The Staging Area

Xanther walked through the staging area, his boots echoing against stone that had witnessed millennia of wars. The air tasted of ozone and blood—ancient residue that no amount of time could cleanse.

Around him, warriors prepared for battles that might never come. Some sharpened blades that had already killed gods. Others meditated on deaths they had survived countless times. The staging area existed between dimensions, a pocket of stillness where those who served the cosmic balance could prepare for what came next.

He recognized some faces. Others were strangers wearing familiar expressions—the look of those who had seen too much and survived anyway.

Xanther did not stop to speak with them. He had learned long ago that conversations in the staging area were dangerous. Every word could alter allegiances. Every gesture could spark wars that would consume entire realities.

So he walked in silence, moving toward the portal that would take him to his next assignment. The Keepers had not explained what awaited him. They never did. Explanation implied choice, and choice was a luxury afforded only to those who had not yet proven their worth.

As he reached the shimmering gateway, Xanther paused. For just a moment, he allowed himself to wonder: what would happen if he simply refused? If he turned away from the portal and walked back through the staging area, past the warriors, past the preparations, and into... what?

There was no "away" from this. The staging area was the away. This was where beings like him existed when they were not being used.

He stepped through the portal.