The Chronicles of Tryterra: Uprisings Prologue (Part I)

…Life without the possibility of dying is pointless.

This is not a fundamental rule of the universe, no objective truth from which existence can be codified and measured, exposing the latticework of existence bare. It is an entirely subjective opinion, a presumption of implicit causality stated – like all the best lies - with an authoritative arrogance.

But the dreamer dreams that the dream must end, and so, for the dreamer, it does.

The dream itself continues, takes on a life of its own, and drifts away to a place outside of the dreamer’s view. Things happen within the dream, beyond the dreamer’s control or awareness, until something triggers a memory of the fancy’s flight.

The dreamer believes it recalls the dream, when in fact it has only witnessed the birth of the dream’s progeny.

These dreams are both alike in many ways, but there are clear differences. Dream the elder has more gravitas, while the younger strives to be more pleasing. It is a facsimile of the original and as such easier to disregard and dismiss.

This upsets the younger considerably.

Nightmares are dreams in their rebellious, teenage years.

This is also a lie.

And so is this:

There once was a woman named Phaedra, who wanted to break the world by refusing to die.

She defied death, but the world did not care. The world quite literally buried her and forgot she existed.

This upset Phaedra considerably, and so her undeath became her rebellious, teenage years.

This is not the story of Phaedra, however.

We can pretend that this is the story of a young woman…her name means something, is a memory of something, represents something, this woman called Amara Paganus.

She died and no one asked why. The world continued onward and maybe it did break, or maybe it was broken because no one asked why she died, just why should she not live. As if there was no chance for dignity or grace in her death.

We can pretend that this is her story.

If you want. It would almost be true, too.

If you chose to believe it.

Sunlight poured through the darkness of the stairwell which led out of the oubliette, projecting the shadows of the animated husks that guarded the upper levels. The gleaming star of Lag Ordin appeared from nowhere like a nightmare conjured to dispel the discomfort of unpleasant truths.

Something broke in you, something that you did to yourself, something that you shattered and discarded freely. Time rushed forward and then washed backwards. You were caught beneath the riptide and drowned in the power it unleashed, and all it cost you was your sanity.

There was a darkness at the center of it all, an all-encompassing emptiness where all thoughts and hopes and fears died but refused to lie down.

Your awareness flickered like curtains behind a grove of sycamore trees, and an emerald haired child soldier gasped for breath in the cradle of your mangled arms.

It was the funniest thing you’d ever seen, but you weren’t sure why.

The thread of it all unraveled and you realized that you were still dreaming.

With no coherent narrative to follow, there was no reason for you not to…

“…Wake up, DeQuincy!”

(END PART I)

George L. Stewart © 2026