The crystal roots hummed gently. Khthon watched them carefully, looking for any sign of harm or panic.

He had been running damage control for... a rather long time now. Scouring the entirety of Ashuru's crust to save what crystals he could, and mourn those he couldn't, was slow and tedious work, but Khthon was nothing if not patient.

Still, though Gods and stone did not get... tired, as mortals did, he still looked forward to some rest. It had been too long since he had the time to contemplate his hoard at his leisure...

In this way, Anakalypsos had been a great help in this task. Though at first Khthon had been hesitant to let another God's creation roam his realm freely, he had found the arachnid-like Avatar to be a most agreeable companion. It was silent, diligent, discreet, and did not bother him more than strictly necessary. Her help with locating distressed crystal roots had let him save many he probably wouldn't have found or reached in time to save otherwise. For that he was grateful.

By now, however, he felt he had done all he could. He could think of no more places to check, and whatever help he gave only seemed to offer diminishing returns. Now that the immediate crisis had been mitigated, all they needed, he supposed, was time.

...There was one last thing he could do, though. The Great Bell in its crystal cavern, the one Excelsis had described to him. If his God-Brother was to be believed, then it was linked to the roots. He could no longer help the roots as he had done so far, but maybe he could learn from their source...

For the first time in... what had probably been ages for those on the surface, Khthon fully emerged. The Sun's light felt much too bright, and his stone body rumbled unhappily at the feeling. He would have to endure it, and in any case, he would soon be back to his dim abode.

He had chosen to emerge near the ever-shifting mountains, those that had existed since before his awakening, and which he'd chosen to leave largely untouched. But though they predated him, the Unfinished Mountains still obeyed him, and when he asked them, "Which of you houses the Great Bell?" they answered in unison, "This one!"

He felt where the crystal cave's opening laid, knew exactly the path to take, and when a great wind burst came, he let the stone of his body burst into sand be carried to its entrance. He looked around as his sand reformed into stone. The cavern was... dazzling, both figuratively and literally. Had he mortal senses, the endless refraction of light in the cave would have been dizzying, if not downright nauseating. As a God, though, he could appreciate the beauty of such a place without vertigo spoiling it.

The Great Bell was an intimidating sight. Such a device being a portend of doom... it led to wonder who made it in the first place. But that would be a mystery to solve later: the current issues were much more pressing.

Khthon looked at the script, and then quickly gave up trying to read it as is. It was much too jumbled and rapidly changing to try and decrypt it as is. Instead he turned his attention to the room as a whole, to its essence. He could feel it, a truth just out of reach, unknown by all, hidden. A great Secret, one which he did not have access to, for now.

Khthon dealt in Secrets, yes, but always by creating them, not by revealing them. So this challenge was a new one... but not an impossible one. He reached out to the hidden knowledge of this place, called to it, tried to coax it out. He listened carefully, on the lookout for even a scrap to reveal itself to him.

"Come to me," he whispered. "Know who you belong to... Show me how to help and heal you..."

And when the knowledge would show itself, Khthon knew that he would seize it.

Sarhush followed the ash-strewn tracts of land. Lord Hierarchy hovered invisibly overhead; behind them followed only the Patrons of Fire and Glory, for Civilization had still not returned. As they traveled, they came upon signs that marked the path of those that Sarhush had sent out so long ago, when Ashuru had been young. His quarry was a scant few who had carried his commands to the ends of the world; seeing no end to the work, they’d then turned back only to continue it again.

Strewn across the wilderness were wide clearings dusted gray, fire-rings where the earth had been baked hard and then left to cool. These camps had vanished such that for one who did not know to look, only the smell lingered when the wind shifted. The forest pressed in around them again, tentative but persistent, green fingers already reclaiming what flame had taken.

“They have brought me here many times,” the Patron of Fire said, “but they never learned how to keep me fed for long.”

Glory’s radiance intensified. “Is there no pride in refusal to yield?”

“No. Pride is for when something remains. These people burn and leave, and the world erases their works. Fire is not mastered if it is always abandoned.”

“You sound almost like Civilization!” the Patron of Glory responded. Sarhush only grunted. They walked on for many leagues.

At last, the god found his followers in a hollow where the trees had been driven back by repeated burnings. The ground was bare and pale, stripped down to dirt and cinder. Smoke rose from many small fires, all carefully tended, all eager, none meant to last beyond the night. Beside one, a few humans plucked the feathers of a Tormenta bird they’d somehow ensnared or shot down and made ready to skewer and roast the thing. Perhaps they’d lured it low to the ground with a small fire, enough smoke to warrant investigation but not a thunderstorm. Glory flashed brightly at the sight, delighted by the audacity of their hunting such a beast, if not the aftermath.

As for this camp’s shelters, they were quick and rudimentary things. Saplings had been bent and lashed, and hides thrown over frames and weighted with stones to make crude tents. Nothing here was expected to endure. Whatever couldn’t be taken on the move would be set ablaze on the morrow.

At the center of the camp crouched a man Sarhush recognized at once. Hammon had been his name, and he was among the first of the ur-humans that had flocked around Sarhush in the dawn of days.

Hammon was beside a bonfire far larger than the rest. He knelt close enough that heat shimmered the air around him. His hair was burnt short and uneven; some of the hairs of his beard grayed from age and others from the flakes of ash embedded within. Though flame already roared before him, his hands worked a familiar motion, fast and practiced: there was a spindle twirling in a socket, a sinew bowstring drawn back and forth with tireless precision. He was not tending the fire, but calling a new one into being.

Each twist of the spindle made a singing scrape upon the firewood. Each twist promised flame. The friction generated a small plume of smoke. A new fire came to answer the man, and a smile lit Hammon’s eyes and face.

Sarhush stopped; only then did the firemaker seem to notice him. Gingerly, Hammon placed the newly kindled torch into the roaring bonfire, but he held the bow-drill still. Then he rose, eyes wide not with fear but with fierce, exultant recognition. He pressed a blackened fist to his chest and bowed his head.

“Sarhush,” Hammon breathed at once. “Fire-Bearer, Beastbane, Man-God. You return at last!”

Around them, others fell still. A few echoed the bow, and a few others fell to their knees. A few whispered the name. Their eyes flickered between Sarhush and the Patrons just behind him; even as they tried to subdue their presence, Glory, Lord Hierarchy, and especially Fire were impossible to ignore.

“You followed my first commandment,” Sarhush acknowledged.

Hammon beamed with pride. “And all the others, as word reached us. But for the first, we did more than follow,” he said, “I ran ahead of it.”

He lifted the fire-drill so Sarhush could see it clearly. The wood was darkened and polished by use, the sinew supple, the spindle true. It never slipped and never failed.

“Fire no longer waits for chance, nor takes long hours of toil, nor requires the still-warm corpse of a past fire,” the man said. “It comes quickly now. It comes when I call it.”

Sarhush’s gaze fixed on the fire-drill, then wandered to Hammon’s side. Fixed to his waist on one side was a stone with three grooves, useful for shaping spindles, scoring wood or bone, making tools of sorts. It was the Me of Toolmaking. Curious; with it, Hammon had devised tools of forms Sarhush himself had never even conceived.

The Me of Ashuru was there too, sitting on the ground by Hammon’s feet. With such tools, and with a handheld reminder of the world’s vastness, it was no wonder that Hammon and his followers had roamed for years without count. They understood that there was always more to burn.

The corners of Sarhush’s lips bent upward, but his grin refused to widen. His pride and joy in these people was muddied by disappointment in nearly equal part.

”But you have not settled in one place. You leave marks in your wake, but you do not cut deep enough, so they heal or are eroded away.”

Hammon’s smile strained without breaking. “Fire moves,” he said. “To stay is to let it die. We keep it alive by carrying it forward.”

“You mistake motion for mastery,” Sarhush replied.

He stepped closer and reached into his sack to produce something. When he set the wedgestone down beside the fire, it did not crack or darken. It simply waited, heavy with promise.

“This is the Me of Masonry,” Sarhush said. “It teaches permanence. It enables man to command weight to remain where it is placed.”

The man stared at it, breath quickening not with doubt, but with hunger. His mien mirrored the Patron of Fire.

“You would have me bind fire,” he said slowly. “Fix it, root it, and feed it in place?”

This one learned quickly. “I would see,” Sarhush answered, “whether you command flame, or only chase it across the world.”

Hammon did not answer hastily. His gaze lingered on the Me of Masonry, then flicked to the bonfire, then to the smaller fires scattered through the hollow. His followers watched him now more than Sarhush; he had earned a feverish loyalty from them long ago.

Eventually, the firemaker laughed. The sound was low, hoarse, and unafraid.

“Fire has never stayed,” Hammon said. “Not for me, not for them.” He gestured with his chin toward the others in his camp. “We learned that early. Feed it too long in one place and it devours you; but if you carry it onward, it lives.”

The Patron of Fire stirred at that, a column of flame that stretched just a bit higher in that moment. “He speaks truly,” it decreed. “I am movement. I am hunger. It is not enough to consume all that a single place has.”

Sarhush nodded in contemplation. “And yet,” he began, “movement alone leaves nothing behind. You burn the world, Hammon, but you do not change it. Nature haunts your trail and returns to undo your works. I would challenge you, the most worthy of my own, to strive for more.”

The god knelt down without grace, for this was a movement he’d hardly ever done. Sarhush reached into the heart of the bonfire. The flames wrapped around his hand like a snug glove, but when he pulled it back, his skin was caked in soot and yet unburnt. He turned his hand over, and upon an open, blackened palm he presented a coal unlike any Hammon had ever seen.

It was white-hot and steady, giving off no smoke. Its light did not flicker. It did not consume the wood beneath it, though the wood glowed as if eager to be eaten. In many ways, it resembled the Me of Fire, until Sarhush blew upon it and coaxed it into a blaze upon his palm.

“This is not a fire you found,” the Patron of Fire said softly. “Nor one you called.”

“It is a fire that I would see endure,” Sarhush explained. “This is no ordinary flame; it is sacred, a test of things.”

He smeared his burning hand upon the ground beside the wedgestone; the coal rolled off and embedded into the earth, its fire diminishing as it spread from divine flesh onto mere twigs and leaves and grass. But it remained, its flame brighter and its heat greater than such a small fire ought to have had. The Me of Masonry warmed, but did not crack.

”I came to ask for my Mes back,” Sarhush started. A quieted hush fell over the excited humans, for they took it for a rebuke. ”But I am a generous god, and will give you two gifts in turn. First, I present more Mes.” He turned his sack over and shook it to let the contents spill forth. Clattering beside the Me of Masonry were the familiar Mes of Fire and Cooking that some among this tribe had seen before, but also two newer ones: Pottery and Slavery.

The crowd came forward to remisce over the old, and to rub their hands over each of the new in turn. Their hands could not linger long, so the lessons imparted were brief. Hammon’s gaze remained fixed upon Sarhush and the sacred fire; he might not have touched the Mes at all if someone hadn't thought to pick them up and brush them against his enraptured body.

“I permit you to hold these Mes now, but not to possess them. They must return to me, for the first gift is merely their knowledge. My second one is this sacred fire, and this one you may keep. Nourish the flame, and do not let it perish.”

Sarhush rose back to his feet. He thought for a moment, then continued, “Keep it alive not through carrying it endlessly, but by binding it to the world. Shape stone around it. Build a ring to house it, then erect a palace or a temple around that hearth. Then build your civilization around that center. Feed it without letting it roam. Let it burn long enough that the land remembers it. For so long as you do this, you retain my blessing.”

Hammon’s breath had quickened. His eyes shone, reflecting the pale fire until they seemed alight themselves. “And if it dies?” he asked.

Civilization would have demanded walls before flame, but Sarhush knew that to be backwards. His answer was, “Then you will be proven impotent, and a failure. If you cannot keep a single flame alight, what work by your hand could ever endure?”

Hammon’s jaw tightened as the words landed cleanly. He straightened, shoulders squaring, pride flaring brighter than any blaze.

“It will not die,” he said. “I will feed it forever. But I will do more than that!”

Glory suddenly came closer as if drawn to Hammon’s thoughts like a moth to flame.

Hammon squinted in the light of Glory to look past Sarhush and the Patrons then, beyond the hollow, beyond the forested lands they had already reduced to memory. “There are cliffs where the earth still smokes, where the air smells of brimstone and salt, and baths in the ground are always hot. We have passed that place before and moved on, but that will be where we return. That will be where we dwell.”

He bowed his head again, but this time it was not in submission, but to swear a vow to Ashuru itself.

“I will make a fire more potent even than that one,” Hammon murmured, but even over the bonfire’s roar, the straining ears of all those assembled heard him. “I will make a fire that does not flee, that outlasts forests and man and stone. Perhaps a fire that outlasts even gods.”

Glory swelled to a crescendo, blindingly radiant and terrible. Fire flared in cautious silence, trying to make sense of mortal hubris and madness. Lord Hierarchy observed dispassionately, more preoccupied with the notion that this sacred flame was somehow ranked above all others.

Sarhush studied Hammon for a long moment. Then, without another word, he nodded. He placed a hand upon the man’s shoulder, and offered the other to lift him to his feet. Then the god found his sack, dropped upon the ground, and proceeded to refill it with all the Mes all too soon. Hammon willingly offered up those of Toolmaking and Ashuru; it seemed a worthy trade to him at that moment, for some spark had ignited within him and now he thought only of fire.

As for the god, he hefted his sack of Mes in one hand, then turned to resume his journey across Ashuru. He did not look back to see who followed; he already knew that the humans were preparing to break camp and make for the land that would come to be called Hammonar, while the three Patrons followed him to seek out the next Me.

“A fixed flame will require fixed hands,” Lord Hierarchy commented to Sarhush. “They will learn quickly.”

---

There came a small mewing. She was cold and wet and hungry and scared. Her mewing was answered by a contented chitter, then a warm licking across her back, her stomach and sides. It was divine. This dried her and she no longer mewed. She then was lifted and placed down in a mass of warm bodies. She could not see them but she could smell them and the kitten knew she was safe. She was warm. She had a family. And, after a bit of work and another small mew, she found her dinner. Warm milk gushed down her throat and into her belly. She quickly fell asleep to a loud but content rumbling.

The days went by and the small kitten grew. She knew the smell of her mother and her siblings. When she mewed, her mother came. Even when she didn’t, she would be picked up and placed with her siblings. They were warm and her belly was often full of milk.

Her squirming gave way to very bad walking, before she could even see. And when her eyes at last opened, it was as if memories that were not her own could be seen in the wide world. She expected a wasteland, of black sand and ash and fire but what she found was the opposite. She was in a dark space, surrounded by other fuzzy lumps of white. Her siblings! And that larger shape that her siblings crawled over? That was mother! There was no fire and ash here, where had such thoughts come from? How did she even know what those were?

Days turned to weeks and the small kitten was often outside the den now. She could see the lush green world of her home in all its splendor. Green oceans of grass stretched beyond the horizon. Her siblings frolicked and played under vibrant flowers as the great light in the sky illuminated the world with its warmth. She had been confused at first when she had finally noticed the thing. It was hard to look at and gave a sense of… wrongness. But these thoughts were fickle and she knew not why they came at times in the quiet of night. She was too busy playing and stalking insects.

One warm day, her mother brought back a large furry thing with big teeth. She was hungry for milk and tried to get a teat but her mother gave a low hiss. The kitten paused, tried again, hissed at again and then forcefully nudged to correct her behavior. Their mother did this to each of them, and there were a few.

Her pride terribly wounded, the kitten turned her attention to the large furry thing that was stiff as a stick and sniffed it. Cold too. Before she could do anything more, her mother clawed at the thing and her great claws tore down the side of it, leaving large gashes of fur and skin. The smell of rust bloomed from the gash, now running red with blood. She sniffed it carefully before licking the substance. It… Wasn’t so bad? Not as good as milk by any means. Their mother then tore into the gash and her maw came back bloody, she threw the piece she had to the floor and one by one she and her siblings sniffed it. Until one of her brothers decided to gobble it up.

Then the frantic mewing started.

This became a daily occurrence as weeks turned to months. They still got their mother’s milk but it became less and less as they turned to solids. She and her siblings had grown larger, stronger and more capable. The grasslands of their home were no longer safe from them, especially when their mother began to bring back creatures that were still alive. She let them learn how to hunt this way and it was a thrill. But their mother seemed… disappointed in some way. What was she expecting or wanting? The kitten often rubbed up against her mother and purred but there came no answers.

She had become a bit of a boss to her siblings. She was in no way the largest, nor the strongest but she had wits about her. Her temperament was also regal and well refined for such a kitten her age. She played but it had to be on her own time. She napped when she liked and was not interrupted, else she gave the one who woke her a good smacking. She often got to eat first because she was lazy and decided to just finish the prey instead of playing with them. Try as her mother might to curb her behavior, the kitten had a calling deep within her soul to be doted upon at all times and to see the world as her own personal perch. What more could she ask for? Her fur was slick and cleaned at all times. Her claws were sharp. Her eyes focused. So what if she didn’t do the whole survival thing like what her mother wanted? It wasn’t like she was going to be kicked out and left to fend for herself. She was too important for that.

Now the kitten was out exploring one morning, just seeing what was around the den, and gradually climbing to the top where she could survey the land- when an odd thing happened.

She heard… a strange noise.

“There you are, my lord.” the sound said and she found herself being able to understand. At the mention of Lord, she remembered a dancing, glowing light, laughing and merry. She remembered a great fire that she ran from, the horned predator exploding with death. The great rain and the damp, damp, damp. Her hair stood on end as she jumped in the air, spinning around in a defensive position.

What she saw puzzled her senses. A thin creature of glittering skin, morphing into different lengths, with different colors and ornaments. It floated before her and had an exotic scent that made her want to sneeze. “ Long have I looked for you.” it said, drifting closer. “One who could finally match my grand designs.” It paused in its drifting, still as a tree. “But what’s this? You carry that light but the form…The form!” It spun and gave out a mighty cry. “Dashed, I say. I am dashed. My designs are ruined. How could this be? How could this be! Damn those divine idiots!” Its skin formed into a harsh grey, glittering with specks of blood and adorned with a deep shimmering gem. “Perhaps we shall have you try again!”

It charged at her, swinging itself down hard! The kitten jumped out of the way and when the creature came at her again, her claws slashed it but she only ended up hurting herself upon the skin. With a howl of frustration, she backed up as the thing advanced, laughing manically.

It was then she felt… cold. Worse than the chilly air of the morning or when she peeked out at night, away from the warmth of her family. This cold radiated deep inside and it sought release! She felt as if she was going to cough up a fur ball but instead a bead of ice ushered forth like a gale and smacked into the creature, knocking it off balance. She could control ice! This revelation sent a shiver of joy down her spine. Was this what mother had been waiting for?

“Why you-!” It called and the kitten focused once more.

It came at her again and as the kitten backed up to jump, her foot caught an odd angle of the rock and she sputtered, coming to a sprawl in the grass. With the terrible creature above her, she looked up and narrowed her eyes out of spite.

“ENOUGH!” There came a bright flash of golden light and the air began to shimmer. Strange horns trumpeted like birds and as the terrible creature seemed to shrink into itself, becoming a smaller, silver lined stick. The kitten could see why. Just beyond it, a great gleaming thing had come. The shape was odd. Like a smooth rock with blades of grass shooting out of its… crown. Silvery-white was the skin, adorned with faceted white gems and inlaid with a warm gold.

It towered above the floating stick and declared in a mighty voice, “You fool! My coming was yet to be, now forced by the likes of you. What do you say for yourself!”

“S-Sovereign, please. Have mercy. I meant no ill will upon you. This was just a lark, you see, a misunderstanding!” The stick quivered.

“A lark! A misunderstanding! I should have your title for this and seize all your holdings. A lark!” it spun in a wide arc, the air seeming to clap with its presence. “Please. Be off with you before I decide to have a misunderstanding of my own, Lordling.”

‘A thousand apologies, Sovereign. Thank you for your magnanimous generosity.” the stick sniveled.

“Be gone.” the Sovereign said with curt finality.

The stick then bowed, yes, bowed before vanishing in mid air!

The kitten was now alone with the gleaming creature and it was beginning to hurt looking at it. Somehow she could feel the weight of its gaze upon it, as if she were being crushed by stone.

It spoke but this time its voice was calm and collected, yet still weighty. “I apologize for the stupidity of my subject. I can glean the reasoning but condemn the means.” It paused before saying, “You have an old soul. One whose destiny ended before his time. The divine are cruel in that way. Thus I bestow upon you the birthright stolen. You shall not be a sniveling Lord, nor a Lady but a Monarch, a Sovereign- A Queen. Thus it is said, thus it IS.”
Something snapped into place inside the kitten- no, the Queen. She felt all at once the strongest she had ever been, and the most important being that had ever existed. She would be doted upon, loved, and cared for. She would rule her subjects with an iron claw. Mercy and punishment would flow from her mouth at a whim. This is what it meant to be Queen.

Her patron vanished with but one lingering thought shared between them- Rule.

So, the Queen went about her first royal action and frantically began to groom herself.

On the precipice of a cliff poured a waterfall. On the waterfall rolled a moon, turning over and over with the inertia of the pouring water. The waterfall itself went nowhere; the water vanished into a fine mist halfway down the cliff. The moon was perhaps not a real moon, for it was the size of a large boulder and did not possess its own gravitational cycle, but it was a moon of a kind, nonetheless.

Next to the moon floated a swirling spiral of black fog.

You throw hope at mortals, said the Patron of Oblivion. You allow them unfettered access to your realm’s potential. You’re a paltry excuse for a god.

Was Oblivion truly trying to exert their shared domain over Sirna? Laughable.

‘True oblivion is not achieved by forcing despair onto a mortal. Nor is it achieved by wrenching out a mortal’s deepest fears. Nor is it achieved by goading a mortal into another version of itself.’

Streams of water broke away from the waterfall’s constantly moving surface, trailing through the air to converge above the rolling moon. Inky black mixed with gently glowing bubbles within the water.

‘You rush affairs that should take their time. Let the mortals try. Let them succeed, if only for a brief moment. When they fail, and they will, it will be by their own doing. And when they are faced with no one but themselves to blame for their downfall...’ Sirna’s moon flashed a vibrant midnight blue. ‘That is oblivion.’

That is an overly complicated process with little payoff, snorted Oblivion.

‘You patrons are impatient creatures.’ The comment was said with no real heat. Sirna paused their moon’s rolling. ‘What do you think?’

The water dripped away, revealing two round miniature moons. The bigger one, pockmarked with jagged pits and craters, glowed deep violet. The second moon was a third of its size, a shimmery white thing. Closer inspection revealed that the shimmer was a result of fine dust gently revolving around its surface.

I care not for matters of the sky. Despite Oblivion’s dismissive words, its spiralling black slowed momentarily. What are you doing?

‘It is all well and good to incite suffering and despair for these mortals,’ said Sirna, ‘but such feelings mean little when their stories fade away in the passage of time.’

Water clapped shut over the moons.

Between one blink and the next, the sky grew dark. Those able to observe the change from Ashuru’s surface would see their brand new sun replaced by a black circle in the sky, silhouetted in violet. Day became a strange night in the span of a second.

‘Oblivion deserves a good omen,’ said Sirna. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

Orranoth
In Radanu, the people were still in peril. No one starved, but the land was filled with strife from their many neighbors. Some fought, and others had no home. Orranoth's expands the clouds above, and the climate zone moderately around the large region he had already done so, to account for the people's migration patterns. Orranoth was trying to pay attention to the people's traveling, slowly expanding his blessings to surrounding lands.
Meanwhile . . .
The Skyfather would call the Patrons of Magick together, if not in person, then to attention, at least to speak with him. He would ask the Patron of Messengers to deliver his message to all the other Patrons. "Ashuruh is in great danger. I admit that I am responsible, at least half way, for this. I only mean to bring life and blessing to Ashuruh, but I can see that I'm causing great harm in the mean time."
"I am asking that you all, work together with me to bring blessings and happiness to the world down below."
"In return, I will work to bring better relations between us, the gods, and you The Patrons and Matrons of the universe."

@Vec

Inside, the space was vast despite the ruin. The collapse had been selective, as though whatever force had built this place had protected what truly mattered. Debris littered the floor: chunks of that thought-substance, strange material half-dissolved in pools of lava, fragments of carved stone bearing symbols she did not recognize but which nonetheless resonated with meaning.

Around the perimeter, miraculously intact, stood twelve alcoves.

They had survived where walls had failed. Each was perfectly preserved, pristinely untouched by ash or lava, radiating the same quality of uncertain existence. More real than reality, more solid than solidity, as though they were carved not from matter but from necessity itself.

She approached the first alcove slowly, drawn by her ever-present curiosity. Up close, it hummed a strange tune that more so vibrated than sounded, should one even call it a sound. It resonated in the bronze of her skin, in the molten light beneath its cracks. Something floated within: a tiny star, no larger than her fist, spinning lazily in the alcove’s depths. It cast pinpricks of silver light across the ruined temple, cold and ancient and impossibly distant, despite its proximity.

She reached out, hesitant for the first time since her walking began, fingers stretching toward that captured starlight—

The star screamed.

There was no other word for it; A sound beyond hearing, a frequency that bypassed ears entirely, striking directly at the marrow of existence. The tiny light collapsed inward, folding into itself with desperate violence, growing brighter and brighter as it shrank smaller and smaller. For one crystalline instant, it was a point of absolute radiance, a memory of everything that stars had ever been: cold, distant, and watchful.

Then it died.

The implosion sent cracks racing across the alcove’s surface, like lightning frozen in stone. The woman stumbled back, eyes wide, as the fissures spread and deepened, and then fire erupted from within. Not lava-fire, nor earth-fire, but something fiercer, something that burned with intention and will. Golden flames consumed the alcove’s interior, devouring the darkness where the star had floated, replacing silver light with blazing gold.

When the flames finally settled, the alcove had transformed. Where cold starlight had dwelt, now a miniature sun hovered—fierce and young and alive in a way the star had never been. The cracks in the alcove’s surface had sealed themselves with veins of molten gold, and the vibration she had felt was now not the patient hum of distant light, but the roaring pulse of something demanding to be seen.

She pressed her palm against the alcove’s surface, and the sensation immediately overwhelmed her.

Heat. Glory. Light that does not merely illuminate, but commands. Fire as transformation, as judgment, as gift. The blaze that nurtures and the blaze that consumes. Dawn as promise, Noon as dominion. The eye that watches from above, that sees all shadows and permits none. Youth. Fury. The refusal to be ignored.

The woman gasped, pulling her hand back, eyes wide with surprise. The sensation lingered in her palm, crawling up her arm. More so foreign than unpleasant, it was something she had not been before touching, something she now contained. This alcove had changed while she watched—it had died and been reborn.

The second alcove felt different. She touched it with both hands this time, more boldly, curious to experience the distinction.

Edges. Divisions. The line between war and peace, between order and chaos. Blood spilled with purpose. Blood spilled with meaning. The moment before battle, and the moment after. The silence when the screaming stops. Sacrifice as currency, as language. The weight of what is given up and what is gained.

She moved to the third, then the fourth, touching each with growing eagerness, collecting sensations like the child she resembled collecting flowers.

Chance. Unpredictability. The tumbling of dice, the turning of cards. The laughter that comes when control is released. Joy without reason. Risk without regret. The gamble that is living, the play that is existing. The game that never ends.

Death. Ending. The quiet after breath ceases. The darkness that is not absence but presence; darkness as shelter, as rest, as the soft closing of the eyes. The veil between what is and what was. The embrace that all things return to. Potentially, even, the last kindness.

Discovery. The burning need to know. The spark that ignites in mortal minds. The reaching towards understanding. Glory earned through trial. Eminence achieved through suffering. The catalyst that breaks. The genius that emerges. The star that burns brightest before going dark.

Sky. Expanse. The dome that contains all things. Weather as mood, as judgment, as gift. Rain that nourishes, wind that scours. The space between earth and void. Magic as the world speaking to itself. Power drawn from the world’s very existence.

Kingdom. Hierarchy. The pyramid of power, the throne atop it all. Civilization as structure. Civilization as control, with the strong commanding and the weak obeying. The chain that binds society together, or strangles it. Progress through domination. Order through force.

Life. Growth. The explosion of green, the persistence of roots, the stubbornness of seeds. Nature as force, nature as law. The beast’s hunger, the plant’s reaching, the animal’s instinct. The wild that refuses taming. The primal that remembers itself forever.

Dream. The space between waking and sleeping. Oblivion as a gift, as a curse, and even as a teacher. Visions granted and taken. The realm where reality softens, where possibility expands. Inspiration that destroys. Hope that builds. The beautiful lie that makes truth bearable.

Deception. Masks. The face shown versus the face hidden. Corruption as transformation, as perversion, as the slow rot that changes what-is into what-should-not-be. The whisper in the dark, the poison in the honey. The smile with hidden intent. The truth that lies. The lies that become truth.

The eleventh alcove surprised her. Where the others had felt like single voices, this one sang in curious duality. Two melodies intertwined, neither dominant, neither submissive.

Surface. Calm. The mirror that reflects the sky, peaceful and inviting, promising gentle passage. The lapping of waves against the shore. The glitter of sunlight on water. The sailor’s hope and the swimmer’s joy. The endless blue that stretches to the horizon and whispers of freedom.

Then, beneath it, somewhere darker and deeper.

Depths. Pressure. The crushing weight of fathoms. The darkness where light has never reached, where currents drag the unwary down and into the unknown. Teeth in blackness. Cold that numbs. The drowned who do not return. The secrets the surface hides. The hunger that waits below the glitter, patient and ancient and vast.

She pulled her hand away more slowly from this one. It felt incomplete, as though the alcove waited for something, someone, to claim it fully. Like it waited to give voice to either the calm or the chaos, or the terrible beauty of both. An empty throne awaiting its monarch.

By the time she reached the twelfth alcove, she was trembling. Not from fear—she had yet to learn what that was—but from the accumulated weight of knowledge that she had absorbed. Each touch had added something to her understanding, layers upon layers of sensations and meanings that her newly-awakened consciousness struggled to organize.

The twelfth alcove felt like home.

Earth. Stone. The foundation beneath all things. Secrets buried in layers. Treasures hidden in darkness. The slow patience of geology. The deep places where light does not reach. The strength that endures. The silence that protects. The underground that remembers.

She pressed her forehead against it, eyes closing, and for a moment simply stood, breathing, feeling the resonance of herself reflected back. This one knew her. This one was her, in some way she could not articulate but felt with absolute certainty.

When she finally pulled away, the fissures in her skin were glowing so brightly that shadows fled to the alcove’s depths, retreating away from sight, away from mind.

---

The throne sat at the chamber’s center, though ‘sat’ was generous. It had collapsed partially into the lava that had pooled around its base, tilting the seat at an angle, half-submerged in molten stone. The back had cracked down the middle, whilst one armrest had been sheared off entirely. What remained was less furniture and more of ‘a monument’ to furniture. The idea of a throne where the throne had once been.

She waded into the lava to reach it.

The molten rock parted around her feet, or perhaps her feet passed through it, or perhaps there was no meaningful difference between her flesh and the earth’s blood. Steam rose where her legs submerged, but the lava did not burn her, did not consume her. If anything, it seemed to recognize her, flowing around her form with the deference of a subject moving aside for royalty.

She reached the throne’s base and crouched, studying the carving she could see despite the magma that obscured it. The symbols wrote themselves directly into her awareness, bypassing eyes entirely.

Who made us?

⚬──────────────────────────────✧──────────────────────────────⚬

The cavern listened. Khthon’s call echoed through crystal and stone, through geometries that predated his awakening, through structures that remembered a time before gods walked Ashuru’s skin. The Great Bell hung motionless in the refracted light, its surface crawling with symbols that refused to hold still, and yet as the God of Earth and Secrets spoke his demand, something shifted.

Not the Bell itself—the Bell remained as it had always been: immense, silent, patient. However, the script upon its surface began to glow, re-arrange slowly into something that, albeit still erratic, resembled patterns that lingered a bit. As if recognizing a kindred nature in the one who asked the void a question. Secrets calling to secrets, depths acknowledging depths, the void answering back.

The crystal roots are not stone, they are not mineral. They are something older—frozen thought, crystallized intentions, the skeletal structure of a mind too vast to truly comprehend even. They spread beneath Ashuru, like neurons beneath mortal flesh, carrying signals that were never meant for gods to intercept.

Something clicked in Khthon’s mind at that revelation. He had known that the roots had been something other. Though they dwelled in his realm, they stood apart from the rest. He had often wondered about their true nature. He now had an answer.

Once, they pulsed with rhythm, carrying dreams from somewhere deep—deeper than earth, deeper than the black sand, deeper than anything Khthon has yet to dig up or discover. The rhythm was slow, patient. The rhythm of something asleep.

And yet, the rhythm has faltered.

The cataclysms of recent days: the tearing of the world, the birth of the sun, the reshaping of seas and mountains, the utter devouring of the surface by plants and mortals alike… All of it sent shockwaves through the root network. Many died. Many more were damaged. The Bell registered each loss as a discordant note, a skipped beat in a song that has been playing since before memory.

Khthon became very, very still. He could feel it, a great and terrible truth was about to make itself known.

But the roots are not dying because they were truly damaged, no. They are dying because the rhythm itself is changing. Something stirs in the deep, something that was meant to sleep for ages yet. The roots feel it, and they are afraid.

The impressions faded as quickly as they came, leaving Khthon with fragments of memory rather than true answers. The Bell’s script resumed its chaotic dance, symbols scattering like startled fish, but for one moment. One single phrase held steady at the Bell’s crown before dissolving:

Then it was gone, and the Bell was merely a Bell again. Ancient, sure, but offering nothing more. Yet the roots beneath, those very ones that Khthon had tended and healed across all of Ashuru, hummed with a frequency he definitely had not noticed before. Neither pain nor death, but sheer anticipation.

A great fear took hold of Khthon. He could not gasp for he did not breathe, sweat for he did not have skin, or shake for he did not have nerves, but his body still showed his emotions. Cracks on the stone, small flakes chipping off and falling to the ground, dust and sand flying everywhere… He could barely hold himself together.

They were not the first, his God-Siblings and him. Something else lay within their world. And in their youth and ignorance, they had been careless. Too quick. Too rash. They had pushed the world too hard, shaped it with no regard to what might have come before them or any role they had been meant to play. Whatever slumbered was waking up because of them.

Khthon… Khthon could not do anything about it on his own. Mitigation would no longer work. It was too big, too much. Past differences be damned, he needed to find the others… or at least those that would be willing to listen.

”We did this… It’s our fault…” he whispered. ”Can we even fix it…?”

Excelsium was ever-growing.

Today was no different. Men with primitive tools were tilling the soil so it was ready to receive the seeds. The hill in the background was getting more and more covered by peculiar, wooden buildings. The earthquake-resistant techniques were maintained by the demanding foresight of Pira, First Citizen of Excelsium. Back in the fields, further away, a hulking creature of wood marched. Ropes were strapped to its back, dragging shallow rakes through the soil. It was surrounded by eager mages examining their own work.

The river crossing passed without incident. The water was steady, the current mild enough that even the heaviest packs made it across with no issue. Once on the far bank, the caravan reformed quickly, shaking out cloaks, tightening straps and resuming their northward path as if the river had been nothing more than a pause in conversation. Luck held, for now.

Beyond the river, the land opened into wider plains. Grass rolled gently with the wind, broken only by patches of worked earth and faint tracks pressed into the soil by repeated passage. This was not wilderness anymore, not quite. The signs were subtle at first, trampled paths, straightened ground, a way to the land that nature did not choose on its own. The caravan slowed, eyes lifting toward the horizon.

Shapes emerged in the distance. People, dozens of them, scattered across the fields. Men and women bent to the soil with crude tools, moving in rhythm. Farther back, a hill rose, its slope increasingly crowded with wooden structures stacked and braced in careful ways, unmistakably deliberate. Even from this distance, the settlement felt busy, alive, expanding.

Game Master Eht’Redart raised a hand and the group eased into a tighter formation. “Eyes open,” they called quietly, not alarmed but alert. “No trouble expected, but we don’t assume kindness.” Their gaze lingered on a massive figure of wood moving through the far fields, ropes trailing behind it as it dragged rakes through the soil, people clustered nearby like parents admiring a dangerous child. Civilization, clearly.

A child saw the strangers first. Excelsium had a few families living further away who often visited the village. They did not look like them. Her eyes locked onto the strange, gleaming circle on their foreheads. The girl screamed and ran over to her mother. Her father came out wielding a stone hoe. Other men gathered from the fields. A young boy was already running for the hilltop village. Everyone was keeping their distance, until one man stepped forward.

“Hail stranger.” One older man said. “You’re not from these parts, are you?”

Eht’Redart lifted one hand and the caravan halted as one. She stepped forward alone, unarmed, her pace calm. When she reached a respectful distance from the old man, she bowed her head gently. A smile settled on her face, warm and practiced.

“You would be correct,” she said lightly, her voice carrying. “If we were from these parts, I imagine I’d recognize the soil on my feet and it’s clearly offended by my presence.” She glanced down briefly, then back up at the man, amusement flickering in her eyes. “We come from the south, from Gamblerdise, ever kept safe under the watchful eye of our great God protector.”

She straightened, hands open at her sides. “We’re traders, not scouts and certainly not dangerous,” Eht’Redart continued, tone easy. “Food, some crafted goods, a bit of curious stone and conversation, if it’s welcome.” Her gaze swept the gathered faces, then returned to the older man. “So I’ll ask plainly, before chance decides for us, do you allow strangers into your village or would you prefer we admire your fields from a distance and move on?”

“It’s not for me to say but…” The old man looked back at the group of people behind him. More were coming from the village. “There is common hospitality here for strangers.” He said with a smile. “Come! Come.” He said as he motioned them to come closer. The crowd, at first on edge, was now quickly dissipating again. Families from far away had come to Excelsium before. Many of them took the bread and joined. Once the possibility of danger was gone, they all returned to work.

The old man, Zhegrim, guided the new ‘traders’ closer towards the hill. Near the foot of it was a small clearing filled with simple benches. “Sit, please. Pira, our leader, will appear soon.” Said Zhegrim, he returned to the field. His word was true. Barely a few minutes later, a procession came from the village with an old yet fiery lady at the front.

Eht’Redart inclined her head to Zhegrim, the smile never leaving her face. “Hospitality is a language we speak well,” she replied, then turned just enough to lift two fingers. The caravan moved at once, silence only broken by jokes made between the other members, following her toward the hill. When they reached the clearing, she waited until benches were taken before kneeling to loosen the straps of her pack, setting it carefully on the ground. One by one, the others did the same, food sacks, Fortunie and packs of jewellery laid out openly, nothing hidden, nothing clutched.

“You must be the strangers. I am Pira.” The old woman greeted Eht’Redart with grandmotherly warmth. A few older children moved from behind her, bearing crude vessels of water and cups. Pira herself took the first cup poured and drank from it. “In all my life I have never seen anyone the likes of you.” She croaked a little. “Tell me, where are you from?”

She rose as the procession approached, giving Pira a respectful bow, slower this time, acknowledging age and authority both. “Gamblerdise,” Eht’Redart said when asked, her voice calm and steady. “A valley south of here, tucked away enough that most people only find it when chance decides they should.” She gestured vaguely, not toward any path but toward an idea of direction. “We only started trading as we've found ourselves have surplus of crafted goods.”

As cups were passed and the others settled, murmurs turning into laughter, Eht’Redart accepted the water but did not drink yet. “You asked where we are from and there will be more questions, I imagine,” she said, eyes bright. “In Gamblerdise, we find it faster and more honest, to answer such things with a game. Fewer speeches, less posturing, better truths. If you’re willing, Pira, I would rather play than lecture.”

Around them, the rest of the caravan began to occupy themselves. Dice appeared in hands, bits of bone and wood laid out on the ground. Quiet contests formed without announcement, counting games, chance throws, pattern guessing. Nothing loud or aggressive, just motion and focus while they waited. Eht’Redart glanced back at them once, satisfied, then returned her attention fully to Pira. “One simple game,” she added lightly. “You ask. I answer. Then my turn.”

“I haven’t played many games since I was a little girl.” Pira let out a little giggle. Her attendants looked a bit confused. Excelsis did not explicitly frown upon games, but the implicit waste of time was not looked upon favorably. “You will find Excelsium, this place, to be a place of posturing. It's not unearned, I would add. Anyway, I have asked and gotten my answer. I believe the rules make it your turn now.” She said with a gentle smile. The attendants around her remained ready to offer fruits and water. Eyes wandered over the baubles and jewelry gleaming in the open. Yet no one moved. More eyes than theirs were watching the scene.

“…You haven’t played many games?” one of the group echoed, as if the words needed to be tested aloud. There was no accusation in the tone, just disbelief. Another one let out a short, surprised laugh before catching themselves, hand rising to their mouth. “I mean, not many is one thing, but…” They trailed off, glancing around as if the rest of the group might supply a missing explanation.

“That’s…impressive,” someone else said after a beat, uncertain whether it was meant as praise. “Or tragic. I can’t quite decide.” A bench creaked as its occupant leaned back, studying Pira with renewed interest. “You’re telling me not cards, not dice, not even some idle nonsense?” The question was softer than it sounded, edged with genuine curiosity rather than judgment.

A low murmur followed, quiet exchanges overlapping. “How do you pass the time?” “What do you wager on, then?” “No games at all, not even forbidden ones?” The last earned a few crooked smiles. Even those used to restraint seemed unsettled, like discovering a shared childhood story that one person had somehow skipped entirely.

In contrast the young attendants of Excelsium looked nervously at each other but didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. For those lacking the sacred spark, a life of discipline was implicit. Pira, for her part did let out an almost childish giggle at the idea of forbidden ones. The young ones could deny all they wanted but she knew that sometimes they were played.

Eht’Redart coughed once, sharp and deliberate and the murmuring died instantly. “Alright, that’s enough chatter and staring,” she said, waving a hand.

“Listen, games make everything better. Work, rest, arguments, life. In Gamblerdise, chance isn’t a flaw, it’s the point.” She leaned forward, voice warming as she spoke. “Jobs are drawn, not assigned. Daily tasks, decided by roll or spin. We play for who cooks, who cleans, who forages, who follows. Disputes are settled with rules instead of grudges. And yes,” she added with a grin, “we play every day. If you don’t, the day feels unfinished.” She reached out, took one of the cups from Pira's attendants, and drank it in one smooth motion. Then she grabbed from her pack, a waterskin filled with a sugary, alcoholic in nature substance, filled the cup she had and offered it to Pira “Come on,” Eht’Redart said lightly, “it’s easier to understand games after a drink.”

There was a silent horror that rippled through the attendants, through Pira and then through the other people that had gathered. Whispers spread fast. The idea of constantly switching jobs was anathema to expertise. How could a farmer know his field well, if tomorrow he could be a shepherd? No, Excelsium had no time for such frivolity. Even with the excess of food.

As soon as Pira would take the cup, the question came. "Do you serve a God or have you been abandoned by your creator? We ask to know who we give thanks for the hospitality."

“We worship all the gods. All the gods known to us at least. Like Khton, the lord of the stony depths. But the one god who blessed us all is Excelsis, the Lord-Eminence.” Pira explained. Afterwards she took a slight sip of the cup and fought to keep it down. She took a second to look at the cup. “Did you give me the… grog?” She asked, hoping she’d get the half-pleasant buzz instead of the illness. Grog was another thing Excelsium didn’t favor. It took too much, many of the thinkers and great fighters of the village thought. Of course, some people still consumed it. Pira hoped to never have to drink it again after she got a particularly potent sickness of the stomach from it.

Eht’Redart burst into laughter at the question and shook her head as if to chase away the very idea. “No, no, not the grog,” she said, still smiling. “Alechior’s grog isn’t for everyone. Honestly, it’s barely for anyone.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I love it, of course, but I also enjoy poor decisions and strong outcomes. That one,” she nodded at Pira’s cup, “is the polite version.”

“It’s just alcohol, really,” Eht’Redart continued, tapping the rim of the cup with one finger. “Fermented, softened with fruit so it doesn’t bite back quite as hard. Sweet enough to trick you, strong enough to remind you why you shouldn’t rush it.” Her grin widened. “Grog doesn’t trick you. It announces itself and dares your stomach to argue.”

She inclined her head respectfully as Pira spoke of the gods. “We know Khton,” Eht’Redart said evenly. “The stony depths don’t forget their due. Every seven suns, we pay tribute. Not because we fear him, but because he’s honest. Stone takes, stone gives. That’s a kind of fairness we respect.” A few of the caravan folk nodded along, as if this were routine rather than revelation.

“As for Excelsis,” Eht’Redart went on, her tone turning curious, “that name is new to us. Lord-Eminence...we don’t know of her.” She gestured toward Pira and the village beyond. “If there’s a representative, a voice, a hand that speaks for Excelsis here, we would like to meet them. It’s only polite to greet the one who blesses a place, especially when you’re sitting on their land and drinking their water.”

“There is… a piece of him around here, named Meris.” Pira said carefully. “But he has a rule. Mortal matters demand mortal attentions. He will not want to meet with you. I do hope you will not take it as an insult.” Pira said as she took the tiniest sip of the alcohol. “The water and land here are not his. What you are drinking is of us, Excelsium, the people.”

“In the age of calamity, he guided us here, taught us how to tend the lend and build in such a way that a quake will not destroy it. He promised to silence the volcano and-” She raised a hand and motioned towards the Monster in the background. “It has been quiet ever since. He also blessed a few worthy among us with genius. In return he asks that we prepare ourselves for our divine destiny.” Pira knew she was polterizing but something inside of her compelled her to do it. In Excelsium, all gods were worshipped but Excelsis was elevated above them all. As he should be. After all he did not just raise them up. He also gave them the metaphorical tools to to keep climbing themselves.

“I suppose by the rules of your game it is now my turn.” Pira said, and then pondered the question. Her eyes looked over the baubles and goods spread around. People would gather around the new strangers soon to see what was happening and some would want the shiny things. “Would you mind terribly if I unleashed the ruckus? My people will be wanting to trade for these goods of yours, and it might cause a bit of noise.”

At the mention of “a piece of him,” something shifted at the far end of the caravan. One of the traders, a woman who had remained quiet until now, lifted her head sharply. For the briefest moment, the small yellow circle on her forehead brightened, not flaring, not demanding attention, just enough to be noticed if one happened to be looking. Then it dimmed again, settling back into its usual soft glow.

“A piece of a god that prefers mortals to solve mortal problems,” she said lightly. “That sounds familiar.” She inclined her head, respectfully. “Ours does much the same. Alechior pulled Villagxor and the first of Gamblerdise out of certain death and dropped them into a valley that didn’t care much for rules. Then left them to figure out how to live with that.”

She let out a short laugh. “They gave us happiness, games and a sense that survival does not have to be grim to be earned. The rest,” she gestured vaguely behind her at the caravan and its people, “we built ourselves. Slowly. Loudly.”

When Pira spoke of noise, Eht’Redart’s amusement deepened. “Noise?” she echoed, then laughed outright. “If Gamblerdise ever went quiet, we’d assume something had gone terribly wrong.” She lifted her cup in mock solemnity. “Dice clatter, arguments, singing, groaning over bad odds, cheering over worse ones. That’s just breathing to us.”

She took another drink, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and nodded once, decisive. “So yes,” she said easily. “Unleash the ruckus. If your people want to trade, let them come. Noise means interest. Interest means life.”

Around them, the caravan shifted in response to her tone. Packs were nudged open a little wider. Shiny Fortunite charms caught the light. The traders did not push forward, they simply waited.

Eht’Redart looked back to Pira, expression open and sincere beneath the humor. “If Excelsium climbed because a god gave them tools,” she said, “then we are not so different. We just prefer our tools...a bit unstable and our steps decided by chance.”

Pira returned the sincere look. “We may be very different, but we have a lot in common indeed.” She said with a smile, then raised her arms in an almost theatrical ritual that would banish some sort of invisible barrier that kept discipline. As she held her hands high she let out a sigh and said: “Go have your fun.” And dropped her arms quickly.

Around Pira and Eht’Redart the ruckus exploded. The band of Excelians rushed around them to start talking with the traders. Many of them offered the one thing Excelsium had in massive excess: food. Carrots, cabbages, potatoes and more were offered. From the shepherd tribes that first assimilated thanks to Hector dried meat was also offered. Bigger offers were made: an invitation for a home cooked meal or the promise of a hearty stew. One thing was certain though, Excelium had no fear of strangers.

“Come, I should show you the village.” Pira said as she stood up. As First Citizen she felt it was her duty show her through the village. Despite the ruckus with the traders, there were plenty of people in and around their houses. All of them gave Pira a pleasant wave as they busied themselves. It didn’t take long for her to reach the central plaza.

“That-” Pira said while she aimed at a very open building. “Is our temple.” It was hard to even call it a building. It had barely any walls or a roof. She stepped inside and showed the many pedestals of wood. One bore the wooden carvings of a half stone-half man creature that Pira explained to be a likeness of Khton. Another looked more like a crude cloud. Yzechr, the murky guide. Then there was Orranoth, first of the Magi, shown as a man wielding lightning. “There are more gods, but these are the ones we know of.”

Fortunite wrapped in cloth, small glinting shards catching the light. Bottles of alcohol changed hands quickly, sniffed, sampled, laughed over. Fortunite jewelry seemed to get the most attention, they were not ornate, but warm to the touch.

When Pira stood and gestured for her to follow, Eht’Redart went readily. They moved through the village at an unhurried pace, the sound of trading fading into a background hum. Whenever someone waved at Pira, Eht’Redart returned it with a respectful nod, trying to match their intent.

The temple came into view quickly. Open, unfinished, honest. Eht’Redart studied the pedestals one by one. Khton, solid and grounded. Yzechr, vague and uncertain. Orranoth, lightning caught mid-declaration. She tilted her head, thoughtful. “You’re missing one,” she said gently. “Alechior isn’t here.”

Before Pira could answer, footsteps sounded behind them. Familiar ones. Soft feet, an unhurried pace Eht’Redart had seen a hundred times on the road. She turned already expecting one of the caravan, then stopped short.

The air shifted, subtle but undeniable. Not a threat, not a flare of power, just a quiet pressure that settled into the chest and refused to be ignored. Eht’Redart’s eyes widened as instinct finally caught up with sensation. The face was known. The posture was known. The presence behind it absolutely was not. She bowed low without thinking, heart skipping. “No…” she murmured. “You were with us the whole way.”

The woman looked exactly as she always had. Dusty feet wear, travel-worn clothes, the faint yellow circle on her forehead glowing brighter than before. She laughed at Eht’Redart’s tone, warmly. “I mean,” she said, “I didn’t lie. I just…didn’t explain.” She spread her arms as if this clarified everything. “Hard to enjoy a trip if everyone starts panicking and praising me...”

Eht’Redart straightened, awe and disbelief mixing on her face. The power she felt was unmistakable now, not hers, not anyone mortal’s. Alechior’s, without question. She swallowed and dipped her head again, deeper this time. Mini’A caught the motion and grinned. “Oh don’t do that too much,” she said, waving it off. “I’m not here here.” She gave Pira a playful nod. “Mini’A. avatar of Alechior,” she added. “Trader, terrible secret-keeper, occasional mistake.” Her smile sharpened with delight. “And yes. This trip? Still incredibly fun.”

A sense of worry went over Pira. “You should be more careful.” She warned immediately. “I do not know the customs of gods, but I doubt any would enjoy subterfuge. If Miras were to know that you entered through obfuscation…” Pira let the sentence dangle like a noose. Mortal matters demand mortal attentions. Divine matters demand divine ones.

Mira’A tilted her head, considering Pira’s warning with an expression that was far too relaxed for the implication. “If I wished to be hidden,” she said calmly, “I would have stayed that way.” She gestured lightly around the temple, the pedestals, the sky above. “I walked in here on my own feet. No masks, no tricks. You said it yourself, divine matters demand divine hands. This,” she added with a small smile, “counts.”

Then she laughed, as if the thought truly amused her. “And if that still isn’t reassuring enough,” she went on, tone playful, “then don’t worry.” She tapped her chest once with a thumb. “Daddy dearest would step in long before anything unpleasant happened.” Her grin widened. “They’re very protective. Pretends they aren’t, but they absolutely are.”

“Do you think they would be fast enough?” A voice that wasn’t quite human asked from behind her. There stood the large figure of Meris. He did not look particularly pleased with Mini’A. “You have three sentences to convince me you will not be the source of pain and trouble in this land.”

Mini’A’s grin widened the moment the voice reached her, delighted in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. She turned slowly, eyes already alight with recognition of godly power and offered Meris an exaggerated, theatrical bow. “Oh, there you are,” she said cheerfully. “I was wondering when Excelsis would send someone tall and ominous to loom properly.” She straightened and tilted her head. “For the record, Daddy Dearest does not need to be fast when it comes to other avatars. Only with Excelsis herself. Different leagues, different rules.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, rocking on her heels as if this were a pleasant social visit rather than a divine inspection. “Neither Alechior nor I are your villains,” Mini’A continued, her tone light but no longer careless. “We protect what is ours. Gamblerdise exists because we pulled people out of certain death and gave them a place where chance is kinder than fate ever was. Refugees arrive there almost every other day. Starving, hunted, broken. They are fed, sheltered, taught and allowed to stay if they wish. No chains. No oaths forced down their throats.”

Her smile softened, just a little, enough to let the weight of her words settle. “There is pain in this land, that's true, but it is not coming from us,” Mini’A said, meeting Meris’s gaze. “We clean up what the world discards. We keep people alive long enough to laugh again. If that is trouble, then it is the gentlest kind you will ever encounter.”

Meris’ judgement did not come fast. His eyes locked onto Pira. “They’re a frivolous sort.” To Pira, that was a terrible and harsh condemnation. Though she doubted Eht or this Mini’A would comprehend it as such. “Consort with them, but be sure the people do not… become them.” He said, before walking away.

Pira let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. Then she looked at Mini’A and the other pedestals around. “Well… Mini’A… We’ve never had a representative of another god here in Excelsium. Could I convince you to make a likeness of your… father for our temple?”

Mini’A tilted her head, lips curling into a grin that was far too pleased for a freshly delivered judgement. “Frivolous,” she repeated, tasting the word like a sweet. “That’s almost flattering. I was expecting reckless, heretical or irresponsible. Frivolous feels gentle, too gentle.” She glanced in the direction Meris had gone, then leaned in towards Pira, conspiratorially. “I’ll take it. My father collects titles and that one is new.”

She straightened, eyes bright with mischief. “And that bit about consorting, but not becoming us,” she added, unable to help herself. “Oh, that was my favorite. As if devotion were contagious. Stand too close and suddenly you’re rolling dice, questioning destiny and smiling at bad odds.” Mini’A chuckled softly. “Very generous of him, really. Permission to visit but not to enjoy it too much. That sounds exactly like someone who has never tried.”

Turning to Pira, Mini’A reached into her pack and withdrew something heavy with a solid motion. A single die, but very large, a mortal would struggle to hold it, caught the light. Its faces were very well cut. She held it out in one hand, respectful despite the humor still dancing in her eyes. “No need for convincing,” she said simply. “Alechior doesn’t require persuasion, only acknowledgment.”

Her smile softened, just a touch, as the die rested between them. “A likeness can be made, of course,” Mini’A continued. “Statue, symbol, story, whatever suits Excelsium’s sensibilities. But this,” she tapped the die, “this is closer to him than any carved face. Chance given form. Possibility made honest. Use this, Pira. Consider it a gift.”

The old woman’s eyes lit up. “That would do most wonderful indeed!” She said. “If you could put it on an open pedestal, then we’ll make sure it gets the acknowledgement and worship it deserves.”

Mini’A glanced at the open pedestal, then back at the die in her hands, eyebrows lifting as she grinned. “Are you sure you don’t want to put it there yourself?” she said lightly. “Wouldn’t want to drop it. Fortunite has a sense of humor about gravity.” As if to prove the point, she began to juggle the die lazily from one hand to the other, the heavy thing moving with ease. After a heartbeat, she stepped forward anyway, the joke spent and set the die squarely upon the pedestal herself.

At her side, Eht'Redart tried her best not to laugh a Mini'A's antics but couldn't help herself and a polite chuckle escaped her lips before covering it up with a cough.

Pira, for her part, let out another sigh of relief. She was not looking forward to being tested with such a large and sacred object. “Thank you. Well… I think that only leaves the Magi.” She said as she began to walk out of the temple. “I must warn you, they are a… strange lot.” Which was underselling it. Aristel’s students were a strange mixture of genius and maddened. They spoke in weird ways, either ignored you or bombarded you with questions and often made requests for the strangest of materials. If they didn’t bring great prosperity to the village, she would’ve considered exiling them all.

Mini’A waved a hand over her shoulder, already half turned, and snapped her fingers once. “Eht’Redart, off you go,” she said cheerfully. “Rejoin the caravan, make friends, you know the drill.” The Ehr'Redart hesitated only a moment before obeying, retreating toward the bustle beyond the temple. Mini’A watched her go, then glanced back at Pira with a grin. “I’ll keep touring with you. And I promise I’ll behave. Consider me one of you for now.”

At the mention of a “strange lot,” Mini’A laughed outright. “Oh, that’s my favorite kind of warning. When people say strange like that, it usually means interesting or dangerous, or both.” Her amusement grew as the Magi came into view, eyes distant, hands in the air or muttering to themselves. Mini’A stepped closer, cleared her throat theatrically, even gave a small wave. None of them noticed. One walked straight past her, another stared directly through her as if she were furniture. The grin on her face slowly twisted into something impressed.

She leaned toward Pira, lowering her voice just enough to sound genuinely curious. “Alright,” Mini’A said, tilting her head as she watched a Magus moving around absentmindedly, “what exactly are these people?” Her eyes flicked back to the group. “And more importantly, what in all the odds is a Magi?”

“As I understand it: they call upon a Patron of something through a ritual and then somehow bid it to do something for them. If the ritual is performed right, the Patron does what is asked. Like there.” Pira pointed deeper into the small field where the Magi were working. One was in the process of making a wood golem as they spoke. The ritual was just finished, but instead of the wood moving, the Magi casting the ritual shuddered for a second and then fell backwards. Stiff as a board. “Sometimes they don’t get it quite right, and that happens.” Pira said with a half-smile.

“Still, they are very important to Excelsium. You might have seen the golems working the field as you entered the village. Without them, we’d have to toil even harder for even less food.” Pira explained. The Magi weren’t paying them any attention still. Most of them didn’t even look after their paralyzed colleague. They were drawing circles in the dirt and bringing forth strange objects like a femur or animal fat. In the distance, a loud debate erupted over the use of burned, burning, or yet to be burned wood.

Mini’A went quiet for a moment, eyes tracking the fallen Magi, then the stubbornly wooden golem that refused to become anything more. “So,” she said slowly, thoughtful rather than annoying for once, “you ask a very specific something to do a very specific thing and if you phrase it wrong, you get a nap you did not agree to.” She glanced at the stiff body on the ground, then back at the circles and bones. “That sounds less like magic and more like aggressive paperwork.” A beat passed, then she smiled. “Effective, though. When it works. I’ll give it that.”

She watched another Magi smear animal fat into a rune with absolute confidence. “Can anyone learn to do this,” Mini’A asked, turning to Pira, “or is this one of those situations where the universe picks favorites and laughs at the rest of us?” Her gaze flicked back to the rituals. “Because if this can be taught, I imagine there are a lot of people who would love to trade farm aches for accidentally paralyzing themselves once a week.” She tilted her head. “And if it cannot be taught, who decides who gets to bargain with these…Patrons?”

After a moment, curiosity properly sparked, she added, “Also, you said ritual magic like it was a category.” She grinned again, sharp and eager. “Does that mean there are other kinds? Different rules, different risks, different ways to mess it all up?” Mini’A gestured vaguely at the arguing Magi. “Because if this is just one flavor, I suddenly feel like I walked into the kitchen and found out the menu is much bigger than I thought. Daddy dearest will be very…interested in this.”

“Aristel, the… discoverer of this Magicks theorized in the last few days of his life that there were other ways to channel Ideals into desired outcomes, but he did not have the time to turn his theories into practice. For now, Excelsium focuses on Magick.” Pira explained, at the best of her abilities. The Magi Arts were still very esoteric, down to almost arbitrary to her. She was told the items used in the rituals were of some significance to the called-upon Patron but she never saw the connections.

Instead of answering the questions of Mini’A further, and probably inaccurately, she called out one of the Magi she knew. “Cenna.” She said. “This is Mini’A, one of the traders. She would like to know more about Magick, it’s pushback and how it can be learned.”

The man, Cenna, looked rather bored having to speak to the women. He scoffed and said: “Anyone can learn Magicks, if you've got the time and the patience for it.” He said with a dismissive and prideful tone. “But are you willing to take the risk? See Julian over there?” He pointed at the paralyzed Magi still on the ground. “Screwed up Locomotion. Locomotion! Useless. The pushback’s not bad, as you can see. But if you think that’s the worst, think again.” Cenna showed his other hand, missing two fingers. “Patron of Fire took my heat. Damn near froze to death!”

Mini’A listened to Pira with genuine interest, her usual restless energy held in check as the explanation went on. Aristel’s unfinished theories clearly caught her attention, eyes narrowing slightly at the idea of paths not taken, of power left unexplored simply because time ran out. “That tracks,” she murmured, half to herself. “Big ideas always die with the people brave enough to think them first.” When Pira called out to the Magi, Mini’A straightened, curiosity transforming into something more pointed, like a gambler spotting a new game across the room.

She looked Cenna over as he spoke, head tilted, expression politely neutral right up until he started talking about risk. When he gestured to the paralyzed Magi and the missing fingers, she blinked once, then laughed, utterly unimpressed. “That’s your warning?” she said. “Falling over and losing a couple of fingers? I was expecting something with screaming or at least dramatic lightning.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Risk is only frightening when you think you have something to lose.”

Then her smile sharpened. “Since we’re being educational,” Mini’A continued, “I should probably clarify who you’re talking to.” She stepped a little closer, and for the briefest moment the air around her bent, like heat over stone, luck and inevitability pressing down in a way that made the ritual circles itch and the Magi’s chalk lines feel suddenly fragile. It was not overwhelming, not violent, just enough. A reminder. “I’m Mini’A,” she said calmly, “avatar of Alechior. Risk and consequence are family to me.”

The pressure vanished as quickly as it appeared and Mini’A was grinning again, as if nothing strange had happened at all. She turned back to Pira and gave her a quick, cheerful wave. “This has been lovely. Educational. Slightly concerning. I promise not to accidentally invent a new school of magic in your fields.” A beat. “Probably.” Then she pivoted back toward Cenna before Pira could respond.

“So,” Mini’A said, already walking alongside him, words tumbling out with renewed enthusiasm, “let’s start from the top. How do you even find the right Patron and how specific do you have to be? Is it like calling a name or more like vibes? And what actually decides the pushback, the Patron’s mood, your wording or just bad luck?” She glanced at his hand, then at the ritual site. “Also, can you get your heat back or is that a permanent sort of lesson?”

---

The process began as a crude line etched itself upon the ground. An unseen brush or hand dragged through the dirt, then turned back upon its own mark, curving as it went until it arrived back at the line’s origin. The resulting line tightened, closing into a circle. This circle strained. Curvature yielded to straightened edges and vertices as order and work were imposed, and the shape soon became a hexagon.

The Patron of Civilization was reassembling itself far from Sarhush and his sycophants. To be in that god’s presence was to have one’s course always dictated, like water poured into a winding, artificial channel. To defy his demands was to force the water uphill against the channel’s grade. Arguing with Sarhush was worse still: that was akin to reshaping the water’s entire course, speaking until the channel itself eroded and relented. Such a task demanded patience beyond even Civilization’s endurance. The only escape was distance.

So the hexagon was perfected by the Patron’s will, every angle adjusted in minuscule ways until they were all exactly equal and every line was left truer than anything mortal hands could achieve. With the pattern fixed, depth was added. The shape rose into a flat-faced column, then began to shift. Civilization’s new form expanded in places, contracted in others, and shed shards cut away with precision as it refined itself. Glyphs and symbols emerged across its every edifice and surface.

Where moments before there had been only an empty clearing of lifeless dirt, a humanoid figure of etched clay and stone now stood.

---

Anana had been playing with her friends. One boy had been foolish enough to throw a handful of pebbles at her; he hadn’t known what kind of fight that was starting. The other boys and girls all laughed as she pelted him with rocks. Even as he fled beyond the edge of Excelsium, Anana gave chase.

That brought her into the open field where a strange creature of stone rose up from the ground before her very eyes, taking form without sound. The boy that she’d been chasing saw it too, now fleeing back into the settlement; he passed right by Anana, a hundred times more afraid of this new being than of her!

But Anana was frozen. She dropped the stone in her hand and stared at the self-assembled stone man. Civilization met her gaze.

Anana swallowed. The silence was crushing, so the girl broke it with the only true thing that she could think to say, “You’re not from Excelsium.”

Civilization inclined its head and looked toward her, but beyond her. It beheld the sprawl of wooden buildings, the bustle between and within them. This was one of the greatest settlements of the world.

“I am of Excelsium,” it answered the girl, “and every other place cultivated by people. I am the Patron of Civilization.”

As it spoke those words, Anana flinched at the unnaturally ordered cadence and the flat and inhumanly level tone. Civilization was perturbed too, because it looked at the ground beneath her feet and sensed the buried dead beneath it. There had been battles here, and victory, yet only living memory could record it. If there had been defeat, then all that was Excelsium could have been destroyed and forgotten. Nothing would remain, for wood could rot or burn and leave no ruins behind.

“Are you here to join us?” Anana asked. Because that is what was asked of strangers who came to Excelsium. From far and wide families came, took the bread, and became part of the village. Her own family had joined the village through the same ritual. She didn’t understand it back then. She didn’t understand it now, but Pira had told her it was important. So she asked the big pile of stones.

“Yes,” the Patron answered, after a pause that felt more measured than hesitant. Anana blinked, somewhat surprised; she hadn’t been sure what to expect, but she didn’t think it could be that simple or easy.

It wasn’t. Civilization was pondering how to explain the rest. Joining implied arrival. Arrival implied origin elsewhere. But Excelsium already existed within its domain; it could not enter what it already sustained. The Patron looked past Anana, toward the clustered roofs of Excelsium.

“This is a civilization that is built upon forgetting,” it ruminated aloud. “But all civilization is a process. I have come to guide the process.”

“I… don’t think I understand.” Said Anana.

“You are not expected to, child.” A voice that was not quite human said from behind her. There stood the tall, strong shape of Meris. “Mortal matters demand mortal attentions. Divine matters require divine ones. Return to the town, child.” Anana turned around and ran back. Meris made a small bow towards the Patron of Civilization that was reciprocated only by Civilization’s gaze shifting away from the girl.

“I did not expect your presence here, oh Patron. I do not think the magi have quite figured out a way to call upon you yet. Still, you can be a welcome guest here. Answer me this first: why have you come here and now?”

“I sensed structure here, but it is erected without reinforcement,” Civilization answered in its monotone. “Here mortal hands build, but when the weight of things shifts, what is not braced may collapse. Excelsium teetered under the weight not long ago.”

The Patron’s head moved to level its gaze upon the ground again. There were places where the grass had yet to grow over the graves of dead warriors, defender and invader alike.

“What is built here could endure, but only if memory is given form. Continuity must be taught and maintained,” Civilization concluded.

Meris was still cautious. He was the progeny, in a way, of the only entity that had torn a Patron to shreds. Despite being an Avatar, he still had the very human fear that a reckoning might come someday. “I suspect your foresight is blinding you somewhat, Patron of Civilization.” He said. “You’re not wrong that Excelsium’s existence is still shaky, but it is so in a very physical sense as well.” Meris motioned with one hand towards the wooden houses. “Fire and decay can and will claim it easily. You wish to teach them continuity. Please, teach them how to build their lives on something stronger than wood and earth.” Meris was pleading near the end.

“That is my intention,” Civilization answered. The exchange required no further iteration and the matter was settled.

The Patron advanced into motion. It strode into the settlement proper, each pace from its stony form measured, each length identical to the last. Word had already begun to spread; some were already gathered to stare, others emerged from doorways to look out upon hearing the commotion and the sound of heavy stone feet upon packed earth.

Civilization paid no heed to the crowds as it made its way to the center of Excelsium. Individually, their calls and pleas were just noise; addressing them collectively would be sufficient and efficient. More onlookers came, the throngs filling the paths. Civilization did not slow; the crowd parted before the Patron that had come to establish permanence.

Eventually, the Patron arrived at the center of this crude system; here was a spot already used for gatherings, marked by a great boulder where the ground itself permitted elevation. The Patron came to a stop before the boulder, but did not climb atop it. Its stature alone was sufficient.

“I am the Patron of Civilization,” it announced to the denizens, not loudly but with a cadence that cut through the noise. “What would remain here if this place were abandoned? If you were to vanish, or leave Excelsium for even a short time?”

The chatter ceased at once, and silence reigned. The Patron awaited an answer.

People murmured, but no one immediately spoke up. Hector, Scion of War, stood a little in the back. His shield and club at the ready. The magi were more intrigued with the Patron’s sudden appearance and were already debating amongst each other the ritualistic ways of summoning him later. None answered until Pira approached. Pira, the city’s First Citizen. She was not Spark-gifted and yet she was great in her own way…

“Not much.” She spoke up as she approached, supported by a younger girl. “If you mean a year, then I think a lot of wooden structures would remain. They’re built sturdy.” She said. As to prove a point, she pushed against a wall. Nothing happened. Then again, she was old. “Longer, and a fire would lay waste to be sure. If we left, then the only thing that would remain a while would be our memories. And then the tales we tell our children.” She said with a smile as she finally reached the Patron.

Meris had followed the Patron but now kept his distance. He felt uneasy. Like a father who has to let his kids learn of the world the hard way. It has to be done. So far he felt like they were doing well. Pira, for all her lack of a Spark, did well.

Civilization regarded her for a moment. “Your response is sufficient and correct. Your assessment is prophecy. Memories left to the mind and tongue fade and alter with each retelling. Left as it is, nothing here will endure. All your works will be undone and forgotten in time.”

Civilization was so close that Pira fell entirely within the shadow of its form. She could see the glyphs, spiraling scripts, and geometric patterns that covered every tiny space upon its body, even if she couldn’t yet read them or discern any meaning beyond decoration.

“I hold the solutions,” Civilization explained, “but I guarantee no safety, no endurance, no memory. Such things are not within my power to give; they are the emergent properties of sustained effort, and they persist only as long as stability is maintained.”

The Patron allowed that time to sink in, turning to look over the crowd. There was a certain anxiousness in the crowd but it was subsiding. If there was one thing Excelsium did best, it was sustained effort. “We were never guaranteed anything before.” Pira said with a smile. “If it takes effort and stability, Excelsium will prevail. Always.”

“I can transmit the methods of rectification. You will learn to place stone so that walls endure the passage of time. You will build in ways that fire does not easily unmake. When walls show cracks, you will repair them. Monuments will be raised to commemorate events of importance, so that memory is not left to chance or to the tongue.”

On and on the Patron spoke, with neither pause nor deviation in its cadence. It did not breathe throughout the speech, and neither did many of those assembled in the crowd. Finally, it concluded:

“If Excelsium accepts these obligations as a society, I will bind my covenant to one among you. Know that you are permitted to reject this. Enforcement and compulsion are beyond my Ideal. But should you refuse, then accept the outcome: your civilization will face collapse and erasure.”

For a moment, there was a loud ruckus. Some amongst the ambitious men and women stepped forth and demanded that the covenant would be given to him. The students of Aristel, those that remained at least, kept themselves out of the conversation. Then Hector’s voice boomed through the crowd. “Silence, all of you!” He yelled. His eyes looked over the crowd. “Are you blind? Who has been leading us so far? Who has the most right to the Covenant of Civilization!?”

His words were true. The people quieted down and then all looked at Pira. She didn’t show it, but she felt tired. She had been shouldering the burden of leadership for a while now and had hoped a Spark-gifted would rise up to take it from her so that she could sit out her old days in peace. Her eyes found Meris. She wanted to curse him. Why was she not given a Spark? It would’ve made her life so much easier.

“I will take the Covenant.” She said. “Not because we wish to etch ourselves into eternity. We do this… because it is our duty.”

As Pira’s words settled over the crowd, Civilization visibly scrutinized her. “Your stated motivation is compatible with this role. Duty produces a stable continuity more reliably than ambition.”

The symbols upon the Patron’s body of stone began to change; they sharpened, straightened, and expanded. Glyphs and letters seemed to swell until the character touched one another, then they grew to overlap, and then they grew so much that some began to slough off Civilization itself. Symbology that had been cut into stone now hovered in the air, incorporeal but visible, unreadable and yet clear. Pira instinctively stepped back, falling just out of Civilization’s shadow.

The ghostly signs pivoted along an unseen axis, swirling and rearranging in spiral lines that encircled Pira but did not touch her. “This Covenant does not confer authority over your fellows, for that dominion is not mine to grant,” Civilization began to explain. “It only imposes duty. You will create records that the continuum of history may be preserved. You will perceive a weakened structure or a failing system before its impending collapse, and you will intuit what pieces may be repaired and what must be replaced. More, your memory and thoughts become labor and your labors take form.”

Civilization raised an arm high above its head and clenched it, the fist blocking, nay, crushing the sun that fell upon Pira’s face. She stood in the Patron’s shadow once more, but she was illuminated rather than darkened: as the Patron’s hand closed, the swirling rings of symbols had suddenly collapsed inward to fall upon Pira’s skin and rest there. The glowing glyphs brought no burning or pain as they were inscribed upon her, only weight. “The echo of my power that you now possess will not make these tasks lighter; it makes them endless. Yet these are tasks of the mind and will, not the body…”

Civilization turned to face the great boulder beside him, the crowning center of Excelsium’s square. “Lay one hand upon this stone,” it bade Pira, “and sense its structure. Feel the scattered grains of stone, and order them. Reinforce them.”

Pira, now the Witch of Civilization, stepped forth to do as her Patron told. For a long moment, the crowd was confused, for nothing seemed to happen. Yet then, after perhaps ten heartbeats, the boulder shuddered and violently cracked. A small cloud of stone dust emerged to conceal the rock, but when it settled, where once there had been a single boulder was now a thousand pieces of masonry, each one of a perfectly uniform height, if an irregular length or rough outward face. It made no matter; they were uniform enough to be easily stacked into walls.

Civilization nodded in approval. “A small demonstration of your power,” he commented, perhaps to the crowd moreso than to Pira herself. “The true test will be the duty of recording that I have placed upon you. People, events, images of all sorts: these things can be committed to stone. But so too can sounds. You need only define a system of symbols such that it can render speech frozen upon stone, and then your people’s memory will be eternal.”

And as Pira looked upon her hands, her arms, every fold of her skin, she saw the glowing glyphs that marked the Covenant. Had Civilization not already given her symbols? The glyphs upon her skin only needed to be copied and given meaning.

Alechior drifted through the Carnival like a breeze, welcome and unnoticed all at once. Laughter bent around them, music warped as it always did, speeding up where excitement spiked and slowing where exhaustion crept in. Games bloomed and collapsed in moments. Dice rolled across tables slick with spilled drinks and promises. To Alechior, it was comfortable, domestic. This was their domain in its most honest state, excess without apology, joy sharpened until it could cut.

They lingered near one of the newer entrances, a stretch of road that had once been a merchant route in Ashuru. Mortals stepped through in ones and twos, feetwraps still dusty, packs still heavy, eyes wide with that first flush of wonder. Alechior watched them the way a seasoned gambler watches fresh players take their seats, already knowing who would play cautiously, who would chase the rush and who would never leave the table at all.

The arrivals laughed easily. They did not notice how the sky never quite shifted, how the music had no clear source, how hunger and thirst dulled just enough to stop being urgent. They greeted jesters and performers as if they were fellow travelers, mistaking warmth for coincidence. None of them sensed the soft closing of doors behind them, the subtle severing of roads that no longer led anywhere real.

Alechior felt no urgency to interfere. This was how it always began, curiosity first then delight. The Carnival did not seize people, it welcomed them. Mortals walked deeper of their own accord, drawn by color, sound and the promise of stakes that felt small at first. A drink here. Some food there. A game that surely could be won the next time.

They smiled as another group crossed the threshold, grinning, still thinking themselves visitors rather than forever guests. Somewhere behind them, unseen and unmarked, Ashuru disappeared like a half-remembered dream. Alechior watched it happen again and again and again, already knowing which of these souls would dance until they forgot their own names, and which would break long before the music ever stopped.

Alechior wandered toward the inner ring where the game keepers clustered, tall figures bent over tables and wheels that never truly stopped spinning. These were the ones who had bowed before, who knew exactly who walked among them. Alechior greeted them easily, leaning against a counter, fingers tapping in time with a tune only they seemed to hear. “Busy night,” they said.

One of the keepers glanced up, eyes already drifting back to the tumbling dice. “Probability is favorable,” they replied flatly. Another muttered something about odds stabilizing after the third loss. Alechior waited, hoping for a spark, a joke, anything that smelled like joy. It never came. The keepers spoke fluently, endlessly even but only about margins, wagers, escalation curves. Fun was not discussed. It was assumed, calculated, reduced.

They tried again, drifting from table to table, nudging conversations toward stories, toward the mortals themselves. Who was winning big. Who was laughing the hardest. Who was about to break. The keepers answered but only in figures and outcomes. This one would last twelve more cycles. That one would peak soon. None of them cared what the players felt in the moment, only how long they stayed at the table.

Alechior finally laughed, softly and a little disappointed. These ones understood gambling perfectly, but merriment had slipped past them entirely. They tended the games like machines tending other machines, precise and tireless, but hollow. With a shrug, Alechior turned away, already bored, already searching the Carnival for something messier, louder, and far more alive.

Alechior drifted on, laughter and music sliding off them as they wove through the Carnival’s endless lanes. They tried again and again, pausing at tables, leaning in close to whispered boasts and slurred confessions. The mortals had stories, plenty of them, sharp little fragments of lives half-remembered, but every tale dissolved back into dice and cards before it could breathe. Eyes flicked down to hands, to wheels, to cups. No one stayed present long enough to be interesting.

They lingered near a group locked in a furious game, listening to a man recount a lost home, a river that no longer existed. It almost caught Alechior’s attention. Almost. Then the man laughed too loudly at a bad roll and forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. Alechior sighed. Too far gone. The Carnival had them now, sanding their edges smooth, rounding them into perfect players.

Further in, the faces grew softer, blurrier. Joy without sharpness. Despair without teeth. Alechior felt a rare flicker of irritation. This was meant to be fun, not stagnant. Not this endless loop of motion without meaning. “Really?” they muttered to no one in particular. “This is what it’s come to?”

That was when they noticed one of them. Not new, not fresh, but not yet hollow either. A mortal who had been playing for a long while, long enough to learn the rhythm, to survive the losses, to smile like they belonged. Their thread, though, stretched thin. Alechior could see it, fraying somewhere far away in Ashuru. A body still breathing, but not for long.

Alechior grinned, sudden and bright. There it was. Something with tension. With stakes. They slipped through the crowd and reached out, fingers closing around the mortal’s shoulder with easy certainty. “You,” they said lightly, already pulling them free of the table. The Carnival kept spinning behind them, oblivious, as Alechior turned away with their prize, mind racing ahead to what came next.

Wish a snapp of their fingers. The sound cut clean through the music, sharp and final. For a heartbeat, the Carnival stuttered around them, colors dulling, laughter stopping, the invisible pressure peeling away from the mortal’s mind like a veil being removed. The man blinked hard, swayed then steadied himself. His eyes cleared. Not frightened. Not confused. Just suddenly present.

Alechior watched closely, ready for panic, grief, the usual desperate scramble for meaning. It never came. The man looked around slowly, took in the lights, the games, the endless motion and laughed. Not the hollow laugh of the enchanted, but warm and genuine. “Still love it,” he said after a moment, almost surprised at himself. “Figures. Thought maybe it was cheating me into it.” He shrugged. “Guess not.”

They talked. Really talked. About nights that never seemed long enough, about music that made the chest ache in a good way, about the simple joy of losing and winning meaning in the same breath. He spoke of the Carnival like a place that understood him, like it gave permission to stop carrying the world for a while. Alechior listened, head tilted, smile thoughtful. This one was not trapped. He had chosen the feeling, even without the push.

“That’s rare,” Alechior said lightly. “Most need the nudge. You don’t.” They circled him once, considering. “Tell me. Would you want others to feel it like this? Properly. Not dragged in blind. Not stolen by accident.” Their eyes gleamed. “Willingly.”

The man hesitated then nodded, enthusiasm creeping back in. “Yeah!” he said. “Why wouldn’t I? People forget how to enjoy things. They forget how to let go. If I could help with that, I would.” He smiled wider. “Feels like a waste not to.”

Alechior laughed, delighted. “Oh, I like you.” They leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the trick. You bring them. You show them the doors, the laughter, the games. You teach them how to stay themselves while they play.” Their voice softened, dangerous and kind at once. “And when the time comes, you help me make them like you will be. A new form. ”

Alechior held their hand out, palm open, casual as an invitation to dance. “Come on then,” they said lightly. “Let’s make it official.” The man looked at the offered hand, then up at Alechior’s face. No fear. Just anticipation. He took it.

The moment their hands met, the Carnival leaned in. Sound dulled, lights bent closer, the air thickened like breath held too long. Power flowed, shared. The man gasped once as it moved through him, warmth first then something else, brighter, like laughter caught in the chest.

His body began to change. Subtle at first. His spine straightened, posture correcting itself with authority. He grew taller, not towering but clearly more than he had been. Strength settled into his frame without bulk, the kind that promised endurance rather than brute force. His ears elongated gracefully, tapering to elegant points, unmistakably otherworldly, unmistakably Alechior’s work.

His face followed. Lines of exhaustion smoothed away, scars faded as if they had never been, skin clearing until it caught the Carnival’s light like polished stone. Beauty found him, not perfection but the kind that made people look twice and trust without knowing why. When his eyes opened again, they gleamed with reflected light and something deeper, older.

An aura unfurled around him. It pressed outward like a pleasant warmth, a presence that eased shoulders and loosened hearts. Trust came easier near him, smiles too. Beneath it all, a new sense stirred. He could feel it now, the absence of joy, the hollowness where merriment should have been. Sadness stood out to him like a bruise. There wasn't any in the Carnival but when a doorway to Ashuru opened, it called to him.

Alechior watched with satisfaction. “Ah. There it is,” they murmured. “Now, a rule.” Their tone playful but firm. “You cannot lie. Not ever.” They tapped his chest lightly. “But misdirection, wit, jokes that dodge the truth, those are fair game.” A grin. “You’ll manage.”

Understanding settled into him, knowledge without pain. He knew he could choose others now, not everyone, only those who truly loved the games, the laughter, the endless night. Those who played because they wanted to, not because the Carnival whispered too sweetly. From them, he could make more like himself. That was how they would grow, not by birth, but by recognition.

Alechior released his hand at last. “When you leave here,” they said, gently, “you’ll wear whatever shape you arrived in. Mortal, mundane, forgettable.” A shrug. “But you’ll live longer than you should. And when death finally catches you, as it always does, you’ll come back.” Their eyes glittered. “Right here. To run the games. To spread joy. Real joy.”

The Carnival surged back into full motion around them, laughter rising, dice clattering, music swelling. The new Fae stood among it all, changed and yet himself. Alechior stepped back into the crowd, satisfied. The party had just learned how to invite people properly.

---

Toffee screamed. She lurched up, only to be smothered by blackness. Everything was dark, so dark!

“Toffee!” A voice called out to her and before she knew it, strong arms held her tight. A hiss escaped her throat and she failed, afraid it was some other nightmare come to get her.

“Toffee stop! It’s me! It’s Tad!” her brother begged.

“Tad?” Toffee blurted before calming. What was- her memories began to flood back to her. They were underneath the furs, that’s why it was black and suffocating. Did that mean she was awake? But…

“Is Teefee awake?” she asked. She felt her brother let go of her and they both removed the furs that covered them.

Tad was silent as the world came into view. Night had fallen but it was not as dark as before the coming of the light. More alarming was that there was now a giant looming violet orb and it did little to ease the anxiety blooming in her chest.

“Mother! Teefee!” She said, whipping off the furs. A cloud of pollen rose into the air and she sneezed a few times but she found them. Mother was just waking up and Teefee stared at her with those big blue eyes of hers, a mischievous glint to them.

“You were in my dream!” Toffee accused with a finger.

“Nu uh.” Teefee chimed back, the grin on her face widening.

“Don’t nu uh me! You were in my dream and you looked at me like you saw me and then I woke up. You’ve been in my dreams before but not like that.” Tears began to pool in her eyes. Seeing this, her sister rose and embraced her. Toffee sobbed and clung onto Teefee. Her back was rubbed and Teefee whispered, “I’m sorry it was a nightmare. I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. And I’m sorry I woke you up like that. You’re bunny was… Different somehow. I had to do something.”

“I don’t know how you did it but thank you.” Toffee murmured.

“You came into my dream as well.” Tad said, coming up to them and helping their mother to her feet.

Teefee shrugged. “You didn’t want me there, so you woke up. I left mother’s alone, as her dream was pleasant.”

“How, daughter?” Ina asked, a grave look upon her face.

Teefee sighed. “There was…” she looked up in thought and then smiled, “That but way smaller.”

---

Teefee was sick. The air was just beginning to go back to how it had been after that first day without light and that had been a few weeks ago. Supplies were running low. Tad still wondered why the plants had been so greedy? How could such beauty release so much suffering? He pulled the family sled with Toffee, strips of fur covering their mouth and noses as they marched on. Mother was tending to Teefee and walking beside them.

Poor Teefee, she was going on a week of illness, finally confined to a makeshift bed. The pollen had given her a fever, a stuffy nose, a headache and she had trouble breathing. Every breath she wheezed and her face was puffy. They all felt bad, but the youngest of them (only by a few minutes as she liked to remind them) suffered the most. It was a stark contrast to what she was like in the world of dreams. They came more vividly to him when his sister was around and when she joined him or Toffee. He could still hardly grasp this strange power but it didn’t seem to be hurting Teefs.

However, Tad could tell it bothered his mother. She believed Teefee was sick because this spirit had bridged itself to her. Mother had been… Cautious ever since. She was worried. He was worried and he knew Toffee was worried.

“Let us make camp for the night over by that bluff.” Their mother called and Tad looked to see where it was she was indicating. There was a section of the land that rose up like a great fallen tree and on the side they were facing near the bottom there was shelter. A rocky outcropping protected by wind. Mother had good eyes and without much fanfare, the two made for it.

When they arrived they noticed old fire pits, knappings and broken arrowheads. It seemed they were not the first to use this place. When they dropped the reins, both siblings went to check on their third. She was sleeping, which was good, their mother assured them. She looked peaceful at least. Free of the pains of the waking world.

“Tad, take Toffee and find us some water. It should be near, there are many water birds around, plus…” She pointed at the prior habitations.

“Will you be alright here?” Tad asked as he looked around.

“Of course. Do not worry. It’s you who needs to be alright. Take your spears.” Mother said with a firm nod as she prepared the furs for beds.
As the two marched off, their mother called after them, “And bring back any good firewood!”

---

“She’s worried sick, isn’t she?” Toffee asked.

Tad only nodded, eyes sharp and ears listening. But not listening enough it seemed. Toffee gave him a little whack on the side of his head. He spun to her and hissed. “What was that for?”

“Oh, nothing. You just seemed like you were spacing off again.”

He frowned as Toffee smirked. “I’m trying to stay focused, Toffee. There could be danger around every bend, just hiding off the path and lurking in the tall grass.”

She rolled her eyes. “By the ancestors Tad, we aren’t in nearly as much danger as you and mother think we are. Are you even listening to the world around us? Birds are chirping. Insects are buzzing. That ground squirrel over there is watching us.” She pointed to a spot and sure enough a fat striped critter was shoving its mouth full of seeds as it watched them. “If there was certain danger, the world would be still.” Toffee finished in a soft whisper.

As much as he wanted to protest, Toffee had a point at least.

He relaxed a little and finally said, “Let’s just find some water and get back to them. I’m sure Teefee will be awake and she’ll be thirsty.”

“I can agree with that.”

Silence fell between the two as they finally heard the murmur of running water. With a grin from his sister and one he eagerly returned, the two descended into a small creek with crystal blue waters. The bottom was full of colorful rocks and when Tad bent down to pick up a handful of them, letting the sediment wash away before removing them, he found a rock that looked like a flower. A rock flower? It was engraved so precisely that he only broke from staring at it when Toffee came up to him.

“Oh that’s pretty. All these rocks are pretty. Teefee would have loved this!” She bent down and scooped out a handful. “We should take some back for her.”

“Yeah, we should. But first, water.” Tad said as he placed the rock into a pouch. The two then set to their task. Toffee squatted down on one side of the creek whilst Tad knelt down on the other, and together they started to fill up their waterskins.

A shrill birdcall came from far above. The lively cacophony of life continued, but something started to feel off. The calls of the animals around the two gradually got louder and louder, and the plants themselves grew more colourful and vibrant. Fruit grew from trees but did not rot, and creatures came out in droves not by themselves, but carrying their offspring, be they newborn or juvenile, and they all settled in the shade of the trees and just… Waited.

Tad shared a look with Toffee, then looked around at the changing scenery and, hesitantly, plugged his waterskin and stood up. “Toffee…What was that about the sounds of life again?” Tad narrowed his eyes at his sister, who was just as confused as he was.

“But… I…” her voice trailed off and Tad outstretched his arm to her.

“Time to go.” he said in a loud whisper.

As the two made their way out of the water, gathering their things- Insects crawled out from under rock and below ground, out of hollow trees and flew out of hanging nests. And they, too, settled in the shade of the trees, next to those other creatures who would normally eat them.

They all called for something, both old and young, predator and prey, insect or mammal or reptile or plant. Tad felt his fur rise and he squeezed his sister’s hand harder, tugging her on.

The shrill birdcall came again, now echoing from directly above the pair, and when they looked up they only saw the bright reflection of golden feathers, and the arcs of light that came with storms.

And then the noise stopped, and with the noise they froze also. Not by choice in the slightest. Tad wanted to move but he couldn’t but why? What was- He saw it.

When they looked back down, they saw a great beast step out from the treeline, head bent low to avoid the canopies of the trees. It looked like a wolf, one with thick fur like the night sky, glittering with stars, with fangs and claws as big as forearms.

And yet where it walked, it crushed nothing. Grass moved aside, animals steered clear, and they all watched it with adoration in their eyes. There were some who received a glance from the great beast, and those few and their offspring would glow and quickly go back wherever they had come from.

And then the beast looked at the two siblings, and stopped.

Tad felt an overwhelming urge to run. This creature was beyond the pale of anything he had ever come across before. Fear made his limbs jittery, his heart quickened and his eyes saw with crystal clarity. The giant black wolf was certain death.

He felt a tug on his hand and then Toffee was free of him. He glanced to the side and saw that his sister’s hair was up. She had a posture not of flight, but of fight. Her muscles were tensed, her knuckles white on her spear. She bared her teeth and from her throat came a low growl not unlike some beast. Her eyes were wild and Tad was suddenly unsure if he should be more afraid of the wolf or of Toffee.

The wolf stared at Toffee, then looked at Tad, then back at Toffee. It wagged its tail twice, then it sat down and pawed at the ground in front of it once. That was when out of its throat came a noise so deep that it reverberated painfully in Tad’s chest.

“Khome.” It pawed at the ground in front of it again. “Kome.”

Tad blinked in surprise as he rubbed his chest. It could… Words? Toffee just hissed and sank into a crouch. He was unsure if she had even noticed. It looked like she was about to- Tad tackled her before she could throw her spear. There came a frantic spat as the two tumbled in the sand. Toffee was not happy at what he had done but he knew if he let go of her, they’d be in more trouble. If the wolf was capable of speech, and it hadn’t attacked them, he couldn’t risk it.

“Toffee-! Stop this!” he snarled. Her lithe form was slippery and every time he had her in a solid hold, she broke free. Worse, she wouldn’t let go of the damn spear!

“Get. Off. Me!” She managed to yell as the two came closer to the water’s edge.

“Give me the spear!” he jabbed his elbow into her side and his sister gasped with pain. Then she growled and bit his arm! She didn’t draw blood but it was enough of a shock that Tad loosened his hold and with it, Toffee broke free, rolling away from him and- right into the water.

But before Tad could react, the beast had jumped into the creek and dunked its snout into the spot where Toffee had been struggling. Toffee’s limbs flailed around as the wolf’s snout pushed her around and flipped her over and over until at last it clamped its teeth down and lifted its head to retrieve Toffee from the water by the back of her fur shirt. She was soaking and spearless. Her hair matted and ears and tail weighed down but still she struggled, even if the furs she was wearing were too sturdy for her to break free and her arms too short to reach her captor. She hissed and yowled and Tad could only stare in disbelief.

The wolf pranced back to him and, tail wagging, dangled Toffee above him. He looked up at the wolf and the wolf looked at him. Toffee was yelling something about not being a baby anymore and to be put down. Tad began to smirk and was about to speak when-

“STOP! Stop that!” A feminine voice rang out from the treeline, and out of it came a disheveled, wheezing young woman. Right behind the young woman came a grinning man, who upon seeing the scene burst out laughing.

“Put that down, right now! Bad girl! Saries, bad girl!”

“Whoa there! Saries, good boy!”

They spoke at the same time, but the words were enough to cause the great wolf to hesitate for a brief moment, and then it gently let Toffee down next to Tad. And Toffee immediately got down into a crouched position again, her hands digging into the sand as she stared daggers at the wolf. Tad placed a hand on his sister’s wet head. Saries, was it? Why both boy and girl? What was that about? He tried to take a quick peak under the wolf but couldn’t see anything.

“Calm, Toffee. Let’s just figure this out, alright?” Tad said, as he looked past the wolf and stared at the woman. He couldn’t tell how old she was, maybe around his age? He glanced at the man. Were they twins and were they wearing… plants? He had never seen the likes of them before. Bronzed skin with curly hair and their arms… birthmarks? Something else? He eyed the wolf again and finally took a deep breath.

“Who might you be, strangers?” he asked them as they approached. It was time for some answers. But his grip tightened on Toffee’s head and his sister stopped her spatting. He could tell she was on edge. Why did she have to overreact to everything?

The man was the first to look at the siblings, as the woman had gone on to slap at the great wolf’s legs, admonishing it.

“Hm,” the man tapped his chin, his eyes taking in every aspect of Tad and his sister’s forms, and then he nodded. “I’m Jiva of the Boulder, and the fussy lady behind me who’s currently lecturing the Beast-God is Sirele, my twin sister.”

“Now I ask you two, do you have names?”

“I am Tad of…” He trailed off for a moment and then said, “I am Tad and this is Toffeen. We are also twins, yes.” Toffee looked up at him after that, her eyes no longer so fierce. “I uhm, well met, Jiva of the Boulder. This is not something we expected to run into.” he finished quickly, wishing to move past his awkward blunders.

“Ah it’s fine, it’s fine!” Jiva laughed again, “I acted the same as your sister Toffeen when I first met Saries, you know. Just with a little less dangling and screaming!”

It was now that Sirele came up behind Jiva and bumped him as she walked past closer to Tad and Toffee, making him choke on his laugh. She gave a sympathetic look to Toffee. “You’ve got good instincts, it’s what’s got Saries so in love with you. That, and those.” Sirele mimicked cat ears with her hands, smiling.

Toffee gave a hiss and Tad shoved her behind him. He gave her a stern look as she lay in the sand. “Cool off.” He then turned back to the twins. He couldn’t help but stare at Sirele’s smile and before he knew it, he was smiling back. “Oh uhmm, well met Sirele of the Boulder.” he looked back up at the wolf, was eyeing them intently and almost cursing under his breath he said, “Well met, Sar-ees, beast-god.” The word felt strange upon his tongue and he didn’t really know what a beat god was but he didn’t want to be rude.
“Why does,” he looked back at Sirele, “Why does the Sar-ees love Toffee? I mean, Toffeen.” he winced at his mistake but tried to play it off.

“Toffee? Nice nickname, sounds sweet!” Jiva said with a grin.

Sirele rolled her eyes, but was quick to return to her smile when she looked back at Tad. “Not just Toffee, Tad. You too! You’ve got Therian features but no curse of mind, body, or soul. You were also not created by her-”

“Him.” Interrupted Jiva with a smirk.

“You were also not created by her, so she was intrigued at first, and excited when she saw the ways your bodies reacted. In Saries’ eyes, you’re an improved version of us.” Sirele then leaned in close to Tad and whispered, ”Saries is really touchy about ur-humanity, ‘cause we remind her of the Man-God. Your pretty ears and tails may have saved your lives today.”

He eyed the beast-god with suspicion but only received, if anything, a wolfish grin. He then shook his head. “I am sorry but I do not know half of the words that you speak of. Ur-humanity? Man-God? Him? Her?” he pointed at Saries. “Therian features? Curses? Improved?” His head was beginning to spin.

“Oh.” Sirele pursed her lips and glanced at Jiva, who took the hint and wrapped an arm around Sirele’s shoulders.

“My sister means to say that Saries likes you because you’ve got animal parts, that’s the important bit. Saries can be male or female depending on what mood he’s in, and he has sired and birthed many litters already. Don’t worry, he matches his size and form to his partners.”

Saries huffed and dug up a bit of dirt and threw it at Jiva’s legs.

“Yeah yeah, I was getting to it! He wants to see your den- Sorry, home. He’s excited to see how you live! Invite us?”

“I uhh…” Tad began, a little dumbstruck.

Toffee brushed past him. “We don’t have a home. And even if we did, why should we invite you? You are strangers and could be dangerous.”

Sirele was the one to respond. “Saries is the Beast-God. You may not know this, but Gods are the creatures who created our world, and Saries here is the Sovereign of Life and Nature. Every animal and every plant in this world comes from or is inspired by her.” She sighed, “So you are right, Toffee, Gods are dangerous because they are too powerful… But Saries won’t do anything to you or Tad if you treat her well.”

It took Tad a few moments to make the terrible but wondrous connection. “A spirit?” Tad looked at Toffee and his sister glanced at him. He felt his knees buckle at the thought of an actual spirit standing before him. A being who walked between the tall grass and danced amidst the stars.

“Toffee we have to-”

“Can you heal the sick?’ Toffee cut him off as she looked up at Saries. Her previous demeanor gone, replaced by that of worry.

Sirele and Jiva looked at Saries, and after a moment Jiva chuckled and crossed his arms and Sirele furrowed her brow, then looked back at Toffee.

“She has healed thousands before, but she wants something in exchange for this service. We can discuss what that is after we’ve seen the one who needs healing.”

Tad and Toffee exchanged nervous glances but there was no reluctance in the shared nod that followed.

“Then quickly, mother will be worried by now.” Tad said as he gathered a few discarded things and began to jog up the path.

---

“Mother!” Toffee shouted as they approached the bluff.

Ina was on the sled, Teefee in her arms as she brushed the girl’s hair. It was soft and smooth in the waning light.

At the sound of her voice, their mother said, “Where have you been child? I was growing worried. You can’t just do that to me when Tee-” She looked up at this point and froze as she saw what followed them.

“They mean no harm mother!” Toffee said as she and Tad approached. “They can heal Teefee! The great wolf is a spirit.”

Ina was stone faced as she looked between her Tad and Toffee’s faces, then to Sirele’s and Jiva’s, then at last to Saries.

“One great spirit has caused this, why should I trust another?” she said coldly.

Toffee knelt beside Teefee and felt the fever on her brow. She was still asleep and at her touch, her sister shivered.

“We don’t know that mother.” Tad put a hand on her shoulder. “The great spirit Sar-ees is one of life and nature. Surely that cannot be so bad?”

Ina sighed through her nose and looked at the great wolf. “Is it true?”

The wolf huffed, and suddenly the twin humans standing to either side of it looked at each other and clasped their hands in front of their chests. Then the wolf shuddered and became smaller. And as it shrunk, so did it change. Its fur thinned, it stood straighter and then onto two legs, its paws turned into hands, and finally its face became flat and smooth.

The great wolf had become a woman. Taller than all of them, lean and well-proportioned, with wolvish ears large enough to flop a little and thick hair that draped down her back like a great wave. Behind her swishes a long fluffy tail, and her sun-tanned body was bare for all to see.

Her irises shone like starlight when she opened her eyes, and her teeth and nails were sharp and long.

The wolf-turned-woman, Saries, looked at her hands and clenched and unclenched them. She scratched at her fingers and arms, marvelling at the soft fur that grew up to her elbows, and she touched herself all over with a face that looked both disgusted and intrigued. The thing that impacted her the most was her thumbs. She pinched herself all over and even pinched Jiva, before Sirele produced a coat of leaves from her pack and draped it around Saries’ shoulders.

It was then that Saries turned sharply and walked up to Ina, stopping only a foot away and a full head taller. She inhaled, and then she spoke.

It was a voice that was smooth and melodic, but also deep and awkward.

“Truf.” She said, “Trut. Thruth.”

The twins stood to either side of Saries, right behind her. Jiva looked like he was on the verge of exploding with laughter, while Sirele was wincing and grinning at the same time.

“Kitten,” Saries pointed at Teefee, asleep and puffy, then back at herself, then back at Teefee, numerous times, while staring at Ina. “Kitten, mhahak buerl. Mhahk buel!” She huffed through her nose.

“Saries means to say that she will make your daughter, Teefee, well. But before she does, I want to remind you that there is a price. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Put simply, Saries wants to learn about you and your children. We want to travel with you for a short time. If you agree to this, Saries will heal Teefee.” Sirele explained, before reaching out to pull Saries’ still-pointing finger down and into her coat.

The family before the wolf-turned-woman all had shocked faces. Ina was trembling, as tears welled in her eyes. Both Tad and Toffee could only stare slackjawed.

“If this is the price… Then we accept.” Ina said, her voice catching in her throat.

Saries huffed again and immediately walked to Teefee and straddled her and pressed one of her oversized ears against the young girl’s chest. Her eyes darted back and forth, focusing on nothing and everything, and then she pinched Teefee’s nose, tilted her head backwards, and placed her mouth over hers, and inhaled.

A moment passed, Teefee’s chest deflated a bit, and Saries shot up and coughed and spat a great amount of greenish, clear mucus. And so Teefee’s wheezing was gone.

Then, Saries blew air into Teefee’s nostrils and the girl sneezed and coughed and expelled enough snot to cover half her face. And so Teefee started to breathe through her nose.

Saries then licked Teefee’s face clean, and the puffiness went away.

And finally, she placed a hand to either side of Teefee’s neck, and Teefee was healed. Saries remained that way for a few minutes, watching the girl, waiting. When the illness did not come back, she wagged her tail, got off of Teefee, and started touching and handling Teefee’s ears and hair.

Jiva was the first to speak. “It’s done! She’s alright now.”

Tad’s disbelief slowly turned to disgust as he watched the odd display. But when Teefee began to stir, he no longer really cared for how it worked, just only that it had.

She blinked her eyes open and groggily focused on Saries, who tilted her head. “I was dreaming,” Teefee murmured, “And a great wolf came to me and we spoke of many things before it licked my face and I woke up. How odd.”

“Oh Teefee!” their mother cried and began to pat her head and fuss.

“A miracle.” Toffee muttered.

Jiva scooted up to Toffee’s side and smiled at her in an incredibly smug manner. “And you were trying to chase that away.”

Toffee huffed, flipped her drying hair in his grinning face and walked past him, patting Teefee’s head as she passed. “Glad you're okay Teefs.” She said quietly before grabbing some dry furs and wandering off. Most likely to change.

“Oh yes, Teefee,“ Tad began and Teefee looked up at him. “This is Sar-ees, Jiva and Sirele.” He pointed to each of them. “Sar-ees is a great spirit who has healed your sickness. In exchange, they will be traveling with us for a time.”

‘Oh’, Teefee mouthed.

“Are you hungry Teefee? Thirsty?” Their mother asked and his sister shook her head.

It looked as if Teefee was still trying to digest what had just happened but after a moment of silence, she looked up at Saries and dipped her head. “Thank you, great spirit, l feel so much better now and I can breathe again!” She then attacked Saries with a hug, which made Saries gasp and hold her arms up defensively until she relaxed when Teefee looked up at her face with her big, round eyes.

“Saries, gud girl! Gud boy!” Saries proclaimed and returned the hug in a most awkward manner, engulfing the smaller Teefee in a mountain of hair and fur. Tad could only join in the laughter of Jiva and Sirele, the latter of which he glanced at again and again. There was something about her he found immensely attractive. When she glanced back at him and their eyes caught each other’s, it was he who blinked first and blushed.

“Uhmm, excuse me.” he said quickly, dipping his head low. He needed to find an escape from whatever that was. Teefee would be fine.

He walked for a bit until he stumbled upon Toffee, who was running her hands through her hair. His earlier emotions caught up to him in that moment and he placed his hands on his hips. “What was that, earlier? What in the name of the ancestors were you trying to do?”

Toffee slowly turned to him at the sound of his anger. Her expression was distant. “It was better than just standing there.” she retorted.

Tad’s brow furrowed and he got closer to her. “Toffee, that was a giant wolf. What did you think you were going to do? If you had thrown that spear, we both would have died!” he snapped.

“I don’t know, okay!” She stood and faced him fully. Anger burned bright in her eyes. “It was a threat and I needed to be prepared. It’s that simple.”

“But it wasn’t simple at all. I had to wrestle with you, you had to go into the water to finally snap out of whatever had taken you over!” He took a deep breath and said in a softer voice, “You scared me Toffee”

Her fists balled and she looked away from him. “I’m sorry.” she whispered eventually. “My body reacted before my mind did… Instincts. And I… I saw…” she gulped, her body quivering.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. “Toffee, what did you see?”
“I don’t know. It was quick. Like a- a red haze in the corner of my vision but when I looked back it was gone.”

“Why did this scare you?”

“Scare me? No. When I looked at it for that split second. I felt only thrill. A thrill for battle. A release for my anger.” tears welled in her eyes and Tad pulled her in close. “I’m broken.” she whimpered.

“No, because if you are broken, so am I.”

“How?”

“Let me tell you about my nightmare.”

And so he did and the two talked while Teefee and their mother entertained their guests.

It was a long night.

The Carnival unfolded anew before him, familiar yet different in everyway that mattered. Where once there had been color and noise, now there was harmony beneath the chaos. Lights did not merely glow, they were breathing, becoming bigger or smaller in time with laughter. He realized, amused, that the Carnival was not loud at all. It was precise. Everything at the right time. Everything optimized.

Faces drew his attention next. Mortals moved through the stalls and games with the same eager abandon as before, yet now he saw the truth layered beneath them. Joy clung to some like a second skin, radiant and steady. Others flickered, laughing too hard, clinging too tightly to dice and cups, their merriment thinning at the edges. He could feel it, a gentle pressure in his chest, the absence where joy should be. Not judgment. Recognition.

The stalls themselves had grown beautiful in ways he could never have named before. Wood told stories of forests long gone even if it never came from a real forest. Food steamed with memory, tasting better in anticipation than it ever could on the tongue. Even the cups, passed endlessly from hand to hand, carried a warmth that was not just drink but invitation.

He became aware of himself then. His body felt lighter, stronger, as if the Carnival itself welcomed his presence. Movement came easily. Balance was instinct. When people looked at him, their shoulders loosened, their expressions softened. Trust bloomed without effort. It startled him at first, that influence, until he understood it was not control but resonance. He belonged here and the Carnival answered in kind.

Above it all, he sensed the Court of the Joybound. Small now, with only one member but soon to grow. Yet is was not a place, not a throne but a shared current of intent. Joybound, not by chains but by choice. This was not an ending, nor a trap but a threshold. As he stood amid the endless revel, seeing it fully for the first time, he knew with certainty that the Carnival was no longer something he merely attended. It was something he would tend.

It was time for the Fae to join the world. Like a feeling more than a thought. He had seen enough, learned enough and the Carnival would keep turning whether he watched it or not. He closed his eyes and reached inward, not for a game or a sound but for the memory of where he had entered. The place answered immediately. Somewhere nearby, unseen others, a door waited to be asked for.

“Alright,” he murmured, mostly to himself. The air folded. Wood appeared where none had been before, a simple door standing upright between two stalls. He placed a hand against it and felt the Carnival resist, gently, like a friend reluctant to say goodbye. Then it yielded. When he stepped through, the noise, the lights, the endless laughter disappeared as if they were never there. A sudden silence.

He emerged into a forest.

Pine and damp earth filled his lungs, straight as he appeared. Moonlight filtered through branches that had grown unchecked in his absence. The clearing was the same one, he was sure of it but older. Moss had crept over stones he remembered as bare. A fallen log lay where there had once been none. Months, at least. Maybe more. The world had kept moving while he played.

His body followed a moment later.

Hunger slammed into him, suddenly and strong. His stomach tightened, legs went weak for just a moment. Thirst followed then fatigue, all dulled slightly, as if cushioned by something stronger beneath the strain. His Fae nature held the worst of it at bay, not denying it, but refusing to let it overwhelm him. Still, he laughed under his breath. Mortality wasted no time making itself known.

He looked down at himself. Ur-human, exactly as he had been when he first vanished. Calloused hands. Old scars. A body that would ache if he slept on stone and bleed if he was careless. Yet the Carnival had not let go completely. He could feel it, distant but constant, like music heard through water. The door would come if he called. It always would. He'd also feel the strength behind his form. The power from within.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself and started walking. There would be food somewhere. People. Roads. Stories waiting to be nudged toward joy. And when the world grew too heavy or too quiet, he knew precisely where to go. The Carnival had taught him that much, time was flexible, joy was chosen and no door was ever truly gone.

He felt it before he heard it. An ache, cutting through the forest like a wrong note. Sadness, raw and panicked, the kind that had not yet settled into grief. He turned toward it instantly. Between the trees, shapes resolved into a small clearing, children huddled together, screaming hoarse. Two bodies lay still near them, adults, torn and unmoving. Wolves circled, ribs showing, eyes bright with hunger.

He moved.

Not with a flash or a blur, nothing that would look impossible at first glance, but faster than a man should be able to run through roots and brush without slowing. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground. By the time the wolves noticed him, he was already between them and the children, breath steady, eyes clear. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply stood there and the forest seemed to lean in.

The first wolf lunged, jaws wide, certain of its numbers. He met it head-on.

He stepped inside the bite, one hand slamming up under its jaw, the other gripping the scruff of its neck. The strength surprised even him. He twisted, using the wolf’s own momentum and felt bone give. The animal hit the ground and did not rise. The others snarled, circling wider now, recalculating.

Two came together, one from each side. He ducked low, rolled beneath snapping teeth and came up behind one, arm locking around its throat. It thrashed, claws raking his back, pain flared. He welcomed it. He drove the wolf into a tree, once, twice, until the struggle went out of it. He released the body and turned just in time to catch the third mid-leap, shoulder-hitting it out of the air.

They were not mindless. The last two hesitated now, ears flat, fear bleeding into their hunger. One broke and ran. The other stayed, eyes fixed on him alone. It charged with a desperate snarl. He sidestepped, grabbed its foreleg and pulled. The wolf went down, and he followed it to the ground, knee pinning its ribs as his hands closed around its neck.

The struggle was brief, violent and final.

He rose slowly, chest heaving once before settling. Around him, the clearing was quiet save for the children’s sobbing breaths. The last wolf lay still at his feet.

The moment it was over, the strength bled out of him all at once. He dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the dirt, breath coming fast. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Not loud at first, just a sound that escaped him, half disbelief, half release. “Oh,” he said to no one in particular, shaking his head, “that went much better than it could have.” The laughter calmed him, grounded him and he pushed himself back to his feet.

He turned toward the children slowly, palms open, voice soft. “Hey. Hey now.” His eyes flicked to the bodies on the ground, the grief radiating off them like cold ice. He swallowed, then smiled anyway, gently. “Good news first,” he said, crouching down to their level. “The wolves are gone. Very gone. They will not be coming back, I promise.”

One of the smaller children stared at him through tears. “Are…are you a hunter or fighter?” she asked, voice trembling. He blinked, then snorted softly. “Oh no,” he said immediately. “They wear armor and have a weapon usually or at least look like they know what they’re doing. I tripped over a root on the way here.” He tapped his shin for emphasis. “Very competent fighter that root. Nearly won.”

A hiccuping laugh escaped one of the older boys despite himself. The man seized on it instantly. “See, that one gets it,” he said, pointing at the boy with mock seriousness. “Laughing at the situation is the first step to not letting it eat you alive. Trust me. I’m very experienced at bad situations.”

The children shuffled closer, still crying but no longer frozen. He reached out carefully, resting a hand on the ground between them rather than touching them outright. “You’re safe,” he said, quieter now, truer. “I can feel how scared you are. That means it’s already getting better. Fear only screams when it knows it’s losing.” He smiled again, warm and unwavering. “And sadness,” he added, tapping his chest, “gets lighter when it’s shared.”

After a few more shaky breaths, one of the children nodded. Another wiped their face with a dirty sleeve. The man straightened slightly and clapped his hands once, cheerfully. “Right,” he said. “Step one, breathing. Step two, we sit together for a bit. Step three, we eat something.” He winked. “And step four, later, when this hurts less, we tell the story and make it sound much better than it actually was.”

They didn’t laugh loudly. Not yet. But they stayed close and the crying softened into sniffles. For now, that was enough.

They ate quietly at first. The man showed them how to cut away the worst of it, how to roast what they could over a small fire. It was not pleasant work, but it was calming. Fat crackled, meat cooked, bellies filled. Hunger dulled, then eased. Color crept back into their faces. The man watched them as much as the fire, relief humming through him.

When the last of the food was gone and the fire had burned low, he leaned back on his hands and looked at them properly. Really looked. “Alright,” he said lightly, as if proposing a game. “I’ve got a question for you. And you don’t have to answer fast.” He tilted his head, smile gentle. “Would you like to go somewhere… different?”

The children exchanged glances, wary but curious. “Different how?” one asked. The man chuckled softly. “Different like this,” he said. “A place where you’ll always have fun. Where you can play, and laugh and learn things just because you want to. Where no one tells you that joy is a waste of time.” His eyes softened. “A place where you get to choose what comes next. Always.”

Another child frowned, then asked quietly, “No wolves?” He laughed, genuine. “No wolves,” he promised. “And if something ever tries to bite, it’ll be part of the game. You’ll know the rules.” He leaned forward. “You don’t have to go. You can say no. But if you say yes…” He spread his hands. “I’ll walk with you.”

They didn’t answer right away. Then one nodded. Then another. Finally, the smallest one stepped closer and said, “Yes.” That was enough. The man stood, brushing dirt from his knees and felt it immediately. A pull. A familiar tension in the air, like laughter held just before it bursts.

“Ah,” he murmured, turning slightly. “There you are.” A shape shimmered between two old trees nearby, not quite a door, not quite not. An arch of bent branches and hanging light, the space beneath it deeper than it should have been. Warm. Inviting. Alive with distant sound, dice on stone, music.

He gestured for the children to follow and led them toward it at an easy pace, never rushing them. The air grew sweeter with every step, lighter, until even the forest seemed to exhale. One by one, the children passed beneath the arch, eyes wide, fear loosening its grip as something brighter took hold.

The last child hesitated, hand half-raised. “Wait,” they said. “You never told us.” The man turned back, eyebrows lifting. “Told you what?” The child swallowed. “Your name.”

He smiled, softer than before. “Right,” he said. “That does matter, doesn’t it?” He placed a hand over his heart and gave a small, theatrical bow. “You can call me Kaelior of the Laughing Turn.” His grin widened. “And I promise, you’re about to have a very fun time.”

Then he stepped through with them and the arch folded closed behind them like it had never been there at all.

---

At first, no one understood the true value of what was now known as tin. The miners had come up with a bag of the stuff, small black crystals embedded in granite. They hadn't know what to do with it, at first. The bigger crystals were rather pretty, though.

At first, they tried to separate the crystals from the veinstone. That process was rather simple; crush the stone and then shake it on a small flat plane. The heavier chunks will remain, and the lighter ones will fall off. It wasn't all that different to how they processed some other ores.

When they got a decent amount of black crystals, that's when things got tricky. What were they even supposed to do with it? A few rare chunks could possibly be used as gemstones, but the others were only broken, unworkable fragments. Still, they couldn't just... throw it out.

They set it aside for the time being, letting the supply grow as they concentrated more and more of the black crystal ore, until a metalsmith just thought, what the hell, why not put it in a furnace and see what happened? It's not like they had anything to lose.

That's what she did, dumping the ore in a crucible and mixing in some powdered black coal and limestone. They had discovered that these other stones, when mixed in with the right amount, rid copper and silver of more impurities when smelted, so she decided to use it here, just to cover her bases.

Incredibly, her flight of fancy actually gave results! She retrieved the burning hot crucible, and was amazed to see that the crystals had in fact melted, and that underneath the layer of slag, was something that looked an awful lot like a new kind of metal.

She ran off immediately to announce her discovery, that sometimes metals did not look like metal at all at first glance, and soon tin production was in full swing.

It was the softest metal they had ever worked with, softer than even gold. So soft, even, that a bar could be easily bent by hand, even by a child. It also gave off the strangest crinkling sound when bent. It melted at a very low temperature as well, less than half of copper's. It was too soft to be useful for smithing by itself... but that did not mean it was useless either.

They knew they could mix metals. They had tried with copper and silver, though it yielded little useful results. Now that a new option was available, they had new mixes to try.

That's how they discovered that adding a part of tin to 9 parts of copper simply made the result... incredibly better than copper in every way. It flowed better when melted, and made casting a breeze. It was more resistant and harder when solid, making using it a a source for tools actually viable. It was much more workable too. It was downright revolutionary as a material.

It was bronze.

They started testing by making a simple knife. They had tried with copper before, but the edge was too soft and dulled too quickly, and so they had stuck with stone blades. But as they doused the red-hot knife in water and ground its edge on a fine-grained stone until it was as thin as a hair, they had the feeling of having found something great.

The sound of the blade slicing through leather like it was nothing sounded like victory.

Bronze began to take over copper in every way. For jewelry, for sculptures, for cookware, and most importantly, for tools. Bronze knives, bronze axes, bronze hammers, bronze tongs, bronze arrowheads even. They were so much easier to make than than stone tools, and though some knappers still persisted in their crafts, they mostly made knives as art pieces rather than as tools.

New forms of weapons began to take shape, too. Knives and spearheads could be made longer, now that they didn't have to rely on finding a good enough rock to begin with. Artists and artisans did as they always did, and they experimented. What if they gave this knife this kind of curve? What if they made it perfectly triangular? What it they gave it only one sharp edge? What if, what if, what if?

Swords, bigger, longer knives that could be used at a distance, became a thing. Of course, nobody expected for them to find a real use; spears were much better for hunting beasts, and they didn't have anyone to fight against either. Instead, they became signs of status or talent in the art of smithing, for they were a difficult and resource intensive thing to make. Ma'otah, as the village's first and sole priestess, and also as a respected leader, was offered one herself, an intricately decorated blade with a brightly painted antler hilt. She began wearing it tied to her waist like jewelry, another kind of embellishment.

The Bronze Age was beginning.

---

Tolamu had been pondering a very important problem lately: food preservation. Though many plants could be dried for storage, some things, like meat, simply rotted too fast to let the air and heat do their work.

Smoking, in addition to drying, would be a good alternative... but trees were scarce, and they did not have that much wood to spare. No way would he ever stoop so low as to use furnace coal for the task either. That stuff smelled and tasted like poison, and he would not dare serve it to anyone, least of all himself! And so smoked meats were reduced to only an occasional by-product of night-time campfires.

He wandered through the village, deep in thought. What else could he use...? Someone of his genius would think of something, wouldn’t he? Water and moisture seemed to be made made things rot. After all, fish and soft fruits went bad much faster than grains or hard roots. That was why they dried things to preserve them... A new way to remove moisture was needed.

He stopped by the old abandoned well. No one ever used it. They had been unlucky with the spot they had dug it in, as only disgusting water that only made you more thirsty came out of it. It wasn't even good for washing, since it dried out and stung skin. Everyone used the one dug a bit farther out the village, since that one actually gave sweet, refreshing drinking water.

...Wait a second. It dried out the skin?

He grabbed a bucket and fetched some water from the old well. He dipped his finger in it and licked it, frowning thoughtfully at the taste. It actually wasn't that bad when he didn't try to swallow it in large gulps... There was something in that water for sure, something interesting. He had to get it out.

He poured the water in a pot near a fire, and brought it all to a boil. And then he waited. And waited. Slowly the water disappeared, leaving behind a steam cloud, until there was no more but a sort of white crust on the bottom. Tolamu steeled his nerves, and with great culinary courage, licked the bottom of the pot.

Wow, that's a powerful taste. His eyes screwed shut and he made a face. He could feel his tongue dry out a little bit where some of the white residue stuck to it and slowly melted. Maybe in moderation, it could be used to season food... something to try out later for sure.

For now, though, he went to work fetching and boiling saltwater, each time scraping off the resulting salt into a bowl. And when he felt he had enough, he took a piece if raw meat, and buried it in it.

His first experiment would not be a complete success, but through trial and error, salt-curing would soon take shape.

---

She was running through the bush, laughing merrily. Her mother had let her accompany her to the fruit tree grove to pick some food. She had been so proud to be allowed to help, though it only made sense. She was five monsoons old after all! She was a big girl now.

She held the basket for her mother while she forage, and she picked some flowers herself. She could give them to her dad, or maybe have her auntie show her how to braid them in a crown. Sometimes, her mother would lift her to sit on her shoulders, and she would pick the fruits she could now reach, giggling all the while

They were taking a break now, resting in shadows to wait out the middle of the day, when the Great Fire burned the hottest. She was running around in the grasses, chasing bugs and using her straw hat to carry pretty rocks. Her mother kept an eye on her, but not too vigilantly: the grove was small, and so she knew her daughter could not stray too far.

It happened very suddenly. She heard something near, something like... laughter? Yes, she could hear it well now. Just behind that bush, hidden behind a few arched trees, people laughed. Many people, from the sound of it.

She went closer, peeking out from the tallgrass. Beyond those trees... there really were people! They were all grouped around tall tables, or maybe just normal tables that were too tall for her, and they kept passing each other cups of something in-between cheers and laughs. They dressed weird, and looked even weirder, but they looked like they had so much fun.

She took a few more steps forward, curious. They spoke weirdly, too. She couldn't understand what what they were saying. Maybe she could hear better if she got a bit closer...?

One last step, an invisible threshold crossed, and she was gone.

She didn't notice anything wrong at first. In fact, she thought everything was quite spectacular! There were pretty lights everywhere, everyone was having fun, there was nice music she had never heard before playing... it was great! Sure she didn't understand the games or why so many involved throwing tiny bone cubes, and she one time grabbed a cup filled with something that smelled sweet but tasted really bitter and gross, but she had also found a cup full of sweet, cold berry juice, so it all evened out in the end.

She ran around for a while, looking at everything, laughing when others did, though she didn't why, listening to the others speak in a language she did not understand, putting some of her pretty rocks on a table and looking as someone spun a wheel for her using rules she did not know.

She ran around like this for close to an hour, just looking at everything, chasing every distraction, tasting every food that did not look too gross.

"Mama! Mama!" she shouted excitedly, "Come here! Look at what I found! There's so many people here!"

Her mother, of course, did not answer her. She stopped moving, smile growing a bit uncertain.

"Mama? Can you hear me?!" Her smile fell off entirely. Why didn't her mother hear her? She hadn't gone far, she was still in the grove! "Mama! Where are you?! Mama!"

Tears formed in her eyes as she panicked, and she could feel sobs build in her chest. "Mama, I'm sorry I ran off, please pick me up... I'm scared!" She began walking, not looking around has she had done, but rather looking for the way she had come in. But wherever she turned, she only found more tables. More strangers. More games she didn't know or understand.

She was scared. She was panicking. She wanted to find her mama, to have her hold her and tell her everything was alright... "I wanna go hoooooome!" she scream-sobbed into the crowd, closing her eyes huddling on the ground.

Everything went still and silent, then. She hesitantly opened one eye, and then the other. The people were gone, and so were the games. Instead, in front of her, sat a little pile of black stone marbles. In front of that pile, a circle was drawn in the dirt, with an equal amount of white marbles dispersed inside.

She sniffled a bit. She knew that game. She played it all the times with the other kids in the village. And she was very good at it. That thought calmed her down a little bit, and she picked up a black marble. With a flick of her finger, she sent it flying into the circle and crashing into a white marble, cleanly bouncing it out of the ring. She smiled a little bit.

One by one, each white marble was knocked out of the circle and replaced by a black one. Each time, she felt a little bit better, like she was doing the right thing. And when the last white marble was removed, a tricky shot that had her think about her angle thrice over, branches bent in front of her, and she saw the fruit tree grove again, the normal one. And then she heard... her mama! Her mama was calling for her!

She ran out of the door, tears once again streaming down her face, but because of relief this time, not fear. "Mama! Mama, I'm here!"

She crashed in her mother's arms, gripping on for dear life as she began babbling about how lost she had been, how scared and how sorry she was for running off. She did not notice how shaken the woman looked, how she held her daughter just as tightly, if not more so, or how her face was also streaked by tears and her chest shook with relieved sobs.

She would soon learn that she had not been gone for an hour or so as she had thought, but for 3 days, which did explain her sudden and inexplicable hunger. She would be asked many questions, about what happened, about where she had been, but she could not answer. Her memories of those days simply slid off her mind like water off a goose's back.

She only remembered people laughing, having a lot of fun, and then being very, very alone and scared.

They entered the Carnival together, three by choice rather than chance, drawn by different hungers but bound by the same curiosity. One sought escape from a jilted lover , another from grief, the third from boredom. At first, the lights and laughter took them like everyone else. Music pressed into their bones, colors felt brighter and the games promised answers shaped like prizes. They laughed easily, too easily and for a time they forgot why they had come at all.

It was the third who noticed something was wrong. Not wrong like danger, but wrong like repetition. The same jokes circled back. The same dealer smiled the same way, every time. They spoke it aloud, half joking and the other two felt it click into place. Once named, the enchantment loosened. It did not break, but it thinned, enough for them to see the Carnival as it truly was, beautiful, hungry and patient.

Breaking free together took effort. They argued, tested each other, grounded themselves in shared memories the Carnival could not rewrite without resistance. It helped that they trusted one another. When one slipped, another pulled them back. They stopped chasing joy blindly and started choosing it, carefully. The lights dulled a bit around them. The games became games again, no longer commandments.

Then they began the quests for exit. The Carnival offered them with pleasure, each path fair and possible. Win this game without smiling. Cross this path without lying. Give up something you love willingly. They tried, together, each time. And each time, they failed. Not catastrophically, but just enough. A laugh escaped at the wrong moment. A truth bent out of kindness. A cherished thing was clutched a second too long.

At first, they treated it like bad luck. Then like a puzzle. They refined their approach, planned, rehearsed. They encouraged one another, calmed frustration, swore they were getting closer. The Carnival seemed pleased by this, if anything. New quests appeared, more elaborate, more personal. The exits stayed just out of reach, always visible, always denied.

Time became slippery. Days felt like hours, hours like weeks. They watched others pass through the Carnival and leave, changed or broken or blessed, while they remained. The enchantment no longer held their minds, but something else did. Investment. Pride. The quiet fear that if they stopped trying now, all the effort would mean nothing. They told each other it was fine. They were still together. That had to count for something.

The strain did not break all at once. It crept in slowly, through the way jokes stopped landing and encouragement began to sound rehearsed. One of them, the one who had come to escape the jilted lover, started keeping score. Every failure became someone’s fault. Every almost-success turned into proof that the others were holding him back. His laughter thinned into something sharp, and when he smiled, it no longer reached his eyes.

Arguments followed. Small at first, then louder. He accused them of enjoying the Carnival too much, of secretly wanting to stay. The others pushed back, tired, reminding him that they were all trapped together, that trust was the only reason they had come this far. That word, trust, seemed to snap something in him. He laughed once, bitter and hollow and said it was easy to preach patience when you still believed there was a door.

It happened fast. Too fast. In the middle of another exchange, his hands were suddenly on the throat of the one who had first noticed the enchantment. There was no warning, no buildup, just a flash of rage and a sickening crack. The body went limp immediately, eyes still open, surprise frozen.

The Carnival intervened.

The moment the neck snapped, the laughter died. Lights spluttered as if starved of air, colours bleeding out of the world until only bruised reds and amber remained. Music warped, slowing into something distorted and wrong, notes dragging like chains. The paths beneath their feet narrowed, curving inward. The corpse vanished between blinks. Violence had been offered and the Carnival answered in kind.

The air thickened as the space rejected them. Walls rose where there had been open stalls, fabric tents transformed into metal corridors. The smell of sugar and smoke curdled into rust and old sweat. Neither of them was touched, yet both felt unmistakable pressure, a guiding force nudging, herding, insisting. This was no punishment spoken aloud. It was simply where they belonged now.

They were pushed onward. Every path behind them sealed shut, lights snapping off one by one until forward was the only direction left. The man who had killed stumbled, rage long gone, replaced by dread. The other followed, grief burning hot enough to keep him moving. Somewhere far away, cheerful bells rang, mocking in their distance.

The corridor opened into a chamber shaped like an arena, though no seats awaited an audience. Chains hung from the ceiling, swaying despite the still air. In the center stood a contraption of wood and metal, part game table, part execution device, its purpose unclear in the way that made it worse. Masks emerged from the shadows, figures neither fully present nor absent, their voices layered and cheerful in the wrong way.

“Welcome,” they chimed together. “You have broken the rules. Now you will play properly.”

The game revealed itself slowly. Two levers on opposite sides of the room. A timer, already ticking. Each lever eased the suffering of the one who pulled it while increasing the danger for the other. Loss was implied everywhere. The masks tilted their heads in unison, delighted. “Survive,” they added lightly. “And you may yet return to the bright paths. Fail and you will learn why we discourage violence.”

The lights flared once, harsh and blinding, then dimmed again as the timer’s ticking grew louder.

One of the masked figures stepped forward, tapping the side of the contraption with a gloved finger. “We are not cruel,” it said and the others nodded in agreement. “We are fair.” The ticking slowed, just enough to be heard clearly and glowing script etched itself into the air between the two levers. The rules were plain. Each round would last one minute. Pulling a lever would grant the puller safety for that round, dulling pain, sealing wounds, steadying breath, while transferring the danger to the other. If neither lever was pulled, both would suffer equally. If both were pulled at once, the protections would cancel out and the machine would escalate.

The second rule followed. The game would continue until one of three conditions was met. One, a player conceded, in which case they would be removed from the game, alive but broken, ready for the next one and the other allowed to return to the brighter Carnival. Two, a player died, ending the game immediately. Or three, they both survived ten rounds without killing each other, at which point the Carnival would deem the lesson learned and release them. The masks clapped softly. “See?” one chimed. “Clear rules. Equal chances. What you do with them is entirely up to you.”

The minutes crawled by. Each round left its mark, not just on flesh but on resolve and it was the killer who broke first. His hands shook as the levers reset, the glow pulsing patiently. He laughed once, sharp and empty, then slumped forward. “I’m done,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I don’t want to win. I don’t want to play anymore.” The words rang louder than any scream could have, and the machine fell silent in response.

The masks turned toward him as one. There was no judgment in their posture, no anger, no satisfaction, only acknowledgment. “Concession accepted,” they said together, cheerful as hosts announcing a change in schedule. The restraints released him and he collapsed to the floor, gasping as the room’s cruelty peeled away from him like a bad dream. His wounds sealed enough to keep him alive, pain dulled but not erased, a reminder rather than a mercy.

The other man barely had time to react. The lights shifted, brightening around him alone, the oppressive walls drawing back as if embarrassed to have existed at all. A warm breeze swept through, carrying music, laughter, the familiar hum of harmless games and impossible prizes. He staggered as the floor beneath his feet, blood fading from his hands like it had never been there.

Behind him, the darker space closed in on the one who had conceded. The masks guided him gently, almost kindly, toward a narrowing passage where the lights were low and the air heavy with consequence. He was alive. He would remain so. But the Carnival would remember him, and he would remember the Carnival, every time he closed his eyes. That is, until the enchantment would be reapplied on his mind and the memories would disappear. Forever.

The killer was not dragged, nor thrown. He was escorted, politely, into a chamber that looked merciful at first glance. Clean lines. Clear light. A single mechanism at the center, simple enough to understand with one look. The rules were spoken softly, kindly, twice. Nothing hidden. Nothing rigged. It was possible to win. Entirely possible. The Masks would even show him how, demonstrating the motions with cheerful precision, like a tutor invested in a student’s success.

Then the game began, and the truth revealed itself. Each step forward demanded a choice that peeled something away from him, pride, certainty, self-justification. The pain was exact, not random. Every consequence tied directly to who he had been. The mechanism waited patiently between actions, allowing rest, allowing thought, allowing regret to bloom fully before asking for the next sacrifice.

By the end, shaking and bloodied, he understood the cruelty of it. This was not punishment. This was education. He could still win, even now, even like this. The exit stood open, visible, attainable. All it required was one final decision, honest and unbearable. The Carnival watched in silence, lights steady, rules fulfilled. Whatever happened next would be fair.

---

“You have that look in your eyes again.” Toffee murmured.

Her brother blinked away his distant stare and looked at her with a growing annoyance. “So do you.” he finally said and looked back up the well worn path.

The wind sent a shiver down her spine as it blew. Leaves drifted down from the branches in yellows, reds and browns. She looked up and was able to see the sky through the trees. Something she had not been able to do a few weeks ago.

She finally sighed and clung to her bundle of sticks a little harder. “We all miss them but they had to go. A great spirit cannot stay in one place for so long. It makes them restless.”

“What about Jiva and Sirele then?” Tad muttered.

She felt her face scrunch. Toffee knew this was what Tad was thinking about because her own thoughts often drifted to Jiva’s carefree smile. The way his eyes glittered. The perfection of his skin. How he made her fe- Ugh. She rolled her eyes and quickened her pace.

“What about them?” she snapped, before sighing again and reigning in her voice. “They had to go too. You know what Saries is like. It needed them as much as they needed it.”

Tad was silent for a long time before he said, “I know.” And that was that. Tad slipped back into his forlorn expression. Like the joy had been sucked from his soul. All because of Sirele. The wind whipped at her hair again, bringing with it a smell that reminded her of Jiva. She cursed mentally. Would he ever leave her mind?

The great spirit and its companions had left them weeks ago, after continually expanding their initial request. Spring had turned to summer and then into fall, novel concepts that Saries and the twins had taught them. The world had changed in so little time. Now the world grew cooler and things stopped growing. They had warned them about the fourth season. Something that none had really seen.

A bitter cold, far worse than the current nip. Life, for all intents and purposes, was dormant or dead and it would not rebound until spring came again. The twins taught them what they knew but sadly it wasn’t much. The great spirit, in the meantime, had grown more and more antsy. That led them to now. Gathering wood for fire. Mother and Teefee were busy knapping stone axes for them to use, so that left Tad and herself on the monotonous task of just picking up dead wood. They had a considerable stock pile saved up by now at least and as they entered the clearing, they could see it amidst the gathering leaves.

They had set up the wood in long rows, stalked up to her waist as a sort of wind block. It helped at night. Their tent had gotten larger too, now more akin to something called a wickiup. Large and dome shaped with constant smoke from the top billowing out. They had made this place their home on the suggestion of the twins. Not half a day's walk to the plains so it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar but the small forest around them provided additional shelter and a flowing creek not far that led to a lake. Mother was happy with the place at least.

Toffee placed her wood on the row nearest to the wickiup and so did Tad. They both entered their home and the wave of warmth felt wonderful on Toffee’s prickling skin. The dim light of the wikiup revealed Teefee humming a tune and their mother drying some cuts of meat. That was the other priority the twins had given them. They needed enough food to last them through the cold. So far they had gathered berries, nuts, seeds, roots and herbs. They had learned how to fish and the game in this land was abundant. It was with a great amount of consternation that the great spirit was against death but Saries was willing to tolerate it due to their unique circumstances.

Being a mix of animal and human seemed to pay off in this regard, at least.

“Welcome back children.” Their mother smiled warmly. “I trust the journey was not too difficult?”

Tad went to his fur bed and sat down, muttering about the cold. Ina frowned as she looked at her son and then she turned to Toffee with questioning eyes.

“It was fine, mother.” Toffee said as she sat down next to the fire. “The wind is sharp and the leaves fall. I cannot remember what the sun looks like. It’s been so cloudy of late.”

Ina hummed affirmatively.

Teefee came over to Toffee and presented to her a stone axe. The head was made from a fine smooth tan chert, woven tightly with leather straps around a dark wooden handle.

Toffee took it and felt the weight of it. “Teefs! This is your finest work yet.” she beamed. Teefee smiled ear to ear in response.

“I think so too! I’ve never seen such nice rock and it was easy to knap and mold.”

Toffee stood and swung it around. It was nice and balanced, somehow.

“Mother is still working on Tad’s and I’m making some more arrowheads for you too.” Teefee said, hands on her hips.

Toffee smirked and put the axe down before pulling Teefee into a hug. “Thank you, sister. Trees will now fear me!”

Teefee laughed and the day wove into night with pleasant chatter around the fire. Even Tad found himself smiling from time to time. Toffee enjoyed herself and it actually felt like the times before the sun. Back when things were easier. She stared into the fire and before long she heard her mother’s voice call to her.

“Toffeen. We should talk.”

Toffee blinked and looked across the dying flames to where her mother held a somber expression. It seemed she had missed that both Tad and Teefee had fallen asleep. She tilted her head slightly and looked at her mother. “About?”

Ina sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I cannot bear to see you and Tad with heart’s so bleak.”

Toffee breathed in through her nose. She didn’t really want to have this conversation but she couldn’t see a way out of it, so she picked up a stick and began to play with the coals. “Is that so?” she said after a moment.

“You often think I don’t have eyes, Toffee but I have watched you like a hawk since the time you could crawl. Don’t even get me started about when you began to walk.” She smirked, her gaze now held by the fire. “You liked Jiva and Tad liked Sirele. I am sorry things did not work out.”

Toffee snapped her head at their mother but she was still looking at the fire. “I didn’t like him.” She lied but knew it was pointless to lie to her mother. So she sighed and deflated a little.

“I wanted you to go with them, you know. I could see something there, a spark of what could be. I’m not sure what I would have done with Teefee though. So I am both grateful and saddened. I refuse to watch my children grow old and not know what love is. So before they left, I asked the great spirit where we should go to find civilization. They told me of a place located within a valley and of a place near a great mountain that spits fire. If these seasons had not arrived, we would still be on our way.” Ina said, now looking at Toffee.

Toffee perked up at the mention of these places and her heart felt heavy at what her mother decreed. She gulped. “You would have let us go?” Was the only question that came from her lips.

Ina nodded. “Of course. It would be selfish of me to deny your own journey. I have always wanted you, Tad and Teefee to be happy.” she smiled whimsically and quickly added, “I have also wanted grandbabies for some time now, too.”

Toffee felt her cheeks flush and she scowled at her mother.

“Relax, my heart, you will understand one day.” her mother chuckled. “Now get some sleep. I need you three to go on a hunt tomorrow.”
Toffee, thankful to stop talking, nodded and got under her furs. She shut her eyes in a heartbeat but also said, “Thank you mom. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

---

With the children out on their hunt, Ina was tidying up the wickiup and after some time she grew thirsty. She checked her waterskin but found it empty. It looked like she would have to go down to the creek. With a grumble about chores not being done, she put on her warmest furs and trekked outside. The path to water was well worn by now and easy to follow. It wound through the trees and Ina marveled at the colors, the smells and the temperature. Her children were young and could only remember life in the hillsgrass lands but her memory went deeper.

Before, in the times when the land was ablaze, where the night and stars held dominion, where colors were dulled grays and bleak browns. Those days she did not wish upon any. So the cold would not bother her, nor would the arrival of winter- it was just what it would do to her children that worried her so. She had truly wanted them to find happiness with Jiva and Sirele, even the great spirit. But Teefee proved to be a problem she could not quite grasp. She walked over a fallen tree as she thought, they’d have to move that eventually- but Teefee.

She was a flower in a world of thorns. That wasn’t bad. One needed flowers to appreciate all that there was in the world. But she worried most for her youngest. The great spirit, Sirna, had given her a strange gift that none could really fathom. She feared it would lead her down a path that went against the ancestors. She had not yet voiced these concerns with Teefee, for the girl had a talent for being disarming and talking your ear off about everything. But Ina had seen something in her daughter’s face when Jiva and Sirele had been spending time with her siblings. A look of worry, marred by jealousy. She had not asked Teefee about it because she knew the girl would never harm a soul. But perhaps… Perhaps a conversation was warranted? Ina sighed and knew she should have talked to Teefee weeks ago.

The path grew wider and at a certain point she felt an odd sensation before it flew away. Her thoughts were so wrapped up in what to do about Teefee, who she was beginning to suspect would not be able to find someone to love like Tad and Toffee, when Ina realized the path was… Wrong.

It was far too wide and when had it gotten so dim? The wind no longer was blowing as hard and a new, strange smell wafted past her. She could hear faint laughing and other odd noises but strangely, she did not feel so panicked at this. Instead, curiosity overtook her and she walked around a bend, the trees suddenly too thick to peer between and found herself before a festive atmosphere. Yelling and shouting, laughing and signing, smoke and cooking food- and she wasn’t alone on the path anymore.

She noticed out of the corner of her eye before turning to see another woman, her hair pale blonde upon even paler skin and behind her a younger looking man with auburn hair. They looked just as perplexed as her. Then she heard a loud gasp and spun in the opposite direction to see a small boy. He couldn’t be any older than five years. He wore strange clothes and his skin was darker than any she had seen before, with jet black hair. He was looking with excitement towards what lay before them. Ina looked around to see if the boy had any parents but it looked as if he was alone.

She pursed her lips, wondering how she would have felt if her own children had been in a strange place with strangers- no one friendly to help them. Her own children, of course, she needed to go find them but… the boy looked up at her with big brown eyes. She smiled and he smiled back. She reached out her hand to him and he took it.

Her kids would understand. She just had to figure out what was going on here, find this boy’s parents and then she’d leave.

Yes, then she’d leave.

---

Teefee playfully shoved Tad as he moped. “Just because you missed the shot, doesn’t mean you’ll miss the next one Tad.”

He grimaced and barely made an effort to push her back.

Teefee pouted and began to sulk before she spotted Toffee just ahead, minding her own business as usual. Teefee’s pout turned into a grin as she hopped forward and then leapt at Toffee, grabbing her from behind and rubbing the side of Toffee’s face with her own.

“Teefee!” Toffee groaned before shoving her away.

“Ugh!” Teefee began to pout again, “You two are no fun today.”

She huffed and crossed her arms before falling in between the two.

Toffee just sighed. “Teefee. We are coming home empty handed. We’ve been out all morning. How are you not tired?”

She shrugged.

“She’s not tired,” Tad began, “Because she’s the only one who got to take a nap today.”

Teefee smirked and stretched her arms high. “There was no prey, so I napped.”

“Of course you did, Teefs.” Toffee said, shaking her head. But the smile on her sister’s face gave away that she thought it was funny.

They made their way back to the wickiup and it was Toffee who slowed slightly. “No smoke?” she said and then jogged to the entrance. Teefee cocked her head and looked at Tad, whose expression had changed from his usual mopiness to one of alertness.

Teefee felt it too. Something was wrong.

Toffee entered first, Tad followed her and then Teefee. The dim light of the wickiup revealed a suffocating silence. Mother was gone.

“The coals are cold.” Toffee said, rushing up from the fire and past them, back out of the wickiup.

She began to shout for her. Teefee could only let her eyes look around the familiar surroundings before it really sank in. She turned to Tad, who seemed to be just as confused.

“Come on!.” She pulled him by the hand and out into the cool air.

They would search for a week but Ina had vanished into thin air.

After leaving the crystal cavern housing the Great Bell, Khthon spent a long time wandering his realm and simply... thinking. Thinking about what he knew. Thinking about just how much was still unknown to him. Thinking about how while he knew his realm by heart, he was still mostly ignorant of the surface. Thinking how that had worked against him.

He might prefer to remain sequestered underground, but his God-Siblings and Ashuru at large would not stop moving just because he wished it so, and now he had been presented with a task. A task he knew too little about, a task that demanded of him a better comprehension of the world, a task that he would need assistance with.

He could, and would, ask the other Gods. But Khthon feared he could not fully rely on them. He had truly spoken only to a handful, and of those, he did not think he could trust them all. He made a short list in his mind.

Sarhush was arrogant, and too set on molding Ashuru as his whims dictated. He could not be sure his God-Brother would not see the Great Bell's warning as a challenge to worsen the situation.

Adria had been helpful during their brief collaboration shortly after their awakening, and seemed generally trustworthy, but Khthon had not felt or heard anything from his God-Sister since then, as if she had gone into hiding.

Alechior was fickle and impulsive, but they seemed to take the world's health to heart. He wouldn't have asked him to fix the soils, otherwise.

Excelsis was bold, and though their nature clashed in many ways, Khthon could recognize that his God-Brother's Domains and his willingness to study the world could prove invaluable.

And perhaps his beastly God-Sibling he had witnessed battling Sarhush, whose essence resonated within all that walked on the surface and now swam in his depths, would be willing to help, if only to preserve its progeny... All of his other God-Siblings, he did not know enough to make a judgment.

So, Alechior, Excelsis, and the Beast God. He would seek out those three first. But before he could put that plan into action, something strange caught his attention. Something with a spark of the divine in it, something strangely familiar.

He approached it, and emerged into what looked to be a slim ravine that might once have reached the surface. Dust and dried mud covered a good part of the inside, and a few brittle beast bones layed at the bottom. It had probably met its demise after a careless step too much, and had been swallowed by the earth. All of this was mundane, except for the last item laying in a little corner, the same item he had sensed. A simple clay tablet, though it did not feel like it had come from him. On it, two simple impressions; a human foot, and a human hand.

Khthon finally recognized the familiar essence that dwelt in the tablet. It felt exactly like Sarhush and his Me of Fire. He felt uneasy at the memory. Touching the Me and feeling all of his God-Brother's intent infused within it had been profoundly unpleasant. Still, he probably should take of this unknown Me, if only to throw it back to the surface.

He formed an arm and gingerly took it in his hand, bracing for the rush of information he knew would follow.

Things that move. Things that think. Things that make and change and shape. Things that come together, and are stronger from it. Things that do not let the world dictate what they are, what they can do. Things that change the world. Things that are not things, but people.

Khthon was... surprised. This one wasn't nearly as bad as the other. It was almost inspiring, really. The undercurrent of violence that permeated the Me of Fire was absent, mostly replaced by the will to change and transform, something he understood rather well.

...Maybe he shouldn't throw it away immediately. An idea had been brewing in the back of his mind, and this Me could come in handy. Yes, he could use it, he was certain.

His plan to call his fellow Gods put aside for the moment, Khthon called to the Earth, and let it carry him. His destination would be Ashuru's farthest reaches, where mortals had yet to reach, where sand covered all, where the Sun's heat burned hottest and driest. He emerged before a white dune, a great pillar of stone in the ocean of pale sand.

His one hand still clutching the Me of People, he manifested another, and reached for the middle of his body. And then he struck, and great crack forming and bleeding sand, red and black and golden grains raining like ichor. He bled and he bled, the divine sand mixing with the white dune's, until they were one in Khthon's very essence. He gestured, and the whole took a vaguely spherical shape, and lifted from the ground, isolated from the rest of the desert.

Then came the tricky part. He focused on the sand mass as a whole, and on each individual grain, and within each and everyone of them, poured his energy, and ignited a spark. A tiny, minuscule spark, not exactly of Life, but of Awareness, of Will.

He felt it when the sand began to move by itself. He felt as they shook and linked together, into a great whole. He felt when they began thinking.

He spoke to them. Not in the way of mortal language, but in the way stone speak to itself. Cracks and vibrations and magnetism and changes in heat and recrystallization.

"You are new. You do not know much, but you can think and learn. Let me teach you a few things." Khthon reached out and gently tapped the Me of People on the floating sand mass. He saw how each grain of sand slightly jumped as the information given by the Me spread through them like a wave. "This is what a person is. You, right now, are a person. You can be a different person. You can be multiple people. You can be not a person at all. It all depends on how many of you there are."

"Do not fear change. I have made you in my image. You are of the Earth, of Khthon. The Earth forever changes, is never the same twice. And yet, it remains the Earth. It is eternal yet ever changing. So are you." Khthon demonstrated by grabbing a handful of mundane sand, and compressing it into a sedimentary rock. He showed how the rock cycled different states, from metamorphic to igneous, and even a small pool of lava, before returning it to sand.

"You have been created with a purpose, but it is a purpose you will fulfill simply by being. You are to see the world, learn from it, and remember it even when everything else decays and forgets. You will not need for anything else, for you are not made of weak flesh." The surface of the sand mass rippled slightly as it processed all the new information. "Spread across the surface. Explore the depths. Meet others. Search for what is both known and unknown, and protect that knowledge carefully. And when I call for you, answer me, and share what you have learned." The sand mass vibrated in affirmation, as if almost excited by the prospect.

Khthon paused for a bit. He needed to concentrate a bit, as he prepared his last gift. "The others that dwell in this world, creatures both intelligent and not, are different from us. They are not of the Earth, nor are they eternal, and they do not speak as we do. For that reason, I will give you a gift, the gift of language, so that you may communicate." With a burst of divine power, he shared his knowledge of mortal language. Not of any specific one, but what a mortal language was at its core. The structure behind it, the way meaning could be obfuscated or clarified, how complex ideas were transmitted and organised. He paused for a bit, letting the sudden knowledge spread throughout the sand mass.

"I will spread you across the surface. You will no longer be a person, but you will remember what I have taught you. You will seek your brethren and become someone new. You are the sabulo, and I have chosen to put my belief in you."

With those last few words, the sand mass, or rather the sabulo singularity, burst outward, every grain flying off to every corner of the world. Soon, Khthon knew, he would have eyes all over the surface, ready to remember when no one else could.

---

In a dark corner of a forest, a small grain of sand moved. It would not usually be strange, for sand constantly was dragged somewhere by beasts or wind, but this one seemed to be moving through no other force but its own. It moved in a straight line, sometimes stopping for a short while, before changing its angle and starting again. Nothing seemed to affect it, not light, not heat, not the beasts roaming the woods.

Until it passed near another self moving grain of sand. As soon as they got close enough, they both started heading straight for each other, until they collided. They stopped moving for a long moment, and then... began rolling, stuck to one another, as if they were one.

The same thing happened over and over again... until, eventually, a head-sized lump of sand crawled out of the woods, as if seeking somewhere new to be.

Somewhere on the ocean bottom, there slept a village known to its residents as Gabung. They were a people who had built homes out of the graveyard of fish, coral and mud the seas had left behind. They had lived simply, milling around the odd god relic sticking out of the ground with odd symbols and odd lights. Then came a day where the sun grew up, and the winds grew strong, and a bunch of seeds got blown into their waste pile, and they feasted on the rot so they could also grow up and put the entire village to sleep.

I did not say that the sun grew up, said the rock. Don’t be rude about gods. Do you want them to ruin you?

‘I am already ruined by the actions of a god, so I don’t think it matters.’ With a heavy sigh, Oyuna, who was already squatting to listen to this rock, shifted to sit cross-legged by her tablets. ‘Thank you for telling me, Obstinacy.’

It is Patron of Obstinacy, huffed the rock with no lungs to huff with. What are you doing?

‘If I am to rot away in slumber until I die, then I will spend my final days completing my life’s work.’ Oyuna traced the stiff grooves in the soft clay, painstakingly etched with the pointed, spiral shells that littered the sea floor. ‘I refuse to let this all be for nothing. I refuse.’

The sun shone brightly. The distant murmur of people at work and play continued. It was unfair how nothing seemed out of place in this dream world.

It does not have to be.

‘I do not wish to make a pact with you either. Do you think I have not heard the stories? Deals with your kind rarely have a happy ending.’

And is a happy ending what you want? Will you be satisfied with the live you lived, never knowing of what could have been? Ignorant of the truth that you failed to understand? Her tablets vanished, replaced by the towering golem that haunted her even in her dreams. Oyuna’s protest died in her throat as the inscriptions on its surface lit up with an otherworldly light. You are a persistent mortal who slaved away most of your life for a goal that no one around you believed in.

‘You do not have to gloat.’

I speak only truth. I told you of what has befallen your tribe and you thought not of your loved ones, or your life, but of the golem which has yielded nothing to you in spite of your efforts. You have spirit, Oyuna Erdene, and I do not think you will throw this chance away for a reason as unimaginative as fear.

The golem’s light shone all the while. So close, and yet still out of reach. The rock did not say anymore. The Patron must have known that it did not need to. Oyuna placed a hand on the surface of the golem.

‘What would you have me do?’

Somewhere on the ocean bottom, a woman roused from a deep slumber. She moved slowly, carefully, as she stretched her limbs. Rolled her neck. Rubbed her eyes. She found herself taken by a fervent hunger, so the first thing she did was fetch herself some water and scrounge for any food that hadn’t gone bad in the days past. The sun, the real sun, shone merrily overhead.


The second thing she did was find the mushrooms.

Just as the Patron had said, they were clustered all over the community refuse pile, bright spots of gold carpeting the rotting rubbish they grew on. Spores, waves of dust-like dots, drifted off them in waves.

Setting fire to the pile had never felt so satifying.


Then she went around the tribe grounds and began shaking everyone awake. Her parents, her brother, her aunts and uncles, and everyone else. They awoke weak, with stiff joints and ravenous hunger, but they awoke still and that was what was important. A fear that the woman hadn’t known melted away from her heart, replaced by a great relief. They had lost time, but that was a far sight better than losing lives.

Slowly, but surely, the tribe recovered. Picked themselves up off the ground and continued to mill about their lives. The woman who had awoken them, however, introduced something new to the tribe. Those strange, silly markings that they had known her to obsess over actually held meaning! There were lines to indicate the things they spoke of, to remind themselves of matters that needed remembering. There were other smaller lines too, to cover the more complicated sounds they made. It was a concept the elders struggled with, but the younger ones picked it up with enthusiasm, picking out shells with long, narrow spires to keep instead of burn. Some broke off the stem of thin reeds that insisted on growing out of the muddy, moist ground. They shaped clay into firmer, blocky shapes, set the tips of their shells or stems to soft clay.

And they wrote.


The woman, weeks later, found herself seated before her prized tablets, the ones that had much of the golem’s inscriptions copied onto their surface. She brushed loose sand off their surface. Pressed her fingers against etched stone.

Next to her, a rock rose through the ground, pushing through mud and dirt.


The tablets were still incomprehensible to her. Script – because that was what they were called – with loops, and hard angles, and swerves, and strokes that spelled nothing but gibberish. The script that Gabung had picked up had borrowed select symbols from the golem’s script, but it was simply how her tribe had interpreted these symbols, not a true understanding of what they really were.

‘So you are real,’ said Oyuna.

And you are stubborn.

It was jarring to receive Obstinacy’s thoughts here, outside of the Dreamscape. No longer did they echo in the surroundings. They felt more like impressions pressed against her head; feelings more than words.

You should have accepted my offer. You will not find Patrons who handle their mortals so gently as I.

Gabung had signs now. Words that they inscribed into the walls of their homes. Names. Oyuna felt a little swell of pride whenever she saw them. She had started this. She had figured it out. Had it not been for that sole compromise, the Gabung tribe might have wasted away in their slumber by now.

Still, obstinacy is why I sought you out. I cannot condemn you for indulging in my domain. It is right as it is frustrating.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Oyuna. ‘There are still plenty of opportunities for you to convince me into becoming your thrall. Between the Great Drain and the Frigid Eclipse, I am sure the gods are far from finished with bumbling around our land.’

Amusement wafted off Obstinacy.

How right you are, child.

In the outskirts of the tribe grounds, in slow and steady movements, sand shifted.

---

---

Somewhere within the Dreamscape, Sirna... did not sneeze, for they had neither nose nor face to do so, but they did experience a brief surge of water splashing out of their waterfall.

Hm. Must be the weather.

---

She stoked the fire as the wind howled outside. The dim embers lit the face of Toffee and Tad in a red light that made their shadows long. It had been weeks since mother had gone and the grip of winter had set in, preventing them from searching further and further away from this place they slept in. It no longer felt like home, after all. The cold was something else entirely. They had to stay inside most of the days, only leaving for essentials. This would not have been a problem for they were family but with mother gone, there was a heaviness in the air. Things had not been the same since those first few days of searching. It was boredom, through and through and she could tell anger was growing. But not why. So it was like that, for weeks, as the air became more and more tense.

Silence reigned and it ate at Teefee.

Perhaps the worst gut punch of all- Teefee could not find her mother in the land of dreams. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many dream guides she asked, there was nothing. And this could only mean one of two things- either their mother was dead or she had yet to go to sleep. Both were equally terrifying to grasp. What haunted Teefee more was that she felt like a failure because she couldn’t figure it out. Mother had to be sleeping at some point, why couldn’t she find her? Teefee refused to believe she was dead, though it gnawed at her deep in the pit with all her other failures and insecurities. She had let her siblings down in the end. And now there was no more happiness in them, in her.

Had she made a mistake? This thought had always been there, suppressed by a reality she deemed acceptable but now it emerged from the surface of her mind like some foul creature from a swamp. No, no, she had to tell herself that there was no mistake. They would not have been happy, in the end. Right?

This rampant spiralling thought was interrupted by Toffee, who said, “We should leave when spring comes.”

Teefee’s eyes went wide. “No.” she replied quickly. “We can’t leave. What if mother returns and we aren’t here? She will be worried about us.”

“Teefee,” Toffee rubbed the bridge of her nose, in a display reminiscent of their mother, “She wouldn’t want us to stay here another season, not when it gets warm enough to travel. She wanted us to find other people and not be secluded like this. As the oldest one here, it’s my responsibility to look after you two.”

“Are we really bringing age into this?” Tad murmured. “Barely a few minutes older and you think you’re in charge?”

Toffee glared at Tad but their brother only had eyes for the fire.

“And do you think you should be in charge?” Toffee asked.

Tad shrugged. “We may have had a chieftess but I think I’m just as capable as any woman when it comes to being in charge.”

Toffee laughed darkly. Teefee opened her mouth to speak but her sister beat her, “That’s rich coming from a ‘man’ who only mopes around. I don’t see you taking any sort of charge.”

Tad snapped his head to look at Toffee and narrowed his eyes. The air in the wikiup suddenly became hostile. “Low blow sister.” he hissed through his teeth. “At least I’m not bossing everyone around. At least I’m not pretending to be something I’m not.”

“Oh and what am I pretending to be?” Toffee growled.

“Mother.”

There was a moment of silence before Toffee lashed out at Tad with a fist. He leaned back just enough that her arm went sailing in front of his eyes before he tackled her and they began to roll next to the fire, shouting and yelling about nonsense as they vied for leverage.

Teefee’s eyes, still wide, became teary. Is this what she had wanted? For them to fight? For them to be miserable? Why couldn’t they just get along? She was paralyzed to action as her mind raced. They had been at each other’s throats ever since mother had vanished and she just couldn’t understand why. They had gotten so close when… when… Sirele and Jiva had been around. Laughing and talking, for once there was an interest they both shared.

Her hands went to either side of her head, her ears pressed close to her hair. Eyes tightly shut. Why was it getting harder to breathe?

She could see them with large smiles and hazy expressions, lost in blissful thought. Then she saw herself and she knew she should not have felt as she had but the dream! Abandoned. Alone. Oblivion…. She needed to keep them safe. She needed to keep them by her side. That was the only way. The only-

“It was me!” she burst- unable to hold her crime in any longer. The weight of it all had become too much at that moment. She was a beaver dam that needed to break.

Except Tad and Toffee were still fighting. Toffee now perched on her brother’s chest, holding the cuff of his furs and thrashing him as she screamed about responsibility. It would have been comical if not for the fact that she was serious.

Teefee got up, walked over and shoved Toffee off of Tad. With a resounding oof, Toffee rolled over to her back and stared up at the ceiling. Both of her siblings breathed hard, their faces red and sweaty. Both had small cuts and bruises, at least they knew better than to seriously harm each other. But Teefee could no longer risk the notion that they wouldn’t come to more extreme blows, not with Toffee’s anger.

She took a shaky breath and tried to calm her nerves but it was pointless. Her knees buckled and she fell on them. “I-I-I have to tell you something.” Teefee began to sob.

“Teefee?” Both Tad and Toffee said at the same time as they got to their knees and came over to her.

“I’m sorry Teefee, I shouldn’t have said what I said.” Toffee muttered.

“We shouldn’t have fought.” Tad agreed. “And I shouldn’t have said things either.”

Teefee shook her head, tears flying everywhere. “You don’t understand. I d-did this!” she cried, a deep sob wracked her chest as she tried to breath. Both Tad and Toffee placed a hand on her back and rubbed, a gesture she did not deserve.

“What are you talking about, Teefs?” Tad asked. She looked up at him and saw his worried face and her heart broke a little more.

“I didn’t want to be alone. I-I saw how you looked at them- I saw what was happening. You always think I’m oblivious, that I don’t see what others see but you’re wrong.” she sniffled. Looks of confusion plastered her sibling’s faces but neither said anything. “I asked them, you know, how old they were because I was curious. And do you know what they said? Sirele put it in simple terms. They had been born so long ago that their friends were now elders and that they had stopped aging. That they wouldn’t become elders for centuries to come. Do you know what a century is? It’s a very long time.”

“What are you talking about?” Tad asked, his voice no longer so soft. She looked him straight in the eyes.

“They were blessed with long life, Tad. By Saries. We will be dead long before they ever even dream of dying.”

“So what’s that have to do with anything?” Tad asked, removing his hand from her back and crossing them against his chest. “I don’t understand.”

“What did you do, Teefee?” Toffee’s voice was sharp and when she looked at her sister, she saw not just anger but fear. Toffee then grabbed her by the shoulders and asked again, ‘What did you do?”

“I-I,” Teefee stammered. “I asked their dream guides to remind them of their family and home, of old age. Anything to stop them from dreaming about you two.” Oh by the ancestors, she had said it. It had come so easily, that ruination of her own doing.

There was stunned silence. Toffee eye’s looked right through Teefee and Tad, poor Tad looked as if he was just now understanding what was going on.

“I’m sorry!” Teefee followed up and then quickly added, “I-I didn’t want them to take you away, I didn’t want you to be sad when you grew older and they did not. But then you guys seemed so sad and then mom vanished and if she hadn’t… Maybe she’d still be here if… if…” she sniffled again and fresh tears fell down her space. Tad got up and backed away, looking at her in shock.

Toffee began to squeeze her shoulders and Teefee squirmed. “How could you!” Toffee screamed at her. “How dare you make that decision for me! How could you be so selfish!” she shook her and then let go, a mix of disgust and rage across her face.

“T-Toffee!” Teefee gasped, as her sister began to frantically gather up her furs and spear before she made her way to the Wikiup’s flap. “Please! I’m sorry! I know it was selfish! I know it was stupid! B-But I can’t lose you!” she cried, scrambling to her feet.

Toffee marched outside into the wind and snow. The cold bit at Teefee as she followed. “Where are you going!” She yelled at Toffee.

Toffee spun, her expression had gone dark and her fists were balled. She jabbed a finger into Teefee’s chest a moment later. “Anywhere but here! I can’t stand to look at you right now.”

Teefee felt as if she had been punched in the gut. “Toffee.” she whimpered, pleading. “Don’t leave. Please.”

Her sister squeezed her eyes shut, warring within herself. Before she snapped them open and said. “It’s one thing to protect your siblings, Teefee. It’s another to dictate their lives and steal from them choices.” She began to shake her head. “Mother would be ashamed of you.” She then turned and walked off into the snow. Teefee stood there before another figure brushed past her, a pack on his shoulder. He didn’t even look at her.

“Tad…” She said, “Please stay with me.”

He hesitated and turned. His eyes did not meet hers before he shook his head in somber reflection, turned and walked away, down a different path than Toffee.

Teefee no longer felt cold. She was numb as she made her way back into her tent. She collapsed next to the fire and curled into a ball.

Her nightmare had come true.

---

Elsewhere in the forest, a hotblooded young woman wasn’t bothered by the cold as she marched away from all she had known. She was only doing so because she didn’t trust herself around Teefee without causing her harm. This was the only way to cool off. Yet, it wasn’t long before the snow was tinged with red, like a bloody haze. Her heartbeat quickened but strangely, she was not afraid.

A new witch was born.

---

Elsewhere in the forest, a man whose heart had been broken enough had finally decided to leave it all behind. The cold was nothing that he couldn’t handle. In fact, it made him feel more alive than he had felt in weeks. So he turned off his thoughts and let the wind guide him to wherever it blew.