven by a raw, primal instinct that overpowered any shred of reason, Danny reached down and seized the splintered bone in his blood-soaked hand. His fingers wrapped tightly around the jagged shard, slick with his blood, gripping it with fierce determination. The throne room around him seemed to blur, his vision tunnelling until the only thing he could focus on was Flagg's ruined face.

Flagg's remaining eye, still somehow glinting with that infuriating mixture of mockery and triumph, flickered as it focused on the bone in Danny's hand. There was no fear in that gaze—only the twisted satisfaction of a man who knew he had pushed his enemy to the brink. But Danny was past the point of caring about Flagg's sick pleasure; all that mattered now was ending the nightmare once and for all.

With a snarl, Danny raised the jagged bone high above his head, the muscles in his arm tensing as he aimed it directly at Flagg's left eye. The dark sorcerer's body twitched involuntarily, a reflexive spasm in the face of imminent destruction, but still, that grotesque parody of a grin lingered on what was left of his lips.

Danny's hand trembled for only a moment before he drove the bone down with all the force he could muster. The sharp point pierced Flagg's eye with a sickening squelch, the soft tissue giving way beneath the pressure. The eyeball burst under the impact, a spray of dark fluid erupting from the socket as the bone buried itself deep into the skull, grinding against bone and tissue with a grating crunch.

Flagg's body convulsed violently, a final, desperate shudder as the pain seared through what little remained of his consciousness. The eye socket was now a gaping wound, filled with the jagged shard that had once been part of his jaw, embedded deep within his skull. The eye itself was destroyed, reduced to a pulp of blood and viscera that oozed from the gaping hole, mingling with the blood that still flowed from his shattered mouth.

Danny leaned into the blow, pressing the bone deeper into Flagg's skull, feeling the resistance give way as the shard plunged further into the darkness of the sorcerer's brain. The sensation was both horrifying and cathartic, a grotesque release of the fury that had been building within him for so long. Flagg's remaining eye, wide with shock and pain, slowly dimmed as the life drained from him, the defiance finally extinguished in that final, brutal act.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Danny's ragged breathing, harsh and uneven in the silence that followed. He released his grip on the bone, letting it stay lodged in Flagg's skull, the jagged shard protruding grotesquely from the destroyed eye socket. Flagg's body twitched one last time before going completely still, his once taunting gaze now a hollow, lifeless stare.

Danny stood over the broken corpse, his hands shaking, his knuckles stained with blood that was not his own. The raw, unfiltered rage that had driven him to this point began to ebb away, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that filled the pit of his stomach.

As Danny looked upon the twisted, lifeless figure at his feet, a chilling voice cut through the oppressive silence. It was soft at first, barely more than a whisper, but it made Danny's blood run cold.

"You let us die."

The words echoed in the room, sending a shiver down Danny's spine. His heart began to pound in his chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the growing sense of dread curling in his gut.

One by one, the lifeless bodies of those he had once known and loved began to rise from the floor, their movements unnatural and jerky, as if they were puppets on strings. Rand, Min, Elayne, and Aviendha were the first to stand, their faces twisted into grotesque parodies of the people they once were. Their skin was pale and waxy, their eyes dull and lifeless, but their mouths moved in unison, repeating the chilling accusation.

"You let us die."

Next came the children—Rand and Aviendha's little ones, with their innocent faces now marred by death's cruel touch. They stood beside their parents, their small bodies unnervingly still as they joined the chorus, their voices high-pitched and haunting.

"You let us die."

Danny's breath caught in his throat as more familiar faces rose from the ground. Nancy, with her once-vibrant eyes now clouded over, her expression vacant. Mike, his skin an unnatural shade of grey, his body moving with a stiff, robotic motion. Holly, barely more than a child, her tiny hands curled into claws as she stared blankly ahead. Eleven, her shaved head revealing the ghastly pallor of her skin, her eyes devoid of the spark that had once made her so special.

Jonathan, his features slack and empty, stood beside Karen, whose once-kind face was now a mask of accusation. Together, they joined the growing circle around Danny, their voices blending with the others in a macabre harmony.

"You let us die."

Danny's heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled back, his mind reeling from the horror unfolding before him. The room seemed to close in, the air thick with the stench of decay and the suffocating weight of guilt. He could see the twisted, broken bodies of his loved ones rising to their feet, their movements stiff and unnatural as they surrounded him. Their eyes, once filled with life and love, were now hollow voids, dark pits that seemed to bore into his very soul.

"You let us die," they repeated, their voices growing louder, more insistent, as they closed in on him.

Danny's hands trembled as he tried to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. The circle tightened around him, the bodies of the dead blocking every escape. Their once-familiar faces were now ghastly visages of death, their mouths hanging open in grotesque grimaces, their skin stretched taut over their skulls. The children's faces were the worst, their once-innocent eyes now wide and empty, their small voices mingling with the others in a nightmarish chant.

---

Mike swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves, though his impatience was getting harder to control. He could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him—the flickering visions, the urgency in Henry's voice, the overwhelming fear that the future might spiral into something he couldn't stop. He clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling over.

"Not that I don't appreciate getting a glimpse of all these could-have, would-have, probably-won't-happen futures," Mike said, his tone edged with impatience as the pressure mounted, "but how many more do you expect me to look at? And is there some bigger point to all this? Why these futures?"

Henry remained calm despite the building tension, his sharp eyes focused on the flickering fragments before them. He gestured toward two new fragments that had appeared side by side, shimmering faintly in the distorted air. "Just two more," he replied, his voice tight with urgency. "These are the last, but they're important. In many ways, they are mirror images of each other."

Mike, grumbling under his breath, shifted his attention to where Henry was pointing. The first fragment shimmered into focus, revealing a dark, oppressive scene that sent a chill down his spine. The air in the fragment was thick with shadows, the landscape bathed in a dull, muted light that barely penetrated the gloom. At first glance, it looked like any other nightmarish world he had glimpsed in these visions, but there was something hauntingly familiar about this one.

It took him a few long moments before the twisted, gnarled trees, their blackened trunks and reaching branches, triggered a memory. His eyes widened as the realization hit him: Mirkwood Forest.

The usual murmur of life that one would expect from a forest was absent. No birds, no insects, no distant rustle of creatures moving through the foliage. The silence was suffocating, heavy with the weight of something terrible. There was only the low, ominous creaking of trees bending in the wind, as if they too had long since given up any will to live.

Mike's heart began to pound in his chest as he squinted at the scene, trying to make sense of the strange shapes scattered across the forest floor. His stomach twisted when he finally realized what he was looking at. Bodies. The forest was littered with bodies.

At first, they were just faint silhouettes half-hidden by the dense fog. Mike strained his eyes, his breath catching as he slowly recognized the unmistakable forms of people—men, women, some even younger, strewn across the forest floor like discarded ragdolls. They lay crumpled and broken, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, their clothes torn and bloodied.

Mike's blood ran cold as he slowly scanned the scene. The bodies weren't just random victims; many of them looked familiar. His heart sank further when he realized they weren't nameless strangers—they were people he knew. His friends. His family.

A flash of recognition shot through him when he saw Dustin lying face-down, his signature cap half-buried in the mud. Lucas lay nearby, slumped against the base of a tree, his eyes glassy and vacant, staring into nothingness. Nancy's figure was unmistakable, her lifeless body partially concealed by the twisted roots of a tree, her arm outstretched as though she had tried to crawl away before death claimed her.

The bodies didn't stop there. Jonathan. Will. Karen. Faces that had once been filled with life, with laughter, were now frozen in death. The forest floor was a graveyard, and Mirkwood had become their tomb.

Mike's breath caught in his throat, his hands balling into fists as he fought the wave of nausea rising in his chest. He tried to tear his gaze away, but his eyes kept being drawn to the next horrific detail. Eleven lay farther off, her face pale and blood smeared across her cheeks. A towering figure stood ominously over Eleven's lifeless body. Her eyes—usually so full of fire—were now cold, and empty, her hand lying limp against the ground as if she'd never gotten the chance to fight back.

Mike's breath grew ragged as his eyes fell on the sword—its gleaming, cruel edge embedded deep into Eleven's stomach. The sight made his stomach turn, a sickening wave of nausea rising, threatening to overwhelm him.

But it was the figure looming over her that made Mike's blood run cold.

The armour gleamed in the low light, spattered with fresh blood that had splattered across its cold, metallic surface. At first glance, it seemed like the knightly suits of armour he'd seen in history books—thick, imposing, and built for war. But as Mike looked closer, his mind struggled to grasp the strange fusion of old and new. The armour wasn't merely medieval; there was something distinctly futuristic about it.

Blood splattered across its helmet and breastplate, stark against the reflective metal, dripping onto the ground below. Whoever—or whatever—stood before him had taken Eleven's life without a second thought. Mike's fists clenched harder, his nails digging into the palms of his hands, the pain doing nothing to ground him as panic and fury swelled within him.

The figure shifted ever so slightly, its head tilting down toward Eleven's body, almost as if admiring its work. Then, without warning, its head jerked sharply, as if suddenly aware of Mike's presence.

The helmeted face turned fully toward him, its expression—or lack thereof—cold and impassive, completely devoid of any humanity. The dark visor reflected the eerie, twisted forest around them, revealing nothing of the person—or thing—hidden inside. There was something disturbingly alien about the way it moved, a mechanical precision that sent a shiver down Mike's spine and unsettled him to his core.

In a swift, almost grotesque motion—like something straight out of a horror movie—the armoured figure twisted its body and yanked the sword from Eleven's stomach. The blade slid free with a sickening sound, now completely coated in blood, which dripped slowly from its edge.

The figure began to move toward Mike with a menacing, deliberate stride, its sword raised high and ready to strike. Each step was calculated, the armour gleaming under the faint light, and the sword's blade glistened with fresh blood. The figure's movements were unnervingly smooth, its eyes—hidden behind the dark visor—seeming to lock onto Mike with deadly intent. The sword hovered menacingly in the air, poised for a lethal blow, as the gap between them quickly closed.

Mike finally managed to rip his gaze away from the advancing figure in the fragment, stumbling backward in a desperate attempt to get away. His stomach churned violently, and he doubled over, retching as the gruesome image of Eleven's body and the blood-soaked sword burned in his mind. His vision swam as he blindly reached out, his hand grasping for support and latching onto an offered arm. The moment he steadied himself, however, he recoiled in disgust, shoving the arm away with sudden anger when he realised it belonged to Henry.

"What. The. Hell. Was that?!" Mike snarled, still shaking from the horror he had just witnessed. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he glared at Henry, demanding answers.

"I think you know perfectly well what that was," Henry said quietly, his voice almost too calm in the face of Mike's rage.

Mike's hands clenched into fists, his heart still racing from the horror of what he had just seen. "Then why the fuck did you show it to me?" he snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger and confusion.

"I didn't," Henry replied, his tone steady.

Mike blinked, caught off guard. "...What?"

"I didn't show it to you," Henry repeated, his gaze unwavering. "Or rather, out of the infinite possibilities in the multiverse, I didn't choose that universe—or any of the others—for you to see. You did."

Mike's eyes narrowed, his anger giving way to confusion. "What are you talking about? You said I should count myself lucky that I'm seeing anything relevant."

"And you should," Henry said, his voice calm but firm. "Very few people, when viewing the multiverse for the first time, can maintain their sanity and subconsciously select relevant parallels."

Mike's breath hitched as he processed Henry's words. "Wait, you're saying I'm the one who chose these universes? Subconsciously?"

Henry nodded, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Yes," he said, his voice turning dry. "You'd almost think your subconscious was trying to tell you something. Quite a few somethings, in fact." His eyes gleamed with amusement as he added, "Including a few things I suspect you'd rather have kept to yourself."

Mike flushed bright red, his face heating up as his mind, unhelpfully, conjured up a crystal-clear image from that particular universe—the one where he'd seen Eleven in the shower. Before he could stop it, his brain started comparing that image to the Eleven he knew, in her usual sleepwear of one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of his boxers. The thought sent a hot wave of embarrassment through him, and he could feel the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers returning.

"I really hate my subconscious," Mike mumbled, shifting awkwardly, his gaze fixed on the ground as he tried to push the images out of his mind.

Henry's lips curled into an amused smile.

"And speaking of," Mike continued, casting a sharp glance at him, "is my subconscious trying to tell me I've got issues with self-hatred? Because, if so, it's a bit late to the party."

"No," Henry replied, his tone dry. "That's self-evident. And, frankly, tiresome. It's one thing from my youth I don't miss." His expression shifted, becoming wry. "Along with the overactive libido. Which, incidentally, is part of your subconscious whether you like it or not."

Mike shot him a withering glare. "You weren't the one just shown a possible future where—"

Henry raised a finger, cutting him off. "It's not necessarily a possible future in your timeline."

"You were the one who said these alternate universes were relevant," Mike snapped back, his frustration boiling over. "So that means it's either a possible future for me or close enough to be practically the same."

Henry's smile widened slightly, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "True. But think for a moment—would your subconscious show you something like that simply to torment you? Or is it trying to warn you?"

A heavy silence fell between them, Mike's mind racing with the implications.

Henry arched an eyebrow. "That wasn't meant to be a difficult question."

"If you were asking anyone else, it probably wouldn't be," Mike muttered, his expression darkening.

"Good point," Henry admitted a flicker of amusement still in his eyes. "But seriously—think about it."

Mike frowned, his thoughts circling the disturbing vision of his future self and Eleven. After a long, tense moment, he sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Fine," he said, his voice low. "So it's a warning."

Henry's smile faded, replaced with a serious look. "A warning that comes with an alternative," he said, his voice steady. "In case you'd forgotten, there were two universes left for you to view. You've only seen one."

Mike blinked and suddenly remembered the second fragment. He slowly turned his gaze toward the shimmering image, which now came into sharper focus. His eyes narrowed as he studied it. This one was... different. It wasn't as eye-catching as its darker counterpart, not by a long shot. And yet, once it had Mike's attention, it held it with a subtle, inexorable strength.

Like its darker counterpart, the fragment revealed a figure clad in gleaming armour. But this one was different. The armour wasn't oppressive or menacing; it shone with an almost ethereal brilliance, reflecting the light around it like polished silver, every inch meticulously crafted. The plates, though made of metal, moved fluidly, as if the armour were as much a part of the figure as flesh and bone.

The helm was sleek, with angular lines that suggested both elegance and power. It didn't hide the figure's humanity but rather seemed to enhance it, as though the armour wasn't meant to intimidate but to protect and empower. Across the chest and shoulders, subtle patterns of light wove through the armour, almost like circuits, pulsing in a rhythm that made the figure feel alive, not just mechanical. It was more than just a suit of armour—it was a living extension of the warrior inside.

Unlike the heavy, menacing figure from the darker universe, which exuded raw destruction and brute force, this version of Mike radiated a sense of calm mastery. There was no need for excessive aggression or intimidation—his mere presence communicated power tempered by restraint.

The sword in his hand was not just an ancient relic of battle. It hummed with a deep, resonant energy that thrummed through the air around it. The edges of the blade glowed faintly, a soft, ethereal light tracing its outline, suggesting it held more than just sharpness—it carried the potential for immense power. There was a quiet menace in its design, the kind of weapon that didn't need to be flashy or exaggerated to convey its lethality. The light dancing along the blade's edges hinted that it could slice through anything it encountered, whether flesh, steel, or something far more resistant.

Yet, despite its obvious strength, the sword didn't feel like an instrument of violence—it felt like a tool, a weapon of precision.

Whereas the previous universe had been a brutal, unrelenting display of hatred, despair, and terror, saturated with merciless death, this one invited the viewer to look closer. And when they looked closer, they saw the opposite of each: love, hope and courage, bound together with something that Mike could only call...

"Selflessness," Henry said quietly.

Mike looked up sharply, startled by the word. "Selflessness?" he repeated, his brow furrowed.

Henry nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. "Selflessness," he confirmed. "It's the key difference between these realities."

Mike glanced back at the shimmering fragment, still trying to piece it together. "I thought the difference was love and hate," he remarked, his voice tentative, as if he was still processing what he had just witnessed.

"They are," Henry agreed. "But look closer. Love—real, true love—is patient, it's kind. Most importantly, it's selfless. It's about putting someone else's needs ahead of your own, even when it costs you something. That's the essence of it. Hatred, on the other hand, is selfish. Even when you hate someone because they've wronged someone else, the root of it is still how you have been affected. Hatred draws everything inward, while love pushes outward, to others."

Mike fell silent, considering Henry's words. "So... all of these futures come down to that? To being selfless or selfish?"

Henry's gaze softened, and he nodded again. "It's more important than you might think," he said. "Even the smallest act, the slightest moment of kindness or cruelty, can ripple through reality and create profound changes. One universe thrives because its people care for each other without expecting anything in return. The other universe crumbles under the weight of selfishness and cruelty. It all starts with choice—one selfless act, or one selfish one, can shift everything."

Henry reached out, his hand resting firmly on Mike's shoulder. His usual calm demeanour was gone, replaced by something far more serious, almost haunted. "Remember this, Mike," Henry said, his voice soft but weighted. "Do what is right, not what is easy."

For a brief moment, Henry's eyes clouded with something that looked like pain, as if he could see some terrible future, distant yet inevitable. His expression tightened, the sadness in his gaze deepening. "Things are going to change for you soon," he continued, his voice low and full of regret. "And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Mike's brow furrowed in confusion. A sense of unease crept into him, his mind racing to understand. "Sorry for what?" he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. What was Henry apologising for? What was coming?

Henry looked at him with a sad, almost distant smile. "You really are so young," he murmured, more to himself than to Mike. For a moment, it seemed as if Henry wanted to say something more, something important—but the words never came. But instead, his eyes suddenly flared with an intense, glowing white-gold light that left Mike blinking in confusion.

"Now," Henry said, his voice firm and unwavering, the light in his eyes reflecting something urgent. Mike's heart raced, his puzzlement deepening.

"What—" Mike began, but before he could finish, Henry continued smoothly, "You'd better be going."

Without warning, Henry drew his hand back and slammed his palm into Mike's chest. The impact wasn't painful, but it knocked the breath from his lungs in a flash.

The world around him—the slivery fragments of the multiverse—collapsed in on itself in an instant, swirling chaotically before exploding outward in a burst of shimmering light. Stars burst into being, dazzling and brilliant, filling the space around Mike in an ethereal cloud of energy. The scene felt dreamlike, the stars glittering like jewels before fading swiftly, disappearing like mist evaporating under the morning sun.

Before Mike could even comprehend what was happening, the dreamlike shimmer vanished, and he was back—his body again encircled by the cold, tightening grip of Bloodraven's tree vines. The world of tangled roots and darkness crashed into focus, and the sense of being thrust violently back into reality left Mike reeling. His lungs burned as he gasped for air, his heart pounding as if trying to catch up with the storm of everything that had just unfolded.

Whatever had happened with Henry was over—but the feeling that something was still coming, something far worse, stayed with him.

Struggling against the tight grip of the vines, Mike twisted his body, his eyes frantically searching for Danny. His heart dropped when he saw his uncle's limp form, also tangled in the same tendrils, hanging motionless. Panic surged through him as he called out, "Uncle!"

There was no response. Danny's body remained disturbingly still, his chest unmoving—no sign of breath, no flicker of life. The sight sent a jolt of terror through Mike's veins.

"Uncle!" he shouted again, his voice rising in desperation as he strained against the vines, trying to free himself. "Uncle! Please, wake up!"

But Danny remained silent, his body eerily lifeless, and a cold dread settled in the pit of Mike's stomach.

---

The cold, decaying hands of his family and friends clawed at Danny's ankles and calves, dragging him down to the ground with relentless force. Their jagged nails, sharpened by decomposition, tore into his flesh, shredding his clothes and leaving deep, bloody gashes in their wake. The sharp sting of pain shot through him, but it was nothing compared to the sheer terror gripping his soul.

Desperation surged through Danny as he thrashed violently, every muscle in his body straining to break free. But it was like fighting against a rising tide of pure darkness. The more he fought, the tighter their hold became. Their skeletal fingers gripped his arms, his legs, and his chest, pulling him down deeper into the suffocating mass of rotting bodies. The weight of the dead pressed against him from every side, their cold, lifeless forms wrapping around him like a prison.

Danny gasped for air, his lungs burning as the rancid stench of rot invaded his nostrils, thick and nauseating, making him retch. His vision blurred, panic clawing at the edges of his mind as his body screamed for breath, for escape, for anything but the suffocating terror of this nightmare.

But the dead were merciless. Their icy hands crawled up his neck, their bony fingers wrapping tightly around his throat like a noose. Danny's eyes bulged, his breath turning into a series of desperate, wheezing gasps as they squeezed harder, cutting off his air. His heart raced wildly, each beat hammering in his ears as his vision began to darken at the edges.

The chorus of voices around him grew louder, a maddening, relentless drumbeat that pounded in his skull. "You let us die! You let us die!" The words reverberated in his mind, an accusation that ripped through him with every syllable, suffocating him as much as the hands around his throat. The voices swelled in unison, surrounding him, drowning him in their bitter, unrelenting rage.

His mind raced, grasping for any strength, any last vestige of hope. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, but somewhere deep inside, a spark flickered.

No.

It was faint at first, barely more than a whisper in the chaos. But it grew, defiant, a small ember of resistance in the face of overwhelming despair. No. This isn't real. The thought fought its way to the surface, cutting through the suffocating fog in his mind. His hands, once weak and trembling, clenched into fists. He forced his body to resist the pressure, his muscles trembling with the effort.

"This… isn't… real!" Danny rasped, his voice barely audible through the chokehold around his neck. The weight of the dead pressed harder, but the spark inside him flared brighter.

The chant wavered, the voices stuttering for just a moment as if the dead were uncertain. Their cold fingers hesitated, loosening ever so slightly.

Danny gasped for air, sucking in a ragged breath. His mind cleared just enough for him to focus. "You're… not… real!" he shouted, the words coming out in a strangled cry, but with more force this time.

The figures surrounding him faltered, their movements jerky and disjointed, as if they were suddenly unsure of themselves. Their empty eyes blinked, flickering with something—fear? Doubt?

"Uncle!" Mike's voice rang out faintly at first, but it grew stronger with each call. "Uncle!"

The sound of his nephew's voice broke through the chaos, and Danny seized the moment. Gritting his teeth, he planted his feet beneath him, every muscle in his body screaming with exhaustion and pain as he forced himself to stand tall against the overwhelming weight of guilt pressing down on him. "You're not real!" he shouted, his voice raw, but louder this time. It was more than just a desperate cry—it was defiance.

The chorus of voices faltered, their once synchronized chant breaking apart. The hands around Danny's throat loosened, the grip no longer suffocating. The dead, their faces twisted in anguish, staggered back slightly, their movements growing less coordinated, less threatening.

"You're not real!" Danny yelled again, his voice hoarse but filled with determination. "You're not real!"

The hollow-eyed figures recoiled, their grotesque grimaces fading into expressions of confusion, uncertainty flickering across their decayed features. The children's wide, accusing eyes blinked rapidly, as if trying to grasp at a memory slipping from their grasp, their movements slowing to a hesitant crawl.

With a final gasp, Danny staggered backward, his chest heaving as the crushing weight lifted from him. The suffocating pressure around his neck dissipated, the cold, skeletal hands slipping away like shadows dispersing at dawn.

He inhaled deeply, his lungs burning as they filled with air, the fiery ache in his chest slowly subsiding. His vision began to clear, and as he looked around, he saw the circle of decayed, broken figures still surrounding him.

"Uncle! Please, wake up!" Mike's voice echoed again, more urgent now, cutting through the fading remnants of Danny's terror like a knife.

Danny's head snapped toward the sound, his body still trembling with the aftershock of his battle with the dead. He saw Mike, tangled in the vicious, snake-like vines, his young face twisted in fear and desperation as the tendrils coiled tighter around him, constricting his movements.

Danny's heart raced, the chilling memory of the dead's grip still heavy in his mind. Panic surged through him, but before he could even move to free himself from the vines that still ensnared him, a sudden cold presence washed over him.

Without warning, Bloodraven's gnarled, skeletal hand shot forward, his long, bony fingers clamping around Danny's throat with terrifying force. The grip was cold and inhuman, far stronger than it had any right to be. Danny gasped, his breath stolen as the pale, claw-like hand tightened, sending a wave of crushing pressure through his neck. His lungs screamed for air, but no matter how hard he struggled, Bloodraven's hold was unyielding, suffocating him with a strength that felt both unnatural and inevitable.

Danny's eyes widened in shock, panic surging through him as his lungs burned for air. Bloodraven leaned in closer, his hollow eyes glowing with an eerie, malevolent light that pierced through the shadows.

"Not yet," Bloodraven hissed, his voice low and chilling, like ice crawling over Danny's skin. "You won't escape this so easily." The words slithered from his lips, heavy with cruel intent, tightening the suffocating grip around Danny's throat as if to drive the message deeper.

In such a desperate situation, wizards had limited options for escape. If he had a wand, Danny supposed he could blast his way out with a well-placed spell. But without one, he would have to rely on the next best thing: a distraction. It wasn't ideal, but right now, it was his only chance.

Danny pictured the image of flames in his mind's eye: the vines catching fire, the leaves curling into ash. But it wasn't enough. Not yet. Bloodraven's magic was stronger, older, and darker. It was like fighting the very forest itself.

"Do you feel it?" Bloodraven's voice cut through the fog in his mind, laced with mockery. "The futility? The hopelessness? You are mine, boy."

But Danny refused to give in. He squeezed his eyes shut, digging deeper, feeling the magic pulse and churn inside him. He didn't need a wand. He was the magic. His thoughts turned to fire again, only this time he didn't just picture it — he willed it. The flames flickered at first, dancing at the edges of his consciousness. Then they grew, roaring louder, hotter, searing through his mind like a blazing inferno.

The vines around him trembled, the faintest crackle of burning leaves reaching his ears.

Bloodraven's eyes narrowed, his smirk fading. He could feel it too. "Foolish," he growled. "You think you can burn me?"

Danny's eyes snapped open, glowing with an intensity he hadn't realized he possessed. "No," he spat through clenched teeth, "I think I can burn everything."

Flames surged along the vines, racing up the tendrils that held Danny captive. In moments, they were engulfed, crackling as they shrivelled under the searing heat. The air grew thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and scorched earth, the blistering heat rolling off the flames in suffocating waves. But Danny didn't flinch—he welcomed the heat, feeding off its wild energy.

Bloodraven recoiled, his face twisting in fury as the flames devoured the vines. His once iron grip on the magic faltered, the tendrils curling into ash as his control unravelled. He hissed in frustration, but the fire was too strong, too wild for him to contain.

The instant the vines loosened, Danny and Mike crashed to the forest floor with a jarring thud. Danny gasped for air, his chest heaving as the scorching heat still burned in his palms from the effort of conjuring the flames. His limbs felt weak, but his mind raced. No time to rest. They had seconds—if that.

He rolled onto his side and shot a glance at Mike, who lay beside him, blinking in a daze, clearly shaken but alive. Mike fumbled, his hands clawing at the dirt as he tried to push himself up, still disoriented from the fall.

"Michael!" Danny rasped, his voice strained, heart pounding in his chest. "You okay?"

Mike's eyes flickered with recognition as he nodded weakly, though his movements were slow and unsteady. He dragged himself up onto one knee, swaying slightly, but there wasn't time to wait.

"Get up!" Danny urged, his tone sharp with desperation as he fought to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him, but adrenaline was already kicking in, drowning out the pain. He knew Bloodraven wouldn't stay on the defensive for long. They needed to act, and fast. "We've got to move—now."

Bloodraven's eyes blazed with unholy fury, his twisted silhouette flickering in the chaotic glow of the fire. His mouth curled into a snarl as he raised a skeletal hand and pointed at Danny and Mike. "Kill them!" he bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder through the trees. "Kill them both!"

From the inferno, the Trollocs emerged, their guttural growls rising over the roar of the flames. The firelight gleamed off their dark, grotesque faces, eyes glinting with mindless hunger and violence.

Mike's breath caught in his throat, sheer terror etched across his face. He stumbled back, his eyes wide as he scanned the monstrous figures closing in, his hands trembling with fear.

Danny, however, was a stark contrast. He stepped forward, positioning himself between the Trollocs and his nephew, a wild grin spreading across his face. He didn't look scared, he looked thrilled, like a kid who had just unwrapped his favourite toy on Christmas morning.

His fingers hovered over the twin guns at his belt, itching to be drawn. "Michael," he said calmly, his voice steady despite the chaos, "stay behind me."

Danny's hands blurred into motion, pistols snapping from their holsters with the ease of years of mastery. His movements were fluid and precise—he didn't need to wait for a reply. The thrill of battle was already coursing through him.

With a calm yet menacing voice, Danny growled, "Let's see what these ugly bastards are made of."

In an instant, his twin pistols roared to life, spitting fire with each deafening shot. The enchanted bullets ripped through the air, hitting the charging Trollocs with brutal accuracy. Each round tore into flesh and bone, limbs were blown clean off and the ground was slick with dark blood as Trolloc after Trolloc fell, their bodies obliterated in showers of gore.

Danny pressed forward, relentless and unflinching, moving like a storm. His shots were surgical, each one dropping a Trolloc with brutal efficiency. Nothing slowed his advance, his focus razor-sharp. The Trollocs barely had time to snarl before they were reduced to heaps of mutilated corpses, their roars drowned out by the relentless gunfire.

"You wanted a fight?" Danny muttered, reloading his pistols in a smooth, practised motion. His grin returned, colder now, more dangerous. "I'll give you a goddamn war."

A Trolloc lunged at Danny from the side, its massive claws slicing through the air with deadly intent. Without even glancing in its direction, Danny shrugged off his long, tattered coat and snapped it forward in one effortless motion. The enchanted fabric lashed out like a living whip, wrapping tightly around the creature's neck. With a vicious yank, Danny twisted, and the Trolloc's head snapped sideways with a sickening crack. The beast hit the ground hard, its body twitching as life drained from it.

Before he could catch his breath, two more Trollocs charged at him from opposite sides, snarling in unison. Danny pivoted sharply, his coat unfurling through the air with a sharp snap. It coiled around the arm of the closest Trolloc, and with a swift pull, he yanked the beast off balance, sending it stumbling directly into the path of the other.

In that instant, Danny surged forward, closing the gap. His fists struck like iron hammers—one brutal punch to the gut of the first Trolloc, doubling it over, followed by a devastating uppercut to the second. Bones shattered under the impact, the sound of cracking ribs and jaws filling the air. Both Trollocs crumpled to the ground, their bodies limp and broken at Danny's feet.

Another Trolloc came in from behind, its massive hand reaching for Danny's shoulder, but he was already moving. He sidestepped the creature's lunge, pivoting with his pistol raised. One well-placed shot blew the Trolloc's shoulder apart, but before it could collapse, Danny closed the distance, driving a hard fist into its chest. The force of the blow shattered its ribs, and it toppled with a thud, gasping its final breath.

As Danny's hands hovered over his guns again, ready to keep fighting, something new flickered in the corner of his vision—a massive Trolloc, nearly twice the size of the others, its claws like razors and eyes burning with unholy light. It moved faster than the others, and before Danny could react, it lunged at him, slamming into his side with incredible force.

Danny grunted as he hit the ground, his pistols flying from his hands. The monstrous Trolloc loomed over him, teeth bared, saliva dripping from its snarling mouth. Its massive claws came down toward Danny's chest, aiming to tear him apart.

Mike, paralysed with fear, saw the danger but couldn't move, his body frozen as his mind screamed for him to help. "Uncle!" he yelled, his voice cracking.

But Danny, even disarmed, didn't miss a beat. He reached up with both hands, catching the Trolloc's descending claws just inches from his throat. Straining against the creature's brute strength, Danny gritted his teeth. "You want to play rough, huh?" he growled, his muscles flexing as he pushed back against the Trolloc's weight.

With a burst of strength, Danny twisted his body, kicking his legs up into the Trolloc's stomach, and flipping it over his head. The beast crashed to the ground behind him with a deafening thud. Danny sprang to his feet, his hands now crackling with raw magical energy.

He raised one hand toward the creature as it scrambled back to its feet. "Stupefy!" he shouted, and a red bolt of energy shot from his palm, slamming into the Trolloc's chest and sending it flying backward.

Before the beast could recover, Danny's coat was in his hand again, snapping forward like a whip. The enchanted fabric coiled around the Trolloc's neck, and with a powerful yank, Danny pulled it to the ground. "Confringo!" he shouted, blasting the creature with a fiery explosion that left nothing but charred remains.

Before Danny could catch his breath, another Trolloc lunged from behind, claws reaching for him. He dodged just in time, twisting on his heel. The creature's claws scraped his hat, knocking it from his head.

Danny froze for a split second. His eyes darkened.

Without hesitation, he turned and fired a single, perfectly aimed shot. The bullet struck the Trolloc square between the eyes, its head exploding in a mist of blood and bone.

"Don't touch my hat," Danny growled coldly, stepping over the body without a glance as he scooped the hat off the ground and placed it back on his head.

With the Trolloc's corpse still fresh on the ground, Danny grabbed its arm and yanked it up, using the body as a shield as more arrows and spears flew from the remaining Trollocs. The projectiles thudded into the dead creature's body, sparking off its armour and bones.

The Trollocs hesitated, briefly stunned by Danny's ferocity, but Bloodraven sneered from his place in the tree. "Fools. Kill them!" he hissed, his red eyes burning with hatred.

More Trollocs rushed forward, their claws gleaming in the dim light. Danny's pistols barked again, each shot a perfect strike. Heads exploded, bodies crumpled under the force of his enchanted bullets. But they kept coming, overwhelming in number.

Suddenly, a Trolloc grabbed Danny from behind, its claws digging into his shoulder. Danny grunted in pain but didn't miss a beat. He threw his elbow backward, smashing into the creature's face. As the Trolloc stumbled, Danny spun, delivering a brutal uppercut to its jaw, the force of the blow sending it crashing to the ground.

Mike, taken aback by the situation, found himself unable to react when another Trolloc charged at him. Acting as a shield, Danny threw himself in front of his nephew for protection. With precise aim, he discharged a single round, striking the Trolloc's knee and causing it to collapse, followed by an overwhelming kick to its face that rendered it completely immobile on the ground.

"Move, Michael!" Danny snapped. "Stay close, or you're dead!"

Mike blinked, shaking himself from his stupor, nodding frantically as he stuck to Danny's side.

I-I've never seen anything like this," he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Danny to hear.

"You better get used to it," Danny replied coldly, reloading his pistols in a fluid motion. "This is just the beginning."

Suddenly, another Trolloc leapt from the shadows, claws outstretched, aiming for Mike's throat. Danny's instincts kicked in—his hand shot out, grabbing the beast mid-leap by its arm. With a grunt, Danny swung the creature around and slammed it hard into the stone wall, the impact shaking the ground. Before it could recover, Danny jammed the barrel of his pistol under its chin and pulled the trigger. The creature's head snapped back, its body going limp as it slid to the ground.

"Watch your back!" Danny growled, his tone sharp with urgency. "I can't save you every time."

Mike's eyes widened, but he nodded quickly. "I'll—I'll try."

"No trying. Do it," Danny shot back, already moving as more Trollocs swarmed from the surrounding trees.

Danny's twin pistols barked out, each shot ringing like thunder in the thickening air. The enchanted rounds found their marks, blasting through the skulls of the front line, sending blood and bone splattering across the forest floor. But the Trollocs were relentless, and for everyone that fell, two more seemed to take their place.

"Michael!" Danny called out, spinning just in time to see his nephew face-to-face with another Trolloc. As it charged towards him, this smaller creature moved with incredible speed, its sharp claws reflecting a deadly glint as it closed in on its target.

Danny moved without thinking, sprinting toward Mike, but before he could reach him, Mike finally reacted. He grabbed a nearby broken piece of wood and swung wildly. It wasn't elegant, but the blow connected with the Trolloc's head, staggering the creature long enough for Danny to dive in, grabbing it by the neck and twisting viciously. The sound of snapping bones echoed through the forest, and the Trolloc collapsed to the ground, dead.

Mike stood there, panting heavily, his face a mix of fear and disbelief. "I—did I just—"

"Yeah," Danny cut in, wiping the blood off his hands. "You did. Now don't let it get to your head. We're not out of this yet."

More Trollocs charged forward, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust, completely unfazed by the growing pile of their dead comrades. Danny didn't flinch. In one smooth motion, he shoved his pistols back into their holsters and raised both hands, fingers crackling with raw magic. With a swift flick of his wrist, flames erupted from his palms, roaring to life.

"Incendio!" he bellowed, his voice filled with fury.

A swirling inferno spiralled outward, engulfing the approaching horde in a blazing torrent. The front line of Trollocs screeched in agony as the flames consumed them, their skin blistering, fur catching fire, and bodies disintegrating into ash. The acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air, but the fire did little to slow the next wave.

Danny's eyes narrowed. "Mike! Grab the flashlights and our rucksacks!" he shouted, not taking his focus off the approaching horde. "We can't stay here!"

Mike snapped out of his daze, eyes darting to the forest floor where the Trollocs had thrown their gear earlier. His pulse quickened as he spotted the rucksacks half-buried in dirt and leaves. Without a word, he sprinted toward them, weaving between charred corpses and scattered debris. His hands shook as he grabbed both packs, then slung them over his shoulder with effort. The flashlights were nearby, half-crushed but still usable. He quickly scooped them up and darted back toward Danny.

"I got 'em!" Mike yelled as he reached his uncle's side, breathless but focused.

"Good," Danny replied, his eyes still fixed on the Trollocs. His magic surged once more as he snapped his wrist, unleashing a torrent of fire that roared toward the nearest Trolloc. The flames struck with the force of a sledgehammer, knocking the creature off its feet and crashing it into the others behind it. But the horde was overwhelming. They had to escape—immediately.

"Let's go!" Danny barked, grabbing his rucksack from Mike's hands and slinging it over his shoulder in one fluid motion. He threw Mike one of the flashlights. "Keep that ready. We'll need it."

Suddenly, another massive Trolloc emerged from the flames, its eyes wild, swinging a jagged, bloodstained axe with brutal force. Danny reacted instantly, ducking under the wild swing as the axe sliced through the air just above his head, narrowly missing. Before the Trolloc could recover, Danny surged forward. His fist drove into the beast's gut like a battering ram, sinking deep into its flesh. The impact drove the air from the Trolloc's lungs in a guttural wheeze, its massive body doubling over in agony. But Danny wasn't done.

With a fluid, practised motion, he followed up with a brutal uppercut, his knuckles slamming into the creature's jaw with enough force to snap its head back. A sickening crack echoed through the battlefield as the Trolloc staggered, disoriented, and fell to its knees, dazed and helpless.

Danny's eyes flicked down to the bloodied axe still clutched in the Trolloc's trembling hand. Without a second thought, he ripped it from the creature's grip, the weight of the weapon heavy but familiar in his hands. He stood over the groaning beast for a brief moment, his expression cold.

With a savage grunt, Danny raised the jagged axe high above his head and brought it down in a powerful, arcing swing. The blade bit deep into the Trolloc's neck with a wet, bone-splintering crunch, slicing clean through muscle and sinew. Dark blood erupted in a gruesome spray, painting the ground beneath them as the Trolloc's head separated from its shoulders, rolling to the side in a lifeless heap.

The creature's body slumped forward, twitching in its final moments before going completely still. Danny let the axe drop to the ground beside the corpse with a metallic thud, wiping the blood from his face.

"Who's next?" he growled.

The remaining Trollocs hesitated for the briefest moment, their primal instincts grappling with the raw terror of facing him. The once overwhelming swarm was thinning now, their numbers reduced by bullets, fire, and sheer brutality. But the few that remained were still hungry for blood, their beastly snarls rumbling in the air.

"Uncle!" Mike shouted, pointing urgently to the tunnel entrance which stood clear of Trollocs.

Danny's expression hardened, his resolve deepening as he scanned the surrounding chaos. "Let's move!" he commanded, and without hesitation, they surged forward. Together, uncle and nephew sprinted toward the dark mouth of the tunnel, weaving expertly between the smouldering remains of fallen Trollocs and the scattered debris that littered the ground like the aftermath of a storm.

Behind them, Bloodraven's voice echoed through the forest, a guttural, enraged scream. "KILL THEM! DO NOT LET THEM ESCAPE!" he bellowed, his tone dripping with fury. The remaining Trollocs roared in response as they surged forward, weapons raised, closing the distance fast.

"Faster, Mike!" Danny urged, his voice strained but unwavering as they pushed harder. The tunnel loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, but it was their only shot at escaping the overwhelming forces that still pursued them. The ground beneath their feet shook with every thunderous step of the advancing Trollocs.

As they neared the tunnel's entrance, a sudden roar erupted from the shadows. Two massive Trollocs emerged from the darkness, their red eyes gleaming with malice. One swung a rusted axe, the other brandished a crude spear. They stood between Danny, Mike, and the relative safety of the tunnel.

"Get back!" Danny growled, raising his twin pistols in a blur. He fired off two quick shots, the enchanted bullets lighting up the night as they tore through the first Trolloc's skull, dropping it instantly. The second Trolloc roared in rage, lunging toward Mike with its spear raised high.

Mike froze for a moment, panic gripping him as the beast's shadow loomed over him.

"Mike, move!" Danny shouted, diving forward. He tackled his nephew to the ground just as the spear smashed into the dirt where Mike had been standing. The Trolloc roared again, pulling back its weapon to strike, but Danny was already on his feet, pistols raised. Two more shots rang out, and the creature staggered backward, its chest riddled with glowing, magical wounds. It collapsed with a heavy thud, the life draining from its eyes.

Mike scrambled to his feet, his breath ragged. "That was too close," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"We're not done yet," Danny snapped, grabbing Mike's arm and pulling him toward the tunnel entrance. "Come on!"

Together, they plunged into the darkness of the tunnel. The cold, damp air hit them immediately, a stark contrast to the burning battlefield behind them. Danny kept his pistols ready, his eyes scanning the shadows as they moved deeper into the narrow passage. The walls felt as though they were closing in, and every sound echoed unnervingly through the stone.

"I can hear them behind us," Mike whispered, his voice trembling with fear. "They're coming, Uncle."

"Yeah," Danny muttered, his voice steady but quiet. "But in here, we've got the upper hand." His eyes flicked up to the narrow, cracked ceiling above them, and a plan began to take shape. "We can't outrun those things, but we can bury them."

Mike looked at him, confusion and fear mixing on his face. "Bury them? How are we gonna do that?"

"Trust me," Danny replied, his gaze sweeping over the tunnel's fragile walls. "I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."

They sprinted deeper into the tunnel, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Behind them, the guttural snarls of the Trollocs grew louder, the pounding of their footsteps shaking the ground.

As they neared the centre of the tunnel, Danny skidded to a halt. He raised his pistols again, aiming at the cracks in the stone above them. "Get ready to run," he said, his voice tense.

Mike nodded, his body trembling with anticipation.

"Now!" Danny roared, pulling both triggers.

The enchanted bullets tore through the cracked stone with a deafening explosion, and the tunnel groaned in protest. Massive chunks of rock began to fall, crashing down behind them as the tunnel entrance collapsed in on itself.

"Go!" Danny shouted, grabbing Mike's arm and dragging him forward.

The ground shook violently beneath their feet as they sprinted through the tunnel, dodging falling debris. The sound of the tunnel collapsing grew louder, the roar of the Trollocs buried beneath the crashing stone. Dust and dirt filled the air, making it hard to see, but Danny didn't slow down. He couldn't.

Behind them, the tunnel groaned in agony as it began to collapse, the roar of the Trollocs swallowed by the thunderous crash of falling rock. Each step felt like the ground was giving way beneath them, but Danny pushed forward, his eyes fixed on the faint light at the tunnel's end. Dust coated their skin, clinging to their sweat, and every breath felt like swallowing sand, but still, they ran.

"Keep moving!" Danny shouted, his voice barely cutting through the chaos.

Suddenly, the tunnel behind them gave a final, violent shudder, and with a thunderous boom, it collapsed completely. Just as the last of the stones began to fall, Danny and Mike burst through the far end of the tunnel, stumbling into the open air. The sudden shift from the claustrophobic darkness to the vast expanse of the rocky hillside was overwhelming. They tumbled forward, collapsing onto the rough ground, gasping for breath as the earth rumbled beneath them.

Mike doubled over, coughing violently, his lungs struggling to expel the dust that had filled the tunnel. His heart raced in his chest, and every muscle in his body screamed with exhaustion. "Did… did we make it?" he wheezed, his voice shaky and raw.

Danny, still on his hands and knees, turned to glance back at the now-sealed tunnel entrance. The massive boulders that had caved in completely blocked the way, and the distant roars of the Trollocs were buried under tons of rock. His chest heaved as he wiped the grime and sweat from his brow, his muscles aching from the sprint. For a moment, he just breathed, letting the tension drain from his body.

"Yeah," he muttered, finally finding his voice, hoarse and tired. "We made it."

He pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but determined, his eyes scanning the surrounding landscape. The cold night air felt sharp in his lungs, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat and dust of the tunnel. The ground still rumbled slightly beneath them, the aftershocks of the collapse slowly fading, leaving only the wind howling over the desolate hillside.

For a few brief moments, the world was still.

Danny quickly helped Mike to his feet, gripping his nephew's arm firmly as he pulled him up. Mike was still gasping for breath, his face pale from exhaustion and adrenaline. His eyes darted back toward the now-sealed tunnel entrance as if expecting the Trollocs to burst through the rock at any moment.

Danny patted Mike on the shoulder, offering a brief but reassuring squeeze. "You did good, kid. But we're not out of the woods yet." His tone was sharp again, focused. There was no room for celebration.

Mike nodded, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow. "What now? Where do we go?"

Danny took a deep breath, scanning the lonely landscape ahead. "I'll know when we get there," he replied, already walking away.

Mike stood there for a second, frustration bubbling up inside him. "That's it?" he called after Danny, quickening his pace to catch up. "You're not even going to talk about what happened back there? Who was Bloodraven? Why was he stuck in a tree? And what the hell were those visions we saw?"

Danny paused, his back still turned to Mike. He rubbed his hands together, feeling the grime and dried blood clinging to his skin. Instead of answering, Danny gave a curt shake of his head, his eyes focused straight ahead. "Not now," he muttered, brushing off Mike's questions as he continued walking.

Mike clenched his fists in frustration but bit back any further protest. He followed in silence, his mind racing with unanswered questions and the weight of what they had just survived. They moved through the barren landscape, the ground shifting under their feet, the sky above an ominous blanket of clouds. Now and then, Mike would glance sideways at Danny, hoping for some kind of explanation or reassurance, but his uncle's face remained stony, his focus fixed on the path ahead.

They soon found themselves crossing narrow stone bridges that spanned deep ravines, the sound of water rushing far below. The bridges creaked under their weight, swaying slightly with each step, but Danny never hesitated. He moved with purpose, his boots clanging against the worn stone, never looking back to see if Mike was following.

"Where are we even going?" Mike finally asked, his voice breaking the tension, but Danny gave no response. Instead, they reached the end of the bridge and began climbing a series of steep ramps carved into the side of the jagged cliffs. The ramps twisted and turned, seeming to lead in every direction yet to no destination. It felt like they were walking in circles like they were heading nowhere.

"Seriously, uncle!" Mike huffed, stopping halfway up the ramp. "We've been walking for hours, crossing bridges, climbing these damn ramps, and you're not telling me anything. What's the plan? Where are we going?"

Danny didn't even slow his stride as he continued up the ramp, his gaze locked ahead, his boots crunching against the stone steps. Mike's frustration echoed in the air, but Danny didn't turn, didn't falter. The wind howled through the cliffs, sharp and cold, and the sky above them was a muted grey, thick with clouds that never seemed to move.

"Where are we going?" Mike demanded again, this time louder, his voice cracking under the strain. "What are we even trying to find out here?"

Danny finally stopped, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, measured breaths. He turned slowly, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. "I'm not dragging you through this for no reason, Mike," he said, his voice low but edged with weariness. "There's something we need—someone, actually."

Mike blinked, his anger giving way to confusion. "Someone? Who?"

Danny looked past him, scanning the horizon like he could feel the presence of something unseen. "There's a man," he said quietly. "A sorcerer. Old, older than me, older than Bloodraven, even. He's the one who helped bind Bloodraven to that tree centuries ago. He's known as the Green Man."

Mike stepped closer, catching his breath, though frustration still bubbled beneath his words. "And you just know where this guy is? We're just wandering through this wasteland, hoping to bump into him?"

Danny's jaw clenched, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. "No, Mike, I don't just know. But I've been following the signs. I can feel it. That sorcerer's out here somewhere, in these cliffs, hiding, waiting. We're getting close."

Mike shook his head, staring up at the jagged cliffs around them, the steep ramps that seemed to spiral endlessly into the mist. "This place feels like it's going nowhere," he muttered, more to himself than Danny.

"It's not," Danny said, and this time his voice carried more confidence. "There's a method to all this madness. These cliffs are ancient—they were designed to confuse anyone who wandered in here unprepared. But if you know what to look for, you can find the way through."

Mike crossed his arms, still unconvinced. "And how exactly do you know what to look for?"

Danny smirked faintly, though there was no humour behind it. "I can sense the magic all around the Ways, like currents of electricity running everywhere. The air feels different like it's vibrating. Once you know how to tap into it, you can find the paths that lead through this maze."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "So, you're basically following invisible breadcrumbs? Sounds risky."

Danny shrugged. "It's worked so far."

They continued climbing, their path still twisting along the cliffs, but now Mike noticed that Danny's steps were more deliberate, like he was following something only he could see.

"So, Uncle, what did you see? In Bloodraven's visions?" Mike asked, hoping to break the tension, maybe distract himself from the endless climb and the unsettling silence.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Danny replied curtly, his voice clipped and distant.

Mike sighed, frustrated but unsurprised. He kept pressing, unable to let it go. "Come on, you saw something. He messed with both of us. Those visions… they felt real. What was it? What did he show you?"

At first, Danny remained silent, his expression unreadable as he continued moving forward. The wind whistled eerily through the narrow gaps in the cliffs, carrying with it a hollow, distant howl that echoed off the stone walls. Yet, despite the chilling sound, nothing seemed to distract him; his sharp focus stayed locked on the path ahead, eyes fixed with a determination that left no room for conversation or hesitation.

"Drop it, Michael," he said finally, the warning clear in his tone.

But Mike couldn't. "I'm serious, uncle. I saw things too. Some of what I experienced worried me, some inspired me, and some..." He hesitated, a wave of heat rising to his cheeks. "Some was just plain embarrassing."

Danny raised an eyebrow, scepticism etched on his face. "Embarrassing? In the middle of all this?" he asked, a hint of disbelief creeping into his voice as if he couldn't fathom how anything could feel trivial right now.

Mike shifted his weight, acutely aware of his uncle's intense gaze. "Yes! You'd be surprised by what I saw. It felt real—like it was peeling back layers of me I didn't even know existed. But please, what did you see?"

Danny's expression remained unreadable, but the air between them thickened with unspoken words. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but cold, almost detached. "I saw what would happen if I failed."

Mike's eyes widened, taken aback by the rawness in his uncle's tone. He had expected Danny to shut him down again or to brush it off with his usual bravado. But this was different. Danny wasn't dismissing him—he was offering a glimpse into his turmoil, a sliver of vulnerability that felt both rare and precious.

Mike stepped closer, his voice softening as he sought to bridge the gap between them. "And… what happens if you fail?"

Danny turned slowly, finally meeting Mike's gaze for the first time since they began their climb. His eyes were dark, burdened with a weight that Mike hadn't seen before—fear. Real, deep-seated fear seemed to claw at the edges of Danny's resolve.

"I lost everyone," Danny muttered, his words heavy with pain and regret. "Now drop it."

But Mike couldn't relent. The urgency in his uncle's voice only fuelled his determination. "You can't just brush this off," he insisted, stepping even closer, searching Danny's face for answers. "In my vision, I had a conversation with a version of myself. His name was Henry, and he came from a parallel universe."

Danny's brow furrowed, curiosity piqued despite himself. "A counterpart? What do you mean?"

Mike took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, knowing how strange this would sound. "He looked like me, but… different. He was older and more experienced, and he had seen things I could hardly fathom. He even wielded magic!"

Danny crossed his arms, processing this new information. "And what did he want from you? What was the purpose of this vision?"

"He wanted me to understand that our choices matter," Mike replied, the conviction in his voice growing stronger. "Henry emphasized that I could either let fear control me or rise above it. He said that every decision shapes our reality and that I have the power to change my fate. He even showed me an alternate version of you, Uncle!"

Danny came to a sudden stop, his back rigid. He stood there, still as stone, for a moment that stretched too long. Mike felt a chill run down his spine, a creeping sense that he had pushed too far.

"That's impossible," Danny finally muttered, his voice barely a whisper. Disbelief and something darker—apprehension—laced his tone. "What do you mean, an alternate version of me?"

Mike hesitated, searching for the right words. "Well, I only saw him briefly," he admitted, his voice tentative. "But he looked exactly like you."

Danny shook his head sharply, his denial coming fast. "No," he said, more forcefully this time. "That's impossible."

"Uncle, I know what I saw," Mike insisted, his voice rising with frustration.

"And I'm telling you you're wrong," Danny snapped, finally turning to face his nephew. His eyes, cold and intense, locked onto Mike's.

Mike's jaw tightened, and he shot back, "And why are you so sure about that?"

Danny's eyes flared with barely contained fury. "Because there are no other versions of me in the multiverse!" he shouted, his voice reverberating with absolute certainty. His body tensed like a coiled spring, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. "There's just me. I know—I've looked."

Mike blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in Danny's voice, but he didn't back down. "Maybe you haven't looked hard enough," he said, almost flippant.

For a split second, Danny's fist twitched, his instinct to strike overwhelming. The thought of decking Mike square in the face flashed through his mind like lightning, but he held himself back, barely reining in his anger. Instead, he leaned in dangerously close, their faces inches apart, his breath hot and ragged.

"You think this is a joke, nephew?" Danny spat, his voice low and dripping with venom. "Years ago, I scoured the entire multiverse, searching every possible thread of reality—looking for just one other version of myself. Do you know what I found?" He paused, his voice trembling with intensity. "Nothing. Not a single trace."

"So don't stand there and tell me I'm wrong," Danny growled. "Because I know the truth. There's only me. There's always been only me."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with tension that neither of them dared to break. Mike glanced at Danny, unsure if he should say more, but the look on his uncle's face kept him quiet.

Without another word, they resumed walking. Danny's jaw was clenched, his gaze fixed straight ahead, while Mike walked in uneasy silence, mulling over the impossibility of what he'd just learned.

Finally, Mike spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to stir the charged atmosphere. "But… what if you missed something?"

Danny's pace didn't falter. "Missed something?" he repeated, his tone hard, dismissive. His strides remained steady, his focus seemingly unshaken.

Mike swallowed, feeling the weight of each word before he spoke. "What if you didn't see every possibility? Maybe this version of you—the one I saw—wasn't part of the paths you've walked. Maybe it's from a different timeline, one that even you couldn't access."

Danny's steps slowed, though he didn't stop, his shoulders tensing at Mike's words. He didn't want to admit it, but Mike's suggestion had wormed its way into his mind. "You think I didn't consider that?" he asked, his voice sharp, barely masking the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

He paused for a moment, as if weighing whether to continue, then let out a long, heavy sigh. "Years ago, I wanted there to be another version of me. I longed for it. Someone who had walked the same path, who knew what I'd been through. Someone who understood the pain, the trauma, who could hear me without judgment."

His voice wavered, just for a second, before hardening again. "But I was wrong. I searched for years and found nothing. No one. I'm alone, Mike. In this world, in the multiverse. There's no one else like me. And nothing's ever going to change that."

For a brief moment, the weight of Danny's words hung in the air, and Mike caught a glimpse of something beneath the hardened exterior his uncle always wore. The mask slipped, and Danny suddenly looked… old. Worn down by the years of searching, fighting, and surviving. The ever-present rage was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but in that moment, it was overshadowed by something deeper—exhaustion, maybe even sorrow.

Mike swallowed, wanting to say something, to offer any kind of comfort, but the words caught in his throat. Before he could speak, Danny turned away, his body stiffening, as if shutting the door on the vulnerability he had momentarily let slip. He straightened his posture, his back rigid and his expression hardening once more. The old Danny was back—the one Mike knew: determined, relentless, unwilling to let anyone see what was buried deep beneath the surface.

But that glimpse lingered in Mike's mind, and suddenly, a thought struck him. "Is that why you always wanted to spend time with me when I was younger?" Mike asked. "Because I made you feel… younger?"

Danny's head slowly turned, his gaze locking on Mike, but his body remained still. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, though something in them softened for just a second. "No," he replied quietly, his voice calm but laced with a quiet intensity. "I spent time with you because you remind me of myself. And because I enjoyed your company."

For a moment, Mike thought that was the end of it, but then Danny looked away, turning his face from his nephew as he added in a much softer tone, almost as if he didn't mean for Mike to hear, "Most of the time."

Mike stared at his uncle's back, trying to process the layers of meaning hidden in those few words. For all the time they had spent together, it was only now that he was beginning to see just how complicated, how broken, Danny was.

Something had been nagging at Mike ever since his conversation with Henry, and the more he thought about it, the more he couldn't shake the feeling. Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, he blurted out, "Do I have magic?"

"What?" Danny asked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden question.

"Magic," Mike repeated, more hesitant now under Danny's scrutiny. "The other version of me—he learned magic from his version of you. So I was wondering... do I have it? Do I have magic?"

Danny's response was immediate, almost too quick. "No, you don't," he said flatly. "Neither do your sisters. No one on this side of the family possesses any magical talent."

Mike wasn't satisfied with the quick dismissal. "And you're sure?" he pressed.

Danny let out an exasperated sigh, his frustration evident. "Yes, Michael, I'm sure," he said, this time more forcefully. His tone shifted to one of boredom, as though he'd explained this a thousand times before. "Witches and wizards can sense when a family member has magic. You're either born with it or you're not. There's no in-between, no hidden potential waiting to be unlocked."

Something was condescending in the way he spoke, like a teacher explaining something elementary to a child who just couldn't grasp it. Mike could feel it in Danny's tone—the impatience, the dismissal, like the question wasn't even worth entertaining. And it stung.

Mike bit his lip, unsure how to respond. He wanted to argue, to push further, but the way Danny was looking at him—like the topic was closed like it wasn't worth his time—made him hesitate. The flicker of hope he'd felt at the possibility of magic quickly dimmed under the weight of Danny's certainty.

But he wasn't ready to give up just yet. Desperation clawed at his chest, and his next words tumbled out without much thought. "What about Mum?" Mike asked, his voice tight, almost pleading.

Danny's expression softened, but it wasn't a comforting look. If anything, it was one of pity. "No, Michael," he said quietly, his voice softer but no less final. "When she was born, I thought—hell, I hoped—that she might have magic. I watched her closely. I'd stand by her crib for hours, waiting to feel even the faintest flicker of magic. A spark. Anything."

He paused, his gaze distant as if recalling those moments. "As she grew older, I kept watching. I didn't want to believe it. Even when it made her uncomfortable, even when she didn't understand why I was always so damn interested in every little thing she did. But nothing. No sign, no hint of power."

Danny's voice took on a faint edge of sadness. "I kept hoping. But eventually, I had to accept that she didn't have any magic in her. Despite everything, she was... ordinary. A non-magical individual."

There was a finality in Danny's words, but also a hint of disappointment that Mike hadn't expected. He'd never heard his uncle talk about his mother like this before, with such raw vulnerability. The realisation stung. His mother had been watched and scrutinized, only to fall short of Danny's expectations. And now, hearing those same words applied to him felt like a heavy blow.

Mike's shoulders slumped slightly, the last thread of hope unravelling as he absorbed Danny's answer. "So that's it?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "No magic, no... nothing?"

Danny nodded, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. "I'm afraid so. Magic isn't something you can just wish into being." He paused, glancing at Mike, trying to ease the blow. "Even in the most powerful wizarding families, there are cases where a child is born without magic. We call them Squibs—people born to at least one magical parent but with no magic themselves. They're rare, but it happens."

Mike shifted uncomfortably, absorbing the reality. "Oh... right," he mumbled, his voice trailing off, signalling the end of the conversation.

They ate in silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional howl of the wind. Now and then, Mike's eyes flicked toward Danny, searching for some hint of emotion on his uncle's face. But Danny's expression remained unreadable, his gaze distant, locked somewhere far away, lost in thought. The food tasted bland, almost flavourless, but neither of them seemed to care.

When they finally finished, Danny rose quietly, his movements deliberate. He scanned the surrounding darkness, his hand resting on his weapon with a casualness that belied the tension in his stance. After a long pause, he muttered, "Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

Mike nodded, though he wasn't sure rest would come at all. The unease that had been gnawing at him since they started their journey clung to him, refusing to let go. As he lay down, he pulled his rucksack under his head, using it as a makeshift pillow. The cold night air bit at his skin, seeping through the thin blanket he'd brought. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that didn't remind him of just how exposed they were out here.

Danny stayed on watch, standing a few feet away, his back turned to Mike. His eyes remained fixed on the dark horizon, scanning for threats hidden in the shadows. He hadn't slept much since their journey began—Mike had noticed that. But if exhaustion was catching up to him, Danny didn't show it. He moved with the same alertness and precision as ever as if rest were a luxury he couldn't afford.

Mike thought about asking if Danny was tired, but he knew better. His uncle was the kind of man who refused to show any weakness, no matter how worn down he might be.

Sleep came to Mike in fits and starts, a tangled mess of restless thoughts and fragmented dreams. Every time he drifted off, his mind would snap back to the conversation he'd had with Henry, replaying it over and over. His thoughts kept circling back to what his counterpart had said—about the multiverse, about destiny, and about paths he hadn't yet walked.

---

Mike was jolted awake by a firm hand on his shoulder. Blinking groggily, he looked up to see his uncle, standing over him with that familiar, no-nonsense expression. Danny didn't say a word, but the message was clear—it was time to move.

Groaning softly, Mike pushed himself up from the cold ground, his body stiff from a restless sleep. He wrapped his blanket around himself for a moment, trying to chase away the biting chill before forcing himself to his feet.

Danny was already moving, flashlight in hand, the beam sharp and steady as it illuminated their path. Mike fumbled for his flashlight, his hands stiff from the cold, and after a few seconds of clumsy manoeuvring, he managed to switch it on.

Without a word, they fell back into their silent trek. Time seemed to stretch endlessly in the thick darkness, making it impossible for Mike to tell how long they had been walking.

After what felt like hours, they finally reached the outskirts of something unexpected—a vast, crumbling garden, that lay deep in the centre of the island they were standing on. Worn stone pillars rose from the ground like ancient sentinels, their surfaces weathered and cracked by centuries of exposure to the elements. Vines, long since withered, clung desperately to the broken columns, while patches of overgrown moss blanketed the ground like a fading memory of the garden's former life.

The garden stretched out before them, bordered by low stone walls that had crumbled in places, the stones scattered haphazardly across the ground. In the faint light, Mike could make out twisted, gnarled trees, their bare branches reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The wind, which had been howling through the cliffs earlier, had fallen to a whisper here, as though even the elements dared not disturb the eerie calm that had settled over the place.

The pillars were arranged in a loose, chaotic pattern, some leaning at awkward angles as if they were slowly succumbing to the weight of time. Others stood tall but hollow, their tops broken off or missing entirely.

Danny paused at the entrance to the garden, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight before him. For a brief moment, his expression darkened, unreadable, before a spark of excitement flickered across his face.

"This is it," Danny muttered, letting his fingers trace the deep grooves carved into one of the weathered pillars.

"Stay sharp," he cautioned, motioning for Mike to follow as he stepped further into the garden.

As they walked side by side, Mike felt a mix of wonder and unease bubbling within him. The vibrant colours of the flowers and the intricate designs of the foliage captivated him, but something was unsettling in the air. "It feels like the whole place is… watching us," Mike whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead.

Danny, walking ahead, didn't respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the path. He seemed more focused, perhaps more attuned to the strange energies around them, but even he couldn't deny the garden's sentient presence. The ancient magic here was thick, and palpable, weaving through every vine, every leaf, every stone they passed.

As they reached the centre of the garden, where the air felt thicker, and heavier, as though all the magic in the place converged in this single, sacred spot. Before them, stood a large, circular stone platform, its surface cracked and uneven, the passage of time having worn away at its once-solid foundation. Moss crept along the edges, blending the man-made structure with the wildness of the garden, as if nature had claimed it back.

At the very heart of the platform stood a massive stone pillar, towering high into the sky, its surface etched with ancient runes and swirling designs of vines and leaves.

The Green Man was sitting at the base of the pillar, waiting as though he had always been there. His face, what little of it was visible beneath the shadows of his hood, was deeply wrinkled. His once-towering frame was now hunched, hiding the height and strength he had likely possessed in his youth. Draped around him was a cloak of the brightest, most vibrant green, its fabric rippling gently as though it were alive, mirroring the garden's lushness.

His hood was pulled low, casting a shadow that obscured most of his face, leaving only the lower part visible—a glimpse of weathered skin and the faintest hint of his eyes, just beneath the shadow's edge.

"Welcome," the Green Man said, his voice carrying an unexpected strength despite his age. "You have come far, and the garden has awaited your arrival."

"You're really... him?" Danny muttered, his expression betraying a rare disbelief. For the first time, he seemed truly taken aback, almost lost, as if unsure of what to do next. "I'd heard rumours, whispers about you... but I never thought I'd meet you."

The Green Man gave a faint smile. "Being the Green Man has its... peculiarities," he replied softly. "I came here in search of answers, though the ones I found were not to the questions I had asked. What I discovered were bitter truths—and, in time, a sense of peace."

"So... who are you, exactly?" Mike asked, careful to keep his voice polite. "What is it you do here?"

"I suppose you could say I'm a guardian of sorts," the Green Man replied, calm and measured. "I am one of the few gifted—or cursed, depending on how you see it—who can witness events unfold across time. I see things as they were, as they are, and what may yet come to pass."

Mike hesitated before speaking again, recalling something else. "Bloodraven said he can see the future too."

The Green Man's smile faltered, a deep sadness filling his eyes. "Ah, so you have met Brynden Rivers," he murmured. "I'm sorry if meeting him brought you any... distress. You might say we're like yin and yang. Though I have watched over this place long before Ser Brynden found his way to the Way, and I will remain long after he is gone.

"Where I accept the flow of time and allow events to unfold as they must, Bloodraven... he cannot resist interfering. His hand is never far from the threads of fate, often pulled for his own amusement or to suit his own designs." The Green Man sighed. "It is the curse of those who see beyond the present—they are tempted to shape what should simply be witnessed."

"Most witches and wizards think you're just a myth," Danny said, his voice filled with amazement. "A story told to lure brave—or foolish—souls to travel the Ways in hopes of finding you. They say you can answer any question a traveller asks. Is that true?"

The Green Man tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing at the edges of his weathered face. "A myth, am I?" he murmured, almost amused. "There is truth in stories, though the tales people tell often grow larger than life."

His expression grew more serious as he continued, "Truth be told, very few have made it this far into the Ways. Most lose themselves in the endless darkness, wandering until madness takes them. Others simply vanish, never to be seen again. Such is the fate of those who chase legends, blinded by the lure of myth.

"As for answering every question... well, some answers lie within the questions themselves, others... require journeys of their own. I would have thought a seer like yourself would understand that." He gave Danny a pointed look, his gaze piercing but calm.

Danny's jaw tightened, his frustration clear as he struggled to keep his temper in check. "It doesn't always work that way," he shot back, the edge in his voice betraying his irritation.

The Green Man's eyes softened, and he raised a hand in a gesture of peace. "I meant no offence," he said gently, sensing the tension in Danny. "The burden of foresight is a heavy one, I know. To see fragments of what may come, yet still feel powerless to change it—it is difficult indeed. So, what is it you came to ask me?"

Danny's anger began to ebb, though a flicker of frustration still lingered beneath the surface. He took a step closer to the Green Man, his jaw tight as he wrestled with the question gnawing at him. His voice, usually steady, wavered with uncertainty as he spoke.

"Walter Padick. Randall Flagg. The Man in Black..." He hesitated, then finally asked, "Will I kill him?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of years spent chasing a dark figure through shadows and dreams. Danny's fists clenched at his sides as he waited, his heart pounding. He had never been unsure about much, but this—this one question had haunted him, leaving him desperate for any answer.

"That name, or names as you know them, carry many forms," the Green Man began slowly. "But the man you speak of, the one who walks between worlds and weaves chaos with every step... he is no ordinary foe. He cannot be easily contained by the question of 'Will I?'"

Danny's brow furrowed in frustration. "That's not an answer," he snapped, but his voice cracked at the end. "I need to know— please."

The Green Man regarded him thoughtfully. Slowly, he raised a finger, mirroring the exact motion Bloodraven had used before.

Before he could react, the Green Man gently pressed his finger against Danny's forehead. The instant their skin made contact, Danny's vision began to blur, the world around him dissolving into shadow. He tried to hold on, but the darkness swallowed him whole, and his body crumpled like a rag doll onto the garden floor.

Mike's heart raced as he watched his uncle fall. "Uncle!" he shouted, panic surging through him as he rushed forward. "What the hell did you do to him?"

The Green Man remained calm, his voice steady as he spoke. "He is receiving the answer to his question," he said, his tone neither defensive nor apologetic. "Though," he added with a hint of sadness, "it may not be the answer he expects—or the one he desires."

---

He lay facedown, engulfed in absolute silence. He felt utterly alone—no presence, no movement, no watching eyes. For a moment, he wasn't even sure he was truly there. It was as though he was suspended in nothingness, caught between thought and existence.

Time slipped away, meaningless in this strange void, until a quiet realization crept in. He must be real—he was lying on something solid. His body pressed against a surface, and that meant he could feel. The thing beneath him existed, and by extension, so did he.

As soon as he grasped this idea, another thought followed: he was naked. Yet, rather than feel exposed or alarmed, he simply accepted it. After all, he was alone, and the solitude made the fact seem irrelevant. Still, it intrigued him. He wondered, since he could feel, could he also see?

With cautious curiosity, he opened his eyes and found that, indeed, he had eyes. He was surrounded by a bright mist, but it wasn't like any mist he had encountered before. This fog didn't obscure his surroundings—it seemed more like the world itself had yet to form. The space around him was empty, undefined, as though it hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet.

The surface beneath him was stark white, neither warm nor cold, merely there—an expanse of blankness, existing just to support him.

He sat up slowly, glancing at his body. For a brief moment, he wished he was clothed, more out of instinct than necessity.

Before he could even finish the thought, robes appeared a short distance away. Soft, clean, and inviting. Without hesitation, he reached for them, pulling them on. They were warm against his skin, almost comforting, and he couldn't help but marvel at how easily they had appeared—just because he had wanted them.

He stood, his eyes scanning the formless expanse. The longer he looked, the more the mist began to thin and shift. Shapes emerged, faint at first, but gradually sharpening into focus.

And then, as the mist finally parted, Danny saw it—a looming structure rising from the nothingness.

The Overlook Hotel.

"No... no, no, no," Danny whispered, his voice trembling as he stumbled backward. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one tighter than the last.

His hands shook violently as he brought them to his head, trying to ground himself, to fight off the memories clawing at his mind. His breathing quickened, growing ragged and desperate, panic surging through him like wildfire.

"I can't... I can't be here!" he gasped, his chest heaving. His hands gripped his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he sank to his knees, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"This isn't what I wanted!" Danny screamed, his voice cracking with anguish as a strangled sob tore from his throat. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, as the overwhelming panic surged through him.

Suddenly, a gentle voice cut through the chaos. A voice so soft, so warm, it pierced the storm of fear in his mind. "Danny..."

He froze, the sound wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. His heart stopped, disbelief flooding his body. He recognized that voice, as familiar as his own name. But it couldn't be. It was impossible.

Trembling, he slowly turned toward the sound, his breath catching in his throat. And there, standing in front of him, bathed in a soft, ethereal light, was his mother.

Danny's chest tightened, his mind racing. This couldn't be real.

"Mum?" he whispered, voice barely audible.

She smiled.

---

Author's Notes:

How was that for a cliff-hanger? Hope it gave you the feels reading it as much as it did for me writing it.

Sorry that it took so long for this chapter to come out. These past months I've dealt with depression as well as helping my mum deal with vertigo recently. These combined slowed down the writing process. Fortunately, my depression has lifted and Mum's vertigo has gone thanks to medication.

This chapter allowed me to focus on the relationship between Mike and Danny and show different facets of Danny's personality: sometimes he can be cold and harsh, and other times he can be quite emotional. Writing these different emotions for Danny was a lot of fun.

I hope you enjoyed the exploration of the Ways as well as seeing Bloodraven from ASIOAF. I hope I wrote him well.

Did you enjoy meeting Henry and seeing the many multiverse versions of Mike Wheeler? They were so fun to write. So was writing the character of Henry. Paul Atreides heavily influenced how I wrote Henry (specifically when Paul was known as The Preacher in the Children of Dune novel). I also used bits of Gandalf and Dumbledore as influences too.

Finally one of my favourite aspects of this chapter was writing the fight scene between Danny and the Trollocs. I was inspired to write it after I saw the opening credit scene in Deadpool And Wolverine where Deadpool fights TVA agents while dancing to the song "Bye Bye Bye" by NSYNC.I tried to base the actually fight on John Wick films, with lots of fast action and cool movements. I hope I delivered.

Here are some end-notes that I must explain:

(1) Derry, Maine, Jerusalem's Lot, and Sidewinder, Colorado are all locations featured in several of Stephen King's novels

(2) Sunnydale is the setting for Buffy the Vampire Slayer

(3) Port Niranda is the setting for the Australian supernatural adventure series Round the Twist

(4) A reference to Wellington Paranormal, a New Zealand mockumentary comedy horror television series

(5) The spell "Viae Aperio, Luminis Veritas, Ostende nobis Iter" translates as:

"I open the paths, Truth of Light, show us the way." Came up with it myself

(6) The character of Brynden Rivers/Bloodraven is from George RR Martin's book series A Song of Ice and Fire.

(7) A reference to the TV series and movie based on Stargate. Great series btw

(8) A reference to the movie Star Trek: First Contact

(9) A reference to the fabulous Stranger Thing AU story "M11" by Misty the Fangirly Lady. Check it out, it's a great AU.

Your support and feedback mean the world to me.

Please don't forget to read and leave a review. Your reviews give me life! They give inspiration! And they make me want to keep writing for more than just myself! Thank you for your continued support and please enjoy!

Until next time, happy reading!