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Chapter Text

7. Deeply Rooted

Although the Badlands is known across the continent as a nation of fire and heat, the nights are dangerously cold. It is nowhere near the depths of the night in the northern countries, but most wanderers would agree that one must be extremely prepared when daring to face the moonlit sky while traveling across the desert.

The air is cool when Hannah emerges from a secret entrance to Pandora’s Vault. The wind pulls at the clothes she wears when she isn’t in her usual armor, and a shiver races down her spine. She reaches a hand up to wipe her brow in case any sweat collected there while she was preparing for the day. The interior of Pandora’s Vault boasts lava as one of its main defenses, and the sweltering heat seems to travel throughout the obsidian halls. Thankfully, guardians before Hannah had enough sense to invest in magical devices for the bedrooms, bringing the unbearable temperature down. Unfortunately, these devices are not found elsewhere in the prison for fear that a prisoner might interact with them and disrupt the system. Hannah might have suggested a means to alleviate the heat, but her contracted elemental, Warden, shot down her attempts before her words were finished.

For this reason and many others, Hannah leaves the prison once every morning to experience the lingering chill brought about by the night. Hannah stretches her limbs, taking wide steps as she swiftly pulls herself out of the hiding place where the entrance is. The nook is surrounded by numerous overgrown plants. Earth elementals in the form of sculk grow on the orange-red rocks, and a faint magical barrier trickles across Hananh’s skin as she leaves the protection of the prison’s immediate shielding. The sculk makes warbling noises as she continues toward the golden light cutting through the cave's shadows hidden inside the canyon’s face. Hannah would have to travel far to leave Warden’s territory immediately, and unless she does, the sculk will snitch on her to their master.

Hannah steps into the morning light. She breathes in deeply as she shuffles to the edge of the ledge that projects outward from the canyon’s outside wall. It is about the size of a balcony, and the steep drop off the side gives the impression of a huge building. Hannah sits on this edge, swinging her legs over the side. She remembers when she was too scared to come out this far, but now, Hannah can breathe in the natural air without fear making her hesitant or clammy. She keeps her eyes wide open as she looks out across the desert. The sun is beginning to lift above the horizon, painting the sky with vivid orange and brilliant red that almost matches the color of the canyon.

Mornings like this give the impression that everything is right in the world. Hannah smiles grimly as she tilts her head back to the half-dark night sky above her head. In her youth, Hannah could see the vague outlines of starlight, but it was too blurry to tell for certain. These days, the sky is unusually clear. Hannah knows this is the way the sky is supposed to be, but part of her continues to search for patches of obscurity. It would remind her of her childhood, and while those memories weren’t happy by any stretch of the definition, they are important to Hannah. They are part of who she is, a lesson learned from bleeding and sweating literally half to death across the golden sea.

“You are out here again,” A statement said without the uncertainty of a question or the curiosity of an observation. Hannah looks over her shoulder without flinching. A slow smile creeps onto her face as she recognizes the humanoid form of her elemental. In the darkness of Pandora’s Vault, Warden preferred his more beastly form, but when the light was pure and bright, he found his way back to humanity.

“You cannot blame me for searching for the light,” Hannah notes. She bends a leg to press against her chest, settling her elbow against her knee. She puts her chin in her hand, tilting her head up to stare at Warden as he comes to stand on the ledge next to her. He folds his arms behind his back. His eyes are firmly shut, but his posture is rigid with attention. He looks like a general surveying his forces. 

Hannah glances away from Warden. Since she’s looking for it, she can see a few earth elementals minding their business near the prison. Since she’s contracted to the king, Hannah naturally possesses the ability to see other elementals, including ones from the other courts. When she first learned about this ability, she asked Warden about the earth and fire elementals around the prison. Warden explained it simply. They desired his protection. He allowed them to loiter because he could call them to his side when necessary. In this way, they are his army, so the allusions to a military title are not too far-fetched.

Warden hums noncommittally. Hannah whips her head around to look at him. Warden did not usually leave the prison, but on the mornings when he did,  he would spend the entire sunrise lecturing Hannah about her inability to spend a complete day in the prison. He would remind her that anyone could see and follow her through the secret entrance. Even with all of her abilities, the fall from this ledge could still injure her, perhaps fatally. She could be attacked by jinns or rogues. She could be attacked by a human faction as there were numerous who desired the rights to the prison or the possession of the Earth Elemental King’s contract. Hannah has heard every reason why she shouldn’t be out here, but Warden will continue to lecture her until she stops coming out here.

Except, apparently, today. He is silent. While Warden is frequently prone to bouts of silence, he has never once broken from his habits. If he came out here, it would be to lecture her, but he does not utter a word. His body language does not even shift toward her in acknowledgment. Warden has never blatantly ignored her before even when she could list a handful of times when he probably wanted to. The abnormality of the situation unnerves even her nonchalant spirit. 

Warden’s eyes are shut, but his attention seems to be on something in the distance. Hannah follows his gaze as best she can. She raises her hand to shield her eyes, peering across the world from the shade of her fingers. She sees a dash of red in the distance, offset from the golden sand around it. Hannah strains her vision, activating some of her abilities to hone in on the near-invisible streak. In the end, it is not her eyes that identify the source of the color but her jinn disposition. She senses the roots of the plant stretching into the earth, the leaves spreading out from the unbending stem, and the persevering flower seeking warm sunlight.

“Well, there’s a sight you don’t see often,” Hannah remarks casually as she leans back. While the desert is generally more hospitable in Pandora than in other regions, flowers from the ground are still hard to come by. Some bushes produce flowers and the cactus have their season, but those are networks of plant life that can support each other. A single flower clinging to the sand for stability will not survive long. Hannah is surprised it has survived this long.

“I agree. I was certain that breed of flower had died a long time ago,” Warden answers. His voice is naturally firm and gruff, but when his volume dips like this, Hannah could almost call his voice ‘soft.’ Warden inhales through his nose. Hannah raises an eyebrow at him. Elementals do not need to breathe. Earth elementals especially do not like imitating it because it clogs their bodies with air. Even the slightest hint of air elemental energy is rejected by earth elementals. Warden would never be so crass as to let his distaste show, but he never breathes. At least, he never used to, but today must be a day for change.

“That flower was not made by the Great Mother as most plants are. It was instead made by the original Water Elemental Kings. She was in a contest with the original Fire Elemental King to create a suitable present for the first Air Elemental King. That flower was made with the ability to withstand extreme conditions. It would not die of drought or flood. To test the limitations of the flower, the Air Elemental King, with the permission of Reaper and I, planted these flowers all over the Badlands. While many died, there were patches of these flowers all over the Badlands. Travelers searched many moons to find a single one. Because of their rarity, it became a symbol of status and power to humans and jinn. I still remember the way she laughed when she heard the news. The Water Elemental King was not pleased that her gift had been usurped by others, but she did not fuss when she was crowned the winner of the competition,” Warden explains. There is no reason for him to, but his voice never wavers as he talks about a time that must have been hundreds of thousands of years ago. Hannah will never be able to experience that time, but the story is a precious one.

“What did the Fire Elemental King make?” Hannah whispers. A part of her laments her insolence, but this is the first time Warden has spoken about a positive memory. It is the first time he’s talked about a time several epochs before Hannah’s birth. Her curiosity burns inside of her chest. Mostly, however, she desires to be the kind of person Warden is comfortable sharing stories like this with.

“He made a tool for the Air Elemental King to use in her research. I did not bother asking for the details, but I remember the Air Elemental King barging into the prison to show the device to me. I did not understand what she was doing. She only laughed. She put the device away to tell me stories about her time in the world. I could not tell you if she used that device any further. It would be inaccurate to say the device was lesser than the flowers since I believe the Water Elemental King was made into the winner to pacify her anger,” Warden answers. One foot moves away from the other, sliding back to make Warden’s body face halfway between the horizon and Hannah. He tilts his head to look at her, though his eyelids have not opened. “The flowers died out after the dormancy of their creator. She was the Queen of the Nymphs, no longer the Water Elemental King, but her disappearance from the world still had adverse effects on all of her creations. As such, I will be extracting the flower. I trust that you will assist me with growing the flower over here.”

“Of course,” Hannah says without thinking, though she doesn’t need to think about it. Warden is someone who never needs help, but he helps her all the time. She wants to do something for him, especially when it’s as important as the preservation of his long-dead friend’s creation. That flower is a united symbol of the connection between the original kings of the other courts, and since it blossomed in the Badlands, that made Warden part of the connection. Additionally, Hannah would never disagree with helping plants grow. It is in her essence to assist nature blossom.

Warden retrieves the flower from distant lands. It is the furthest he has ever been from the prison since Hannah became the Guardian. When he brings the flower back, he carries it with as much gentleness as his golem-like hands can possess. Hannah is sitting in front of a hole she’s dug in the ground with her own hands instead of letting an elemental do it for her. Warden sets the roots in the ground. Hannah folds the dirt over the plant, panting down the half-sand, half-soil.

The flower has five long red petals with an orange-pink inner ring. The leaves are covered in a thin layer of white fuzz that tickles Hannah’s skin when she brushes it one way and stings slightly when she brushes the opposite way. The stem is as thick as a vine, and the flower does not bend easily to the wind. It is half-tucked in the alcove, surrounded by thorny bushes that cover its intense color with their shadows and purple-green leaves. Hannah feels the plant’s resilience and health when she trails a finger over the petals. 

The sun is already crawling across the sky by the time Warden and Hannah reenter the prison. They do not speak to each other about the flower, but after that, Warden will sometimes join Hannah to check on the flower rather than lecture her. It isn’t every morning, obviously, but on the days he does come out, he seems happier. Hannah smiles slightly, wondering if she should send a letter to her father to make him jealous.

Chapter Text

8. Ghosted

Shelby focuses her attention on the target several yards away from her. She forms a diamond shape with her thumbs and index fingers. She looks at the target from the space between her fingers. She narrows her eyes slightly, unaware that the green glow begins to seep into her golden irises. Out of habit rather than necessity, Shelby takes a deep breath. She unwinds some EXP from her core, letting it flow through her arms to her fingertips. The EXP transitions into a spell as it exits her hands. It collects into a golden web-like film with a dark blue aureole between her fingers, still framing the target. When the spell is filled with as much EXP as Shelby is willing to expend, she releases it. The web snaps into a ball with a molten gold core and blue flames surrounding it. The fireball travels the distance, slamming smack into the middle of the target. The blue flames spread from the bullseye to the tips of the target, destroying the paper-like material.

Shelby lowers her hands. A victorious smile spreads across her face. She turns around quickly, eyes searching for approval. False’s light blue eyes are staring at the target’s destruction. When she notices Shelby looking at her, False’s unflinching stare meets Shelby’s eyes. The longer the silent moment goes on, the more awkward it feels. Shelby’s cheeks blush blue as her eyes dart around from False. The artificer finally assumes something as she takes a step toward Shelby. Her movements are stiff as she taps the palm of her hand against Shelby’s head thrice. False drops her arm to her side when she finishes, leaning her body to the side to look into Shelby’s eyes. There is a hint of pride in her voice when she says, “Congratulations. This is the first time I have seen someone combine magecraft and Origin magic.”

Shelby huffs— another habit— but the smile on her face is true as she folds her hands behind her back. She looks over at the other targets. They are riddled with bullet holes or elemental reactions from False’s rifle. Shelby’s targets were completely annihilated by magic. Thankfully, False doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that they will need to make more targets. Shelby wouldn’t mind helping to make more since False generously allowed her to use these.

“I think I’m getting the hang of my Origin magic,” Shelby admits, looking back at False.

“It would appear so. You are quite dutiful in your training,” False nods firmly. “Have you discovered your phantasm yet?”

“My what?” Shelby frowns, eyebrows narrowing together. While Shelby has been slowly gaining back a few memories from her past, the majority of them are still missing. Shelby has never heard of the word ‘phantasm.’ She wonders if she’s heard it before or not.

“Undead hybrids including phantoms such as yourself have access to a subtype of Origin magic known as a phantasm. Like most Origin magic, you will instinctively know it,” False explains. “Unfortunately, I have not been able to study it so that is all I know about the matter.”

“Then, no, I haven’t found my phantasm,” Shelby admits sullenly. Her fingers twiddle together as she frowns.

False hums. “Do not fret. Even without a phantasm, you are quite capable. You possess most of the other abilities associated with phantom hybrids. You can conceal your hybrid traits. You can turn invisible and intangible at will. You can summon and manipulate ghost-fire. You can sense the sleeping habits of those around you. You might not know this, but most phantom hybrids fail at these tasks. You are…”

“A prodigy?” Shelby humorously cites. Her smile drops when her attempted joke turns to ash on her tongue. A memory does not spring to her mind, but the feeling associated with that word does. Shelby grabs her upper arm with her hand, squeezing the cold flesh. She never hated the word, she knows, but… Shelby doesn’t remember. It hurts her head to think about it.

“Is this reaction an impairment from your physical or mental health?” False asks, setting her hands on Shelby’s shoulders. False leans in close to examine Shelby’s facial expression and the movement of her eyes. False frowns and narrows her eyes analytically. Shelby is uncomfortable under such a firm gaze, but she understands that False is trying to care for Shelby.

“Mental… and even then, I’m fine. I just… I halfway remembered something. I think I was a prodigy when I was alive,” Shelby adds. She reaches her hands to grab onto False’s wrists. Shelby gently pulls False’s hands off her shoulders. She keeps her hands on False’s wrists as she lowers their hands between them. As a phantom hybrid and a lich, Shelby and False both run extremely cold. They are practically walking corpses. Shelby might not remember being alive, but her body remembers the heat that once burned inside her chest. Shelby feels burdened by her body’s memories.

“I could imbue a monster core with fire-type elemental energy to place inside your body. While it would not be the same as pumping blood, it should serve the purpose of pacifying your body’s instincts,” False tells Shelby. The phantom’s frown deepens. Did she say that out loud? False’s expression gives nothing away. Shelby snorts. Even when False has trouble putting her thoughts into words, she always seems to know what her allies need.

“No, it’s fine,” Shelby murmurs with a smile. Shelby might come to regret refusing False, but right now, the warmth of False’s care is enough to ease the bundle of negativity in her chest. Shelby squeezes False’s wrists. She releases one wrist, but she intertwines her hand with False. They are both cold, but perhaps they could be warmer together. Shelby tugs False with her as they return to the camp.

For some reason, Shelby feels a wave of nostalgia hit her. Shelby shakes her head. She’ll find the people from her past one day. For now, she will take comfort in False’s clumsy affection and the kindness of the others as they welcome Shelby and False back to their camp. 

Chapter Text

9. New Plan

Thick, dark gray smoke fills the workshop. Gemini ducks her head down as her hands slide over her mouth. She feels a cough tickling the back of her throat as she blindly stumbles through the room. Eventually, her shoulder brushes against a hole in the wall that she stumbles through. Gemini trips onto the ground. The cough in her throat finally exits her throat. She buries her face in the crook of her elbow. She feels nauseous, and her attempts at keeping the sickening vomit down causes tears to burn in her eyes. She presses her forehead against the cool ground, staring at the spit sliding across her forearm from her intense coughing. Gemini’s lips contort with disgust, but she does nothing more than stare.

“Gem!” A voice calls out to her. Gemini doesn’t have the time to lift her head as someone grabs onto her shoulders. Rough hands grip her armpits as she’s dragged away from the entrance of her workshop. Gemini’s tired eyes stare at the smoke floating out of the doorway. The hallway is becoming dimmer and grayer as the smoke thins while spreading.

Gemini is gently laid on the ground. She stares at the ceiling. Her breathing grows heavier, and she hears people calling out to each other. One voice stands out because of how familiar and close it is to Gemini. A hand settles onto her chest, feeling her heartbeat. Gemini blinks rapidly, getting rid of the tears in her eyes. She recognizes the half-panicked light in her brother’s eyes. He looks up suddenly. Gemini can barely hear his words, but his eyebrows narrow as he barks out a harsh command. His hand lifts from Gemini’s chest to gesture to something down the hallway. Gemini feels a frown tug at her lips. As Fwhip continues ordering people around, she lifts her hand up to brush her fingers against his jawline. His attention snaps to Gemini so quickly that she fears for his neck.

“Idiot,” Fwhip murmurs as he picks her head up. He sets it in his lap. His fingers are tender as he brushes it through her hair. He looks angry, but Gemini sees the way the edges falter. He’s more worried than angry, but he knows that his half-hearted lecturing won’t be heard if he doesn’t make it clear that she was in the wrong.

Fwhip pulls out a rag from the inside of his greased apron. Gemini notices that the rag is as red as the glass of his goggles. This little detail means nothing as Fwhip wipes her arm off. His expression is determined as he does it, none of the disgust Gemini initially felt showing in his eyes. His gaze travels up her body as he searches for more stains to wipe away. He freezes up when he meets her eyes. Fwhip places the rag beside him. He uses his fingers to brush Gemini’s tears off her face. She didn’t even realize she was crying.

“We put out the fire, sir,” Someone calls out. Gemini glances over. An Enforcer of the regulation branch of the Ministry of Magecraft stands at attention, glancing between the Imperial Mage– his highest superior— and the Imperial Artificer.

“Good. Is the Imperial—”

“I’m right here,” Ponk, the Imperial Physician, calls out from the end of the hall. Ponk pushes past the troubled mages and apprentices. When he reaches Gemini and Fwhip, he glances over his shoulder. He waves his hand dismissively. “You may all return to your posts. I will handle matters going forward.”

Although not an order from their boss, the group quickly disperses to their offices and workshops. The Enforcer reporting to Fwhip ducks his head respectfully as he darts away, returning to the unit waiting for him. As the group leaves, Ponk kneels down beside Gemini. He frowns at her, glancing up at Fwhip. “Would either of you like to explain what is going on?”

“A fire broke out in Gemini’s workshop. She managed to get out of the room, but she collapsed on the ground right outside the door. I dragged her over here,” Fwhip answers. He looks at Ponk as he speaks even when Ponk is pulling equipment out of his black leather doctor’s bag. When Fwhip is finished, he glances down at Gemini. His eyes shine with the same question Ponk asked. He wants to know directly from her what happened.

Gemini says nothing. She allows Ponk to manhandle her into different positions as she gets an impromptu check-up on the floor outside her workshop. Ponk is extremely professional about it. Fwhip is less than professional, but it is to be expected as he watches his twin sister get checked over by the highest ranking doctor in their nation after dragging her away from a fire in her private space.

When the assessment is over with, Ponk is frowning deeply. He squints his eyes at her. “I have found no burns on your body. You did not inhale enough smoke for lasting consequences. I will prepare some medicinal teas for any lingering pain. You are also not eating or sleeping enough. If these bad habits continue, your health could plummet into dangerous territory. If it goes on for too long, even I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“Gem,” Fwhip says her name in a way that skips through hours of lecturing because of his tone alone. He is equal parts worried for her and disappointed in her. Gemini refuses to look at him as she rises to her feet. Ponk follows her motion gracefully, but Fwhip nearly jumps up from surprise to be even with her.

“I understand. I will eat more during my meals and sleep for more than a few hours every night. Thank you for your help, both of you. If you would excuse me,” Gemini states as she starts walking towards her workshop.

Fwhip grabs her wrist. His grip is firm enough that Gemini is unable to pull away. She frowns at him as she looks over her shoulder. He glares right back at her. “What are you doing?”

“I have to clean up the mess I made,” Gemini answers. She shifts her body to make her arm more comfortable. If Fwhip realized her discomfort, he shows no signs of caring. He continues to hold tightly.

“Tomorrow. You should be resting right now,” Ponk adds, hesitantly hovering near the conflict between siblings.

“Resting? You told me I was fine. No burns, no smoke poisoning. It’s still pretty early in the day, so why should I waste my time doing what I will be doing later tonight?” Gemini asks, glancing between the two men. Fwhip and Ponk share a look.

“I’ve been meaning to conduct a psychological assessment, but this seems to be a satisfactory answer,” Ponk admits. He leans down to pull out a journal and mechanical quill from his medical bag. He starts to intensely write something on the paper.

“What are you writing? What are you talking about?” Gemini asks. She leans forward to look at the journal’s contents. Ponk shuffles away to hide his inked musings. Fwhip tugs on Gemini’s wrist to draw her attention to him.

“I know that Shelby’s loss was hard on you, but you can’t tear yourself apart like this. She would have never wanted you to hurt herself, not even in pursuit of something as revolutionary as teleportation,” Fwhip says firmly. Gemini sucks in a breath while her chest conversely tightens.

“That is not what this is about,” Gemini tries reassuring her brother.

“While that might be the case, we have significant evidence pointing towards your physical and mental health being affected by your grief,” Ponk tells Gemini, pointing the gray-black feather of his quill at her.

“So what if I skipped a few meals and stopped taking so many naps? That doesn’t mean anything. This doesn’t mean anything. I’ve always done this when I’ve gotten my hands on a new project. It’s not grief causing this… I’ve already mourned Shelby. I’m fine,” Gemini explains to the two of them. A wave of frustration pulls at her heart. Her eyes burn again, and she rapidly blinks to keep the tears at bay. They would not help her decorations, only their accusations.

“You don’t sound fine,” Fwhip’s voice is kind and his eyes are soft, but it feels like a betrayal to Gemini.

“You aren’t fine, either. I cannot say anything about your mental health without administering a proper analysis, but I can say that your physical health is nearing a line you shouldn’t cross,” Ponk reminds Gemini, tapping his quill against the yellowing page of his journal. His stare is less emotional than Fwhip’s expression is, but there is a sense of compassion lingering around the margins.

“I already told you that I’ll start eating and sleeping more,” Gemini states, attention divided between Fwhip and Ponk.

“That starts right now, Gem,” Fwhip says. His hand slides down to clasp Gemini’s palm between his fingers. Gemini stares at their conjoined hands. Instinct takes over shortly after, and she lifts her fingers to hold Fwhip’s hand just as tenderly. Fwhip’s lips twitch with a smile. “Come on, we can go get something to eat together. We might get in trouble for it later, but there’s a new place in L’Manberg that I’ve been wanting to show you. After that, we can have a sleepover like we did when we were younger.”

“What?” Gemini giggles underneath her breath. She asks the question not because she doesn’t understand what Fwhip’s talking about but because she doesn’t know why he’s mentioning any of it.

“Ponk, you should come with us. We can discuss certain matters,” Fwhip notes as he pulls Gemini along with him.

“As long as you are paying,” Ponk adds as he follows behind Fwhip and Gemini.

She wants to continue arguing. She wants to reassure them both that she’s mentally fine and that she’ll start cleaning up her act after this. She wants to, but she doesn’t. She just squeezes her brother’s hand tighter and smiles at her friends’ light-hearted argument about the bill they haven’t even acquired yet.

She only wishes Shelby could be here to see it.

Chapter Text

10. Out of focus

She lifts a hand to cover her painted counterpart with her thumb. With the removal of her body and face, the rest of the portrait looks fine. The brushstrokes are seamless, and the art style is life-like. It serves its purpose of preserving the proportions and features of the family members in this era.

“I will have them redo the painting immediately,” Her brother’s voice is stern. He is glaring at the image with a snarl pulling at his lips. He uncrosses his arms, turning to march out of the hallway.

“It does not matter to me, Crow,” She honestly responds. She grabs onto the fabric of his coat to keep him in the hallway with her. When she lowers her hand, she is met with her appearance in the painting. A pair of emotionless eyes stare back at her. Her lips are settled in a firm line. Her skin is rendered in dim hues as if the light barely falls upon her. The longer she stares, the more distorted the woman in the painting becomes. Like melting watercolor, the figure is barely recognizable as an individual. They are a blob of colors given a rough form by an artist’s hand.

“Why will you stand for this blatant disrespect?” Crow whirls around to face her.

She places a gentle hand on her twin’s face, trying to show him that she truly is unbothered. “It is only a painting, dear brother, and you cannot say that this is not an accurate depiction of my appearance. I am well aware that I am incapable of showing my emotions in a way that a painter, even one as skilled as the court’s artisan, can render. We must acknowledge the attempt. I am more than satisfied with being included in the painting. I know how much Mother and Father did not want me to be there.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Crow says firmly, trying to banish all of her trauma and self-doubt through sheer force of will. As impossible as it is, Mia respects his undertakings as much as she respects the painter for including her.

“You are most correct. There is nothing wrong with me,” Mia agrees. She looks away from her brother to stare at the portrait once more. When she was younger, she could express her emotions on her face as easily as she breathed. After protecting her prince from an attack, her brain was irrevocably changed. Her face could no longer present her emotions unless she forced it to, and even then, Mia had been told by several people that something was off about her expressions. She would creep out anyone who glanced at her, and most would doubt her intentions even when she truly possessed a kind heart. Only her brother and her prince stood by her when things went from bad to worse. Because she had them, she continued living even when it seemed like an insurmountable challenge. “Let us keep the painting.”

“If that is your desire,” Crow murmurs with a sigh. He looks away from the painting and Mia, unable to cope with either. Internally, Mia smiles at her brother’s care for her. She tries pushing that happiness onto her face, but her muscles twitch pathetically and her skin burns from the effort. Mia stops, letting her face contort back into an expression of nothingness.

Crow leans back to grab her hand. He pulls her forward to walk beside him. In some ways, they are both terrible at showing their emotions on their face. But when they hold hands like this, Mia feels like she understands her brother more than a glance at his face could ever explain to her.

Chapter Text

11. Treasure

The wind tastes like salt on her tongue as she takes a deep breath. She exhales out of her nose, ignoring the subtle twitching of her facial muscles as the island’s odor permeates into her body. She nearly shies away from the disgusting scent, but she presses onward, using her cutlass to cut through the underbrush in her way like a machete. The plants release a vaguely floral scent as they crash into the ground, ready to decompose and renourish the soil they grew out of. She sneaks another breath, enjoying the island’s plant life over the salt collecting on the beach.

“Captain,” A voice breaks her out of her concentration. She glances over her shoulder. Callum is pointing his short sword at a nearby branch. His eyes are narrowed in the holes of his fox mask. The snout lifts to reveal the straight line his lips are pressed into.

Captain Puffy of the Argo sticks her cutlass into the ground. The damp soil eagerly takes in the blade, letting it sink further than the force of Puffy’s hand pushed it. Puffy shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Callum glances at her with widening eyes, but his attempt at warning her against reckless action is never voiced as she rushes forward. Callum smartly moves out of the way as Puffy jumps to the side. The soles of her boots press against the trunk of a tree. She pushes off the trunk. Her hands stretch out, and she grabs onto a low-hanging branch of the accused tree. Using her momentum, Puffy swings her body around. Her feet land on the branch. Not one to take a break, Puffy rises into a standing position as she grabs the next closest branch. She has to swing her body around the trunk, and she lands precariously on the branch Callum pointed out. She huffs a breath of exertion, placing a hand on her chest to steady her heart.

“Found it!” Puffy calls out. A nest made from twigs, leaves, and a fair amount of mud rests in the crook of the branch, leaning near the trunk. Several off-white eggs are huddled within the confines of the nest. One of the eggs is not like the others, however. The color is too pure, and the shape is too rigid. Puffy is careful to extract the odd egg without touching any of the other shells. She bites the inside of her cheek as she performs this maneuver, knowing the lives of these unborn birds are in her hands. When the simulacrum is against her palm, Puffy closes her fingers around it in a fist. Puffy swings around to look at Callum. His mouth opens with another warning, but his voice comes too late as Puffy leaps down from the tree.

She lands in a roll across the dirt. She feels some of the mud and dew-covered leaves stick to her skin and clothes as she stops in a kneel. Puffy rises to her feet. Callum rushes over to her to examine her health. She gives him a smirk as she opens her closed fist. The glass sphere (if it could be called that with how misshapen it was) she plucked from the nest sits comfortably in the palm of her hand. It wobbles slightly without the support of her fingers, but she doesn’t let it drop to the ground. 

Callum huffs with an accompanying eye roll. He brings his hands up to take the white glass from Puffy. He stares into the milky surface, either trying to see inside it or through it. Callum’s face twists with emotions, but his mask obscures many of the finer points. Puffy can only see how he’s feeling when the light pierces through the shadows of his mask to reveal his eyes or the lips underneath. Callum throws the glass into the air. For a moment, it catches the sunlight. A splattering of rainbow beams lands on their faces and the surrounding natural scene. When the glass comes back down, Callum catches it in his hands.

“A few gold coins, at least,” Callum notes as he puts the glass shard into the pouch tied around his belt. The glass shard’s weight reforms the general shape of the pouch. Callum ignores the additional weight as he picks Puffy’s cutlass out of the ground. He hands it to her. Puffy takes it without a second thought. She starts cutting through the underbrush again, continuing their way to the heart of the island.

She smiles. Not because of how much money these glass shards are going to fetch them at the market, but because Puffy is with someone. A friend, Puffy would dare say. She’s never had a friend before, so she’s excited by the prospect of having someone watching her back. Puffy’s smile grows even wider as she turns the word over in her mind. Friend, what a lovely little thing.

Chapter Text

12. New beginnings

The tavern is lively this late into the night. Every table is filled with people, and they struggle to make themselves louder than everyone else. A small troupe of three musicians tries to play a song more audible than the patrons, but they have about as much luck as the waitresses trying to get everyone their food and drink without forgetting someone or tripping over the spread-out legs. A handful of bouncers are stationed around the edges of the tavern, ready to throw out anyone who gets too rowdy. The weight of their pockets gives away how many truly riotous individuals they have overlooked. The owner of the tavern remains hidden in the back, not engaging with his business in any proper way. As long as the building remains intact, he will stay back there counting his towers of gold coins.

Deo sits in the corner of the room. His fingers wrap around the rough wood of a large mug. The texture presses into his skin almost uncomfortably, but he doesn’t pull his hand away or lift the mug to his lips. The stench of beer and bodily musk is heavy on his nose, almost distracting his enhanced hearing from picking out snippets of information freely given by the other patrons. If Deo were to ask for this information upfront, he would have been charged an exorbitant fee. Thankfully, drunkards have looser lips than bribed officials. Deo needs to keep himself from losing his mind from the noise and smells that bombard him. This is without mentioning the thick humidity of everyone’s body heat and evaporating sweat mingling together to crisply burn as hot as the sun during the daytime.

Deo tilts his head to the side as he hears someone approaching him. Through his dwarven blindfold, he can see the exhausted face of a waitress as she holds a platter underneath her arm. Her eyebrows furrow together as Deo angles his face to meet her eyes, even if she can’t see his eyes. She shakes her head, glancing around at the other patrons. She keeps a pleasant smile, but it twitches with annoyance at the leering gazes pointed at her backside. When she looks back at Deo, she tries to regain some composure. “Hello, sir, is everything alright over here? Would you like to order some food or another drink?”

She gives his mug a pointed glance. Deo snorts. He brings the mug to his mouth. He drinks the whole thing in a few gulps. His nose twitches from the smell and taste, but the flavor isn’t nearly as scathing as the potions his master would make him drink every night. The mug makes a hearty thud as Deo slams it back onto the table. The waitress’ eyes widen in surprise. Her lips part with unspoken words, but Deo beats her to it. He sets a few copper coins on the table beside his mug. “Could I have another round?” 

“Coming right up, sir,” The waitress says. She scoops the copper coins into her apron. She turns away to speak with another table even when her attention lingers on Deo’s shoulders. Deo throws a smile at her over his shoulder, watching her astonishment grow. Deo turns back around to look at the empty mug. He might regret drinking it, but his stomach feels relatively fine. It will take more than this to make his head fuzzy, too. He supposes that he will be fine.

Deo pushes the mug away from him. He sighs deeply, shifting in the uncomfortable wooden chair. He turns his head toward the rest of the tavern. Deo tries picking out important conversational beats again, but his ears start ringing when someone unexpectedly starts yelling. Deo winces, narrowing his eyes as he scans the bar. On the other side of the room, two loosely defined groups are starting an argument with one another. Their clenched fists and puffed-out chests show which direction this debate is about to go in. The bouncers are beginning to intervene, but they look more like a third faction joining the fight than peacekeepers.

Deo crosses his arms over his chest. The patrons uninvolved in the fight have sequestered themselves to the room's edges. Anyone that wants to participate has shoved their way onto one side or the other. Tensions are given an additional moment to boil over, but the fighting spirit in these young men and women is not to be trifled. Someone throws the first punch, and the brawl starts in earnest. One of the waitresses releases a hissing curse near Deo, and her coworker chides her for drawing attention to them. Deo snorts, tapping the rim of his mug. He isn’t going to be getting that second drink any time soon.

Deo was content to let the fight finish without his interference. His plans were shattered when some of the props used in the battle were thrown out of the brawl’s wide radius. Deo jumps from his chair to grab a chair before it can hit one of the waitresses, and he slaps away a mug that would have slammed right into a man’s forehead. Deo almost has fun with this little game he’s outlined for himself. He isn’t kind enough to protect people, but he sees no problems with his actions.

This is until someone from inside the fight realizes what he’s doing. While Deo can’t claim to know what happens within the mind of a battle-raged drunkard, he assumes the man sees him as a challenge. Deo rolls his eyes as the man clumsy charges at him. Deo slides out of the way. The power taught to him by his master fills his body like an electrical current. Deo focuses it in his fist. He throws his shoulder back, and his fist slams into the man's stomach. Through the force of the punch, the man is thrown back. He breaks a table and lands on the ground. Deo straightens his posture as several people stop beating each other to glance at him. Deo feels a smile stretch across his face. Maybe he does know what goes on in the mind of a battle-raged man.

Deo shuffles away from the patrons who chose peace instead of violence, but he doesn’t officially join the fight. He lets the drunkards stumble over to him. He deals with them all swiftly. His attempts to hurt them without killing them keep his mind preoccupied as he uses every part of his body to deal damage. He unintentionally launches most of them away from him. He hears a few people shriek as a body hurtles toward them. Deo isn’t aware enough to decide which side of the fight is screaming out. He doesn’t care, in any case. He only pays attention to his Mystery-fueled radar that keeps him from getting attacked from behind.

The fight ends far earlier than Deo thought it would. After sending a few people flying, it seems the others have gained enough common sense to realize they didn’t also want to be thrown like ragdolls. Deo chuckles under his breath as his gaze slides over the fallen bodies. A few people have sat themselves down on the ground with a half-broken mug providing them with more alcohol. Deo smiles at them.

Quick as lightning, Deo’s arm shoots up. He catches a short sword between his index and middle finger. One leg slides back as he throws the sword and the person holding it forward. Deo listens to the floorboards cracking and a person groaning in agony. Deo disarms them. He throws the sword into the air, catching the hilt. His fingers tighten as he places the tip of the blade against the attacker’s throat. The man swiftly raises his hands in innocence, seconds away from begging for his life. A half-smile appears on Deo’s face. “Now, how is that fair? I didn’t use my sword when I could have, so why do you get to use your sword? If you wanted to cross blades, you should have said so.”

Deo drops the sword. It falls on the man’s chest. The tip of the blade rises from pointing at the man’s throat to pointing at his jaw. Deo brandishes the sword from his side. He walks around the man like a snake circling its prey. Deo stops when he’s at the man’s feet. Deo raises the sword toward the man with a growing smile. “Well, come on. Get up. We have a sword fight to finish. The winner gets to keep his life, yeah?”

The man grabs onto the hilt of his sword. He hurriedly stands up. He points the sword at Deo, failing to hide the tremors developing across his body. Deo raises an eyebrow underneath his blindfold. The moment Deo shifts his body, his opponent bolts for the door. No one stops him as he leaves the tavern in a hurry. Deo frowns. He huffs in annoyance. He looks around the room. “That was a bust. Anyone else want to fight? While I can’t guarantee you won’t get hurt, I promise I won’t kill you if you step forward.”

“Who the Nether are you?” Someone asks.

Deo’s smile twitches, but he forces it back up. He hesitates briefly before disclosing the name his master gave him when he first became the man’s apprentice. Deo didn’t know why Missa gave it to him, but it must have been for now. His master must have known he would leave Deo behind, and he would have known Deo’s only means of survival was becoming a mercenary.

“I’m Time, a mercenary. I’m between commissions right now, so if anyone needs something done, I’m the one to hire.”

Chapter Text

13. Black and white

The wind is warm against his goop. He sighs contentedly like a cat in the sun, stretching his limbs out. He refrains from stretching them as far as they can go, knowing full well that normal people will get spooked by his elasticity. He drops his arms back down beside him. He snuggles into the throw pillow left on the windowsill. The course texture is rough on his cheek, but he pushes his entire face into the inspirational message embroidered on the pillow’s face. He dozes off with the wind’s warmth whistling through the chink in the window covering his entire body like a blanket.

His eyes blink open slowly when he feels a cold texture boop the tip of his nose. His eyes widen enough for light and color to hit his pupils. A young woman squats beside the bay window he is lying on. She brings her hand to her chest, crossing her arms over her knees. She raises an eyebrow at him. “What are you doing, Charlie?”

“Napping,” He responds. His eyes open completely. A huge smile stretches across his face. Anyone looking at him would not agree with his assessment since he looks so blindingly awake. Unfortunately, Charlie can hide his exhaustion far better than the mortals of this world can. His friends have found this troublesome since Charlie still passes out from exertion. He will be perfectly fine one moment and lying face-down on the ground the next. Charlie knows it upsets them, but he always giggles childishly when they try to express those concerns.

“This isn’t the best place for a nap,” The young woman observes. She looks around. Several servants walk these halls, and they do not have the patience for silence. Additionally, Charlie is not the most well-liked guest at the manor. His immature habits and inhuman physiology frustrate as many people as it freaks out. Charlie has a lot of enemies, whether they know it or not. Fortunately for Charlie, his body is made for dying. He could survive almost anything these servants could throw at him— literally or metaphorically— and he would come out the other side happier than ever. “Duque Quackity called for us.”

“Quackity from Las Nevadas called for us! We have to go now, Jaiden! Come on, come on!” Charlie leaps from the bay window onto the floor. Jaiden’s wings lift up in surprise as if to protect herself. She nearly knocks several servants to the ground. Charlie ignores them as Jaiden gives them an apologetic grimace. Charlie reaches down to grab Jaiden’s wrist. He pulls, using only as much strength as Jaiden taught him to use when interacting with allies. Jaiden is on her feet within a second, and she catches her balance with the assistance of her wings. Charlie starts pulling her down the hallway.

“Charlie, calm down,” Jaiden says sternly, but the effect is lost with the way she giggles gently. Charlie stops moving. Jaiden smiles amusedly at him. She reaches her hand up, running her fingers through his brown hair. “You’re still tired, yeah? I’ll carry you to Quackity.”

“A piggyback ride? Yay!” Charlie cheers. Jaiden’s wings disappear with a puff of Origin magic. She leans down. Charlie wraps his arms around her shoulders and puts his legs around her waist. He shrinks his size as he does this to make it easier on Jaiden, just as Quackity taught him. Jaiden hums as she pulls the child-sized Charlie against her back. He tucks his chin on her shoulder as she starts carrying him through the servants’ hallway.

Charlie closes his eyes. He decides Jaiden is warmer than the sunlight even though that plainly isn’t true. Jaiden runs colder than most, and Charlie doesn’t have a set body temperature at all. She is actively bringing down his internal temperature, but he doesn’t mind so much. He likes it when Jaiden carries him on her back. He likes it when she holds his hand. He likes it when she hugs him or when she fixes his hair in the mornings. She says every time that she’s going to stop, but she never does. Charlie wouldn’t want her to, either.

Charlie enjoys being taken care of almost as much as he enjoys doing favors for his friends. He likes the way Quackity, Jaiden, and Fundy treat him. The others are a little meaner than Charlie prefers, but he doesn’t fault them for their attitudes. Even with most of his memories gone or fuzzy, Charlie knows Las Nevadas isn’t in a good place right now. Charlie has been in this position before. He knows how much destruction can be wrought by carelessness.

“What are you thinking about, Charlie?” Jaiden asks, her voice quiet as they reach the inner sanctum of the estate. Only Quackity and his approved personnel are allowed here. Charlie was the first person to be allowed here after Quackity found him. Charlie told Quackity everything he remembered. Quackity decided at that moment to include Charlie in his plans to save Las Nevadas. Fundy was the next to join their group, and Jaiden came a little after that. Several people joined Quackity’s inner circle between Fundy and Jaiden joining, but Charlie doesn’t retain memories that aren’t important to him. While he understands the animosity between him and the others, he doesn’t care to remember them because of that one-sided rivalry.

“I was thinking about my memories,” Charlie tells her honestly. He doesn’t like lying, so he doesn’t participate in it. Any time he thinks about lying, he’s struck with memories of a different lifetime when all he did was lie. He ruined people’s lives like that, so he’s decided to do the complete opposite now.

“Do you remember anything new?” Jaiden asks curiously.

“I did remember something recently! I was going to tell Quackity from Las Nevadas, but I forgot about it,” Charlie answers, snapping his fingers next to Jaiden’s ear. Despite hiding her wings with her Origin magic, she has left the feathers sticking out from the side of her face. Charlie likes playing with them, but he must remember not to be rough. Jaiden sat him down to explain that to him since Charlie doesn’t know what physical pain feels like.

“Will you tell me?”

“I will, Jaiden from Las Nevadas! I remembered a giant beast. It came from outside the container. It called itself Narwhal. Do you know what a narwhal looks like, Jaiden from Las Nevadas? It looks like a whale with a giant horn. This beast was similar, but it wasn’t a narwhal. It was only called that. How silly! Why would you name yourself something you aren’t? I’m a Charlie, so I’m called that. You’re a Jaiden, so you’re called that,” Charlie explains. He prods at his memories, searching for more about Narwhal. He doesn’t have much. He is left with the vague feeling that he didn’t like Narwhal, but Charlie doesn’t remember why. He doesn’t remember if he always disliked Narwhal, or if some key event changed everything.

“I’m glad you’re remembering more,” Jaiden admits softly, looking over her shoulder to show him the pride in her eyes.

Charlie’s grin splits across his face. He nods at her, trying not to kick his feet in excitement. “I’m happy, too! And I like sharing my memories with you and the others. I like having friends. The last time I had friends, we hurt each other until we weren’t friends anymore. I don’t want that to happen again. I don’t want the world to end, either.”

“That’s what we’re working on, remember? We aren’t going to let Las Nevadas fall into ruin like your old world.”

“Yay!”

Chapter Text

14. The hardest part

Black ichor and crimson blood flood the field, poisoning the wildflowers and weeds indiscriminately. Unmarked patches of grass and sandy soil are quickly swallowed by crimson flames. Storm clouds gather in the sky above, ready to unleash an atmospheric torrent upon the battlefield. For now, only graying shadows crawl across the scorched earth. She stands in the middle of the ruined ground. Her head is held toward the heavens, waiting for the rain to wash her clean. Her yellow-gold armor is stained sable by the enemy’s monstrous remains, and chunks of flash hang off the sharp blades of her bronze sickles. She exhales heavily, feeling the wind unwind from her chest. 

“General!” A voice calls out behind her. She looks over her shoulder. A mortal rushing towards her stops suddenly. His gray-silver armor is stained as thickly as her armor, but she notices her appearance in the reflection of his helmet. She twists her sickles, letting them disappear into a subspace. She wipes her face with the back of her hand to remove some of the black ichor. As she flecks it toward the miasmic pools underneath her boots, she realizes that the soldier was not wary of the ichor. Her eyes are as crimson as the blood seeping from his unchecked wounds. She closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath and suppresses her divinity. When she opens her eyes, she finds a pair of sterling blue in the helmet’s reflection.

“Speak,” She commands harshly, narrowing her eyes at the soldier. She looks more human now, doesn’t she? So, why does he continue to hesitate with his words?

“General, we have confirmed that the enemies have retreated. We emerge victorious,” The soldier startles to attention, his voice hesitant but full of joy.

She scoffs, nearly snarling. She gestures wildly to the battlefield around them. “Does this look like victory to you?”

“Well, I don’t— I wouldn’t— it isn’t—” The soldier stutters, looking away from his general and toward the ground underneath him. His happiness melts away as the rain begins pelting the ground. She listens to the sizzling of fires being put out, and the wind whips around her carrying the message of an old friend that reminds her that she should be returning to the Aether for another war meeting.

“This isn’t victory. We are still fighting in a war, soldier, and the end won’t be coming any time soon. Our enemies retreated. They were not defeated. They will return by nightfall, and unlike you, they do not tire. They do not starve. They do not thirst. The men you lost today are only the beginning. This entire continent will look like this battlefield does, and even then, would you call your triumph over the monsters a victory?” Her voice is hollow in her own ears as she marches toward the soldier. He stumbles back a step. When she’s brooding over him, he drops onto his knees.

“I’m sorry, goddess. I was arrogant and foolish,” The soldier whispers, pressing his head to the ground despite the black ichor collecting into puddles. She can feel his worship against her skin. She realizes that he’s one of her clerics. In another state of mind, she might have felt regret. Unfortunately, the end of a battle is always the worst time to speak with her. And, well, her mental space hasn’t been the best in a long time.

Thunder howls across the battlefield. The human soldier falls unconscious, body sliding further into the black ichor. She grumbles to herself as she snaps her fingers. Her divine beast— a giant goose with golden feathers— picks the human up with its bronze beak. It throws the human onto its back. It flaps its wings, launching into the air to carry the human back to the nearest encampment for soldiers. She watches her divine beast fly through the stormy weather. When the beast is nothing more than a spot of color in a charcoal sky, she looks over her shoulder.

“Why must you scare the humans so? Did no one tell you that morale is important?” He says. His voice rumbles like thunder. Electricity arcs from his body as divine power overflows from his form. His lips are twitching into a half-smile, but he is just as exhausted and depressed as she is. He internalizes it instead of lashing out like she does. She refuses to admit that this makes him any better than her.

“I am a goddess. He is a human. Why should I care how he feels? Why should I listen to his worthless drabbles about the veracity of victory and loss?” She demands, glaring at her old friend. She doesn’t know if she’s allowed to call him that anymore. They haven’t had a fight or even drifted apart, but there is so much happening around them and within them, that friendship seems impossible. They gravitate towards each other because of familiarity, but half the time, she doesn’t know if she would prefer to kill him or kill herself. The other half of the time, she doesn’t want anyone else to die, and the ghosts of those ruthlessly taken from her grab onto her shoulders and whisper curses into her ears. Neither time allows for constructive friendship.

“We are their gods, remember?”

“We stopped being that a long time ago.”

“We never stopped being that. We are the gods who allowed humanity to prosper. We are the generals who have led humans into war. We are the protectors who have never forsaken any desperate soul praying to us,” He shakes his head. He steps toward her. Her instincts demand that she flee, but she remains stationary as he brings a hand to her cheek. As he cleans the blood off her skin, she notices that his hands are kinder to her than her own hands are. This thought is enough to send her sinking toward the ground. He continues to wipe the blood off her face as she hits her knees. “I wish I could take away your pain.”

“I wish I could take away yours,” She whispers back, genuinely despite her earlier pondering on the nature of their relationship. She should have known. They are more than friends. They are family. He is her brother, as heartbreaking as that thought is.

“We’re fools to wish such things. We share the same pain, after all,” He notes wryly. Rain falls across his face, masking his silent tears. She doesn’t cry. She has cried once in her immortal life, and she swore to never cry again. She cried right in front of him. He hugged her close then. He had no words for her since any reassurances would have been empty, but his presence was as grounding then as it is now. “We should get back to the Aether. XD called for a war meeting.”

“Fine,” She whispers. She rises back to her feet. A pair of light brown and white wings shoot out from her spine. They are far larger than necessary to carry her body weight, but they are the last gift she was given by her twin brother. She uses them to lift herself into the air. Like a bolt of lightning launching toward heaven instead of earth, he follows her. 

Chapter Text

15. Curiosity 

Headmaster Strix stands with his hands behind his back. His sharp yellow eyes peer out of the window in his office. He stares at a courtyard of students scurrying like ants crawling around a destroyed anthill. He narrows his eyes slightly as he picks out different noteworthy students. After confirming that no one disobeys the academy’s rules, he looks over his shoulder. As the sunlight frames his back, he looks at the figure in his shadow. The student glances up at him before they look away quickly, avoiding eye contact with him. He arches an eyebrow, but the student does not explain. Strix shakes his head minutely. He taps his hand against the desk. The rhythmic noise draws the student’s attention, providing Strix with an opportunity to speak. “Student Olive, do you know why you are here?”

“I broke one of the rules,” Olive’s voice is quiet but certain. They are used to answering questions. Every student at this academy eventually becomes familiar with the process when asked about every academic action they take and the intellectual concept they pursue.

“Incorrect. You did not break one of the academy’s rules,” Strix states simply. He would never fault his students for being wrong. Everyone, even he, is wrong in their lifetimes. Even the scholars who have dedicated their lives to the pursuit of knowledge will find fallacies in their conclusions and journeys. But the difference between fools and sages is that a fool will continue to be wrong while a sage will strive to correct themselves. Olive is not yet a sage, and Strix is a headmaster. He must correct his students when they are wrong. “Would you like another opportunity to answer? You will not be penalized for refusing or answering incorrectly again.”

“I…” Olive hesitates. Their eyes dart around the room as they grab the fabric of their pants around their thighs. Their skin turns pale as they meet Strix’s eyes, something almost apologetic in their gaze if not for the hard-line they’ve pressed their lips into. “I committed one of the cardinal sins of erudition.”

“More right than before but still incorrect. You tried to commit one of the sins, but you were stopped by your teacher before an erroneous deed could be executed. Your teacher has written what he believes your reasoning is. I will give you a chance to explain your side. If you refuse, I am afraid I will only have the teacher’s claim as evidence to base my final decision on,” Strix confirms. He sits in his chair, putting himself at eye level with his student. While most are terrified of his animalistic eyes, the student looks at him unflinchingly. In a less professional setting, he might have smiled or showed his astonishment. As it stands, he keeps a neutral expression on his face.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I didn’t even realize it was a cardinal sin of erudition. I just thought it would be nice if we knew more about sigils,” Olive explains, moving their hands to highlight their point. “We have been using the same sigils since the founding of Kinoko. If we were allowed to create new sigils, we would be able to help more people.”

“I do not doubt altruism is one reason behind your actions. I also know that you wish to become a great sage, and to do that, you will need to discover something new. Both are worthy goals. I cannot dissuade you from creating new sigils, but I will remind you that knowledge is inherently amoral. It is what we choose to do with it that defines it. You might find a tool to help others, but those same sigils could be used as weapons. The sigils we have now are heavily regulated to keep them from becoming instruments of harm. Even then, we cannot account for every use they might have,” Strix explains, narrowing his eyes as he confirms whether Olive comprehend his words. Their cheeks suck inward as they listen. Strix exhales sharply out of his nose as he continues. “I can, however, warn you against researching the origins of magic. I understand how vexing the cardinal sins of erudition can be. It often feels like scholars are purposefully being dissuaded from studying what matters in this world. Despite this, there is a reason these sins were established by our forefathers and –mothers. They lost their minds to establish these rules that govern the scholarly world. Can you imagine why the origin of magic might be a sin?”

“Magic is a force that exists outside the scope of our world. If we were to find its origins, we would be researching something beyond the veil,” Olive answers, reaching a hand up to rub their arm.

Strix nods. “Very good. I have decided on a punishment for you, Student Olive. You will write a research paper about why you believe each cardinal sin was established. I will give you the rest of the school year to finish this paper. You may research it as you like, and I will not discourage you from accepting answers other scholars have proposed. I will, however, remind you that no matter what you write, you must believe it to be true. Do not heedlessly accept the answers of others. You do remember that academy rule, yes?”

“Truth must be pursued by oneself,” Olive nods. Kinoko Scholar’s Academy has many rules applicable to all academic institutions of the continent, but it also has unique rules. The most common that every student is taught on day one is the one Olive has repeated. While instructors can teach, the contents of their teaching must be discovered and rationalized by the student. One cannot accept what they are told without finding a reason to believe or evidence to disprove the words.

“Good. You are dismissed. When you see your teacher next, assure him that I have dealt with you in a manner befitting your attempted crime,” Strix says firmly. He taps once against his desk. Olive leaves their chair and exits the office. Strix nods as he finishes that task. Now, he thinks, looking at a stack of papers, he has more work to do. 

Chapter Text

16. Slow growth

He presses his hand against the trunk. As the bark registers his presence, thousands of flowers blossom in a wave that turns the dark brown into light pink-purple. He steps away from the tree to watch all the buds turn into blooming flowers. The figure standing with him grabs onto his arm. She holds his arm against her chest with a bright smile appearing on her face. Her eyes shine with astonishment and wonder as she gestures toward the flowers with a wide hand arc. She looks at him, no less astounded by his presence in her life than by the tree’s delightful display. “How did you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything,” He answers honestly, unable to coax a lie from his lips. Her brows furrow together, but her smile never wavers, giving him the confidence to keep talking. “You can probably tell that the tree is ancient from its size, but these flowers are just as old. They have spent hundreds of years growing across the bark symbiotic with the tree. When a perceived predator comes near the tree, the flowers blossom to spook off the threat. The flowers just thought I was a predator.”

“How fascinating,” She whispers as the flowers close back into buds. She pulls away from him. She sets her hand on the bark between two of the buds. Like before, the buds open rapidly into blooming flowers. She turns around on her heel to look at him as the flowers grow away from her silhouette in a cascading pattern. A smile stretches across her face, and the floral breeze draws her niveous curls off her shoulders into the air. His breath slides out of his control, and he realizes how wrong he has been about life before this moment.

The seed he hadn’t known was planted in the roots of his soul blossoms as quickly as the flowers on the tree do, but unlike them, it doesn’t fold its petals around its pistil. It remains as she wanders closer to him to grab onto his hands, dragging him deeper into the forest he’s lived in his entire life but it only feels like he’s genuinely seeing right now. 

Chapter Text

17. Zoom in

Sneeg rams his shoulder into the bucket. It wobbles on the edge of the wooden shelf. Ultimately, it tips over. Sneeg peers over the precipice. He watches as the bucket hits the dirty ground and listens for the residual noise. Sneeg smiles victoriously, pumping his fist into the air. 

The human farmer startles when he hears the noise. He glances around behind him. His eyes eventually find the bucket on the ground. He hesitantly leans down to pick it up. He moves it around in his hands, peering into the grooves and the empty middle space. His frown deepens as he looks around. He rises from his squat to set the bucket back on the shelf.

Sneeg darts away from his compromising position before the farmer can see him. Sneeg presses against the back wall of the shed, letting the shadows obscure the dark blues and grays of his outfit. The farmer doesn’t think to look more closely at the shelf as he steps away from the half-forgotten bucket. The farmer returns to looking for a specific tool. Sneeg listens to the farmer mumble as he throws himself at the bucket. Sneeg pushes off quickly as the bucket tips over the edge once more. Sneeg is back in the shadows when the farmer whirls around to catch the prankster in the act. The farmer pokes the bucket with the toe of his boots. It rolls but doesn’t get very far because of its odd shape. The farmer grumbles about his bones as he squats. He puts the bucket back on the shelf, pushing it as far back as it can go to keep it from precariously falling again. 

Unfortunately, Sneeg has the determination and the strength to push it back to the edge. Sneeg cannot hide his giggle as he listens to the crashing noise. The farmer heaves a heavy sigh. He puts his hands on his hips. He looks around the space, no longer concerned with the bucket. Since this is the third time, he understands that something foul is at play. There is only one person who can be blamed for unexpected occurrences in the village. “Come out, Sneeg. I know you’re there.”

Sneeg will never give away his position. He stifles his giggling as he runs along the far wall of the shelf. He hears the farmer slam his hand into the space Sneeg was a moment ago. Sneeg continues running until he sees a thin beam of sunlight entering through a hole in the wood. Sneeg stops at the hole. He climbs into the hollow space. In a few steps, he is at the shed’s outer wall. Sneeg leaps from the hole. His beetle wings spread out to catch the breeze. His laughter is unrestrained as he leaves the scene of his crime. He searches the fields for another person to pull pranks on.

Suddenly, Sneeg’s vision is bombarded with darkness. His wings snap shut, and he falls against a rough material that feels like skin. His fists pound on the sides of the hands that have caught him. He pushes his fingers into the cracks of sunlight. Sneeg’s attempts amount to nothing, and he hears the person who holds him giggling to themselves. “Caught you!”

The hands open enough for an eye to appear. Sneeg registers the sunset color of the iris as he readies his wings for slight. He shoots straight toward the eye. Unfortunately, the trap around him seals shut. Sneeg slams against the trapper’s thumb. He huffs as he falls against her palm. The hands unfold. Sneeg sits in a bowl made by the red-eyed figure’s hands. She smiles cheekily at Sneeg. “Calm down, little one. I didn’t mean to spook you. I heard someone was pranking the villages in these parts. I wanted to check it out for myself. I didn’t think you would be so tiny!”

“Hey!” Sneeg retorts immediately. He scrambles to his feet to argue with the human-sized figure. Her smile transforms into a smirk as she listens to him explain that his size makes him superior to her and all the other humans. She nods along, waiting patiently for him to finish.

“Well said. But you were wrong about one thing. I am not a human. I am an air elemental like you,” She explains. She pulls her hands away. Sneeg’s wings start to keep him airborne. He notices that she’s flying without wings, using the air around her to keep her afloat. She smiles at him as she brandishes part of her sword. It is a blade that an air elemental would know: Thought. She winks at him when he gapes at her. “I’m actually the Air Elemental King. My name is Aeolus, but you can call me—”

Chapter Text

18. Crumbling

The night air is cold as it permeates through the wind, causing the candlelight to flicker despite its desperate attempts to fill the darkness with dim orange-yellow light. He sits on the armrest of his chair. He leans toward the window, relishing in the cold temperature. He breathes in the pure wind as it sends shivers down his spine. He swirls the wine in his glass, taking another sip when he starts to feel his fingers protesting against the night air. The alcohol content works swiftly, dispersing blood from his body to his extremities.

He hears the door on the other side of his office creak open slowly. His eyes lazily move away from the blurry sky above his estate to the brighter orange-yellow light let into the room by the open door. Jaiden steps into the room, closing the door behind her. As she moves across the maroon carpet, she releases her Origin magic. Her wings burst from her back with a deep blue and royal purple plumage. She holds a box underneath her arm. She sets it on the edge of his table with a hefty frown on her face. She raises an eyebrow at him. “You are going to kill yourself, sir.”

He laughs at her honesty. He rises from the armrest. He sets his wine glasses on his desk. He rubs his hands together in a poor imitation of retaining heat. Jaiden shivers as he moves closer to the box. He ignores her as she switches places with him. As he opens the box, she shuts the window. She pulls the curtains a second later. The room darkens immediately. Jaiden walks over to the candles to relight the ones that went out and give strength to the flames that have dulled over time. He waits until she’s finished with the ones around his desk to start rifling through the items.

“You were right about Charlie,” She admits carefully, testing the waters of the atmosphere before she says anything completely controversial. There have been many arguments between them that could have been avoided if either of them read the room properly.

“I’m always right,” He retorts humorously. He watches Jaiden roll her eyes, but her lips quirk into a smile that implies she understands his comedy. He shakes his head, growing more serious as he answers her properly. “I am glad that you have come to a new conclusion about Charlie. I was like you in the beginning. I thought he was a strange creature, but I never imagined he would possess any sort of power… especially not one so damning.”

“How did you recruit someone like him to our cause? Where did you even find him? Was he one of the Federation’s experiments?” Jaiden asks as she moves closer to the desk. He pulls out a prototype for a machine Jaiden and Charlie stole from the black market dealer that stole it originally from the Federation. The royal family would pay a lot for this prototype, but he would rather determine its purpose before he goes into negotiations. If it is valuable enough, he will keep it for his organization rather than handing it over to the royal family or the Federation, no matter how much either side offers. Some things cannot be quantified by money, after all.

“He is not a Federation experiment. I promised you that I would tell you if I ever found one of those,” He remarks, glancing up at her. Jaiden shuffles, avoiding eye contact with him. Trust is difficult for both of them, but they are trying their best to trust each other. He lets this go as he continues. “I do not believe he is an experiment at all. His memories come and go, but from what I’ve gathered, he comes from beyond this world.”

“What?” Jaiden snaps, suddenly meeting his eyes. He nods. He sets the prototype on the desk. He moves to the other side of his office to pull a special notebook off the shelf. He flips it open to show Jaiden what he has recorded. The first few pages are about the conditions of eastern Las Nevadas, but after he realizes how powerful Charlie is, he began recording the creature’s recollections to piece together Charlie’s history. The creature doesn’t seem that interested in remembering who he was before, but Charlie agreed to tell him when he does remember anything.

“When I went to inspect the territory in the east, I stumbled into an unidentified cave system. I tried mapping it in case we needed another safe house. All the tunnels led to a specific cavern. In that cavern, I found some ancient mechanisms that must have come from the nation that existed before the conquerors created Las Nevadas. Charlie was encased in an energy field in one of these mechanisms. I didn’t intend to, but I freed him. He kept calling me his friend as we were leaving the cavern. We were stopped by more mechanisms that took the form of automatons. They were stronger than I thought they would be, but Charlie displayed the powers that I’m sure you saw today. He easily defeated the automatons. He had a burst of insight as he was coming out of his empowered state, and I immediately wrote it down. We were right about the ancient civilization trying to retrieve a weapon from beyond the world. We just weren’t right about assuming the weapon was an object,” He explains the story as Jaiden reads the journal pulled to her chest.

“Why would they lock Charlie up? If the automatons didn’t stop you from finding Charlie, why did they stop you from leaving with him? How did the ancient civilization lock him up if he was stronger than the automatons? Did they trick him?” Jaiden asks, tapping her thumb against the page she was reading as she looks up at him. He shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. Jaiden sighs at their lack of information. She sets the journal back on the table. She closes it, her palm lingering on the leather binding. “I’m assuming Charlie doesn’t know anything.”

“You would be correct. Everything he knows has been written down in that journal. Fortunately, he seems to remember something new every time I talk to him. If he tells you anything, you should write it down in this book at your earliest convenience. Just don’t push him for answers. You’ve seen how… childish he acts. I don’t want someone with his powers throwing a tantrum,” He confirms.

“Of course. You mentioned ‘friendship.’ Charlie was talking about it earlier today, too. I didn’t think anything of it when I agreed to be his friend, but I think that might be his internal gauge for when to unleash his powers. Because of his slime physiology, he tanks hits without dealing damage back. It was only when I was attacked that he did anything,” Jaiden says as she opens the book. She reaches for the quill on his desk. She writes down the word ‘friend’ with a rough explanation of her words. She makes a list with both of their names. She stops writing, staring at the drying ink. “If we want this operation to work, we’ll need to increase the number of people he believes he’s friends with.”

“While I agree, you should be aware that he also considers people, places, and objects important to his friends as worth activating his powers over,” He taps the space on the paper beside her assessment. He glances away as she gets back to writing. “I wonder how the ancient civilization summoned him in the first place.”

“They would have broken the welkin, no? A better question is if that means the rift is still there or if they repaired it?” Jaiden answers with another question.

“If they discovered a way to repair it, we need to know now. If they didn’t… we have bigger problems than we thought,” He shakes his head tiredly. He reaches for his wine glass. He downs the rest of the dark red liquid. He sets the wineglass down carefully, wondering if it would be worth it to pour another glass or simply get something stronger.

“We have to tell someone. We—”

“Who are we going to tell, Jaiden? The Federation and royal family are too busy fighting each other to notice anything going wrong in their nation. And I’m certain they would both try to weaponize the rift and damn us all,” He interrupts her.

“What about the other nations?”

“What about them? They will never believe us. They are too arrogant to agree that an organization from Las Nevadas could discover something as vital about the world that they haven’t. All those nations think we are warmongering idiots, and frankly, the Federation and royal family aren’t exactly proving wrong. Plus, the only faction that would be helpful are the scholars from Kinoko, and we all know how they feel about Las Nevadas even though their nation is just as war-torn,” He shakes his head firmly. He turns around to find the large map he keeps on his wall. He steps over to it, staring at the borders. He has been trying to bring other nations into the fold of his organization for years. No one is willing to give him the time of day. He glances over his shoulder at Jaiden. She is staring at the map just as intently. Her eyes dart to him when he places his hands on her shoulders. “But that’s what we’re here for. We can’t count on anyone else to save the world. We have to do it ourselves. That’s why you joined me, isn’t it? Because you didn’t trust anyone else to do what needed to be done?”

“Maybe you are always right,” Jaiden chuckles. He smiles back at her. She shakes her head, putting a serious expression back on her face. “What do you have in mind, sir?”

“A new plan. Or, rather, an old plan that I’m reworking,” He says. He removes his hands from her shoulders. He moves across the room to collect the documents from a failed project that started this entire operation. He dumps the files, pictures, and other materials on the desk for Jaiden to examine carefully. Her eyes widen as she recognizes the sigil on the paper’s bottoms. “I want to retry Project Threadcutter. We’re going to turn Charlie into a Fatebreaker.”

Chapter Text

19. Painting the sky

Kristin sits on a wooden stool with a velvet plush to keep her bottom from hurting. Her shawl moves with the wind, but she does not feel the sifting cold of the morning air. The sunrise rises above the windswept fields of snow and the distant evergreens poking above the horizon. The sky bleeds with color despite the vague film that pulsates faintly. Kristin shifts her body on the stool. She brings her arm up higher, balancing her palette in the crook of her elbow. Her other hand moves to scoop some red paint from the wooden palette with her paintbrush. She creates a stroke across her canvas, creating the background of her painting.

She moves quickly and methodically. Dawn does not last forever, and she’s learned that each one slightly different from the last. She could make a painting combining the different dawns, but she would much rather record a single one. If Kristin could, she would want to make rows and rows of paintings depicting the various dawns that grace the Daystar Realm, but she doesn’t have the time or resources to do that. She wouldn’t even have the space. Additionally, she assumes that she will want to paint more in the future, with different topics and focuses and muses.

Kristin lifts her gaze to the horizon once more. She frowns subtly as she compares the red on her canvas with the sky. She glances back at her palette. She mixes more orange with her red to brighten the intense shade. Kristin bites her tongue as she estimates how close she got to the hue in the distance. She sighs, deciding that she’s gotten close enough. She’s disappointed with how blurry the sky is, but everyone she’s spoken with tells her the same things about it. This is merely how the sky is. Scholars, mages, warriors, and all manner of individuals have made their attempts to unblur the sky since a lot of ancient documents recognize the sky was once visible to all.

Kristin shakes her head. She is not comparable to a scholar or a mage, and she doubts her capabilities as a warrior will help her much against the metaphysical. Kristin is satisfied with making attempts with her paintings. It would be fair to say the only reason she is painting is because she wants to record the sky. When she showed an interest in wanting to keep the sky for herself, Prince Philza asked her earnestly, “ Why don’t you paint it? ”

Her confusion led him to explain painting to her. Without any frame of reference, he had to provide an example for her. She was enthralled by the concept. There were so many more colors in the Daystar Realm than the Infernal Realm. She wanted to paint everything, and Philza seemed helpless to deny her this one simple pleasure after her entire world was uprooted.

She smiles gently as she gets back to work. Painting and Philza, her favorite parts of the Daystar Realm.

Chapter Text

20. Surrender

A king sits alone on his throne. He lowers his head into his hands. The room is unusually dark and dusty for the residence of a ruler, but the silence gives the impression that this is the palace for the king of no one. He possesses much. He has a great deal of objects with varying worths on the market and in the eyes of his heritage, but there is no one to clean these objects. There is no one to admire them. There isn’t even a person who desires them. There are no thieves or pillagers in the dim light of sunlight pouring through gray-stained windows. There are only the echoing footsteps of a former advisor as he throws open the large door to the audience hall. All of his movements cause loud noises to thunder throughout the abandoned halls. The king, however, pays it no mind until his once-wise advisor stands in front of him.

“I do not wish for your advice now,” The king mutters, his voice rife with poison. His aura alone would kill any servant that might have taken pity on the once hallowed halls, but the servant that has been with the king the longest does not flinch as his ruler’s anger settles squarely on his shoulders for the simple sin of being the only one left behind.

“I was not going to give it. We are far beyond advice now. There is nothing to do. There is nothing left to take. All we may do is give and give, and maybe our punishment will not fall so heavily on our descendants,” The response comes like thunder following lightning or smoke lifting away from flames, expected yet no less terrible.

“Give? Why must we be the ones to give? They have taken our gods from us! Why must we suffer their chosen punishment for us? Have we not suffered enough? Will we not suffer even more greatly in the future without our patrons?” The king demands. He throws his hands down as he jumps up from his throne. His eyes blaze with fury, and his entire body shakes with the unmistakable wrath that courses through his veins as assuredly as blood or mana does.

“We do not know who killed our gods. We only know that they are dead. You blamed the humans, and you started a war against them knowing what would happen to us if we were to lose. I warned you against the war. I warned you to postpone it until after we dealt with all the other problems of the world. We must suffer punishment because we lost the war. We slaughtered humans by the dozens. We are lucky that their only punishment was to make us into a vassal state of a human empire. It could have been much worse because of your arrogance,” The servant scoffs, finally speaking out against his master.

For his efforts, he is backhanded. He stumbles a step, but he remains standing. He licks his lips, tasting the blood that slides down his chin. The blood is warm, but the look in his eyes is cold. The king points a finger at him, face flushing with his anger. “Do not call me arrogant. I am not the arrogant one. It is those humans who are arrogant. They have always disrespected the other sapients. They have killed elves by the dozens even before this war started. I have put up with it long enough, but I cannot sit idly by when the humans who killed our gods are dead. We will not abandon Aeor and Exor in such a callous way.”

“The dead have no right to influence the lives of the living—” He is slapped again. He has steeled himself against the hit, however, so he barely flinches as pain blossoms across his other cheek. He continues speaking. “Look at yourself! You are in no position to act like this. We used to rule a vast kingdom, but now we are only in possession of the scraps no one else wants. We lost thousands in the war, yet we must come up with a workforce that will be able to sustain our species, especially when we have a whole other war going on right now that we are expected to fight! We cannot sit here fighting with each other when there is too much to do. You are still their king. The humans allowed you to keep that honor when they could have made you into a slave. Since the crown is still on your head, I expect you to wear it proudly. Lead our people into a brighter future, and maybe, maybe, one day you can have another war against the humans that you might win this time.”

The king is silent. He glares down at his servant. With a huff, he turns away. His cape flares out around him. He doesn’t stop walking until he stands in front of a window. He places his hands on the glass. For a moment, he shrinks in on himself, both hands on the windowsill to keep him standing. His servant respectfully looks away from his king’s weakness. He stares at a large tapestry of the twin gods that once protected the elves, Aeor and Exor. Both are dead for reasons unknown to the elves. It was a commonly held belief that humans killed the gods, but there was no proof— not even circumstantial evidence. It is the elves' prejudice that led them to that conclusion. They desired to put humans in their place. Look at them now, the servant wryly snorts.

“Gather the people. I have a message for them,” The king orders, his voice firm and impartial once more. The servant smiles to himself. This is the king that he once served. He would be honored to serve him again. He bows respectfully to his king, turning away to carry out the orders given to him. “When you are done, Scar, there is a message that I must give you in private. It comes from one of the humans’ gods. I do not know what it is about, but they specifically wanted you to open it.”

Chapter Text

21. Growing up

A little boy with curling blonde hair and icy blue eyes waves his hands all around him as he tells a story to a white-haired woman sitting in a rocking chair. He spins around as he talks, letting his voice rise and fall to create suspense in his recollections of the activities he spent the entire day performing. The woman stares at his animated motions with a blank expression, but she is quick to nod or shake her head appropriately at any question spouted at her. She listens attentively despite not being as proactive in smiling and frowning as the little boy. He doesn’t seem to mind her inaction in the slightest. He barrels through each awkward response to the lapses of silence in his story. He just smiles wider at her, a gesture of comfort to bring her some ease of mind.

He knows, however, the exact moment that he loses her attention. It drifts away from him like an untethered kite in the wind. Her dark eyes grow as cloudy as smoke drifting into the night, and her lips part with words she will never dare to utter. His face constricts into a pout as he realizes that he lost her attention before he gets to the climactic finale of his story. He struggles to keep the frown on his face as tears rise in her eyes. He flounders helplessly for a moment. He decides in the next second to crawl into her lap. He lifts her hand to place it in his hair. Her fingers sink through the strands, and she must feel on some level his body heat all around her. The tears fall silently but harshly down her cheeks as she glances back at him. Her hand slides down from his hair to touch his cheek. Her touch is fleeting, but that doesn’t make it any less comforting. The child pushes his cheek into her palm, subtly forcing her to keep it in place.

“Did you know that you had a sister?” The woman whispers to him. Her voice is barely audible even in the complete silence of the cold, empty resting chambers. She sounds like a ghost entrancing the living to step into their demise. It creeps others out, which explains why there aren’t any servants eager to serve this wing of the palace, but her son has never once thought ill of his mother or her eerie habits.

“I do, Mama,” He nods. His face falls with an unexplainable sorrow. He has heard several times from his mother that he had a sister, and all of the servants concur with her story. Unfortunately, he has never once met his sister. She didn’t even have a name because she died so early. Still, he feels a branch of grief blossoming in his chest at the idea of this illusory sibling.

“Today is her birthday,” His mother’s voice rises in pitch with manic happiness. The smile on her face is a lie, and he knows it is one as he lifts his tiny hand to wipe the tears off her cheeks. His mother doesn’t notice as she stares right into his eyes, leaning close enough that he can barely see anything other than her trembling eyes. “She’s a few years older than you, my love.”

He smiles back at her, nodding in agreement. His sister would have been a few years older than him if she lived, but he doesn’t feel any desire to correct his mother. Her face brightens at his excitement. She reaches both of her hands up to touch his cheeks. The contact is hesitant, but a strange expression crosses her face. She suddenly seizes her son, shoving his face into her shoulder. Her entire body trembles with silent sobs, and her voice is breathy and delirious. “You have to be strong. You have to get stronger… stronger than… anybody .”

Anybody in this case means his father, the man who took his sister from him and his mother. Anybody means the man who reduced his mother into this crying mess. He knows the sky is blue or the empire is cold, but more intimately than even that, he knows his mother would not survive without him. The disease of the mind would spread to her entire body, and she would succumb within a week of losing him if she allowed herself to reach that state. He has to live because his survival ensures her continuation.

He could resent her. He could hate his mother for drifting away from him or never smiling at him as much as other mothers do with their children. He could, but he doesn’t. He loves his mother too much for that, and despite everything, he knows that she loves him. Her mind is a little broken, but there has never been a moment when she didn’t care about him. She is a little strange in the way she gives him affection, but he knows how to burrow into her chest and wrap her arms around himself. Once he does that, she will hug him in return. He doesn’t mind the work it takes. He never will because he loves her and she loves him, and that’s all he bothers with.

“I promise, Mama.”

Chapter Text

22. Never again

There is a tower in the corner of the Badlands. It is the most south an individual can get on the continent, though that little factoid isn’t impressive or important. The area isn’t exactly prime real estate when the little promontory is surrounded by the sea of ashes. While the land looks sandy with many shoreline plants growing, a few feet below the surface will reveal the burns scarred into the earth itself. It is a region abandoned by many, but it is the only place High Lord Grian feels comfortable residing in. He built the tower himself, imbuing it with some of his unnatural powers.

He stands on the shore every morning. He breathes in the crisp charred taste of the wind, letting it settle into his lungs like a disease that cannot be cured. He wears a discolored, undecorated robe that is far too thin to protect him from the early-day cold. The only protection Grian uses is the parrot wings that stretch out from his back. The feathers were once vibrant in color, but they have faded with sickness and ill-treatment into muted versions of their original selves. They hang limply over his shoulders like a shawl, and they seem to keep him from growing sicker in the morning.

He does not keep company. He has no servants to care for him— only a messenger that comes by once a week to bring mail to him and deliver his mail throughout the nation. He does his paperwork rigorously. He is less diligent about his eating and sleeping habits, but no one cares much for his health. The only person who seems to care has no concept of what a healthy individual should eat or how often they should sleep.

At a glance, there is no method in his madness. There might even be some who would question why he lives. He has no hobbies. He has no friends. His family is gone— not dead, just gone. If not for his position as the High Lord, he would have been forgotten by the world. He does not appear to care about this fact, if he even acknowledges it. No, he is just a hybrid drifting through life without purpose, holding closed-fist onto a job that could be filled by someone else.

Those people are unaware of the thoughts that burn as fervently as flames in his eyes. Those thoughts are the same ones that drew the attention of an ancient jinn to him. It was not through trickery but rather a conscious decision that Grian deliberately contracted with the jinn, searching for information beyond his means and station. He knows a lot more now than he did then, and he understands the purpose behind his frugal actions now. Some of it comes from repentance, but he mostly doesn’t take care of himself because he knows a singular truth that anyone examining his life would never come to learn in their lifetimes.

He breathes out sharply, ears popping. He turns away from the sea of ashes. He crosses the beach and throws open the door to his tower. He can hear movement whistling through the estate as the ancient jinn wanders through the halls like a ghost. He ignores that as he steps into the main room of his tower. Instead of a living room or an audience chamber, the first room in his house shows a portrait hanging on the wall. Three people pose in the confines of the frame. One of the individuals is him. He knows who the other two are, and he reaches a hand to move his fingers across their cheeks. His memories of them are vague, but his insistence on these memories being true is ironclad. Peace comes upon him as he retreats into the underground of his tower. The jinn hangs off his shoulders as he turns to the research he has dedicated this lifetime to understanding.

Chapter Text

23. Delight

“You disobeyed my explicit instructions to stay away.”

He knows that he was different when he was younger. Sure, everyone is in some way or another, but he was very different when he was a hatchling. In simple terms, he was happier back then, but that doesn’t really explain it all, does it? No, he decides, it doesn’t. The transition from who he was to who he is now is far more complicated than a change in how often he feels joy. There’s so much more to it, half of which words utterly fail at putting into perspective.

“I told you to leave this place, yet you snuck into my domain to see the consequences of your reckless actions.”

It wouldn’t be fair to say that the curse changed him, either. It’s what fostered the change, but it isn’t the reason in and of itself. Time would be a more accurate suspect to blame, yet that doesn’t make too much sense either. His species is long-living. He hasn’t met anyone else from his species, but he has instincts that let him know that their long life doesn’t translate well to drastic changes of the proportions he went through. No, there is a different culprit behind all of this. It’s people. It’s a bloodline. It’s this strange type of sadness— darkness, more aptly— that trades hands like some awful inheritance.

“Since you have gone this far to see him, let me ask you: Do you feel any remorse?”

She told him that he would have to put an equal amount of happiness into the world that he took from his friends. The curse was a little more complex than her spoken words made him think it would be, but gods are like that, aren’t they? He isn’t bound by any divinity, but he knows how troublesome they are. They are so far removed from humanity that they often forget about the struggles and weaknesses of the species. But he expected better from her. She was one of humanity’s three main gods. Everyone on the continent who was born in a human shell worshiped her and her two compatriots. They were made for humanity, so she should know their whims better than he did.

“Any guilt?”

But that isn’t fair to say, either. He isn’t human. None of his friends were human. The bloodline he got shackled to was human, so maybe she was close to humanity. She foresaw the devastation that swept through the family, and he was only a pawn in her grander scheme. She didn’t care about him because she didn’t have to. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t a precursor to the human race. He wasn’t even from the Overworld, her natural dominion. He was a foreign entity that she had no experience with. Since she didn’t see him as something worth protecting or explaining trivial matters to, she didn’t, and that’s the end of that line of thinking.

“Do you miss what you had?”

Maybe that’s where the real change happened. It was long before he even met that goddess. He was born into an unfamiliar world with an emptiness inside of him. It was filled when his friends came to the Aether to spend time with him. They were kind to him. They made him happy. And he thought that he, in turn, brought light into their lives. They all enjoyed spending time together. But he lost them. He lost them, and as she told him plainly, it was his own damn fault.

“Would you make a different choice if you knew this was what was going to happen?”

None of this matters. It really doesn’t. He should have known not to grow attached to creatures that weren’t the same species as him, even if they would live as long as he would. He should have waited for the foremother to return. She would have taken him and his kin with her to the world they were meant to live in. Everything would have been fine, he supposes, but he doesn’t know. He will never know. Not only because he grew impatient, but because she either abandoned him or she got herself killed. He shouldn’t say it like that, he knows, but what else is he supposed to say? The foremother should have been the strongest of them all. But she failed, and he knows that he will, too.

“I doubt you would have regardless if you knew all about this.”

So, he’s changed. That’s all he formally knows in this world. Nothing can be known unless one observes it and rationalizes it for themselves. All he can observe and rationalize is that he’s different from when he first busted out of his egg with no foremother to care for him and teach him the ways of the world. He was taught nothing, and maybe that’s the real reason why he’s different. He was foolish and happy back then. Now, he is, in some ways, wise, but oh so very unhappy. His path of observation and rationalization has led him to nothing but misery and the undeniable feeling that he will never repay his debt.

“For that reason, I place a curse upon you, little mouse.”

He is more human than not, and that doesn’t help his troubles. If he were more dragon, he wouldn’t care about any of this. What are humans to dragons, after all? He would never pay attention to any of these trivial matters. He probably would have killed that goddess for thinking she could curse him. It would have been his right in another world, but in this world, he was molded by other creatures influenced by humans to be more like them than his dragon heritage which he doesn’t know and can’t technically remember. He became human. He became wise. He put a wall between the hatchling he was and the court jester he is now, and for some reason, that wall is far too thick. It is so thick that not even the happiness he once felt or the memories he once loved will break through to grace his thoughts once more.

“You will put an equal amount of happiness into the world that you stole from your fallen friends.”

And he’s back to nothing. Does acknowledging the change do anything? No, it doesn’t. Not really, anyway. If anything, it just leaves him feeling worse off than before because now he knows for certain that something is wrong. But knowing there’s a problem doesn’t give him a means to solve it. Maybe that’s the real curse. She didn’t want him to be happy; she wanted him to suffer a fate equal to the demise of his friends. He wasn’t made into a puppet and then a monster of slaughter. He wasn’t torn apart so completely that nothing could put him back together again. He wasn’t tricked into endless slumber protected by horrendous creatures of songs and trenches. But his fate is no better than any of that: making a family doomed to nihilism happy for whatever time they can retain their humanity.

With a flick of her hand, he is sent hurtling towards the earth with the curse she left him carving onto his bones.

Now, he’s here. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t feel like anything. He just hopes that she’ll relinquish him of his chains one day so that he might reunite with his friends, might apologize and beg for their forgiveness. Until then, he will remain here. He will keep smiling.

Chapter Text

24. Puzzle piece

Iris looks over the objects brought in from the cultist’s recent haul. She brushes her fingers against their exteriors. Each object is made from a different material— and some are from materials not native to this world— but they all share the common characteristic of being covered in melting ice. Iris knows the ice since it comes from an extension of her powers. With such intimate knowledge of that energy source, she’s able to parse through the waves radiating from the objects to find a distinct signature. Unfortunately, none of the objects seem to carry the resonance she is looking for.

“Umm… ma’am?” One of the robed figures speaks up. They shuffle forward to distinguish themselves from the crowd of similar-looking figures. In addition, their fellow cultists unsubtly move away from the speaker to avoid whatever nasty punishment is about to befall the individual. “I have been collecting items on your orders for a few months now. I-I don’t mind my job, of course. I l-l-love working for you in whatever capacity I can! I, um, well, I just want to… stop wasting your time! If you could help… narrow down… what we’re looking for, that- um, that would be… er, better, no?”

Iris inclines her head to the side as she observes the faceless minion who joined her cult. In all honesty, she didn’t mean to start one. She hijacked a crew of sailors to help her carry out her mission. She thought it was a fair deal since she provided an entire island for their families to stay in with plenty of fresh food and water. The families and sailors either mistook her power for something divine, or they thought it would be better to worship their captor to prolong their lives. Whatever the case, the original bloodlines’ devotion paved the way for more people seeking the benefits of her enslavement. Iris is unconcerned with their attempts to please her. She is quite lenient with their morally dubious behavior as long as they are doing as she instructs at the end of the day.

But their respect towards her can get quite bothersome. Iris doesn’t mind having minions execute her will to the exact letter, but she also isn’t against them speaking out against her if they have something worth saying. She understands where the cultist is coming from, at the very least. Her instructions are simple for these recruits. She sends them out to the ice wall protecting the edges of this world to salvage objects caught in the ice. They are barely more than miners, yet Iris always seems disappointed with their yields. She will rarely show any sort of interest in the objects. The workers might have been okay with that if they got to keep their findings, but Iris made them destroy it all. She has reasons for her actions, but she exists on a higher plane than these humans. Even if she told them her reasons, they wouldn’t understand. Worse yet, they might die.

Iris turns her attention away from the objects. The cultist shrinks in on themself as Iris approaches them. The magician clicks her tongue. She moves her hand to touch the cultist’s chin. She lifts their face to meet her eyes. The cultist squirms fearfully, and they avoid meeting Iris’ eyes when the candlelight infiltrates the darkness of their hood. A young man, Iris gathers, with plain features— not ugly or beautiful. His youth implies that he might have been born within the cult rather than joining it later, but his lack of allies right now marks him as either an outcast while growing up or a recent joiner. Either way, he acts like someone with nothing to lose, yet the fear across his face means that he wants to live. He was either goaded into this, or he genuinely wants to stop ‘wasting her time,’ as he puts it.

“Look at me, boy,” Iris says softly, but her voice is about as gentle as the winter wind. The boy swallows hard as he finally meets Iris’ eyes. His eyes aren’t a bad color. Although she was named after the flower, Iris tends to admire other people’s eye colors. She puts those thoughts behind her as she relaxes her face. She appears more neutral than angry as she answers the boy’s question. “Unfortunately, I am not able to tell you what you are looking for. You are bound by your five senses, and what I am looking for has qualities that you are incapable of sensing. It would be nice if you could, but that is something we cannot change. You should continue performing your duties as I have instructed. But I must applaud you for trying to make my work easier. Kindness is a virtue… or so I am told.”

“B-but you’re looking for the… the singing objects, right?” The boy stutters, his eyes glancing towards the pile once more. Iris narrows her eyes at him. She dares to glance away, keeping her fingers underneath his chin. He is undoubtedly human, so she doesn’t worry too much about her own safety as she tries locating what he looked at for a split second. She catches the resonance in the air brushing against her fingertips. Iris moves away from the boy to grab a mask hidden behind a metal contraption with two wheels. Iris turns the mask over in her hands, examining it from every angle. When she confirms that this is part of the objects she’s looking for, she levels a smile towards the cultist. He stumbles a half-step back, raising his hands.

“Singing, you said? Does this object sound like a singer in your ears?” Iris asks. She hovers the mask over the cultist’s face. She doesn’t push it on, however. She knows how dangerous this object is. He might not know, but he does lean away from the mask as if he does understand.

“W-well, not… not exactly, just… it reminds me of music… but not like human music, just… not instruments, either. I don’t really know how to explain it. I’m sorry,” The cultist murmurs, looking around for an escape route or someone to reach out a helping hand. Iris allows neither to happen as she glares at the other cultists. They collectively move further away from their friend.

“Do not be sorry. You wanted to help me, didn’t you? I should have asked if any of my recruits could sense what their peers could not. You must forgive me for this oversight. I will be certain to correct this error moving forward, and I will start with you, boy. You will continue to salvage, but I will provide additional benefits to you and your kin if you can find more ‘singing’ objects. I will leave these matters to my apprentice. She understands human affairs better than I.”

“Yes ma’am,” The cultist responds immediately. He drops down onto his knees, either from gratitude or relief. Iris drops the mask in front of him. He grabs it cautiously, glancing back at her. She gestures for him to follow her. As he rises, she orders the remaining cultists to destroy today’s haul. She doesn’t sense any more objects in the piles, and the one in front of her doesn’t protest if he hears any ‘singing.’

Iris leads the cultist to her tent. Iris’ apprentice, a blonde-haired and green-eyed halfling, sits on the floor with a book spread out in front of her. The apprentice frowns at Iris as the woman gestures to the man holding the mask behind her. Iris explains the situation lightly. Her apprentice glares up at her. “I’m your prisoner, not your secretary. Why should I be rewarding your cultists?”

“You are not a prisoner, my dear. You could leave at any moment, though I would have to kill your brothers in that case,” Iris responds, thinking about the other halfling and the half-siren kept in the bowels of the island to keep her apprentice from fleeing. “And I do not know anything about human affairs. What would be a suitable reward for his new position?”

“Depends on how important he is, I guess. What are these objects you’re making him look for, anyway?”

Iris frowns to herself. She tries to come up with a phrase that would protect her cultist’s ears. Her apprentice— whether the girl knows it or not— is immune to infohazards. “They are… relics of a different time. They are the components I will use to accomplish my mission.”

“Always so vague. Well, come over here, cultist. Let’s figure out what rewards you’ll like,” The apprentice rolls her eyes as she pats the space beside her.

Iris smiles at the display. “Thank you, Drista.”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

Chapter Text

25. Inner voices

You should kill him. Why would he kill him? Why shouldn’t he? Can we chill out for two minutes? Nah. Why not? Oh, shoot him with the bow! No, use a sword! Cowards, he should use his bare hands. But that will ruin the meat? It’d be cool as Nether, though. Do we need the meat? He still has to eat, dumbass. What if he bit off the meat straight from the deer’s neck? That’d be metal! And unsanitary, he’s going to get sick. The Water Elemental King will just heal him. He’ll still have to puke out the bad meat. Ew, I hate vomit. It’s literally mostly water. Shut the fuck up, no, it isn’t! Stop fighting, you two! Make us! Hey! Wait! Cut it out! Pay attention over there!

Techno breathes in deeply through his nose. He closes his eyes as he feels the wind around him. He uses his other senses— primarily touch, smell, and taste— to aim his arrowpoint. He exhales slowly as he peeks one eye open. He finds his arrow aimed at the perfect location. Techno tunes out the water elementals arguing around him as he releases the bowstring. The arrow slides right through the deer’s chest with enough force that the arrow exits out the other side. Techno overestimated his strength, but at least the water elementals are preoccupied with trying to find the arrow.

That was so fucking sick! The loser lost his arrow. Whoever finds it gets a prize! What prize? So, we’re giving out prizes now? What is this? A lottery? It could be. Guys, we should go to Las Nevadas. Shut up, no one wants to go to that stinky nation. It isn’t stinky! There are too many monsters there for it to be clean. You’ve never been. I’ve been— it stinks. Okay, who said that? Square up! I think I found the arrow! That’s a stick, dumbass. I will bury you. I’d like to see you try, pipsqueak. He’s skinning the deer now! Let me see! No way! Wait for me!

One of the elementals drops the arrow by Techno’s foot as he moves the knife underneath the deer’s skin. He glances at it momentarily before returning to the task at hand. There should be enough meat to feed him and the others on this journey with him. Techno should look around for another beast to prepare especially for Steve, the Water Elemental King. While elementals do not need to eat, Steve likes sacrifices as much as the Blood God does…. Probably since they are related creatures.

Who brought the arrow back? Ha, loser doesn’t want to reveal themself. I bet it was you. Take that back, bastard! Why do you curse so much? Why don’t you? I have etiquette. The fuck is that? There’s so much blood. He’s skinning an animal; of course there’s a lot of blood. Are we vampires now? No one is drinking the blood. We’re just admiring it. That’s so much creepier. How are you even a water elemental? Because I came from a river. I came from a pond! Not fair, I came from a puddle. I was an ocean wave. Why are you this far inland then? Waves disappear but I don’t. My puddle disappeared. I think the lake I came from is still there. Where else would a lake go, dumbass? Didn’t I tell you to shut up!?

Techno finishes the process while listening to the water elementals argue with each other. Since he is contracted to their king, he is able to see and hear any member of their court. The contracting process was half-formed, though, so Techno has to concentrate to see them. He can certainly feel them with how humid the air around him is, and he doesn’t know how to turn off his ability to hear them. He could silence them with a few choice words or by summoning Steve to his side, but Techno lets them be. While they are talking about nonsense right now, they often have good information for Techno. They notice ambushes far quicker than he does despite all of his training.

Philza! Philza! Philza! More like Birdza, look at him! Birdza! Birdza! Birdza! Stop repeating what I’m saying. His wings look so cool. I wish I had wings. You can, idiot. How? Are you a baby elemental? Water elementals can change their shape. All elementals can. Earth elementals can’t. Shut up, they don’t count. They’re literally elementals, too. Birdza sees us! He doesn’t see us. Why’s he waving then? Because you guys are crowding around him. Humans say they can feel a lot of us when we’re together. Birdza isn’t human. Yeah, he’s Birdza. That’s not what I meant. He’s a hybrid. What the fuck does that mean? I knew it! You are a baby elemental! Bully him! Hey, stop ganging up on me! Attack! Wait— get off— you hit me, dumbass— sorry— cut it out, you guys!

“The elementals seem excitable tonight,” Another voice adds. The water elementals around Techno go uncharacteristically silent. If he squints, he can see their vague outlines all bundled together on the ground like an odd dogpile. Techno snorts at their compromising position as Sneeg, the Air Elemental King, leans over them. Sneeg raises an eyebrow. Techno hears one of the elementals yell ‘scatter!’ and they all follow that one-word command. Sneeg puts a hand on his hip with a frown. “I was hoping to join.”

Techno shakes his head as he gestures to the deer with his knife. Philza smiles at him as he joins him. Together, they start working through the meat to find worthy chunks to cook. Sneeg keeps watch overhead. The water elementals remain at the edges of Techno’s peripheral, waiting for their chance to swarm his thoughts once more when Sneeg leaves. For now, Techno enjoys the quiet.

Chapter Text

26. Spilt milk

He cups his hands together like a traveler collecting water from a waterfall into their hands. Instead of clear water moving so quickly it appears white, golden ichor settles into his palms. It is slower than water, mainly because it is thicker. Despite its lustrous aureate color, it is no different from mortal blood in its other characteristics. It is such a perplexing thought to have because he knows even a drop of this stuff would turn religions into cults and nonbelievers into martyrs. He doesn’t know which category he falls under— zealot or skeptic— so he feels nothing as the ichor collects into his hands.

Well, ‘nothing’ is the wrong word. He feels so much that his face has gone slack, unable to show even a single emotion beyond the flares in his blue eyes. There is grief and sorrow, disgusted with himself and his actions, and the overwhelming sensation that he’s done something wrong. And of course, he has. If scholars are not allowed to research divinity, surely, warriors like him are not allowed to taint it, either. His only consolation is that he didn’t kill them. He hasn’t killed anyone but monsters.

The ichor overflows across the back of his finger. It drips onto the ground. The ichor seeps into the soil, nurturing life at a rapid pace. While this might be overwhelming to some, the plants die nigh instantly as he absorbs their life force to replenish himself. It isn’t a conscious decision he makes; it is a skill carved directly onto his skin by the hands of a higher power that saw worth in his inhumanity where others might try to condemn him.

Perhaps he should be condemned. No, there’s no doubt about it: he should be condemned. But not now. His mission isn’t finished yet. He needs to see this through to the end.

The ichor stops flowing from the divine corpse. It has long since gone cold in his hands. He wrings his hands as he stands. The ichor falls onto the ground with a splash that stains his cuirass. The ichor drips to the ground as he walks away from the corpse merging into the ground itself to produce an entire field of flora that cannot withstand his all-consuming abilities. It doesn’t matter to him. No part of him has worse stains than his bare hands. The tanned skin has turned gold from his fingertips to his wrist. It is only stained with the color— his flesh remains the same beneath the stained ichor. But his hands mark him as someone dangerous. They mark him as the individual who usurped the title of ‘God Killer’ from his former caretaker and master.

He’s not a killer, though. He assures himself of that even as he feels the way the air elementals keep a fair distance away from the contractor of their king. He is not a killer. He squeezes his golden hands into fists, feeling his spear appear beneath his skin. He is not a killer. 

Chapter Text

27. Reflection

Someone is watching him. He looks up suddenly from his current project. He glances around the room, searching for another pair of eyes that might be sneakily hiding in the cracks or shadows of the archive. A frown forms on his face when he doesn’t immediately find anyone. He pushes away from the object he was examining to step into the aisles between the bookshelves. The must of ancient books fills his nose as he taps his fingers against the wooden beams holding those books aloft. His tapping gradually softens until he stops moving. He notices where the eyes staring at him come from. He overlooked it originally because it was a pair of dark brown eyes too similar to his own to be recognized as foreign. But everything surrounding the face is different, if only in subtle ways.

He approaches the mirror carefully, watching the figure approach it from the other side of the glass. When he places his hand on the surface, the figure matches his actions. But that is where the backscattering ends. The figure resembles a woman, an inch or two shorter than him. While his hair is brown with a single white streak, her hair is white with a single brown streak. She wears a similar outfit to him, but the fabric outlines the contours of her body to show that they aren’t the same. But they have the same eyes. Parts of their faces are the same, too, and he feels an eerie sense of familiarity creep across his shoulders. He speaks, and her lips do not move. “Who are you?”

She laughs. The sound is surprisingly precise in his ears, the cat-like appendages twitching above his head. She taps against the glass separating them, and he wonders how thin it is. “What do you think I am?”

“You are not me.”

“That much is true, yes. I’m your twin sister. It was a long time ago, and I am again this time around. But I’m the one stuck in the mirror this time. You owe me for getting you out, so do you mind giving me some help?” She asks with a bright smile spreading across her features. He hasn’t smiled like that in a long time. He hasn’t smiled at all, really, but he finds himself doing it now as he pushes his hand into the glass. He feels disconnected from his hand as it merges with the reflective surface, and she takes his hand. He helps her step out of the mirror, waves of memories striking him as she shakes off the silver goop lingering on her body. She turns to him with an accomplished expression. As she pats his shoulder, reacquainting the two of them, he suddenly remembers.

He remembers a lot.

Chapter Text

28.

A long time ago, when the world was still new, there was a group of travelers. The travelers began venturing across a frozen land where the snow was thick and the nights were long. One night, a little boy from the group got lost in the snow. He ended up wandering across the land, wailing for his lost family until the morning came. He cried so loud into the silence that he was heard. A bird with wings as black as the sky and eyes as sharp as the wind landed near the little boy.

This mighty bird asked the boy, 'What makes you cry, little boy?'

'Oh, mighty bird,' the little boy answered. 'I have lost my family. I do not know where I am at.'

The mighty bird told the little boy, 'Do stop crying, little boy. I shall guide you back to your family. Follow me.'

The bird lifted into the air. He flew as fast as the wind, becoming one with the freezing temperatures. As the bird flew, he heard the wailing again. He flew towards the ground. He looked for the little boy and found him crying by a large rock. The bird asked the boy, 'What makes you cry, little boy?

'Oh, mighty bird,' the little boy answered, 'I am not as fast as you are. I cannot keep up with you.'

The mighty bird told the little boy, 'Do stop crying, little boy. I shall fly slower for you.'

The bird lifted into the air. He made sure to keep his eyes on the little boy, not allowing him to fall behind. They continued walking all day until the night fell upon them. The bird continued soaring until he heard a loud wailing. He flew down to find the little boy crying by a large tree. The bird asked the boy, 'What makes you cry, little boy?'

'Oh, mighty bird,' the little boy answered, 'I cannot see as clearly as you do. I cannot see you in the darkness.'

The mighty bird told the little boy, 'Do stop crying, little boy. I shall sing a song for you so that you might follow my voice.'

The bird lifted into the air. He made sure to keep singing a song sweeter than honey. As the bird flies and the boy chases after him, the wind begins to pick up. Beneath the sound of the wind, he heard the wailing a third time, and he flew down to find the little boy crying by a small brook. The bird asked the boy, 'What makes you cry, little boy?'

'Oh, mighty bird,' The little boy answered, 'I cannot hear you over the sound of the wind. I cannot see you in the darkness. I cannot move as fast as you. I cannot follow you to my family, mighty bird.'

The mighty bird told the little boy, 'Do stop crying, little boy. I will sing louder than the wind so that you might hear me. I will light up so that you might see me in the darkness. I will move even more slowly than you. You must follow me, for I will lead you to your family, little boy.'

The mighty bird flew high into the air, and his body began to glow. It glowed so bright that he outshone the faraway stars. He sang a beautiful song that overcame the sound of the storming winds. He moved as slowly as the moon did across the darkness. The little boy followed the bird all the way back to the travelers. When he got back to them, however, the bird did not return to the little boy's side. This dearly upset the boy, so he began crying again. His family gathered around him, 'What makes you cry, little boy?'

'Oh, family,' The little boy answered, 'My friend, the mighty bird, has not returned to me. He remains in the sky.'

The travelers told the little boy, 'Do stop crying, little boy. The mighty bird has not left you. He has become one with the sky. He is the bright star that points to the north. He is Tiberius, the star of life and perseverance. He will always lead you back to us.'

The end

Chapter Text

29. Solid ground

Earth elementals are the least commonly produced elementals. Elemental energy infrequently gathers around rocks or mountains, producing an entity by merging. Despite this, they are also the elementals who exist the longest. Other elementals will unspool into their original forms without energy from other species, but earth elementals do not regress as quickly as the other three courts do. Taking both facts into account, earth elementals are not rare.

It would, however, be accurate to say they are rare outside of the Badlands. As the only court with a stationary and unchanging king, many earth elementals remain close to their ruler to execute his will when he verbalizes it This is not a universal truth for every earth elemental, but many stick with their instincts.

By all accounts, Bekyamon should have been similar to her peers. She was born near the Badlands-Las Nevadas border. The rock she stumbled out of was frequented by chameleons, and their presence influenced the final product of her body. Bekyamon, a newly formed elemental, followed her instincts to the Badlands. She was going to unite with her fellow earth elementals, but her plans were stopped when a group of air elementals stood in her way. Although their courts were naturally opposites— sky and ground, mind and body— the air elementals were kinder than most. They took pity on Bekyamon, and they decided to do what they thought was best for her. Instead of leaving her to find her king, they took her with them to learn how to be an elemental, albeit one destined for the clouds.

Bekyamon learned many tricks from the air elementals. Although many of their lessons did not apply to her, she modified them to accommodate her abilities. While she couldn’t turn invisible or change her form, her chameleon traits greatly improved her ability to blend into her surroundings. While she wasn’t nearly as maneuverable on her own, she discovered her agility using ribbons she could manipulate with her will. Bekyamon learned by herself how to create shields that protect her and her new kin from attacks, a testament to the truth of her existence.

Bekyamon would have stayed with the air elementals forever, but she felt a compulsion to move away from them. With their advice, she discovered the concept of sapients summoning elementals to prolong the latter’s life and give the former some kind of power. Bekyamon was not told to read the contract, so she simply didn’t. She accepted the contract with the human magician, Solomon, and she left for his homeland, Essempei.

She was put in the position of a magician’s assistant. She was content with entertaining humans until Solomon’s ambitions grew too extreme. Her life was suddenly put in danger, and he had never shown concern about her health before. Contracted to him, Bekyamon was going to lose herself.

No one ever taught her the Ancient Laws, but Bekyamon somehow knew that she shouldn’t pull the trigger. Solomon didn’t even see it coming when the arrow shot through his head and into the mirror that fed his vanity. Between a decomposing body and a relieved mind, Bekyamon was content to fade away.

She was rescued by another magician with golden hair and Fae eyes. Bekyamon fled, searching for someplace that would accept a rogue elemental like her. Her efforts were in vain when she was kidnapped by traffickers. Bekyamon was escorted from Essempe to the Antarctic Empire to be sold off. If her king didn’t find and kill her first for breaking the Ancient Laws.

Bekyamon was saved once more by a brown-haired teenager who saw worth in her existence. She read the contract this time, but honestly, Bekyamon was willing to do anything for freedom— and she was no longer afraid of killing her contractor. But she didn’t think she was going to kill this one. His ambitions were far more complex than Solomon’s ever were, but she thought— she believed— he could succeed where Solomon failed. She wanted to see his attempts, at the very least. 

Chapter Text

30. Gateway

“Are you certain about this, my lady?” A voice calls to her. She glances over her shoulder to meet the eyes of Captain Elise. The captain moves closer to the one she deems her lady, but she maintains a fair distance between them.

Lady Skylor, a title given and earned, glances away from the captain serving underneath her. She does not answer the question presented to her immediately. She instead stares even more intently at the spiraling portal in front of her. It has been a long, long time since this portal was open, but she remembers those days as clearly as she remembers the day prior. She closes her eyes, and she is transported to the warmth and light that separates the Overworld from the End. The sun— a fabled existence to any of the Enderians today— glows behind her eyelids, reaching out to wash away the cold of her homeland. She never let it since she takes pride in being a child of the void, but she never lost her love for the daystar hanging above the ever-changing realm. Those memories ripple across her body like phantom pains as she smells the scents common to the Overworld but rare in the End seeping out of the portal.

“There is no room for uncertainty, captain,” Skylor responds, turning around to face one of her most loyal soldiers. She narrows her eyes at Elise’s face, searching for any remnants of the hesitancy that brought the question to Skylor’s attention. Fortunately, she does not see any doubt. She only sees concern, and she knows it is meant for her. Only Elise would ever be worried about the esteemed leader of the Gatekeepers. Skylor does not smile— she never does— but her face softens as she stares into Elise’s eyes. “I understand the weight of this decision more than you know. I am prepared to betray the primordial ones if this ensures the safety and propagation of our homeland.”

Since her memories of the Overworld are sharp, it is no surprise that she can recall with perfect clarity what the primordial ones told her when the war was reaching its conclusion. All three divine kings of the End were dead without their bodies returning to the Void— in other words, they were lost. The End should not have been allowed to continue, but they were given another opportunity on the condition that the Gatekeepers sealed the portals forever. Skylor was an unyielding Gatekeeper, and she revered the primordial ones more than any of her kind. Their word became law to her, and she did not allow anyone to reopen the gates.

But she is actively choosing to open them today. Her respect for the primordial ones is nothing compared to the devotion she displayed to her god-kings. She knows they failed their principles and the End, but she would like to carry out their last will. She will seal the gates again after this. Maybe the successors will fail… but they might succeed. Skylor is willing to bet everything on that chance, even in her status as Leader of the Gatekeepers and her life should the primordial ones charge her for her betrayal.

All of this is for the End. At least, that’s what Skylor told herself as she watched the siblings thrown through the portal by her subordinates. She closes the portal a second later, letting the purple power radiate inside of her body. She follows Elise to the inner sanctum. She doesn’t know if she will pray for success or failure, revival or newness. Either way, she has made her choice, and she has to live with it.