Dominion of Blades

Part 1: Prologue
If you’re reading this, you’re fucked.
You’re fucked, you see, because I’m writing this longhand in a tavern called The Piglet’s Delight in the city of Harmony in the country of Aberdeen in a world that does not exist.
This manuscript is never leaving this imaginary world, so if you are reading these words, that means you’re stuck here, too. Let me be the first to congratulate you.
Welcome to Hell.
When I’m done writing out these memories of the past few weeks, I will carry these pages to the scriptorium guild, and I will pay them to make as many copies of this document as possible. They will take these copies to the bookbinders, and the bookbinders will take them to the messengers, and the messengers will get on their boats and take them to every pub they can find in this world. And when that pub owner looks at you and says, “I ain’t seen you before. I think you ought to read this,” he, she, or it will hand you a copy, and by the time you are done, you will know just how fucked you are.
Don’t come trying to find me before you finish. In fact, you’ll want to stay as far away from Harmony as possible. Trust me. We’ll get to that. Keep reading. You’ll see.
I imagine you have all sorts of questions, especially if you just got here. I know, it’s overwhelming. You might not have any memories. But don’t worry, they will come back in just a few days. Don’t move from where you are, sit down, and read this book. I need to give you the information in order, as I learned it.
But if you must move or travel before you finish, know these two things:
One. Do not trust anybody.
Two. This is not a game.
Chapter 1:
I will start with my second birth.
Master Gold winked out of existence.
He’d been standing over Gretchen and me, lecturing us on the virtues of hard work. The tall man, with his sloped forehead and furry arms that seemed just a little too long, gave the appearance of an imbecile. But Master Gold was no fool. A blowhard, yes. But stupid? Hardly. The man was a master jeweler. Despite his hands being abnormally large, you could see an almost elegant slimness to his fingers and a deftness in the way he moved. Travelers came from across the sea to purchase his wares.
At least that’s what they said, though, I’d never seen anyone visit him. The man did nothing but pick oranges and complain about how things weren’t the way they used to be.
“When I was your age,” he’d been saying, his voice brittle, “a pair of young folks such as yourselves wouldn’t waste the day fishing. We’d be up at first light to tend the fields. The afternoon would be spent at the quarry. Night was for practicing your trade. That’s how a small village survives, you know. People have to learn to do more than one thing. Fishing was…” He paused mid-sentence. He staggered for a beat and looked upon us as if he’d forgotten who we were. “Fishing was…” His spotted, mostly-bald head shimmered in the afternoon brightness. His remaining wisps of gray hair waved in the breeze. He opened his mouth, as if to continue, looking at us wild-eyed like a trout on a line. Gretchen and I exchanged a look.
“Fishing was for old women?” I said. He gave the same speech every day.
Master Gold cocked his head to the side, dog-like, and then his entire body, robe and all, stuttered in and out of existence. He disappeared and reappeared. The basket he’d been holding landed upright on the dirt with a thump. It had slipped through his hands and arms that brief moment he blinked. I gasped and took a step back, my right foot landing in the cold water. And then, without a sound, he blinked again and did not come back. He was gone.