Finn found himself standing at a gate.

It was a stone archway with worn cobblestones and weathered wood reinforced with iron rods. Beyond it, a medieval town sprawled out, with thatched roofs, timber-framed buildings and narrow streets that he could see little kids weaving through as they played.

Brambleton, he knew somehow. The town was called Brambleton.

Confusion set in as he glanced around.

Wasn't I supposed to face something I was scared of? Some nightmare scenario to test my mental discipline?

This just looked like... a town. During what appeared to be some kind of festival, based on the colorful banners hanging from windows and the general air of anticipation from the people around him.

Then he noticed something odd.

The people here were... shorter? Or rather, he was taller. Significantly taller. Not absurdly so, but enough that he immediately noticed the difference in his perspective.

Finn glanced down at his hands.

Wrong…

They were much more slender than his actual hands. Paler too, almost alabaster white. The fingers were longer, more elegant. Like an artist's hands, or maybe a musician's.

This is not my body…

The realization came to him with a strange sense of detachment, like observing something through glass. And with it, his awareness of who he was — Finn Slade, an Ossuarist, a fragment bearer — began to recede like a tide going out.

The memories, and specifically the purpose of why he was here — the mental training exercise... all of it faded until he'd forgotten entirely.

Right now, he was simply Arros. The owner of this body. This body that he had used for how long…? Years? Decades? Longer?

He glanced forward.

It was almost his turn to pass through the gate into Brambleton. The celebration of Transcendent heroes was already in full swing. He could hear music drifting from deeper in the town, smell roasted meat and spiced wine on the breeze.

A family of three stood ahead of him in line. Farmers, from their weathered clothes and the calluses visible on their hands. A man, his wife, and a young boy who couldn't have been more than seven or eight.

The child was lost in his own world, playing with small wooden figurines. Transcendent heroes, Finn — or rather, Arros recognized. Miniature representations of the legendary figures being celebrated today.

The boy made swooshing sounds, moving the figures through elaborate battles only he could see. Then he held up one figurine — a young male hero with a sword raised high — and shouted with childish enthusiasm:

"[Flame Blast!]"

He mimed an explosion with his other hand, making the dragon figurine he'd been fighting tumble backward in defeat.

The father glanced down with an amused smile. "That's not what Arros the Anomalous was known for, son."

But the boy remained adamant, clutching his figurine tighter. "Yes it is! Arros can create fire from nothing if he wants! He can do anything!"

The father chuckled, sharing glances with a few other people in line who'd overheard. They laughed good-naturedly at the child's imagination.

Then the boy's father's attention focused on the person closest to him, intending to share the amusement verbally.

Arros kept his gaze straight ahead, willing the man not to look at him.

But he felt the weight of the stare anyway. From his peripheral vision, he saw the man's eyes lingering, wanting to make conversation.

Please don't engage, don't engage, don't engage—

"Kids, eh?" the father said with a warm smile, gesturing at his son. "Always got their own ideas about the heroes."

Arros ground his teeth for a second but then forced a small smile. "Imagination is a gift at that age."

The man pounced on the opening, launching into a story about his son's obsession with Transcendent heroes, how he'd been begging for figurines for months, how excited he was for today's celebration.

But thankfully, the man wasn't completely tactless. After a few exchanges, he seemed to sense Arros's reluctance to engage deeply. With a friendly nod, he turned his attention back to his wife and son as the guard called them forward for their check.

Moments later, Arros also went through the checkpoint after answering simple questions and paying the toll.

The town was now properly laid out before him, and Arros felt a small measure of tension ease from his shoulders.

He always came to Brambleton every year for the festival. Not for the celebrations themselves — for those, he held little interest — but for the market stalls that appeared during this time. Small vendors from outlying villages, artisans who only traveled for special occasions.

They sold quaint little things. Curiosities. Items that held no real value or purpose but were simply... novel. Slightly interesting.

Arros couldn't say why he bothered. The objects weren't useful. They didn't advance his research or offer him a new understanding of magic. But there was something soothing about wandering through stalls of handmade trinkets, examining the work of craftspeople who poured effort into creating beauty for its own sake.

And once in a while, he even stumbled on something he never planned for.

He was lost in thoughts, but after he walked perhaps twenty paces into the town proper, he was jarred out of them when he finally noticed the decorations more clearly.

Blue and silver banners. Stylized flame motifs. And a prominently displayed symbol he recognized all too well.

Of all the days...

Today was the celebration of Arros the Anomalous. Arguably the most powerful Transcendent of all, depending on who you asked.

In other words, himself.

He usually made sure to visit Brambleton on days they celebrated other Transcendents. The two-week festival honored dozens of legendary figures — there were plenty of safe days to browse the markets without encountering… any of this.

This was only the second time in ages that he'd miscalculated and arrived during his own celebration day.

One of the reasons he hated it was how wrong they got everything.

The paintings showed a noble warrior, tall and proud, with a heroic jawline and flowing hair. A paragon of justice. A protector of the innocent. A shining beacon of moral righteousness.

What bullshit, Arros thought flatly. And not just bullshit, but wrong bullshit.

He, and everyone who actually knew him knew he was no saint. No hero. No great man of justice.

He'd done what needed doing, yes. Fought what needed fighting. But it had never been about righteousness or protecting the innocent. It had been about curiosity, about pushing the boundaries of what magic could achieve, about testing his creative ideas that required... field applications.

The worst were those wooden figurines children played with. They made him look like a valiant knight. Broad-shouldered, armored, wielding a sword — something he'd never once touched in his actual life.

Ridiculous.

His original body — the one he'd been born with — had looked nothing like that. Thin, pale, the physique of someone who spent their entire life indoors surrounded by books. A certified study nerd who barely saw sunlight, always cooped up in libraries and hidden basements drafting out creative applications of spells.

If that body had walked through Brambleton today, none of these people would recognize him. They'd see a sickly scholar and never connect him to their legendary hero.

Even his current vessel was closer to their idealized image, though still not quite right. This body had belonged to a minor noble before Arros claimed it. The body was reasonably fit, with presentable features, but not too much that it drew undue attention.

The original owner had been so honored to be chosen as a vessel. Had practically begged for the privilege once he understood what Arros was offering. Immortality of a sort, his body preserved and maintained by a Transcendent consciousness. The young man had—

"Arros!"

Arros's thoughts scattered as he heard someone call out his name.

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