"We were supposed to treat mages, not shadows, Thorne!" Tom's voice boomed like that somehow made his point stronger. The man seemed to think volume equaled logic. Maybe if he leaned more on merit than bluster, he'd stumble on a useful idea now and then—if only by accident.

"Mages are dull. This guy? His case is actually interesting."

"But like I said—and I know you weren't listening—he's a shadow. Just kill him. His projector'll spit out a new one next cycle anyway."

"You're a damn idiot, Tom. Would you say the same thing to a parent with a sick child? 'Eh, make another one'?"

"That's not the same and you know it."

"Isn't it? Thousands of years, and no one's bothered to really study what shadows are. Some of the human-made ones live just as long as their projectors. They don't always make the same choices, either. You've seen it. I know you have. And let's not even start on the non-human-made ones—they live longer than most civilizations."

Sometimes I honestly wonder how people like Tom even got into medicine, let alone gained magical aptitude. No imagination. No hunger to understand. Just… dull.

"This whole conversation's going off track. I don't care what shadows are. What matters is he is one—and we're not wasting our time treating him."

"Then go back to your precious mages. Oh wait… nobody needs you right now. Am I wrong, Tom?"

"You're such a jerk, Thorne."

"And you're a moron, like I said. Are you really not the least bit curious how this even happened to him?"

"The only thing that even remotely interests me is how the hell he got here in the first place."

"Well, well, look who's finally firing up a neuron or two."

"Shut up, Thorne. How did he get here?"

"Hell if I know. I didn't ask. Maybe he called an ambulance?"

"You think this is funny? An ambulance? In Ideworld? Called with what—some magical iPhone?"

"As usual, you're missing the point. Shadows work in our clinic, don't they?"

"They do. They're cheaper than hiring actual people. At least, that's the board's reasoning."

"So maybe—just maybe—they've got their own ways of communicating. Maybe they've got a shadow network, mirroring Earth's, right?"

And now I could see it—that subtle shift. The gears in his head finally turning. Some people just need the entire jigsaw puzzle assembled before they recognize it's a picture.

"But we tried the phones. Everyone did, back when the shadows started showing up here. No signal. The numbers don't work."

"People tried, Tom. Come with me, you slow-witted sponge."

I pushed out of my chair, every nerve screaming from my fractured soulcore. Every step felt like being unraveled cell by cell. Still, I walked—because this lesson mattered. And maybe, if the right lesson lands, I'll finally get a bit of room to do what I damn well please.

We made our way down the corridor to reception. Harriet was there—our receptionist. She was a shadow of someone from the Earth-side hospital, but not just some carbon copy. Tom insisted she wasn't real. But I've spoken to both versions, and they're not the same. Close, but not the same. They share a soul after all.

"What are we doing here, Thorne?" Tom grumbled behind me, voice like he was dragging his feet through gravel. We were both in our fifties. Both sourcerers. He was a surgeon though. He got his soulcore in biology in his thirties, tried to advance it, didn't get far. Still, the board gave him a chair here. I always thought if he'd developed a blade Domain, maybe his brain would've sharpened up too.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Watch Harriet. Watch how she works."

"I don't have time for this. Shadows just mimic what their projectors do on the other side. Everyone knows that."

"Really? And when you ask her to do something here—something her projector isn't doing—what then? Is she still mimicking, or is she responding to this world?"

"I swear, Thorne, stop treating me like a student. Just say what you mean."

"I treat you exactly how you've earned, Tom. You've worked here three years and still know jack about Ideworld." I adjusted my cane, trying not to scream from the pain. Damn that dragon. I hope his entire bloodline chokes on ash. "Harriet, my dear, would you be so kind as to order me a pizza with extra cheese?"

Harriet gave a warm smile and reached for the phone. "Of course, Dr. Thorne. Right away." She dialed. Spoke to someone—I assume another shadow. I've listened before, tried to catch the other voice, but it never comes through. Just silence on our end.

"You think this is funny? Again, she's just mimicking human behavior."

Tom waited until she hung up, then grabbed the phone and dialed the same number. He waited. Dead line.

"See? No signal. It's all pretend."

"We'll see," I muttered. "Now, let's go check on our patient."

"You're insufferable, Thorne. I told you—we're not treating him."

"And I told you, you're twiddling your thumbs waiting on a mage who doesn't exist. Might as well make yourself useful."

"The Guild could send someone through the portal any minute."

"Great. When they do, we'll handle it. For now—come on."

He grumbled, but he followed. As much as he hated it, he followed. I was almost thankful my pattern soulmark had been obliterated. I couldn't see how his mind worked anymore—and that was a blessing. It'd just make me more depressed.

We reached the patient's room a few minutes later. I was a slow walker. People underestimate what happens when a mage's soulcore is nearly obliterated. They say, "You can regrow it, rebuild it over time." Maybe in theory. But soul and soulcore are more intertwined than the books like to admit. Mine wasn't just damaged—it was wounded, in that deep way that never really heals. Or maybe that fucking Dragon just knew where to hit, how to strike so precisely that living itself becomes the punishment.

The patient lay quietly in bed. Looked like a man in his thirties—perfectly average, perfectly normal. Said his name was John Potter, and that something strange had started happening to him.

"Look at him, Tom. What do you see?"

"I don't know. He looks like he's sleeping. I've never seen shadows pretend to sleep."

"And yet, you dismissed him out of hand. Moron." I stepped closer. "I've checked. Since he arrived, he sleeps every night. Not just lying there—his mind produces REM. He's truly sleeping. He dreams."

"No, that's... that's not possible. Shadows don't sleep."

"Exactly. They don't. And yet—he does."

Tom blinked, and for once, I saw a flash of something that might've been actual thought behind his dull eyes.

"How is it possible?"

"What do you think?" I wasn't going to hand him the answer. Not yet. I needed someone—anyone—to think besides me. If I just spelled it out, he'd nod like he understood, and forget it an hour later.

"Some kind of spell?"

"We checked. No foreign Authority. No anomalous energy in him, his living space, or anything he owns. What else?"

"Maybe he got hit in the head?"

"Nope. Skull's fine, brain's fine—except the sleeping part. And he says he wasn't in any fight or accident. One day he felt like lying down, then stood back up hours later, confused, with strange images in his mind."

"Sounds like he fell asleep."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"You checked on the projector?"

"Now that's the right question. Yes. We did."

Tom's jaw tensed. "Well? Don't make me beg, Thorne. Just say it already—for Reality's sake."

If only he had that much urgency when it came to forming his own thoughts.

"Earth's John Potter suffered a construction accident five days ago. Head trauma. Serious. Since then, his brain hasn't been able to enter sleep. At all."

"He hasn't slept in five days?"

"Nope. He's at Earth's Mercy."

"This hospital?"

"Yes, this hospital, Tom. Brothers of Mercy. Try to keep up."

"Shut up, Thorne. What did you try with the projector?"

"Induced coma. Failed. We were just trying to keep him comfortable while waiting for the inevitable."

"And yet the shadow sleeps like a baby. Maybe… maybe we get a seer involved?"

"A seer? They move Authority, not souls, Tom."

"Still, his shadow responded to trauma the moment it happened. Maybe we can move the soul—into the shadow."

"Ever heard of anyone doing that before?"

"No."

"Exactly."

"Then what's the point of all this?"

I looked down at John, who was breathing steadily. Peaceful. "His projector died an hour ago. You know what that means, right? Shadows vanish once their projector reaches eternal sleep."

Tom's eyes widened. Finally, finally, he got it.

"You think the projector's soul transferred?"

"I don't know, Tom. But I've already requested a portal. We're sending him to Earth—to see if he casts a shadow of his own now."

"That would be… that would be an unprecedented discovery. We'd be famous, Thorne."

We. Now it's we. Small minds always jump aboard once the ship's already moving.

"Maybe," I said.

Right then, the door opened. Harriet stepped inside.

"Dr. Thorne, I hope I'm not interrupting?"

"Not at all, Harriet. What is it?"

"Your pizza arrived."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.