A melodious song woke Clive up. He found himself suspended in an endless void. There was no up or down, no horizon to orient himself to.

  Where am I?

  He took a hesitant step forward. The absence of ground should have sent him tumbling, but his feet pressed against something that wasn’t there.

  Surrounding him were countless mirror fragments that hung in the emptiness, ranging in size from tiny shards to pieces as large as cathedral windows. They didn't reflect his image, though. Instead, each fragment held a different scene, like windows into other worlds.

  In one shard, he glimpsed a sun-drenched meadow where tall grass swayed in the wind. Another showed the bustling streets of what appeared to be Victorian London, complete with horse-drawn carriages and ladies in elaborate dresses. Yet another revealed a battlefield with wizards raining spells.

  As Clive's attention shifted from the fragments, something caught his eye in the distance — a point of brilliant light that seemed to outshine all the mirror fragments. Focusing on it, he realized what he had missed before. At the center of this vast sea of fragments stood an enormous crystal that towered above everything else.

  Atop this crystalline throne was the source of the song, a lady who turned her gaze upon him.

  “We’ve been expecting you. Welcome, child of men,” she greeted him.

  As Clive drew closer, her features became clear. Her skin was pale as moonlight. Her silver hair drifted past her shoulders, floating as if suspended in water.

  “You were expecting me? Who are you?” Clive asked cautiously.

  “Me? I have been called many things. I believe they call me the Goddess of Stories and Theatregoing now.”

  "Goddess of Stories?" Clive stared at the endless mirror fragments around them. "So where exactly am I standing? Some kind of divine gallery?"

  "You stand in the Sea of Fragments."

  The Sea of Fragments?”

  “The space between the living and the dead. Where all worlds converge into infinite possibilities.”

  Clive stared blankly at her, processing her vague words. The last thing he remembered was smoke filling his lungs, flames crawling up the walls. Then nothing.

  So this must be…

  “... am I dead?"

  The goddess's chuckle echoed off the mirror fragments. "Life and death are but shifting states, child. Your fate remains indeterminate."

  "What does that even mean?" Clive interrupted. Her roundabout manner of speaking was grinding on his nerves. "Can you just give me a straight answer? There was a fire. And now I'm here talking to some… some fairy tale princess in the middle of nowhere. What’s going on?"

  The goddess studied him with intense eyes. "The fire was your ending, child. But in turn, you've been chosen for something far greater than the life you left behind. Most souls drift into peaceful oblivion, but you... you have the potential for something legendary."

  "I don't want to be a legend! I just want to go home."

  "Alas, that is impossible." A mirror fragment from the endless void zoomed toward them. Inside its surface, flames consumed his apartment. His own body lay motionless among the burning canvases. "There is no longer a place for you there."

  Clive stared at the body sprawled among the burning canvases. He tried to convince himself it wasn't him. Maybe the smoke had distorted the image, maybe this was some cruel trick. But the portrait of Jill clutched against the corpse's chest made denial impossible.

  Clive dropped to his knees. He couldn't look away. The mirror fragment hovered at eye level now, close enough to see the wedding ring on the corpse's finger and the paint-stained jeans he'd worn that day. Even the scar on the palm from when he'd cut himself opening a tube of cadmium red. Everything matched.

  "That's... that's really me.” He could barely get the words past his lips. “I'm actually..."

  Dead. He had suspected it. But faced with this visceral image in front of him, he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the word.

  The fragments rearranged themselves. A new scene materialized: Jill kneeling beside a grave, her shoulders shaking as tears streamed down her cheeks. Rain soaked through her black dress as she pressed her palms against the carved letters of his name.

  "I'm sorry, Clive. It's all my fault. I never should have left."

  Clive stepped toward the fragment. His palm mirroring hers against the mirror's surface.

  It's not your fault, Jill.

  The fragment lingered for what felt like hours before dissolving back into the endless void. Clive stared at the empty space where Jill had been, his hand still pressed against nothing.

  "What happens now?"

  "Now, dear child, you choose your next story.” She descended from her crystal throne to float before Clive. “If it’s Jill you seek, might I suggest a more interesting fragment?”

  Her fingers drew a line in the air, and a deep-red rose materialized above her right palm, floating and slowly rotating.

  The mirror fragments around them shifted, showing new scenes: Clive in a pressed suit shaking hands with Maxwell executives and Jill laughing over dinner in an expensive restaurant."

  "You swallow your conscience," the goddess said. "Never reveal their failed drugs. Eventually, you climb their ladder and claim the highest seat."

  "At what cost…" Clive’s eyes drifted to a fragment showing newspaper highlights: “Contaminated Batch Kills 47 Patients," "Maxwell Drug Recall Too Late for Victims' Families.”

  "Does it matter? Mistakes are but a minor inconvenience. You’ll be alive and wealthy," she continued.

  The mirror fragments flickered again, showing Clive and Jill in their elderly years, still holding hands. Their faces bore deep lines, but Clive recognised her smile. It was the same expression she’d worn that autumn morning in the park when she’d agreed to marry him.

  "Jill..."

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  His hand reached for the rose, holding it tightly.

  Snap.

  Clive’s hand clenched into a fist, crushing the rose in his fingers. Its petals crumbled to stardust that scattered through space.

  “I can’t. I won't buy her love with other people's lives.”

  “How curious.” The goddess blinked, staring at the scattered petals for a moment before smiling at him. “That was unexpected…”

  "There has to be another way." He looked up at her. "Some world where I don't have to choose between love and conscience."

  "Well, it's not impossible." She motioned at the endless sea of mirror fragments surrounding them. "If you were an Ascended."

  “Ascended?”

  “There are billions of stories in the sea of fragments. Each one a different world, a different possibility. If you were an Ascended, you could travel the fragments, searching for your perfect world. A reality where you remain on the path of art along with Jill.”

  Clive gazed at the fragments floating around them.

  Infinite worlds. Another chance to get it right.

  “How… how do I become an ascended?”

  The goddess's smile sharpened. "Ah, now that is the question, isn't it?”

  In her left hand, she conjured a paintbrush.

  “First, you must prove yourself worthy. Create art that transcends physical limitation. Perform deeds that echo across realms. When even the gods are forced to acknowledge you, only then might you ascend beyond mortality."

  The mirror fragments around them revealed scenes of wonder. In one shard, he watched himself standing before a canvas, brush moving across the surface. The painted flames spilled from the canvas like liquid fire, consuming a wooden target until nothing remained but ash. Another fragment showed him sketching rapidly in a leather-bound book—the crude drawing of a sword materialized in his hand before cleaving through a stone pillar.

  She extended the paintbrush towards him. Clive stepped forward, reaching for it, but a cacophony of voices erupted from above before his fingers reached the handle.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “He is but a mortal.”

  “Look at him, he’ll be dead within days.”

  Clive looked up. Dozens of shadowy silhouettes floated overhead, glancing down at him. Among them, he picked out a figure in plate armor, a massive cat, a girl who swung back and forth on a swing, and another with twin ponytails.

  "I give him a week."

  "A month if he's smart enough to run and hide."

  "Remember Marcus? The last artist who tried this? Found pieces of him scattered across three kingdoms."

  "Marcus lasted three days.” The girl on the swing laughed. “This one has that same dreamy look—he'll walk into the first monster den he sees."

  "Probably trip over his own paintbrush."

  Clive stared at the gallery of judgment, watching the shadowy figures whisper above him.

  These mysterious beings were nothing more than the latest in a string of critics. He'd heard it all before. From the local expert Professor Hanley who called his work ‘technically competent but soulless.’ From gallery curators who wouldn't even look him in the eye as they handed back his portfolio.

  Always the same message. This time just dressed in cosmic authority.

  The figure in plate armor leaned forward, probably preparing another dismissive comment. Clive had spent eight years listening to people like this explain why his vision didn't matter. He didn’t need to hear it again.

  "I don't need your approval or your permission," he declared. “I will do this. Regardless of what you think.”

  The murmurs died away. Then someone behind him started clapping

  “Well said, Clive,” a cheerful voice rang out. "Don't let them get to you. They’re all such trolls. Miracles especially - you know, the one on the swing”

  Startled, he spun around. The silver-haired goddess had vanished. In her place stood a young girl in a frilly pink dress, blonde twintails swaying despite the absence of any wind. She rocked back and forth on her heels, hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘But trust me, deep inside, she has a warm heart…” Her smile widened. “I would know. I've held it beating in my hands... multiple times." Her fingers curled in the air, mimicking a squeezing motion.

  Clive took an involuntary step backward. The contrast between her playful pink dress, sweet innocent voice and those creepy words sent a chill down his spine.

  "And who are you?" Clive asked.

  The girl twirled, causing her dress to float outwards. "Your biggest fan, of course! You could call me – your super supporter!" She dipped into an exaggerated bow. "I am Certainty, the Goddess of Certainty, Patron of the Undoubting. The old hag told me all about you - eight years dedicated to your craft without a hint of reward. Without recognition. And yet you never stopped. That kind of devotion..." She clasped her hands to her chest. "That's exactly what I look for in a protagonist."

  "Old hag?" Clive frowned. "You mean the goddess lady?"

  Certainty laughed. "Lady? More like grandma. She's ancient, even by my standards. So old, she has forgotten her name. Between you and me, I think she's going senile.”

  Her eyes darted around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then she giggled and spun away. "But enough about her! Let's talk about you, Clive. So, I heard you seek the path of ascension?”

  "The goddess lady grandma mentioned it," Clive said. "Something about proving myself worthy through art."

  "Oh, she gave you the basic version." Certainty waved a dismissive hand. "Transcend physical limitations, perform legendary deeds, make the gods acknowledge you. Blah, blah, blah. Very dramatic, very vague, very useless.” She leaned in, winking at Clive as she whispered, “Want to know how to really reach ascension?"

  Clive took a step back from her, palm raised between them. He had a bad feeling about her, but the question escaped anyway. “How?"

  “Here’s the trick. Ignore those other gods and goddesses. You don’t need them. All you need is one patron willing to stake their divine reputation on your success.”

  "Are you…" Clive started, then stopped. “Why?”

  "You know Clive... I've watched thousands of souls drift through here. Certainty straightened up, clasping her hands behind her back again. "Most mortals who stumble into the Sea of Fragments want power for its own sake. Glory. Recognition. Revenge against those who wronged them. All very predictable motivations that burn out the moment things get difficult."

  She floated around him, as though sizing him up.

  "But you... you're different. You possess the rarest quality in all the fragments, Clive."

  "Do you know what that quality is?" she asked.

  "Tell me."

  "Absolute conviction," she answered. "The canvases from six years ago, stacked behind your workbench. You never threw them away."

  Clive stiffened. No one knew about those.

  Certainty continued. "Three hundred and twelve rejected submissions to galleries. Four hundred and seven unanswered emails to critics. That night in winter, when your heating broke and you used what little savings you had left to buy new supplies instead of fixing it."

  "What's your point?" Clive asked. The rejections still stung, even after all this time.

  "My point?" Certainty stopped in front of him. "Do you remember what you said that night in your freezing studio?"

  Clive remembered. He'd been working on a piece for the Westlake Gallery's exhibition. His fingers had been so cold he could barely hold the brush. "I said a lot of things."

  "You said: 'One day, they'll understand what I was trying to do here.’ Not 'if' but 'when. The other deities, they see only what you are not," she said. "I see what you will be."

  She extended a paintbrush towards him. "I offer you patronage, Clive. My blessing.”

  Clive stared at her outstretched hand. His hand moved toward the paintbrush but stopped midway. Something about her enthusiasm reminded him of the trickster gods in mythology- too much excitement about benefits, too little discussion of consequences.

  “At what cost? What do you ask in return?”

  “I only ask that you pour your soul into improving your craft. Hold nothing back. Transform yourself into the artist you were meant to become. As long as you follow my lead, I guarantee you will reach ascension.”

  What was the catch? There’s always a catch.

  "And if I fail?"

  "You won't," she declared. "That's what it means to be under my patronage. You will try, and try, and try again. Where others would give up, you will continue. Where others would doubt, you will know."

  "Know what?"

  “That no matter how long it takes, your efforts will certainly be rewarded.”

  Clive studied her face, searching for any sign of deception. He examined her eyes. You could always tell if someone was lying by their eyes. But he found only clear, unwavering certainty.

  "That's all I've ever wanted." Clive relented. He reached out to grab the paintbrush.

  "I accept your patronage."

  As their hands met, a blue light flashed outwards from their contact, illuminating the blackness around them.

  [You have selected the class Pictomancer]

  [You have received the Blessing of Certainty]

  The words appeared as notifications in front of him.

  [You have gained the trait: Certainty’s Chosen]

  "Now then," Certainty said. "It's time for you to begin your story proper." She waved a hand, and the void before them tore open, revealing a shimmering portal. Beyond it, Clive could see a world of vivid colors.

  "The world of Euchronia," Certainty explained. " Go ahead, Clive. Make it magnificent. Make it certain. Make it entertaining."

  To all of my children who lived life with passion

  To all of my children whom death has passed her judgement

  Come wandering soul, your canvas awaits,

  Where life flows eternal, beyond times cold gate

  —Goddess of Stories and Theatergoing